Killer Chromosomes td-32

by Warren Murphy

  The only country.

  The night people came into the Boston office and James Hallahan left. He was off to turn on his own bureau. He had sworn an oath once, but that was a long time ago when oaths meant something. He realized that was when he was happy.

  The Boston Times reporter was late. Hallahan had a beer and a shot of rye. He was a scotch on the rocks man now but he remembered his father drinking this drink and the boozy, old-wood atmosphere of the South Boston bar. When he had been accepted to Notre Dame, his father had bought him a beer here and lots of people bought rounds. He had gotten tipsy and everybody laughed. And of course, graduation. How his father had cried to think his son, James Hallahan, the son of a man who collected other people's garbage was "now a graduate of Notre Dame University, the United States of America. Oh, the glory of it, son."

  Someone down the bar had said universities in America weren't as good as universities in Dublin, couldn't hold a candle to them, as a matter of fact. Of course in this Irish-American bar, that started a fist fight. Then came the law degree from Boston College.

  Of course another drink to celebrate. And James Hallahan's confession. "Dad, I'm not going to practice law. I'm going to be an agent for the FBI."

  "A policeman?" his father asked, in a state of shock. "On your mother's grave, son. We broke our backs to make you something. Why, you could have been a policeman right out of high school. You didn't need all that educating. We could have gone right to Alderman Fitzpatrick. It wouldn't have cost a penny. It's not like we're Eyetalians what's got to pay for it and all."

  At that the young Hallahan had laughed. He tried to explain to his father what the FBI was, but the senior Hallahan was not someone to whom one explained things. The senior Hallahan did the explaining. And his explanation was simple. The boy's dead mother and the boy's father had worked, had sweated and labored with great pride because they knew their son was going to be somebody.

  Well, all right. Man owes what he does with his life only to God. The senior Hallahan was accepting whatever God's will was concerning his son. He wanted the whole saloon to know that.

  If young Jimmy wanted to be a policeman, then, damn it, he'd be the best lawyer policeman ever.

  Of course, there had been an added word driving home. "You know, Jimmy, it's like educating a son to be a priest and him going to the fine universities in Rome, then coming home and takin' some job in a shoe store, like. It's not that sellin' shoes don't have its virtues; it's that, why bother to get some big, fancy education if you're only going to be a public employee like your father?"

  "Pop," said Jim Hallahan. "When you talk about yourself, it should never be 'only a public employee.' But you'll see. Being with the Bureau is important. I think more important than being a lawyer."

  His father was asleep. Jim Hallahan carried him into the house, already then with a cancer that would kill him, already then lighter than before, but with no one knowing it.

  Within the next year, his father found out what the FBI stood for because he bothered to listen. It was not with a little pride that he eventually told anyone he could corner that his son was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the best in the world. "You have to be a lawyer or an accountant to get in."

  "Pride-of the nation, they are," his father had said.

  Then he went into the hospital for a stomach operation. They discovered the growths and stitched him back up. Within three months he was gone. The funeral mass was said at the same church in which he was married and Jim was baptized and confirmed and where he had gone so many times to ask God's will and blessing.

  At the wake, in the house his sister, Mary Ellen, would later take over, her having the biggest family, one of his father's friends said, "He was the proudest of you, Jim. Of all of you, he never stopped talking about you and that FBI. You'd think it was made up of angels from heaven."

  And at that Jim Hallahan cried, without knowing why. He didn't try to explain it. He excused himself and went into his parents' bedroom, to the bed they would never use again, the bed in which he was conceived, and buried his head and bawled with a painful joy that could only be described as glory on earth.

  It was a long time ago.

  It was when there was pride in the Bureau. So long ago when life and its heavier burdens were light... and now, just showing up in the morning at the Boston office was the second heaviest chore of the day. The first was getting up in the morning.

  Hallahan ordered a double rye. To hell with the beer. He looked at his watch. The Times reporter was late. The double shot came and Hallahan lifted his glass. Then he felt a hand on his. It was Pam Westcott, looking a good twenty pounds lighter than usual. She had obviously walked with stealth because usually one could hear Ms. Westcott a half block away as she galumphed her telephone pole legs down the block.

