Scalpers dgmm-2 Read online

  With a sudden movement Dean snapped on the lights, causing a scream to come out of the police officer at the body, and when she turned, Dean saw it was Peggy Carson.

  "Jesus, Peggy?” Dean held a hand over his heart, which was pounding so hard he was momentarily dazed.

  Peggy, too, had been frightened, and she gasped for air, her hands at her breast and mouth, tears coming from her eyes. She'd been shedding tears for the dead girl, and now they came as a result of shock.

  "You scared the hell out of me, Dean!"

  "Hey, I heard someone come in, and it ... well, I'm sorry."

  "I ... I wanted to see her,” Peggy indicated the dead girl. “It's ... so awful, what they did to her."

  Then Dean saw Tom Warner, Sid's young, baby-faced assistant, in the corner, in shadow at the door. He'd been peering out, and he now looked stricken. It was obvious that Peggy had talked him into this against his better Judgment. Tom was one of those people no one took much notice of, and indeed, even now Dean saw little in him that might be lifted out to describe the man, say, for the benefit of a police sketch. He was of average height, with mousy brown hair, small of face, except for large glasses that bobbed up and down his nose in agitation. He had colorless, gray eyes, stood perhaps five-six, and weighed one-forty or -fifty, Dean guessed. In all the time Dean had spent in the lab, he'd been like a good butler, a gofer who did his job so superbly that Dean had forgotten of his existence until now.

  "It's not what you think, Dr. Grant. Officer Carson has the permission of her superior to view the remains. She is ... on the case."

  "On the case?” asked Dean.

  "Let's say I've got a personal stake in it, Dean."

  "Anyway,” said Mr. Thomas Warner, “if you will lock up, Dr. Grant.” He started to leave, “And I would very much appreciate this ... our being here ... to remain confidential."

  "I hope I can keep that confidence, Mr. Warner."

  It was all Warner wished to hear. “Thank ... thank you, doctor."

  Dean gave Peggy a reproachful look, knowing she had no such clearance. Given the hour and the state of Tom Warner's nerves, Dean knew better. Now he glanced down at the ugly scar that remained of the dead girl's head. The patch of scalp taken was in a rough hexagram now, the skin around the wound having sunken in, as if to protect the naked area as best it could. Dean gave the shroud a tug, covering the dead, and with a quick push sent the drawer closing into the wall. Peggy stepped away from the pulled-to vault door.

  "Why, Peggy? Why're you doing this to yourself?"

  Peggy pointed to the vault. “That could just as well be me in there!"

  "But it isn't."

  "And that's supposed to make it all right? Supposed to make me feel better?"

  For the first time Dean realized her inner vulnerability; why she had come on so strong with him earlier. It had been a successful attempt to hide that part of herself. She had braced herself by hiding in his arms, and Dean, consciously or unconsciously, had taken advantage of her a great deal more than she'd taken advantage of him. It was apparent now that she was in emotional turmoil, like a soldier in the field asking why she was allowed to live when beside her, not a few feet away, another just like her had been blown away. Maybe Hamel was right all along. Maybe Dean had played the fool, helping her to escape bedrest. Maybe Peggy needed those sessions with Hamel, and her resistance to the notion only compounded her need to talk out this horror. Maybe, like Jackie in Chicago, Peggy Carson could not function professionally without coming to terms with her newly found ghosts, ghosts hoisted upon her by an evil of incredible intensity, an evil still roaming the trashy backways and lurking in parks, just beyond the safety of this building.

  "What are you going to do? Return to where you were attacked and sit around the street corner until you're attacked again—"

  "That, Dr. Grant, is my job."

  He shook his head. “No, no—your job is not to go out and knowingly commit suicide. Now, we've theorized, Sid and me, about the possibility that the killer's last two choices of victim were not coincidental—"

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning the bastards were looking specifically for a black female scalp."

  "So the thrill of the white redhead's gone, huh? Who came up with this shit?"

  "Yours truly."

  "Are you covering again for Corman?"

  "No, I don't have to cover for Sid. He's a good man, a good M.E."

  "And I'm a good cop."

