They had fed over the bodies but Ovid took no delight, while the Claw seemed to take greater delight than ever before. He also took his time over the head. Now Ovid understood why he had wanted the head from their last victim, because before Ovid's eyes, the Claw consumed the young woman's brain. Ovid was sure he had done the same with Mrs. Phillips.
In a state of confusion, Ovid had taken the final and only copy left of his poem, which he had folded tightly into a ball to keep it hidden from the Claw, and moments before they'd left Mrs. Phillips with the young woman in Scarsdale, he had plunged the note into a hiding place. At the time this had seemed his only course of action. He sensed that his days with the Claw were coming to a close and that he must protect himself in some manner. Perhaps this was the way. Then again, it might be a little like suicide, he told himself now.
When the phone rang, Alan Rychman didn't feel as if he'd gotten an hour's sleep, much less several. It was Lou Pierce, calling from Queens with bad news. Lou apologized but said that everyone was trying to get in touch with Rychman. Rychman's brother, awakened by the call, stood in the doorway, and Rychman grumbled something about its being an emergency. His brother waved as if to say he was going back to sleep, and Rychman rolled over and took the information from Lou.
“The Claw has put in another appearance, and Captain, this one's extremely bad because—”
“What's the location, Lou?”
“Twelve forty-nine Nantucket, Captain, in—”
“Where the hell's that?”
“Scarsdale, Captain.”
“Jesus, since when's he going to Scarsdale?”
“It's not that far from his last one, Captain. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“He's on wheels, that's for sure . . . hell on wheels,” Rychman sleepily mumbled, but his mind was on the question of jurisdictional lines. Scarsdale meant complications; it meant arguing with Scarsdale authorities as to exactly whose case it was and who got first dibs. He'd have to telephone Mayor Halle and have him call his counterpart in Scarsdale to make sure that the NYPD special task force would be in charge.
Hopefully, the cops in Scarsdale would see the wisdom of cooperating. It amazed Rychman, however, just how stubbornly territorial the various jurisdictions were. If and when he became C.P, the question of cooperation between boroughs, cities, counties and states would be uppermost on his agenda.
“This one's doubly bad, Captain,” Lou said.
“Bastard did a real hatchet job on the vie, huh?”
“Christ, Captain, he took the brains this time, and—”
“Jesus,” moaned Rychman, on the edge of the bed now, pulling on his pants. Coran had called it like some psychic. She was as good as her record indicated. “Locate Dr. Coran, Lou, and see to it she gets to the scene. I'll see you both there.”
“I'll see to it personally, Captain, but there's one other thing you ought to know—”
But Lou heard the click of the receiver before he could get out the fact there were two bodies this time. Lou decided that the captain would find out soon enough. For now he had to roust out Dr. Coran. It was his understanding that someone had already notified the coroner's office and that Dr. Archer was already on his way to Scarsdale.
Rychman was yawning and driving rapidly toward his destination, his siren and flashing light parting the relatively sparse traffic at 3 A.M. He was only half hearing his radio, alive and crackling with news of the Claw's recent kill. So the place would be deluged with reporters and thrill-seekers, he thought. There'd be a thick crowd to part just to get to the body, so he called ahead to the scene, shouting for whoever had taken charge of the body. By protocol this was the first on-scene officer until a coroner or superior arrived to relieve him.
This is Officer Calvin Boyle, Scarsdale Police Department, Captain Rychman.”
“Boyle, are you in charge there?”
“For now, yes, sir.”
“Have you secured the body?”
“Bodies, sir, and yes, they are secured.”
“Bodies?”
“Weren't you told, sir? There's two vies.”
“That's what Lou was trying to tell me, damn.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, Boyle, just do me some good, will you?”
“Anything, Captain.”
“I want you and any other first-on-scene to be there when I get there. Want to talk to you.”
“Not a problem.”
“I want you to maintain control, Officer, you got that?”
“Control of the bodies, sir?”
“That's right.”
“But our coroner's already arrived and... well, it's his show now.”
“You just tell him Dr. Darius is on his way, and so is an M.E. with the FBI. Tell him it's an NYPD task force matter.” Rychman knew that the famous Dr. Darius wasn't likely to put in an appearance, but the lie would be effective.
“It might mean more coming from you, sir.”
“Think you can get him on the horn?”
“I'll do my best.”
Rychman didn't want the crime scene disturbed until Jessica Coran could have at it; given her accurate prediction, and what he had read about her, he believed that she might be instrumental in stopping this madness. Anything he could do to delay the Scarsdale coroner, he decided, was good at this point.
Rychman got a Dr. Stanley Permeter on the line and he began the tedious job of keeping Permeter wondering about whether he should or should not go ahead with his investigation there in Scarsdale; whether he should wait for the renowned Dr. Darius and the FBI's Dr. Coran. Rychman kept the doctor entangled with words until his car pulled up to the crime scene area, where, as he expected, everyone with a police-band radio was waiting and watching.
