Did the doctor think that Vincent Mungo was capable of the violence done to the Los Angeles girl?
“Yes. Definitely.”
Where did such anger come from?
“Demonic rage, I would call it. Probably surfacing after years of being buried in the unconscious. Most such rage is slowly worked out by the person but sometimes it’s just capped. Then one day it blows and he goes berserk.”
Could Mungo control the rage?
“Not if it became strong enough.”
Even if it meant discovery and capture? Or death?
“Even then.” The doctor paused. “But usually this kind of rage is accompanied by feelings of invincibility, so that the person doesn’t ordinarily think in terms of capture. He’s simply so superior that detection is quite impossible. It never really enters his mind. Not seriously anyway.”
Would this kind of rage follow any pattern?
“It might. Everything is cyclic in a sense, and Mungo undoubtedly has his inner clock ticking to his rhythm. But without sufficient examples there’d be no way to predict the pattern.”
“You mean without more killings.”
There was a silence.
“I’m afraid so,” Lang finally said.
“Why the mutilation?”
“Well, it’s obviously sexual. But exactly what significance it has for Mungo can’t be known until we study it further.”
“You think what he’s doing now is connected to his past in any way?”
“Everything’s connected to the past, Lieutenant. At least as long as there’s memory. Even after, we have automatic reflexes and cell-conditioning.”
“You examined him, Doctor. What did you think of him?”
“I found him marginally aggressive, maybe a hit slow in thought. And filled with suppressed violence.”
“Then what he’s doing doesn’t surprise you?”
“Not really. Though I didn’t think he had the spark needed to blow. I guess we can never tell for sure.”
“But you’re sure that’s Vincent Mungo out there.”
A long pause.
“Doctor Lang?”
“That’s an odd thing you said.”
“I just wondered if it fit your mental pattern of Mungo.”
“In lieu of anyone else, I would have to say yes.”
“Just one more thing, Doctor. Would you say Mungo was a sadist?”
“Yes, I’d say he had strong sadistic instincts. That type very often does.”
“Could these … instincts be outgrown?”
“Not usually.”
Afterward Spanner sat on the porch steps for a long time smoking his pipe and thinking strange thoughts. By the time he went to bed it had become August 6.
“WHAT I don’t need is another day like this,” Senator Stoner said that night in the arms of his mistress.
Lying lazily across the ruffled sheets, she pulled him closer to her as she slowly opened her thighs.
“I’ll help you relax,” she purred. “Then later you can tell me all about it.”
THE MAN was heavy, hard. His dark suit closed around him tightly.
“George Little?”
Kit’s father looked up from the table, pressed his lips together in acknowledgment.
“Let’s walk.”
They passed through the rear of the topless lounge and out a back exit. In the alleyway a large black sedan idled. The man opened a door, “Inside,” he commanded.
As George Little climbed in, a man glanced at him from the opposite seat.
“You wanted to see me about a contract on Vincent Mungo …”
THAT WAS the evening of August 7. Twelve hours later another man climbed into a different car some two hundred and fifty miles away in Fresno. He stared in disbelief at the solitary figure in the back seat.
“Carl?”
The man smiled. “Good to see you, Don.” He waved a finger at the chauffeur, shifted his attention back to Solis. “Been a long time.”
“I thought you were—”
“Dead.” Kept the smile. “Everyone did. That’s why I’m still alive.”
“Jeez, I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “Where the hell you been?”
The big limousine moved effortlessly out of the parking area, its engine humming softly. In the plush interior not even the hum could be heard.
“We’re going for a little drive,” Carl Hansun announced casually. “Can the place do without you for a half hour?”
“Sure, sure. No problem.” Solis still couldn’t believe it. He kept thinking maybe it was some dumb cop trick. But he recognized the tall, bony figure even after all that time. “How long’s it been?” he asked.
“Twenty-one years,” replied Hansun. “And five months.”
“That long?” It once had been a lifetime to Solis, rotting in prison. But now, sitting next to a friend he once had, it all seemed like just the day before yesterday. “Christ, we must be getting old.”
Hansun looked pained. “I’m two years older than you. Don’t rub it in.
“When I never heard from you I figured—well, you know.”
“I read about it in the papers. Tough break.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Solis said quietly. “They had me on death row for a couple years.”
“So I heard.”
“But I got out okay. Did my time and took my walk.”
“Good man,” said Hansun smoothly. “And now you’re a responsible businessman. Successful too, from what I saw back there.”
Solis shrugged. “It does all right for me and Les. Hey, you ain’t seen my brother yet. Boy! We’ll have some party tonight. Just like the old days.”
“Some other time,” Hansun said quickly. “I’m a little pressed now.” He settled back. “How is he anyway?”
“Les? Oh, he’s fine. You know Les. Never says much.” He wondered why Carl didn’t want a get-together. Maybe he was sick. “You okay? I mean, your head and all?”
Hansun tapped his skull. “Never felt better. Got a new steel plate, this one guaranteed for life.” He lit a Camel, inhaled. “Still got only one good lung,” he said between coughs. “Not allowed to smoke but I sneak one here and there—you know how it is.”
