“Marvelous. I have a choice of standing in front of national TV and saying that we have made absolutely no progress in finding the ‘Headless Horseman,’ and heaven knows who decided to call this assassin by that name, or I get to stand there with my thumb up my nose and talk about vampires and supermen and whatnot.”
“Yes, sir. Better you than me, sir.”
“In the meantime, I see that they’ve scheduled the commissioner’s funeral for the day after tomorrow. Make sure that you rearrange the schedule to allow as many people as possible to attend. And see to the Honor Guard for escort duty.
“Will do, sir.”
A sergeant came rushing up to them, wide-eyed. “Lieutenant! Captain Underwood. They told me to find you. I’m afraid I have more bad news.”
“Not now, Holcolm. We’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.” Lieutenant Morris began his Barney Fife imitation again.
“This news can’t wait, sir.”
“Unless it pertains to this fiasco, it’ll have to wait.” The young officer had reached his limit of disturbing news for one day.
“Uh, I believe it is related, sir.”
Lieutenant Morris was exasperated. “Sergeant, we’ve just lost the commissioner, who was also a close friend. We are about to be deluged by the press. Now what is it that you think you have to tell us that just can’t wait?”
The officer’s voice shook. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the body has vanished from the morgue.”
“And for that you have to inter . . . What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. GRIL just informed us. Patrick’s body has disappeared.”
Morris started to light into him, but the captain interrupted. “Thank you, Sergeant. We appreciate you telling us. We’ll take it from here.”
“Yes sir! Thank you sir.” He scurried back to his desk before Morris had a chance to catch his breath.
As the sergeant went back to his duties, Underwood turned to Morris, “Lieutenant, one very important lesson can be learned from this. Don’t blame the messenger. We needed to be aware of this development before the media sprung it on us.”
“I see. Sorry, sir.” Morris’ voice was sullen.
“I don’t need or deserve your apology. The sergeant does. Find time today and apologize to him. Believe me, it will not be considered a sign of weakness. The men will love you for it.”
“Yes sir.” The lieutenant’s voice softened as he added, “You’re right, sir. I’ll do it as soon as I can.”
“Now, thanks for the briefing, but you need to get back to your duties. And I need to call the lab and make sure that I know as much about this latest development as the reporters who are going to be roasting us very soon. I always seem to be one step behind the press.”
The shadowy figure slipped into the building unnoticed by all. It was as if he didn’t exist. Gliding across the reception area, the door to the stairs eased open and the form glided upward toward the second floor, and Dr. Bell’s office.
Chapter 7
“Good morning, Captain.” Martha was at her desk early as usual. Underwood couldn’t remember the last time he arrived before her.
“Morning, Martha. Please get me a cup of coffee. Oh, and get Dr. Bell on the phone please.”
“At once, sir.”
He entered his office and made himself comfortable behind his desk. It was only a few moments before the intercom buzzed, “Dr. Bell on line two, sir.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the phone, “Sam, what is this crap about Patrick?”
“I wish I could give you some good news, Jim, but the body has vanished without a trace. I can’t even give you any excuses. Theoretically, there’s no way it could happen. Whoever did this must have wandered up to the third floor of a security building and picked up the two hundred pound body. Then they took it down the elevator, through the main lobby and walked him out to their car. Or they carried this corpse down three flights of stairs, stopping to buy a drink at the machine on the second floor and then probably hailed a taxi. I tell you, it’s not possible. With our security, you couldn’t get anything larger than a stapler out of the building. There’s no way to get a body out, as if somebody would want to. After all, this isn’t
Weekend at Bernies
.”
Underwood’s voice was as quiet as the doctor’s words were agitated. “Apparently someone wanted to, and did.” Martha walked in, placed a mug of coffee in front of him and exited without saying a word.
“Well, yeah, there is that. But Jim, let me assure you it wasn’t through any carelessness or dereliction of duty on the part of my staff that this--”
A chuckle from Underwood. “Sam, you can save that wonderful speech for the mayor and the press. You’ll need it. I warned you that there were more of these people out there. They killed Patrick in the middle of the police station with two guards just outside his cell. With a sword, no less. A day later they returned and killed Commissioner Williams inside the same police station. Carrying a corpse around a public building without arousing any suspicions is just what I’d expect of them.
“I think we’ve gotten over our heads on this one.”
