Fatal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “I get the picture, Mr. ahhh...”

  “Gwinn, Donald W.,” he told Lou, who was jotting information down on a notepad.

  “And the rug was here the last time you saw her here?” Rychman asked.

  “It was.”

  “And when was that, sir?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Then I knocked on the door about nine, but I got no answer. I was supposed to look at some pipes; been puttin' it off. So I think it's odd she don't answer, on account she's always in after dark, you know, and so I tried again at ten, because the next day's my day off, and I didn't want her calling down and disturbing me. So when she didn't answer again, I used my passkey, and this is what I find.”

  “But you didn't call the police until ten-twenty?”

  “I did some looking around. Thought she might've been trying to ditch out on me. Another month's rent was coming due, and the rug was gone. I figured the blood was just her way of, you know, throwing me off. She was smart, that old bag. She'd been a teacher at some college once down South, and she was putting me on all the time. Used to be we had a nice relationship when her checks came in on time.”

  “Welfare checks?” That and sometimes she got money from her daughter, or so she claimed. That's her on the bureau.” He pointed to a picture of a rather plain young face. Beside this was a picture of the same young woman with a man, their arms entwined.

  “That's the daughter. Never comes around.”

  Rychman stared at the black-and-white photos, realizing they were somewhat old. He slipped one from its holder and scanned the back for any notations. There were none, only the marks of the processor and the date, 1952.

  “This isn't her daughter,” Rychman concluded.

  “What?”

  “This is her, when she was young.”

  “Damn, then the old girl did have me fooled,” said Gwinn. “According to her, that was her daughter and son-in-law, some big-shot lawyer in Florida where the kids lived with her newborn grandchild.”

  “A boy or a girl, Mr. Gwinn?” asked Rychman, shaking his head.

  Rychman considered the fact the killer hadn't bothered to clean up after himself, but the amount of blood on the floor was not enough to account for the condition of Mrs. Phillips' remains. “She was obviously carried out of here rolled in your rug, Mr. Gwinn, which has not been located.” He turned to Pierce. “Lou, I want our people to fan out and crisscross this neighborhood and speak to everyone within sight of this place about seeing a man carrying a rug out of here. You got that?”

  “I'm on it, Captain.”

  Rychman recalled what Darius had said about finding several unusual fibers matted in the old woman's blood. It was like two puzzle pieces had just gone neatly into place, and it gave Alan Rychman a minor feeling of hope.

  “And where the hell's Dr. Archer?” he bellowed as Lou started out.

  Archer showed up in the doorway at the same moment. “Sorry, but that driver I got was timid about getting here.”

  Rychman nodded, knowing full-well that anytime a coroner was called out, he had to be escorted by an officer who also escorted the M.E. and his findings back to the morgue. No one was above suspicion when it came to evidence in a murder case, so there were formal rules of conduct for everyone on the crime scene, thanks mainly to Dr. Darius.

  “You can get out of here for now,” Rychman told the superintendent. “It's all yours, Dr. Archer.”

  “Sorry I couldn't locate Darius for you, but I think the all-nighter took a lot out of him. Heard he was recuperating with orders not to be disturbed. He'll likely be back at the lab later. Leastways, that's what I was told.”

  Archer's voice held a subtle edge. He probably felt he should have handled the scene at Scarsdale. Alan knew Archer was in line for Darius' job if and when Darius finally called it quits.

  “Well, we're glad to have you here, Doc.” Alan tried to reassure him. “Anybody but Perkins, I always say.”

  “High praise,” joked Archer. He got down to business, opening his black bag and taking blood scrapings, searching for fibers, fingerprints, hairs, anything he could bag up for microscopic analysis back at his lab.

