Extreme Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Why's this sicko fire freak calling you on the tele­phone, Dr. Coran?” asked McEvetty, who returned to the room with his partner beside him. The question was posed in so casual a manner, as if he might be asking after her preference in dishware, as if he actually expected her to have a full-blown, informed answer.

  J.T. suddenly returned with the photographer and pro­ceeded to give him orders to “shoot everything.”

  Now McEvetty stared across from where he stood on the other side of the bed and body. Beside him, his partner, Kaminsky, held an eager look on his face as well, also anxious for an answer to McEvetty's question when sud­denly he seemed to realize the foolishness of both his part­ner's question and his expectant stare.

  Kaminsky stood Abe Lincoln tall, bony, angular, lean. a sure ad for the Marlboro man, but somehow he fit into his white shirt and suit with a quiet grace lacking in McEvetty altogether. Both men gave off the appearance and aura of native Arizonans, mostly via the ruddy com­plexions, averted eyes, and wrinkles cut like scars, but whereas McEvetty weighed in large and bullish, Kaminsky was—while just a hairbreadth taller—much thinner and more light-footed. In a coarse way, McEvetty appeared always to be sporting a perpetual, scowling frown, whereas Kam maintained a quiet if cynical elegance.

  “No doubt you two've already exhausted any off-color remarks or dark humor you most assuredly needed to get out of your systems before my arrival? Where's the usual detectives' banter, boys?” She'd heard laughter coming from within the black hole of this place when she and J.T. had first been guided here by the night clerk and the state patrol officer.

  “Kam's working hard on getting in touch with his fem­inine side these days,” joked McEvetty. “Ain'tcha, pard?”

  “Shut up, Mac.” Kam turned his full attention on Jes­sica. “Don't mind McEvetty and his stupid questions, Dr. Coran,” Kaminsky said in a conspiratorial whisper. “His feet were so big when he was bom that—”

  “Shut up, Kam.”

  “—that there just wasn't no other place to put them but in his mouth, and he's gotten so used to the condition. Well, it just comes natural to him.”

  Jessica smiled in return and began going over the body with a handheld magnifying glass, complaining of the poor light. Still, she easily saw what she needed to see. Like Chris Lorentian's nearly cremated, baked body, there were wounds to the head, but no bullet holes, no quick and painless death, unfortunately. Poor old Melvin had died a torturous, horrendous death as a living marshmallow, and for no other reason than to satisfy some sick bastard's idea of kicks. It was then that Dr. Karl Repasi stepped into the room. Jessica didn't at first see him, although she heard J.T. asking someone, “How did you get here? When did you arrive?” And Jessica hoped it was Warren, but when she looked from the cadaver, she saw that it was Repasi.

  “I'm here to assist in any way possible,” he informed Jessica. “I got word from Bishop about the killing here and got a plane out of Vegas.”

  “This takes you some distance out of your way, Dr. Repasi,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her work, won­dering what his game was.

  “Arizona's my territory. Now this bastard's come to my home state,” Repasi answered and stepped closer for a professional look over her shoulder as Jessica examined the crinkled, crumpled, fire-blackened outer layers of the body, a kind of brittle-to-the-touch, breakaway armor.

  Jessica and J.T. exchanged a glance, accepting Repasi's reasoning for the moment. He was the M.E. for Phoenix, Arizona. Still, Phoenix was a long way from Page.

  Repasi found a question lurking in his head that he had to ask: “What do you think, Jessica? Same MO? Finger­prints in the written message? Identical scene, except this one's a man?”

  “Cause of death is often hidden by fire, as you know, and as you've said many times, Doctor, we have to be sure, but on the surface, yes.”

  “The way I heard it from Vegas is that you heard this one's dying words on the phone? That he—”

  “That he was smoked while I listened in.”

  “Then you know he was, like Chris Lorentian, con­scious when he got it; burned alive.”

  “What is it you want here, Karl?” she asked point- blank.

