Grave Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  J.T. knew Jessica would want him to create a watch list from the countless numbers on the page's history, but that could take a month or more of full-time work to compile, and even when finished, it would only be a list of coded names. He wondered how they could get at the truly disturbed among all the hits. He had no way of telling from this end if any of the Digger's actual victims had logged on; nor had he any way of learning who the Seeker was without help from the online server, a difficult thing to get.

  His flight back to Quantico with the computer safely stowed away had given him time to rest and contemplate how to best handle the niggling problem. He decided he would have to split the task among a small army of computer adepts who could weed out the actual crazoids from the youngsters at play, given certain key words to use as cross references.

  To date, however, he was unsure what those words might be, but he knew the expert linguists with the bureau could help out there. They knew the jargon of the day and what kids would be speaking as opposed to a disturbed adult. J.T. had already looked closely at those Web contacts who strongly agreed or disagreed with Cahil's bizarre notions. Anyone doing so vehemently either way might well prove fixated on the strange arguments Cahil routinely put forth. He had also noted that anyone fixated would likely pump out reams to argue for or against Cahil's beliefs. The sheer length and breadth of the messages on the bulletin boards and in the chat rooms by the same user must prove a useful guide as well. The Seeker had a great deal to say, and he sounded somewhat sophisticated by comparison to others J.T. had looked at, but he was by no means the only Web visitor who looked like a candidate. In fact, there were many, and Thorpe had only scratched the surface.

  He wanted to get the process underway as quickly as possible even before he'd spoken to Jessica. To that end, he had contacted Eriq to get him back to Quantico as fast as possible. J.T. had met the private jet at the Morristown airport, and they had wheeled Cahil's computer on board. Then en route to headquarters, he got a phone call from Santiva saying they were certain that Cahil was the Digger. After that, Thorpe had relaxed the idea of working so hard to crack the computer problems facing him. He started breathing a bit easier.

  “You know what strikes me, Eriq?” asked J.T. over the phone from the plane.

  “What's that?” “The numbers—the sheer numbers of people in the world so bored as to want to spend time with Cahil's rantings.”

  “Manson had the same kind of worldwide following on his site. And all his reams of news to his constituents was one long stream of consciousness, all of which read as lunatic rantings. Still they came.”

  “If you write it, they will come?”

  Santiva laughed in response.

  “So, how did Cahil react when you guys put that brain tissue in front of him? Did he freak out?”

  “Hardly phased him. He says it was sent to him by a fan on his website. Says he held on to it for us, as evidence against the guy, but we think the 'other guy' is another of his identities. He's got this schizo routine down pat.”

  “I will need computer experts to help dissect the hard drive.”

  “As much as we can spare or dig up. Don't worry, something will be done. I want you to bury this freak, John.”

  J.T. said goodbye and then dozed off. He awakened in what seemed minutes when the plane touched down at Quantico. He had barely gotten settled in at the lab with the confiscated computer when Jessica telephoned. He was amazed at the disparity in how each of the two—Chief Santiva and Jessica—had characterized the Cahil interrogation, and obviously, they were going off in separate directions. He worried about getting caught in the crossfire that would likely result. Both of them were more than colleagues, they were friends.

  And now his friends were clearly at odds over just what was gained from today's interrogations.

  He knew from experience that when the lead investigators saw everything so differently as this, the momentum of the case would suffer. Keep your head down, he told himself as he got off the line with Jessica.

  Valdosta, Georgia Late that same night

  GRANT Kenyon cruised the deserted streets of late-night Valdosta, finding nothing of interest to Phillip. He had stopped at a hotel earlier and had used their computer to make contact with Cahil's website, but for some unaccountable reason he could not get through. He wondered if anything had happened to Cahil. He wondered if he dared try to get through on his own laptop, fearful it could be traced if authorities had apprehended Cahil and his computer.

