Killer Instinct Read online

  “Asked you in, I rather doubt.”

  “All right, so Leamy owed a favor. Nonetheless, we're here, and at least now you have a suspect.”

  “You should have told us about this suspect a long time ago.”

  “We did.”

  “Through whom?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “God damn you, Kaseem, you'd better get at liberty to say, or I'm calling your bloody superiors and Chief Leamy and anyone else I must! Now, who?”

  Kaseem sputtered a name, saying, “Teres...”

  “Teres? Teresa? O'Rourke?”

  “Yes, Teresa O'Rourke.”

  “O'Rourke?” she repeated, dumbfounded for the moment.

  “She and I... we've been seeing each other for some time.”

  She dropped her gaze, nodding. “Your search for Rosnich, has it zeroed in on Chicago as possibly his current stamping grounds?”

  “It has, yes.”

  “So O'Rourke is smarter than even she knows.”

  Kaseem became indignant at this. “Look here, what is wrong with two law enforcement agencies working together?' '

  “Working together? Had you given us this information on Rosnich, we might have already done a blood check with military records on him, and a fingerprint check, and a—”

  “O'Rourke said she would see to all of that.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, and it was my understanding that your forensics people have it.”

  “Christ, then why don't I know about it?”

  “I might assume you've not seen the forest for the trees.”

  “No, you may not. What I haven't seen has been kept from me. That you may be sure of.”

  She stalked to the cockpit and demanded to use the comlink with the ground. She asked to be patched through to the forensics lab at Quantico, preferably John Thorpe. Thorpe was out. She was put through and recognized Dr. Zachary Raynack's voice on the other end asking how he might be of service.

  “You might begin by faxing every fucking thing you have on Davie Rosnich to Chicago and being damned certain, Doctor, that it is waiting for me there, you old sonofabitch!”

  “Now, just a minute, young woman—”

  “I am not your young woman, Doctor! I'm your boss, and if you can't live with that, if you think you can work around me, then you've got another think coming.”

  “I am carrying through only on what Chief Leamy had asked of me.”

  “Leamy, no. O'Rourke, yes.”

  He was silent at the other end and she knew she had him. “Now, I want that information, in full, waiting for me when I get to Chicago. Fax it to our bureau there with a request it get to me in Zion. Do you follow, Doctor? Zach? Do you copy that?”

  “Yes, yes,” he grumbled, and hung up.

  “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, seeing the two flight crewmen smiling at the show they were privy to. She stormed back to Kaseem. “Your girlfriend must want to crack this case very badly, Dr. Kaseem. She's quite an ambitious woman, isn't she?”

  “Teresa has only one goal, and that is the same as yours. We were not exactly welcomed in by you and Dr. Thorpe, and so I went to her. I see no problem with working around you if you are not interested in working with the military.”

  “AFIP, Doctor. Not the military. I have a great deal of respect for the military usually, but the AFIP tried once to ruin my father's reputation, and no, there's no love lost between us. As for cooperating, what were you doing in Iowa City, looking over my shoulder at that dead girl we had to exhume, knowing about this man Rosnich and not saying a word to me about it?”

  “Your attitude dictated my attitude, Dr. Coran.”

  She soothed a bit. “How old would this Rosnich be now?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “The approximate age of our killer, possibly in Chicago, with some medical training. Christ, if a fingerprint or a blood sample links this man to the victims...” She allowed her thoughts to trail off. If O'Rourke got the killer, independent of Boutine, while Boutine was too involved with personal difficulties from being at his wife's bedside to burying her, O'Rourke would shine in Leamy's eyes. Otto had said there was some talk of his being forced into an early retirement, a rumor saying he was burned out. Had O'Rourke seen her chance and simply stepped into the breach, or had she started the rumors?

  “I want to see what photographs you have of Rosnich, and anything else you have on him,” she demanded of Kaseem.

  “Then we are finally working together?”

