They got into the backseat of the car after depositing their medical bags in the trunk. She asked him, “Will you be pursuing the case from here out, Doctor?”
“ So long as my health allows, Doctor.”
“ It would be wonderful to work closely with you, sir.”
“ Butter the other side, my dear. That feels good.”
“ But I mean it in the most sincere way, Dr. Darius.”
“ Me, so out of step with the times I didn't even know about your scented cotton balls?” He laughed and she realized that he'd been joking the entire time. “Fact is, it would do me a world of good to work with you, Jessica Coran. I've read everything about your case of the vampire killer, whal was his name? Madson, Manson?”
“ Matisak.”
“ Oh, yes… vile creature that one. Not wholly unlike our Claw.”?
Twelve
Rychman was a frustrated man. The C.P. had him exactly where he wanted him, on the firing line. The Claw case made anyone connected with it look the fool; it could not have been better for Eldritch if he had planned it himself for this election year. By maneuvering Rychman into the catbird seat, he had both the perfect fall guy and a way to make his competition look bad. Maybe Eldritch was the better man for the job, after all; he was certainly the better politician. Where was he now? Miles from Scarsdale, that was for sure.
The half-baked notion of making an arrest was another fine stroke of genius on Eldritch's part. Arresting Conrad Shaw would make Rychman look as if he were leading a witch-hunt. He had to find some new. something, some sort of lead, anything, if he planned to survive. But for now, feeling tired and weary, he slumped against his car and waited for the rest of his task force people to report back to him what they had, or more likely had not, learned from the surrounding neighborhood. He himself had learned that the Olin woman was quiet and retiring, a model neighbor, hardly spoke a word above a whisper. Those who knew her best didn't really seem to know her at all, but there was some hint of money problems, and her health seemed an issue. As for the old woman, still no word.
His mind raced back over every victim of the Claw, trying to take a new tack, to think about two killers. It was like sailing against the wind to pursue an idea that opposed what seemed concrete fact. It was always the hardest part of police work to keep options open, to keep the sea of information from solidifying too quickly into one idea. For so long now, everyone had assumed the brutal killer was a single individual… but what if Jessica and Darius were right? And why couldn't they provide him with something unequivocal and binding, some proof he could believe in completely? Something other than hunches and suppositions, however informed?
Maybe these murders weren't even the work of the Claw, Rychman thought in disgust. The fact it was Scarsdale and the fact the killer or killers had deviated by brutalizing two victims in one night made Rychman suspicious that they were copy cat killings. Someone reading the nonstop news coverage on the Claw could have planned and executed the double murder to make it appear the work of the Claw, thereby throwing suspicion away from himself.
It had not helped matters that the newspaper reporters across the city had been able to piece together almost all of the various clues that pointed to the work of the Claw. Throughout the investigation, they lifted one detail from one precinct, another from a second and so on, while the mayor and the C. R were gabbing about gag orders.
Meanwhile advantage the Claw.
So much wasted effort and time. Translating into eight wasted lives, he thought. When he was a kid he had seen the movie Psycho, and it had left an indelible mark on him. It changed the way movies dealt with bad guys and heroines when Bates murdered Janet Leigh in the shower scene. There was no boyfriend running in at the last moment to save her, no cops or cavalry to the rescue, and somehow, even as a child Rychman understood the simple truth that real life seldom meant justice or fairness, or saved-in-the-nick-of-time happy endings. Still, he had wanted to be a cop; he'd wanted to be one of the good guys, and do whatever he could wherever he could to at least make reality bearable. And what had it gotten him? A divorce, the estrangement of his kids and a nasty fight ahead for Eldritch's job, if he had the stamina to go through with it. There were a lot of people who were behind him, but most of these had their own agendas. “Hell,” he moaned as he opened the car door and sprawled out on the back seat, hoping to catch a few winks.
His detectives were still rattling doors, asking questions. They were all coming up empty-handed. The woman lived alone, never had relatives or visitors over, was as quiet and unimposing as a church mouse. Neighbors used to see her waiting for the bus on the corner.
Then who in hell was the old woman? What was the connection? Was there a connection, or was the Claw having them all on once more? Some sense of humor, he thought. But there must be something that attracted this demonic killer to his victims in the first place; something the two of them had in com-mon, some shred of a connection. But what could it be?
He played over the similarities and the differences again in his head. All the victims were women who were alone when they were attacked. In no instance had the killer dared attack a woman in the company of a man. The attacks appeared random, but he knew that random violence was unlikely, that what at first appeared random very often was far from it. No, the Claw had a plan, however bizarre the plan might be. There was nothing random about the killer's obvious decision to murder women only. The bastard either feared men or had no interest in feeding on male organs. Why? The bastard was a coward at heart, afraid to attack even two women together, it would appear, since the new victims had been attacked at separate locations.
“ Captain, Captain!” Lou Pierce interrupted his thoughts. “We've got word on the old woman.”
Rychman had no idea how long he had been lying in the car, but a glance at his clock told him it was almost 6 A.M. “A positive ID, Lou?”
“ Amelia Phillips. The super in her building reported her missing. Her place was searched a few hours ago by some guys in the 23rd. The place was a mess and there was blood, but no body. Missing Persons put two and two together, had someone go down to the morgue to ID her, and voila.”
“ Good to know somebody around here can still put two and two together. All right, hop in and let's have a look at her place.”
“ You want me to drive, Captain?”
“ Good idea, Lou. Dr. Coran get back okay?”
“ I dropped her and Dr. Darius off at the morgue.”
“ She'll wanta hear about this. See if you can get dispatch to put us through.” But dispatch was unable to reach her or Darius. The two had seemingly disappeared. Only Simon Archer was available to take the call. He took the address and said he would be right behind them, and that he was sorry but he didn't know where the other two M.E. s had gone.
On the way to the second crime scene, a Brooklyn apartment out of the 23rd Precinct's jurisdiction, but not out of the jurisdiction of the citywide task force, Rychman learned that Amelia Phillips was a live-alone with multiple health problems that'd turned her into a recluse. When she did venture out, she might visit the corner store, the free clinic or the neighborhood park where she fed popcorn and seeds to squirrels and pigeons.
Once at her apartment, Rychman could see at a glance just how close to the bone the woman lived. Her fridge was bare, and her cupboard was scantily stocked with a handful of tuna and soup cans, a box of Saltines and a bag of Fig Newtons gone stale according to O’Toole, whom Alan had found munching in the kitchen. The woman's furniture was early Salvation Army and had come with the apartment, but she kept the place neat and orderly, a place for everything and everything in its place. So the ugly red stain on the hardwood floor, indicating the likeliest place where Amelia Phillips had died, seemed that much more alien here in this place she called home.