'Did I say the killer was mentally imbalanced?'
'What would you call him?'
'His actions are engineered by someone whom he is in such awe of, or fear of, that he cannot totally be held accountable.'
'Doctor, the ‘other guy’ is a goddamned midget.'
'Perhaps he is physically small, but you have no idea how powerful a dominant personality can be, do you, Dr. Grant? You've never known anyone who's made you feel insignificant and small and wasted, and good for doing only one thing, good for doing the bastard's bidding.'
'Sounds like you have,” Dean said suddenly.
Hamel choked, realizing he had revealed more of himself in his words than he'd intended to. “My ... my father, and to some extent, my mother, yes, they were
Hamel had come uncomfortably close to revealing what secrets he held deep inside. Dean had no idea what they might be, however. “What about Park?” Dean asked. “Do you think a man like him could be controlled by another man?'
'Frankly, if the circumstances were right, any one of us could fall under the spell of a cult leader, a powerful personality, a passionate lover—hell, no one's immune one-hundred-percent to the controlling influences of those around them. For instance, a man like you, you're married, aren't you, Dean?'
'Yes, I am.” Dean thought of Jackie.
'You love her, right? And out of love, you behave in socially acceptable ways, remembering sometimes to humble yourself before her—like when you forget a birthday card, right?'
'I don't see where that—'
'Multiply that feeling a thousandfold, Dean—do you mind if I call you Dean?'
'No, that'd be fine—'
'Benjamin, or Ben if you like.'
'Ben.'
'Anyway, imagine, if you can, Dean, someone coming along and sweeping you off your feet, just sweeping you right up and carrying you along, and effectively controlling you, even using you, say, for personal or sexual gain, or whatever it is they wish to get from you—money, or scalps—and hell, this control never stops, never ends, never slows down. In fact, you don't want it to, because you find comfort and love and security and all those good things in it. Maybe you find power, power you can't get anywhere else....'
Hamel continued on in this vein, and as he spoke, Dean thought of how he himself had so recently been caught up for good or bad in the power of Peggy Carson, in the thrill of being with her. Hers was a dominant personality, an aggressive personality which, in careful doses, might be invigorating and take on the look of freedom and fun, but he could not imagine allowing her much further into his life, and certainly Dean knew he must himself be in control. Dean tried to imagine the weak personality Hamel described, the person who fed on being under another's control, lived for it and withered without it. He thought of all the millions of Americans who wanted others to tell them what to do from letters to Dear Hearts columns to the How-To books they bought and read, on everything from gold to finances to making love. The only people making a gain from this nation of sheep were the merchants and advertisers, so far as Dean could see.
'Park,” continued Hamel, “most certainly. The macho front is often a giveaway to a weaker personality, a wall to hide behind which often crumbles when the person is alone with himself, or with a truly dominant personality or more powerful mind. Sometimes a latent homosexual lurks behind the facade, sometimes a secret drinker, sometimes a masturbator, but more often than not, a man who lives a double life, a man who might well enjoy being tied and beaten by a woman, say, or led into murdering others.'
Dean had heard similar ideas from Stephens on occasion. It seemed Hamel knew his stuff. But it was growing late, and Dean wanted to get back to the lab before he missed Sid altogether. He also wanted to know if Carl Prather or Sybil had tried to reach him regarding Park yet. “It has been most interesting, Ben.'
'Glad to spread it around,” replied Hamel, shaking Dean's hand. Do you play tennis?” he asked suddenly. “I'm getting a doubles match together for the weekend.'
'I play, yes—but I'm sorry, I'm really not up to it at the moment, thanks.'
'Pity. I'd like to see how you'd fare opposite me on the court.'
Dean smiled at this, finally regaining his hand from Hamel, whose grasp seemed suddenly like a caress. Was the man gay? After winning the little tug-of-war over the bill, Dean left hurriedly.
Hamel watched him from the second-story perch as Dean moved with that purposeful walk of his, headed, no doubt, Hamel realized, back to his microscopes in the Municipal Building's labs.
That is a determined man, Hamel told himself. Dedicated, sharp ... razor-sharp. “But I don't believe Park's your man, Dr. Grant,” Hamel said to himself, draining his wineglass.
EIGHT
It was getting late.
Where in God's name was Hamel?
Chief Hodges had seen him go out of the building with Grant, and he wondered what they had to talk about. But he knew ... he knew. It was the Scalper case, it was all anyone was talking about, and all anyone gave a shit about anymore.
He was a lifer, his whole career given over to this job, his entire personal life as well. He'd built up an impressive record, a long and worthwhile record, a record any man would be proud of. He was honored at banquets and he had a room at home where the walls were literally lined with plaques.
He was a success at his chosen profession, and he meant to go right on up the ladder, next stop—the commissioner's office.
But did anyone trot out his successes, his record? Did anyone care to talk about it? No, all the press or anyone else wanted to talk about was the goddamned Scalper.
Hodges had to get ahold of himself. He heard Hamel coming. He didn't want to give away the fact that he was on the edge, now, did he? Christ, he told himself, get on the couch. He did so and stretched out, feigning peace and indifference as Hamel entered his office, saying “Ready for your session, Chief?'
Hodges lazily looked over his shoulder up at Dr. Hamel. “Oh, it's you, Doc ... must've dozed off. Long day, a rough one.'
'Then it should be easy to relax, Chief,” replied Hamel, pouring the Chief a glass of ice water and taking up his position across from him in his easy chair. “I'm sorry to be late, but I was held up by—'
'Grant, I know ... I saw you two together.'
'He's an inquisitive man.'
'So I've noticed.'
'At the moment his questions seem to be centering on Lt. Park.'
'Park, huh? Did he...?'
'No, he got nothing from me of a personal nature on Park, no more than he would from the elevator operator or a doorman. You mustn't worry, Jake, that anything between you and me goes outside this room. Trust me.'
'I do ... I just ... sometimes...'
'Worry, yes, I know, and that's bad for you, Jake, very bad for those ulcers.'
Chief Jacob “Big Jake” Hodges had been an Orlando policeman since 1967. He had built a reputation on the backs of others, and getting near the top of the heap had cost him dearly. It had cost him his first wife and the kids of that marriage, a boy and a girl he never saw and seldom heard from, now that Doris had removed them to California. His career had cost him friendships, strong ties, meaningful ties that had nothing whatever to do with politics and back-scratching and ass-kissing, and finally, after all the sacrifices and losses, Jake Hodges was going to at last enjoy some of the benefits of the many and terrible sacrifices to his job. But that notion had been short- circuited by this crazed killer going about his city and making a mockery of his police force to the tune of several stories a day appearing in the papers. He wanted an end to it, and only one man seemed to understand that need.