  She felt her jaw tighten and her chin quiver. “Yes, if that's what it takes.” Uncanny was how she had felt about O'Rourke's pinpointing where the killer must live, and the other assessments she had made about him, including his age, and the reason they should go with profile three. If it was all based on Rosnich, it could well be the wrong man and the wrong profile. Otto must be told. Otto must deal with O'Rourke and patch up the shaky profile and the team itself.

  She looked at the picture of the soldier turned killer in West Germany wondering how he had eluded police and had gotten to America, if indeed he was the vampire who found Annie Copeland in Wekosha, Wisconsin. The face was young and the eyes questioning in the photo that Kaseem handed her. The hair was wild, unkempt, and the mouth was set in a little, derisive half-smile at the cameraman. It was a military mug shot. Rosnich had been in the guardhouse more than once for fighting and thievery.

  She tried to imagine what he would look like today. The photo almost masked a scar on his temple. Rosnich was bom in a suburb of Chicago called Wheaton. Could Wheaton be the home of the blood addict?

  She asked Kaseem about the details of the killing in West Germany and the investigation itself. She was trying to tie these details to what she knew about the killer.

  “Was the victim hung upside down?”

  “By his heels, yes. That's what first attracted us to your case.”

  “Were the victim's tendons cut?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of knot was used?”

  “Sling knot.”

  ' 'And the slash, was it a left-handed cut or a right-handed cut?”

  “Left-handed.”

  “Was there an unusual absence of blood?”

  “The man drank his blood.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He was seen doing so by some children hiding in the bushes.”

  “All right, but was the cut to the jugular a deep penetration, and was there much pooling of blood below the corpse?”

  “Sure, lots of blood, but that's only because the guy was just a kid, new at it. He hadn't thought it out. It was just a sudden, impulsive act that—”

  “But not so impulsive that he didn't plan it? He did lure the other man out there,” she countered.

  “We still believe it could be the same man.”

  “So it could be. According to the experts, there are maybe three hundred blood-drinkers in the U.S. and Canada, so he could as well not be our man.”

  “Experts? What experts?”

  “Otto Boutine. He knows more about Tort 9s than anyone.”

  Kaseem nodded respectfully.

  ' 'Look, we can put out an all-points on your man, get an FBI artist on this photo, touch it up, age the guy appropriately, and maybe even get a bust made of him. If he is our killer, we'll do whatever's necessary to get him. This is not a contest to see who gets him first, Dr. Kaseem; it only matters that he is stopped.”

  “The military wants him.”

  “The FBI wants him.”

  “The two do not have to be mutually exclusive, Dr. Coran.”

  “Just the same, you people play false with me again, and you can forget any cooperation whatever with the agency. And that's no threat.”

  Kaseem took her hand and she shook his.

  “Good,” he said.

  “Then we understand each other.”

  SEVENTEEN

  As Jessica Coran's plane flew over Indianapolis' lights at
forty thousand feet, Teach was driving up to the parking lot at Grant Memorial Hospital on the outskirts of the city. He had seen all his regular clients, and he had seen Dr. Grubber, and now his time was his. He put on his medical supply sales badge and wandered the halls of the newly constructed hospital, breathing in the hospital smells, annoyed only by the fluorescent lights, which hurt his sensitive skin. Even though it was hot, he wore long sleeves. He also wore his dark glasses, but hospital people understood the need for dark glasses to protect the eyes from the brilliance of the lights. Everything was so white.

  He liked to wander about the emergency waiting room where oftentimes young people were brought in, some in need of a place to stay the night. He knew how to approach those in need.

  There was a young woman in a corner by herself looking frightened and alone. He went to her and told her he was a doctor, and he asked if she was being taken care of.

  “No, I've been waiting and waiting,” she said, “and they won't tell me how Jimmy is.”

  “Jimmy? Is Jimmy your little boy?”

  She laughed at this. “No, Jimmy's my boyfriend. He ran himself off the road and I was called by the police, but I've been left to sit here all this time. I got no way of knowing if he's all right.”