  Rychman took this opportunity to investigate the room further, careful to steer clear of where Archer painstakingly worked. Rychman stared at Mrs. Phillips' card table and single chair, wondering what had happened between her and her long-ago husband; what had driven them apart and left her alone. Fights, money, drugs, lust, dishonesty, divorce or death? Life was brutal. He parted a curtain that acted as a divider and saw an alcove being used as a bedroom. A single bed with neatly tucked corners stared back at him, apparently untouched by the murderer.

  Rychman searched the coverlet for any tell-tale signs, and when he saw what might be a stain, he got excited.

  He called Archer in to look at the stain. Archer was skeptical, but he took a pair of scissors and cut around the stain, giving it wide berth, then placed the tiny patch of cloth into a specimen envelope to examine closely later. “Nothing's getting by me,” muttered Archer, “but don't hold your breath on this one, Captain.”

  “Understood.”

  “Still, you've got a good eye for this kind of work.”

  “I've had enough experience, God help me.”

  Rychman continued his tour of the little apartment. Yellowed plaster on the walls was crisscrossed by occasional cracks, apparently painted over at some time only to return to haunt the occupant. The small icebox sat like a silent sentinel over the horror that had occurred here, atop it another photo of the woman's so-called daughter, herself at a young age. Wedged between the comer and the wall was a bag of bird feed, half-empty. Rychman saw a roach peeking from around the bag, and its antennae twitching nervously and avoiding any contact with the blood of the victim, as it made its determined way into the shadows.

  Rychman knew from experience that a body—whether fit or frail—was heavy and cumbersome. The super's missing rug likely meant that Mrs. Phillips had been concealed within and carried down the back steps and into the darkness; in fact, a blood trail indicated as much. Did the killer have help in transporting the body? He speculated on the probables here. It seemed more tantalizing than ever to adopt Jessica Coran's idea that the ungodly work of the Claw could well be the work of a pair of killers, especially since the madman's handiwork had taken on this added dimension of two victims in a single night. The creeping notion of an innocent-looking decoy entered Rychman's thinking, a dupe who might do the Claw's bidding, someone he could control, and someone who presented no threat to others, someone Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. Olin might, without fear, open their doors to.

  “Christ,” he muttered to himself, “maybe Jessica's theory has merit.” The hypothesis was tempting for another reason: if his detectives accepted the supposition, they could narrow the field, focusing on criminals known to have worked in tandem before. He'd give it more thought, talk to Jessica again, and perhaps at the next task-force meeting, which had now been postponed until tomorrow morning at 6 A.M., he'd pursue it.

  While teams of detectives scoured the neighborhood, he and Lou Pierce found a nearby diner and ordered up breakfasts. Just as the steaming second cup of coffee, their bacon and eggs with toast and jelly arrived, so did the TV and radio reporters. It was already a long day.

  Thirteen

  Jessica Coran and Dr. Luther Darius had enjoyed a peaceful breakfast. Darius had shut off his beeper, as was his habit when he had had enough. He'd announced the fact with a mischievous grin. While they'd eaten, they'd been treated to a delightful sunrise in New York Harbor where the tugboats bellowed out their intentions and large freighters and cruise ships were assembled below the watching eyes of thousands of sea gulls.

  As they walked back to the lab, their heads cleared of the spider webs that had accumulated from lack of sleep. Each was anxious to get deeply involved in the forensics information they had gathered, and Jessica was particularly interested in hearing from J.T. in Quantico.

  They spoke
of many things, but the conversation somehow worked its way back to Darius' physical condition and his present situation with the coroner's office.

  “They're shopping around for a replacement, but haven't done so well. Who wants the headaches? I gave it the best years of my life, and what happens? The moment I have a bit of a health problem, they want to discard me like yesterday's newspaper.”

  “I'd say a stroke is more than a little health problem, Doctor.”

  He frowned. “It was a small stroke.”

  “And now they've asked you to return?”

  “Until they can find a suitable replacement.”

  “No one could replace you.”

  “We're all expendable, Dr. Coran, believe me.”

  She knew what he meant. She felt her relationship with her own superiors was shaky and she mentioned this. Then you have some idea how they can make an old man feel.”