Dr. Permeter was arguing with the Scarsdale chief of police when Rychman stepped up to them and introduced himself with a large handshake. Once more he launched into the many reasons for waiting on Darius and Coran.
The Scarsdale chief was Bill Flemming, a friendly enough sort, but he was concerned about how his department was going to look if they simply stepped aside and allowed Rychman in without contest. The killings were, after all, within his jurisdiction. A radio call from Flemming's superior took him away. Rychman prayed it was the right call, and it seemed to be, for when Flemming came back he agreed to wait.
Rychman gathered members of his task force about him and gave each an assignment. One was to interrogate Boyle, to find out how the bodies were discovered and who made the call and what had alerted them. Another was to question Boyle's partner, a rookie who was badly shaken. She hadn't been prepared for what they had found inside the house on a residential block of Nantucket Street.
The Claw, if it was the work of the Claw, had deviated from his normal pattern: he had apparently killed two victims at a single location, and he had chosen to kill indoors, gaining access to the house without apparent difficulty. There were no broken windows, no broken locks. But Rychman knew it was the same bastard, or bastards. He knew it because Jessica had warned him that soon the Claw would be graduating to cannibalizing his victim's brain. He had done so with a vengeance, and he was playing a game with the authorities, seeing just how daring he could be, for the bright streetlamps of Nantucket Street must have shone on him clearly as he stepped up to the front door of the little home.
Eleven
The keening of the telephone beside her bed was a welcome shock to Jessica's system. She'd been in the throes of a nightmare; an endlessly long snake had been coiling about her, making her feel pinned to the bed. She'd been frustrated by the fact that she'd known it was a nightmare, but could not break free of it. She was prisoner until the phone, an object outside herself, had forced consciousness from unconsciousness. The snake's head had had Matthew Matisak's face.
She grabbed the phone, and for just an instant, she wanted it to be Otto at the other end, but of course, that was impossible.
“Dr. Coran? This is Sergeant Pierce.”
“Something's happened?” She immediately feared for Alan Rychman.
“Captain Rychman asked that I fetch you, Doctor.”
“The Claw?”
“ 'Fraid so, ma'am.”
“Can you send a car?”
“I'm in the lobby, ma'am. I'm to take you myself.”
“Good, good... I'm dressing... Be right down.”
She pulled herself together quickly, dressing in jeans and a pullover sweater, grabbing her cane and her medical valise. Inside a compartment in the valise was a medical smock she'd throw on at the scene.
Lou Pierce greeted her in the lobby, and it was good to see a friendly face. He instantly took her medical bag, showing her the way to the squad car. He deposited the bag on the backseat, but she asked to ride up front with him. Lou was pleased. He opened the door for her and watched her slide in gracefully, save for a brief fight with her cane.
Lou sped toward the scene, telling her that she had a long night ahead of her.
“Anything you want to tell me, Lou, that I should know?”
He'd been thinking about the double murder and the missing gray matter from the heads of each victim, and he felt a little unnerved that she could read him so easily. “Well, yes, ma'am, some information... by way of preparation.”
She knew that words could do little to prepare a person for the kind of work she must do tonight. “Go ahead, Lou. What is it?”
“Well, there're two bodies, same location—”
“Two? My God.”
“One's older, one younger; they're thinking it's a mother and daughter, but there's some question about that.”
“How awful.”
“And ma'am, well, this time the lunatic took their... took their... well, he took their brains, or ate them. Nobody's sure of that, but the brains are missing.”
She felt chilled, recalling the prediction she had made to Rychman. She hadn't expected the maniac to advance to this stage quite so quickly, and certainly not so dramatically, killing two women in a single night.
“You okay, ma'am?”
“Yes, Lou. Just get me there quickly.”
Lou felt uneasy and awkward, and he tried small talk, but it was a poor opponent for the silence that had settled in around them. “Your injury, ma'am?”
She looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Is it temporary, or will it never heal?”
“Doctors say it could be almost right someday.”
“Then you can throw away your cane. That'd be nice.”
“But only if I stay off my legs.”
“If you don't mind my saying so. Doctor, maybe you're doing yourself a... a disservice.”
“I don't put much store in what the doctors have told me. Besides, I'm stubborn, and I'm in a profession that doesn't allow you to be on your behind, so...” She paused. “As for the cane, it's kinda become a part of me; lends character, don't you think?” She smiled. “And it's a constant reminder to never again be naive or foolish.”
“Tell you this much, Dr. Coran.”
“What's that, Lou?”
“Sure hasn't slowed Captain Rychman down; I think he likes your character, if you get my drift.”
“I think I do.”
“The Captain, he knows good character.”
Lou returned his attention to the road, and her thoughts drifted back to the Claw. The psycho seemed to be baiting them all, taunting an entire population, daring them to come nearer and nearer only to discover a phantom they could never actually put their hands on, much less cage. More and more, the Claw reminded her of Stainlype, but she wanted to cling to the belief that he was two separate physical beings, and not the single being that Stainlype/Sims had been.
She mentally began to psych herself up for what lay ahead, knowing she could not fully do so until she was in the midst of the carnage with her eyes and hands directly over the remains left her by the Claw.
