Robert Walker - Scalpers

"Park,” continued Hamel, “most certainly. The macho front is often a giveaway to a weaker personality, a wall to hide behind which often crumbles when the person is alone with himself, or with a truly dominant personality or more powerful mind. Sometimes a latent homosexual lurks behind the façade, sometimes a secret drinker, sometimes a masturbator, but more often than not, a man who lives a double life, a man who might well enjoy being tied and beaten by a woman, say, or led into murdering others."

Dean had heard similar ideas from Stephens on occasion. It seemed Hamel knew his stuff. But it was growing late, and Dean wanted to get back to the lab before he missed Sid altogether. He also wanted to know if Carl Prather or Sybil had tried to reach him regarding Park yet. “It has been most interesting, Ben."

"Glad to spread it around,” replied Hamel, shaking Dean's hand. Do you play tennis?” he asked suddenly. “I'm getting a doubles match together for the weekend."

"I play, yes—but I'm sorry, I'm really not up to it at the moment, thanks."

"Pity. I'd like to see how you'd fare opposite me on the court."

Dean smiled at this, finally regaining his hand from Hamel, whose grasp seemed suddenly like a caress. Was the man gay? After winning the little tug-of-war over the bill, Dean left hurriedly.

Hamel watched him from the second-story perch as Dean moved with that purposeful walk of his, headed, no doubt, Hamel realized, back to his microscopes in the Municipal Building's labs.

That is a determined man, Hamel told himself. Dedicated, sharp ... razor-sharp. “But I don't believe Park's your man, Dr. Grant,” Hamel said to himself, draining his wineglass.

EIGHT

It was getting late.

Where in God's name was Hamel?

Chief Hodges had seen him go out of the building with Grant, and he wondered what they had to talk about. But he knew ... he knew. It was the Scalper case, it was all anyone was talking about, and all anyone gave a shit about anymore.

He was a lifer, his whole career given over to this job, his entire personal life as well. He'd built up an impressive record, a long and worthwhile record, a record any man would be proud of. He was honored at banquets and he had a room at home where the walls were literally lined with plaques.

He was a success at his chosen profession, and he meant to go right on up the ladder, next stop—the commissioner's office.

But did anyone trot out his successes, his record? Did anyone care to talk about it? No, all the press or anyone else wanted to talk about was the goddamned Scalper.

Hodges had to get ahold of himself. He heard Hamel coming. He didn't want to give away the fact that he was on the edge, now, did he? Christ, he told himself, get on the couch. He did so and stretched out, feigning peace and indifference as Hamel entered his office, saying “Ready for your session, Chief?"

Hodges lazily looked over his shoulder up at Dr. Hamel. “Oh, it's you, Doc ... must've dozed off. Long day, a rough one."

"Then it should be easy to relax, Chief,” replied Hamel, pouring the Chief a glass of ice water and taking up his position across from him in his easy chair. “I'm sorry to be late, but I was held up by—"

"Grant, I know ... I saw you two together."

"He's an inquisitive man."

"So I've noticed."

"At the moment his questions seem to be centering on Lt. Park."

"Park, huh? Did he...?"

"No, he got nothing from me of a personal nature on Park, no more than he would from the elevator operator or a doorman. You mustn't worry, Jake, that anything between you and me goes outside this room. Trust me."

"I do ... I just ... sometimes..."

"Worry, yes, I know, and that's bad for you, Jake, very bad for those ulcers."

Chief Jacob “Big Jake” Hodges had been an Orlando policeman since 1967. He had built a reputation on the backs of others, and getting near the top of the heap had cost him dearly. It had cost him his first wife and the kids of that marriage, a boy and a girl he never saw and seldom heard from, now that Doris had removed them to California. His career had cost him friendships, strong ties, meaningful ties that had nothing whatever to do with politics and back-scratching and ass-kissing, and finally, after all the sacrifices and losses, Jake Hodges was going to at last enjoy some of the benefits of the many and terrible sacrifices to his job. But that notion had been short-circuited by this crazed killer going about his city and making a mockery of his police force to the tune of several stories a day appearing in the papers. He wanted an end to it, and only one man seemed to understand that need.

Hodges leaned back into the couch and continued to explain his problems to Dr. Hamel, who like any good psychiatrist, listened well and interrupted not at all, asking just the occasional leading question at the moment the Chief most needed it. Hamel was the only man, woman, or child Jake could truly confide in. He understood ... he really and truly felt and empathized with his superior, and he wanted absolutely nothing in return. Jake had tried talking to Hamel about more money, more prestige within the department. Anything he wanted, Jake wanted to provide, because Dr. Hamel had, after all, provided Jake so much in the way of peace of mind.

At first Jake resisted the sessions when Dr. Hamel asked for his participation in the new program. Hamel wanted Jake to bare his soul in a group setting with other cops. He told Jake that if he were to act as an example to his men, a powerful man with hair on his chest, iron in his spine, and grit in his voice, the others would follow.

"The men look to you for guidance and direction, Chief,” Hamel reassured him with comforting words again. “Hell, a man like you, a man who's come up through the ranks the hard way? That means the world to them, and the compromise we worked out is having its effect on them, believe me."

The compromise they had worked out was a simple exchange, Jake's wants for Dr. Hamel's needs. Jake would undergo therapy, but only like this, one-on-one; Hamel readily agreed, knowing such information was soon to be common knowledge in the department. Each man knew that Jake Hodges would then be setting the example Dr. Hamel wanted, at least close enough.

A former beat cop in New Orleans thirty years ago, Hodges was, for all his faults, looked up to by the younger men, or so Hamel assured him again.

Jake knew he came to Dr. Hamel to hear such assurances. He knew his ego needed to be bolstered, his position reaffirmed in endless repetition if he were to survive another day, another night of his present life.

Married again, he saw no future for him and Sally. They could have no children. They were both too old, and Sally had drifted away, burying herself in her avocation, painting ... endlessly painting, fleeing into the seascapes she did, as bad as they were, losing herself in that other world of the canvas. Hodges told Hamel all about it, and Hamel understood, understood far more than Hodges had believed any other man could. Not that Hamel had admitted it in so many words, but somehow Jake knew, and he had made, for the first time in so many years, a new friend. Ben Hamel was closer in age to Jake than most of the people in the department, and Ben, too, must have had to make enormous sacrifices to get ahead. Not that he ever articulated those sacrifices in any specific terms, but speaking broadly, Ben knew exactly what Jake felt and why ... yes, why.

No cabby, busboy, or bartender could do that—know why a man felt depressed enough to suck on the end of a loaded gun.

"I know this Scalper case has your insides turned out, Chief,” Ben said to him now, “that your every nerve is feeling exposed now ... but you have to ride it out. A man like you, you can do it."