Scalpers

that they trust me with the fragile, real selves they display so very seldom. Do you understand? Do you?'

Dean nodded, “You must understand, I had to ask.'

He smiled again, engagingly, “I did ... I did expect it of you, sir, and you did not fail my expectations. Sid has done quite well to ask you in on the case. If anyone can locate and put an end to the career of this killer, it must be you.'

Dean relented. “All right, Doctor, would you answer a general question for me?'

'If I can, of course.” Hamel looked like he wanted to be elsewhere, hugging his briefcase as they talked. He was, as always, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. According to Sid, the man jogged to work from a nearby apartment, and was something of an insomniac and a real workaholic. He typically shaved and showered at headquarters, and he kept a week's wardrobe in his office. He looked fit, except for the pale complexion. He was somewhat bloodless, Dean thought. Obviously he had fair skin and he stayed out of the Florida sun as much as possible.

'You yourself said we should be concentrating on a man in house, somewhere on the force?'

Hamel arched his brows, frowned, and thought of the suggestion. “I said, and I repeat, it might be someone who comes into contact with the department daily, and that could just as well be the guy who empties the trash cans, or the guy who fills the vending machines. Look, I've got to go.'

'Sure. Another session with Chief Hodges, huh?'

Hamel turned and gave Dean a half-smile. “Really, now, you don't believe that Jake is—'

'More to the point, Dr. Hamel, do you?'

'Careful, Dr. Grant, or you will find yourself being forceably removed from this case and carried to a plane by some of the Chief's men.'

'You think he'd react that strongly to—'

'Slander? Yes.'

'I don't work that way, Hamel.'

Hamel half-smiled. “No, that's right. You deal in facts. But since working with Sid, you've lost some of your objectivity. Tell me, how long's it been since you last knew Corman?” He looked at his watch. “I must go. Please, if there is anything ethical I can do, anything not violating my own standards, let me know ... I'm your man.'

Frustrated, Dean didn't bid him good-bye. Dr. Hamel might have the smallest bit of information, some word or phrase uttered between him and one of the men he counseled, if only he weren't governed by rules the killer failed to acknowledge. Perhaps the killer would not willingly reveal himself, but under the right conditions, men— even perverted men—spoke about their perversions.

He'd have to petition Chief Hodges to loosen Hamel's sense of morals regarding Park's file if he were to pursue the matter further, either this or take action on his own, cut through the red tape, and simply break into Hamel's office for the information he sought With Hamel being so stubborn, the file would be held inadmissible in a court of law, anyway. What did he have to lose by stealing it? And if it just so happened to lead to a second David Park and his guilty associate in murder, it'd be a moot point and Dean might be home in time for Christmas after all.

There'd been undercover cops alerted and on the case all over the city, and the public, in a panic, expected to awaken to grim news of another ugly offense, but it hadn't come. Dean sensed the lull before the awful storm, knowing they'd not seen the last of the Scalpers. Dean had spent a restless night puzzling over the questions he'd finally formulated and put to the reluctant Dr. Hamel. He'd gotten back to the lab at nine that morning and had worked steadily, except for a lunch with Sid and Tom Warner, the lab tech. An assistant coronor had only recently left Sid for a position elsewhere, and Tom was doing overtime until Sid could fill the vacancy.

According to Sid, this sudden loss of manpower had contributed to the recent poor showing of his office. Dean knew this could well be a part of it, but still, Sid was ultimately responsible, and he told him so.

As Dean found his way back toward the lab now, it was past six P.M., a grueling day for them all. Then he stopped cold at the stairs. At the bottom was David Park, holding an animated conversation with Tom Warner. Dean had surmised Warner was leaking information from the lab, but he'd thought it was to Hodges. Now this. It only heightened Dean's suspicions regarding both these men. They suddenly broke off, each going in the opposite direction. Dean cursed Hamel's stubborn reluctance once again. So much time had been wasted.

With or without Hamel's help, Dean was determined to learn more about the suspicious Lt. Park. Now might not be the most opportune moment, however, to attempt a break-in of Hamel's office, not without help. Sid had also gone for the evening, giving Dean his apologies—there was some emergency at home—telling Dean that he and his wife expected him for dinner at seven.

Dean knew he was going to be late, that Sid would miss him at the hotel, because Dean wanted very much to return to the lab and make an urgent call. What if it were Park, and what if he struck again tonight, Dean wondered. Maybe Hamel didn't give a damn about the rights of victims, about the suffering and terror these two maniacs were wreaking on an entire city, but Dean certainly did. Park wouldn't be the first or last policeman to go over the edge. While most chose to direct their sad turmoil against themselves by swallowing the barrel of a gun, Dean knew from his many years in this business that aberrations took all forms. Suppose this time the cop's rage was directed outward, at others, and suppose it was to do with a psychological disorder brought on by ... by God knows what, perhaps hirsutism for all he knew! Hirsutism was the medical term for excessive body hair in a male pattern, usually hereditary. Hormonal imbalance could cause excessive hair growth, or a lack of hair, and it needn't be Park's problem, but a problem for someone who, as Hamel had said, he was in awe of, the second, hairy little man-ape Peggy had described. Dean had wanted to discuss real physical aberrations and compare these ailments with mental ailments Hamel had come across in his time here, but Hamel wasn't about to consent.

So Dean must follow through on a course of action that would circumvent Hamel.

His first step must be to confirm his suspicion of Park, and bolster it well, for it was not at all well-founded. Had Sid's instruments not been tampered with, had Hamel not been contacted on two occasions by the killer who had some inside track on his phone and knowledge of his movements, Dean may never have considered the possibility.

He now unlocked the door to the darkened pathology lab, still and silent. Just as well, Dean told himself. He needed time to think this thing through clearly, and he needed privacy in order to get some much-needed answers.

He crossed the room to Sid's office, sat in a plush chair, and dialed Chicago, eager to hear from Sybil or Carl Prather. He prayed they would have some information on Park. But it was late in Chicago, too, and Dean was unable to get through to either one. No doubt the two lovers were together at Carl's or Sybil's, and Dean began to dig in his wallet for Sybil's home number, when he decided instead to ask the police operator in Chicago to patch him through to Chief Ken Kelso.

Dean waited a long time in the dark, in silence, half-certain Kelso would be as unavailable as Sybil at this point, perhaps off again in his pursuit of Angel Rae's sister, perhaps home in bed with his wife. The dark lab was peaceful, and Dean's eyelids grew heavy. He knew that if he half-concentrated on rest, he could fall asleep right here and now, and he semi-dozed to the sound of being on hold. That's how his mind felt at the moment, on hold, prepared to locate Hamel's office on the seventh floor of the building, to somehow break in and snatch Park's file, and perhaps one or two others. He dreamed of the detective work he must do.

'Yes, Kelso here.'

Kelso's booming voice shook Dean up.

'Kenny! It's me, Dean.'

'Dino, damn you! Where'n hell you calling from? The airport? You back in Chicago?'

'No, no! I'm calling from Florida.'

'Ducky ... you're still there, huh?'

'In the thick of it, yeah, and great to hear your voice, too.'

'Dean, you got shit for brains.'

'At least I have brains of some sort.'

'Do you have any—any—idea just what the hell you're doing, man?'