Scalpers

Dean wondered if he should confess now to Dyer that Dean's contacts he, too, had been on Dean's list of people being surveyed by in Chicago. It wasn't the best of moments to do so. Instead Dean replied, “Everyone's suspect in a case like this, Frank, and you know exactly why we're all looking over one another's shoulder. Someone did take Sid's scissors to plant at the murder scene. Now, whether that someone is one of our scalpers or not, he's guilty of a crime. Besides, you know of the calls to Dr. Hamel, the contents of those calls.'

'Park wouldn't have had anything to do with such a play.'

'Who then? You?'

'Me? What the hell'd I do a thing like that for?'

'Sid fools around some, a lot, from what I've seen. You have a wife—'

'And kids, but you're clutching at straws here, doc. I'm not no goddamned killer, or liar, or the kind of man who would handle a problem like that by devious means. If you do a check on my record, like you did Park's, you might learn how I'd handle Sid Corman, if he ever went near my wife.'

'Then you won't mind if I do just that—run a check on your past?'

He glared at Dean. “You're something of a real bastard, doc.'

Dean considered his point briefly. “You get as old as me, Frank ... see as much as me ... if you remain a cop for as long as I have remained a coroner, and you'll have people calling you a bastard, too, believe me.'

'Bastard,” Frank Dyer muttered in repetition.. “Park ... he's a bastard, too, come to think of it. This working like James Bond, on his own, it ain't no good for nobody, and it doesn't inspire confidence in a partner, believe me. Suppose he is close to the killer. Suppose he's hot on his trail, and suppose the killer turns around and pops him. Where does that leave the rest of us? Some bag of shit we got ourselves here, Doc, a caseload of four dead by scalping and more elsewhere from what you say, a so-called investigative team that so distrust one another, nobody can tell what's what. Just the kinda business that let the Boston Strangler do his handiwork for so long without ever being detected. Nice going, one and all.'

Dyer was right again, but so far as Dean could tell, the screw-up had begun well before his arrival, at the top level, with Chief Hodges. “I agree one hundred percent, Frank, and I'd like to make a pact with you now. No more secrets between us.'

Dyer looked across at Dean to take his measure. “Okay, fair enough.'

'You remind me a lot of a cop friend of mine in Chicago, Frank.'

'Oh, yeah?” Tough guy, or what?'

'Smart guy who cuts through crap like a razor's edge. How do you size up Park?'

'I say you've got the man all wrong. I say what he told you was pure truth, but hey, I've been known to be wrong.'

'Thanks for the qualified observation.'

After returning Park's body to the living area and unceremoniously dumping him at the spot where it would be determined Peggy Carson had killed him when he'd attacked her, Ian cooly gave Van orders to help him wipe clean all traces of the dead man's blood in the bathroom. “The tiles, the bath, sink, floor, everything.'

'Do it yourself,” said Van, nastily, “I'm going to look at the girl.'

'Damn it, Van, we're doing this to keep you safe from harm, from men like Grant!'

'I'm not afraid of Grant or any of those bastards you seem so in awe of, big brother.'

'Van!'

'And you're getting just a little too smart for your own good!'

'We don't have time for this, please. Oh, damn it, I'll do it myself.'

He worked until nothing was left on any of the surfaces. Then he guided Peggy's lithe body over toward the corpse and saw to it that blood was smeared on her hands and clothing. He had worked with rubber gloves on the whole time.

Ian went out to Peggy Carson's squad car, pulled open a door, and taken the shotgun. He pointing it at Van, telling him he could riddle Van's entire hairy little body with the pull of a trigger and then really become the hero of the hour, having bagged both members of the Scalping Crew. Van's face blanched beneath the wolfman features. “You'd do that to me?'

'If you don't get off her and agree to my plan as it stands, yes!'

Van laughed as he got down off Peggy, his mouth drooling. “All right ... all right, Ian.'