  "Hey, Pam," said Hallahan. "Losing that weight's taken twenty years off you. You look marvelous."

  "You can't diet away eye wrinkles, Jim."

  "Dry martini on the rocks," said Hallahan, ordering a drink for the reporter. Pam Westcott seemed to go on martinis and potato chips. A lunch without four drinks for Ms. Westcott was not lunch. Hallahan had heard from several public relations men that Ms. Westcott was probably an alcoholic but ate so much her weight problem would probably kill her heart before the booze smothered her liver. She was forty and used to look fifty. This evening she looked, positively, in her late twenties. There was an easy slowness to her. A stalking confidence. And she had no eye wrinkles.

  "Nothing for me, Jim, thanks."

  "Hold the martini," Hallahan said. "How about a couple of bags of potato chips?"

  "Thanks, no."

  "Wow, you are on a diet," Hallahan said.

  "Sort of. High protein."

  "Okay, how about a hamburger?"

  Pam Westcott shook her tawny locks and looked up at the bartender.

  "Make it four of them. And raw. And lots of juice."

  "You mean blood, lady?" said the bartender.

  "Yes, lots of it."

  Hallahan lifted his drink again. He felt her strong hand on his.

  "Stop," she said. "No more alcohol."

  "Hey, Pam. You a reformed drunk?"

  "Say I'm a reformed person, all right? Don't drink."

  "I want a drink. I need a drink. I feel like a drink and I'm going to have a drink," Hallahan said.

  "You're a fool."

  "Hey, do you want the story I promised? Don't you want that?"

  "Yes, but I want more."

  "Okay," Hallahan said. "The deal is this. I give you the story. You give it to another reporter for his byline so that when the story comes out, I have no trouble because I've never talked to that reporter. That's the deal."

  "I've got a better one for you, Jimmy."

  "Just so long as it doesn't stop me from having my drink."

  "But it does," said Pam Westcott.

  "You turning into a Baptist or something?"

  "Hallahan, you know I'm a good reporter. Forget my girlish good looks."

  Hallahan suppressed a smile. There had never been girlish or good looks about Pam Westcott. At least not until now.

  "I want to show you something. Come to my place tonight. Let the booze go out of your system. I'm going to give you something you'll thank me for forever."

  "I'm married, Pam."

  "Jeezus. C'mon, Jim."

  "I'm pretty down. I want the drink, Pam."

  "Give me four hours."

  "I'm tired, Pam. I don't have four hours."

  "How many drinks have you had so far?"

  "Two. And a beer."

  "Okay. Two and a half hours. I'll give you the biggest case of your life. You'll retire with more benefits than you can shake a subpoena at."

  He wanted the drink but told himself if this reporter wanted him not to drink so much and promised so much, why not give it a shot?

  The bartender dumped a plate of four raw hamburgers on the bar. Heads turned. He emptied a small
plastic bowl on top of the pile of hamburgers. Red beef blood poured out. More heads craned.

  Pam Westcott smiled at all the pale, boozy faces and, careful not to let it spill, lifted the plate. Then the reporter from the Boston Times tilted the plate, drank the blood and, in a few healthy bites, finished the hamburger and licked the plate clean.

  A drunk at the end of the bar asked if she cared to do the same to his meat someday. There was laughter, the kind of laughter men let out when they do not understand something but will not admit they are somewhat uneasy. Besides, one had to laugh at sexual jokes or someone might think one effeminate.

  Pam Westcott lived just off Beacon Hill. She told Hallahan she couldn't divulge what she had discovered until all the alcohol was out of his system.

  Well, then, could he have a bite to eat? Some potato chips? She didn't have any in the house.

  "You without potato chips?"

  "I don't like them anymore."

  "I can't believe it."

  "Believe it, Hallahan, believe it. I'm going to show you a lot more than potato chips."

