Extreme Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  #7

  is #3-

  —Gluttonous

  #8 is #2—Lustful

  #9 is #1—(the last victim?) sent into Limbo... through the Vestibule and over the River Acheron

  “Avaricious and Prodigal, Gluttonous and Lustful, you know the labels now from your research.” J.T. scrunched up his eyes and asked, “The Vestibule? Vestibule? To where? And the River Acheron?”

  “Entryway to Hell,” she explained. “Hellsmouth, like Mammoth, maybe. Something he said over the phone to me once. I need to get to an atlas.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that this... all this has been some elaborate scheme simply to find a way to tell Jessica Coran to... to go to Hell?”

  “Very funny, my friend, but I think he has more in mind than that; I believe he wants to personally send me to Hell. Here.” She tore off a second sheet from her notepad. “Take a look at this, too.”

  J.T. now stared at a set of concentric circles, each circle representing a level in Hades, or in the mind of the killer . .. or both. The notepaper read:

  The Rungs of Hell

  SEVENTEEN

  Lord grant me patience, and I want it right now.

  —Anonymous

  A solemn, overweight doctor in sneakers and green scrubs entered the waiting room, and Jessica leaped to her feet. The doctor explained that his portion of the operation— the intestinal tract—was finished, but that there were other complications, and that their vigil could go on for another two or three hours. “Sorry,” finished the doctor, “but he was badly chewed up, internally.”

  “Any improvement on his prognosis, Doctor?” asked Jessica.

  “I'm afraid not.”

  “Then it'll be hours before he's out of intensive care.”

  “Yes, it will. Again, I'm sorry I can't have better news for you.”

  Jessica knew she didn't have that kind of time, not if she wished to catch a killer, yet her heart tugged at her to be here with Warren should he recover. Should he... She banned her final thought.

  A male nurse entered and asked if there was a Doctor Jessica Coran in the waiting room. “Telephone call at the desk for you,” he announced.

  Jessica looked from the nurse to J.T., a birdlike fear flitting before her mind's eye, a thought fully formed: Who knows I'm here? J.T., reading her thoughts, supplied an answer: “San­tiva's got to have had word by now on what's happened here. He'll want a full report.”

  Jessica nodded and asked the nurse to lead the way. She followed the young man to the nurses' station; he pointed to a small, enclosed office, saying, “You can take it in there.”

  Being alone in the room with the phone was like stand­ing in a pit with a snake. She stared at the waiting phone where it blinked and winked up at her. Finally, she took the receiver in hand and pounced on the hold button. “Hello.”

  Santiva barked, “Jessica, what in hell's going on there? I thought you said this Bishop fellow was top drawer, and now I learn he's compromised an entire operation?”

  “Eriq, I don't know what was going down with War­ren,” she lied, not wishing to discuss it now, and certainly not over the phone. “All we know for certain is that he may not make it through the night, and even if he does, he'll be paralyzed, possibly for life.” She choked on the facts.

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Damn it, and just when we've gotten a line on what the list is getting at, too, Jessica.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “A Professor William Milton Jarvis, Medieval Studies Department at Georgetown University, tracked it to—”

  “Really, my old alma mater? Don't tell me,” she re­plied, spoiling his moment, “Dante's Inferno, right?”

  “How did you know? Damn it, you're always a step ahead.”

  “It finally dawned on me,” she half-lied, no time for detailed long-distance explanations. “And I've been read­ing the book since. We'll fax you our latest suspicions and an updated list as soon as possible.”

  “I'm coming out there to be with you,” he countered.

  “It's not necessary, Eriq.”

  “I think it is, at this juncture, absolutely necessary. I'm flying out to Salt Lake.”

  “Well, if you must come, make it Wyoming.”

  “Wyoming?”

  “Jackson Hole.”

  “Where the president vacations?''

  “One and the same. Ever been there?”

  “A splendid, beautiful area, and yes, I've been there and I know how to get there from here, yes.”