“You may be right.” He paused to take stock of the situation. “I assume the records are also gone.”
This time the chuckle came from Bell. “You assume correctly. Apparently this guy was ambidextrous. As near as we can tell, he must have folded the body under one arm while he carried a large box in the other. All written reports, photographs and videotapes have disappeared. He even found time to sneak into the histology lab and take all of the specimens and slides. With all the stuff missing, he must have brought a donkey with him.”
“Well of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.” The captain paused again to consider the next step. “Can you reproduce your findings?”
Now it was the doctor’s turn to consider. “I believe I can duplicate most of the information. Keep in mind, other than the blood, there were no major abnormalities in the Patrick case. He appeared a normal human being. The extra bodies in the blood were the only major find. All of the blood and tissue samples are gone, of course, but I can remember the major results of my study. It may take a few days to remember all of the details, but I’ll begin working on it immediately. In the meantime what can we do about it? What can we do about these people? What should we do now?”
Another chuckle from the police chief. “I don’t know about you but I’m going to see if Inspector Clouseau has any openings in his department.”
The figure had heard enough. After gliding into the doctor’s spacious office, the shadow had moved into an unused corner, to see what information could be picked up. It was imperative that the Chosen know exactly how much the normals knew. The doctor was going to be a problem. His study of the blood gave him data that could prove dangerous. As the doctor hung up the phone, the figure leaned forward in anticipation, and the sword gleamed.
Just then Doctor Barker and Doctor Summers walked into Bell’s office arguing in a light-hearted manner.
“No, man. The Braves are dead. They can’t win their division this year, let alone the Series.”
“Aw come’on. They’ve still got the pitching. Granted they’re getting a little long in the tooth by now, but they can keep the Braves on top for another year or two. All they need is a good closer.”
“Listen at you, man. They always need a closer. Every year the bullpen . . .”
The figure backed into the corner, lowering the sword, and willed the doctors not to see him. The interns ignored him completely.
“Dr. Bell, we’re going out for pizza. Come with us. My treat.”
“Why, thank you Doctor Barker. And what is the occasion for this festivity?”
“Well, I don’t want to make it a big deal, but Gail found out last night that she’s pregnant again.”
Dr. Bell’s face lit up. “Wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Doc. We hope this one’s a boy.”
The small talk continued as the men walked out of the office. The shadow watched them go. Taking Bell when he was alone seemed the prudent course right now. There would be another time. The figure moved out into the hallway, and was gone.
Any chance of keeping a lid on the story died with the disappearance of the body. The media descended on the city like a plague. Dozens of reporters jammed the entrances to the station and quoted anyone who sneezed on their way into the building. Television cameras abounded, at the station and at the homes of most of the officers in charge. Anyone who was thought to know anything spent their days hounded by the press. For five days the media circus went on. Then a jumbo jet went down in a suburb of Chicago and took out a block of residences, and the media attention focused on the survivors like piranha around a Holstein. The Savannah police department normalized once again.
In the meantime information on the senator began to flow into Underwood’s office. According to her records, Mary Shaun O’Mullens was born in Louisville, Kentucky and lived there until she entered college at Kentucky Southern. However discrete inquiries revealed that, while there seemed to be records of her school attendance in Louisville, she did not appear in any yearbooks or class pictures during her entire school record. O’Mullens did not apply for a driver’s license until she entered college at the age of nineteen, in a state and time where teenagers could get a learner’s permit at fifteen and a full license at sixteen. There was also no record that either of her parents listed on her birth certificate had ever had a driver’s license. It was becoming increasingly evident that the records had been doctored. The senator couldn’t have gotten access to the records so someone else with clout had a hand in the fraud. She was one of the Chosen and they obviously had a powerful organization helping them change identities when needed. Underwood needed more information but the trail was cold and fiercely guarded. He would have to move with caution.
Patrolman Sam Beckman pulled his coat collar tighter as he moved toward the squad car, his arms loaded with goodies for the night’s trials and tribulations. The temperature had dropped into the low forties shortly after sunset, and, coupled with brisk spring winds, it felt a little nippy. He and Sergeant Johnson were teamed again, now that Johnson’s suspension had been lifted. Both officers liked to snack as they cruised the Savannah streets at night, and this Quik Mart gave them discounts to keep them coming around. Beckman approached the passenger’s side of the car. Johnson sat behind the wheel and started the vehicle as Beckman got in. They pulled out in traffic and started down Bull Street north toward the river. The radio squawked, “Unit Seventeen.”
