“Also, Jack, someone disturbed enough to be part of mass murder, however passive the role, out of sheer hatred or mental imbalance or whatever, let's say, but bright enough and imaginative enough to have created a make-believe world where someone shows them pictures of graves inside a concrete tunnel—that is going to be one complex individual. He will probably sense he is deeply disturbed if his dementia allows rational introspection. Thus you have the cry."
“But what if it's for real?"
“Is your sense of Ukie that he's being influenced or manipulated by an accomplice? How do you clock him? And what does the testing show? Pollies and all."
“Polygraphs haven't shown diddly. Just too conflicting and inconclusive. I think my sense of it is that not only is Ukie capable of BEING influenced, I think somebody has been terrorizing him. It's hard for me to buy any part of the thought-manipulation in a brain pathway, but I don't think he's faking the scared part. He may even believe all this stuff—who knows? Another thing I wonder. Could he have killed all these people, through anger or whatever, then blocked it all out, and is using this as the way of taking it all back inside his head?"
“Mmm. I suppose it would be remotely possible, but if he is an extremely tormented individual who finally went all the way ‘round the bend and began murdering random victims, it's rather unlikely when he abducted a woman and raped her that he'd let her live for days, much less weeks. That kind of a criminal psychotic would be much more likely to rape and kill her at the moment of ejaculation or soon after. Or, like a friend of ours from the past, kill the girl and THEN rape her. You're dealing with massive amounts of rage and hostility."
“What's your feeling about the theoretical possibility of a neural pathway, and the likelihood that a stronger, dominant person could somehow cause you to think or visualize things on that level whenever they wanted?"
“You mean by hypnosis or sheer will or whatever?"
“Right.” Eichord could hear the doctor let out a deep breath as he framed his reply.
“Wish I could recall those findings on telepathic manipulation. Years ago some institution—Duke University perhaps, I just don't remember-Aid a major study. Check the psych abstracts."
“Somebody else told me to do that. What are they exactly?"
“Okay. You're in Dallas, right?"
“Right."
“Great—” And he began telling him where he could go and how to use the psychiatric abstracts, and how to look up the subject matter and the date, and as he was explaining how to use the catalogued data Eichord said, “You mean just look up the general heading first, like ‘TWINS,’ and then—” “Whoa. Shit, Jack. Did I read somewhere the suspect had a twin sibling?"
“Yeah. Twin brother."
“Whooooooaaaaaabhhhhh. Hold it, hold it, hold it. Whoa, horse."
“Huh?"
“You didn't say anything about a twin. Ukie is a twin!"
“Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just hadn't got around to it yet."
“Oh, well, WELL now. That could change everything. Let me think now, just a second.” He paused and Eichord said before he forgot to ask, “Let me say one thing while you're thinking. Would you be so kind as to let me ship these surveillance tapes to you? I know it's one hell of an imposition, but would you have time to take a look at them? I'd just send one or two to give you a feel of the man. I'd be so grateful if you would have time to—"
“Send ‘em soon as you can. Glad to do it. Now listen. You're talking about identical twins?"
“Yep. I met the brother. Ukie in appearance. Deeper voice or more mellow in his speaking voice. Dresses better. Seems mannerly. Speaks in a very soft-spoken, not exactly deferential way but just a very pleasant way. Nice dude, Seems awfully, genuinely personable. Totally unlike Ukie or at least that's what you get right under the facade. Same exterior, totally different interior is the impression. Clean background. Ultra-successful businessman in Houston. Doesn't seem bitter in any way toward his brother. Acts convinced that Ukie is innocent."
“The twin thing..."
“Yeah?"
