Killer Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Still, she didn't want to meet Gamble alone, so she telephoned for Captain Lyle Kaseem, who, like her, had not felt entirely comfortable accepting Lowenthal as the vampire killer they had been stalking.

  Kaseem was immediately interested in what she had to say. He was also closer to the address and said that he would meet her there.

  “Fine, but hold for me. No sense in either of us stepping into a trap, Captain. Will you inform Forsythe? Will he accompany you?”

  “Negative. He's left for D.C. already.”

  “All right. I'll get a cab and meet you at the destination.”

  “Will do.”

  It was reassuring to talk to Kaseem, and for once his military bearing seemed to bolster her confidence in him.

  “And Captain—” Yes?”

  “I suggest you arm yourself.”

  “I'll see you at Gamble's place. We'll see what he's got to show us, and if there's any merit to it, we'll call in the marines if necessary.”

  “A SWAT team at the very least.”

  “Tell me again what this man sounded like, the one who claimed to be the killer. Did he have a European sound, an accent at all?”

  “Honestly, I was so shaken, I... I'm not sure.”

  “Well, the description given you by Gamble sounds like Rosnich.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “I'll see you at the location.”

  She had hung up, wondering if she should not try Brewer again. But now she must rush. She didn't want to keep Kaseem waiting too long. He was an impatient man. So she rushed out.

  The cabdriver was collecting the fare from her when she asked if he would wait.

  “Five minutes tops,” he said mechanically.

  She frowned in response, got out and searched for Kaseem, but he was not here. Had he gotten caught in traffic, an accident? What?

  She waited to see if he would show up, and in the waiting, she lost the cab. She then decided to go the twenty yards to the door where the windows were covered in thick, heavy, paisley drapes. It was a small building with two floors, cramped into a small space between two identical two-flats. The streetlights gave the place some relief, but the shadows created by the lights were like black holes all around the steps. She thought she saw movement at one window, as if someone had been staring out all along. She felt the cool heftiness of her .38 Special strapped to her ankle below her pants leg. She could get to it quickly if she had to. A final look around for Kaseem proved futile. She couldn't wait any longer. She rang the bell and waited.

  The door swung open on an inward hinge and there stood Gamble, a short, flabby little man, balding, wearing only a pair of socks and thick-lensed glasses. His erection was the largest thing about him, she thought as she prepared to turn and walk away from the bastard, saying, “All right, Mr. Gamble, I'll be leaving now.”

  “No, w-wait!” He stepped out after her, pulling on a robe as he did so, pleading, 'i'mmmmmm so-sorry! Really! It's—you don't unner-stand—it's a sic-sickness with me—”

  She kept going down the stairs, wondering how she was going to find another cab, when he caught up to her and came around to face her. “A k-k-k-cry for help!”

  She brushed him aside and the robe billowed out. She marched ahead of him.

  He came alongside like a puppy trying desperately to keep up. “It doesn't change the-the fact I-I-I know who's been doin' all them aw-awful things.”

  There was a childish innocence about Gamble, a fat boy who never grew up. “I'm not here for fun and games. Gamble,” she said curtly, moving along the street.

  “He drives a-a-a van, a-a gray van,” Gamble said. “N-nn likes classy music.”

  This made her stop.

  She had half prayed that Gamble would turn out to be a crank, just another of the thousands of members of the fringe element that contacted police personnel whenever they could for any number of deep-seated reasons. She had also half prayed that he was legitimate, and now the conflict arose in her again. She was not at all sure she wanted to come face-to-face with Teach, the man she had spent so many hours and days chasing in the lab and in autopsy rooms, the same man who'd sent her a blood letter and now had telephoned her at the crime lab. If Gamble was a man with a wire loose, she could walk away with no harm done. But if she investigated with backup cars and agents, she'd come off looking like a fool, and lately, she had had enough of that. And if Gamble truly had something in this neighbor of his, she might prove that Lowenthal had not acted alone, that his death was indeed a setup to throw them off and that this final action taken by the killer was just another of his chess moves. Maybe Gamble was a big gamble, and maybe he was a pervert, but he might also possibly pinpoint the location of the madman.

