Robert Walker - Grave Instinct

His flight back to Quantico with the computer safely stowed away had given him time to rest and contemplate how to best handle the niggling problem. He decided he would have to split the task among a small army of computer adepts who could weed out the actual crazoids from the youngsters at play, given certain key words to use as cross references.

To date, however, he was unsure what those words might be, but he knew the expert linguists with the bureau could help out there. They knew the jargon of the day and what kids would be speaking as opposed to a disturbed adult. J.T. had already looked closely at those Web contacts who strongly agreed or disagreed with Cahil's bizarre notions. Anyone doing so vehemently either way might well prove fixated on the strange arguments Cahil routinely put forth. He had also noted that anyone fixated would likely pump out reams to argue for or against Cahil's beliefs. The sheer length and breadth of the messages on the bulletin boards and in the chat rooms by the same user must prove a useful guide as well. The Seeker had a great deal to say, and he sounded somewhat sophisticated by comparison to others J.T. had looked at, but he was by no means the only Web visitor who looked like a candidate. In fact, there were many, and Thorpe had only scratched the surface.

He wanted to get the process underway as quickly as possible even before he'd spoken to Jessica. To that end, he had contacted Eriq to get him back to Quantico as fast as possible. J.T. had met the private jet at the Morristown airport, and they had wheeled Cahil's computer on board. Then en route to headquarters, he got a phone call from Santiva saying they were certain that Cahil was the Digger. After that, Thorpe had relaxed the idea of working so hard to crack the computer problems facing him. He started breathing a bit easier.

“ You know what strikes me, Eriq?” asked J.T. over the phone from the plane.

“ What's that?” “The numbers-the sheer numbers of people in the world so bored as to want to spend time with Cahil's rantings.”

“ Manson had the same kind of worldwide following on his site. And all his reams of news to his constituents was one long stream of consciousness, all of which read as lunatic rantings. Still they came.”

“ If you write it, they will come?”

Santiva laughed in response.

“ So, how did Cahil react when you guys put that brain tissue in front of him? Did he freak out?”

“ Hardly phased him. He says it was sent to him by a fan on his website. Says he held on to it for us, as evidence against the guy, but we think the 'other guy' is another of his identities. He's got this schizo routine down pat.”

“ I will need computer experts to help dissect the hard drive.”

“ As much as we can spare or dig up. Don't worry, something will be done. I want you to bury this freak, John.”

J.T. said goodbye and then dozed off. He awakened in what seemed minutes when the plane touched down at Quantico. He had barely gotten settled in at the lab with the confiscated computer when Jessica telephoned. He was amazed at the disparity in how each of the two-Chief Santiva and Jessica-had characterized the Cahil interrogation, and obviously, they were going off in separate directions. He worried about getting caught in the crossfire that would likely result. Both of them were more than colleagues, they were friends.

And now his friends were clearly at odds over just what was gained from today's interrogations.

He knew from experience that when the lead investigators saw everything so differently as this, the momentum of the case would suffer. Keep your head down, he told himself as he got off the line with Jessica.

Valdosta, Georgia Late that same night

Grant Kenyon cruised the deserted streets of late-night Valdosta, finding nothing of interest to Phillip. He had stopped at a hotel earlier and had used their computer to make contact with Cahil's website, but for some unaccountable reason he could not get through. He wondered if anything had happened to Cahil. He wondered if he dared try to get through on his own laptop, fearful it could be traced if authorities had apprehended Cahil and his computer.

Now he drove around the too-small city of 42,000. He felt exposed here; everybody in this town must be a local. Still, Phillip wanted him to persist, and so he did. Cruising on. Looking for an opportunity. He had failed with a local Valdosta girl with whom he'd made contact through Cahil's website. She had failed to show up. Not uncommon in the computer-dating scene, as evidenced by several occasions when he had been stood up.

As he drove, Grant Kenyon thought of his days in medical school, which had fed his fascination for the brain. He thought of how Professor Dobson had spoken so reverently of the mind and brain. The man's words still resonated in Grant's brain.

“ Lying below the exterior folds of the cerebral cortex, deep within the cerebral hemispheres, at the border of the brain stem, you will find the limbic system-five hundred million years old. It controls the instincts to flee or fight, to eat or drink. It represents the first swelling of the spinal cord to create the primitive brain, which also controls the emotional areas with senses of pleasure and displeasure.”

“ And Cahil wants to suggest that this primitive center is the home of the soul. Foolish idea, indeed,” Kenyon said aloud to the empty cab of his van as he drove onward to his next destination. He had turned from the Carolinas for Valdosta, heading south.

As he cruised in search of a victim for Phillip, Dr. Grant Kenyon thought of his past life at Mt. Holyoke Memorial Hospital in the New Jersey suburb of Holyoke. He thought of how back in 1990 he had become obsessed with the Cahil case as it appeared in the papers month after month; and how after the trial, pretending to be a reporter, he had bribed a court bailiff and paid dearly for a copy of the trial transcripts to learn every detail, including precisely what Cahil had confessed.

He got in touch with Cahil by writing him, using a PO box for replies. He had learned of Daryl's website early on, becoming one of its most frequent visitors.

He soon lost interest in all else.

He thought now of how he had lost his job back in Holyoke. The resident pathologist, he had often been called upon by local law enforcement to perform routine autopsies to determine cause of death in suspicious or unknown circumstances. He had been involved in such a matter when he convinced a young intern, Dr. Mitchell Erdman, that he could finish the job himself. With the rotation of interns Kenyon worked with, he'd had no problem in the past with removing the brains of such victims and stuffing the craniums with gauze and cotton. He had gotten away with two years of such brain feedings, and the evidence was-so to speak-well buried. Kenyon had enjoyed feeding on the brains of freshly dead victims brought to his morgue.

But one night, while in the process of re-stuffing the head and replacing the forehead bone, Kenyon was surprised when Dr. Erdman returned unexpectedly. Pushing through the door at a wild, energetic pace, Erdman found Kenyon stuffing a dead man's head with anything but the earlier-removed gray matter. The brain itself lay on the weighing scale, registering at three and a half pounds.

“ Dr. Kenyon? What're you… what're you doing with Mr. Allandale?”

Caught in the act, Kenyon stuttered, “I need more time with the brain, have more tests to run… more than I can possibly complete in the time allotted. Family wants the body like yesterday. No way they'll know the brain isn't intact, and we're not going to tell them, Dr. Erdman. Do you understand?”

“ Ahhh… I suppose, so long as it's in the protocol as part of the necessary procedures. Still… it seems highly unusual, Doctor.”