“That changes everything, though, Jack. It adds another dimension. If our Ukie is a same-twin you've immediately got a whole new set of possibilities, see? And they're diametrically divergent. You know the fantasy of having a twin is that it's another you but it doesn't work that way. You think you're going to have a best friend who looks like and thinks just the way you do. It's like a kid having a pet but better because it talks. But the twinning reality is often quite different. Largely negative relationships can develop. One can be super-critical or jealous of the other, If Ukie was hostile toward his twin, and bright, this could be an extremely intricate piece of invention to put a frame around his brother's successful neck, right? Conversely his brother-okay, this gets very iffy—but suppose Ukie's twin could manipulate him in some way, the way the frame might work in reverse. Both theoreticals are too far out for me, I'm just shooting from the hip. But the twin thing. Ahhhh, now that's a rich area."
Eichord made a pained noise like a “hmmmmmmm” and the man said, “Jack, I think you might want to look closely at the twin brother's relationship to our suspect."
“Oh, Doctor, I don't really feel like there could be much there. I'm checking it out but aside from a bit of resentment on Ukie's part for what he imagines as disloyalty—you'll see that in the interrogations I'll send you—I don't think there's too much happening there. Joseph Hackabee, the twin brother, he came in on his own when he saw the story in the newspapers in Houston. I doubt if we'd ever found out about him or reached for him had he not shown up wanting to help his brother. They had falling-out several years ago and hadn't kept in touch over this last four or five years ... Eichord trailed off.
“Twins is something, though, Jack. There's a wealth of potential for a uniquely complex relationship and this series of crimes—wow. I mean, do you still use the rule of thumb that anything beyond four killings qualifies?"
“Yes. That's pretty much the official line. Once the tally goes past four it's a serial-murder case and I get notified. Of course you can have ten or twenty deaths in an isolated shooting and not have a serial killer. I get tapped when there are more than four different homicides within a geographic area or a proximate occurrence pattern timewise. Unofficially the definition is simpler. If it makes headlines."
“If it's serial murder when it's four, what is it when it's—"
“A hundred and four?"
“Yeah.” He laughed without humor.
“It's bloody mass murder is what it is. And we're looking for light at the end of the tunnel."
“I hear that. What you need to do is contact Randy Vincent. He's at CMH Sacramento. Let me give you his number. Find my Rolodex here in all these papers—"
“Where is he? What were those letters?"
“CMH, California Mental Hospital. Here it is. Nine-one-six ... three-six-six—Wait. No. This is the one on Stockton. No. Here's the number you want. The administrative offices. Call this number and ask for Doctor Vincent.” He gave him the number. “He worked in the federal system. He was the one they called in when they were testing Gacey at the mental-health facility in Illinois. He goes around to all the lockups where they have the max-security psychos. He's got a deep background in sexually disturbed psychopathia and he's going to know everything there is to know on the phenomenon of twinning That's his primary area of expertise. Tell him we talked. He's a good guy. He'll be perfect to give you some good info on the twins thing, not to mention the criminal psych angle. Okay?"
“I really appreciate it, again."
“Shoot me those tapes too, and I'll get right back to you."
Jack thanked him and hung up, called and requested dubs of four of the surveillance videos, and called the hospital administration out in California.
“Is Doctor Vincent there?"
“Doctor Vincent? Randy Vincent?"
“Randy? We have a Vincent Johnson in Personnel."
“Don't you have a physician there named Dr. Randy Vincent?” A pause and then.
“Hold on, please.” Probably somebody who just started working there. A long ... deadly ... pause.
Minutes slowly ebb and flow. A syrupy tide measured by seconds that echo the heartbeat hammer of a headache briefly dormant, now thrumming below the surface as the seconds drag by on hold, receiver changed to the other ear.
The.... (tick).... long ... (throb).... deadly.... (tick).... pregnant.... (throb).... pause. Christ! He looks up at the clock and after four minutes he clicks the line. Gets a dial tone. Dials the number again. Same woman's voice.
“Yes"—an edge of steel hardens his voice—"this is the same long-distance party that was waiting on hold for Randy Vincent. This call is police business and I was disconnected while I was on hold.” He lies.
“One moment, ple-uhz, sorry we disconnected you.” Click. (Tick) ... (throb).... (tick).... (throb).