Beckman grabbed the mike. “Seventeen, go ahead.”
The dispatcher sounded so sweet this evening. “A special message from Captain Underwood. You are to proceed to 1237 River Road north of the Tallmadge Bridge to pick up a package. The package is to be picked up and delivered to the captain’s house immediately.”
The two officers looked at each other. Beckman keyed the mike. “Dispatch, ten-nine.”
The radio operator repeated the message.
Johnson turned again to his partner and spoke. “River Road? Where in Sam Hill is that?”
“It’s just across the river in South Carolina. It goes back into the swamp.”
“Strange place to pick up a package.”
Johnson shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger. Let’s get going.” As he made a left, he added, “Did I ever tell you about the time I had to pick up a skeleton? Well, apparently they found this skull over in Beaufort…”
It took half an hour to make their way across town and over the bridge into South Carolina. Another fifteen minutes went by trying to find the right road leading away from Route 17. River Road was a dirt road on the best of days. The recent rains had turned it into a quagmire. The cruiser bounced and sloshed down the road for what seemed like ages, but when Johnson looked in the rearview mirror, he could still see the lights from the highway. As the road went further into the Savannah Wildlife Preserve, Beckman began to get annoyed. “I don’t remember any houses on this road. She didn’t say anything about how to find this package other than a street address on a road that leads into the heart of a swamp.”
Johnson nodded. He didn’t like the situation either. “Any idea how far back this road goes?”
“If it doesn’t end soon, we’ll be out in the Atlantic. Wait a minute! Here comes something.”
Their headlights picked up the dark shape of a car about fifty feet in front of them. The cruiser bucked and dribbled toward the shape.
The closer they got, the more uneasy they became. “This whole scenario stinks to high heaven. Get on the radio and let’s clarify this crap.” Beckman reached for the microphone.
The first of the high-powered rounds caught the officer just below the chin. Blood and bone fragments splattered all over the dashboard. The second shot was lower. Smashing through the radio receiver barely slowed it down as it slammed into Beckman’s lower torso. Johnson’s foot jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Instead of burning rubber, fountains of mud and water shot out behind the car and the car barely inched forward. A third shot smacked into the engine, silencing it instantly. Johnson tried to leap out of the car, but the next slug nearly took his right leg off, pulverizing both bones. The officer collapsed face down into the mud next to the disabled vehicle. He raised his head and reached for his portable radio, which hung from the left side of his belt. The radio exploded as the next bullet went through his hand, and struck the radio, driving plastic and metal into what little remained of the bones of his hand and lower arm. In shock and already growing weak from loss of blood, he lay there waiting for the coup de grace, which never came. The shooter walked away, leaving the immobilized policeman trying to crawl to safety. Johnson didn’t make it ten feet.
Underwood was dreaming. He had to be. Strapped naked to a table, the only thing that he could move was his head. Sudden recognition flooded his mind as he looked from side to side. This was the room in Patrick’s house they had found the boy. The terrible room where the monster had done such unspeakable things to the helpless teenager, and then cheerfully boasted about it later. As he struggled to free himself from the bonds, an unseen voice spoke from above his head. “Ahh, at last you wake!” He tried to turn his head but failed to locate the source of the voice. “Moving around like that will only make you uncomfortable . . . And we wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now, would we?” A short fit of maniacal giggling turned Underwood’s heart to ice.
A new sound reached his ears as he struggled to free himself. Something on wheels began to slowly roll in his direction. As it neared, the sound seemed to change pitch, then stopped only to start again. Patrick came into view, pulling a cart filled with knives. Lying across the collection was a broadsword, at least five feet long. The dark man picked up the huge blade. “I think we’ll start with this one.” He raised the sword over his head.
The sound changed, becoming more shrill as it stopped and started, stopped and started again and again. Patrick tilted his head as the ringing became insistent. Underwood noticed for the first time an object covered with a cloth on the cart. Patrick set down the sword and raised the cloth, revealing a phone. He picked up the receiver and listened for what seemed to Underwood to be hours. Finally he turned to the captain and smiled, revealing long, jagged fangs. “It’s for you.” As he reached out with the phone, it became a dagger, and Patrick plunged it into the captain’s heart.