Youngman gulped, and then obeyed.
Ryerson leaned over what was left of Walt Morgan. Detective Second Grade Bill Andrews of the Rochester Police Department, Homicide Division, put his hand on Ryerson's shoulder. "I know that Chief McCabe has given you authorization to be here, Mr. Biergarten, but if you're thinking of touching the victim's body-"
Ryerson glanced back. "I'm not about to touch him, Detective."
The detective, a tall, thin, nervous man in his late twenties, took his hand off Ryerson's shoulder. "Yes," he said, embarrassed, "of course you aren't."
Ryerson added, "Where's my dog?" Detective Andrews, protesting that Creosote might "corrupt the crime scene," had taken him from Ryerson.
"I gave him to one of the uniforms. He's okay." Ryerson could tell that the detective was having a pretty hard time of it; the smell in the corridor was awful, for starters-a mixture of bile, saliva, excrement, and blood; Ryerson imagined that it was probably like the smell of a slaughterhouse. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, studied Walt Morgan's corpse for a few moments-long enough to realize that most of its internal organs were gone-then straightened. "I've seen enough," he said.
There were several other people in the corridor: one of The Park's security guards, who stood well back from the body, two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, both of whom looked as if they were fighting to keep their lunches down, and a police photographer who said to Ryerson and the detective, "You guys finished here?"
Andrews managed, feeling proud of himself for it, Ryerson knew, "What's your hurry? The guy's not going anywhere-"
And the photographer answered, "How the hell can you tell it's a guy, for Christ's sake?" which, Ryerson decided, was a good question, though it was easy enough to answer.
"The shirt," he said and nodded at it. It was light yellow, short-sleeved, badly torn, and bloodstained, lying open on the corpse.
The photographer smiled a long-suffering kind of smile. "What about the shirt?"
Ryerson shrugged. "It buttons on the right. It's a man's shirt. Men's shirts button on the right."
Tom McCabe said to Ryerson, "He's number three." They were having coffee in the Building Seven cafeteria while the people from the crime lab made what sense they could of what had been found in Building Nine's basement corridor.
Ryerson sipped his coffee, set the cup down delicately. "Were the other two also… mutilated, Tom?"
McCabe smiled thinly. "Don't you mean, 'Were they eaten,' Rye? Isn't that what you mean?"
"That's what you think happened to this man?" Creosote was on Ryerson's lap jockeying for the proper sleeping position; he snorted and gurgled occasionally, though not as loudly or for as long as usual. Ryerson wondered if he might be coming down with something. In between the snorting and gurgling, he chewed disconsolately on the rawhide bone attached to his collar.
McCabe held his hand up, fingers outstretched. "Number one, the guy's heart is missing." He pulled his index finger down. "Number two, his liver's missing." The middle finger went down. "Number three, his lungs." The ring finger. "And number four, his genitals." The pinkie. "So unless we find those items some where, we have to assume that they were eaten."
Creosote whimpered. Very briefly, Ryerson read the slow rise of fear in him, like watching ice crystallize on a pane of glass. He stroked the puppy idly, whispered, "What's the matter, guy?" and asked himself, as he'd asked himself a dozen times before, why trying to read what was going on in the head of an animal was such an unpredictable thing, like trying to read a book written in a foreign language; he might decipher some of the words and sentences, but the real substance of the book was ultimately hidden from him.
McCabe went on, "And, no, the other two were merely mutilated. The woman, Tammy Levine, was almost literally torn apart. And that first guy, Simons, had his stomach ripped open, as if a bear had done it." He paused, added, "I've done some hunting in Alaska. I know about bears."
Ryerson glanced quickly around the cafeteria, noticing the people nearby. At a table to his right, a red-haired woman, dressed in a black pleated skirt and white blouse, was eating a cheeseburger and fries. Across from her at another table, an older woman dressed in a tent-like lab smock was daintily eating a hot turkey sandwich, mashed potatoes, and a glass of chocolate milk. At the table nearest him he saw a muscular young blond man who was having a small green salad and a cup of tea. He's on a diet, Ryerson realized, and wondered idly what a man who looked so clearly in fighting trim needed with a diet. He turned back to McCabe. "Sorry, Tom-I was drifting. What did you say?"
"I said, I've been in Alaska, and I know about bears."
"I see. And do you know about wolves, too?" Ryerson asked.
McCabe smiled and shook his head. "The only thing I know about wolves, Rye, is that their scat, their shit, has… bugs in it, like earwigs, that burrow right into your brain. I saw that on Never Cry Wolf. "
Creosote whimpered again. "Uh-huh," Ryerson said. "Well I think what we've got here is someone who thinks he's a wolf, as you've suggested." Again Creosote whimpered, and again Ryerson read fear in him; but it was much stronger now. "Not a real wolf, but someone who thinks he's a wolf, someone who wants to be a wolf-which, to my way of thinking, is a hell of a lot worse than the real thing."
"You don't buy this 'werewolf garbage, then, right?"
"I don't know." He sipped his coffee again, put the cup down less delicately. "I'll buy anything if the price is right, and the sales pitch is convincing enough." He leaned over the table. "And just between you and me, Tom, this particular sales pitch is becoming harder and harder to resist." A pause. "There's one thing that doesn't fit, though."
Getting rid of all the blood had always been the hardest part. Most of it came off easily enough under the shower with a good, abrasive soap, although it hurt the skin and made it red, so excuses had to be made to fellow workers: "Oh, I spent too long under the sunlamp," or "Just a touch of the flu." But still, in the dry spots, under the nails, at the cuticles, in the hair, the blood was almost impossible to get rid of altogether; small traces of it remained to scream Here, here is the guilty one! Which, upon reflection, was a moot point, because the guilt was so plain, so clear anyway. No one can hide such guilt. So everyone knew-they were just biding their time, gathering up evidence, making sure the case wouldn't be thrown out by a lenient judge because of a "technical error." That was their scam. So the blood was part of their evidence and had to be gotten rid of entirely. In the dry spots, under the fingernails, at the cuticles, in the hair. No blood, no evidence. Just the evidence of the eyes that were filled to overflowing with guilt.
"My dog's sick," Ryerson told Tom McCabe. Creosote was curled up on Ryerson's lap, flat face buried in his paws.
"Oh?" McCabe stood slightly and leaned over the table to look at Creosote. "Sorry to hear that. What's he? Old?"
"No. He's just a pup. And he's sick. I'd better get him out of here." He pushed his chair back. The cafeteria had been at least half full during much of his discussion with McCabe. Now, it being close to 4:30, the mid-shift people were just about ready to go back to work after the afternoon break. News of the carnage in Building Nine's basement corridor had not yet broken out. A woman named Elvira Larson had found the body, and she was under sedation at The Park's hospital. The only other people who knew anything were the security people and the Rochester Police assigned to the case. There were rumors, of course, and they'd kept people talking. During his thirty minutes or so at the cafeteria, Ryerson had overheard bits and pieces of speculation as well as good advice: "Stay away from the lower levels," and "Carry a can of Mace," and "Stay in groups of twos and threes, that's what I say." And during his time there in the cafeteria, Ryerson had reminded himself that the chances were good that the murderer was there, too, at one of the tables, scarfing down a Twinkie, or playing cards, or reading the latest horror thriller.