“Personnel?"
“Yes."
Good Christ above. “My name is Eichord, I'm with the Major Crimes Task Force and we're involved in an investigation of a Murder case.” Really laying it on. “It is vitally important that I reach Doctor Randy Vincent."
“One moment please.” (throb).... And, mercifully, a click and a woman's voice says, “Hi. Are you trying to reach Doctor Vincent?"
“Yes, I am. Is he there?"
“No. He hasn't been here for over a year. I'm not sure where he can be reached. Would you want me to check to see if we have forwarding information on him?"
“Yes, please. But wouldn't someone there know where he is? I mean, he's a nationally known physician.” Eichord was beyond any compunction. Just get it done somehow.
“It's the fact we're so big. This is a very large facility and so many people are new here. I remembered the name from an old personnel roster. If you'll hang on for half a minute I can check."
“Please. It's quite important.” Half a minute, he thought as the phone banged in his ear. At least she gave him an ETA. That was golden as far as he was concerned.
“Hello."
“Yes,” he said, holding his breath.
“I can't find any forwarding address.” (Siiiiiiiiiggghhhhh.) “But I've got a phone number. Would that help?"
He took the number and hung up, dialing with fingers mentally crossed.
“Hello,” a woman's voice on the seventh ring, a slightly foreign-sounding accent he couldn't place.
“I trying to reach Doctor Vincent. This is long distance.
“I'm berry chorry, he not here."
“May I ask with whom I am speaking?"
“Eh?"
“Who are you, please?"
“Dis is de maid. You call later, okay?"
“No, wait, DON'T HANG UP YET,” he yelled before he could catch himself. “Listen. This is very urgent. WHERE ... IS ... THE ... DOCTOR? WHAT HOSPITAL IS HE AT?"’ Throb.
“I teek he at the BA."
The VA hospital. Ah-ha. “What city is this I'm calling?"
“Eh?"
“This is long distance. I called area code six—” Click. “Oh, don't hang up, goddammit,” he swore at a dead phone. There was a long period of dialing, the woman again, United Nations-style translation ... tick ... throb ... Finally he had the city. Bonita, California. He dialed directory assistance. Got the offices of the VA hospital.
“Hello—Veteran's Administration.” They'd given him the wrong number. Back through the operators, obbing, ticking, the romance and excitement of policework, throb, tick, another switchboard, a VA hospital in California and a woman telling him, “No, I'm sorry, there's no Doctor Randy Vincent here to the best of my knowledge. Wait a second. Just, uh, hold on a second,” she promised him one second and she kept it quick, clicking back on crisply, saying, “Here's someone who can help you. I'm connecting you."
“Thanks.” THROB....
“Yes?"
“I'm trying to find a doctor named Randy Vincent. An idea where I can lo—?"
“Oh!” The woman laughed into the phone. “He has his own consultancy now, I believe. I think you can reach him this week at—you want to write this number down?"
“Yes, go ahead please."
“Country Code Forty-one. City Code Twenty-one.” She gave him a long and strange-sounding number which included an extension.
“Do you happen to know what this is?"
“I believe it's a clinic."
“No. I mean what country this is, what city?"
“That's Lausanne, Switzerland."
Fucking wonderful. He dialed direct. At least he wouldn't have it on his motel bill and have to use one of those cards he was always misplacing. The line rang fifteen times. He had the operator place it again.
“What time is it there, miss?” It finally occurred to him that it was after office hours.
“It is seven-forty-six there, now."
“Thanks. Cancel please. I'll replace the call tomorrow."
T H R O B.... T I C K. Lunchtime: 12:46. He'd have a little lunch and be all n’ lit in no time. This afternoon, one more call—Donna Scannapieco. Line her up for the house. He wasn't particularly looking forward to having to drag her through the experience but you never knew what it might shake loose from the trees.
Come back. Make one more call. Shuffle a few papers around. Go back to the motel and play with his mangy mutt. Or something.