" 'The D and C'? What's that?"
The man looked offended: "The Democrat and Chronicle—the paper. The Rochester newspaper."
"Oh," Ryerson said again. He was a little miffed. He didn't like publicity, especially in the middle of a case; too often it brought out the loonies, which, he supposed, included this man.
Once more a smile of what Ryerson thought was self-amusement flitted across the man's mouth. "Do you really think there's a werewolf loose in The Park, Mr. Biergarten?"
Ryerson went to the bed and sat next to Creosote. "Why don't you simply tell me, Mr. Ashland, what information you have—"
The man who called himself Ashland cut in, "I know who it is."
"Do you?"
"Yes. I know who it is." He looked quickly at Creosote, who had all but torn the argyle sock in half and was continuing to work happily at it, then looked back at Ryerson. "Do you believe me?"
"Should I?" Ryerson asked.
The man looked stunned by the question. He said nothing for a long moment, then yet another smile appeared; it stayed longer this time, and Ryerson guessed that the man was trying to be coy. "Everything I say ... is a lie, Mr. Biergarten."
Ryerson inhaled deeply, let the air out slowly, and said, "Yes, I've heard that one, Mr. Ashland."
He looked offended. "It's a woman."
"The werewolf?"
Ashland nodded vigorously. "Yes. It's a woman." He pushed himself to his feet. "But I can't give you her name. I want to, I really want to. But I can't. I won't." He looked quickly, almost frantically, Ryerson thought, at the door, at Creosote, at Ryerson, back at the door, the window, at Ryerson. "I'm sorry; I've got to leave now. You don't mind, do you?"
Ryerson, still on the bed with Creosote beside him, shook his head and said "No," very matter-of-factly, "I don't mind."
The man who called himself Ashland protested, "I'm not crazy, Mr. Biergarten."
Ryerson said, "Neither am I," which clearly confused the visitor, who shuffled in place for a few moments, then went quickly to the door and left the room.
~ * ~
George Dixon, head of security at Kodak Park, pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer of his big gray metal desk and shrieked. There was a tongue—like a pale, dried red pepper—lying in the drawer on top of an old Playboy magazine.
Dixon slammed the drawer shut, found that his breathing was becoming labored from the quick onrush of adrenaline, and forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply. After a minute his breathing regulated itself, and he put his hand on the drawer handle.
"It's just a tongue," he whispered. "Jesus, everyone has one." He took a breath, pulled the drawer open, studied the tongue for a few moments, then closed the drawer slowly.
Would you know? he wondered. Would you really know? Or would you hide it? Even from yourself? Would you have to hide it, for Christ's sake, so you wouldn't go nutsaronee?! Sure you would.
Maybe you do it while you're asleep. Maybe you get up and you run around in some goddamned wolf suit--
He shook his head. "Shit, no!" he breathed. How could he be The Park Werewolf? It was impossible. No way, Jose!
But still, he wrapped the raggedly severed tongue up in a napkin, put it in his black lunch pail, and took it home with him. And that evening he put it in a Baggie, put the Baggie in his lunch pail, took the lunch pail to a stretch of Genesee River that he knew no one ever frequented because it reeked of sewage, and threw the lunch pail in.
And again he whispered to himself, "So, it's a tongue. I don't need one. I got one of my own," grinned a wide, quaking grin, and went back to his apartment house.
Chapter Nine
APRIL 28
"It's unlikely," said Rochester's WROC-TV news anchorperson Mark Wolf, a handsome, square-faced man with sensitive eyes and a narrow, well-groomed mustache, "that too many more days will elapse before the murderer of four at Kodak Park is caught, according to Chief of Detectives Tom McCabe."
The picture cut to a shoulders-up shot of McCabe talking to an unidentified off-camera reporter.
"These are particularly heinous murders," McCabe said, "as all murders are, of course. But these murders are even more heinous than the . . . average murder because the murderer has chosen to mutilate his victims, much the way that the legendary werewolf does—"
"Are you suggesting," said the male voice of the anonymous off-camera reporter, "that there is something supernatural going on here, Chief?"
He shook his head vigorously. "No. Not at all. Quite the contrary. I'm suggesting that a sick individual, an individual who could appear to be quite normal, as a matter of fact, has . . . has run amok—"
"Is it true," the reporter cut in, "as the papers have said, that a psychic investigator has been called in to help in this case?"