  If this was the case, she could then call for all the backup help she needed. She was also painfully aware of the fact that in coming here like this, alone, she was violating one of the Bureau's most sacred prime directives. But she had thought that Kaseem would have been here by now.

  “'Round b-b-back is the-the van, just next door,” he assured her.

  A look inside that van could prove to Otto and the others that she was right, that the vampire killer was still at large.

  “P-p-p-lease, you've come all this w-way. Don't let my sic-sickness stop you n-n-now. I'm sic-sick, but I'mmmmm not-not k-k-k-crazy. I kn-kn-know it's him.”

  “Take me to see the van,” she said.

  “Oh, g-g-g-g-gooood.

  # # #

  Brewer put out an all-points bulletin on two people, calling it in from the car that sped toward Matisak's place. He asked every law enforcement official in the city to be on the lookout for Dr. Jessica Coran, and anyone hearing from her was to report to him. He secondly gave out a description of Matthew Matisak, his address, the vehicle he drove, a light gray van bearing the markings of Balue-Stork Medical Supply along the driver's side door, down to the plates—all information gleaned from his employee record card.

  They soon reached the residence of the supposed vampire killer. It looked like any other house on the block, as it was in an older district where all the brick houses were designed in identical proportions, one after another. Matisak's lawn. however, was weedy and destroyed by chinch bugs and neglect. The door was peeling and the brickwork in need of repair. The overall effect of the house was one of darkness with a tinge of despair.

  The moment they pulled into the driveway, a neighbor came outside, a dog yipping at his feet at the FBI men. The neighbor shouted at them, “What're you doing there? You get away from there or I'll call the cops!”

  Boutine was peering into the garage while Brewer picked the lock on the door.

  “Nothing inside,” Boutine said. “He appears to be gone.”

  “What's going on here?” the neighbor persisted.

  “This is a police matter, sir!” shouted Brewer over his shoulder. And then he said to Boutine, “If he's not here, then maybe Jessica's not in harm's way after all. Otto.”

  “He always kills in remote locations—away from home,” Boutine countered.

  “So we stash the cars and stake out the place, Otto. What other choice do we have? Otto? Otto?”

  “We've got to get inside, case the joint. See if there's any information whatever that might lead to his whereabouts.”

  “We could be blowing it, going in, Otto.”

  “We've got probable cause.”

  “That might wash if we had the CPD with us, but not as FBI men.”

  “You two sure you know what you're doing?” asked the neighbor, who had walked over to them in his bathrobe.

  “We'll thank you to get inside your home and stay there, sir,” said Brewer officiously. “We are FBI agents.”

  “Really? FBI? Really?”

  Brewer felt like decking the bastard, but instead he flashed his badge and ID. “Satisfied?”

  “What in God's name has Matisak done?”

  “Please, sir, move back into your house and do not create any alarm for Mr. Mat
isak on his return.”

  “But he won't be back for days.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Told me so. Usually, when he packs his van, he's going back on the road, and we don't see him for days.”

  “We're going in,” shouted Otto, smashing a window and stepping through, tearing down a set of dark blue drapes from the wall mount as he did so.

  The moment Otto stepped into the dark interior he felt an almost tangible wall of oppressiveness descend upon him with the drapes that he fought off. It was the closeness of the place and the darkness, but something beyond that, an untouchable, unseeable rankness and the closeness of the den of an animal. As he moved further into the interior, he thought he sensed something else in the house with him, something alive—or something not quite alive—and for a moment, he feared the worst: he feared Jessica was hanging upside down deep within the labyrinth of this black little castle, her blood drained away like the other victims that Matisak had put through his torture chamber. He imagined that when they found the lights, Jess's body would confront him, and in her throat would be the dangling spigot used by Matisak.

  Behind him he heard Brewer bitching about being unable to find the goddamned lights when suddenly he did and the house was lit, but only dimly. The bulb must be colored a strange hue, and some kind of odor was rising from it.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Brewer wondered aloud.

