Robert Walker - Scalpers

"Ken,” Dean's voice took on an urgency, “you've got to do me another favor."

"Name it."

"Put a man on Jackie, just in case...."

"Already have, Dino ... already have."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"No, no—how long have you had a man watching her?” Dean wondered if this could be Jackie's problem. A cop had been shadowing her. “For how long?"

"On and off, I'd say one, one-and-a-half months, since we learned of the existence of the sister, and then I stepped it up when I learned she might be in Chicago."

"Christ, Ken, why didn't you tell me all this time?"

"Didn't want to alarm—"

" Alarm, you damned fool, that's just what you've done. I want you to call Jackie and tell her you've got a man watching over her, and inform her that he's been doing so for some time. Hell, Ken, she's been seeing shadows everywhere, and now I know why."

"My guy says he's never been spotted. Has she seen my guy? Have you?"

"She's felt him, damn it, and that's enough. Either tell her of his presence, or pull him off."

"Will do."

"Thank you.” They were about to hang up when Dean cried out, “Ken!"

"Yeah."

"Tell ... say to Jackie ... tell her I love her, will you, partner?"

Ken coughed and answered slowly. “I'm sure she'll like that, coming second-hand from me. Christ, Dean, call her up and tell her yourself."

They hung up, Dean wondering if he shouldn't do exactly as Ken suggested, and he started to, dialing the number of the hospital where Jackie was a nurse. But a noise far in the back of the lab disturbed Dean. He'd thought he was alone. In fact, he'd had to use the key Sid had given him to let himself into the lab. There had been some lights on in the lab, but the feeling had been one of aloneness, and now this odd sound, as if someone were lurking there.

The hair at the nape of his neck bristled. Was it Sid? Was it the Mr. Hyde side of the mild Dr. Jekyl lying in wait for Dean's return? Or might it be Park? Park and Dyer had been in and out of the pathology lab from the day of Dean's arrival. Park could have lifted Sid's scalpel from its resting place. Park could have placed it at the scene of the crime to throw suspicion onto Sid. The noise came again, louder this time.

Dean inched closer, wondering if he dare speak out to ask whoever was in the next room, where the slab and refrigerator compartments were, to come forward. But he didn't relish the idea of a tussel with a scalpel-wielding madman. Instead, he inched toward the light switch.

As he did so, he heard shuffling feet and a grunt. He heard someone tear open one of the refrigerated slabs, yank it out on its casters, then become silent.

Dean remembered now there was another entrance to the corpses on the other side. Whoever it was must have come from that direction. The slab room was in semi-darkness, but Dean could see the thin, tall form in dark clothes bending over the body of what Dean surmised to be the Jane Doe in the park. Had the damnable vulture returned for another section of skin, hair, or scalp?

With a sudden movement Dean snapped on the lights, causing a scream to come out of the police officer at the body, and when she turned, Dean saw it was Peggy Carson.

"Jesus, Peggy?” Dean held a hand over his heart, which was pounding so hard he was momentarily dazed.

Peggy, too, had been frightened, and she gasped for air, her hands at her breast and mouth, tears coming from her eyes. She'd been shedding tears for the dead girl, and now they came as a result of shock.

"You scared the hell out of me, Dean!"

"Hey, I heard someone come in, and it ... well, I'm sorry."

"I ... I wanted to see her,” Peggy indicated the dead girl. “It's ... so awful, what they did to her."

Then Dean saw Tom Warner, Sid's young, baby-faced assistant, in the corner, in shadow at the door. He'd been peering out, and he now looked stricken. It was obvious that Peggy had talked him into this against his better Judgment. Tom was one of those people no one took much notice of, and indeed, even now Dean saw little in him that might be lifted out to describe the man, say, for the benefit of a police sketch. He was of average height, with mousy brown hair, small of face, except for large glasses that bobbed up and down his nose in agitation. He had colorless, gray eyes, stood perhaps five-six, and weighed one-forty or -fifty, Dean guessed. In all the time Dean had spent in the lab, he'd been like a good butler, a gofer who did his job so superbly that Dean had forgotten of his existence until now.

"It's not what you think, Dr. Grant. Officer Carson has the permission of her superior to view the remains. She is ... on the case."

"On the case?” asked Dean.

"Let's say I've got a personal stake in it, Dean."

"Anyway,” said Mr. Thomas Warner, “if you will lock up, Dr. Grant.” He started to leave, “And I would very much appreciate this ... our being here ... to remain confidential."

"I hope I can keep that confidence, Mr. Warner."

It was all Warner wished to hear. “Thank ... thank you, doctor."

Dean gave Peggy a reproachful look, knowing she had no such clearance. Given the hour and the state of Tom Warner's nerves, Dean knew better. Now he glanced down at the ugly scar that remained of the dead girl's head. The patch of scalp taken was in a rough hexagram now, the skin around the wound having sunken in, as if to protect the naked area as best it could. Dean gave the shroud a tug, covering the dead, and with a quick push sent the drawer closing into the wall. Peggy stepped away from the pulled-to vault door.

"Why, Peggy? Why're you doing this to yourself?"

Peggy pointed to the vault. “That could just as well be me in there!"

"But it isn't."

"And that's supposed to make it all right? Supposed to make me feel better?"

For the first time Dean realized her inner vulnerability; why she had come on so strong with him earlier. It had been a successful attempt to hide that part of herself. She had braced herself by hiding in his arms, and Dean, consciously or unconsciously, had taken advantage of her a great deal more than she'd taken advantage of him. It was apparent now that she was in emotional turmoil, like a soldier in the field asking why she was allowed to live when beside her, not a few feet away, another just like her had been blown away. Maybe Hamel was right all along. Maybe Dean had played the fool, helping her to escape bedrest. Maybe Peggy needed those sessions with Hamel, and her resistance to the notion only compounded her need to talk out this horror. Maybe, like Jackie in Chicago, Peggy Carson could not function professionally without coming to terms with her newly found ghosts, ghosts hoisted upon her by an evil of incredible intensity, an evil still roaming the trashy backways and lurking in parks, just beyond the safety of this building.

"What are you going to do? Return to where you were attacked and sit around the street corner until you're attacked again—"

"That, Dr. Grant, is my job."

He shook his head. “No, no—your job is not to go out and knowingly commit suicide. Now, we've theorized, Sid and me, about the possibility that the killer's last two choices of victim were not coincidental—"

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the bastards were looking specifically for a black female scalp."

"So the thrill of the white redhead's gone, huh? Who came up with this shit?"

"Yours truly."

"Are you covering again for Corman?"

"No, I don't have to cover for Sid. He's a good man, a good M.E."

"And I'm a good cop."

"And you don't need to prove it to anyone, certainly not by getting yourself a room at this inn!” Dean indicated the slabs.

"Don't worry, I'm not looking to check in here."