birth certificates.'
Dean and Sid thanked Dr. Neubauer for his time and hung up. “How did Park become a cop, with his record?” Sid asked Dean.
'Changed his name, relocated, took the tests, passed with flying colors, settled down in a small town in Michigan where he traced the killers?'
'He must've read every newspaper in the country for information.'
'Or paid a clipping service to do it for him.'
'I can't believe the police computers haven't matched any of these crimes,” said Sid. “Park was right on this guy's behind. Look at these news stories.'
Dean looked over the clippings. Other than the ‘58 occurrence outside Billings, there was a one-inch story on an old woman who'd lost her scalp in Iowa and a second about a female victim, characterized as a hooker, in a suburb of St. Louis. A third story was from a small-town paper in Ohio, the victim a young street tough. The final Stories covered a serial killer in northern Michigan in and around Park's town of Seneca. The dates on the stories spanned the years 1958 to 1989, ending with the recent spate of scalping deaths in Orlando. Maybe Park had done better work than all the police computers in the country, but Dean knew that computers only know what people tell them.
'Damned Park,” muttered Dean. “Why wouldn't he confide in us, Sid? Why?'
'Conditioned against it, I suspect, and don't forget, he didn't particularly like me. Nor did
'Just wish the man had trusted us.'
'I think he was working up to it, Dean, when he opened up the other day.'
Dean frowned and took in a deep breath of air which he expelled in exasperation.
'Hey, let's eat,” said Sid. “You like Chinese, don't you?'
Dean saw that it was past two, and neither of them had eaten. He was hungry, and he did love Chinese. “You ever hear of a place called Chung Fat's?'
'Chung Fat's, yeah, down near Mercy Hospital, but Dean, trust me, you don't want to eat there.'
'All right, lead on, Sid. I assume you saw the crime scene where the Jimenez woman died.'
'That's not a good enough reason, Dean, to eat at Chung Fat's.'
'Why didn't you tell me about the Jimmenez ripple, Sid? Why'd I have to hear about it from Dyer?'
'Hell, Dean, Dyer's got nothing, a big zip, he's.... “Sid lowered his voice, looking about the restaurant, a place called China Basket, traditional Oriental decor, with a large garden of bonsai vegetation and waterfall at the center, paper lanterns strung everywhere, the walls lined with pen-and-ink artwork, delicate and beautiful and mostly canvas, with the simplest of lines. It reminded Dean of a place he often took Jackie to back home. But Dean saw that it was a place where a lot of cops and city workers from the nearby municipal center came for lunch, and he understood Sid's cautioning himself.
'The man's gotten not a whit further investigating the case. And that so-called witness of his, what a joke! Dyer's desperate, what with Hodges on his back and this thing with Park coming down around him. You know that ol’ Frank's pissed with himself because he actually blames himself for Park's getting killed? That's how screwed up Dyer is just now.'
'That's crazy.'
'Agreed, but he said something about Park asking him to have a meeting with him for dinner, and Dyer was too busy with some family business. Now the man's down on himself.'
'I guess we all internalize our mistakes, huh?'
Sid hefted his glass of beer and made as if to toast the statement. “So right.'
'But regardless of Dyer or anyone else, you should have had the decency to bring me up to date after this latest—'
'Hey, Dean, you were walking, on a plane, remember? Homeward bound. Jesus, Dean!'
'I wasn't on the plane when you got word, Sid.'
Sid frowned, his manner and voice taking on an apologetic air. “Dean, I just felt you'd done more'n enough of bailing my ass out here. I ... I just didn't want to complicate a decision you were already having trouble with. Hell, I know you've been fretting over Jackie, and getting home, and well, there simply was nothing even you could do for this Jimenez woman.'
They'd ordered, and now their food came. For a time they ate in silence, Dean watching Sid struggle with his chopsticks. “Never did get that down.'
'And never will,” replied Sid, switching to a fork.
Dean's dexterity with the chopsticks made Sid wince.
'Show-off.'
'One thing's apparent, Sid.'
'What, that the killers aren't very bright? First setting up Park, staging everything down to Peggy's having stabbed him in self-defense? And then going out the same damned night and offing another victim for her scalp? I thought of that, believe me.'
'An urge to kill, had to scratch it, driven to it?'
Sid smiled wryly, “Logic of a maniac? Or just nature at her most twisted?'
'Or the two heads of this monster at odds with one another.'
Sid pursed his lips, pushed his dishware aside, and nodded. “One calculating, the other driven ... maybe you've got something there.'
'From the killers’ point of view, Sid, we know one thing for certain.'
'Which is?'
'All scalps are for the taking, even a child's. It's their right, their religion, maybe.'
'What do we do next, Dean? Any ideas how to set fire to their church?'
Dean drained his tea and took a deep breath before replying. “I talked to the old man who claims to have seen the dwarf. The description matches Peggy's.'
Sid shook his head. “You know just as well as I do that the old man was likely given cues and suggestions by Dyer to come up with that damned dwarf. Frank Dyer's like any other cop, Dean; half the time, during interrogation, they provide the answers to questions posed to a witness, one way or another!'
Sid seemed bent on disproving the supposed connection.
'Dyer's learned also that the killer drives a Mercedes,” said Dean.
Sid looked stricken. “Hell, we're not back to me, are we, Dean? God, I was with you at Park's, and I backed you one hundred percent on the facts, didn't I? Didn't I?'
'Sid, you've got a Ford LTD!'
'And a Mercedes which is mine, not the city's!'
'I didn't know.” Dean said hesitantly, “Are you...'
'What? What, Dean?'
'Are you on staff at Mercy Hospital?'
'On call at the trauma unit, sure, but—'
'Christ, Sid, someone put Jimenez and a Mercedes together, and damned if Dyer's not finding your name on a list right this moment as a suspect!'
Sid spilled his beer all over the white linen tablecloth. He was shaken, his face ashen, and an animal look of fear flitted across his features before he verbally fought back.
'This nightmare's got no end. Dean, a lot of us doctors drive that make of car. The “doctor killer,” it's called. Jesus ... could begin to think me guilty,” said Sid. “Next thing you'll want to know is if my parents were brutally murdered in an old house in Montana in 1958!'
'Sid, Sid!” Dean objected. But Sid stormed out, knocking over Dean's teacup as he did so. Dean jumped up, shouting for him to stop, then paid the bill and quickly rushed out. In a far corner of the restaurant, Tom Warner watched the two pathologists, his face set in anger.
Sid was walking briskly away when Dean caught up to him, saying, “Slow down, will you, Sid! We've got to work together, pool our knowledge and experience. I don't think for one minute you're guilty of these horrid acts!'