  Otto was too impatient to care. He moved along the corridors, his gun extended. Even though Otto believed the place to be empty, his gun and his hands over the gun were shaking. Brewer was right. Something about the smell of the place, like a rank, animal musk.

  “Good Christ,” muttered Brewer behind him.

  “What is it?” he called back.

  “Friggin' light bulb.”

  “What about it?”

  “It's—it's painted red, Otto.”

  Otto knew instantly now what the odor was—hot blood. The bastard used the blood to decorate his bulbs to create the red glow of the room that he apparently grooved on. Brewer's remark had made Otto look away from the corridor he was going down, but a sudden flicker of noise made him wheel and fire. A single shot plastered Matisak's big black torn cat to a back wall, blood streaking the floor to mark the trail of its having impacted with Boutine's bullet.

  “Son of a bitch,” moaned Boutine.

  Brewer rushed to stand beside him, wondering what the sudden, high-pitched screech was. Boutine hadn't heard the screech because of the noise of the gun in his ear. The taste and smell of gun smoke intermingled now with the odor of dried, sizzling blood on the bulb as it grew hotter and hotter.

  “Think we'd better turn on some more lights,” suggested Brewer.

  “I want everything in this filthy place torn apart,” Boutine replied.

  “Where you going?” asked Brewer.

  “Get in an E.T. team and to check to see if anyone's got any word on Jess.”

  “Sure, leave me alone in this,” said Brewer, whose eyes turned toward the darkened bathroom.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gamble led the way. It took them between two apartment buildings through a gangway with an overhead tunnel that was dark. A perfect ambush, she thought. But they arrived on the other side, staring out on a backyard with a walk and a little garden patch, a fence and a dilapidated old garage which belonged to the place next door.

  It was dark and a strange wind that seemed to come from nowhere swirled in spiraling eddies about her legs. She felt the cold metal of her gun at her ankle, wondering if it was not time to yank it out, but so far there was nothing that called for a lethal weapon or a show of force. Thus far, Hillary had also managed to keep his robe on as well.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  “Where is the van?”

  “The-the other s-s-side of the garage.”

  “Are you sure he's not home?”

  “Y-yes. Follow m-m-me.”

  The only light here came from a distant streetlamp, the closest one having been broken by some child's rock.

  Jessica stopped Gamble with a tug at his robe, which he seemed to be pleased with, and then she whispered back to the stubby, Truman Capote look-alike, repeating herself. “Are you absolutely certain that he is away from his place?”

  “My b-b-b-bedroom w-w-window overlooks his place.” His raspy voice was filled with annoyance now. “I dunno w-w-why y-y-you don't b-believe m-m-me.” How long does he usually stay out?”

  “W-w-w-weeks at a t-t-t-time.”

  “But that's got to be only when he has his van with him, right?”

  “I... y-y-y-yes... I g-g-g-guess you're r-r-right.”

  “Then you'll have to watch out for me.”

  He nodded in the dark, standing before her in the robe, looking like Yoda of Star Wars fame. “He has a-a-a Hun-Honda Civic... for-for just a-a-around.”

  They'd gone to the corner of the garage that abutted Gamble's fence and there it was, a light gray van with the Balue-Stork insignia so aged and peeled as to be nearly unreadable. The gray looked white to silver in the night. She recalled Candy Copeland's pimp, Scarborough, in Wekosha and sensed that he, too, had once seen this very van. She sucked in a deep breath of the warm night air, feeling her heart panting wildly beneath her blouse.

  Could it be this easy? Had she finally narrowed the field down to one suspect, finding him amid the millions of people in Chicago, amid all the wackos and sickos that had confused the issues of the case? She thought of the many thousands of so-called leads that hundreds of law enforcement officials had followed, of the thousands of telephone calls and tips that had had to be checked out. Could it possibly be that she had gotten luckier than anyone had a right to be?

  Or was it all just too bloody neat?