  "And you don't need to prove it to anyone, certainly not by getting yourself a room at this inn!” Dean indicated the slabs.

  "Don't worry, I'm not looking to check in here."

  "Good. Now. You need that time off you've pushed aside, kid, and you need to talk about it ... not to stare into the face of a dead girl you feel guilty over."

  "Bullshit. I just—"

  "And maybe you really shouldn't be dodging Dr. Hamel.

  Her face was steadily growing angrier and she exploded. “Just who the hell do you think you are, Dr. High-and-Mighty, know-it-all sleuth and poor hybrid imitation of Sherlock Holmes, Christ! Comin’ in here where you ain't wanted, tellin’ me I got to beware of—of—"

  "Of yourself, Peggy—yeah, like my Jackie."

  "I'm not your Jackie. I grew up in a way you couldn't begin to dream possible! Raped by my own father, into drugs in junior high, forty-two when I was fourteen!"

  The phone rang. Dean let it ring, but stared back at it. It could be Ken with important information. It could be Sybil. It could be Jackie....

  "Take it,” she said.

  "Don't go anywhere,” he told her.

  She wiped her eyes as he went into the other room for the phone. The ringing machine shattered the quiet lab. When Dean lifted the receiver he had an odd sensation of fear: the last time he answered a telephone call in the dark of a pathology lab, Angel Rae was on the other end taunting him, telling him the horrible truth of how she had Jackie.

  "Grant,” he said cautiously, into the phone.

  He was instantly relieved to hear Kelso's near-bellowing voice. “Kelso, anything?” he asked, anxious.

  "Seems Park was with the Seneca, Wisconsin police, a town of some 32,456 people. According to Prather, who says he left a message for you to return his call, this guy Park was the highest ranking officer on the force there when a series of scalpings took place. He was under a lot of heat, and when the killings stopped and he could not solve the case, he lost his job and moved out. Some of that could be smoke created for guys like us who are snooping, you know. He might be legit, and in Orlando on special assignment attached to Hodges. Certainly would want a man with his experience with me if I were facing a case as weird as this."

  Dean thought he heard a click, someone listening in. He looked up to see Peggy's whereabouts, but all he could confirm was the fact that she was gone. He cursed under his breath, causing Kelso to ask him what he was grumbling about now.

  "Can't say how much I'd like you down here with me on this case, Ken. Sure is hard to know who a guy can trust when even the people who don't have a reason to lie to you do."

  "Sid?"

  "Among others. As for Sid, ah, I think we've got it resolved."

  "Sybil mentioned the fact that you did a little digging in his dirt, too."

  "Probably shouldn't have."

  "Why? You'd do it to me, wouldn't you? I mean, if I were behaving irrationally? Which, by the way, brings me around to your behavior."

  "I know, call Jackie. I promise I will."

  "Tell her you'll be back by the end of the week. Tell her anything."

  "Again, thanks for the advice."

  "Oh, and Dean?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Careful down there, huh? I mean, if this guy Park is a psycho cop ... well, he's carrying a weapon at all times. You got a gun?"

  "I packed one, but it's at the hotel."

  "Asshole. Strap it on."

  Dean thanked his friend again for the advice. “Any chance you mig
ht join me?"

  "Would if I could, but I've already shot my travel allowance for the year."

  "Ken, suppose Park were fired for cause up in Michigan—you know, suspicious behavior, maybe something more. Suppose the smoke isn't smoke at all, but real fire?"

  "Yeah, I thought of that."

  "Isn't there any way to find out about his true status?"

  "Not if it's been masked by computers, to be corrected at some future date. The only one who might have the straight dope on him is the man in charge there in Orlando."

  "Hodges?"

  "Right."

  "Know anything about Hodges?"

  "A career man, like me."

  "Okay, thanks again, buddy."

  "No problem, Dino, and tomorrow I'll see if I can't get Hodges on the line, get the facts."

  "He's more likely to cooperate if you use the telex so he can confirm who you are."

  "Will do."

