“ You're something else, Dr. Coran,” he said when he regained his composure. Lou ducked in for a quick glance inside to see what the commotion was all about before disappearing again. “I hear you paid a call on Archer yesterday.”
“ That's my job.”
“ Heard you hang tough.”
She nodded, her chin up.
“ Come on,” he said, guiding her to the adjacent crime incident room where they had first met. “At nine we're reassembling for an old-fashioned rap and think-tank session. You're cordially invited.”
“ Would love to, but I've got appointments most all day.”
“ Oh? You're wasting no time.”
“ At nine I begin meetings with each division head in the crime lab,” she said. “I'll listen to each for ideas, suggestions, information and maybe a few tips.”
“ Learn what each is working on; I get it.”
“ And you,” she countered, “you have to find a suitable Claw to arrest.”
“ For the likes of Jim Drake III and the public.”
“ And the mayor.”
“ And Carl.”
“ I'm sure you've got men on your list begging to be arrested for these crimes.”
“ We have that!”
“ Who knows, you might get lucky like the mayor says.”
“ But you and I know better.”
“ We do.”
She started out of the incident room, where the eyeless faces of the photographed victims stared down at them. Alan Rychman, watching her go, almost pursued, thinking he'd ask her for lunch, but he stopped short, afraid of her answer.
Seven
Rychman learned that every detective in the city had a “favorite” killer who was, in his or her mind, the Claw.
He'd simply told his detectives in strict confidence that “in order for us to work with the press off our backs, we gotta put somebody in the lockup, then we dummy up on this guy, make 'em think we've got someone hot. So I want our hottest guy, and only you people can tell me who that is.”
It had started a bidding war of sorts, each detective fighting for his choice, his favored Claw. They all sounded like good, likely candidates.
“ Cameron Reeves, a real mixed-up wacko,” said one detective. “I've been after his ass for years. He fits the profile and has a long list of prior sex offenses.”
“ That'd make good copy for the press,” Rychman said, as if now enjoying the idea of screwing the press.
“ I got a better guy,” suggested another detective, a gruff, big-shouldered, wide fellow called Marty. “A guy named Lamb, Earl T. Lamb.”
“ What's his story?”
“ Climbs trees.”
“ Climbs trees?”
“ But he don't just stay in the tree. He jumps down on women who happen by.”
“ Christ.” A mutter went around the room.
“ Does he have a rap sheet?”
“ Does a shark shit in the ocean?”
“ Does he use a weapon?”
“ A lead pipe.”
“ Sounds like we ought to pay Earl the Claw a visit.”
“ We have.”
“ And?”
“ Loony tunes.”
“ So he's out on the street?”
“ Lives with Momma, aged forty-three. She says he's harmless, so long as he takes his psychoactive drugs.”
“ And so long as he's kept out of trees?” asked Rychman.
“ I got to admit, Lamb would serve up well to the papers. “The Claw is a Lamb,' all that,” said a female detective, flipping open a pocket-sized notebook. “But I got a creep that makes Lamb sound like a Boy Scout.”
“ You're Emmons, right?” asked Rychman.
“ Yes, sir.”
“ What a ya got?”
She took a moment to review her notes. “We got a call at the 54th desk one night about this guy. Seems he lurks around back alleys, breaks into basement windows, rapes women after he knocks them out.”
“ How? How does he overpower his victims?”
“ Renders them unconscious with a hammerblow.”
“ He's done time?”
“ Fourteen years, Rockaway.”
“ Released?”
“ Six months ago.”
“ About the time the Claw came on the scene,” said Emmons' partner, Dave Turner. “We think-”
Rychman put up a hand and said, “How old is this man?”
Louise Emmons checked her notes. “Thirty… thirty… thirty something… thirty-four.”
“ Been incarcerated most of his adult life,” said Rychman, looking to see everyone's reaction. “Got to be a lot of anger and hostility toward society in this guy. Is he white, black, Hispanic, what?”
“ Caucasian,” said Emmons.
“ Lives with a common-law wife,” added Turner. “They live very close to the bone.”
Some of the others began to heckle, calling on Rychman to reconsider their choices. Rychman banged his fist on the podium. “Call this bastard's parole officer. See how many of his terms he's already violated… see if any of those terms prohibit him from work using anything like a hammer. Let's see just how lucky we can get here. Also see what came of the call that had him lurking in that alleyway. Did he talk his way free, or did he go before a judge?”
Emmons had taken to jotting down his requests, but she stopped now to say, “He was just rousted. Cops found him roosting between some trash cans, like he was just waiting for a victim to come along.”
“ What's his name?”
“ Conrad Shaw.”
“ Shaw… claw,” said one of the other detectives. “Least it rhymes.”
“ Press'11 like that.”
“ Let's drag his ass in, put the screws to him,” suggested another.
“ Check it out, like I said, and if we learn any more, we'll go for it. But so far, my vote goes with Shaw.” Rychman settled in.
He glanced over his shoulder at Lou, whose nod seemed to place a final stamp of approval on the discussion.
“ Now, as for you other stiffs who have favorites. Don't abandon them. In fact, pursue them like before, even more relentlessly. If you think you can do something to strike this guy or that off your list, if you can make him show his true colors, do so. We've got to work fast and carefully at the same time.”