  “There are nine rungs of Hell, Eriq, and this guy ap­pears to be populating each with each of his victims. He's going to kill at least three, possibly four more times before he ends it, if we allow him to. Is it too damn much to hope we end it?”

  “I want to be on hand, help any way I can, Jess. I'll meet you in Jackson Hole. Meanwhile, fax any new de­velopments to the BSU; I can't sit idly by any longer, Jess. And Jess—”

  “Yes?”

  “I am one step ahead of you on one lead we got on this guy”

  “What kind of a lead?” She remained skeptical.

  “How about a name?”

  “A name?”

  “Feydor Dorphmann, spelled...” He slowed to spell the name accurately for her.

  At her end, Jessica took time to write it down.

  “How did you get the man's name? How accurate is this information?”

  “Right on, Jess. We sent his ugly little cryptograms to all major mental health facilities in the country, as you suggested, and bingo, up comes one in San Francisco called the Lombardh Institute for the Mentally Insane, where this Dorphmann character lived for a time.”

  “For a time?”

  “Eight years without harming a soul. Then he's re­leased—”

  “Released when?”

  “Seven months ago, and not three months passed when one of his doctors, a guy named Wetherbine, Dr. Stuart Wetherbine, is stabbed repeatedly with a knife and set aflame in an alleyway. Coincidence?”

  “No one in San Francisco put those two facts to­gether?”

  “Dorphmann disappeared. He's been wanted ever since, but no one's seen him.”

  Jessica thought about the time line. “He murders his doctor three months after release, then four months pass before he goes on his kill spree? Not your usual serial killer, Eriq. Tell me, what was he in for?”

  “Self-inflicted wounds—burning himself. Seems he's something of a masochist. Also delusional, something about seeing aliens behind his eyelids, that sort of thing.”

  “Aliens?”

  “Aliens, elves, creatures from Hell, you name it.”

  “So his family committed him to the institution?”

  “No, I spoke directly to the parents, both aged, in their seventies, and both didn't want anything to do with Feydor and didn't know he'd been released. I'm told they were frightened of him all their lives, something about his having burned living things—cats, dogs, you know—when he was a kid.”

  “Didn't the institution notify the parents when they re­leased the man?”

  “Said they couldn't locate them. Strangely enough, they weren't under any legal obligation to notify the next of kin since this Feydor guy had actually committed himself and was of age.”

  “He committed himself to eight years in a mental fa­cility. That'll help him at trial,” she half-joked, knowing a defense lawyer could make hay with this fact. Maybe Frank Lorentian's solution wasn't so far off the wall.

  “Yeah,” continued Santiva, “claiming he feared he'd hurt someone if he wasn't under constant watch.”

  “Damn it, this will help him at trial then. He commits himself for fear he'll harm someone, they release him, he does exactly as he feared and worse, and the defense has a hole large enough to drive a full-grown elephant through. Maybe that was Warren's concern, too, Eriq.”

  “Be that as it may, we still have to catch the fiend be­fore any defense lawyers and activists praise him.”

  She smiled at this. “S
till, what do we have that ties Dorphmann irrevocably to our case? How can you be sure he's the same man who's behind these fire crimes?”

  “The grease prints...”

  “From the mirrors?”

  ''Mirror instinct, you might say. When you figured that out, Jess, you nailed the bastard. The mental facility kept his prints on file.”

  “Terrific.”

  “How did you know? About the prints in the mirror grease? Who else would've given it a thought?”

  “I knew instinctively because I knew this guy inten­tionally leaves me his crumbs. He's been testing my mettle from the beginning.”

  “The important thing is the prints found a match with this guy. They match Dorphmann's medical records.”

  “Bingo,” she added. “What about a photo of the son- of a—”

  “It's eight years old, and it's not too good. His entrance file at Lombardh, but it's being faxed to Gallagher's office, Vegas, Bozeman, Casper as we speak. It should catch up to you in a few.”

  “Excellent. Now we can put a face with this pervert.”

  “Too bad your eyewitness, Bishop, is under. Could give us valuable insight into what the creep looks like today.”