  Now he drove around the too-small city of 42,000. He felt exposed here; everybody in this town must be a local. Still, Phillip wanted him to persist, and so he did. Cruising on. Looking for an opportunity. He had failed with a local Valdosta girl with whom he'd made contact through Cahil's website. She had failed to show up. Not uncommon in the computer-dating scene, as evidenced by several occasions when he had been stood up.

  As he drove, Grant Kenyon thought of his days in medical school, which had fed his fascination for the brain. He thought of how Professor Dobson had spoken so reverently of the mind and brain. The man's words still resonated in Grant's brain.

  “Lying below the exterior folds of the cerebral cortex, deep within the cerebral hemispheres, at the border of the brain stem, you will find the limbic system—five hundred million years old. It controls the instincts to flee or fight, to eat or drink. It represents the first swelling of the spinal cord to create the primitive brain, which also controls the emotional areas with senses of pleasure and displeasure.”

  “And Cahil wants to suggest that this primitive center is the home of the soul. Foolish idea, indeed,” Kenyon said aloud to the empty cab of his van as he drove onward to his next destination. He had turned from the Carolinas for Valdosta, heading south.

  As he cruised in search of a victim for Phillip, Dr. Grant Kenyon thought of his past life at Mt. Holyoke Memorial Hospital in the New Jersey suburb of Holyoke. He thought of how back in 1990 he had become obsessed with the Cahil case as it appeared in the papers month after month; and how after the trial, pretending to be a reporter, he had bribed a court bailiff and paid dearly for a copy of the trial transcripts to learn every detail, including precisely what Cahil had confessed.

  He got in touch with Cahil by writing him, using a PO box for replies. He had learned of Daryl's website early on, becoming one of its most frequent visitors.

  He soon lost interest in all else.

  He thought now of how he had lost his job back in Holyoke. The resident pathologist, he had often been called upon by local law enforcement to perform routine autopsies to determine cause of death in suspicious or unknown circumstances. He had been involved in such a matter when he convinced a young intern, Dr. Mitchell Erdman, that he could finish the job himself. With the rotation of interns Kenyon worked with, he'd had no problem in the past with removing the brains of such victims and stuffing the craniums with gauze and cotton. He had gotten away with two years of such brain feedings, and the evidence was—so to speak—well buried. Kenyon had enjoyed feeding on the brains of freshly dead victims brought to his morgue.

  But one night, while in the process of re-stuffing the head and replacing the forehead bone, Kenyon was surprised when Dr. Erdman returned unexpectedly. Pushing through the door at a wild, energetic pace, Erdman found Kenyon stuffing a dead man's head with anything but the earlier-removed gray matter. The brain itself lay on the weighing scale, registering at three and a half pounds.

  “Dr. Kenyon? What're you . . . what're you doing with Mr. Allandale?”

  Caught in the act, Kenyon stuttered, “I need more time with the brain, have more tests to run . . . more than I can possibly complete in the time allotted. Family wants the body like yesterday. No way they'll know the brain isn't intact, and we're not going to tell them, Dr. Erdman. Do you understand?”

  “Ahhh ... I suppose, so long as it's in the protocol as part of the necessary procedures. Still ... it seems highly unusual, Doctor.”

  “We don't want
to alarm the family, but we must know the truth. It's our duty to find the exact cause of death, and as yet, we have only suppositions and unknowns.”

  “Still, it seems highly—”

  “It's not! I mean, it's not so unusual as you might think. Happens at times, Erdman. Here, in my files, I'll show you another case where exactly the same thing happened six or seven months ago.”

  Kenyon worked hard to find the file he had mentioned, and he went to a lab table with it. “Here . . . have a look.”

  Dr. Erdman read it over; indeed the procedure involved holding on to a woman's brain after the rest of her had been sewed up, returned to the family and cremated. “What did you eventually do with what was left of the woman's brain?” asked Erdman.

  “Went out with all the other medical waste.”

  “I hope it helped you to understand why she died.”

  “Tumor was found, yes. It's all there.”

  Erdman read on. “Buried so deep that none of the tech-nology could locate it?”

  “Deep in the fissures. Took slice after slice to locate it. Changed death from unknown source to undetected brain tumor. Made a great deal of difference to the family in the long run. Medical claim was settled for quite a tidy sum.”

