Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

"Crank her up and get us outta here, Dave!" she ordered the driver.

Doris appeared determined not only to stay on schedule but also to defeat her nemesis by gaining time and getting ahead of schedule. Doris had explained that the earlier they got out, the better and cleaner the facilities along the way were apt to be, and the better the service and the better the food.

When the bus had shuddered into life, Feydor felt safe again.

And now, even as the tour director listed their stops today, Feydor began to nod off, and soon the killer nodded off completely, a half smile on his lips. He'd done a good night's work, and a respite from his fevered mind and future plans felt reward enough for now.

I deserve a break today, his mind kept telling him. Along with some peaceful sleep in the air-conditioned comfort of the bus. This compensation felt right. But Doris, from the front of the bus, started up another of her blasted sing-alongs, show tunes.

Feydor placed on headsets built into the seat to listen to some Bach, Handel, and Wagner rather than participate in this morning's Andrew Lloyd Webber tunes with the tour guide, a frustrated showgirl, Feydor decided. Even from behind his closed eyelids, he could feel the woman's wrath. She'd be after him to participate more; there was little doubt of this fact. He occasionally opened his eyes and found her glare.

The tour guide had said they must all rotate seats on each successive day of the tour so that everybody got a chance to be up front, and it supposedly made for friendlier relations among the travelers. Feydor hadn't changed seats, preferring the serenity and relative safety of the backseat. Besides, the view from here held all other passengers under his scrutiny.

But it had been a rough night, so he leaned the back of his chair as far as it would go, feigning a headache. He allowed the classical music to flow over him. For the moment, he felt relatively safe in sleeping. He remained pleased that Jessica Coran, like a beckoned shadow, had followed him thus far. He was equally pleased to have left her yet another surprise that would complicate her pursuit. He thought of the well to which he intended taking Jessica Coran, the well of fire into which he intended throwing her. He recalled the area as it appeared to him as a child, recalled the first time he had ever taken a life; it had been another child's life and no one had ever known except for him and for Satan, who told him to do it.

He knew that Satan beckoned him back to the place where he'd killed that little girl, where he'd pushed her from the guardrail and into the Devil's lips. He had stood about with the rest of the crowd, watching the frantic parents as the little girl cooked to death in the superheated waters of Yellowstone National Park.

He'd been in search of redemption ever since, but God was in no mood to redeem him, and it appeared only one god could salvage his soul, the god of Hades.

He felt an overwhelming need to make contact again with the FBI woman, Jessica Coran, but when the bus finally stopped at a roadside cafe and gift shop, at eight thirty-five, his attempt to reach Dr. Coran at the Wahweap Lodge failed miserably. She was unreachable.

He hung up and dialed the number he had for her in Vegas at the Hilton. He'd get his message to her one way or another, he promised himself and his demon within. He'd talk to the FBI. Not necessarily Jessica Coran this time, but someone close enough to forward her the news. They were all waiting to hear from him again; someone would be there at the number in Vegas, waiting for his call, awaiting disclosures.

While others on the bus attended to nature and the gift shop and their stomachs, he placed the second call, making the call he'd been unable to make the day before for lack of time and for lack of a handy telephone.

As it worked out, it was provident he hadn't had a phone in the room at the El Tovar, where the group had stopped for a fast look at the Grand Canyon and lunch. While the others lunched, he had set fire to a malicious fraud in the name of Satan. He wanted to tell someone about it now in the worst way. Wanted to get word to Dr. Coran.

The Melvin Martin autopsy became a crowded affair, and Jessica felt the crunch of others in the room whenever she moved, for at every turn someone stood in the way. Repasi, a man of his word, remained with them. A local physician who acted as the hospital's pathologist also felt compelled to be on hand, as it was his room.

Preliminary tests indicated that some over-the-counter sedative appeared to be present in high levels, that Martin had been sedated, just as Chris Lorentian had. Jessica imagined that in time, it would be proven to be the exact same medication. The fact that the old man had drugs in his system suggested one thing to J. T., who was also present, and another to Jessica and Karl Repasi.

"Maybe it's the one soft spot the killer has," J. T. had remarked from behind his surgical mask.

The room they were in had a constant flow of air to reduce not only the odor but also the amount of bacteria and decay as they worked over the incinerated flesh.

"Soft spot?" asked Jessica.

"Yeah. He drugs his victims to reduce the pain and suffering he inflicts."

"A rosy picture, indeed, Dr. Thorpe," said Repasi.

Jessica replied, "J. T., this is the same guy who calls me up so I can listen to their screams."

Repasi stepped in, saying, "I must agree with Jessica, Thorpe. He only drugs them to control them."

Jessica, nodding, added, ''So he can march them to the secondary crime scene. The first being his assault on their senses with the drug."

"Yes, the secondary crime scene, the comfort zone for him-the place where he can turn them into so much kindling for his fires," Repasi agreeably added, his head bobbing in accord.

"Yes, the place where he is in total control and can take his bloody awful time, so he can disrobe them. He doesn't burn them in their clothes, male or female, if you've noticed. Ties them without much of a fight being put up."

"I feel like a third… fourth wheel here," J. T. told her. "I might do better chasing down the shoeprint we saw."

Repasi instantly said, "Why don't you do that, Thorpe. Get to the bottom of things, so to speak." Repasi's little jest left J. T. cold.

"I'll see you later," J. T. told Jessica on his way out.

Jessica took Repasi aside, not wanting the Page people to hear any further dissension between them. She asked, "Do you want to tell me, now, Doctor, why you are here? And just why are you so bloody interested in this case?"

"It's a bloody interesting case, wouldn't you say? Besides, Arizona's my home state, Doctor," he replied coolly. "And another besides, I'm a board-certified forensic medical examiner, and Page operates under the old coroner system. The coroner here is Doctor Porter, a fine man, yes, but he's not highly trained in forensic science. He's a hospital pathologist with a number of years under his belt, but hardly qualified in forensics."

Jessica understood this language all too well. In fact, much attention had been placed on the continuing problem of the old coroner system, which still operated in most municipalities in the nation. With two general types of medico-legal investigative systems in the United States, the coroner system and the medical examiner system, there remained a great deal of confusion in the public mind about the differences in the terms "coroner," "pathologist," and "medical examiner." Twelve states had coroner systems at work that employed politicians and sometimes hospital pathologists to do the work of a medical examiner. Twenty-two states and the District of Columbia employed the medical examiner system, while sixteen states had both systems at work. The coroner system, the older of the two, dated back to a time when kings and dukes employed a man to determine cause in suspicious deaths, in an attempt to confiscate the holdings of suicide victims, who had blatantly wronged Mother Church, and murderers, who had blatantly wronged the Crown by reducing the taxable public by one or more members. To some degree, the coroner system remained a political arm of the legal system, and it was under this undue pressure and conflict of interest that the elected official with the title "coroner" performed his duties. It had for centuries now allowed barbers, butchers, and candlestick makers who ran for the office to pronounce cause of death in cases ranging from suspicious to ordinary, without the coroner having the slightest knowledge of medicine or forensics-medicine as it applied to law. The system had improved over the years, most jurisdictions now insisting that the coroner at least be a board-certified pathologist, but not even an anatomical pathologist-a generalist-had the training the medical examiner took years to acquire. The only training the coroner received for the position still ranged from absolutely none to a few hours to one or two weeks at best. This was an unforgivable sin as far as Jessica Coran was concerned, for therein lay hundreds upon hundreds of people getting away with murder every day. Jessica had heard Karl speak out against the antiquated coroner system on many occasions, and in fact he was scheduled to do so in Vegas today, back at the convention.