"Oh, really?"
''A Professor William Milton Jarvis, Medieval Studies Department at Georgetown University, tracked it to-"
"Really, my old alma mater? Don't tell me," she replied, spoiling his moment, "Dante's Inferno, right?"
"How did you know? Damn it, you're always a step ahead."
"It finally dawned on me," she half-lied, no time for detailed long-distance explanations. "And I've been reading the book since. We'll fax you our latest suspicions and an updated list as soon as possible."
"I'm coming out there to be with you," he countered.
"It's not necessary, Eriq."
"I think it is, at this juncture, absolutely necessary. I'm flying out to Salt Lake."
"Well, if you must come, make it Wyoming."
"Wyoming?"
"Jackson Hole."
"Where the president vacations?"
"One and the same. Ever been there?"
"A splendid, beautiful area, and yes, I've been there and I know how to get there from here, yes."
"There are nine rungs of Hell, Eriq, and this guy appears to be populating each with each of his victims. He's going to kill at least three, possibly four more times before he ends it, if we allow him to. Is it too damn much to hope we end it?"
"I want to be on hand, help any way I can, Jess. I'll meet you in Jackson Hole. Meanwhile, fax any new developments to the BSU; I can't sit idly by any longer, Jess. And Jess-"
"Yes?"
"I am one step ahead of you on one lead we got on this guy."
"What kind of a lead?" She remained skeptical.
"How about a name?"
"A name?"
"Feydor Dorphmann, spelled…" He slowed to spell the name accurately for her.
At her end, Jessica took time to write it down.
"How did you get the man's name? How accurate is this information?"
"Right on, Jess. We sent his ugly little cryptograms to all major mental health facilities in the country, as you suggested, and bingo, up comes one in San Francisco called the Lombardh Institute for the Mentally Insane, where this Dorphmann character lived for a time."
"For a time?"
"Eight years without harming a soul. Then he's released-"
"Released when?"
"Seven months ago, and not three months passed when one of his doctors, a guy named Wetherbine, Dr. Stuart Wetherbine, is stabbed repeatedly with a knife and set aflame in an alleyway. Coincidence?"
"No one in San Francisco put those two facts together?"
"Dorphmann disappeared. He's been wanted ever since, but no one's seen him."
Jessica thought about the time line. "He murders his doctor three months after release, then four months pass before he goes on his kill spree? Not your usual serial killer, Eriq. Tell me, what was he in for?''
"Self-inflicted wounds-burning himself. Seems he's something of a masochist. Also delusional, something about seeing aliens behind his eyelids, that sort of thing."
"Aliens?"
"Aliens, elves, creatures from Hell, you name it."
"So his family committed him to the institution?"
"No, I spoke directly to the parents, both aged, in their seventies, and both didn't want anything to do with Feydor and didn't know he'd been released. I'm told they were frightened of him all their lives, something about his having burned living things-cats, dogs, you know-when he was a kid."
"Didn't the institution notify the parents when they released the man?''
"Said they couldn't locate them. Strangely enough, they weren't under any legal obligation to notify the next of kin since this Feydor guy had actually committed himself and was of age."
"He committed himself to eight years in a mental facility. That'll help him at trial," she half-joked, knowing a defense lawyer could make hay with this fact. Maybe Frank Lorentian's solution wasn't so far off the wall.
"Yeah," continued Santiva, "claiming he feared he'd hurt someone if he wasn't under constant watch."
"Damn it, this will help him at trial then. He commits himself for fear he'll harm someone, they release him, he does exactly as he feared and worse, and the defense has a hole large enough to drive a full-grown elephant through. Maybe that was Warren's concern, too, Eriq."
"Be that as it may, we still have to catch the fiend before any defense lawyers and activists praise him."
She smiled at this. "Still, what do we have that ties Dorphmann irrevocably to our case? How can you be sure he's the same man who's behind these fire crimes?"
"The greaseprints…"
"From the mirrors?"
"Mirror instinct, you might say. When you figured that out, Jess, you nailed the bastard. The mental facility kept his prints on file."
"Terrific."
"How did you know? About the prints in the mirror grease? Who else would've given it a thought?"
"I knew instinctively because I knew this guy intentionally leaves me his crumbs. He's been testing my mettle from the beginning."
"The important thing is the prints found a match with this guy. They match Dorphmann's medical records."
"Bingo," she added. "What about a photo of the son-of-a-''
"It's eight years old, and it's not too good. His entrance file at Lombardh, but it's being faxed to Gallagher's office, Vegas, Bozeman, Casper as we speak. It should catch up to you in a few."
"Excellent. Now we can put a face with this pervert."
''Too bad your eyewitness, Bishop, is under. Could give us valuable insight into what the creep looks like today."
"Did you do a computer-aged enhancement of the photo?"
"Faxed alongside the original."
"Dorphmann, Feydor Dorphmann," she repeated the name. It somehow helped tremendously to know the name of the maniac she'd been pursuing, and to know that soon she'd be able to look into his photographic eyes. It gave her a sense that he was human after all, and not at all the Antichrist, the all-powerful being he had become in the minds of his victims before their horrible deaths, and in her mind at each moment she had heard the final cries of his victims.
"Finally, we're seeing a turn in the case," Santiva said, interrupting her thoughts.
"What other good news are you hoarding, Eriq?"
"Shoeprint is this guy Dorphmann's size as well, and you were right about the photographic paper you found. From a Polaroid Instamatic. The creep is keeping an album."
Such a practice among serial killers wasn't unusual. She recalled how the vicious killer Kowona, in Hawaii, had kept such a photo album of his victims.
"We're putting the picture on the wires with a full alert, all points, concentrating heavily on your area and the area you're tracking, Jess."
"Excellent. Maybe we can now throw some fear back his way."
"I'll look for you in Jackson Hole, Jessica."
"Yes, see you there."
With the line cut, standing now with the receiver in her hand, Jessica wondered how much more she could endure. She thought of Warren Bishop, lying on the operating table, fighting for his life; she thought of the two thugs, Rollo and John Doe, agents of Lorentian, men who'd never be capable of resuming their lives as usual or their duties for Lorentian or anyone else, ever again, should they live past this night. Then it hit her, an idea that might save lives.
"Where's your hospital spokesperson?" she suddenly asked the lady sitting at a nearby desk, typing away.
''Spokesperson?''
"Who will deal with the press regarding the three men in your hospital in critical condition?"
"That would be PR, Mrs. Crighten, down the hall to your right. Can't miss it."
Jessica found Mrs. Florence Crighten on her phone, her desk in disarray. She was already dealing with the press over the FBI matter, the gunshot and burn victims in the hospital's care.
Jessica pressed the cut-off button on the woman's phone, flashing her badge as she said, ' 'Your government needs you. We need your help, Mrs. Crighten."
Growing gracefully into middle age, Mrs. Crighten's slim waistline and ample bust spoke of a onetime party girl who'd decided a career much more productive. She'd obviously worked extremely hard to get to where she sat atop the PR pinnacle of this medical establishment. Her soft, round tones and tawny black complexion made her the perfect person to pitch news-good, bad, or indifferent.