  Erdman examined the autopsy file for a Mrs. Georgia Bhrett and nodded. “And you have the same feeling about Allandale?”

  “Exactly. Now do you understand?”

  “Why not lay it out for the family; get them to wait?”

  “I'm not a medical examiner or coroner, Doctor,” countered Kenyon. “I don't have the kind of muscle to require the family to submit to my wishes on the matter. We're just small city hospital pathologists here.”

  “Gotcha, yeah . . . Look, I just wanted to know if you'd like to go to a ball game.”

  “Football game?”

  “I've got two tickets and can't make it, and I know you like the game, so . . .”

  “That's decent of you, Erdman, but it won't win any brownie points when your quarter review comes up.”

  Erdman had nervously laughed at this. “I only meant . . . I mean, I didn't mean for you to read anything like that into . . . It's just a simple—”

  “Just kidding Erdman . . . just kidding, my friend. Thanks for the tickets. Just leave them on the table there. They're much appreciated.”

  Erdman looked from the table to the scale for a final glance at Allandale's brain. “Amazing thing, the brain,” he said.

  “Yes, very extraordinary . . .”

  “What's the next step for Allandale's?” “On ice, of course. Have to freeze it before I can cut into slices for the microscope.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I'm off. Have to catch up with Sandy.”

  Kenyon gave his intern a perfunctory wave. “I'm almost finished here myself. Have a good night.”

  Kenyon thought he'd covered himself well, but weeks later, he was called to the administrative office, where he faced the chief of staff and the chief of surgery. Both Whitehead and Bondesen went ballistic over Erdman's allegation that Dr. Kenyon was practicing some unspeakable act on Allandale's brain. They wanted to know what he had done with the brain, and they had protocol files on both Allandale and the female patient, Georgia Bhrett, that Erdman had snuck out from the morgue. The story regarding insurance claims for both proved bogus. Never one capable of thinking fast on his feet, Kenyon told his superiors that with Halloween approaching, he had made off with the brain to use at a local YMCA haunted house, and that it had proved extremely successful. “So successful in fact that someone stole

  This made his superiors wince.

  “That still leaves the woman's brain,” said Bondesen. “That was around Easter. You didn't take it to the Y for Easter, did you?”

  “All right... all right . . . I've been doing some research on the side. I'm on the verge of isolating cells I believe that might have something to do with the Lupus disease.”

  A red-faced Whitehead replied, “Do you have any idea at what risk you have placed this hospital, Dr. Kenyon? And for what? Whether a Halloween prank or secretive research projects, you put us at great jeopardy indeed.

  Kenyon pleaded, “It was the only way I could get more hands-on experience with the brain. I have long wanted to specialize in the brain.” It was an explanation they at least accepted as less outrageous than the ones coming before.

  Kenyon, placed on low-level scut work usually reserved for internists, could perform no autopsies until the matter was reviewed. Two weeks later, a review board found Kenyon's medical ethics and conduct in question. None of them knew exactly what Kenyon was guilty of, but they didn't like the ideas and assumptions that sprang to mind. They didn't like the idea of unnecessary surgery, even on a dead man. Still, in the end, they gave Kenyon the benefit of doubt, that he was, as he'd said, attempting to learn more. All the same, they couldn't condone such behavior. He was quietly removed and found himself unemployed.

  He could not explain to his wife how it had come about. He could tell no one what had happened to old Mr. Allan-dale's brain, because he didn't fully know himself. Only one person knew the complete story, the voice inside his head, Phillip, who had fed on previous corpses for their brains for a long time. To cover himself, Kenyon had created the false autopsy protocol for Mrs. Georgia Bhrett in the event someone like Erdman should stumble onto Phillip's activities.

  Unable to continue in his normal life, with no one to speak to about such matters, he turned once again to the computer website that encouraged his bizarre cravings. It was only there that he could feel at ease.

