By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  “Do they have anything?” he presently asked.

  Managing editor John Perrone, functional head of the newsweekly, was one of the most respected editors in American journalism, as well as one of the most feared. Both the respect and fear came from his often ruthless but totally professional handling of a worldwide network of writers and researchers who strove each week to bring the news to millions of readers. His power was immense, his responsibilities heavy. Generally regarded as being without equal in his dramatic flair for the big story, for tomorrow’s fresh sensation, he was just as often accused of manipulating the news for the benefit of the publishing empire he served so well. Which was why he held his job and kept his power.

  “I think so,” he said after a moment. “That’s why I brought it to you.” His tone was subdued, his eyes steady. But he was already feeling the emotional pitch of the story possibilities. “There’s nothing definite about a psychological profile, as we know. But this one seems to match Mungo pretty well so far. If it has any validity as a projection, we might be in for a bloodbath that could make Charles Manson and Richard Speck look like a pair of country preachers. The Institute doctors feel Mungo’s worked himself into a state of megalomania. He thinks he’s invincible, and he’s out to get vengeance for his father on women, any women.”

  “It’s not definite that Caryl Chessman was his father at all.”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore. Mungo’s made his decision and he’s gone too far to stop now. Blood feeds on blood and if the doctors are right, he’s beyond recall. Wherever he is, all he sees are dead mutilated bodies. What we have to decide is, should we go after him ourselves? We’ve got contacts and connections around the country that even the police don’t have. If we could get him or get to him first”—the fervor grew in his voice—”we’d pull off the story of the year.”

  “There was a time,” Dunlop said with a smile, “when we just reported the news.”

  “Times change,” growled Perrone. “Besides, I’m not saying we interfere in police business. Just that we run our own parallel investigation. Newsmen are supposed to uncover facts. All we’d need in this case is a concerted effort—a special company task force that would report only to us and work out of the New York office. They’d have no other duties until he was caught, one way or another.”

  John Perrone stopped. He had made his plea as strongly as he could. For years he had chafed whenever Dunlop referred to the role of the newsman as a simple reporter of the news. Yet he was never really certain where the man stood on the issue. For himself, he well knew that the media often made the news. Indeed, it was almost impossible for the reporter not to become part of the report. He was painfully aware of the Hawthorne Effect: that is, people under observation perform differently by the very fact that they are being observed. And he believed the same held for anyone questioned after an event. Furthermore, all news was private until made public, and the very gathering of it was already a form of manipulation. That seemed obvious.

  Martin Dunlop pressed his lips together in concentration and turned his eyes again to the paintings. There was a feeling to them that suggested the New York of a hundred years earlier, though the technique was modern and the architecture contemporary. Gazing at them, he sometimes wished he were living in the nineteenth century; he had an idea that things were much simpler for an editor then. Not easier; God knows an editor’s life had never been easy since Adam and Eve were penciled out of the Paradise story by the Directing Editor Himself. But things were less complex a century before, if only because there was less of everything. This was the news and that was it. Simple. Direct. The editor-in-chief liked the simple and direct. And one thing he didn’t like was having to make instant decisions involving something that could get out of control. He wished Perrone would go away. The man was the best in the business, but right now he wished his managing editor would just disappear.

  Martin Dunlop turned his thoughts to Perrone’s idea. The company perhaps had the resources to ferret this Mungo out. It could mean possibly interfering in police matters and withholding information. It might even prove dangerous, and could certainly lead to charges of manipulation. But it would be a fantastic editorial coup if successful. Dunlop had no illusions about the fierce competition among the news magazines in the tight-money year of 1973.

  “All right,” he sighed, still looking at the wall paintings. “I’ll take it upstairs.”

  John Perrone said nothing. His boss was a good editor and a brilliant communications businessman. He had expected no less from him.

  Dunlop wheeled round. “I’ll get back to you before lunch.” He smiled to indicate the meeting was over. “It is a most interesting idea. I hope we can work something out.”

