Sid scanned Dean's eyes, knowing his mind was working. All four men now sat around a table in the waiting room. “Plan to wait here all night, Park?” asked Sid.
"If need be."
"What about you, doctors?” asked Dyer.
Dean shook his head. “No way ... I'm dead to the world."
"Hodges only got on his high horse since the Scalper's activity has taken him up the social ladder, Dean,” said Sid, now sipping coffee himself. “Park and Dyer here have been in it from the beginning."
"Yeah, and now it's a cop that's been attacked,” said Dyer.
"Lucky she got away with her life,” added Park, dragging on a cigarette. Dean noticed his lighter had a Special Services insignia on it and realized that Park, like a lot of cops, was a Vietnam vet. “Used her gun like a siren. Smart lady cop. Probably what saved her life."
"Heat was turned up when the third victim turned out to be related to the Mayor,” Sid continued when the conversation flagged again. “That's why the burner's been turned up under my ass for an honest enough mistake. These guys understand the pressure we're under in forensics, don't you, Dyer?"
"Yeah, it's tough,” Dyer acknowledged when Park said nothing.
Park, casually and with a smirk on his face, said, “You'd never have known that last victim was in any way related to His Honor."
Dyer laughed without mirth. “I don't even think he knew he was related to her, Park."
"Prob'ly not."
Dyer tried to explain. “Her place was kind of a dump, in a very seedy neighborhood...."
"Then again, she was only a niece,” added Park.
"I'd like to see the crime scene sometime soon,” said Dean.
"Sure, no problem."
"What about tonight?” asked Sid.
"No, too tired, really. I need to be fresh,” replied Dean.
"No, no, Dean, you misunderstood, I'm asking Park and Dyer here if they found anything at the crime scene tonight of any help."
"Back-alley trash, Carson's blood,” replied Park.
"There was one thing,” added Dyer.
"What's that?"
"Maybe nothing, but Carson was clutching a fistful of little plastic bags."
"Bags?"
"You know, the kind you wrap your sandwich in."
"Trash,” replied Park, getting up and asking Dyer if he were coming.
"In a minute, Park.” There was now some irritation in Dyer's voice. When Park had left for their squad car, Dyer shook his head. “What a case that guy is. I've had all kinds of partners, but he's something else. Can't put two words together."
"Seems frustrated,” chanced Dean.
"Yeah, he works hard. We both do. We've been trying with all we've got to put some common thread together on this one—you know, identify the killer's likes and dislikes as to the kinds of victims he chooses, his geographic preferences, and with the first two that seemed a possibility. Then in comes the Mayor's niece—kinda down on her luck, but still a yuppie type—and now Officer Carson. Every possible lead we had has been shot to hell, as far as I can see."
"I'm surprised your Chief Hodges hasn't shown up,” said Dean, “or has he come and gone?"
"Hodges is strictly first watch, and off by noon or one o'clock to the golf course."
"Likes his nightlife, too, I'm told,” added Sid.
"So, if he can point the finger elsewhere...” began Dean, but let the thought drop.
"How does Hamel figure into the picture?” asked Sid. “I mean, he's somehow become a big cheese on this case. Last month he was a nobody, sitting in his office and playing with rubber bands."
"Hodges brought him in in desperation, for answers,” said Dyer. “He's certainly not getting any from Park and me."
"So Hodges gets Hamel to profile the killer, to soothe the mayor into thinking something's being done,” added Sid. “Meanwhile, if things are being poorly managed and botched, it's not Hodges’ department, but mine."
"Watch your backsides, gentlemen,” said Dyer as he got up to go. “Got to catch up with my pard."
"Thanks,” said Dean, rising.
"What for?"
Dean considered this. “For making up for Park, I guess."
"I understand why Park's reluctant to talk. He's really too damned new to the department to be handed such a case to begin with, and he doesn't always share his thoughts, or his actions with me, either.... So, don't feel unduly offended by the man, if you can help it."
Dyer rushed off.
"Park's new around here, hunh?” asked Dean.
"Yeah, well, there aren't too many people in Orlando, or Florida for that matter, who can claim to be first generation."
Dean emptied half the bitter machine-made coffee back into the machine, wondering if the thing would recycle it. He crushed the cup and tossed it in a container. Sid got up alongside him, and together they found Sid's car in the lot.
"Thinking about what Dyer said?"
"Yeah, that and the baggies."
"Yeah, weird, huh?"
"Not unlike our bagging specimens at a crime scene, Sid, if you ask yourself what happened to those chunks of flesh the killers made off with."
"So the Scalper is now the Scalpers, and they are collectors of specimens."
"One uses what might well be a scalpel, Sid."
"Points to a professional man, you think? A doctor?"
"Or maybe someone who likes to play doctor."
"Some warped-out, whacko Jack-the-Ripper with a fetish for hair?"
"Or maybe the guy next door, who turns into something else when the sun goes down."
"A hundred thousand maybe's."
They got into Sid's big car and pulled away. Fending off Sid's arguments to the contrary, Dean managed to get to the Hyatt Regency Hotel where he had made reservations. Arguing even as he drove away, Sid left him there for the evening to sleep and contemplate all that had occurred before and since his arrival in the city.
The voice on the phone was unshakably real, yet it could not be her, it could not be Angel Rae, the woman Dean had put an end to in Chicago this past summer. Yet her body had never been recovered from Lake Michigan, its assumed resting place, and there was always the nagging doubt that perhaps she'd somehow miraculously escaped her own drowning death. And that she had come back not in a quiet, haunting way, as in his oft-repeated dreams of her, but in a most real and vicious way. A way that meant Jackie was in trouble at this moment, with this madwoman stalking her, and with Dean over a thousand miles away from his wife, unable to do a damned thing but listen to the eerie, surreal voice coming through the connecting wires in a monotone, frustrating in its calm, deliberate choice of words. It drove him mad, this voice from his past that simply would not let go, lodged as it was in his brain, saying, “You've been too long at school ... Nurse Grant is mine now ... all mine, and she will be delivered, made free to float to the sky."
"No!” Dean shouted the instant the phone rang. Trembling in the air-conditioned dark, he lifted the receiver after the third jolting ring, trying to regain himself. It had been a nightmare, no doubt brought on by his call to Jackie at home. She wasn't home, and he tried to convince himself she was at the hospital, taking someone else's shift, but when he started to dial, he was gripped with a fear at not finding her there. He rationalized his not having called because of the lateness of the hour. So he hadn't spoken with her, and now she was calling him.
"Yes, hello,” he said into the phone, “Jackie?"
A ripple of fear fluttered through him. Could he possibly stand it if even a recorded word from Angel Rae were to come through the wire?
"Dean, old boy, sorry to wake you,” said Sid Corman.