Robert Walker - Fatal Instinct

But it wasn't just the statistics that frightened Jessica; it was the randomness of so much of this crime, the brutality for the sake of brutality alone. She remembered a time when it was rare to see physical injury to a woman who'd submitted to rape when threatened, but now, when a woman submitted, she was often hurt, anyway.

Certainly the Claw hated women, and his crimes were hate crimes. Most crime could be traced back to the witch's brew of social ills: street gangs, the availability of guns and drugs, the overall breakdown of family and community values. But what did such explainable crime have to do with the inexplicable doctor of death known as the Claw, who, like a modern-day Jack the Ripper, targeted women for mutilation and cannibalism? Very little, she guessed. It was more likely that they were dealing with a criminal with a very high IQ, above-average education, a white male who had a great deal more going for him than the street gang member; a fellow who, if he did drugs, did only light drugs; a fellow who very likely had a hate relationship with his mother, a hate that had boiled over, sending him after surrogate mothers to kill again and again. Had this to do with the overall breakdown of “family values”? No, it had to do with a single, insidious and hideous perversion that had poisoned the mind of the killer against women.

Neither she nor the other police officials could confuse the case of the Claw with the rise in street crime and violence against women, no matter how alluring the concept. No, it was apparent they had a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist, a creep who hated one thing to his core: women. Still, this meat-eater would be wise enough to hide his hatred by day, in the well-lit room, bringing his hatred out in the dark to look at it and massage it, to allow it full vent, like a vampire thirsting for blood; except that this bastard thirsted for flesh and quenched his hatred only when he battered and ripped women to death, and then desecrated the body. This was the true purpose of his mutilation and cannibalism, she believed: to denigrate the body and perhaps the sanctity of the human female form.

AS the room around her settled, she thought of the lyrics of a sQJtg by the Geto Boys. Before there were cop-killer raps, thejee were woman-killer raps. Jessica got the message loud and clear, and she recalled that after Matisak's attack on her, she had been unable to shower alone. It was sheer animal fear and a great, growing hatred of her own at the person who did this to her. Fear changed the way she went to bed each night, the way she woke in the morning; it changed the way she did every-thing…

Rychman's voice cut through her thoughts. “I've been told to be here, people, just like you, but I received one additional order-”

“ And?” asked O’Toole, a burly detective Rychman had worked with before.

“ And that I'm to inform you folks that we-you and I-are to be the nucleus of a special task force-”

“ So you're heading up this task force,” replied O’Toole, his brows knitted in thought.

“ That's the gist of it, yeah. Any problems with that?”

O’Toole only laughed before saying, “Better you than me.”

“ Good choice. Congratulations, Captain!” others piped in.

“ Not so sure congratulations are quite appropriate here, people,” he said, looking around the room.

“ So what's your first call, Alan?” asked O’Toole.

“ I say we use every detective we can collar.”

“ What about regular caseloads?” someone asked.

“ To hell with regular… back-shelve the bastards. Send some of your casework over to Missing Persons and the DMV, I don't care.”

One of the other detectives wailed, “That's easier said than done. Do we have topflight clearance on this, Captain Rychman?”

“ It comes from the top.”

“ Why the sudden change in policy?” asked another.

Rychman's face turned stony; he was obviously not used to being questioned.

“ We are not here to question policy, people. We are here to carry out policy, understood?”

The quasi-military organization was having its military straps pulled tight, he was saying.

Rychman took the measure of his newly formed task force again. “People, the press and others are saying we're sitting with our fingers up our asses on this case. They're drawing little cartoons of the mayor and the C.P., and if it keeps up, you and me. Some people are comparing this to the Yorkshire Ripper case in England, 1980. And that's not good. Police had questioned the killer nine times without realizing who they had. Not even Scotland Yard could catch this guy because none of the police agencies were cooperating with the others. And that's what the press is saying about us, that we can't play well together in the New York City sandbox, and maybe that's so, and maybe there'll always be a certain amount of that; maybe it's inevitable, given the fact we're all cops and cops are very territorial. But I tell you what: this killer we have on our hands, he's not so territorial. In fact, he doesn't know Queens from Bronx from Manhattan, as we've seen. He's grazing.”

“ So we're supposed to be a super-squad?” asked Louis Emmons, a detective from Queens.

“ That's right. We're it, so if you've got family, if you've got girlfriends or boyfriends, you'll have to put them at arm's length.”

The men began to complain and moan.

Rychman held on to his calm. Watching him from where she sat, Dr. Jessica Coran thought him handsome in a rugged way. He was slim for so large a man and those eyes commanded such attention and respect.

“ Now, we have no lack of red tape, computers or not,” said Rychman. “And we've got no lack of quacks, crackpots and idiots giving information, and enough confessions to fill St. Pat's, but what we don't seem to have is a central clearinghouse on this. The FBI has been called in and they're sending a crack man to help us coordinate efforts. I'd expected him to be here by now, but-any of you guys see anyone wearing a three-piece suit over steel-plated B.V.D. s?”

The remark drew laughter from every cop in the place, except the pretty auburn-haired lady in front. Most city cops refused to wear vests and most feds refused not to. She kept still, biding her time.

“ Anyway, the feds'11 be helping us with a profile of the killer and with forensic backup any way they can, now that the mayor's finally given us the go-ahead.”

“ Good move,” said Jessica Coran, drawing a few stares. “And first thing you might wish to do-”

“ And what's that?” asked Rychman a bit disdainfully.

“ Put a gag order on every police agency and officer; nothing is released to the press except what goes out from here.”

“ Good thinking,” said O’Toole, with others agreeing.

Rychman nodded. “I was getting to that. Thank you for saving us time. Now, on to the next problem. Time to swallow our pride, and time to work together at all levels. That's what this team is all about. No showboating, no hot dogs or super-sleuths, just hard-hitting, teeth-grinding police investigation. All of you've been handpicked by your captains because you're dogged, determined, hardworking cops… like me.”

“ Right on!”

“ We're being asked to do the miraculous, to find a needle in a haystack… a rather large haystack of over eight million people, to trace this mystery down to one man. We're to set up a Ripper-type special squad to combat the sick creep the press is calling the Claw. So far the actual weapon the bastard uses across his victims' bodies hasn't been determined. Fo-rensics hasn't an answer. So we're working blind as to weapon, and as far as motive, we haven't a clue. Maybe there is none… maybe it's just plain old-fashioned evil, the same that's been spawning these monsters since time began.”