  They spoke no more, simply enjoying the walk and the company.

  When they arrived at the lab, they found the place buzzing and learned the search for them had been on. Apparently the police had located and entered the apartment of the elderly woman, and it was clear that she had been killed by the Claw in her Brooklyn apartment—miles from Scarsdale.

  “I want to get out there,” she told Dr. Darius.

  “Archer is there; he will do a fine job. You should get to work here.”

  She took a deep breath, considering this. “Perhaps you're right.”

  He smiled. “I am right. I am always right.”

  A few hours later Jessica stopped work and went to the telephone in the office that was temporarily hers. She dialed FBI headquarters in Quantico. Her assistant, J.T., came on with a glum tone, and after the amenities, she asked him what was wrong.

  “I got back this morning and found your first-priority case was back-shelved.”

  “What?”

  “I had Glenn working on the materials you forwarded, thought all was going well, and then found out O'Rourke ordered him off it and onto something she called more pressing.”

  “God damn her. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she was trying to drive me out. Undermining every damned thing I do, lately.”

  “Let's not get paranoid, huh, Jess?”

  “It's paranoia that's got me as far as I am.”

  “Not this time, Jess. You must've heard about Senator Keillor's death?”

  “Heart attack, right?”

  “They're not so sure anymore. Seems he had some track marks.”

  “Drugs? Christ, wasn't he on the President's Drug-free USA Committee?”

  “He was.”

  “And so Glenn Hale was yanked to study his tracks instead of my teeth marks?”

  “That's right.”

  “Well, Hale's not the only guy at Quantico who knows flesh marks. Get Kinnon or—”

  “Kinnon's in Africa.”

  “—or Springer. Springer's had some experience in—”

  “Jess, I'm doing it myself—”

  “You?”

  “And I'll get your results to you this afternoon.”

  “All right, J.T.”

  “Got the specimens in the SEM right now.”

  “No second chances here.” She knew that the SEM destroyed the evidence as it photographed, bombarding the tissue with a shower of electrons. If the photos were marred, there'd be no evidence and no way to tell if the teeth marks sent J.T. were identical or not.

  “Not to worry, Jess. Now, how're you doing in New York?”

  “Not so good. Two more victims last night.”

  “Jesus... two...”

  “Yeah, our boy—or boys—is or are getting bolder.”

  “This guy's shaping up to be another Matisak.”

  She was silent a moment, thinking of Matisak's involvement in her case, wondering again how he had arrived at the same theory as she. Maybe it took a madman to understand a madman, and if that was the case, did it mean that she, too, was mad?

  She hoped the syllogism held no water.

  “You still there, Jess?”

  “Yeah, J.T., and thanks. I'll be hearing from you soon, then?”

  The moment she hung up the phone, she decided that as much as she loved J.T., she'd better start doing what she could on her own. She returned to the two corpses brought in from Scarsdale. Dr. Darius was overseeing the autopsy of the younger woman, with Jessica assisting.

  The autopsy took less than the usual four to five hours because the body had already been eviscerated, usually the job of the coroner. The autopsy was, however, complicated by the fact that a number of the organs did not belong to the subject. It made for a most uneven examination of the victim.

  Where appropriate, they had returned the correct organs to the second body, the process making Jessica feel like a reanimator, a Dr. Frankenstein attempting to force order onto death and chaos.

  Dr. Darius, by comparison, seemed composed, at ease, in his element. All of her professional life Jessica had been looked upon by those outside of medicine—reporters, lawyers, even rugged cops—as something of a ghoul for being capable of doing her work amid the most horrific of conditions. But she now had to bow to Darius as far more detached and capable than she.

  But suddenly her estimation was qualified. The body jerked in a spasm and Darius jumped in response, laughing nervously. “I... I'll never get used to that,” he said before continuing on with his report. He was fastidious and sharp, she thought, as she watched him work.

