Scalpers

Soon they were stepping out of the cab and into her tastefully decorated apartment, down the length of a hallway and into her bedroom.

Part of Dean willingly and appreciatively put away the many badges that labeled him, the badges of policeman, doctor, and husband, allowing himself to experience fully the feelings that took his mind and heart and refashioned them under Peggy Carson's gentle touch.

She knew how to undress a man.

She knew how to touch and caress, and how to make him feel his emotions to depths he had thought long since calcified. And for what seemed a long time, he lay there reveling in her powerful hold over him, delighting in the transformation she had so calmly and suddenly made of Dr. Dean Grant. For a time he was transported to a place which was no place, a time which was no time, a world made up completely of nerve and impulse and fragrance and soft sound, all culminating in passion.

Then, somehow finding the strength within himself to combat his own weakness, he stopped her, got up from the bed, and began to dress, and silently she accepted this as if it were completely normal, completely all right. She asked for no explanation; she simply understood. “You know what I feared most when I was lying there in the hospital, coming around,” she said to him when she'd dressed and followed him into the living room.

'What's that?'

'That I'd been so disfigured, no man would ever look at me again.'

He shook his head, “No, you'll never have that problem.'

She laughed, pouring them each a drink. “I can't always wear this damned turban.'

'Why not? It gives you mystery.'

'You make me laugh, doctor. I like you.'

'After what I just did to you?'

'You enjoyed yourself ... and so did I. No harm done.'

Dean's brow creased in concentration.

'Have I upset you?” she asked.

'No, no, it's just ... I was thinking of my wife, Jackie. She went through a similar experience as your own, perhaps much worse. In Chicago last summer, my wife was almost drowned by a maniacal killer. You seem so strong. But she ... she hasn't been the same since.'

'I see ... I'm sorry.'

Dean glanced over at the clock, amazed that the entire day was practically gone. It was nearing four. “Christ, it's late, and you never did eat.'

'Oh, yes I did,” she said coyly, bringing a smile to Dean's lips. “Besides, I've got plenty in the refrigerator.'

He rose up on his feet and glanced about the living room, done in pale colors, beiges, whites. “You like white things, don't you?'

'Only some, and believe me, I'm very selective. I picked you, didn't I, Dr. Dean Grant? I like you for some reason I haven't figured out just yet ... but I will.'

'I owe you a meal,” he said. “What about tonight?'

'No, I'm on desk duty tonight.'

'Back to work, already?'

'I intend to jump right back in. Got it set with my partner and my captain. Work, my friend, like life, goes on.'

'Which reminds me, I should check in with Dr. Corman.'

'Don't worry about Sid Corman. The word is, he's okay, and downtown they say he's a shoe-in for an injunction, anytime he wants it.'

Somehow Dean knew Sid would have the ear of the judge. “That's good news.'

'Second-best thing that's happened all day, huh?'

Dean kissed Peggy in response, and said, “I've got to check in with Sid.'

'I don't believe for a minute that our own city coroner has anything to do with scalping.'

'What did you see in that alley the night you were knifed, Peggy?” Dean asked.

'Nothing of the guy that grabbed me from behind, but I could tell he was about a head taller than me. The other man was a dwarf, a curled-up dwarf.'

'Curled-up?'

'Yeah, all balled up inside himself, somehow, you know—everything going inward, like ... like he was bowlegged, and his walk—it was like his feet were pegs.'

Dean recalled the strange footprint taken in the park by Dyer.

'What is it?” she asked.

'Nothing ... go on.'

'Well, that's it.'

'What was this little man wearing?'

She frowned. “Strange clothes, really ... a vest over a heavy ... I don't know ... woolen thing that stuck out from his pants. His shoes were weird, too, like old, but it was too dark and I only got a glance at them before the other one grabbed ahold of me.'

'Anything else?'

'Hair.'

'Hair?'

'The little man was bald, but his hands and face were real hairy. It felt like a gorilla had a hold on me when he touched me.'

'The little man grabbed onto you?'

'After I was cut and bleeding.'

'You didn't just pass out when you were cut?'

'It was strange, because the cut, I don't know when it happened. I didn't feel the cut, only the blood running into my eyes from it. I was keyed up, and concentrating on firing off as many rounds as I could. He had ahold of my arms, but I just tightened my grip on my gun.'

That was it, all that Peggy could recall before blacking out. Dean had to ask her the tough question now.

'Peggy, this is going to seem strange, and if it ... well, if it bothers you too much, then I won't ask ... but,” Dean began tentatively.

'Yes?'

'The wound.'

'What about it?'

'I have reason to believe it was done with a scalpel. Very likely why you failed to feel the swift cut.'

'I see.'

'What I need to ask is, can I see it?'

This was hard for her. She hadn't wanted anyone to see it. All the time they'd made love, she had kept the bandage tied with the scarf, a surprisingly erotic touch as far as Dean was concerned. She was vain about her beautiful appearance.

'It could help us catch this madman. I wouldn't ask, if—'

'I understand ... at least I'm not on a slab downtown with you—” She let the thought drop.

Dean said, “I'm sorry. If there were any other way....'

'All right. You're the doctor.'

She sat down, and Dean did a purely visual examination. He didn't need instruments to measure the forehead cut; his experienced eye could make a fair estimate of its depth. The gash was not so ugly as he'd expected, and he told her as much. “In fact, it's so thin and neat, anyone not knowing it was a wound might take it for a deep wrinkle.'

'God forbid,” she said aloud, but Dean's words gave her courage and she got up from the bed and went to the mirror to examine the slash herself. Iodine had reddened the area, and the stitches looked ugly, but Dean was right. The cut itself was a neat parting of the epidermal layer, and when healed, would likely show no thick scar tissue. She'd been extremely lucky.