Robert Walker - Scalpers

Ian went out to Peggy Carson's squad car, pulled open a door, and taken the shotgun. He pointing it at Van, telling him he could riddle Van's entire hairy little body with the pull of a trigger and then really become the hero of the hour, having bagged both members of the Scalping Crew. Van's face blanched beneath the wolfman features. “You'd do that to me?"

"If you don't get off her and agree to my plan as it stands, yes!"

Van laughed as he got down off Peggy, his mouth drooling. “All right ... all right, Ian."

After some pleading with Van, they left her there, the two slowing only at the door to make certain no one saw them. The dwarf scurried out ahead for the safety of the car. They'd had to delay their hunting because of Park and his feeble blackmail attempt Park had been onto them for some time, but he hadn't wanted to bring them to justice. He'd only wanted a payoff, a large payoff, and he'd wanted to talk to the dwarf, he'd said. The bastard had gotten just what he deserved. Nobody talked to Van but Ian.

And now Ian knew the flaw in his deformed brother's reasoning, but he was having a terrible time convincing Van of it, convincing him that the victims of the scalpings should of necessity have been innocent, virginal, young, and untouched, that this would more likely please the Dark One than all the scalps they might bring from such as Peggy Carson, the redheaded bitch, and that whore from the park. It was imperative now that they find scalps of children. It just made good sense. Someone pure of heart and experience, a soul Satan would delight in winning over. The magic Van wished to work via His power and Ian's genes and Ian's hair could very possibly take hold if the elemental ingredient was a virginal boy or girl, an infant, perhaps, a so-called angel of God. So, why couldn't Van see-this and understand? No, he was too stubborn, too set in his ways, inflexible, self-important, arrogant. Why could he not accept the fact that the Dark One had for once whispered in Ian's ear, told him what Van was unable to fathom or didn't want to, about kids, about innocent little kids.

All Van could see was anger and rage at any slight suggestion, yet everything Ian did, he did for Van. It wasn't fair, none of it, for even if they were ever to succeed, there'd be no place left for Ian anywhere, he knew that. And he knew that when they got home tonight, Van would beat him, and he'd stand for it, stand for it as he always had.

"You see Park's car anywhere?"

"No, but it could be on the other side of the complex.” Dyer took a deep breath and tried shouting, calling Park's first name. “Dave! Dave, you in there? Dave? It's me, Frank Dyer."

This got no response, but suddenly a light went on and inside someone screamed. “Peggy!” shouted Dean, “Peggy, open up!"

The door was being unlocked from inside, and when Dean pulled it open, he and Dyer stood face-to-face with a wild-eyed, frightened Peggy Carson, who fell forward into Dean's arms. “He ... left me no choice ... came up from behind,” she said as he carried her into the room, coming to a standstill when he and Dyer saw what remained of Frank's partner on the floor. Dean had prayed they would get here soon enough to stop any bloodshed, and his predominating fear was for Peggy, certain that Park would do her harm. But here he was, lying in a pool of his own blood in the semi-dark of the tawdry hotel room that he'd been living out of since his move from Michigan. Dyer, under his breath, cursed several times while Dean made Peggy as comfortable as he could in a straight-backed chair in the corner, since the bed was littered with an array of guns. Judging from her empty holster, at least one piece in the arsenal was hers. But Dyer had died of a knife wound to the heart, from all appearances. Dyer went to his knees over his partner, disbelieving his own eyes.

"Damn it, you've killed him, Carson."

"Don't touch a thing,” Dean ordered Frank. “Call for Corman and bring my valise from the car, Frank ... Frank!"

One of the neighbors, having heard the disturbance, stepped into the doorway. It was the man Peggy had spoken to earlier, and he stared wide-eyed at Park, whose chest was a dried mat of blood, the hilt of a hunting knife protruding from it. “Holy shit, this one of those gags they play at parties?"

"Get him out of here, Frank, please,” ordered Dean, who looked up at the stricken eyes of Peggy Carson. “I could break your neck, Peggy, coming here like this."

"But I didn't do it, Dean ... I swear!"

Dean took her by the arms and motioned her to a chair in a corner. “Sit down before you collapse,” he said. Then he took in the room at a glance, analyzing it the way any policeman coming to the door would. On the bed lay two handguns, both Peggy's. Propped against a wall was Peggy's shotgun. Scattered and torn and tossed about the room were newspaper clippings and photocopies of news stories, and Dean, using his fingertips, turned one to read the headline:

TEEN FOUND MUTILATED IN FOREST GLEN WOODS.

Another used the word scalped. Dean then saw the scalpel at Park's side. Maybe they had the bloody Scalper after all. What a blessing, if it were so. There'd be no more such horrendous murders, no more need to go to sleep wondering if tomorrow the next victim would be found. He could go home to his wife and his own piled up work and spend Christmas, only a week away now, where he could feel in a Christmas mood, in the arms of Jackie, surrounded by a snow-whitened landscape outside their high-rise condo fronting Lake Michigan.

But there was much to prove before such fantasies could be made realities. Dean and Sid would have to be more thorough and relentless on this particular crime scene than on any of the previous ones they'd worked together. They were about to set out on a course to prove beyond any doubt, through scientific investigation, that David Park, part Indian, had developed a murderous rage against people and randomly ripped from them their scalps.

First in Dean's mind was the question of where in this small apartment were the scalps? That, above all else, would tie Park to the killings. When Dyer returned, his face ashen, Dean put him to work looking through the closets and beneath the bed for anything resembling a container, from a shoebox to a leather pouch. As Dyer searched and Peggy Carson began to regain enough control to repeatedly deny killing Park, Dean removed the long bowie knife from Park's heart and placed it, blood and all, into a clear bag which he promptly sealed and placed in the valise. As he did so, he said, “Office Dyer, you will witness this evidence gathering for the record please."

"Yes, sure,” Dyer's voice was still shaky. Obviously he had not found anything in the way of a shoebox yet.

"The long knife is of the type Sid and I were agreed upon as the second weapon used on the victims of the Scalper, Frank."

"I just can't believe it was Park all this time..."

"There's a lot of evidence to point to it. Note that now I have the scalpel put aside."

"Got it."

Dyer went toward the bathroom, going deeper in his search. When he looked into the dark interior of the bathroom, he saw something hanging from the shower curtain. He thought at first it was a pair of women's pantyhose, but when he flicked on the light, he gasped and backed away several inches.

"What is it, Frank? Frank?"

"The redhead's ... hair ... sc-sca-scalp...."

"Had to be somewhere,” Dean offered, stepping over the body and joining Frank, staring at the very clean and nicely cured, long-haired scalp. “Only the one, huh? Nothing else?"

"Maybe he tossed them after a while .. smells, don't it?"

It had an animal odor, yes, like wet leather. Dean went back to his case, took out a pair of forceps, returned to the scalp, snatched it off the rod, and stuffed it into another of his plastic bags. “What the hell's keeping Corman?” he wondered aloud. “Weren't you able to get him?"