by eating away your sin.
Who was him? Ames wondered. What psychosis-fed creature came to this poor devil, Ovid, to send uncontrollable urges of murder and cannibalism coursing through his mind? Was it the same brain monster that spoke to John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Jeffrey Dahmer and Morgan Sayer, Chicago's infamous Handyman? Was it the same demon of the mind that spoke to the Son of Sam killer, the Boston Strangler, the Hillside Strangler and a host of other sociopaths who were unable to empathize in the slightest with the suffering they caused in their victims? Was the Claw totally at the mercy of the demonic urges that moved him to commit the most heinous of crimes? He was obviously capable of rationalizing away his own part in the proceedings, as if he weren't really responsible. That's where Ames parted with the soft approach of other psychiatrists, for he firmly believed that such men as this, men who were dominated by an inner “spirit” that drove them ever onward to commit vicious acts against humanity, were by definition insane.
Those other sociopaths who were driven purely by lust and libido were fodder for the electric chair, but men like Morgan Sayer, driven by the demons of their childhoods, controlled by the demons of past horrors and abuses unimaginable, were legally and medically insane. To destroy them in an electric chair or gas chamber was tantamount to destroying a wolf by the same means. An animal instinct for “survival,” not one of evil, seemed at work here. Such men were to be restricted for life, certainly, but such men were also valuable to scientific laboratories. Given the current state of brain research and neurosurgery, it was evident to Ames that one day such men could be medically cured of their insane behaviors… one day…
Richard Ames had read, heard or seen every kind of human rationalization associated with cannibals, but this “divine protector” thing was something new in the annals of cannibalistic behavior. Ames was now convinced that the killer was working in tandem with an inner demon.
He wasn't sure how Rychman and Coran would react to his educated guesses, but given the time frame, it was the best he could do.
His secretary rolled to her side, the blanket covering her falling away to reveal her nudity. He went to her and tenderly began to caress her inviting skin. She'd uprooted from home and family in Chicago to remain with him. He momentarily wondered why she put up with him, and when he would commit himself wholly to her.
“ That'll do just fine, Priscilla… just fine,” he said in an escape of breath when her hand went instinctively to his inner thigh.
Others might see New York City as an earth mother in repose, or even a lovely, sensual goddess, but Jessica had no such illusions toward this cruel city. Like Chicago, its character was molded from the butcher's block of commerce and profit, and those without were damned to poverty, homeless-ness, infirmity-to become easy prey to wolves like the Claw who flourished in shadow and darkness.
Jessica wondered where her personal joy in life had gone; another more youthful and innocent Jessica might have felt that joy encircling her, even here in New York, as a kind of life-force or energy shield. The re'd once been a time when the teeming life of a New York would've easily excited her imagination and sense of play, no matter how dire her reasons for being there, but now she saw all life through a darker lens.
Staring through the rain beading up on Alan's car window and paying no heed to the constant buzz on his police-band radio, she mentally toyed with life as it was lived in the towering buildings that made up the city's famous skyline. Alan had tried to improve her mood by giving her a quick tour, pointing out landmarks, museums, art galleries, the Met. He obviously loved his city, despite, or perhaps because of, its many flaws. His professional life, like Jessica's, hinged on the sins of those he policed. The uneasy relationship between hunter and hunted made Rychman as much a part of the equation as the Claw.
“ Look, whataya think about my suppositions in light of the Claw's stepped-up agenda, and what we found at the Phillips apartment?” Rychman asked, breaking the silence between them.
“ I'm glad you've opened your mind to the possibility of a second perpetrator, but still we need more to go on.”
“ It's not something we can ignore.”
“ I dunno, maybe I just don't want to face another Gerald Ray Sims,” she replied, “I dunno…”
Her voice gave her away. She was tired and didn't want to pursue it, but this gave Rychman the opening he'd been waiting for. “Look, I've got two show tickets and-”
“ The theater?”
“ You needn't sound so surprised. I've even been known to stay awake, especially for a Neil Simon.”
“ I don't know, Alan. There's just so much to-”
“ You've got to get in some R amp;R sometime, Jess, or else you'll fall apart on me, and then you'll be of no use to anyone, including yourself.”
She seethed a moment before she got hold of herself, realizing he hadn't meant it the way it sounded. He couldn't possibly know of her therapy with Dr. Lemonte, or her very real fear at times that she would come unglued. She calmly replied, “I'm that transparent, am I?”
“ Come on, it'll be good for you. This case's enough to make O’Toole give up drink, and Mannion to give up women.”
She laughed at this and dropped her guard. “All right. I know I push myself hard. Guess I could use some stress-free time… but I'm not convinced it ought to be with you!”
“ Hey, I'm not so bad, and I promise to keep a hands-off posture all evening long.”
“ A cop's promise, hmmmmmm.”
“ Is that a yes or no?” he demanded, wheeling the car into the underground garage at Police Plaza One.
“ Maybe yes… maybe no… maybe maybe. Call me at the end of the day, and we'll see.” It took all Rychman's strength to resist saying another word, and to content him self with the maybes and the we'll sees which he wasn't particularly fond of or used to.
They were now in Rychman's ready room, awaiting others for the six A.M. meeting. Jessica sat near a window, staring out.
This morning New York shared a collective fear that permeated the air like a coarse, uneven blanket. Lying over the skyline, smothering the streets, the nightmare was heralded in bold black headlines at every corner. News of the double murder filled everyone's conversation, and with the morning's coffee, every New Yorker had something far more bitter to swallow: the fact that the Claw had gone inside this time, finding his prey in their homes, no longer content with the occasional streetwalker or those foolish enough to be wandering after dark. Now there was no place safe from the cannibal. The monster might choose any woman in the city, no matter her neighborhood or habits. Jessica could almost reach out and touch the palpable fear that was all around her.
Lingering clouds played a tumbling game of seesaw above the city, capturing industrial smoke and exhaust fumes. By 5:30 A.M. a fog of hazy heat was accumulating, causing the tops of the spiraling temples of Manhattan to wink and disappear.
Her thoughts were cut short by Alan's angry words. “That SOB Eldritch had the nerve to call this morning to ask what we were doing to calm the public mind, and how we're going to play the press. Ever see such a jag- off?”
“ I've run into more than my share,” she confided, reaching into her purse for a mint, offering him one.
Declining her offer, he snatched out a pack of Rolaids instead. “I just hope I can keep my mind from exploding along with my stomach.”
“ Don't let the stress get to you, Alan.” She reached across and laid her hand over his, squeezing momentarily, a gesture that made him look across at her. He visibly relaxed, the creases in his face smoothing.
Stress came with the strain of having to face death in its myriad forms, and while a cop had to harden himself against it so as to appear in control, he still internalized such brutality-such as that meted out on the victims of the Claw-as would incapacitate a lesser man. He had to console those left behind, had to relive the events via the mountain of paperwork each case spawned; even then he must contend with his own feelings, not to mention the system and those higher-ups in it, who, like Eldritch, only poured salt on the wounds. The scars left on a homicide investigator often became visible only when a man smoked himself with his own gun.
“ You okay, Alan?” she asked.
“ Yeah, sure… fine…” he managed in his best tough-guy brogue. “God, I hope we can keep the friggin' press from learning about his taking the brain matter out.”
“ I agree.”
