Robert Walker - Fatal Instinct

“ A bloody animal,” said Eldritch, trying to imagine the man.

“ But don't be fooled. He's no simple animal,” she countered.

“ Go on,” said the mayor.

“ He displays a very complex personality… perhaps too complex.”

“ Can you be more specific?”

“ I don't believe he will be a simpleton, a crazed drug addict, a street person or one of the names in your MSDO files.”

“ We've already looked at all our deviants and've cut them loose,” added Rychman.

“ Whoever this guy is, he shows careful ritualistic patterns; he's working out a deep-seated fantasy which, as horrible as it is, requires a high level of cognitive thought and planning.”

“ Well, yes, the crimes have shown significant repetition,” said Eldritch. “Pattern crimes…”

Halle took in a great breath of air. “What you're saying is that this guy could elude us for a long time, if we ever catch him at all.”

“ I'm afraid so. And if you're going to force your people to make arrests at this point, it could backfire.”

“ We're not talking about arrests,” said Eldritch. “We're talking about one goddamned arrest.”

Rychman said sharply, “I stand with Dr. Coran. Any arrest at this point is bound to come back to haunt us as the lie it is.”

“ If it takes a lie-” began the C. P, but the mayor put up a hand, silencing him.

“ May I suggest, Captain Rychman, that you do as Carl says and make one arrest. Get a man you've wanted off the street, anyway… a good stand-in for this, this Claw. Bring him up on charges, hold him as long as possible, while you continue to investigate. Who knows, could turn out to be the Claw.”

Rychman stared out his new office window at the teeming life of the city below. He turned and said, “If that's what you want, Your Honor.”

“ Have one of your detectives bring this other fellow in, and have others go through the motions. And when you get the real monster, then all will be settled. I should think it would make for a calmer working environment,” said the mayor.

Rychman nodded. “Sure, yes… yes, you're right… if we could get some of the heat off.”

The mayor stood, took Rychman's hand and shook it firmly. “Good, I'm glad we came to some consensus on this matter.” He turned, faced Dr. Coran and said, “Well, Dr. Coran, I'll be anxious to hear that progress toward apprehending this fiend is going forward with your help. Do maintain a low profile.”

“ Yes, of course.” She shook his hand.

The C. R followed the mayor out, but stopped at the door and said, “Alan, I have complete confidence in you. Good luck.”

Rychman allowed his frown to surface only when the C. R was gone, and then he turned his attention on Dr. Coran. “Thanks for being straight.”

“ They've got political reasons for what they do. I don't.”

“ When you came in here together, I thought you were all of one mind.”

“ So did they, apparently.”

He laughed a full laugh, something he'd not done in a long time.

“ I told them,” she continued, “that any bits of information on the investigation they could feed the public might help calm the situation, but I didn't know they were advocating false arrest.”

“ They're getting desperate, but who do they have to blame but themselves? Or me, now that I'm in charge. As to false arrest, if anyone should bring up due process, well, they've still got me as their patsy.”

“ They can deny every word of it,” she agreed, “except that I have it on tape.” She revealed the miniature recorder to his startled eyes. “I use it for autopsy notes. I don't know how I could have left it on.”

Rychman smiled approvingly, laughing again. She liked the sound of his warm, magnetic laughter.

“ You're something else, Dr. Coran,” he said when he regained his composure. Lou ducked in for a quick glance inside to see what the commotion was all about before disappearing again. “I hear you paid a call on Archer yesterday.”

“ That's my job.”

“ Heard you hang tough.”

She nodded, her chin up.

“ Come on,” he said, guiding her to the adjacent crime incident room where they had first met. “At nine we're reassembling for an old-fashioned rap and think-tank session. You're cordially invited.”

“ Would love to, but I've got appointments most all day.”

“ Oh? You're wasting no time.”

“ At nine I begin meetings with each division head in the crime lab,” she said. “I'll listen to each for ideas, suggestions, information and maybe a few tips.”

“ Learn what each is working on; I get it.”

“ And you,” she countered, “you have to find a suitable Claw to arrest.”

“ For the likes of Jim Drake III and the public.”

“ And the mayor.”

“ And Carl.”

“ I'm sure you've got men on your list begging to be arrested for these crimes.”

“ We have that!”

“ Who knows, you might get lucky like the mayor says.”

“ But you and I know better.”

“ We do.”

She started out of the incident room, where the eyeless faces of the photographed victims stared down at them. Alan Rychman, watching her go, almost pursued, thinking he'd ask her for lunch, but he stopped short, afraid of her answer.

Rychman learned that every detective in the city had a “favorite” killer who was, in his or her mind, the Claw.

He'd simply told his detectives in strict confidence that “in order for us to work with the press off our backs, we gotta put somebody in the lockup, then we dummy up on this guy, make 'em think we've got someone hot. So I want our hottest guy, and only you people can tell me who that is.”

It had started a bidding war of sorts, each detective fighting for his choice, his favored Claw. They all sounded like good, likely candidates.

“ Cameron Reeves, a real mixed-up wacko,” said one detective. “I've been after his ass for years. He fits the profile and has a long list of prior sex offenses.”

“ That'd make good copy for the press,” Rychman said, as if now enjoying the idea of screwing the press.

“ I got a better guy,” suggested another detective, a gruff, big-shouldered, wide fellow called Marty. “A guy named Lamb, Earl T. Lamb.”

“ What's his story?”

“ Climbs trees.”

“ Climbs trees?”

“ But he don't just stay in the tree. He jumps down on women who happen by.”

“ Christ.” A mutter went around the room.

“ Does he have a rap sheet?”

“ Does a shark shit in the ocean?”

“ Does he use a weapon?”

“ A lead pipe.”

“ Sounds like we ought to pay Earl the Claw a visit.”

“ We have.”

“ And?”

“ Loony tunes.”

“ So he's out on the street?”

“ Lives with Momma, aged forty-three. She says he's harmless, so long as he takes his psychoactive drugs.”

“ And so long as he's kept out of trees?” asked Rychman.

“ I got to admit, Lamb would serve up well to the papers. “The Claw is a Lamb,' all that,” said a female detective, flipping open a pocket-sized notebook. “But I got a creep that makes Lamb sound like a Boy Scout.”

“ You're Emmons, right?” asked Rychman.

“ Yes, sir.”

“ What a ya got?”

She took a moment to review her notes. “We got a call at the 54th desk one night about this guy. Seems he lurks around back alleys, breaks into basement windows, rapes women after he knocks them out.”

“ How? How does he overpower his victims?”

“ Renders them unconscious with a hammerblow.”

“ He's done time?”

“ Fourteen years, Rockaway.”

“ Released?”

“ Six months ago.”