  “Just to offer my services. That's all. Everyone knows you've got your hands full with this. That you need help, more help than Thorpe can give you. So, tell me, what can I do to help?” She glanced up at J.T., seeing that he was not pleased, and she said, “All right, Karl.”

  “Whatever you need, Jess,” he replied.

  “Witness the fact I find no puncture wounds, no blunt- object wounds, no knife or bullet wounds.”

  “What about track marks?” asked McEvetty. “You know, drugs?”

  Kaminsky tried to soften the question by adding, “Isn't it true the one killed like this in Vegas was using?”

  “That was never established, was it, Dr. Repasi?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, there were some high concentra­tions of an over-the-counter sedative found in the blood, Dr. Coran. But no needle tracks or hard drugs, no.”

  “Well, if I'm to locate that kind of information, gentle­men, I'll need a lab, I'll need seven hundred thousand times the light and a powerful magnifying glass, an elec­tronic comparison microscope, blood and serum samples, a gas chromatography setup. Do you see a possibility for any of that happening here in this room?” Instantly, Jes­sica felt apologetic for her outburst, for sounding off, and coming off, as so officious and bitchy, but the past two days and nights weighed heavily, a damnable burden and strain on her nerves, and these men seemed only to be adding to her stress.

  McEvetty's unrestrained, snaking smile created a new mask of his face, and he sputtered in an infectious school­boy fashion now, saying, “But Dr. Coran, on our way up here, we heard you were some kinda—what, Mac?—mir­acle worker. That you could see like a cat in the dark. That the dead whisper in your ear? Isn't that right, Ed?”

  Jessica laughed with them to lighten the moment, but just the same, she had had enough of the Hardy boys.

  “Call in the paramedics, Jess,” said Repasi. “Let's ship Mr. Martin here to the morgue, so I can do a thorough job of it. You'll have a copy of the report by nightfall.”

  With this request coming from Repasi, Jessica looked up at J.T., who took her aside and said, “I don't know what Repasi's game is, but he's way out of his jurisdiction. He's the M.E. for Pheonix, not the state of Arizona.

  “Yes, and he's built up quite a reputation there. He's terribly anxious to help us out, isn't he?”

  “Maybe he wants your job, Jess.”

  “He can have it.”

  She then tore off her gloves and tossed them atop the mummified remains before her, the photographer snapping a quick shot of her gloves atop the body. She grabbed her bag and left the two area FBI men to exchange looks, while J.T. followed her out and Karl Repasi scratched at his head and beard, as if utterly confused by her anger.

  Jessica, a bit tired of being assessed, stopped in the hall­way, where she found the air less foul, and after taking in a deep breath, barked orders down the corridor. “You can get the medics in now; have 'em take the body to the nearest medical facility with the best lab equipped for morgue work, will you, fellas? And what would that be, and will you get me there?”

  “We only got one hospital in Page, ma'am,” replied the uniformed officer nearest her.

  She nodded, sighed, feeling foolish. “It'll have to do then.”

  Jessica was about to leave with J.T. at her side when a distraught man in cowboy boots, string tie, and ornamented belt, and sporting a Stetson hat, rushed into the fray, his face beet red with anxiety. “My God, is it Mr. Martin's room? I just learned of the fire. God, the bus'11 be de­layed.”

  “Did you know Martin?” asked Jessica. “He was on my bus. One of my travelers.”

  “Your bus?”

  “I'm Ronny Ropers. I'm a tour bus guide. Mr. Martin's one of my charges. Someone's going to have to notify the family, and si
nce I'm captain of the ship, so to speak... Nothing like this has ever happened before, not on my watch. I mean, sure I've had some die on me; we book more over-the-hill passengers than any tour line going, but it's always been of natural causes. I heard talk of... of murder?”

  “You have any idea who might have wanted Martin dead?”

  “What're you talking about? We're all just touring the country, having a good time, all except Himmie.”

  “Himmie?”

  “Mr. Herndorf, Klaus Hemdorf, dour guy, keeps en­tirely to himself at the back of the bus, doesn't participate, always a glum response, talks very little English, voted most likely to Uzi the bus.”