Solis studied him a moment. “You look good, Carl. Like somebody important, a big shot or something. It’s like you’re rich, that’s how you look.” He grinned. “Are you rich, Carl?”
“I got enough.”
“Yeah, but who says what’s enough?”
Hansun sighed. “That’s always the problem.”
“You in the rackets?”
A smile. “Not really. I got a lot of construction up north, went there after L.A. Sunk every nickel in the business and built it big.” His voice grew soft. “Now I own it all. Some other things too.”
“Must be nice, all that money.”
“I got no complaints. Me and the wife, we live pretty good.”
“Still the married man.”
“Still the same woman. Almost thirty years now.” He grunted. “It must be love.”
“Must be.”
They rode in silence a few minutes. Don Solis wondered what Carl could suddenly want with him after twenty-one years of nothing. The only thing he knew for sure was that it wasn’t a social call. And no need to ask how he was found. Carl looked like he could buy anybody or anything, including information.
“You read the papers much?” Hansun asked finally.
“Here and there.”
More silence.
“This capital-punishment thing is getting serious.”
“It’s all talk.”
Hansun glanced his way. “I’m talking business now. I’m not talkin’ talk.”
Solis listened.
“The right politics helps business make money. But it costs a bunch of money to get the right kind and it all comes out of the business. It’s like they say, one hand washes the other.” Pause. “We got some people in Idaho—the right kind of people—and a
couple here in California we want to get elected. They know how business should work. So we help them now and then they help us, and everybody makes money. It’s simple.”
“Who’s we?”
“Business associates. You know.”
“And you got some things here too?”
“Upstate mostly.”
“What’s the angle on capital punishment?”
Hansun grimaced. “All of a sudden it’s a big issue in this part of the country. I don’t know why but it is. Gonna buy a lot of votes.”
“Lose a lot too.”
“That’s where you can help us, at least in this state.”
Solis saw the pitch coming.
“You knew a guy named Caryl Chessman.”
“Chessman? Sure, in the joint. But that was a long time ago, twenty years.” He rubbed his nose. “Besides, he’s dead.”
“He’s got a big name around here, people remember him. Mostly for the capital-punishment thing.”
“So?”
“Some people are using Chessman,” Hansun explained patiently, “as the handle to a hot issue. The right people, you see what I mean?”
“Which side they on?”
“The backlash is strong and getting stronger. We think it’ll be a big factor in politics for years. State politics anyway.”
“So they want to kill Chessman all over again.”
“Better than let him go free.”
“He’s dead, for chrissake.”
“But we ain’t.”
Another long silence.
“Where do I come in?” Solis asked eventually.
“You knew Chessman, talked to him a couple years.”
“So did everybody.”
“But he only told you.”
“Told me what?”
“He was guilty, what else?”
Solis hooded his eyes. “He never told me nothing like that.”
Hansun smiled. “You forgot about it over the years. Never thought of it. But now he’s in the papers again and you remember. He told you he did those robberies and rapes and if he ever got out he’d do more.”
“I don’t get it.”
“There’s a state senator pushing the death penalty; soon a few congressmen will start. We want to help them all we can.” He wet his lips. “They use Chessman to show how capital punishment protects people from dangerous criminals. But some don’t believe Chessman was guilty or don’t think he should’ve died. So you come along and say he was guilty and deserved death. You knew Chessman in prison, where men got nothing to do but talk about the past. A lot of people will listen to you.”
“The politicians know about this?”
Hansun shook his head. “To them you’re legitimate. They won’t know until we tell them at the right time.”
“It won’t work. The newspapers’d check me out right away.”
“That’s what we’re counting on. You were really in with him. Now you’re an ex-con small businessman trying to make an honest living. You got nothing to win and everything to lose, but you had to do the right thing anyway. You’re perfect for this, You got the credentials and nobody could prove it didn’t happen.”
“Any guy in the joint at the time could do the job for you.”
“Except you got a few things they don’t. You’re respectable now, and you know how to keep your mouth shut.” Hansun glanced quickly at his friend. “One more thing, Don.”
“What’s that?”
“You owe me a big move,” he whispered, “and now I’m calling it in.”
“Like that, eh?”
“The business you own came from a check for ten grand.”
“You?”
Hansun nodded.
Solis didn’t like it. He just wanted to make a buck and stay out of trouble. Now he was back in. Even if they couldn’t disprove his story he’d still be in danger from the bad publicity, from the anti-death fanatics and Chessman freaks. He’d probably lose the business, and if they ever found out he was lying he’d lose the rest of his life too. They’d crucify him right back into prison.
But he couldn’t say no. He owed a debt and it was being called. Carl and his crowd were playing for big stakes and a refusal now would mean only one thing. Someday he’d hear a knock on the door. Or maybe he wouldn’t hear it at all.
“What’s in it for me?” he said quietly, defeat in his voice.