  “What's Jimmy's last name?”

  “Pyles.”

  “Okay, good. I'll find out what I can for you, and I'll be right back,” he told her.

  He went straight through the door separating the waiting room from the nurses' station and found chaos inside. Everyone was busy. He gave his stay a moment longer before returning to the distraught young woman in the waiting area. The girl was instantly at him for news.

  “He's stabilizing well, and it looks like he's going to be fine. Dr. Thornton said he was gotten here in time, so no serious damage was done.”

  She almost collapsed. “Oh, oh... oh, thank you... thank you.”

  “Dr. Thornton suggests you go on home; that there's nothing you can do until tomorrow. Says Jimmy'll be out of it until then; doped to the ceiling.” He chuckled lightly.

  “No, I don't think I could leave him. I'll just wait and—”

  “No, no, child, nonsense. I have a good sedative I can prescribe for you, and once you've had some sleep—”

  “I can't sleep knowing Jimmy's in pain.”

  “But he's not in pain. He's out of pain, thanks to Dr. Thornton and his competent staff.”

  “I just want to see him.”

  “I'm sorry, but that's out of the question. Look.” He showed her some Quaalude tablets. You know what these are, don't you? These'll help you, I promise, and you'll get by this tragic time. You really do need to get your sleep, some peace of mind, and when you see him tomorrow, you'll be just fine, and when he sees you, you'll look so—”

  A nurse pushed through the door and said, “Barbara, Jimmy's being X-rayed now for broken bones. He's been sedated, but he's in a lot of discomfort and there's some internal bleeding. We'll need to operate and we need the consent of his next of kin, so—”

  “What? What? But Dr. Thornton said—”

  “Dr. who?”

  “This man, this doctor here—” She turned and found no one there.

  “What man? Who're you talking about? Maybe we'd better get you a Valium.”

  But the girl rushed to the hallway and saw the ghost trail of the man who had been so reassuring, and she shouted, “Come back, mister! Doctor! You!”

  But he was gone.

  The nurse tried to console her.

  # # #

  It had been a close encounter and he felt his nerves rubbed raw at having lost the opportunity which had been opening up to him with each moment before the nurse stepped in and destroyed his plans. He got back into his van, feeling great frustration and anger, but the night was young, and he had a great deal of patience, and the young woman would have to come out sometime. He could use the knockout injection, or chloroform or brute force, but there was a police car parked outside the emergency entrance.

  Should he wait or go? Would she wait all night inside or would she come out?

  He waited for fifteen minutes and this stretched into a half hour and still she did not show. He began recalling earlier blood-takings he had performed, going through each in its every detail, reliving the events one by one. He recalled the first, Toni. She'd been a scrubwoman at a small hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. She was not particularly pretty, but her blood was good.

  He recalled how a year before Toni, he had gotten his idea for the spigot; how he had drawn it up with great care, sketching it in detail in pencil. He thought the design so perfect that no one could have trouble with manufacturing the device. He took it to Maurice Lowenthal, the so-called genius in the company who had designed medical instruments on demand for doctors in the past. Lowenthal's custom-made instruments sold for large sums, making money for Balue-Stork Medical Supply.

  Lowenthal wanted first to know what job the spigot was supposed to perform, saying he could not create without full knowledge of the purpose of the instrument. He understood forceps, clamps, scalpels, mirrors, visors, but this was beyond him—a tracheotomy tube with a control device? Why? To punish the poor patient by shutting off his air supply when the doctor was so moved to do so? Lowenthal understood tubes and wires and cables, anything he could fashion with his hands and his mind, but he wanted to grasp the use of the instrument.

  So he took it back from Lowenthal and did nothing with it for a time. Lowenthal remained curious, however, and one day asked him who was the doctor who had asked for this strange device to be designed. He'd told Lowenthal the first name that came into his head, Grubber in Indiana.