  “Did you see Martin with Herndorf or anyone else last night?”

  “I spoke to him myself last night before going into the village. He was fine.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes, just going down to dinner.” Ropers was visibly shaken. “He was just a sweet old man. Who'd want to murder him? I was just kidding about Himmie, of course.”

  “We'll want to meet with and talk to everyone on your tour, Mr. Ropers.”

  Suddenly he looked even more stricken than before. “But that will delay us for hours.”

  “I'm sorry, but it will be necessary.”

  Jessica and J.T. followed Ropers outside to his bus, weaving in and out through a parking lot littered with tour buses. They had to be led to the bus that belonged to Mar­tin's group. There she began the tedious questioning of other tourists who might shed some light on the Martin case. So far, all they had in the way of an identification of the mysterious man who had dined with Martin was the shaky description of a waitress who had very poor recall.

  From the look of the crowd on the bus, Jessica held out little hope of learning much more than why older people on vacation were willing to make absolute fools of them­ selves in what they chose to wear, and certainly not any more than they already knew about the killing.

  “Martin was a loner,” said one of the elderly ladies near the front. “He kept going off by himself. Didn't mingle well.”

  “Poor social skills,” added the lady traveling with her.

  “We tried to involve him more,” said another gray- blue-hair across from these two, her garish green sun­glasses and bonnet bobbing with her speech. Ropers reluctantly agreed. “I found it difficult to in­volve him. Usually, I can get anyone involved in the time- passing games we play on the bus, but Martin was a real dour fellow, not unlike Mr. Herndorf in that regard, but at least Martin would crack a smile now and again, show he was listening in.”

  “He was traveling alone, recently widowed, somewhat soured on life,” supplied another elderly lady.

  The image made Jessica think of how lions in Africa picked out their prey from among the aged, dying, and weak who could not keep up with the herd. Had Martin died because he was lonely? Did he have absolutely no connection to Chris Lorentian? If so, then the victims were randomly selected by the killer, and the killer did not know his victims, save for what he might surmise from their body language, perhaps.

  Did Chris Lorentian look like an easy target, like Mel Martin had looked like an easy target?

  Jessica met with and spoke to Herndorf, who was every bit as sourpussed as Ropers had described him. He ex­pressed in broken English his regret about Martin, but as­sured Jessica he had not seen or spoken to the man the night before and knew nothing of his accident, as he put it. Herndorf seethed throughout the interview, angry at the Gestapo-like treatment and the FBI's putting them off schedule. Feydor Dorphmann felt an overwhelming need to catch up on his sleep as he boarded the large, comfortable, air- conditioned bus that had snaked its way through canyon passes, pulling out of Page, Arizona, at dawn along with thirty-six other passengers. He had seen the activity of fire trucks, a paramedic wagon, and local police milling about the scene of his last destruction.

  He had located his usual seat at the rear and settled in, placing his hefty black briefcase in the overhead and grab­bing a pillow for his head. He had loosened up with the other passengers now, saying good morning to each as he passed them, remembering some of the names, asking for­giveness from those he could not recall. He nestled into the cushions of one chair and put his feet up on the one beside him.

  The other passengers had long before become curious about him. They had all become “real chums” at the in­augural dinner the night he had burned Chris Lorentian to death. They had all exchanged information about them­selves to one another, all at the coaxing of Doris, the tour director, a woman whose makeup—if not her face—might crack if she smiled once more. No one on the bus knew anything about Feydor, and he knew he must come up with some answers to some inevitable questions. He wondered if he ought not revert to his German, as bad as it was, and pretend to know very little English. It could save him a lot of trouble.

  Contemplating this, he had happened to glance out the window. His heart almost stopped, and then it started up in quick-beat fashion when he saw Dr. Jessica Coran emerge from the building near where the fire had broken out in the early-morning hours, disturbing everyone in the east wing of the lodge.

  As others now began boarding the bus, Feydor quickly realized that the fire and the fire death fueled the talk of the morning for the tourists, and word came back to Fey­dor that the poor fellow who expired in the fire was a traveler on another tour with another bus line heading to­ward Vegas and coming from destinations ahead on their schedule.

