A woman in the church saw a tall woman “leaving with Tina Hoyt.” Nicki had set up Diane Taluvera and Nicki was Schumway's private stock, but the wheelchair was a bicycle, so how much wood could a woodchuck chuck? And why was Elvis’ name misspelled on his tombstone, and when alien spacecraft land on the planet, why do they only allow imbeciles to see them? You know how it is with inquiring minds, baby.
All of that by the wayside as the other calls came into his ear, the telephone ringing and Eichord assuming it was Dana telling him they got tied up or whatever, or maybe the doc from St. Louis returning his call, and he picks it up and hears only a buzz. Then, faintly, “Jack? Can you hear me?"
“Doc?” Eichord called all doctors Doc if he liked them.
“Wally Tulare in St. Louis. Can you hear me?” always with the fucking phones. And for five minutes Jack lets more poisons seep into his hand and arm and this time into the ear. Tulare told him more about Spoda than he wanted to know, but by the time they hung up, he was more convinced than ever that Al Schumway and Arthur Spoda were the same man. He just couldn't fucking PROVE it.
Shortly after that another call—somebody motioned at a winking hold line, and he picked it up and a woman said, “Jack Eichord?"
“Speaking?"
“Jack, this is Amy (mumble) in Las Vegas.” Was this a lady pit boss he'd interviewed?
“Sorry. I didn't catch your name.” She repeated it, but he still couldn't understand and he just said, “Oh, yes?"
“Jack, can you hold on for just a second? I'm trying to reach your party for you and they are prepaid. Can you hold?"
“Sure.” Click. Whirring noise. Click. Touch tones. Cross talk. “Jack? Still there?"
“Yes."
“One moment.” Could be anybody. Something on the Vegas sheets. He had his fingers crossed.
“Hello. Is this Jack Eichord speaking?"
“Yes."
“Good day, Jack. I'm calling for Super Tech Industries in Las Vegas. Congratulations! You've just won a prize that could be worth thousands of dollars. I need to validate your prize number, Jack. Could you read me the expiration date on your credit card, please?"
“You've called a police officer. I'm not interested in any boiler-room scams."
“But this promotion is—” He hung up. If he hadn't been so busy, he would have traced it and given it to the MLVPD guys. Not that there was much anybody could do with the annoying things. It was all getting too big. Too insulated. You could never do anything about anything. What a melluva hess.
“Another call,” somebody said, “on three."
“Eichord.” Bring me the head of Alexander Graham Bell.
“I'm at X-L Office Equipment.” It was Dana. “I think I got something. The sheet with the primary-suspect mug shots—guy owns the arcade, the VA dude, the Schumway Buick guy. He says Schumway came in and priced typewriters. Was considering replacing all the office machines and what not. He typed on a machine that he liked. This guy remembers him in the wheelchair and all. He said it's fairly normal that people type samples and take them home for consideration of what to buy. Okay. So I ask him, Did Schumway take his sample home? Yeah, he says. He typed on a piece of paper and he thinks he put it back in his pocket. What he remembered about the deal was he thinks Schumway made some remark about the typeface on the machine. Could it do this or that? Could you put in a certain element that would give you another option or whatever? Guy goes, Yeah. He puts another paper back in and types some more. The man remembers thinking it was odd that he didn't type on the same piece of paper. He thinks it was an envelope. He isn't sure. He THINKS the second time it was an envelope and it stayed in his head. Anyway, I ask him. Have you changed the ribbon or the cartridge since the machine has been on display? No, he says. I got it as is. Didn't take it off the machine. Nothing. So I go to the lab with it?"
“Bet your ass, Dana. You done great, man. Stay with it."
“You got it.” It was 11:10 a.m. At thirteen hundred hours Jack Eichord knew where the Hand of Christ letter had been typed. It appeared on the used section of the X-L Office Equipment's machine's one-time cartridge. Cheek by jowl in between quickbrownfox and nowisthetimeforallgoodmen. Right there in Executive Bold: Dyke Whores Must Die...
He fumed as he imagined what the circuit attorney would tell him.
“Lock that case down tight. Jack. Don't bring me this iffy typewriter shit.” The fucker left him a head.
He took it personally. Enough with the typewriters and the fags dressed up like women and the rest of the fucking BULLSHIT. That's it. You play, you pay, asshole.
Buckhead Medical Park
Threatening was not Eichord's style. He was a firm believer in the soft sell, but this case had turned Eichord into something else—something he wasn't meant to be. He had killed to stop the killings. And he'd failed. So a little push and shove scarcely caused him a second's hesitation. Another woman was dead. Beheaded by a madman who had put himself beyond anyone's touch.
As they rolled toward Medical Park, Jack Eichord thought that at that moment he loathed Dr. Niles Lishness almost as much as the hated killer Schumway/Spoda. As he tried to visualize them together, doctor and patient, he had no trouble visualizing Schumway holding court, the wimpy, pedantic shrink in rapt, scholarly attention.
Lishness the man was almost a caricature or parody of a psychiatrist. He had a fastidiously sculpted Vandyke, granny glasses balanced on the end of his nose, an imperial air, arch mannerisms, prissy speech pattern, and he lacked only a Viennese accent from completing the comedic portrait. For now, however, he was a dangerous threat, and he would be so treated.
It was easy to imagine him seated behind the grand desk, his glasses on the tip of his aristocratic nose, nodding as he listened to the boasting of a killer. He had treated Spoda's utterances with the inviolable confidence of a priest's confessional, all right. But the stonewalling was over.
After determining when the doctor would be closing shop for the day Jack and Monroe sat in the front seat of an unmarked car, fat Dana in the back, raffishly running his mouth in a clinical running commentary on the physical attributes of every woman who walked past their vehicle. In truth, Jack thought, there seemed to be an endless stream of delectable-looking morsels parading by them.
“Ooh, shit. Look at THAT,” Dana said. “Damn! These doctors have it made. Man, I could go for some of that. Be that little honey's gynecologist. Put your feet up in them stirrups, darlin', I got to check out your plumbing."
“Thass what you oughta be—checkin’ out folks plumbing."
“Well, another five minutes,” Eichord said as he glanced at the dashboard clock, “and we'll go catch Sigmund Freud's act."
“Hey, Eichord. When you was in Vegas, did you see them?"
“Who?"
“The goddamn lion-tamers. Sigmund and Freud?"
“Jeezus,” Monroe said in disgust.
“Come on. I can't stand it. Let's go."
They went in the front door just as a young receptionist was locking the door.
“Doctor Lishness still in there?"
“Yes,” she replied as they flashed shields, “but he's with a patient and he has to leave right afterward so—"
“That's okay. We're not going to keep him for longer than thirty seconds, but we do have to ask him one question. Listen, hon, just let us in and lock it back up. We'll ask him what we need on his way out the door."
“Well—” She raised her eyebrows, glancing at her watch. Eichord smiled and she shrugged and let them in, locking the door from the outside. After all, they WERE the police. Surely it would be all right.
They tossed the outer office expertly and silently in a matter of two minutes. Found nothing. There was a large file cabinet that held some promise and Eichord popped the lock on it, but the files inside were ledgers, payment records, statements, old appointment books, nothing on the names “Schumway” or “Spoda.” The old ledger cards and correspondence placed a date on the material. From the looks of the office, what Eichord wanted was either going to be under lock and key inside Lishness's private office, or on computer.