  “Did you do a computer-aged enhancement of the photo?”

  “Faxed alongside the original.”

  “Dorphmann, Feydor Dorphmann,” she repeated the name. It somehow helped tremendously to know the name of the maniac she'd been pursuing, and to know that soon she'd be able to look into his photographic eyes. It gave her a sense that he was human after all, and not at all the Antichrist, the all-powerful being he had become in the minds of his victims before their horrible deaths, and in her mind at each moment she had heard the final cries of his victims.

  “Finally, we're seeing a turn in the case,” Santiva said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “What other good news are you hoarding, Eriq?”

  “Shoeprint is this guy Dorphmann's size as well, and you were right about the photographic paper you found. From a Polaroid Instamatic. The creep is keeping an al­bum.”

  Such a practice among serial killers wasn't unusual. She recalled how the vicious killer Kowona, in Hawaii, had kept such a photo album of his victims.

  “We're putting the picture on the wires with a full alert, all points, concentrating heavily on your area and the area you're tracking, Jess.”

  “Excellent. Maybe we can now throw some fear back his way.”

  “I'll look for you in Jackson Hole, Jessica.”

  “Yes, see you there.”

  With the line cut, standing now with the receiver in her hand, Jessica wondered how much more she could endure. She thought of Warren Bishop, lying on the operating ta­ble, fighting for his life; she thought of the two thugs, Rollo and John Doe, agents of Lorentian, men who'd never be capable of resuming their lives as usual or their duties for Lorentian or anyone else, ever again, should they live past this night. Then it hit her, an idea that might save lives. “Where's your hospital spokesperson?” she suddenly asked the lady sitting at a nearby desk, typing away.“Spokesperson?”

  “Who will deal with the press regarding the three men in your hospital in critical condition?”

  “That would be PR, Mrs. Crighten, down the hall to your right. Can't miss it.”

  Jessica found Mrs. Florence Crighten on her phone, her desk in disarray. She was already dealing with the press over the FBI matter, the gunshot and bum victims in the hospital's care.

  Jessica pressed the cut-off button on the woman's phone, flashing her badge as she said, “Your government needs you. We need your help, Mrs. Crighten.”

  Growing gracefully into middle age, Mrs. Crighten's slim waistline and ample bust spoke of a onetime party girl who'd decided a career much more productive. She'd obviously worked extremely hard to get to where she sat atop the PR pinnacle of this medical establishment. Her soft, round tones and tawny black complexion made her the perfect person to pitch news—good, bad, or indiffer­ent.

  “How can I help?”

  “I want a false report sent out to the newspapers.”

  “What?” The woman instantly shook her head, as if Jessica had suggested something vile, something perverted. “I can't do that.”

  “Even if it saves lives?”

  Now Mrs. Crighten's lips closed and pursed. “What kind of misinformation are we talking about? And how will it save lives?”

  “Trust me, it will save lives. Two, possibly three lives, maybe more.”

  “Explain further.”

  Jessica smiled, somehow knowing that she'd come to the right woman. She felt hopeful that now she could turn the tables on the Phantom. She explained to Mrs. Crighten how the killer had been operating. She laid out before Mrs. Crighten's astonished eyes the killer's cryptograms, telling her how they'd been left, how they'd been written using the victims' own fatty secretions, after they were burned alive. She told of the phone calls, how much she personally had suffered. Finally she got around to exactly how she planned to confuse the killer.

  “If three men die here tonight, then the killer has reached eight victims for his deadly charade, if he counts his shooting victim, Chief of Operations Agent Warren Bishop. That would leave only one blank space to fill in his demented, infernal game. That leaves only one more victim.”

  “If he takes Agent Bishop's death, and the death of the other two agents who were burned in the fire as equal, on a par with one of his bum victims,” she replied. “I see. But what if he doesn't take Bishop's death as enough?”

  “Then we'll have saved two lives instead of three.”

  “Yes, I see, but suppose he, the killer, doesn't want to count any of them?”