  After Perrone had left, to return to his own office and a dozen pressing problems of the new week’s issue, the editor-in-chief again read the doctors’ report. He closed his eyes at the finish. There was no doubt that Vincent Mungo would kill again, and keep on killing. He would not stop suddenly, like Jack the Ripper. It didn’t take a doctor to see that.

  Still frowning, he buzzed his secretary to call upstairs.

  THAT SAME morning in Berkeley, California, Amos Finch solved a problem that had been bothering him for many weeks. He finally figured out how to tell if the body of the man found murdered at Willows State Hospital on the morning of July 4 was really that of Thomas Bishop, even though the face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition and the body itself already buried.

  AT 10:40 AM. the editor-in-chief of Newstime magazine rode the elevator to the twentyfifth floor to see the chairman of the board of Newstime Inc. He expected the meeting to be brief.

  As the elevator doors opened on the twentyfifth floor Dunlop stepped into a thickly carpeted foyer with original lithographs on the wood-paneled walls. He turned left and walked into the reception area, smiled briefly at the woman seated behind the silvered desk, and continued along the blue-carpeted hall. Eventually he came to the end, where he rounded a corner into a huge board room.

  At the far wall the woman looked up briskly from her desk as he crossed the room.

  “Mr. Dunlop. How nice to see you.”

  “Mrs. Marsh.” The editor-in-chief glanced toward the closed door to his right. “I’m a minute or two early.”

  “He’s expecting you.” She flicked up a switch and announced his presence, waited a moment, then smiled briefly, and Martin Dunlop walked past her desk into James Mackenzie’s private office.

  The room appeared just as he had left it the last time, some weeks earlier, and all the times before that. Cluttered, informal, passionately untidy and yet somehow eminently livable. It went with the flowers and a Greek fisherman’s cap and blue tennis shoes and a clay pipe. And all of them, including an urbane charm and grace, went with the rangy man who turned to greet him.

  “Martin, good of you to drop in.”

  Mackenzie indicated a chair and Dunlop quickly sat down. He was asked about the magazine and the new issue in preparation, and he soon found himself mentioning some ideas he had wanted to keep under wraps a while longer. But a few points scored were a few points gained, and as they talked business he almost forgot his reason for being there.

  “Now what’s all this about Vincent Mungo?”

  Martin Dunlop instantly switched his thoughts. In minutes he explained that Newstime had funded a Rockefeller Institute study of the killer. Based on the Institute profile, and most especially the projection of increased bloodshed, his managing editor believed—and he quite agreed—that the company should set up a large investigative unit aimed at tracking down the madman. If successful it would mean millions of dollars worth of free publicity that couldn’t help but benefit all areas of company operations. And Newstime would of course print the whole story, which should bring in much added revenue. He ended his brief explanation by placing the profile on the desk,

  Mackenzie reached for the green folder without a word. As he read, his lips pressed together time an
d again in a show of distaste. When he had finished he pushed the folder back across the desk and sighed loudly.

  “What are the negatives for the organization?”

  Dunlop recited them quickly. Several times he used the phrases “interfering in police business” and “withholding of information.” He watched Mackenzie’s frown deepen. When he got to the part about “manipulating the news” the frown burst open.

  “That is politically indefensible at the moment, as I’m sure you know, Martin. The Nixon administration is just waiting for something they could sink their fangs into. They haven’t forgotten”—the contempt in his voice was unmistakable—” Mr. Agnew’s direction.”

  A few more minutes and there was nothing left to say. A big task force was out. A major company effort was out, Any publicity, even any mention of such a project, was out. There must be no interference with police or withholding of information, though in the matter of individual reporters this was often difficult to prove. Finally, there must not even be a suspicion that anything was being done to manipulate the news. God forbid!

