Robert Walker - Scalpers

Sid asked, “Whataya’ think, Dean?"

Dean was silent a moment before he began thinking aloud. “Scalping starts in Montana; Park's sent up for a double murder as an Indian on a drunk, learns the law behind bars, follows the killers from Montana to Michigan and then here. Only other name we've got is this kid, Ian..."

"What's that?” asked Trent.

"Dean, you think the kid might've—"

"What's that?” repeated Trent.

"Dr. Trent, this young man, Ian, do you know if he ever returned to his family home?"

"As a matter of fact, yes ... he did."

"Does he still live there?"

"No ... place was pretty rundown, and after a few years he moved out. But house and property's still his. Pay's the assessor every year."

"Maybe we ought to talk to the assessor's office,” suggested Dean.

"Did this fellow ever marry?” asked Sid.

"Ever marry?” Trent repeated the question before mulling it over. “Naw, I think not. Don't know ... think not."

"Ever join in any local community groups, clubs, Elks, V.A.?” Sid was driving at the loner aspect of the young man traumatized after finding his parents dead.

"No, nothing—but he was a veteran."

"Vietnam?” asked Dean.

"Yes."

"Dean?” interrupted Sid, “You thinking the kid did a Lizzy Borden number on his parents? That first double murder?"

"Lizzy Borden?” asked Neubauer.

"Was this kid disturbed, emotionally or—"

"Not in the least, so far as records indicate."

"Do you have any information on the boy? Where he relocated to?"

"Sorry, not a thing.” Trent didn't sound sorry. He sounded suddenly defensive, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"What precisely do you have on this Bennimin boy?” asked Dean.

Neubauer was silent for a moment. “Got the usual county forms, ward-of-the-court forms, birth certificate, and some other nonsense."

"Birth certificate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Read it, please."

Neubauer made an impatient noise with his teeth, but said, “Whole damned thing?"

"Just what's filled in the blanks, please, it could be important.

"It's your dime."

He then began reading each line and suddenly stopped. “What is it, sir?” asked Dean.

"Strange..."

"Sir?"

"Says here there was two boys ... twins born to the Bennimins."

Dean looked across at Sid through the glass partition separating them. “Same age, two boys, lose parents—"

"And only one is taken into custody by the courts?” finished Sid. “What happened to the other boy?"

"Oh, that explains it,” said Neubauer suddenly.

"What?"

"Other boy was a stillbirth. Explains a lot ... no name on the second certificate. Twins or not, we do separate birth certificates."

Dean and Sid thanked Dr. Neubauer for his time and hung up. “How did Park become a cop, with his record?” Sid asked Dean.

"Changed his name, relocated, took the tests, passed with flying colors, settled down in a small town in Michigan where he traced the killers?"

"He must've read every newspaper in the country for information."

"Or paid a clipping service to do it for him."

"I can't believe the police computers haven't matched any of these crimes,” said Sid. “Park was right on this guy's behind. Look at these news stories."

Dean looked over the clippings. Other than the ‘58 occurrence outside Billings, there was a one-inch story on an old woman who'd lost her scalp in Iowa and a second about a female victim, characterized as a hooker, in a suburb of St. Louis. A third story was from a small-town paper in Ohio, the victim a young street tough. The final Stories covered a serial killer in northern Michigan in and around Park's town of Seneca. The dates on the stories spanned the years 1958 to 1989, ending with the recent spate of scalping deaths in Orlando. Maybe Park had done better work than all the police computers in the country, but Dean knew that computers only know what people tell them.

"Damned Park,” muttered Dean. “Why wouldn't he confide in us, Sid? Why?"

"Conditioned against it, I suspect, and don't forget, he didn't particularly like me. Nor did he look clean. The wrong guy going into that room of his the other night would have put him down as the killer and gone home to his wife, kids, and VCR."

"Just wish the man had trusted us."

"I think he was working up to it, Dean, when he opened up the other day."

Dean frowned and took in a deep breath of air which he expelled in exasperation.

"Hey, let's eat,” said Sid. “You like Chinese, don't you?"

Dean saw that it was past two, and neither of them had eaten. He was hungry, and he did love Chinese. “You ever hear of a place called Chung Fat's?"

"Chung Fat's, yeah, down near Mercy Hospital, but Dean, trust me, you don't want to eat there."

"All right, lead on, Sid. I assume you saw the crime scene where the Jimenez woman died."

"That's not a good enough reason, Dean, to eat at Chung Fat's."

"Why didn't you tell me about the Jimmenez ripple, Sid? Why'd I have to hear about it from Dyer?"

"Hell, Dean, Dyer's got nothing, a big zip, he's.... “Sid lowered his voice, looking about the restaurant, a place called China Basket, traditional Oriental decor, with a large garden of bonsai vegetation and waterfall at the center, paper lanterns strung everywhere, the walls lined with pen-and-ink artwork, delicate and beautiful and mostly canvas, with the simplest of lines. It reminded Dean of a place he often took Jackie to back home. But Dean saw that it was a place where a lot of cops and city workers from the nearby municipal center came for lunch, and he understood Sid's cautioning himself.

"The man's gotten not a whit further investigating the case. And that so-called witness of his, what a joke! Dyer's desperate, what with Hodges on his back and this thing with Park coming down around him. You know that ol’ Frank's pissed with himself because he actually blames himself for Park's getting killed? That's how screwed up Dyer is just now."

"That's crazy."

"Agreed, but he said something about Park asking him to have a meeting with him for dinner, and Dyer was too busy with some family business. Now the man's down on himself."

"I guess we all internalize our mistakes, huh?"

Sid hefted his glass of beer and made as if to toast the statement. “So right."

"But regardless of Dyer or anyone else, you should have had the decency to bring me up to date after this latest—"

"Hey, Dean, you were walking, on a plane, remember? Homeward bound. Jesus, Dean!"

"I wasn't on the plane when you got word, Sid."

Sid frowned, his manner and voice taking on an apologetic air. “Dean, I just felt you'd done more'n enough of bailing my ass out here. I ... I just didn't want to complicate a decision you were already having trouble with. Hell, I know you've been fretting over Jackie, and getting home, and well, there simply was nothing even you could do for this Jimenez woman."

They'd ordered, and now their food came. For a time they ate in silence, Dean watching Sid struggle with his chopsticks. “Never did get that down."

"And never will,” replied Sid, switching to a fork.

Dean's dexterity with the chopsticks made Sid wince.

"Show-off."

"One thing's apparent, Sid."

"What, that the killers aren't very bright? First setting up Park, staging everything down to Peggy's having stabbed him in self-defense? And then going out the same damned night and offing another victim for her scalp? I thought of that, believe me."

"An urge to kill, had to scratch it, driven to it?"

Sid smiled wryly, “Logic of a maniac? Or just nature at her most twisted?"

"Or the two heads of this monster at odds with one another."

Sid pursed his lips, pushed his dishware aside, and nodded. “One calculating, the other driven ... maybe you've got something there."