Scalpers

'I ... I never done any cutting before,” said the dwarf.

'You've sat and watched enough times.'

'I c-can't ... I don't think.'

'Forget it. There isn't time. Look!” He pointed out the police car that had just careened past the alleyway. “No time! We've got to save our own scalps. Hurry!'

The little man was reluctant to leave the helpless woman. He snatched away the killer's knife and dug it deep into the wound that had already been begun, but the killer snatched his arm and tugged him away.

'But we can't go back empty-handed,” wailed the dwarf.

'Who said we would? Come away, now!'

The trophy of the black woman's scalp was lost to them. The little one felt more than let down—he felt betrayed. Promises had been made, after all.

Words like imperative, duty, mission, and cause slid in and out of the killer's consciousness. Meanwhile, the little man bitched and complained and threatened to harm himself, he was so upset. But there was nothing to be done. You couldn't do this thing with precision if rushed, and the hair must be parted correctly and with the love and devotion owed it. It just didn't make for good ritual method to do as the little man said, “Sever the head and take it with us....'

She'd discharged her weapon with ferocious intent. He had had all he could do to hold on to the petite black woman. She'd lost control when the dwarf darted from his cover on cue, just as he always did. It was amazing indeed that the little bastard wasn't blown to smithereens. Thank God for that saving moment, for his death could bring people snooping, asking a lot of questions, questions they'd have difficulty answering.

Still, the little one was right. They had gotten off with nothing save their own heads ... just ahead of the police units that raced to the scene like screeching banshees, shadows dancing everywhere. In those shadows, he and the dwarf man disappeared, melted away. He had failed. The dwarf would tell it all his way. He had failed to bring home the natty-curled scalp to add to the collection. They didn't have a black's scalp. And it had looked so promising, for a time. He had taken the woman for a streetwalker when she began to follow him. He had wanted to turn, go back to her, entice her into the shadows with him with the promise of money, but no, he couldn't do it his way. As it was, she had caught them off guard. Sloppy.

One day he'd just do it his way, and that would be a great day.

THREE

Dean was dead on his feet. One more glaring ray of light hitting his eyes would knock him over. The autopsy, as it stood, had gone routinely, save for the nature of the death, that the victim had not only suffered a loss of blood at the head, but was drained in several other key locations, primarily in the breast, where a nipple had been sliced away, and in the uterus, where an ugly, almost star-shaped gash had been taken, along with a patch of pubic hair and skin, a sick sort of second scalping. Whoever the bastard was, he was definitely out of his head to mutilate the body so brutally.

When making any observation, Dean spoke into the microphone positioned just above him. Both he and Sid were now in the blue surgical gowns of the lab, but Dean had long before abandoned his constricting mask. The room was kept at a constant fifty degrees as they worked, and since the corpse had been refrigerated and an autopsy had already been performed, there was little to do in the way of incision.

Dean knew that examinations of this nature often overlooked the obvious, that doctors looking death in the face hurried through, especially in mutilation cases. It could be forgiven of young and inexperienced men, but now he realized with a start what surely must have the police upset with Sid: separate knives had been used on the woman, and two other scars, nearly hidden from view, had been washed clean and had gone unreported on the charts. Beneath each arm, deep in the pit, more chunks of flesh had been cut away, using, again, a kind of childish slash to roughly conform to shapes, a circle and a triangle. The deceased had lost a great deal of blood from these wounds as well, yet Sid had ignored these on his reports. Furthermore, he had indicated the depth of the slash wounds and the possible size of one knife, instead of all the knives. One of the cuts in particular, the head cut, which pulled away the scalp, might well have been done with a scalpel, while the others had been caused by a jagged, longer edge.

'Dean, I just rushed through it, you know,” said Sid, sensing that Dean now understood.

'I can see that.'

'You see what, Dr. Grant?” asked Hodges over the P.A. system.

Dean looked up for the first time in hours, having very nearly forgotten about the men watching. Dr. Hamel was gone. So was Park. Dyer and Hodges alone were in for the kill.

'Dr. Corman did not indicate that more than one size of knife wound exists on this cadaver.'

'Is that not unusual, Doctor?'

'And he failed to mention in his reports the wounds in the armpits.'

'Is that, too, not unusual, Doctor?” Hodges repeated.

'It shows sloppiness, errors made.” Dean didn't wish to say any more than absolutely necessary.

'Would you keep this man on in your Chicago operation, doctor?'

'Sid Corman's record cannot be overlooked here, Chief Hodges. Efforts made in haste, when people are breathing down your back, even in forensics, are made. Part of the problem—'

'Thank you, Dr. Grant.” Hodges stood, said something to Dyer, who rushed out, and continued, looking down on Sid Corman from behind the glass, as if Sid were a bug. “Dr. Corman, I'm sorry to inform you that this matter will now be taken up with the Mayor's office.'

'Mayor's office?” asked Dean, amazed. “You can't be serious!'

'I am quite serious, Dr. Grant, believe me.'

Dean looked in Sid's direction to find the other man shaking his head. He gazed back overhead to see that the chief had disappeared. “Sid, you want to tell me what the hell's going on?'

Sid switched the microphone off before he began to talk.

'Not too much, Dean—just that this woman here—” he indicated the corpse “—is the Mayor's niece.'

'Oh, shit,” moaned Dean. “Great going, Ace. When you choose to screw up, you do it royally.'

'What can I say? I didn't know at the time.'

'That's no damned excuse.'

'I know, I know....'

Dyer was suddenly back, his slim face suddenly alive, agitated with tension that Dean took to mean concern for Corman. But there was more to the excitement than this. “Just came over the squawk box, Sid, they're saying we've got another scalping victim.'

'When?'

'Less than fifteen minutes ago.'

'Where'd it happen?'

'West End area, near Second and Cook.'

'Damn, miles from the others!'

Dean interrupted the two, asking, “Are they bringing the victim here now?'

'No, she's going to Mercy.'

'She's alive?'

'That's good, maybe great,” said Sid.

'It's a lady cop, name of Carson, from our Westside Division, She's lost a lot of blood, but the medics got her stable.

'Outlook's getting better, Dean, old buddy.'

'Don't get your hopes up until you talk to this lady.'

'I think I'll get right over there,” said Sid. “You coming?” He tore off his surgical garb as he spoke.

Dean was too tired to say yes and too curious to say no. “What do you think?” he asked.

Sid smiled wide for the first time in many hours. “I'm glad I've got you on my side, Dean.'

'That's crazy, Sid.'

'Crazy like a fox.'