Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

"No, I spoke directly to the parents, both aged, in their seventies, and both didn't want anything to do with Feydor and didn't know he'd been released. I'm told they were frightened of him all their lives, something about his having burned living things-cats, dogs, you know-when he was a kid."

"Didn't the institution notify the parents when they released the man?''

"Said they couldn't locate them. Strangely enough, they weren't under any legal obligation to notify the next of kin since this Feydor guy had actually committed himself and was of age."

"He committed himself to eight years in a mental facility. That'll help him at trial," she half-joked, knowing a defense lawyer could make hay with this fact. Maybe Frank Lorentian's solution wasn't so far off the wall.

"Yeah," continued Santiva, "claiming he feared he'd hurt someone if he wasn't under constant watch."

"Damn it, this will help him at trial then. He commits himself for fear he'll harm someone, they release him, he does exactly as he feared and worse, and the defense has a hole large enough to drive a full-grown elephant through. Maybe that was Warren's concern, too, Eriq."

"Be that as it may, we still have to catch the fiend before any defense lawyers and activists praise him."

She smiled at this. "Still, what do we have that ties Dorphmann irrevocably to our case? How can you be sure he's the same man who's behind these fire crimes?"

"The greaseprints…"

"From the mirrors?"

"Mirror instinct, you might say. When you figured that out, Jess, you nailed the bastard. The mental facility kept his prints on file."

"Terrific."

"How did you know? About the prints in the mirror grease? Who else would've given it a thought?"

"I knew instinctively because I knew this guy intentionally leaves me his crumbs. He's been testing my mettle from the beginning."

"The important thing is the prints found a match with this guy. They match Dorphmann's medical records."

"Bingo," she added. "What about a photo of the son-of-a-''

"It's eight years old, and it's not too good. His entrance file at Lombardh, but it's being faxed to Gallagher's office, Vegas, Bozeman, Casper as we speak. It should catch up to you in a few."

"Excellent. Now we can put a face with this pervert."

''Too bad your eyewitness, Bishop, is under. Could give us valuable insight into what the creep looks like today."

"Did you do a computer-aged enhancement of the photo?"

"Faxed alongside the original."

"Dorphmann, Feydor Dorphmann," she repeated the name. It somehow helped tremendously to know the name of the maniac she'd been pursuing, and to know that soon she'd be able to look into his photographic eyes. It gave her a sense that he was human after all, and not at all the Antichrist, the all-powerful being he had become in the minds of his victims before their horrible deaths, and in her mind at each moment she had heard the final cries of his victims.

"Finally, we're seeing a turn in the case," Santiva said, interrupting her thoughts.

"What other good news are you hoarding, Eriq?"

"Shoeprint is this guy Dorphmann's size as well, and you were right about the photographic paper you found. From a Polaroid Instamatic. The creep is keeping an album."

Such a practice among serial killers wasn't unusual. She recalled how the vicious killer Kowona, in Hawaii, had kept such a photo album of his victims.

"We're putting the picture on the wires with a full alert, all points, concentrating heavily on your area and the area you're tracking, Jess."

"Excellent. Maybe we can now throw some fear back his way."

"I'll look for you in Jackson Hole, Jessica."

"Yes, see you there."

With the line cut, standing now with the receiver in her hand, Jessica wondered how much more she could endure. She thought of Warren Bishop, lying on the operating table, fighting for his life; she thought of the two thugs, Rollo and John Doe, agents of Lorentian, men who'd never be capable of resuming their lives as usual or their duties for Lorentian or anyone else, ever again, should they live past this night. Then it hit her, an idea that might save lives.

"Where's your hospital spokesperson?" she suddenly asked the lady sitting at a nearby desk, typing away.

''Spokesperson?''

"Who will deal with the press regarding the three men in your hospital in critical condition?"

"That would be PR, Mrs. Crighten, down the hall to your right. Can't miss it."

Jessica found Mrs. Florence Crighten on her phone, her desk in disarray. She was already dealing with the press over the FBI matter, the gunshot and burn victims in the hospital's care.

Jessica pressed the cut-off button on the woman's phone, flashing her badge as she said, ' 'Your government needs you. We need your help, Mrs. Crighten."

Growing gracefully into middle age, Mrs. Crighten's slim waistline and ample bust spoke of a onetime party girl who'd decided a career much more productive. She'd obviously worked extremely hard to get to where she sat atop the PR pinnacle of this medical establishment. Her soft, round tones and tawny black complexion made her the perfect person to pitch news-good, bad, or indifferent.

"How can I help?"

"I want a false report sent out to the newspapers."

"What?" The woman instantly shook her head, as if Jessica had suggested something vile, something perverted. "I can't do that."

"Even if it saves lives?"

Now Mrs. Crighten's lips closed and pursed. "What kind of misinformation are we talking about? And how will it save lives?"

"Trust me, it will save lives. Two, possibly three lives, maybe more."

"Explain further."

Jessica smiled, somehow knowing that she'd come to the right woman. She felt hopeful that now she could turn the tables on the Phantom. She explained to Mrs. Crighten how the killer had been operating. She laid out before Mrs. Crighten's astonished eyes the killer's cryptograms, telling her how they'd been left, how they'd been written using the victims' own fatty secretions, after they were burned alive. She told of the phone calls, how much she personally had suffered. Finally she got around to exactly how she planned to confuse the killer.

"If three men die here tonight, then the killer has reached eight victims for his deadly charade, if he counts his shooting victim, Chief of Operations Agent Warren Bishop. That would leave only one blank space to fill in his demented, infernal game. That leaves only one more victim."

"If he takes Agent Bishop's death, and the death of the other two agents who were burned in the fire as equal, on a par with one of his burn victims," she replied. "I see. But what if he doesn't take Bishop's death as enough?"

"Then we'll have saved two lives instead of three."

"Yes, I see, but suppose he, the killer, doesn't want to count any of them?"

"He will. He's anxious for this to be over…"

"How do you know that?"

"We have a relationship," Jessica firmly said. "I believe-no, I know-how he thinks. He believes everything happens for a reason. He's quite fatalistic. He'll at the very least count the burn victims; he'll see them as reward for carrying out his… his duties, his responsibilities, thus-"

"Duties," muttered Mrs. Crighten, shivering where she sat, "responsibilities."

"He's quite mad."

"Of that I'm sure."

"Will you put the misinformation out there?"

"It could backfire. Family members must be alerted to the truth before it gets around. It could cost me my job."

"The FBI made you do it?"

The woman smiled and took Jessica's hands in hers. "We'll do it."

Jessica gave her a prepared statement that she had written out in longhand. It gave names for the additional two agents as Agent Thorn Morganstern and Agent Raleigh Howler. To protect his office from embarrassment, Gallagher had earlier allowed hospital authorities to treat three FBI agents and not just one, but he'd left all three under heavy guard.