  "Aren't you interested in these chromosome killings? I've got a hot, juicy leak for you. We're abandoning this city to the man-eater. The order came today just when two more people were killed at opposite ends of the city. Almost at the same time. This thing can move around with incredible speed."

  "You'll see," said Pam.

  What she had wanted him to wait for was another drink. Hallahan wanted to know what was in it.

  "A vitamin," she said.

  "I'm not drinking that," he said. It looked like whipped brownish gelatin. She had brought it to him in a very old shrimp cocktail jar, the kind that comes prepacked with heavy sauce and miniscule shrimp. The jars were often used afterward as drinking glasses. She had taken the jar out of a stainless steel box set on the kitchen counter. The box was plugged into a wall socket.

  "I wouldn't drink that with a gun at my head," said Hallahan.

  "I didn't think you would."

  "You're damned right I won't. That stuff is funnier-looking than a cyanide cocktail."

  Pam Westcott smiled. Then she leveled Hallahan onto the couch. Rape, he thought. Of course, that would be impossible considering his feelings toward Pam Westcott. It was impossible for a woman to rape a man who wasn't properly aroused. Especially Jim Hallahan, who hadn't been properly aroused since he saw the doctor's bill for his last child.

  He pushed at her with just enough force to move her away. But she didn't move. He pushed harder at Ms. Westcott. She held him with one arm.

  All right, Hallahan thought. I'm pushing fifty and not in the best shape of my life, but I can sure push away a Boston Times reporter. Especially one holding me with one hand and a shrimp cocktail glass with the other.

  The holding arm got a hand around to squeeze his nose. He couldn't breathe. This woman was holding him with ease. He tried punching. His hands were pinned. He brought a knee up into her groin. This was a fight for life. The knee struck but she only growled.

  Jim Hallahan opened his mouth for a desperate breath of air. In came the brownish goo. It tasted like liver left out for a day in the sun, then blended with butterscotch pudding. He retched but his mouth was clamped shut. He swallowed his own vomit.

  His head moved as if someone was spinning it at the end of a long rope. The rope got longer and longer and longer and his head was at the end of it.

  He was in a dark place and heard his father's voice begging him not to leave, then it was his mother's voice and then like a dream of going out from darkness to light that hurt his eyes. His eyes hurt terribly. Someone was shining great lights into his eyes.

  "Turn off the lights," he said. He was thirsty and hungry. There was nothing in his belly to quench the hunger. Pam Westcott sat next to him purring. He smelled her. She smelled reassuring and safe. His own clothes, on the contrary, smelled bad. Smelled different. Somehow they made him very hungry. "Do you have anything to eat?" he asked.

  "Would you like a martini?"

  The idea made Hallahan turn up his nose. He stretched. He yawned. Pam Westcott licked his face.

  "I have something I know you'll like. Be back in a minute, kitten." Hallahan sat up with a slow ease. Hungry, yes. But also more alive. He realized that he had thought about the Bureau almost every moment since he had joined. He noticed the most startling fact of his life, that at that moment, he didn't care about the FBI at all, and he felt very good about it.

  It didn't matter whether he turned on the FBI or not. It didn't matter whether he rose to the top of the organization or not.

  Food mattered. Safety mattered. Reproducing mattered, provided he got the right scent

  He smelled it before he saw it, but knew the smell. It was a heaping delicious bowl of lamb intestines dripping in its own tasty blood.

  He devoured it and licked himself clean. When he was finished, he saw Pam Westcott smiling at him. He smelled something very stimulating and when she turned her back he knew what would be wanted and taken.

  They went into the bedroom, however, as if they were humans.

  In the days that followed, he remembered an old joke about how if you were black on a Saturday night you'd never want to be white again. Well, this was like Saturday night every night and every morning. There were needs; they were met; and then there were more needs.

  The biggest difference was that there was no worry. You felt hostile at times. Every now and then when you sensed a flame you felt frightened. But you did not carry fear over in your imagination and let it lead to worry.