  Jessica Coran and a man with her, flashing their FBI badges, suddenly boarded another bus, Martin's tour bus. Dr. Coran's small black valise dangled at her side, firm in her strong hand. Feydor watched with great interest, won­dering if the FBI people might yet board his bus, fearful they could cut short his and Satan's scheme. But Doris wasn't about to be held up. She'd been involved in what appeared a continual rivalry with yet another bus following the same route as they.

  “Crank her up and get us outta here, Dave!” she or­dered the driver.

  Doris appeared determined not only to stay on schedule but also to defeat her nemesis by gaining time and getting ahead of schedule. Doris had explained that the earlier they got out, the better and cleaner the facilities along the way were apt to be, and the better the service and the better the food.

  When the bus had shuddered into life, Feydor felt safe again.

  And now, even as the tour director listed their stops today, Feydor began to nod off, and soon the killer nodded off completely, a half smile on his lips. He'd done a good night's work, and a respite from his fevered mind and fu­ture plans felt reward enough for now.

  I deserve a break today, his mind kept telling him. Along with some peaceful sleep in the air-conditioned comfort of the bus. This compensation felt right. But Doris, from the front of the bus, started up another of her blasted sing-alongs, show tunes.

  Feydor placed on headsets built into the seat to listen to some Bach, Handel, and Wagner rather than participate in this morning's Andrew Lloyd Webber times with the tour guide, a frustrated showgirl, Feydor decided. Even from behind his closed eyelids, he could feel the woman's wrath. She'd be after him to participate more; there was little doubt of this fact. He occasionally opened his eyes and found her glare.

  The tour guide had said they must all rotate seats on each successive day of the tour so that everybody got a chance to be up front, and it supposedly made for friendlier relations among the travelers. Feydor hadn't changed seats, preferring the serenity and relative safety of the backseat. Besides, the view from here held all other passengers un­der his scrutiny.

  But it had been a rough night, so he leaned the back of his chair as far as it would go, feigning a headache. He allowed the classical music to flow over him. For the mo­ment, he felt relatively safe in sleeping. He remained pleased that Jessica Coran, like a beckoned shadow, had followed him thus far. He was equally pleased to have left her yet another surprise that would complicate her pursuit.

  He thought of the well to which
he intended taking Jes­sica Coran, the well of fire into which he intended throw­ing her. He recalled the area as it appeared to him as a child, recalled the first time he had ever taken a life; it had been another child's life and no one had ever known ex­cept for him and for Satan, who told him to do it.

  He knew that Satan beckoned him back to the place where he'd killed that little girl, where he'd pushed her from the guardrail and into the Devil's lips. He had stood about with the rest of the crowd, watching the frantic par­ents as the little girl cooked to death in the superheated waters of Yellowstone National Park.

  He'd been in search of redemption ever since, but God was in no mood to redeem him, and it appeared only one god could salvage his soul, the god of Hades.

  He felt an overwhelming need to make contact again with the FBI woman, Jessica Coran, but when the bus fi­nally stopped at a roadside café and gift shop, at eight thirty-five, his attempt to reach Dr. Coran at the Wahweap Lodge failed miserably. She was unreachable. He hung up and dialed the number he had for her in Vegas at the Hilton. He'd get his message to her one way or another, he promised himself and his demon within. He'd talk to the FBI. Not necessarily Jessica Coran this time, but someone close enough to forward her the news. They were all waiting to hear from him again; someone would be there at the number in Vegas, waiting for his call, awaiting disclosures.

  While others on the bus attended to nature and the gift shop and their stomachs, he placed the second call, making the call he'd been unable to make the day before for lack of time and for lack of a handy telephone.

  As it worked out, it was provident he hadn't had a phone in the room at the El Tovar, where the group had stopped for a fast look at the Grand Canyon and lunch. While the others lunched, he had set fire to a malicious fraud in the name of Satan. He wanted to tell someone about it now in the worst way. Wanted to get word to Dr. Coran.