  “It appears the slash marks came from a right-handed man, from across this way.” He pointed to the body's right shoulder and drew an imaginary, jagged diagonal line toward her navel. “The killer did this three times. It seems his favorite number, as it corresponds with all earlier victims. As can be seen by the vital reaction around the rents, the bruised blue, the victim was very much alive when she was ripped open.”

  The overhead microphone taped the words automatically. It also taped Dr. Darius' cough and the sound of him clearing his throat. The typescript would eliminate all nonessential information, and copies of the autopsy reports on both victims would be on Alan Rychman's desk before 3 P.M., if the second autopsy went as smoothly as this one was going.

  She noticed that Dr. Darius worked with a coverlet over the head of the victims. This was not unusual, especially for a man of his generation. For many years it had been standard practice, something about gentility and concern for the dead, respect.

  It also cut down on the unnerving problem of having closed pupils popping open, giving the autopsiest the chilling impression that the deceased was watching him or her while at work. In this case, with the eyes removed, it was even more disturbing.

  Now that she was older, Jessica didn't think it was such a bad idea. The older she got, the more superstitious, too, she conceded, feeling the thick crystal gem that'd been given to her by a dear friend who promised that it would bring her, if not luck, comfort, and when she did hold it in her palm, feeling the heat from her hand rise and ebb like a tide, it gave her pause, and calmed her nerves.

  Still, regardless of Dr. Darius' obvious aversion for the corpse's eyeless face, the head was part of a complete autopsy, and he would not only have to unveil the head, but stare into the cavities with a brilliant light.

  But he didn't do this. He asked Jessica if she would see to the stitches, now that most of the woman's organs had been returned to her, and he began to walk away.

  “Doctor...”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “What about the throat, the head, the eyes?”

  “Hammer blow to the forehead, occipital lobe. It's on the tape, Dr. Coran.”

  “But in a complete autopsy—”

  “No need to disfigure this poor soul any more than she already has been. I am... we are... done here. Close her up and let's get started on the other one.” Darius went out.

  She uncovered the face, finding the woman's eye cavities disconcerting. Jessica ran her eyes along the throat and found multiple b
ite wounds there, all mentioned in the autopsy, but she wanted to take the bite marks for more intensive study, and that meant cutting the sections out of the dead woman's throat with a scalpel.

  Maybe New York is unfortunate to have Dr. Darius back in on the case, she thought. Maybe he's too old for this kind of thing. Maybe... maybe . . .

  “What're you doing there?” It was Darius and his face was near white, his cold stare holding her. “We must get on,” he said, softening his tone.

  “I want to take these bite marks, study them in more detail.”

  “You've got bite marks. More, in fact, than we can deal with. Didn't you say you sent some off to Washington?”

  “Yes, but we have to be sure these match the others, that it's the work of the same man, or men.”

  “I suppose you're right. I just thought we could spare the woman any further... indignity...”

  “I understand and appreciate your concern—”

  He was nodding as he interrupted her, “But she won't feel a thing, I know... I know.”

  Darius had a cup of juice in his hands, bloodlike in color— cranberry, she guessed from the aroma. He popped a capsule and took a swallow.

  She stared a moment too long.

  “Nitro,” he said, “for the ticker.”

  Nitroglycerin, she thought, averting her eyes. That meant his attack had been far more serious than he had let on.

  “My body has, as they say, turned against me.”

  Jessica took samples from the dead woman's throat as she had from the thighs, the buttocks and arms earlier. Bite marks in the entrails appeared rather useless as impressions, so she stuck with the others.

  “If we have two killers, the teeth marks ought to show it,” she said.

  “Not necessarily,” he countered. “Not if only one of them does the biting. I think we have to concentrate on hair, fiber and particle samples, Jessica.”

  “And what about the weapon? What kind of a... an instrument could possibly cause the rents opening the body?”

  “The answer to that eventually leads to the killer.”