“Another call,” somebody said, “on three.'

“Eichord.” Bring me the head of Alexander Graham Bell.

“I'm at X-L Office Equipment.” It was Dana. “I think I got something. The sheet with the primary-suspect mug shots—guy owns the arcade, the VA dude, the Schumway Buick guy. He says Schumway came in and priced typewriters. Was considering replacing all the office machines and what not. He typed on a machine that he liked. This guy remembers him in the wheelchair and all. He said it's fairly normal that people type samples and take them home for consideration of what to buy. Okay. So I ask him, Did Schumway take his sample home? Yeah, he says. He typed on a piece of paper and he thinks he put it back in his pocket. What he remembered about the deal was he thinks Schumway made some remark about the typeface on the machine. Could it do this or that? Could you put in a certain element that would give you another option or whatever? Guy goes, Yeah. He puts another paper back in and types some more. The man remembers thinking it was odd that he didn't type on the same piece of paper. He thinks it was an envelope. He isn't sure. He THINKS the second time it was an envelope and it stayed in his head. Anyway, I ask him. Have you changed the ribbon or the cartridge since the machine has been on display? No, he says. I got it as is. Didn't take it off the machine. Nothing. So I go to the lab with it?'

“Bet your ass, Dana. You done great, man. Stay with it.'

“You got it.” It was 11:10 a.m. At thirteen hundred hours Jack Eichord knew where the Hand of Christ letter had been typed. It appeared on the used section of the X-L Office Equipment's machine's one-time cartridge. Cheek by jowl in between quickbrownfox and nowisthetimeforallgoodmen. Right there in Executive Bold: Dyke Whores Must Die...

He fumed as he imagined what the circuit attorney would tell him.

“Lock that case down tight. Jack. Don't bring me this iffy typewriter shit.” The fucker left him a head.

He took it personally. Enough with the typewriters and the fags dressed up like women and the rest of the fucking BULLSHIT. That's it. You play, you pay, asshole.

Buckhead Medical Park

Threatening was not Eichord's style. He was a firm believer in the soft sell, but this case had turned Eichord into something else—something he wasn't meant to be. He had killed to stop the killings. And he'd failed. So a little push and shove scarcely caused him a second's hesitation. Another woman was dead. Beheaded by a madman who had put himself beyond anyone's touch.

As they rolled toward Medical Park, Jack Eichord thought that at that moment he loathed Dr. Niles Lishness almost as much as the hated killer Schumway/Spoda. As he tried to visualize them together, doctor and patient, he had no trouble visualizing Schumway holding court, the wimpy, pedantic shrink in rapt, scholarly attention.

Lishness the man was almost a caricature or parody of a psychiatrist. He had a fastidiously sculpted Vandyke, granny glasses balanced on the end of his nose, an imperial air, arch mannerisms, prissy speech pattern, and he lacked only a Viennese accent from completing the comedic portrait. For now, however, he was a dangerous threat, and he would be so treated.

It was easy to imagine him seated behind the grand desk, his glasses on the tip of his aristocratic nose, nodding as he listened to the boasting of a killer. He had treated Spoda's utterances with the inviolable confidence of a priest's confessional, all right. But the stonewalling was over.

After determining when the doctor would be closing shop for the day Jack and Monroe sat in the front seat of an unmarked car, fat Dana in the back, raffishly running his mouth in a clinical running commentary on the physical attributes of every woman who walked past their vehicle. In truth, Jack thought, there seemed to be an endless stream of delectable-looking morsels parading by them.

“Ooh, shit. Look at THAT,” Dana said. “Damn! These doctors have it made. Man, I could go for some of that. Be that little honey's gynecologist. Put your feet up in them stirrups, darlin', I got to check out your plumbing.'

“Thass what you oughta be—checkin’ out folks plumbing.'

“Well, another five minutes,” Eichord said as he glanced at the dashboard clock, “and we'll go catch Sigmund Freud's act.'

“Hey, Eichord. When you was in Vegas, did you see them?'

“Who?'

“The goddamn lion-tamers. Sigmund and Freud?'

“Jeezus,” Monroe said in disgust.

“Come on. I can't stand it. Let's go.'

They went in the front door just as a young receptionist was locking the door.

“Doctor Lishness still in there?'

“Yes,” she replied as they flashed shields, “but he's with a patient and he has to leave right afterward so —'

“That's okay. We're not going to keep him for longer than thirty seconds, but we do have to ask him one question. Listen, hon, just let us in and lock it back up. We'll ask him what we need on his way out the door.'

“Well—” She raised her eyebrows, glancing at her watch. Eichord smiled and she shrugged and let them in, locking the door from the outside. After all, they WERE the police. Surely it would be all right.

They tossed the outer office expertly and silently in a matter of two minutes. Found nothing. There was a large file cabinet that held some promise and Eichord popped the lock on it, but the files inside were ledgers, payment records, statements, old appointment books, nothing on the names “Schumway” or “Spoda.” The old ledger cards and correspondence placed a date on the material. From the looks of the office, what Eichord wanted was either going to be under lock and key inside Lishness's private office, or on computer.

There was a large, unlocked bin of patient X rays, and Eichord found a large envelope labeled schumway, alan, with the name of another doctor and a date. He transferred the data to a pocket notebook and they sat back down.

Eichord picked up an interesting-looking publication on legal medicine and read that a latent schizz must surround himself with bizarre protective devices. That they suffer from eccentricities, have weird notions about the significance of societal values, can be dangerously aggressive. And he was just getting hooked on the reading matter when they heard the door open and a woman patient, followed by an obviously perplexed Dr. Lishness, who was surprised to find about 750 pounds of police detectives waiting in the outer office.

When the lady had gone out the door and Lishness asked them what they were doing there, Eichord locked the outer door and the three men herded the doctor back inside his private office.

“I don't much like this,” Lishness said officiously. “I don't approve of your manner. I have a—'

“Listen to me. Listen good. Innocent women have been killed. The odds are it's one of your patients. I want to know everything you can tell me about Alan Schumway, and I want it now.'

“Well, you can just drop that threatening tone with me. Matter of fact,” the doctor said, reaching for his telephone, “let's just see what your—” But Eichord pulled the plug out of the phone and threw the phone across the room, where it landed on a leather couch.

“I'll have your badge,” Dr. Lishness was saying as Monroe Tucker took him by the lapels, lifting him up off the floor, and slammed him up against a silk-covered wall. His glasses fell off and he began crying and cursing the detectives. Eichord nodded slightly to Monroe, who picked the man up as Jack retrieved his glasses.

“You won't have shit, Niles. Now hear what I'm saying. When I leave this office, I'll have everything on Schumway. I'll have it either way. But if we have to shake it out of you, it's going to be very unpleasant.'

He could read the words right there on the doctor's lips, the threat to sue, the threat to expose, the threat to—to what?

“Monroe,” Eichord said to the huge, menacing black figure, “if he so much as says one more word about what he'll do to us—okay?—if he says he'll call his lawyer, call the cops, call his mommy, the AMA, whatever, I want you to hurt him. Just a little. Then we'll toss the office. Later, after he does whatever—files his lawsuit and all—I want you guys to take this wimpy little douchebag out and DROWN HIM IN THE FUCKING LAKE.'

“My fucking pleasure.” He grabbed the doctor by the flab of his chest.

“TALK, GODDAMMIT,” Eichord shouted at him.

“What do you want to know? Don't hurt me anymore, please.'

Eichord nodded at Tucker again, and he released the pressure. Nothing hurts like a nipple come-a-long.

“Where's Schumway's file?'

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