Again McCabe shook his head. "Ryerson Biergarten is my friend. He's visiting Rochester, and I've asked him to look at some of the evidence—because he is a psychologist, after all—and to give us at the Rochester P.D. his . . . insights."
"Thank you, Chief."
Mark Wolf came back on the screen. "As expected, absenteeism at Kodak has risen quite dramatically since the murders began, from an average of two percent three weeks ago to more than forty percent today. Additionally, it has been reported that people are moving from place to place in groups of threes and fours, and that security guards—who are posted at all entrances and exits to The Park, anyway—have been told to let regular employees carry Mace, hatpins, and small knives for defense against a possible attack. According to Head of Security George Dixon, however, no unauthorized firearms of any kind have ever been allowed inside Kodak Park, nor will they be allowed now."
The shot cut to young, blond Sandi Hackman—whom Jack Youngman had ogled at the Kodak pool. She opened her purse to reveal a can of Mace inside and next to it what looked like a Swiss Army knife. She grinned threateningly; "If he wants me, he'll have to get past these!"
"And so," Mark Wolf continued, "the tension mounts. For nearly two weeks, The Park has been quiet, and there is some evidence that things are returning to normal. However, many people see each day that passes without a new atrocity as something of a blessing; these people are convinced that we haven't seen the last of The Park Werewolf.
"They ask, 'How will we slide into May?' Because tomorrow, April twenty-ninth, "—a pause for effect—"the moon will be full!"
~ * ~
Greta Lynch said to Doug Miller, "Do you miss him?"
"Miss who?" Miller asked from behind his desk.
"Walt." A pause. "I kind of miss him."
"Why the hell would you miss that crud?" Miller asked. "I mean, I'm sorry he's dead and everything—I'm sorry, especially, that he had to die like that—"
"You can be incredibly callous sometimes, Doug," Greta said. "He was another human being, after all."
Miller interrupted with a guffaw.
"And he had his good points," Greta said.
"Oh? Like what?"
She said nothing for a few moments, seemed to be in thought. Then, "Well, like—he never made a pass at me, for one."
This obviously astounded Miller. "Never?"
She shook her head. "Not once." A pause. "Not like him."
"Him?"
"Yes," Greta said. "Roger." Roger Crimm was the new manager at Emulsion Technology; he'd been called in from Syracuse to take Walt Morgan's place until someone permanent was found to fill the vacancy.
"He makes passes at you, Greta?" Miller's lips got suddenly moist.
"I'm sorry I mentioned it; this isn't some kind of soap opera, Doug."
He shrugged. "Sure it is." He grinned. "Life's a soap opera. Sometimes it's a pretty . . . grisly soap opera—"
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
His grin softened; he tilted his head quickly to one side in a clear effort to dismiss her question. "Nothing." He hesitated. "I made a reservation at The Manhattan. For Friday, eight o'clock."
She nodded slowly. "Good. I hope y
ou enjoy yourself."
He shook his head. "No. We'll enjoy ourselves, Greta. You and me."
Again she shook her head. She stood, shook her head again. "No. I like to be asked, Doug.”
“So, I'm asking."
"The answer's still `no,' " she said, and left the office quickly.
Miller called after her, "I was going to say it's nice to have you back," because she'd been out ("sick," she'd claimed; "some kind of flu") since April 18, "but now," Miller concluded, "I'm not so sure?"
~ * ~
Ryerson said to Tom McCabe, "You hadn't encountered this case before, then?" They were at a restaurant called Foggy's Notion on Rochester's fashionable and self-important Park Avenue. McCabe loved the place; Ryerson thought, secretly, that it was starkly pretentious, that if the owners really had to mix decors, they could have mixed something other than Art Deco, late Victorian, and mid-twentieth-century junk. Behind them, the rear end of a 1960 black Cadillac jutted from the wall; the trunk lid was open and the trunk itself had been made into a small salad bar. The waiters and waitresses were nicely scrubbed young men and women in their early twenties; the men were dressed as members of a barbershop quartet, the women as flappers.
"Only," McCabe explained, "because it happened outside one of the target cities on that list you gave me. I got wind of it because the medical examiner in Erie was called in to do an autopsy, and he filed a report that got put on file there in Erie."