  She again considered the possibility that Gamble had called her in order to lure her here, and that Teach was close enough to hear them breathing; that Teach was at this moment watching her every move. The thought sent a chill through her spine. Where was he, if he was here? In the garage? In the house, staring out from a window? In Gamble's house, waiting for them to return, waiting for her to begin to let her guard down, thinking she was safe enough with Gamble? Or was the bastard in the van that Gamble had led her to? Was the van the trap that would snap on her neck? She could be at her gun in an instant, but for now she merely checked over her shoulder to locate Gamble. He was still in the shadow of the garage.

  “He unloads from here?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why doesn't he use the garage?”

  “Too-too clut-t-t-tered.”

  “I'm going to inspect the van.”

  “I-I-I'd be very k-k-k-careful.”

  “You just stay here, Mr. Gamble.”

  “D-d-don't worry 'b-bout that.”

  Jessica found the driver's side door locked, and so she inched her way toward the rear of the van. She had a sensation she was being watched and that Gamble had not stayed put. Glancing back, however, she found the strange, little pervert picking his ear where he stood just below the canopy of the alleyway. She watched his hand go across his mouth to cover an anxious burp, or was he trying to hide his jagged, stained teeth in an unconscious gesture? Or was he covering a leering grin? Impossible to tell, but if it was a grin, she might be in for a surprise. She readied herself for any eventuality.

  She cursed when she found the rear door to the van also locked. She'd like to examine the interior, but without a warrant, what purpose would it serve? Still, if she could see inside... With the weak light of the streetlamp halfway down the alley, she might just see something useful. She stepped up onto the bumper and stared into the dark hole of the interior, her eyes widening, straining, when she saw a large, square, metal container, a cooler or freezer which looked very expensive, the kind seen in ambulances, used to transport donor organs and blood. Her heart skipped like a stone over frigid water. It could be the very container used to transport Candy Copeland's blood from Wekosha to Chic
ago.

  She was without a warrant. Smashing the glass with a brick to get to the contents could only lead to problems with the evidence down the road, if this were indeed the killer's van. She tried to make out other strange objects in the van: ropes coiled like so many snakes lying in wait; a tool box and several objects that might or might not be power tools. It had to be him, or it was all very innocent and Gamble was the idiot that he appeared to be.

  She got down from the bumper and rounded the truck, suddenly startled by Gamble, who was standing there, a sneer curling his fetid lips, saying in a whisper, “I t-t-t-toF you s-s-so! It's him, ain't it?”

  She caught her breath, having been frightened by the little runt. “Gamble, I told you to stay where you were.”

  “I-I-I am where I-I-I wa-was.”

  “I've got to use your phone. Now!”

  “No problem. I-I-I'11 s-sh-sh-sh-show y-you w-where it is.”

  His stutter seemed to be getting worse with time. Her mind was on getting a message through to Boutine and Brewer if it meant getting the entire CPD off their asses, but far to the rear of her thoughts she seemed to recall a bit of psychology that said a stutterer's stutter grew worse with stress and anxiety. Was Gamble stressed over the fact that they were so near to entrapping his neighbor? Or was he anxious about her entering his home?

  She was anxious about closing a door behind them as she entered, so she asked that the front door be left ajar. He complied with a nod and a smile, pointing in the direction of the phone, which sat on a small table in the hallway. The place was darkened and she asked that he turn on some lights as she passed from the foyer to the telephone, picking it up and dialing 911.

  But before the connection was made, the phone went dead and she saw the little dwarf in front of her, grinning insanely. She was grabbed suddenly from behind, her arm twisted, her neck in a chokehold and no way to get at the gun strapped to her leg. Her eyes grew wild with fear when she saw the small ugly man in front of her amble toward her with a hypodermic needle held prominently before him. The strength of the man who had her in his grasp was unbeatable, but she used this against Gamble when he got within reach, kicking out with her feet and sending Gamble tumbling toward the half-open door where a crack of light from outside revealed Gamble's bloody nose.