  Death was death. Life was life. Eating was eating. When he saw his family the night after he had stayed with Pam Westcott, he didn't want to stay at home anymore. He saw his youngest son cry and what seemed strangest of all he didn't care as much as when he used to see a hurt animal. There was nothing.

  Moreover, he couldn't understand why his son was so upset. His mother would provide food and shelter. What was this boy doing tugging at his sleeve? Jim Hallahan cuffed him and sent the tyke tumbling across the room.

  Then he stalked out of his house and went to the office. He started work with salivating gusto. He had something to look for. A wounded Caucasian with a torn belly.

  Every hospital had to be checked. Every doctor had to be checked. This was his order to his subordinates. He wanted that man, a young white man, with dark hair and eyes, and very thick wrists.

  "Sir, what's the crime he committed?"

  "Just do what you're told," said Hallahan. It was hard sitting with these men now. But Pam had taught him a trick. When things got very hard, eat bloody hamburger or steak, beef liver or kidneys. That would hold the hunger for the flesh of men. There was nothing to worry about because soon there would be all the flesh he would want.

  Jim Hallahan knew this would be so. For now he had a leader far more powerful than even J. Edgar Hoover used to be.

  Her name was Sheila, and she wanted that white man alive.

  "He's wounded and probably been admitted to the hospital in the last two days?" Hallahan said.

  "Yes," Sheila Feinberg had said.

  "That's not the best of leads," said one of Hallahan's men.

  "Drop everything else and find that man," said Hallahan.

  "Yes, sir. Is there something wrong with my tie?"

  "No," said Hallahan, opening a drawer in which raw liver was kept. "All of you get out now."

  Outside his office one of his men asked the others, "Did he growl? Or was that my imagination?"

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mrs. Tumulty had a whale of a story. She wasn't going to gossip it away over some fence in the South End to amuse Mrs. Grogan or Mrs. Flaherty. She was on her way to the North End.

  If Boston was an American melting pot, it was as melted as Europe with boundaries between different groups. There were the Irish in the South End, Italians in the North End, Blacks in Roxbury and only court orders for busing made any of them mix, and then only unwillingly.

  Mrs. T
umulty strode purposefully through the streets of the North End with its strange-smelling foods and long names that ended in vowels. Her imagination had people behind glass windows of shops secretly doing all sorts of sex acts. She imagined stilettos in people's purses and jackets.

  She saw people talking with their hands. "Except for their names," Mrs. Tumulty contended, "you can't tell the Eyetalians from the Jews and, after all, who would want to?"

  To Mrs. Tumulty the country was filled with too many un-Americans. These included Yankee Protestant families who weren't really American enough.

  She had some complaints about her church too. Too many Eyetalians. She always thought of them as sort of imitation priests, not the real thing. To Mrs. Tumulty, tolerance and intergroup understanding meant talking to people whose parents came from Cork or Mayo, different counties in Ireland, no matter how painful it was, people whose parents, you knew, kept chickens in the kitchen.

  When the big scare about the man-eaters began, with all the talk about changing the basic nature of the human body through chromosome action or something like that, Mrs. Tumulty knew the television people were only covering up.

  Foreigners always acted like that. Wasn't she telling you all the time? Foreigners with bumpy noses. Dark foreigners. Even yellow-haired Swedes. The most degenerate people on the face of the earth.

  There was one strong, abiding lure that drew Mrs. Tumulty from the bosom of the decent people of South End into foreign quarters. Word had it there was a lot of money around for certain information.

  This thing called the "word" was the only thing in Boston that moved freely among groups. Word had it if you knew of someone's special safe, discarded somewhere after a burglary, there was money for it. Word was that any late model pink Lincoln Continental would bring $5,000 or that the whereabouts of someone who had stiffed his neighborhood loan shark could get you $500.

  Word in Boston was a tribal drum connecting many different tribes that made up the city.

  Word in Boston that day was there was an awful lot of money for a wounded man, a cut-up man, a man cut up badly, almost like the victims from the human animal killer, Dr. Sheila Feinberg, another foreigner.