  They hung up. Hearing Ken's voice, being reminded of Jackie's distress, made Dean again want to chuck Florida for home and leave this bizarre battle for other men to fight. But the screeching of car tires from a few stories below took him to the window, where he saw a squad car tearing out of the parking lot. The top carried the number 24 on it. Dean wondered if it could possibly be Peggy Carson. His mind flashed back to Peggy at the side of the corpse, and he wondered if, given her state of mind, she had not lifted an extension to deliberately eavesdrop on his and Ken's discussion. If so, she now knew of Dean's suspicions regarding Park. Could she possibly be acting on those suspicions in haste at this moment?

  Dean quickly dialed dispatch downstairs, identified himself, and asked if he could be put in touch with Officer Peggy Carson at that moment.

  "Officer Carson is off duty, sir,” replied the female voice.

  "Can you tell me what her squad car number is?"

  It took a moment for the response, Dean listening to the keyboard of a computer being punched repeatedly. “Twenty-four, sir."

  Peggy had just taken her squad car without authorization, and that was enough for Dean to know where she was going.

  "I need a car and the address of Lt. David Park,” he told the dispatch officer.

  "The motor pool can oblige you with a car, Dr. Grant, but I cannot give out the address of an officer without form A-213 in triplicate, or a warrant from a—"

  "Damn it, this is an emergency!"

  "Would you like 911?"

  "No, no!” Dean wanted to stop Peggy, not get her busted.

  "I can beep for Lt. Park, sir. Have him get in contact with you."

  "No, no—get me Dyer, Frank Dyer."

  Dean would try another way for the address.

  "I'll be happy to start the paperwork for the unit, sir, and when you come on down, Dr. Grant, and sign the form, then I could fill it out for you and run it through channels. I'm sorry, but it's policy now. I'll let them know in the motor pool you're on your way. And I have Detective Sargeant Dyer on the line for you now."

  "Great."

  Dyer came on. “Dr. Grant, what's up?"

  "I need help, Frank."

  "Anything I can do, you've got it."

  "Is Park with you?"

  "No, he's knocked off for tonight"

  "I need transportation, a siren, fast."

  "All right, meet me in the lot."

  "Frank?"

  "Yeah, doc?"

  "Don't bring Park in on this one."

  "Sure ... sure..."

  Dean rushed out, unaware that someone stood at the end of the hallway in deep shadow watching his movements as he locked the final door and raced for the lot, bumping into strangers as he went.

  NINE

  Peggy Carson wondered if she should not call in her partner, wondered why she was driven to do this thing alone, driven to disregard the law and her own morals. Eavesdropping had never been her style. The cruiser sped directly for her destination, smoothly and silently taking her to the scalpers. She fantasized blowing their frigging heads off with her arsenal of weapons. The unit was equipped with a shotgun, and with her she had a .38 Smith and Wesson. A third gun, a long-barrelled .45, her own, was resting between her thighs at the moment.

  It was seeing the dead girl, or what remained of her, and knowing in her heart that the girl had become a surrogate for death, a stand-in for Peggy herself, that was pushing the usually self-contained Officer Carson to a brink she had not known since childhood, when she had wanted more than anything in life to see a man killed.

  As the car bumped over tracks and wound its way into Park's neighborhood, Peggy thought of the lonely Jane Doe on the slab. She would be alive today if Peggy had been killed that night herself. Dean said as much when he told her the killers had been in search of a black female's scalp. And now, with Dean Grant pointing the finger at Lt. David Park, Peggy felt she must do something—anything but go home. She felt an urgency like never before. She believed others like herself were at this moment being stalked by the bastards all the other cops were now calling the Scalpers. She wanted more than anything to blow their scalps off with her .45, and she wanted to see the little dwarf's body bleeding from as many holes as her shotgun could inflict. She wanted to see his body bounce from the impact of the weapon. And she wanted to see that cold son-of-a-bitch, Park, pay for his part in all this.

  No, she couldn't just go home to an empty house and stay wide-eyed for ten hours, staring at the ceiling. Neither sex nor food nor any other band-aid solution was workable any longer. Nothing could stop the hurt but vengeance, vengeance for all those who had agonizingly died at the hands of butchers working over them while they remained alive. After seeing, really seeing, the truth, there was now no varnishing it or hiding from it. If she didn't take action, another black child would be dead tonight.

