Robert Walker - Scalpers

Another day and Dean got the distinct impression that Dr. Hamel was avoiding him, paying no heed to his repeated messages. Dean finally located Hamel at midday, but the psychiatrist begged off, saying he was between sessions and late. By the time Dean found him again, it was getting late, nearly five. Hamel was packing his valise, preparing to leave the small room adjoining the squad room where he held his group sessions.

"Oh, Dr. Grant, I'm sorry—it's been hectic today."

"No need to apologize."

Dean saw that Hamel had filled a chalkboard with words which on the surface appeared random, as if he'd been giving a speech and had jotted down key remarks and phrases. He'd most likely been responding to questions posed by apprehensive cops, always ill-at-ease in a classroom setting, wondering why they had to know the difference between a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic, how to spot suicidal tendencies and homicidal tendencies. It was as simple as predicting the direction a bird will take when it flies, Dean thought.

"So, Dr. Grant, how goes the chase?"

"Slowly, steady as she goes."

"What can I do for you?"

"I've got a couple of questions."

"Coffee?"

"Sounds good.” They went to a nearby lounge and coffee machine, Dean opting for a Coke this time around. Seated now, Dean got right to the point. “Dr. Hamel, is it conceivable that a man with a disfigurement, something truly gruesome, might not then nurture a kind of reactionary mental disorder to compensate that disfigurement?"

Hamel thought for some time, not rushing in. Dean studied him as he pondered the question. He seemed intrigued by it, as most people in his profession would be. Dean had noticed that while Hamel packed his valise, a copy of the most recent Psychology Today had been tucked in the folds of his files and papers. To prompt him, Dean said, “Ever see anything to indicate such a possibility in the literature?"

"Yes, yes, of course ... often, actually."

"Any examples?"

"A man born with the facial characteristics of a rodent once went about New York City disfiguring his victims and robbing them of their clothes, locking them to bannisters and rails in public places. It was a show of defiance in his mind, a hitting back at the world."

"I see."

"Sometimes it's of a different twist. One man whose mother lost her arms in a tragic industrial accident went about picking up hitchhikers and promptly slashing off their arms at the elbow."

"Then it's quite prevalent?"

"Nothing like everyday, but yes, people manifest hatred and anger in a myriad of ways.” Hamel regarded Dean curiously now. “You have a theory along these lines regarding the Scalper? If so, I would love to hear it, but time draws me away."

Dean acted as if he didn't hear this. He'd spent all day trying to get to the man. “Peggy Carson's account of the dwarf who assisted in attacking her depicted him as a hairy man, with hair all over, except for the scalp. Now just suppose—"

"Yes, I see what you're driving at, like the forearm taker, like the disfigured face-slasher, the Scalpers are working out of some condition that is as much physical as mental, an intermingling of the two. Sharp, Dr. Grant."

"Do you know if Park has any relatives with any such disfigurements?"

"Park again, huh?” Hamel sighed as if disappointed in Dean.

"Why so defensive, doctor?"

"Anything Park has confided in me about his personal life—"

Dean opened his hands to the man in a gesture of pleading. “We're all on the same team, Doctor, after all, and despite your feelings toward Sid—"

"My feelings toward Sid have nothing to do with my decision to keep Lt. Park's profile confidential."

Dean could only stare at the man.

"Look, Grants, I've had a session or two with every cop here, it's part of the plan for the eighties, to upgrade. But you must know I cannot reveal the content of any such session. Hell, if I did, do you have any idea of the consequences?"

"Who has access to the information you gather, then?"

"The Chief, the Commissioner, if he wants to see it. And without Hodges’ okay—"

"Hamel, I understand about doctor-patient privilege, but we're talking about a deranged madman, on the loose and likely to strike again soon."

"And I'm trying to tell you that I have carefully created a program of trust between myself and the men of this department. I'm running sessions daily for groups of cops and doing some individual counseling. Now, how am I to maintain the trust of so many if ... if I turn over a file to you or anyone else?"

"No one would know."

"Not right away, and not from you, perhaps, but I would know, and they —” he waved a hand toward the squad room, “they are not fools."

" One file, in strictest—"

"No, sir. You must see, Dr. Grant, what a delicate position I am in here. Teetering on a seesaw, always, with these men. They look to me for help only if they know they can trust me completely, without any reservation whatsoever. I am expected to deal with their nightmares, help them overcome phobias and phantoms. Please, you must see why I simply cannot give you access, either verbally or in writing, to the privileged information between myself and these men. Here in the squad room, it's imperative that they trust me with the fragile, real selves they display so very seldom. Do you understand? Do you?"

Dean nodded, “You must understand, I had to ask."

He smiled again, engagingly, “I did ... I did expect it of you, sir, and you did not fail my expectations. Sid has done quite well to ask you in on the case. If anyone can locate and put an end to the career of this killer, it must be you."

Dean relented. “All right, Doctor, would you answer a general question for me?"

"If I can, of course.” Hamel looked like he wanted to be elsewhere, hugging his briefcase as they talked. He was, as always, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. According to Sid, the man jogged to work from a nearby apartment, and was something of an insomniac and a real workaholic. He typically shaved and showered at headquarters, and he kept a week's wardrobe in his office. He looked fit, except for the pale complexion. He was somewhat bloodless, Dean thought. Obviously he had fair skin and he stayed out of the Florida sun as much as possible.

"You yourself said we should be concentrating on a man in house, somewhere on the force?"

Hamel arched his brows, frowned, and thought of the suggestion. “I said, and I repeat, it might be someone who comes into contact with the department daily, and that could just as well be the guy who empties the trash cans, or the guy who fills the vending machines. Look, I've got to go."

"Sure. Another session with Chief Hodges, huh?"

Hamel turned and gave Dean a half-smile. “Really, now, you don't believe that Jake is—"

"More to the point, Dr. Hamel, do you?"

"Careful, Dr. Grant, or you will find yourself being forceably removed from this case and carried to a plane by some of the Chief's men."

"You think he'd react that strongly to—"

"Slander? Yes."

"I don't work that way, Hamel."

Hamel half-smiled. “No, that's right. You deal in facts. But since working with Sid, you've lost some of your objectivity. Tell me, how long's it been since you last knew Corman?” He looked at his watch. “I must go. Please, if there is anything ethical I can do, anything not violating my own standards, let me know ... I'm your man."

Frustrated, Dean didn't bid him good-bye. Dr. Hamel might have the smallest bit of information, some word or phrase uttered between him and one of the men he counseled, if only he weren't governed by rules the killer failed to acknowledge. Perhaps the killer would not willingly reveal himself, but under the right conditions, men—even perverted men—spoke about their perversions.