After some pleading with Van, they left her there, the two slowing only at the door to make certain no one saw them. The dwarf scurried out ahead for the safety of the car. They'd had to delay their hunting because of Park and his feeble blackmail attempt Park had been onto them for some time, but he hadn't wanted to bring them to justice. He'd only wanted a payoff, a large payoff, and he'd wanted to talk to the dwarf, he'd said. The bastard had gotten just what he deserved. Nobody talked to Van but Ian.

And now Ian knew the flaw in his deformed brother's reasoning, but he was having a terrible time convincing Van of it, convincing him that the victims of the scalpings should of necessity have been innocent, virginal, young, and untouched, that this would more likely please the Dark One than all the scalps they might bring from such as Peggy Carson, the redheaded bitch, and that whore from the park. It was imperative now that they find scalps of children. It just made good sense. Someone pure of heart and experience, a soul Satan would delight in winning over. The magic Van wished to work via His power and Ian's genes and Ian's hair could very possibly take hold if the elemental ingredient was a virginal boy or girl, an infant, perhaps, a so-called angel of God. So, why couldn't Van see-this and understand? No, he was too stubborn, too set in his ways, inflexible, self-important, arrogant. Why could he not accept the fact that the Dark One had for once whispered in Ian's ear, told him what Van was unable to fathom or didn't want to, about kids, about innocent little kids.

All Van could see was anger and rage at any slight suggestion, yet everything Ian did, he did for Van. It wasn't fair, none of it, for even if they were ever to succeed, there'd be no place left for Ian anywhere, he knew that. And he knew that when they got home tonight, Van would beat him, and he'd stand for it, stand for it as he always had.

'You see Park's car anywhere?'

'No, but it could be on the other side of the complex.” Dyer took a deep breath and tried shouting, calling Park's first name. “Dave! Dave, you in there? Dave? It's me, Frank Dyer.'

This got no response, but suddenly a light went on and inside someone screamed. “Peggy!” shouted Dean, “Peggy, open up!'

The door was being unlocked from inside, and when Dean pulled it open, he and Dyer stood face-to-face with a wild-eyed, frightened Peggy Carson, who fell forward into Dean's arms. “He ... left me no choice ... came up from behind,” she said as he carried her into the room, coming to a standstill when he and Dyer saw what remained of Frank's partner on the floor. Dean had prayed they would get here soon enough to stop any bloodshed, and his predominating fear was for Peggy, certain that Park would do her harm. But here he was, lying in a pool of his own blood in the semi-dark of the tawdry hotel room that he'd been living out of since his move from Michigan. Dyer, under his breath, cursed several times while Dean made Peggy as comfortable as he could in a straight-backed chair in the corner, since the bed was littered with an array of guns. Judging from her empty holster, at least one piece in the arsenal was hers. But Dyer had died of a knife wound to the heart, from all appearances. Dyer went to his knees over his partner, disbelieving his own eyes.

'Damn it, you've killed him, Carson.'

'Don't touch a thing,” Dean ordered Frank. “Call for Corman and bring my valise from the car, Frank ... Frank!'

One of the neighbors, having heard the disturbance, stepped into the doorway. It was the man Peggy had spoken to earlier, and he stared wide-eyed at Park, whose chest was a dried mat of blood, the hilt of a hunting knife protruding from it. “Holy shit, this one of those gags they play at parties?'

'Get him out of here, Frank, please,” ordered Dean, who looked up at the stricken eyes of Peggy Carson. “I could break your neck, Peggy, coming here like this.'

'But I didn't do it, Dean ... I swear!'

Dean took her by the arms and motioned her to a chair in a corner. “Sit down before you collapse,” he said. Then he took in the room at a glance, analyzing it the way any policeman coming to the door would. On the bed lay two handguns, both Peggy's. Propped against a wall was Peggy's shotgun. Scattered and torn and tossed about the room were newspaper clippings and photocopies of news stories, and Dean, using his fingertips, turned one to read