"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."
"But you knew I'd see the errors, and that I'd honestly say so."
"That I did, and I also know you'll help me put this killer behind bars. And that, Dean, means more to me than my goddamned job at the moment."
Dean wondered about the last remark. Sid had spent a lifetime amassing a reputation, and no one spoke more fondly of his position than he did, Dean wondered just how far Sid was using him to repair the damage already done to his career. He likewise wondered how much Sid truly cared about the victims and potential victims he sought to help.
Such considerations aside, Dean was as anxious to see and speak with the sole survivor of the Scalper himself. A part of him was as calculating as Sid, certainly as curious and fascinated by the bizarre goings-on, about the psyche of such a perverse creature. A part of him wanted to do what he did best, and that was to put bad men behind bars.
"So many damned errors,” Ian moaned.
The dwarf snorted and blew his nose. "Quit whining."
"She was ripe for the taking, if it hadn't been for—"
"I suppose you think it's my fault."
"Did I say that?"
"Don't have to,” he replied from down around Ian's knees.
Having driven completely across town, they'd parked a few feet away and were now combing the downtown Lake Conway Park area for any chance encounter with fresh prey. It was way too late to go cruising singles bars, and Van didn't really want to sit in the car waiting. There was not much chance of a good evening.
"I'll tell you when to worry,” Van said in his distinct, gravelly voice. “You know what they say—worry only stresses you out, big brother.” Van was the name their parents had given him. It was the only thing they'd given Van. Their parents had no idea of the importance of their son, the power he would someday wield. Only Ian saw and understood the potential of the hairy little man born to them.
Superhuman, Van spoke directly to the forces behind life and death, light and darkness. He had friends in low places, indeed.
For most of his young life, Ian had watched the cruelty heaped upon Van by their parents; yet those years had been his brother's apprenticeship, when he had learned the dark and powerful crafts which gave strength and vigor to them both now, nourishing them far more than any parent might.
Early on Van was fond of pointing to his misshapen self, laughing, and with a wicked voice, saying, “Here but for the grace of Satan go I-an!"
Strangely, Van had garnered about him such force of character and strength that it often frightened Ian. He was ugly, yes—and deformed beyond anything normal—but his mind was quick; so quick, in fact that he spoke to the powers that kept him alive and nourished his existence in that stinking hole where they'd placed him, hiding him from the world, from themselves, keeping him chained like an animal. Perhaps Ian's parents had unknowingly played a part in his development for a greater reason which none could fathom. The gods work in mysterious ways....
"What do we do now? You're so smart,” said Ian.
Van shushed him, his attention on a park bench where someone appeared to be reclining. “All things come to those who wait.” Van's whisper was raspy.
"Yes, yes,” agreed Ian.
"Yes, yes,” repeated Van. “She's sleeping."
"Soft-looking, much younger."
"Black scalp's all we need to know."
They'd been charged to locate and return with a black scalp from a female. Van had gotten the word. “This time, no mistakes,” said Van. “Wait until I'm in place in the tree."
Ian, dressed in casual knit shirt and pants, eased toward their prey. He was tall and ruggedly handsome. He worked out at the gym, ran in this very park every morning, and played racquetball with co-workers by day. He made good money, plenty to pour into clothes for them both. Little brother's clothes, in fact, were custom-made, since he preferred a Dickensian appearance. While his clothes were of the best cloth and quality, sometimes Ian thought the style raggedy and antique-looking. But it was what Van was told to wear by them, the ones who spoke only to him. The only other clothes he ever wore were his robes, when summoning the powers to his side.
Ian realized the bulky clothes little brother wore also hid his malformed limbs, arthritic and emaciated, the club foot and tightly balled hands, not to mention his hairiness. He was covered with more hair than other men grew in a lifetime. He was born with hair all over him.
A cowl hood hid the fact that one eye was drooped and perched on the misshapen cheek, and that one ear was gone, bitten and shriveled from rat attacks when he was a mere child. The hood also hid his facial hair. Ian had read of diseases that caused unusual hair growth covering the entire body. His brother was as furry as a baboon, save for his bald head, where the skin shown in folds, was layered like that of a Shar-Pei dog.