It didn't go over so well at the United desk.
The two M.E.'s laughed over it now.
"So good to see you, Dean.” Sid climbed into his side of the car, automatically unlocking Dean's door. The M.E.'s car in Orlando was a fully air-conditioned, full-sized Chrysler. Dean was impressed, but he tried not to show it.
"So good to see you,” Sid repeated himself.
Dean replied agreeably, telling Sid that he had had time on the flight to go over the copies of the files and photos he had sent him. “Looks like one hell of a psycho on your hands, Sid."
"You think it's the work of one man, then?"
"I saw nothing to indicate otherwise."
"There's lots of talk it's the work of a team of hoodlums."
"Who's doing the talking, Sid?"
"Cops."
"Do they know something they're not sharing?"
"Naw, it's just talk. Some shrink in the department has it that way ... you know how that is. Guy's an odd duck, name of Hamel. Says he believes it's the work of two men, or a man and woman working in connection."
"This guy Hamel give you any reason to believe him?"
"Lots of mumbo jumbo about strong wills overcoming weak wills, that the knife wielder is sometimes in the power of the one who plans the whole thing, then sends this shlep out to kill because he hasn't the stomach for it. Typical psychobabble that goes out to every division on a multiple-kill case, you know."
"But what's he basing this on? Evidence or bull, or what? How does he know there's a second killer involved here?"
"He doesn't. Nobody does. It was just an idea he tossed out, damned if people in Central didn't take the bait. Some of ‘em are actually arresting gay couples as a result."
"How many cops they got on this case?"
"It's got so big they're all on it."
"All?"
"From the lowliest traffic cop to the Mayor."
"Isn't that kind of nuts? I mean, given the fact you don't have any kind of a make on the guy?"
"Dean, I got some hair and few lint balls, and now they're looking for a light-haired, cheaply dressed man who probably shops at K-Mart."
Dean laughed hysterically, recalling how Sid had kept them laughing at the MASH unit where they'd worked together years before. “Pared it down considerably, didn't you, Sid?"
"Don't you know it."
He turned the car off the toll road and they were weaving through downtown Orlando.
"You know the type of case we got here, Dean.” He continued talking as he threaded through difficult traffic. “It's the kind where whoever gets the guy is going to wind up a hero in the eyes of the department, with a citation. Usually some faggot that's running nude through the rhododendrons, but hell, Dean, we're talking about a mass murderer here."
"Yeah, I seen that much."
"Hold on, you're about to see more."
"The redhead in the picture?"
"Came up with something interesting on the slides."
"Is that right?"
"It's going to blow you away, Dean, old boy."
"Anything like nail polish, or warpaint?"
"You bastard,” shouted Sid, staring across at him and almost hitting someone in his lane before he put his foot hard on the break. “How'd you know?"
"Just an educated guess. Where there's scalping, there's usually warpaint of one sort or another. The wounds were cut in shapes that mean something to the killer, perhaps, and I wondered if he might not use some sort of makeup on himself, or his victims, for some ritual purpose or other."
"Damn, Dean, you're a little scary, you know that?"
* * * *
Dean was impressed by the glitteringly clean hallways and offices of the Orlando Central Forensics Division and Criminal Detection Agency, OCFDCD, or DCD, as Sid preferred. Sid's office was more spacious than Dean's lab back in Chicago, and all stops were pulled out to furnish the place with the best furniture. Mauve and pastels captured the eye along with sparkling glass and steel. Even the paintings and pictures on the walls were chosen with care. There were thriving plants everywhere, too. The effect was sterile, and the decidely Floridian growth in the planters in the halls and foyer and Sid's office were an attempt, perhaps, to compensate for the calculated pink-ness of the place.
But when Dean was escorted to the slab room, it was like any other. There was an area with refrigerated drawers where cadavers were kept, and three operating theaters, since the place doubled as a teaching hospital. The clinical labs were beyond Dean's wildest dreams. He'd give his right arm to have any one of them in Chicago. The most modern equipment abounded, and there was even talk of setting up a DNA testing site on the premises, the newest technological advance in the war on crime. Sid had it all, and he didn't mind gloating about it.
"You're stalling, Sid, showing off this palace of science. That isn't what I'm here for. What gives?” Dean finally asked.
"Stupid to try and fool you, Dean ... but some people want to meet with you and get your impressions regarding the latest victim of the Scalper—that's what they're calling him in the press now, Scalper."
"And who is it I'll be meeting, Sid?"
Sid laughed a bit nervously. “A couple of cops that are assigned to the case, and their chief, and this guy Hamel, the shrink."
"Why all the to-do, Sid? I don't get it. Certainly not because of the floaters thing in Chicago, unless you made me out as some kinda guru to these guys."
"Not exactly that, Dean ... and I'm ... well, it's not exactly how I put it to you on the phone, old friend."
Dean wondered what Sid was driving at when suddenly the double doors were pushed open and a stretcher was wheeled into the room, followed by the men Dean assumed he was to meet. The two holding back the doors, he guessed, were the detectives, while the two sauntering behind must be the police chief and the psychiatrist.
There were quick introductions all around, Dean barely understanding that the two detectives were Park and Dyer. Dyer was quiet, moody-looking, maybe even pissed; and Park was certainly sullen. It was as if neither man wanted to be here. The chief, in a heavily accented voice, made the introductions, leaving Sid completely out, as if he weren't even in the room. Dean wondered if this were due to familiarity or contempt or both. Chief Ted “Slim” Hodges, large about the chest and middle, with a face that spread wide from the jowls and looked awkward below a cropped head of hair, wore civilian clothing, the buttons open for comfort, with heavy suspenders. He was loud, and saliva formed about the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
But it was Hamel who drew Dean's attention more than the others, for here was the bull-slinger he'd heard Sid speak of, and he was an incredibly striking human being. Tall, slender, but not too slender, with wavy blond hair and thick lashes, he recalled to mind the rugged adventurer type, the underwater diver, the mountain climber, and the rhino hunter rolled into one. His icy, blue-gray stare nailed Dean where he stood as the attendent wheeled the corpse closer.
"Dr. Grant, Dr. Hamel, our head of police psychiatry here in Orlando,” finished Chief Hodges. “He has been working closely with Park and Dyer here on the case."
"Benjamin Hamel,” said the man, extending a powerful hand to Dean, and they shook firmly, each caught in the other's gaze. He didn't appear to be a man who took his work lightly, nor one who might make a quick or sloppy diagnosis, Dean thought.
"We are here, Dr. Grant,” continued Chief Hodges, “to get a second opinion, in a sense."
"Second opinion? On the corpse, you mean?"
"Why, didn't Dr. Corman inform you?"
Dean shot a glance in Sid's direction. Sid put up his hands. “I didn't want to bias Dr. Grant's autopsy in any way."
"You wish me to do a complete autopsy on the victim?” asked Dean, surprised.
"For the sake of thoroughness, you see, to leave nothing to chance."