“ Any iota of evidence that may've been missed either by Perkins, you, Dr. Coran or myself.”
By now everyone in the lab understood that Darius was obsessing, and that although Archer'd been of great help, assisting in the re-examinations of the Olin and Hamner cadavers, they'd found nothing further. During their close work on the now wooden and grisly Hamner corpse, Darius confided much in Archer, and told him, “Somewhere along the way we've all missed some vital clue. This macabre poem we found wadded up inside the Phillips woman is just the tip of the iceberg, Simon.” Coran had since explained the nature of the communication to Darius. “Dr. Coran believes the killer to be not one but two people, and coincidentally, I have held the same suspicion for some time myself.”
“ I find it all rather doubtful, given the facts,” Archer said.
Still, Darius insisted they comb back through every shred and fiber of evidence with the exactitude he was famous for before his recent illness and bouts with depression and alcohol.
“ You forget, sir, that in your absence during your illness, I've been in charge, and… well… I've found nothing to point to two perpetrators. In fact, all the evidence points to a single individual.”
Darius bit at the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. “Yes… yes, well… of course, Simon… you may well be proven correct.”
“ I'm sure, sir, that I will be, and I am anxious for Dr. Coran's people at the FBI to fully corroborate my findings.”
“ We shall see, Dr. Archer. As for now… would you please close her up and see to final dispensation of Miss Olin here?”
Archer, ever the faithful associate, said, “Of course, sir. I think you may have overtaxed yourself. Dr. Darius. You'd best get a car home.”
“ I can remember a time I could have done four or five autopsies in a twenty-four-hour period; God, when your stamina goes, Simon, it's a horrible thing. Your mind is as fully functional and alive as when you were twenty, but your body begins to resist what your mind tells it to do.”
“ I'm sorry for your… difficulties. Dr. Darius. I take it your doctor's advice hasn't-”
“ Isn't worth a damn, Simon.” Archer smiled and waved him off, Darius hobbling from the area, his body racked with pain.
Alone, Dr. Darius now sat on a bench in the changing room before the locker he had used for so many years, trying to regain enough strength to get himself home. Finally he stood and opened his locker. He began to pull off his green surgeon's shirt, and in doing so, felt as if he were being watched. He saw the eyeless head of Mrs. Hamner staring down from the top tray of his locker.
Darius, shocked, backed into the bench, fell over it and knocked his head against a locker, sending him into unconsciousness.
Darius was found this way by a passing attendant. Medics were called and he was rushed to the hospital, his forehead bleeding.
He woke up in a hospital bed with an IV unit strung over his head, trying to recall what had happened. Then he remembered the black holes staring at him from the head that had been placed in his locker. Or had it materialized out of delirium tremens? He had gone for several days without a drop of liquor and his nerves had been shot as a result of the double autopsy and the way he'd been pushing himself on the Claw case. Maybe he had just imagined Mrs. Hamner's eyeless, severed head there in his locker. Maybe he was going crazy with all the stress that had been placed on him. They couldn't leave him to die in peace? No, the mayor and the C.P. had to push him into this hideous case, likely the final hideous case of his career.
When the doctors had told him about the cancer atop his heart condition, and how short the remainder of his life would be, he had taken to drinking heavily and secretly. So far, only a few need-to-knows had been informed and even these people only knew that half of it. But now all his secrets might surface.
He lay gasping, wondering how he could get a drink. His every nerve felt like brittle paper about to snap. He didn't care about the Claw any longer; he just wanted to find a corner to crawl into with a bottle of J amp;B.
His head pounded from where it had come into contact with the locker. He wanted the pounding to stop. He wanted life, his fevered brain with its obsessions, to end.
He once again began to contemplate suicide. It would be a clean break, and perhaps that way, no one would ever have to know about his weakness and his transgressions. No one would have to know about his cowardly fears, his mental blackouts, his awful visions like the head in his locker.
He swore to himself that no one would ever know the depths to which he had fallen.
Her time with Alan off duty was precisely what she needed, Jessica decided. The kindly Dr. Darius had urged her to follow all passions, as he put it. Now Alan managed to take her mind off the demanding burdens she had been subjected to since arriving in New York, not only those of the baffling, frustrating Claw case but all of the painful memories she had brought with her. She was transported out of herself and her narrow self-interest, and now the stress she'd felt over the past few days had melted away.
Dinner was a sumptuous meal at a wonderful harborfront restaurant high above the city. They'd gotten a window looking out over the glassy expanse of New York Harbor, the boat lights reflecting up at them. She could not recall a time when she'd been more relaxed, more herself, and she genuinely liked Alan, who apparently felt the same way about her.
After dinner he took her for a ride to a place called Belmont Harbor on the Hudson River where they got out and walked along a wharf and past the boats. The rigging beat out a chorus of soft metal clinks, a lilting sound created by the same wind that swept through her hair. In a few moments they stood before a beautiful sailboat with the name MVP painted boldly at the stern. Rychman stepped aboard and said, “Coming?”
“ Is this yours?”
“ Still making payments, but I like to think it's mine, yes.”
“ Wow, do you ever get her out of her slip?”
“ Not often enough.” He held out his hand to her and she accepted it, stepping aboard with her cane, fearful of slipping. He held her firmly and she managed well.
“ You've got to come out with me sometime. You'd love it. We could take a whole day, make our way to Nantucket Island.”
She had a fearful, flitting premonition of a time when, having allowed herself to love Botine, she suddenly and explosively lost him. Any relationship with a cop could end this way, she knew. She also knew she was projecting her feelings for Otto Boutine onto Alan, and these feelings felt right and sure, but they brought with them a great price. Finally she said, “I'd like that; it's a beautiful sailboat, Alan, just lovely.”
“ One of my larger and more expensive vices. Can't afford anything larger, or I'd have a Cobra XS-2100, believe me.”
“ Why didn't you tell me about it before?”
“ Showin's better'n tellin' in circumstances such as these, I've learned. Want to see the rest of her?” He unlocked the cabin door and held it open to her. “Careful of that First step.”
She lay the cane aside and used the handrails, going down into the cabin after he clicked on the lights. It was a beautiful interior, almost entirely of teak, shining and warm. It felt like the coziest, safest place on the planet, she thought.
“ I love it.”
“ I hoped you would.”
He went for the little refrigerator and an icy bottle of zin-fandel materialized in his hands. “I've got some nice glasses somewhere,” he continued as he searched. “Here they are.” He removed the cork as she glanced out through the portholes at the dark expanse of the big river, which looked as calm as peace itself.
“ I've got my scuba gear stowed below the bed,” he said as he poured the wine.
“ So how's the diving here?”
“ Not terrific, but it keeps me in shape. I mean it's not like Mexico or Florida. But we've got a few man-made reefs. Keeps me in practice.”