  “Ahhh, yeah, a strange bird, that Grubber.”

  “Yeah, strange,” he had agreed.

  “Did you ever find out what the thing was to be used for?”

  “Grubber thought it might be the answer to relieving the pressure of any liquid buildup in the body,” he had said with such confidence that he had surprised even himself. But he had been planning to come back to Lowenthal again with the design, and so he had practiced this answer. “Water on the knee, you name it.”

  “And water on the brain, I suppose?”

  “Why not, if it can be designed accurately.”

  “With a thing like this, it ought to be patented, my friend, and if we patent it, it becomes the property of the company, and what do we get?”

  “Yeah, I know, but those are the breaks.”

  “I'm up for retirement soon,” said Lowenthal. “Tell you what, if we can go halfies on the rights, I'll design it at my shop at home, but it can't be used until after November, when I retire, understood? If it's a success, then everyone will want it, and we will be rich men.”

  He agreed with Lowenthal, and Lowenthal had created the prototype, unaware that he had also created the perfect murder weapon.

  # # #

  In Zion, Illinois, Jessica found what everyone feared, another Tort 9 with the markings of the Wekosha vampire. Maybe Kaseem was right. Maybe it was his man, after all. There was an all-points bulletin released on Kaseem's man, the description going out to every cop and law enforcement agent in the city and its environs. It appeared the killer did live somewhere in the greater Chicago area, and that it could be Davie Rosnich, living under an assumed name. He would be about the right age, and he was a known blood-drinker, or so the military said.

  Throughout her evidence gathering the Chicago bureau guys were very helpful, very professional. The scene was nothing like Wekosha, although Kaseem and Forsythe were forever in her way. Everything had been kept exactly as it was found and no one had been allowed to wander aimlessly around the house or the body. It was a controlled situation for a change.

  She didn't have to do her own photographs, nor did she have to tell the photographer how to do his job. She had all the cooperation she required. FBI's Chicago bureau chief, Joe Brewer, was an old friend of Otto's and Otto had paved the way for her.

  It was alm
ost a carbon-copy killing of the Wekosha nightmare, with a few notable exceptions. The tendons were not cut. The rope used was the same, but the knot was a bit different. The sperm was liberally smeared about the orifices and the mutilation cuts were just as horrible, but the severed limbs were thrown across the room and lay where they had fallen. The eyes were slit, as was the jugular. And again, there was a distinct absence of blood, or even the smell of blood. She determined first and quickly that the neck wound was once again superficial and the blood about the lips of this large wound had been smeared on, most likely with a brush. She knew instinctively that they were dealing with the same maniac.

  She knew she would get no usable prints; that he worked with gloves, most likely surgical gloves. She guessed that any blood they might find would belong to the victim, that the killer hadn't so much as nicked himself.

  “Found something over here,” said Joe Brewer, “a capsule... some sort of medication.”

  She went to have a look. It was a red and white capsule. She asked Brewer's men to search for any matching pills, or a container, to rule if it belonged to the victim or the killer. The search turned up nothing.

  “Indicating a possible connection to the killer,” Jessica said. “We'll have to analyze it at the Lab.”

  “We can do it downtown,” replied Brewer.

  Jessica held her breath. She dared not hope that finally the fastidious killer had overlooked something. She would hold her prayers until the lab could tell her whether it was or was not a viable clue.

  Brewer was just as anxious. He sent the capsule out immediately with strict orders that it take priority. Meanwhile, working in conjunction with Kaseem, Brewer had put together the all-points bulletin on the soldier that Kaseem sought. She was glad for this, because it kept at least one of the military guys off her back while she worked over the cadaver. Forsythe had to leave the house on two occasions, unable to hold back the meal he'd taken on the plane.

  The kill was much fresher than the Copeland girl had been, and from her clothing and photos about the house, they established in a matter of minutes that the victim was a hospital nurse. Jessica felt so close to the killer now that she thought she could smell him in the room, a foul odor indeed.