The squad car pulled up to the police barricade, and when she got out she saw the reporters, among them Jim Drake, who gave a perfunctory wave from the sidelines. She hurried toward the door that would take her into the nice-looking little bungalow that had become a torture chamber for its inhabitants.
Rychman stepped out onto the front stoop and stopped her before she entered the house, saying, “Brace yourself, Jessica. It's the worst yet.”
“I can handle it,” she said flatly, about to move past him.
“I managed to secure the scene, and we were able to keep the bodies intact, where they were left. Dr. Darius is inside.”
“Dr. Darius? I thought he was—”
“In good shape and saucy as ever. Between the two of you, get us something we can go on.”
“No witnesses, I assume.”
“No one useful, and little hope in that direction. We have determined that one of the victims doesn't live here.” The younger woman?”
“No, the old lady. The younger one lived here alone, parents are Upstate, Albany area. No one knows who the old woman is, and there's no identifying her. Missing Persons is working on a match, but so far, zip. Jess, did anyone inform you of... of the fact that—”
“It's a little scary, about the brains, Alan, but it simply stood to reason. He treats a corpse like his personal smorgasbord. He was bound to get to the entree soon, the only major organ he had left untouched so far. I'd better get inside now.”
“Sure... Meantime, the task force detectives are fanned out, checking every possible lead, asking questions. Seems a neighbor became curious when she saw a strange car out her back window. Made a call to the Olin woman—the young one—but got no answer. She didn't see the car's occupant enter or exit. I've got O’Toole and Mannion trying to jog her memory regarding the vehicle.”
She nodded and entered the death house, Rychman just behind her. He watched her go to where Darius was kneeling over the body of the older woman, whose head, like that of the Olin woman, was split completely open, the brains scooped clean from the cranium.
Jessica sensed that Alan was nearby, and part of her wanted him there. She had managed to keep her eye from wandering to the center of the brutality here, concentrating on the details of the crime scene first to maintain her professional bearing. She knew that Darius had already passed through this phase, because he was now on his knees with his gloved hands inside the open wounds, searching for clues to the double murder.
She registered the blood trails and strange trajectories in the foyer, on the walls and floorboards; on the surface, it looked as if Miss Olin had struggled to get away from her attacker at the open door. She might have been tripped or become disoriented. A large pool of blood showed the exact location where she'd been rendered unconscious by a blow to the head. The blow had sent her into a convulsive state, if the reading of the blood trail could be believed. There was much smeared blood, because each body had been dragged into the center of the living room. At least, these were her initial impressions. At the moment she could only speculate, but she guessed that Darius had to have seen the same tell-tale signs as she.
The air was stale, thick and rank with odors meant only for the embalming room. A police photographer was snapping shots of the two victims, and Darius was grumbling to himself and shaking his head sadly. Darius' form was thin and small and white-haired, making him look like one of Santa's elves as he knelt over the deceased. His snowy-white hair was in sharp contrast to the blood and bile on his hands when he turned to greet her. His handlebar mustache was also white and it tweaked from side to side as he tried to scratch an itch below it without the use of his soiled hands.
Jessica had suited up and she reached out her gloved right hand to take Dr. Darius' as she said, “I've so wanted to meet with you and work with you; I'm just sorry it has to be under such horrid conditions.”
“Yes, well, I've been anxious to meet you, too, Dr. Coran. I knew your father for a time; excellent medical examiner.”
“Thank you. He always spoke very highly of you, too, sir.”
“I worked on a case with your father once; had to do with a bit of an epidemic here in the city back in the late fifties. After it was over, I offered him a job with my office, but he was stubborn; thought he could improve the military, so he stayed in. What a waste, I thought at the time, but he did make a difference in the way M.E.s in the service are perceived, wouldn't you agree?”
“Yes, he did, and he spoke of your work together often.”
“I was so sorry to hear of his illness and his passing.”
“Thank you, Dr. Darius.”
“Well, we'd better earn our keep here. We'll have to talk later,” he said. “As usual, the Claw has us up to our hips in gore for reasons unknown.”
Darius offered her his jar of Vicks VapoRub to cut the stench, but she declined, pulling forth scented cotton balls, which she offered him.
“Oh, something new?”
“It beats Vicks for this.”
“I'll try them next time.”
“We've got to ensure that there will not be a next time.”
“Right you are, but I fear otherwise, my dear.”
The old coroner returned to his work, and for the first time Jessica allowed her eyes to take in the full extent of the damnable, godless crime against these women. They were filleted from throat to groin, their intestines removed and looped in the neat little coil that had become the trademark signature of the Claw, along with the crushed skulls where he had used his awful hammer. The two bodies had been robbed of their organs, she guessed, as in the past, and added to this horror was the missing gray matter from each skull. From the appearance of the heads, the brain tissue was removed after a surgical-like incision by a rough cutting instrument, most likely the same instrument used on the torsos. Once again the eyes had been removed, presumably eaten.
Fatal Instinct Page 11
