Robert Walker - Scalpers

"Not much to tell. It was rather ordinary, with no accent, no inflections, rather a monotone, as if he were reading something he'd written down, or someone else had written down for him. Almost—"

"Yes?"

"Almost as if he were taunting us, enjoying it, and the business about being under the other's thumb, well, it could've been some nonsense cooked up, but if his voice rose even an iota, it was when speaking of this other one."

"So, on the basis of how many such calls did you do your diagnosis, Dr. Hamel?"

Hamel frowned. “Granted, making a prognosis of a madman over the wires is no mean feat, and I'm the first to admit its weakness, believe me, but there was something ... I don't know ... uncanny about the voice and the plea. I believe a part of him wants to walk through our doors, to give himself up."

"A lot of contenders for the part have, I understand."

"The holding cell's full of them, and I've got to interview every damned one, but until I find a man who's obviously living under the power of a second, more powerful personality, I feel safe in passing the would-be scalpers."

This made Dean think of the dual personality of Angel Rae again, and how she was dominated by her second personality, Brother Timothy. “You don't think our killer could be working out two personalities, one stronger than the other? Using two separate weapons, even, so strong is the belief he has in his other self?"

"I know this, too, is a possibility, but when the forensics errors were made, when I learned there were actually two distinct weapons used—well, common sense, you know, is a strong force, too."

"And just how did you and Hodges learn about Sid's errors ? "

"Through a casual remark by one of his technical people."

"Tom Warner?"

"Yes, I think it was Tom."

"Tell me again, Dr. Hamel, exactly how many times did the man professing to be the killer telephone you?"

"Unfortunately, only twice."

"Twice?"

"And then it stopped."

"Rather strange, isn't it?"

"Not at all."

"I mean, usually when a killer contacts a reporter, or a cop, or a man like yourself in a position of authority, it's a plea for help, to be stopped, isn't it?"

"Quite often, yes."

"And normally, despite the fact that he continues killing, he will contact again and again to pursue this need."

"The second time he called at my home,” said Hamel, taking a deep breath. “I have an apartment not far from here. I was totally unprepared to get a call there from this faceless killer ... shocked, in fact. I have an unlisted number, and the department wouldn't dare give it out. The first time, I was at my desk, it wasn't such a big deal, but the second call frightened the hell out of me, I can tell you."

"That is understandable.” Dean sipped his tea.

"The fact he could learn my number, and perhaps knew where I lived, and that he seemed to know we'd tapped my phone lines at both locations and so he never again even attempted contact—that, Dr. Grant, more than any other factor, convinced Hodges and me of the possibility that the killer was closer to us than we knew. Perhaps close enough even to have daily contact with us in the department."

"So you began looking in your own backyard."

"Interdepartmentally speaking, yes."

"And Sid's errors were blown out of proportion."

"On such a case, every error becomes a big deal, since we're all under the watchful eye of the public."

Dean had to agree, sipping more tea, watching Hamel closely.

"Anyway, there was no way to trace either call, and when we were prepared to do so, he never called back. It was as if ... I fear to say it ... someone closer to me than I wished to know had knowledge of my having had my phone tapped at home as well as the office."

"And that's why you and Hodges began investigating Sid Corman?"

"In light of the error, yes. What would you have done?"

"Has it occurred to you that it could be someone else close to you, and not Sid?"

"Like Park, you mean?"

"Like Park, yes."

"Park has a record of violence, but not recently. He seems to have gotten a handle on that, and—"

"Maybe he's taking his violence out in a different fashion. He told us of a strange story about a guy in Vietnam who reportedly took scalps. Has he ever repeated that story to you?"

Hamel's eyes lifted at this. “No ... never."

"He's a vet, you know."

"Yes, of course, but that doesn't—"

"Doesn't make him crazy, I know."

"Did I say the killer was mentally imbalanced?"

"What would you call him?"

"His actions are engineered by someone whom he is in such awe of, or fear of, that he cannot totally be held accountable."

"Doctor, the ‘other guy’ is a goddamned midget."

"Perhaps he is physically small, but you have no idea how powerful a dominant personality can be, do you, Dr. Grant? You've never known anyone who's made you feel insignificant and small and wasted, and good for doing only one thing, good for doing the bastard's bidding."

"Sounds like you have,” Dean said suddenly.

Hamel choked, realizing he had revealed more of himself in his words than he'd intended to. “My ... my father, and to some extent, my mother, yes, they were tyrants, they imprisoned me in a mental way, telling me I was ... well, you know how parents can tell you they're doing it all for your own good when it's really for theirs ... sorry, you don't want to hear my life story, I'm sure."

Hamel had come uncomfortably close to revealing what secrets he held deep inside. Dean had no idea what they might be, however. “What about Park?” Dean asked. “Do you think a man like him could be controlled by another man?"

"Frankly, if the circumstances were right, any one of us could fall under the spell of a cult leader, a powerful personality, a passionate lover—hell, no one's immune one-hundred-percent to the controlling influences of those around them. For instance, a man like you, you're married, aren't you, Dean?"

"Yes, I am.” Dean thought of Jackie.

"You love her, right? And out of love, you behave in socially acceptable ways, remembering sometimes to humble yourself before her—like when you forget a birthday card, right?"

"I don't see where that—"

"Multiply that feeling a thousandfold, Dean—do you mind if I call you Dean?"

"No, that'd be fine—"

"Benjamin, or Ben if you like."

"Ben."

"Anyway, imagine, if you can, Dean, someone coming along and sweeping you off your feet, just sweeping you right up and carrying you along, and effectively controlling you, even using you, say, for personal or sexual gain, or whatever it is they wish to get from you—money, or scalps—and hell, this control never stops, never ends, never slows down. In fact, you don't want it to, because you find comfort and love and security and all those good things in it. Maybe you find power, power you can't get anywhere else...."

Hamel continued on in this vein, and as he spoke, Dean thought of how he himself had so recently been caught up for good or bad in the power of Peggy Carson, in the thrill of being with her. Hers was a dominant personality, an aggressive personality which, in careful doses, might be invigorating and take on the look of freedom and fun, but he could not imagine allowing her much further into his life, and certainly Dean knew he must himself be in control. Dean tried to imagine the weak personality Hamel described, the person who fed on being under another's control, lived for it and withered without it. He thought of all the millions of Americans who wanted others to tell them what to do from letters to Dear Hearts columns to the How-To books they bought and read, on everything from gold to finances to making love. The only people making a gain from this nation of sheep were the merchants and advertisers, so far as Dean could see.