Times Square if he could manage it.”
“ Maybe he'll provide you with an exhibition later.”
“ Meaning?”
“ Meaning he either ate or took with him some of her parts.”
“ What parts?”
“ You name it: heart, kidneys…”
Rychman ground his teeth together. “Anything else?” Perkins pointed with a pen to a few brown, lumpy portions of what appeared to be dog droppings amid blood splatters. “Most of her liver was eaten here on the spot.”
“ What about the brain?”
“ Intact.”
“ Can't figure the decapitation.”
“ The killer was surprised in the act. I think he meant to take the head away with him.”
Rychman nodded. “Yeah, quite possibly, but it may also be that some joker's trying his hand at playing the Claw.”
“ A copycat to throw the police off? So far, Captain, everything marks this corpse as just another hapless victim of the same brutal predator.”
“ Has your office come up with anything on the kind of cutting weapon he's using, Doctor?”
“ No, no, we haven't. Sorry, but there you have it.”
“ Sorry?” Rychman sensed that Perkins had for some time now been coming unglued. He had noticed it on an earlier case which dealt with a younger, attractive woman named Laura Schindler. “We need to know what kind of murder weapon he's using. If we knew that-”
“ Sorry, we've come up with a big zero!” shouted Perkins, his eyes shading over in a zestful anger.
“ So far your people've got no semen, no bodily fluids, no prints. What have you got? A few fibers, hairs and teeth marks, all useless without a match.”
“ The goddamned teeth marks have been placed in a computer and sent to every major police information system in the country and abroad.”
“ Yeah, I know, because I pressed you guys into doing just that.”
Rychman started away but suddenly felt Perkins grip his arm. He spun on his heels to face the other man, who was now shouting in his face. “Why haven't your people found this animal?”
“ What do you think we're-”
“ The bastard's got to stick out!” Perkins continued. “He must be covered in blood after he does a thing like this. He must be a madman, a raving lunatic, one of your bloody MDSOs! Don't come down on our office when you guys haven't done a fucking thing to stop this kind of bloodletting!” He finished by pointing to the mutilated woman.
Rychman grabbed Perkins by the shirt and shoved him against the washer-dryer unit, causing a metal boom that alerted everyone to stand clear.
“ First of all, sonny, we're investigating every one of the 6,092 mentally disturbed sex offenders in our computer, and secondly, we've logged 110,000 man-hours on this son of a bitch, so don't hand me any more shit, okay? Okay!”
Rychman was a tall and intimidating man, and under his grip, Perkins felt totally powerless. For a moment, he read in Rychman's eyes the instinctive animal drive to kill. Perkins had covered his face with his bony arms, expecting the blow to come, but Rychman was pulled away by several other cops. Having cooled, the big captain left with a final word for Perkins. “See that my office gets a full report first thing in the morning, Perkins. You got that?”
Shaken, Perkins was actually glad to be feeling something. Earlier, his senses had completely shut down. His mind had been assailed by the sight, smell and feel of the cannibalized victim. He allowed Rychman a chance to get past the door before he shouted a response. “You'll get the damned report as soon as it's available.”
As Rychman stormed away, Perkins thought him a force not unlike the Claw, a man interested in power and control and humiliating others. Only in Rychman's case, he carried a badge.?
Four
Capt. Alan Rychman arrived at Police Plaza One the following morning with raw nerves only to find an army of reporters camped on his doorstep. The battery of questions was like a rapid-fire automatic. He waved his hands for the assembled members of the press to quiet down and he pushed more than one microphone out of his face. “We're doing everything humanly possible-”
A gang groan rose from the press people and several shouted questions that amounted to What've you done for me lately? One reporter that Rychman knew as Jim Drake, an up-and-coming with the New York Times, pointedly asked, “How do you expect people to believe you're doing all you can? Vacations, black-tie parties, and it's become obvious you're running for C. P”
“ Nobody's declared on that score, but if I do, Drake, you'll be the first to know.”
“ Do you think as commissioner of police you could more effectively handle cases such as the Claw?”
“ I'm not about to be sucked into that… issue,” he told Drake, his steely eyes fixed on the reporter for the first time. “Now, I assure you, ladies, gentlemen, we're moving on this case.”
Rychman's aide, a large, round uniformed sergeant named Lou Pierce, tried to run interference for his boss, but he may as well have been trying to hold back jackals from a carcass.
“ What about the C.P.'s office? What about the mayor's office?” shouted Drake as Rychman pushed his way forward.
“ Everybody's moving, Jim, Andy, Martha.” His attempt to reassure the press fell flat. His polite police PR. tone wasn't enough to cut it anymore with these guys and he knew it. “Speculation has it that the Claw is a medical man of some sort. Any foundation in that, Captain Rychman?” pursued Drake.
“ No foundation in fact, but it hasn't been ruled out.”
“ Has there been a sixth and a seventh victim, Captain?”
Rychman had heard about the so-called seventh victim, a housewife who'd been mutilated early that morning by her husband, who was in custody. The husband thought he could get away with the killing if he made it look like the work of the Claw, but his work couldn't stand the close scrutiny of the chief assistant M.E., Luther Darius' right-hand man, Dr. Simon Archer, who had called Rychman, telling him what they had over on the Lower East Side.
“ We have a sixth victim,” replied Rychman. “The seventh was a copycat killing. You'll have full details in the press kit being put together at this moment. Now, please.”
“ What about the homeless couple?” pressed a female reporter.
“ There was nothing to connect those deaths with the Claw, so far as can be determined.”
“ Busy night last night, huh. Captain?” asked another reporter.
“ Typical Saturday night in the Apple.”
Drake returned to his earlier question. “Is it true, Captain Rychman, that you want to be our next police commissioner?”
“ I said no further comment.” Rychman's glare held Drake hostage for a moment before he disappeared through the door held open by Lou Pierce, who now stepped in for his boss and fielded questions of the disappointed reporters.
Rychman knew that Drake, along with a lot of other people, was fishing for a commitment, one that he couldn't at this time make. He had given the idea of becoming C.P. a lot of thought, but should he lose such a race, he'd have to forfeit a great deal, and besides, he wasn't sure he wanted the headaches that went with the office. Still, he had a lot of support in the rank and file, although that could simply be because everyone hated Commissioner Carl Eldritch, a man whose tenure was synonymous with bland and uneventful.
Until now. Thanks to the Claw. The NYPD was being parboiled and burned raw daily in the press, not only in the city but across the nation, being made to look ridiculous and incompetent. Allegations of gross ineptitude were
