Scalpers

knowing when he'd get back to the house, or even which direction he'd take to get there, eyed the lizard. Nice skin, he thought as his hand shot out in strike speed, trained to do so from infancy as a survival technique. He had the lizard in his grasp and wrenched it apart.

Moving on through the marsh that turned quickly into swamp, trying to find his way but without especial concern, Van nibbled on the food find, careful to save the skin for tanning.

One art he knew well, that—the art of tanning and curing a skin. He'd learned it from dusty books in the filthy cellar he'd called home for eleven years. He'd also learned taxidermy. Maybe he'd stuff the lizard. One day, if Ian wasn't good, he promised to stuff him. Pretty brothers could be a bothersome thing. Still Ian had provided for him, helped him all these years, and he had returned from the war with all those scalps. Ian was the perfect balance, the lure, and Van was the trap. Like well-matched spiders, they worked together and all went smoothly until Ian started trying to run the show, lying about whispered messages direct from the Dark One, pretending to be clever, more clever than Van.

After all, it had been Van who'd thought of just the right and fitting punishment for their parents, and it was Van who'd brought the Dark One from the lower levels below the cellar all those nights. He knew what his Lord wanted, not Ian.

When Ian returned, he'd tell him so.

There'd be an argument. Lately Ian argued everything. Lately Ian was beginning to sound like a broken record. How smart he was, he'd told Van, to shift the suspicion to the police themselves, and would soon believe the police were irresponsible and stupid and how he laughed at his own so-called achievement. Then, when he told Van about having telephoned the police not once, but twice, Van beat him unmercifully, making of his back a patchwork of blood and flesh.

To this day Ian felt he'd done nothing wrong, that in fact, he had done a sensible thing. Telephoning the police twice!

Regardless, Van knew that Ian was growing in self-importance with each kill. Ian wanted to take more credit. He wanted more ritual time, and to talk directly with the Dark One. So, having been barred this, he was now fantasizing it.

Damn him, couldn't he understand that this was the one important thing in Van's entire, miserable existence? That his work with the overlord gave meaning to his wretched life? How often, how many ways did Van have to explain it to Ian? In the end, Van would become the Dark One, and through Van he would walk the earth as he had not done since the time of Christ.

Another day and Dean got the distinct impression that Dr. Hamel was avoiding him, paying no heed to his repeated messages. Dean finally located Hamel at midday, but the psychiatrist begged off, saying he was between sessions and late. By the time Dean found him again, it was getting late, nearly five. Hamel was packing his valise, preparing to leave the small room adjoining the squad room where he held his group sessions.

'Oh, Dr. Grant, I'm sorry—it's been hectic today.'

'No need to apologize.'

Dean saw that Hamel had filled a chalkboard with words which on the surface appeared random, as if he'd been giving a speech and had jotted down key remarks and phrases. He'd most likely been responding to questions posed by apprehensive cops, always ill-at-ease in a classroom setting, wondering why they had to know the difference between a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic, how to spot suicidal tendencies and homicidal tendencies. It was as simple as predicting the direction a bird will take when it flies, Dean thought.

'So, Dr. Grant, how goes the chase?'

'Slowly, steady as she goes.'

'What can I do for you?'

'I've got a couple of questions.'

'Coffee?'

'Sounds good.” They went to a nearby lounge and coffee machine, Dean opting for a Coke this time around. Seated now, Dean got right to the point. “Dr. Hamel, is it conceivable that a man with a disfigurement, something truly gruesome, might not then nurture a kind of reactionary mental disorder to compensate that disfigurement?'

Hamel thought for some time, not rushing in. Dean studied him as he pondered the question. He seemed intrigued by it, as most people in his profession would be. Dean had noticed that while Hamel packed his valise, a copy of the most recent Psychology Today had been tucked in the folds of his files and papers. To prompt him, Dean said, “Ever see anything to indicate such a possibility in the literature?'

'Yes, yes, of course ... often, actually.'

'Any examples?'

'A man born with the facial characteristics of a rodent once went about New York City disfiguring his victims and robbing them of their clothes, locking them to bannisters and rails in public places. It was a show of defiance in his mind, a hitting back at the world.'

'I see.'

'Sometimes it's of a different twist. One man whose mother lost her arms in a tragic industrial accident went about picking up hitchhikers and promptly slashing off their arms at the elbow.'

'Then it's quite prevalent?'

'Nothing like everyday, but yes, people manifest hatred and anger in a myriad of ways.” Hamel regarded Dean curiously now. “You have a theory along these lines regarding the Scalper? If so, I would love to hear it, but time draws me away.'

Dean acted as if he didn't hear this. He'd spent all day trying to get to the man. “Peggy Carson's account of the dwarf who assisted in attacking her depicted him as a hairy man, with hair all over, except for the scalp. Now just suppose—'

'Yes, I see what you're driving at, like the forearm taker, like the disfigured face-slasher, the Scalpers are working out of some condition that is as much physical as mental, an intermingling of the two. Sharp, Dr. Grant.'

'Do you know if Park has any relatives with any such disfigurements?'

'Park again, huh?” Hamel sighed as if disappointed in Dean.

'Why so defensive, doctor?'

'Anything Park has confided in me about his personal life—'

Dean opened his hands to the man in a gesture of pleading. “We're all on the same team, Doctor, after all, and despite your feelings toward Sid—'

'My feelings toward Sid have nothing to do with my decision to keep Lt. Park's profile confidential.'

Dean could only stare at the man.

'Look, Grants, I've had a session or two with every cop here, it's part of the plan for the eighties, to upgrade. But you must know I cannot reveal the content of any such session. Hell, if I did, do you have any idea of the consequences?'

'Who has access to the information you gather, then?'

'The Chief, the Commissioner, if he wants to see it. And without Hodges’ okay—'

'Hamel, I understand about doctor-patient privilege, but we're talking about a deranged madman, on the loose and likely to strike again soon.'

'And I'm trying to tell you that I have carefully created a program of trust between myself and the men of this department. I'm running sessions daily for groups of cops and doing some individual counseling. Now, how am I to maintain the trust of so many if ... if I turn over a file to you or anyone else?'

'No one would know.'

'Not right away, and not from you, perhaps, but I would know, and they—” he waved a hand toward the squad room, “they are not fools.'

'One file, in strictest—'

'No, sir. You must see, Dr. Grant, what a delicate position I am in here. Teetering on a seesaw, always, with these men. They look to me for help only if they know they can trust me completely, without any reservation whatsoever. I am expected to deal with their nightmares, help them overcome phobias and phantoms. Please, you must see why I simply cannot give you access, either verbally or in writing, to the privileged information between myself and these men. Here in the squad room, it's imperative