Ryerson had some papers relative to the case on the table in front of him. He checked them over briefly, looked up, and said, "Jesus. A sixteen-year-old girl."
McCabe nodded. "Lila Curtis. Poor kid."
"Yeah. Both of them," Ryerson said. Apparently Lila had killed her boyfriend, Tom Muggins, using an M.O. similar, but not identical to The Park Werewolf—then had turned a gun on herself. He pulled a single sheet of paper with the Eastman Kodak logo at the top from underneath the sheets dealing with the murder-suicide near Erie. "And who is it," he said, as much to himself as to McCabe, "that comes from Erie?"
From nearby they heard a loud screech of pain. They looked. A waiter had backed into one of the Cadillac's fins. "Happens all the time," McCabe said. "I'm not sure that car was such a good idea."
"Greta Lynch," Ryerson said.
"Sorry," McCabe said.
"Greta Lynch. She works in Emulsion Technology." He hesitated, thought a moment, went on, "Hey, wait a minute; wasn't that Walt Morgan's section?" He hurriedly got out some more papers with the Kodak logo at the top. He studied one, then another, and another. Finally he said, "Sure. Here it is." He turned the paper toward McCabe, who glanced at it, and said, "Yeah, and?"
"And there's a connection, Tom," Ryerson concluded. "Not only in the fact that this Greta Lynch used to live in Erie, but in the fact that she worked for the third victim, Walt Morgan, as well." He studied Greta's employment sheet for a good half minute, then said, "I'd like to talk with her, Tom. If I could talk with her, I'd—"
McCabe was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Rye. I can't do that. If she is connected somehow to these murders, you might tip her off." He sipped a Coke. "Of course, I'd say the chances are awfully slim, Rye, that she's connected in any way—"
"Because she's a woman?"
"Yes."
"You're living in another century, my friend."
McCabe smiled knowingly. "And I'm better off for it, Rye." Once again, Ryerson got a fleeting glimpse of something slippery and secretive from McCabe. And though he had a chance to study it more closely this time—the image was stronger, less slippery than when he'd interrupted McCabe's sleep with a phone call—he backed off. McCabe was a friend, and was deserving of his privacy, after all.
Their lunch came. Ryerson had a tuna melt on whole wheat, a small salad, and a glass of milk. McCabe had his Coke, the soup of the day—cream of cauliflower—“Chicken Italian," and a medium-sized green salad. "What happened to your appetite, Tom?" Ryerson teased.
McCabe patted his all-too-obvious belly. "Doctor says if I don't lose weight I'll end up on a slab by the time I'm fifty. I don't want to end up on a slab by the time I'm fifty, so I'm trying to cut out a thousand calories or so a day."
"Uh-huh," Ryerson said. As far as he was concerned, people like McCabe were hooked on eating, and though their intentions might be noble, their stomachs still were masters of their spirits. "Why'd you leave me dangling, Tom?"
"Sorry?" He looked confused. Ryerson knew it was an act.
"Why'd you leave me dangling when you left Rochester? Why couldn't you have instructed your people to cooperate with me, for Christ's sake?!" He felt a fit of anger taking hold, fought it back. He didn't want to get on the subject of where McCabe had been for the last two weeks. He knew where he'd been, though McCabe hadn't told him. He'd been resting at his lakeside cottage in the Adirondacks. He had felt the hard, cold touch of reality on his head and had needed, simply and desperately, to run from it, to take a few days of "rejuvenation," to "sweep away the cobwebs"—phrases, Ryerson knew, McCabe would have used if the subject had been broached. But Ryerson wasn't about to broach it. He knew that McCabe had been walking a very thin line, knew that the man had needed the time off, regardless of what was happening in Rochester. And he also knew that the fact was a source of keen embarrassment for him.
"Sorry," McCabe said. "I should have told my people to cooperate with you, I know. It was ... an oversight, and it won't happen again. That's a promise, Rye."
Ryerson sighed. "Yes. Thanks for that, anyway, Tom."
McCabe nodded; then, clearly anxious to change the subject, went on, "I've got a telephone-answering machine at home, you know."
"Yes, I know that, Tom. And?"
"And when I got back I found a couple of … messages on it."
"Oh? What kind of messages?"
