Robert Walker - Killer Instinct

“ I didn't know.”

He managed a grimacy smile that turned to a frown. “Life deals us all body blows from time to time, but this one… could take Otto out. He… well, he really loved her.”

“ I know that.”

“ Then there's nothing to the rumors… 'bout you and Otto?”

“ Christ, Brewer, how goddamned long is the FBI grapevine?”

“ I talked to Otto. He's… he is in love with you. You know that, don't you?”

She hadn't thought of the affection they felt for each other as love. She was unsure whether or not she wanted it to be called love, not at this time, and not with such suddenness. How did Otto know how he felt, his emotions in a complete jumble? She wasn't even sure how she felt. All she knew was that she liked it when he held her, when he had kissed her briefly, and when he had stayed overnight. She had liked how it felt to have him in the apartment. But was it love?

“ Otto and I are best of friends for now… best of friends and we work together. Does that settle your curious mind?”

“ I'm sorry if I offended you. Just wanted to tell you that I know Otto. I know he… that he's the kind of man who needs commitment and a real relationship and-”

“ Dammit, Brewer, I thought Chicago had a Dear Abby. I don't need to stand here in the cold and listen to advice from you about my relationship with Otto.” She stormed off, angry at Brewer, angry at herself, angry at Otto and the situation, but mostly angry at the Wekosha vampire, who, it appeared by the headlines in the newspapers in the lobby, had become the Chicago vampire.

She picked up a copy and took it to her room. Schultz did quite a number on the killer. He had gotten a story placed that pictured all the alleged victims of the vampire killer, along with photos of their parents where this was possible. The story told primarily of the suffering of the families left in the wake of the killer's bloodletting. It was the sympathy-garnering story that Otto had approved, but as she read it, and as she thought about the vampire who slept peacefully somewhere nearby, she realized the story would gather in no sympathy from him.

Her hatred for the creature was so great that she no longer considered him human. The fact he was human-the fact he was not a freak of nature or a predatory animal-only added to the man's despicable and horrible tastes and murderous proclivities; the fact he did what he did without rage, without insanity, but with a cold, methodical and calculated process always in mind… this made her wish he was an animal or a mythical underworld beast.?

Even before she got to Indianapolis, Jessica learned that a task force of hundreds of law enforcement officials had been set to work on the killer of the Zion nurse. Every conceivable lead, every telephone call, every scrap of information, was being pursued tirelessly, around the clock. No call was too absurd or fantastic to respond to. The only problem was that the calls outnumbered even the hundreds upon hundreds of police officials called in on the case.

Joe Brewer had brought her up-to-date on these developments as they helicoptered to Indianapolis. He also had a lab report on the capsule found at the Zion death site. Oddly, the drug had turned out to be a potent dose of cortisone, the kind that could be had only through a prescription. Jessica knew that such a dosage was for no ordinary measure, that it meant the killer-if it belonged to him-had a serious disorder. This made her recall what Teresa O'Rourke had surmised about the killer.

“ What about a print? Anything?” She knew it was unlikely.

“ Not enough.”

“ A partial?”

“ More like a smudge. A few points of reference.”

She knew this fact meant an unlikely chance at any sort of computer match. Long shots seldom paid off in real life.

She returned to her thoughts about O'Rourke's uncanny assertion that the killer might well suffer from some nasty disorder of a serious physiological nature. She had to consult a medical book to determine the uses for such a dose of cortisone, and in the meantime, she asked Brewer and his people to keep this tidbit of information in the strictest of confidence.

“ In other words,” she said to Brewer point-blank, “let's don't let it get around like the stories circulating about Otto and me, okay?”

“ Christ, Dr. Coran, I've heard nothing but the best about you, really. I never meant to hurt you or to imply-”

“ Forget about it, Inspector.”

“ Call me Joe.”

“ Fine, I'll do that. So what's the word from Otto? Will he be waiting for us in Indianapolis, or what?”

“ Something's come up that'll detain him, but he promises to make it.”

“ Something's come up?” She was curious, but she doubted he knew any more than what he was told to repeat.

But Brewer volunteered, “Seems they got a letter which he has reason to believe is from the killer.”

“ Really?” She tried to picture a scenario in which the killer could have gotten the late edition of the Chicago papers, read about himself and his heinous crimes there and then responded as Otto had wanted him to. No, it was impossible, given the state of the U.S. mails, and not even Federal Express was that good. Unless the killer was responding to stories he had read dealing with the Wekosha killing, stories that had been wired to every newspaper office in the country, but stories that had precious little information in them, especially about the nature of the brutal killings or the maniac behind them.

She shared her thoughts with Brewer, who had had his share of dealings with brutal, sadistic killers over the years. Brewer was almost Otto's age. Joe told her that there was no second-guessing a madman, and that using the media to taunt a cold-blooded killer was a lot like juggling flaming knives, or toying with Satan, or worse, God. He did not entirely agree on the steps that Quantico was taking, and he flatly said that they might in effect be jeopardizing citizens in his territory. FBI headquarters was far from Chicago, and Joe feared that the Bureau sometimes forgot how easily innocent lives could be lost.

Still, the present killing spree could have nothing to do with the story placed in the Chicago papers the night before. The last two killings had been perpetrated before the story was filed, if the Indiana slaying was done by the same man.

Even before they touched down in a field across from the latest victim's house, she sensed that it was the same killer. Something about the house would have appealed to her killer. It was relatively isolated, and it had the look of a beaten-down little place. She wondered if there was something even in the homes of the victims that attracted the “vampire.”

The view from the chopper revealed a broken-down, scavenged relic of a car in the rear, an old, tired shed, a weed patch where once there might have been a flourishing garden, some scattered barrels for burning refuse, the yard littered with trashy items, the grass in need of shearing. The house itself was a hodgepodge of construction, what had been a simple bungalow with an ill-conceived second-story addition. TTie Zion woman's place had had a similar, ratty appearance, old and tattered, with a porch that sagged below the men, some of whom were playing with the creaky boards as if betting on who could make the loudest squeak, when she came up the stairs, her presence silencing the talk.

Some of the local cops in tight-fitting brown outfits, and one burly biker in particular, assured Jessica that she didn't want to see what was on the inside. Others mistook her for a reporter. But she flashed her FBI badge and stepped through, asking if the coroner had been in yet.

He had, but they'd gotten word from the FBI to hold on any evidence gathering, and so they had. The coroner was busy enough that he didn't in the least mind the FBI interest, she was told.