Scalpers

perhaps.'

Sid walked over to where Dean stood and said, “Wonder what that was all about.'

'Don't know...'

'But I bet you're anxious to hear if his story checks out, right?'

'At this point, we can't overlook the man's past.'

'Yeah, that story about Vietnam, now that was eerie.'

'Eerie, yeah ... just eerie enough to be true.'

Sid stared at Dean. “You don't really think there's a connection, do you?'

'A lot of killers find confession—even masked confession—a cathartic experience, Sid. It cleanses their hearts long enough to enable them to commit the next act.'

'Park? One of our own cops? Come on, Dean.'

'He shows up around the time of the first killing, gets himself reassigned here as a result of the first killing ... we've got to look closely at the dates and vouchers.'

'But Dean, he didn't have to tell you all that stuff about Seneca, Michigan. He just did, and of his own free will. If he had anything to hide—'

'Smart move, if he is guilty, wouldn't you say? And from the start, my friend, I've had the feeling we're not dealing with a mental patient. This guy plans too well, leaves no trace, and controls an accomplice.'

'You seem to thrive on this, Dean, but I'll tell you truthfully—I'd much rather get back to my lab work than to go shadow dancing with a frigging mass murderer.'

'I wonder what Hamel, our resident shrink, thinks of Park. Be interesting to find out.'

'You do that. I'm getting back to work right here. I don't know how long I can stave off the D.A., but I'm going to fight this damnable action all the way.'

'That's the spirit,” Dean almost shouted. “I think now I'll see if I can't find Dr. Hamel.'

'Sure, do that ... leave me to fight the good fight all alone,” began Sid, but he was talking to an empty room. Dean was already at the elevator and Sid frowned from his side of the glass.

The plaque on Hamel's door read Dr. Benjamin I. Hamel, Police Psychiatry. Dean hesitated at the door. As a rule he agreed with Peggy Carson: not too many police shrinks had impressed him. Stephens in Chicago was a rarity. He wished he had Stephens with him on this case the same way he wished he had Kelso by his side—people he could trust and be at complete ease with—but that wasn't to be and he must make do. These thoughts born- barded Dean when suddenly the door opened and Hamel stood before him, about to depart.

'Going to dinner?” asked Dean.

'I was planning a quiet meal at home ... but if you'd like to talk, sure, Dr. Grant.'

'A quiet meal at home sounds nice. Do you wish to call your wife?'

'I have none. I'm alone.'

'And you like your own cooking? That's good.'

Hamel nodded. “What is it you'd like to talk about, Doctor?'

'I'd like your impression of the killers, and how you deduced the possibility of two men long before we did.'

'All right.'

'And I'd like to have your professional opinion on a policeman here.'

'Park or Dyer, or both?'

'Park in particular.'

'Interesting choice.'

'Oh, why do you say so?'

'Man's a manic-depressive, with mood swings wider than a ball on a tether, the obvious choice. Dyer, on the other hand, is steady. Psychiatry is rather a simple science if one uses the God-given powers of observation we all have, don't you agree?'

'Sometimes that's the case, yes.'

'But there are those who mask their perversions more ... successfully, you mean? Yes, that is also sometimes the case. But by and large, most human beings don't have the strength of will to carry it off. Most of us display our deficiencies in our relationships, either at work or at home.'

'You won't mind discussing Park with me, then?'

'Chief Hodges has informed me you're on the case, and so, Dr. Grant, you have a right to know who your case partners are. Privileged information between a public servant carrying a gun and his psychiatrist is not so privileged as in the private sector. It's one reason we police “shrinks,” as we're called, are quite unpopular. However, Officer Park's been granted special concidera—'

At that moment Peggy Carson was coming toward them and Dean saw something flash in her eyes. On seeing Hamel, she immediately looked for an avenue of escape, but there was none.

'Well, the wayward Officer Carson,” said Dr. Hamel. “You, my dear girl, have been doubly negligent today— first skipping out on the hospital, and now missing our session. I see that promptness is not your strong suit, Officer. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.'

Peggy said a perfunctory hello to Dean, keeping it brief and professional, and then replied to Dr. Hamel “I don't see how wasting my time with you, Dr. Hamel, is going to serve the public or myself one bit, and if you please, read this, and no thank you, I will not see you tomorrow at nine. Good evening.'

Peggy pushed an envelope into Hamel's hands, and turned abruptly, and disappeared the way she came.

'Peggy, Officer Carson, has been dodging me. We have some sessions together, the first of which has just come to an end without her,” the thin Dr. Hamel told Dean. The man's cheekbones, high to begin with, seemed enlarged now with a controlled rage toward Peggy Carson. Dean had seen it before, one part of a police department trying to do its job, at war with a second part. Often it boiled away to personality conflicts.

'Nobody relishes being cross-examined, especially by people tending to disbelieve them,” said Dean in Peggy's defense.

Dr. Hamel stared at Dean, studying him closely for the first time. “You don't seriously believe the second killer is a ... a dwarf?'

'We're onto evidence that could quite well corroborate the fact, Dr. Hamel.'

Hamel gave Dean an enigmatic smile. “You do intend to live up to your reputation for the bizarre, Dr. Grant.'

'It's not my reputation I'm concerned with.'

'Of course, of course ... You realize, doctor, my concern for Officer Carson must include assessing the safety of people she will come into contact with daily. The department can't afford to have even the appearance of an hysterical woman on the street with a revolver in her hands, now can it?'

'Quite frankly, sir. I've never met a more level-headed police officer, male or female.'

Dean and Dr. Hamel resumed their conversation over dinner at a nearby cafe-style restaurant which, while small, looked out over a busy downtown street from a second-floor perch.

'So, what sort of man goes about terrorizing people with a scalpel, taking scalps, with the help of a dwarf?” Dean inquired, interested in how Dr. Hamel would answer the question.

'A Wild West showman out of a job?” joked the tall, angular Hamel, who might himself have been a stand-in for Henry Fonda in My Darling Clementine. “Or a man who is fixing on hair, the scalp in particular, and in this fixation lies his motive. Here we probably have a man who has a nine-to-five job, either blue- or white-collar—a computer programmer, clerk, or plumber—but by night must feed an insatiable need for bloodshed of a most specific nature, bloodshed that involves the taking of another man's head.'

'Head? By head you mean scalp.'

'One and the same thing among barbaric peoples, you know. The scalp represents the human mind and spirit to the scalper. It embodies his spirit and all the energies of his being.'

'What does he do with the scalps?'

'Who knows ... sleeps with them, stuffs mattresses with them, decorates his walls with them. It may even be assumed that he derives sexual gratification from them, and for all I know, he—or they—might very well ingest them.'

'Eat hair?'