  And now even that was cut off to Grant and Phillip. Had he been re-arrested? This time as the Skull-digger? If so, and the authorities believed him guilty—and that they'd put an end to the terror—there was no one now to contact. No one to send any more treasures to, as he had with the island of tissue dug out of his first victim in Richmond—a present to Cahil, one that would incriminate him. Apparently, it had worked. Grant knew now that he should end his career as the Skull-digger. Disappear and let Cahil take the rap for the four murders he himself had committed. At the same time, he wondered how Phillip would react to such a conclusion. He knew the answer: His other self—Phillip—would not allow it to end. Not for long. Not for anything.

  Valdosta was closed up, silent. Nothing and no one about the darkened streets. He thought of going back to the hotel but then thought better of it. He needed to get out of the Georgia-Florida area and onto new ground. If Phillip were to strike again, it must be in another region.

  He drove on, out of Valdosta, southwesterly for I-10.

  One week later

  A week had passed and in that time no new victims of the Digger had surfaced, leading many in the bureau to believe that Daryl Thomas Cahil had perpetrated the murders. Lorena Combs in Jacksonville had determined that Amanda Manning indeed had been in contact with Cahil's website, a significant hit. FBI field operatives continued to work with the families of the other victims to determine if there were similar connections among the other victims.

  Eriq was elated over the news, believing it the final nail in Cahil's coffin, but Jessica's doubts had only grown larger in her mind.

  She knew time was running out, that the mechanisms to put Cahil away for the rest of his natural life were in motion. The cases across the southeast wanted closing. Jessica had pleaded for Eriq to at least keep news of Cahil's being charged as the Skull-digger out of the press. Eriq did so, despite the pressure on him to bring the case to a close and to speak to the press. Meanwhile, a twenty-four-hour watch had been placed on Cahil's website. Those manning it were paying close attention to any new visits from the Seeker in particular, and getting none, which further solidified official thinking that Daryl Cahil was their killer.

  In the meantime, Eriq and Jessica continued to interrogate Cahil, attempting to pry loose any additional information. J.T. did a little more digging at her insistence. He learned that the clock on Cahil's computer had not been tampered with, so t
he dates were indeed accurate, and they showed him at home and responding to E-mail at the time of the Winston-Salem and Florida murders. Not so with the Richmond killing or the Georgia one. It was frustrating as they all knew that Cahil could have responded to his own E-mail from any terminal.

  “We need more time, Eriq,” Jessica continued to plead.

  “All right. We'll hold him on the animal-cruelty charges and hold off announcing that he is the Digger,” agreed Eriq. “For now we make him out to be someone who surfaced as eating animal brains. But the clock is ticking on this, peo-pie.”

  Jessica knew he was annoyed with her, but she imagined Cahil would be far more annoyed when he learned he was being booked for animal-cruelty charges for the time being, rather than as the now-infamous Skull-digger.

  Jessica knew that if news of Daryl Cahil's arrest for the killings went public—making Cahil guilty by default— then the real killer could easily fade away, unless be could not control his urge to kill and eat. Meanwhile, Jessica learned that Cahil himself was trying to get the word out that he was the Skull-digger. Cahil was enjoying the idea of celebrity nowadays—standing in for the most-wanted man in America. She imagined he would plaster his cell at the asylum with news accounts of his horrid deeds once the story on him broke.

  Eriq had phoned her about Daryl's latest episode. “Through his lawyer, Cahil is fighting to obtain one of his plaster-cast brains and a supply of noodles, claiming his need as a religious ritual that he should be allowed while incarcerated.”

  “Give him all of his goddamn toys. I'm done with him, Eriq.”

  With Eriq holding back the will of the agency against her, with nowhere to turn, she had enlisted others to her cause, beginning with J.T. Together they poured over the computer history of log ons. They dismissed single hits and concentrated on repeated hits, isolating the larger numbers in hope that the computer server would soon be made to turn over records. Primary among their targets was the Seeker who was logged on near two of the crime scenes just before or after the kills were discovered. He communicated through public-access computers, all of which were within 150 to 160 miles of the kills.