  “He will. He's anxious for this to be over...”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We have a relationship,” Jessica firmly said. “I believe—no, I know—how he thinks. He believes every­thing happens for a reason. He's quite fatalistic. He'll at the very least count the bum victims; he'll see them as reward for carrying out his... his duties, his responsibil­ities, thus—”

  “Duties,” muttered Mrs. Crighten, shivering where she sat, “responsibilities.”

  “He's quite mad.”

  “Of that I'm sure.”

  “Will you put the misinformation out there?”

  “It could backfire. Family members must be alerted to the truth before it gets around. It could cost me my job.”

  “The FBI made you do it?”

  The woman smiled and took Jessica's hands in hers. “We'll do it.”

  Jessica gave her a prepared statement that she had writ­ten out in longhand. It gave names for the additional two agents as Agent Thom Morganstem and Agent Raleigh Howler. To protect his office from embarrassment, Gal­lagher had earlier allowed hospital authorities to treat three FBI agents and not just one, but he'd left all three under heavy guard.

  Finished here, Jessica said to Mrs. Crighten, “Thank you... thank you.... Now, how do I get to Salt Lake's largest TV station and newspaper office?”

  Crighten called in her aide, telling the young woman to chauffeur Agent Coran to wherever she wished, when Crighten's phone rang.

  Jessica and the aide were halfway out the door when Mrs. Crighten announced that the call was for Jessica. “I think it's one of your people,” she cheerily said, offering the phone to Jessica. “He says he has information for you alone, Dr. Coran.”

  Jessica took the phone and immediately recognized the voice of the killer at the other end as he said, “Satan, disguised as a one-eyed Minotaur, carried me on one hell of a journey until I could see down into an endless hole where flesh and fire, like wick and candle, were one.”

  “Dorphmann,” she let his name fall on him like a bomb, “Feydor Dorphmann, we know now who you are and why you're driven to kill.”

  It was as if she were whistling in a wind tunnel; the surprise seemed to have no effect on Dorphmann as he continued speaking over her. “The journey kept me al­ways on a dow
nward spiral, and there were rungs on either side of the belly of this place, like they were made from Satan's ribs, you see....”

  “Just as in Dante's Inferno,” she suggested. “But Fey­dor, don't you see? If you turn yourself in now, I'll get help for you.”

  “Perhaps the historic Dante Alighieri in the 1300s was himself visited by Satan, because Satan wants us to praise him, you know, Dr. Coran. He wants us to never forget his presence. He must've made Dante's life a living hell like mine, turning his skin to boils and red rashes, making it impossible to live in his skin. He must've persuaded Dante to chronicle his domain, his dark kingdom. He's very good at persuasion techniques, you know, far superior to your FBI in that regard.”

  “You don't have to kill any more people, Feydor,” she told him. “You've killed eight now by our count.”

  Jessica watched Crighten's face as it turned ashen grey with the realization that the killer was on the hospital line, her line. Feydor Dorphmann paused momentarily at her words but then continued, “He got Dante to sing the praises of Hades....”

  “The two men you burned during your escape, two FBI agents, and a third you shot, Feydor. They've all died here at the hospital.”

  “But those killings were incidental, not part of the bar­gain.”

  “How do you know that? Satan works in mysterious ways, Feydor.”

  “They all must die by fire, all but one—you, Doc­tor....”

  “But these men did die by fire.”

  “Two of them, yes.”

  “Then why not count Dr. Stuart Wetherbine, Feydor? You torched his body, remember? And he was trying to help you, remember?”

  This silenced Feydor momentarily. “Then you do know all about me. Good, Doctor... very good. ,Now you will come for me all the more.”

  “What about it, Feydor? What about Wetherbine in San Francisco and the two agents you bumed to death here in Salt Lake? It means you can be finished with your work, whatever contract you made with... with Satan that much sooner, Feydor.”

  “Perhaps... perhaps...”

  She prayed he was considering the possibility she held out to him.