McCabe shrugged. "The usual kind. People confessing in great, but unfortunately inaccurate, detail to the murders, people claiming to have information they'll release if the reward money's right. Those kinds of messages."
Ryerson cocked his head knowingly. "You're keeping something from me, aren't you, Tom?"
McCabe grinned. "How could I, even if I wanted to?" He paused. "Yes, I've gotten a couple of other messages, too. Messages from someone who won't identify himself, I'm afraid. Someone who knows things that only the murderer—or someone who happened by the murder scenes before anyone else—would know."
"What kinds of things, Tom?"
He shrugged. "Like the fact that one of the victims had her tongue ripped out. That was Tammy Levine, I think—it's hard to keep track of these things without a scorecard." He smiled grimly. "And this ... person—I can't tell, Rye, if it's a man or a woman—says that I've got three good suspects, so why aren't they in jail?"
"Oh?" Ryerson said. "Does he name them?"
McCabe nodded. "Yes. Two of them, anyway. But I'm afraid I can't share those names with you, Rye. I've got them under observation, anyway—"
Ryerson cut in, "Two men and a woman? Am I right?"
McCabe shook his head incredulously. "Stay the hell out of my brain, Rye!" He meant it, Ryerson knew. "Yes. Two men and a woman. I don't have the woman's name. This ... person who calls tells me to find out her name myself, that it's my job! The creep—telling me what my damned job is! And the most I can tell you, Rye—for all kinds of reasons—is that this person names two men. If you can pick my brain for their names, go ahead. But I wish you wouldn't."
Ryerson shrugged. "Sure, Tom. Anything for the sake of friendship."
And McCabe said, "Tell me why I don't believe you."
Ryerson answered, smiling, "Because you're a professional skeptic, Tom." His smile altered; he went on, his tone dripping with sincerity, "If you want me to stay out of your brain, Tom, then I will." And he meant it, although, much to his chagrin, when he had tried moments earlier to peer into McCabe's brain for the names he knew were probably swimming around in it, he had seen little more than what he sometimes saw in Creosote's brain—snow, i
nterference, a haze—and it made the psychologist in him wonder and worry that Rochester's chief of detectives was losing his grip.
~ * ~
The letter Greta Lynch got that night was written in bold block print, and it was unsigned.
My Dear Greta,
Love's a strange thing, isn't it? I used to believe that it was the ultimate driving force in a person's life, that we will do anything to get it, or keep it.
And I was right. Because I know about you, Greta, my love. I know about you, I know what your compulsions are, I know what you've done, and what you have to do. And I'm not going to tell a soul. It'll be our little secret. Then, one day, when you have shaken this "need," we can be together. That is my hope.
She stared blankly at the note for quite a long time, until Linda Bowerman came into the hallway.
"Hello, Greta." Linda got no reply and added, "Something wrong? Bad news from home?"
Greta answered, her voice weak, "No. Just a prank. Someone's idea of a joke," and she went upstairs quickly, with agitation, into her apartment.
It was the blood, of course. He'd seen the blood. She hadn't gotten it all off. Some of it had clung around her fingernails, maybe, or in the lines on her palm, or in her shoes—God knew where!
And that meant, simply, that she'd have to scrub harder, much harder. And then she'd have to look very, very closely, with a magnifying glass, into each pore, into each cell if she could.
Damn him! Goddamn him!
She turned the shower on. Hot. And got in.
Chapter Ten
Eugene Conkey figured the chances were about the same that The Park Werewolf would get him as they were that he'd win The New York State Lottery (into which he had faithfully, and in vain, plugged fifty dollars a month for the past six years). Number one, it was called "The Park Werewolf" because its territory was Kodak Park, not here, five miles away on Bayview Drive. Number two, even if it strayed out of The Park for some reason, Christ, it had a couple of hundred square miles to mess around in; the chances that it would somehow find him were about the same as the chances that a meteorite would plummet from the sky and take his ear off. And number three, he was prepared. If any creep who thought he was a werewolf interrupted his nightly jogging routine, then he'd find his guts somewhere far behind him in the weeds. Sure the forty-five was illegal, sure it was hard to run with it tucked into his jogging pants, sure he'd never used one before. But those were small considerations indeed in the face of his own self-defense.
The Changing (The Biergarten Series) Page 6