  Back in his own office, the editor-in-chief summoned his administrative aide. Patrick Henderson, a youngish man of impeccable background and discretion, was often used as a sounding board by his employer. Henderson regarded loyalty as an art to be constantly practiced, and he could be particularly hard on those who strayed or made too many mistakes. Some thought him Dunlop’s hatchet man, and he was admired and hated in about equal proportions. If any of this ever bothered him he managed to hide it quite well, and all that seemed to concern him at the moment was the refusal of James Mackenzie to authorize the plan.

  “It’s a mistake. A big mistake. The prestige for the magazine would be enormous, something they’d talk about for years. Just the thought of bringing such a person down in ruins— It’s staggering. Surely Mackenzie must see that.”

  The editor-in-chief shook his head in sad reply. “Mac knows what he wants and doesn’t want. And what he doesn’t want most right now is anything that could be used against us in Washington. Which means he doesn’t want a big group in on this thing, or any kind of companywide effort.” He spun his chair around to look out the window. The sky to the west was very blue. “And he doesn’t want any publicity. In fact, if anyone even mentions such a project he’ll probably get fired.” He repeated the chairman’s final words. ” ‘There must be no chance of incident between us and the administration at this time. Or even the police—at least nothing we can admit to. There must be no formal project and no plans.’” Dunlop paused a moment, then added on his own: “No public plans anyway.”

  “But nothing can be done,” protested the aide, “without using all the resources of the company. What’s needed is a major campaign under a central command that can have spotters everywhere and be fed continuous information—”

  “And become public knowledge a half hour later.” He swung the chair back to face Henderson. “The orders were clear and absolute. No publicity.”

  “Then there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing that would attract attention,” corrected Dunlop. “Which isn’t exactly the same as doing nothing.”

  BISHOP HAD remained with the corpse all night. He did not sleep but sat silent by the window watching the passing landscape, the girl’s still body beside him on the bed. He felt a power within him as he gazed out at the dark and deserted countryside. Sleep was death, and all the silent towns were filled with the dead. Only he was alive to witness the utter desolation. Only he had the power.

  In the morning he put the corpse in the tiny bathroom. She had been strangled so that no blood would get on the sheets. When the porter buzzed the compartment to ask if he could make the bed, Bishop ducked into the bathroom and locked the door. In an excellent girlish voice he shouted out a yes through two closed doors. He turned on the water tap as the porter entered, to let him know the occupant was using the bathroom. When the porter left Bishop thanked him, again in the girlish voice. Afterward he locked the compartment door and stretched the girl’s body across the red flower-patterned seat. He placed the white hand towels underneath the body and pulled down the shade. Then he took out his knife.

  JOHN PERRONE and senior editor Fred Grimes, the Newstime crime specialist, met with Dunlop at noon. A big company task force was out because of the need for complete secrecy. Private detectives were out because of the possibility of being compromised. What they needed was someone in the company with the instincts of a detective and the abilities of a reporter. A man who knew the company operation and could use it to investigate and track down Vincent Mungo.

  One man.

  Martin Dunlop rubbed the bridge of his nose, looked over at his wall paintings. From Central Park down the breadth of Manhattan to the Battery all seemed peaceful. In the dim background the Statue of Liberty promised hope.

  He turned to his managing editor.

  “Who,” he asked softly, “is the best investigative reporter on the magazine?”

  John Perrone glanced at Fred Grimes. They seemed to agree without a word being spoken.

  “The best investigative reporter in the whole damn company,” Perrone announced grandly, “is one of my own senior writers, Adam Kenton.”

  “And he already owns the story,” said Grimes.

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the L.A. bureau.”

  “Get him,” said editor-in-chief Dunlop. “I want him in my office tomorrow morning.”

  THE TRAIN ground into Grand Central at 1:30 P.M., an hour late. Bishop threw the bloody towels in the toilet bowl and stuffed the body on the seat. In blood he wrote “C.C.” on the mirror. Opening the compartment door a crack, he listened for a moment. There was no one in the aisle. He quickly slipped out.

  All was confusion as people left the train.