THE MEETING in Sacramento broke up at 1:30, and Sheriff Oates felt he had been under a steamroller. The day was hot and the people angry. Especially the big shots from the governor’s office. How could Mungo escape a dragnet of a hundred thousand police and peace officers? It was now August 10. How could one man whose face was known remain free for almost forty days? Not only remain free but go out and kill again? How in hell could such a thing happen?
There were no answers. A lot of theories from the dozen men gathered in a state conference room, but nothing definite. Mungo might be disguised as a woman. He could’ve somehow had plastic surgery done secretly. Perhaps he was living with someone who kept him hidden; that way he needn’t go out except to kill. Or maybe he already had a place well stocked for him before he escaped; his relatives could’ve been in on it. The most bizarre suggestion was that Mungo was dead and his role taken over by someone else equally insane. Oates rejected this because it seemed obvious that the man who savaged the girl was the same fiend who mutilated the other inmate at Willows, and that man was Mungo.
With no answers, new plans were made. Extra men would scour the Los Angeles neighborhood, knock on every door if necessary. New impetus would be given to publicizing Mungo’s description; television stations would be asked to cooperate. A dozen state investigators would be assigned full-time to the case, setting up a central command in Sacramento. Finally, a reward of $50,000 would be offered for information leading to the arrest of Vincent Mungo. Conviction was guaranteed.
On the way back to Forest City the sheriff, now relieved of sole responsibility for the capture, had the uneasy feeling that new plans alone would not be enough. There was something strange about Mungo’s ability to disappear and reappear at will. And something positively demonic about his hatred of human bodies. Oates found himself beginning to believe once again in the devils of his youth.
FOUR DAYS later Amos Finch arose for the second time that morning. Unlike his previous resurrection this one was successful. The strawberry blonde slept on as he showered and dressed. At his mailbox he sorted through the day’s bills and brochures until he came to the letter he had been expecting.
In the kitchen of his house near the Berkeley campus of the University of California, he prepared his usual breakfast of orange juice, freshly squeezed, lightly buttered toast and black coffee. As he ate leisurely he glanced over the letter. Sacramento’s reply to his inquiry was a polite rejection. They did not think it would be feasible at this time to assign civilians, no matter how experienced, to the Mungo investigation. What they really meant, he well understood, was that they didn’t want any nosy professors snooping around. Here it was August 14; they had taken three full weeks to say no. He was disappointed.
He was also amused at the authorities’ lack of imagination in not realizing they needed help. Without being privy to inside information, he could’ve already told them a few things. He could tell them, for example, that Vincent Mungo did not kill the young woman in Los Angeles.
In the Willows killing only the face was destroyed, supposedly by Mungo. In Los Angeles the body apparently was greatly damaged but the face was untouched. If there was no logical motive behind either mutilation, if each was a simple act of rage, as seemed certain, then the conclusion was inescapable. Each had been killed by a different person. Homicidal maniacs operated in set patterns, just like anyone else, and it was incredibly harder for them to break out of their patterns.
Amos Finch was aware of the horror of his conclusion. Somewhere in California was a second maniacal killer, infinitely more dangerous than Vincent Mungo. Faceless, namel
ess, unknown and even unsuspected, he was driven by a rage so great he destroyed whole bodies. Under the guise of Vincent Mungo he could do anything, go anywhere. Anywhere …
Eight
ON THE morning of his wedding day in Las Vegas, Bishop bought a ticket for Phoenix. Toward evening he emerged from the bus station on E. Jefferson. He was not impressed by what he saw or felt. Phoenix was oppressively hot. The late afternoon sun shone on everything within reach, baking man and metal alike. Shade was rare and offered little solace from the stark sunlight. Bishop removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves; the raincoat bought in San Francisco had been discarded in Vegas, much to his relief now. He was not used to such heat, it stuck to him like a straitjacket. Within minutes his shirt was soaked as sweat ran down his ribs and back. His eyes blurred, his hair suddenly felt matted. Flight bag and zippered money case in hand, jacket under the arm, he trudged down the street, already weary.
His first look at the city reminded him of a miniature Los Angeles, all plastic and glass and steel. Everything that wasn’t straight up seemed absolutely flat, flat and squat; endless rows of squat tract homes and little lawns on perfectly even land, all manicured and symmetrical and incredibly, irrevocably flat. Yet the streets were wider, the spaces larger. There was less crowding, less impatience. The tempo seemed a bit slower to him. Slower, too, was his own pace in the blistering summer heat.
In a half hour he had seen enough, or at least as much as he could stand. He ducked into an air-conditioned restaurant on E. Washington and ordered a steak and coffee. When the steak came he ate ravenously. At Willows he had eaten mostly casseroles over the years, and he found himself developing a positive passion for real meat.
The man around the bend in the counter watched him eating. As he pulled his possessions even closer to him, Bishop smiled in his direction. “Kind of hot out there,” he said in friendly fashion.
“Ain’t the heat,” snapped the old man. “It’s the damn humidity.”
“Is it always like this?” Bishop asked.
“Only in the damn summer.” The old man sugared his coffee. “The winters is just hot.”
By Reason of Insanity Page 23