  She had prior knowledge of Park's address, an apartment building near the bustling intersection of 436 and Interstate 4. The apartment complex was laid out like a Holiday Inn, a low-lying, rambling structure, wrapped around by a twisting parking lot filled with cars of every size and make. One of them she passed looked like Park's. He must be here. A confrontation was quite likely.

  She pulled up to his door quietly and parked. Unsure what her next move might be, she tucked the .45 into her belt at the spine and unlatched the holster on her hip to free up the .38, opting to leave the shotgun on its rack. In a moment she was at Park's door, trying to see through the curtains into the dark interior. When she drove up she'd thought there was a light on, but not now. She rapped once, twice, three times and got no answer. She could've been mistaken about the light, but maybe not She knocked loudly again.

  When it was obvious no one was going to answer, she determined the direction of the manager's office. The easiest way to gain entry was to flash her badge and “badger” the night manager into opening Park's door. It would be illegal entry, and anything she might gain from the process would be inadmissible in a court of law, but she had to know if Grant was right about Park or not ... and if he was right, perhaps she'd find a way to bypass the courts.

  She turned to see a woman in an agitated state coming toward her, asking, “Can I help you, officer? What's the problem?” Keys jangled from a loop in the woman's jeans. The night man had turned out to be a woman.

  "I need a key to this unit."

  "Is there something wrong?"

  "Possibly—and possibly just a false alarm. Got a call about a disturbance."

  "Not from me, you didn't.” She began to bang on the door without result, calling out, “Mr. Park? You in there?"

  "Please ma'am, the key,” said Peggy, taking out her long-barreled .45 as it was beginning to irritate her back anyway. “Or do I blow off the lock?"

  The woman's eyes grew fearful at the sight of the gun. “All right ... all right.” She unhinged the key for Peggy and backed off, asking, “You want I should call the owner ... or anyone?"

  "Not at this time. It could be a false alarm, ma'am."

  "I'm going back to the of
fice,” she muttered. “No one inside there anyway."

  Peggy wasn't so sure and she was sweating badly enough to tear away the bandage over her forehead, revealing the still healing and stitched scar put there by the scalper. She took a minute to return to the unit and snatch out the shotgun, just in case.

  Had he seen her pull up? she wondered. Was he inside, pretending not to be? She imagined him pressed against the other side of the door. On entering, he planned to jump her.

  "Lt. Park!” she said through the door, “Open up, it's ... it's Officer Carson. I have to talk to you."

  Still no answer.

  She listened for sounds, breathing, anything. Someone peeked out the door next to Park's, curious, taking a good, long look at Peggy, who by now knew that whatever went down, she was not going to get through it gracefully and unseen.

  "I don't think he's in,” said the neighbor. “He's a cop, works a lot of hours ... guess you know that...."

  "Yeah, well ... thank you, sir ... I do know that. Tell me, does he live alone?"

  "Never seen a woman with him, if that's what you mean."

  "Ever see a man with him?"

  "Yeah, on occasion, but I never gave it much thought. Why you asking?"

  "Ever see a dwarf or a midget with him?"

  "Hey, I don't think he's that kinky.” The neighbor laughed and closed his door.

  Peggy inserted the key, taking in a deep breath of air. The door cracked, and she saw only a gaping black hole before her, and inside that hole anything might lurk. She reached along the wall for the light switch, her hand shaky. She felt like a little girl again, sleeping just off the floor, afraid to let her hand over the edge of the bed for fear of a rat she'd once seen larking there. She expected a meat cleaver to take her hand off at the wrist if she didn't immediately withdraw it. Then her fingers found the switch and a light went on.

  The room was thrown into a dreary, shadowy pall, the single lamp on the switch far in a corner and covered with a god-awful green shade. The wall paper was an ugly dark montage of blades of grass or leaves with an occasional pink flower. The carpet was an institutional green shag that looked infested. All in all, whatever Park was paying for the place, it wasn't worth it.