  When he got to his seat he picked up the flight bag and slung it onto his left shoulder. From under his jacket he removed the zippered money case and held it in his right hand as he walked through the car and off the train.

  On the long walk down the platform to the track gate Bishop smiled happily. He had given New York a present to announce his arrival. The King of California was in the Empire State.

  He had a feeling it was where he belonged.

  At the end of the platform he passed through a marble maze and suddenly he was in the hub of Grand Central terminal. To him it looked like a science-fiction city, with millions of people running back and forth. He was struck with awe. It was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined.

  He pushed his legs forward and slowly entered the maelstrom. Far ahead was the biggest clock he had ever seen. He walked toward it and was soon lost in the crowd.

  The date was October 15, 1973.

  Remember it.

  In the official lexicon of the New York City Police Department, it eventually came to be known as Bloody Monday.

  BOOK TWO

  ADAM KENTON

  Eleven

  HE WAS a loner who liked a woman when he needed one and never really thought about them the rest of the time. Whatever tender feelings he may once have had for women in general were lost in the backwash of a disastrous early marriage, but Adam Kenton didn’t notice anything missing. He lived out of suitcases and knew bellhops and bartenders by their first names in a hundred tank towns across the country. His work often kept him on the move and for him one city was the same as another, all of them corrupt and full of men with murderous intent. He was fascinated by power, and since men held all of it these were the people he frequented. Suspicious of everybody, trusting no one, he saw monsters everywhere, ready to pounce on the unwary. Politicians, bankers, businessmen, revolutionaries, public servants of every stripe, merchants of every persuasion, all were greedily stealing whatever they could. Government or private industry made no difference, they all had their fingers in the pie. His job was to find them out. In darkened corridors or crowded rooms, on empty street corners or busy boulevards, through mountains of
paper and miles of records he searched, sought, questioned, demanded, threatened, cajoled and wheedled his way to facts and figures that could help in the pursuit of his prey. An air of quiet desperation often accompanied such movements, and over the years this kind of furtive solitary activity had made its mark on the patterns of Kenton’s mind. He had no real friends. In his disordered view the stale smell of corruption seeped through everything and everybody, and though his puny efforts had met with some small success he soon came to realize that the quest for incorruptibility was futile and perhaps even dangerously corrupt in itself. Yet he persevered though his personal life was empty, his human existence meaningless, and his twice-a-week sweat socks all had holes in them.

  Of average height, wiry in body and loosely coordinated, Kenton yet gave the appearance of grim purpose and determination. It was mostly his eyes, which could instantly open wide in mock belief or close to narrow slits to indicate suspicion and distrust, as well as accommodate all shades of disbelief in between. His face, heavily lined, also told of his singleness of mind, at least to those able to read it properly. The lips were thin, the nose sculptured, the cheeks hollowed and high. With his face closed and eyes narrowed he presented a formidable force indeed to those from whom he sought something. Very often it was enough to get him what he wanted.

  Most recently working out of the Los Angeles bureau, he was now suddenly being recalled to New York. The Telex message had given no reason, not a word beyond the imperatives of the move. Nor had the call from the executive editor been any more helpful except for the assurance that all would be explained upon his arrival. Eminently suspicious, his immediate thought was that he had been getting too close to the power structure in his articles on the irrigation scandal. Or was it the searching look he was giving California State Senator Stoner? Or maybe even his investigation of illegal Mexican immigrants. Whatever the story, he was close to something and somebody was beginning to hurt. So he was being reassigned. He trusted his own company no more than any other and often had fantasies of digging into Newstime operations at the highest levels. But what troubled him most at the moment was the name of Martin Dunlop on the Telex message. He had never met the august editor-in-chief. Only his boss, John Perrone, spoke to Dunlop. And Dunlop spoke only to God, who in this case was called James Mackenzie. Yet here he was, recalled on Dunlop’s direct orders. He frowned at the thought of what it could mean.