Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (29 page)

"We will,"
Loring assured him.

* * *

He watched them drive away, then got into his own
car, his thoughts on his "wife," on Margaret. Abaddon's
command sounded again . . . She, too, had the mark on her, she too
had been corrupted. How else could she have tricked him into
believing she was his mother. If he loved her, there was no
alternative. His course of action was clear.
 

CHAPTER 24

ERIN HAD to admit she was excited as they neared the
police station — it seemed her experience and background might help
the investigation. She looked at Mercanto driving, and felt
exhilarated to be with this man, even be part of his work. Whenever
he was around, things certainly seemed to happen. A relief from the
static environs of museums and academia.

"What do you think they'll do when you tell them
about what we've found out?" she asked, curious about how their
information would be used.

Mercanto glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Don't know. I’ve never had any experience with this sort of
thing before. It's another piece of the puzzle, a reason for what
he's doing, but it doesn't identify him. It helps, though . . ."

One of the things she liked best about him was his
lack of pretense. If he knew something he said it, if he didn't he
said that too.

As they passed the turn-off to the parking lot in the
Valley Green section he pointed. "Down there is where I found
the first body."

She shivered slightly at
the memory of his description of that night.

* * *

At the station house he told her that he and
Lieutenant Sloan didn't get on too well. He didn't elaborate. Once
inside, Mercanto asked the desk sergeant where Sloan was. "Upstairs
with the drug people, they just brought in the stuff on your boy
Rashid/' the sergeant told him.

Maybe the case was finally breaking. "Come on,"
he told Erin, taking her by the arm.

They hurried upstairs to where Sloan was talking to
two detectives Mercanto did not recognize. Both were in their late
twenties, unshaven and dressed for the street. One wore a leather
jacket, the other a dirty navy peacoat.

When Sloan spotted Mercanto he said, "Come on
in, I want you to hear this," and added when he’d taken in the
young woman with the schoolboy glasses, "who’s that?"

Mercanto introduced Erin, saying that she was the
Caribbean expert from the museum.

"Ask her to wait outside."

Erin could understand why Mercanto and this Sloan
didn't get along, but she did as she was asked.

After she had gone, Sloan said to the other two
detectives, "Okay, let's have it, what have you got on this
Rashid."

The one in the peacoat said, "They found him
earlier this week in a crack house near Twentieth and Diamond.

Somebody had pumped a couple of .357’s into him.
The reason for the delay is that nobody identified the body until
today. For such a high roller he was a low-profile guy."

Mercanto held his breath as Sloan asked, "What
about the body, was it mutilated?"

"Not more than you would expect from a couple of
.357’s," said the one in the peacoat.

Disappointment crossed Sloan's face. Mercanto felt
the same way.

The leather jacket said, "Hey, lieutenant,
what's the big deal? You're looking for a blond. This guy was
anything but a blond."

"I think we know that already from his name,"
Sloan said. "What we were hoping was to tie it in to one of his
associates. Both victims were users. We’re sure in the first he was
the seller. In the second we're not so sure but it looks right."

"Believe me, lieutenant," said the one in
the leather jacket, "this guy had no blond companions. In the
circles he traveled in a blond would stick out like Rudolph the
Red-Nosed Reindeer."

"You're sure?"

"
Positive," said peacoat. "Is that all
you need from us?" When Sloan nodded they stood up. "We’ll
be going then. Good luck on this case. Everyone wants to see this guy
caught. If you need anything more from us, give a holler."

When they had gone Sloan rubbed his hand over his
bald head, as though there was still some hair there. "A damned
dead-end. There goes the closest thing we've had to a lead."

He looked at Mercanto. In spite of what he'd felt
since the Rudy Gunther investigation, he did have to admire
Mercanto's thick-skinned, bulldog tenacity. "Look, Mercanto, I
was rough on you this morning."

"Forget it."

"Yeah, we both just want this guy caught."

Sloan nodded. "Why did you bring that woman
here?"

"We've just come from the psychiatrist’s
office. He's on his way here to confirm what she’s going to tell
you."

"Okay, bring her in."
Hell, at this point he was willing to listen to anything. Time was
their enemy. The psychiatrist had said the ki1ler’s rational
periods would get shorter and shorter. Which meant he would soon be
ready to kill again-maybe even tonight.

* * *

"I know the voodoo angle didn’t work out, but
after this morning I felt there was still something I was missing so
I went back to the museum," Mercanto said when Erin had joined
them. "Where I'd gone wrong was, I wasn't asking the right
questions. I was concentrating on Jamaica instead of Haiti."

None of this was making any sense to Sloan. "Wait,
you said you told this to the psychiatrist and he’s coming out to
confirm it . . ."

"That’s right, Dr. Foster. Why don’t you
pick it up, Erin?"

For the third time in as many hours Erin went through
her story about the Haitian shaman, his ceremony, and what he had
done that ended in his death by the villagers, being very careful not
to use the word "werewolf." She was just finishing the
story of Jean Grenier, the French boy who had been sentenced to the
monastery instead of prison, when Dr. Foster arrived.

"You've heard all this . . ." Sloan said.

Foster nodded. "Yes, and because of the rareness
of the disorder I have to admit it didn’t occur to me, but
everything she says makes very good sense. In fact, I'm sure she's
right. It's a very unusual form of schizophrenia, only two or three
known cases in the past decade or so."

Sloan looked at Erin. "You say the killer
believes he’s some sort of beast, a wolf? Come on, I can't buy
that. It's out of an old Lon Chaney flick."

Dr. Foster got up and made sure the door was securely
closed. "It's no Lon Chaney movie, believe me. We're talking
about the disease the werewolf legend is based on."

"Are you crazy? The three of you are sitting
here trying to tell me we have a damned werewolf loose in Fairmount
Park? I've got days, maybe only hours to stop a nut before he kills
again, and you come to me with a cockamamie story about some guy
covered in hair howling at the moon. This is bullshit."

Foster raised a hand. "You misunderstand. We
said this disorder is what the werewolf legend is based on, not that
he was one. He does not grow hair or fangs. You were right, that’s
in the movies. But schizophrenia in this form is a problem of
perception accompanied by hallucinations. When, for example, he looks
in the mirror he thinks he is actually turning into a wolf, with hair
and the rest, but of course he is not. It is in his mind, in his
altered perception of reality. That's what the disease is about,"
he said. As he talked he could not help thinking about Margaret's
patient, the incident in the clothing store . . . He hoped she was
right in her defense of him. But if not . . .

Sloan sat back in his chair. "Okay, I don't
believe it, but assuming what you say is true, how does it help us
catch him? Does it, say, make him any more predictable?"

"Explainable, not necessarily more predictable.
There is a cause and effect relationship not always present in other
paranoid schizophrenics. The wolf aspect takes over only when he
feels threatened by guilt, usually associated with early sexual
experiences."

"So he might have longer periods when he's
normal than you thought this morning? As long as he's not
threatened?" asked Sloan.

"
Yes, that's right."

"Well, I guess that's something . The only thing
to do is continue with our plans for the park and hope if he tries it
again we can catch him at it. Meanwhile, I don't want this stuff to
leave this room. You can imagine what the papers would do with it.
First a cannibal, now a werewolf. Sweet Jesus."

As they were about to leave Sloan said, "Mercanto,
I want to see you a minute . . . alone." After Erin and the
doctor were gone, he said, "There's nothing I can do to keep you
out of this case, is there? Okay, you’re back in it. Officially. Be
back here at midnight in plain clothes. You're going into the park.
Maybe if I keep you up all night I can stop you from bringing in some
other crackpot scientist to tell us Frankenstein’s monster is our
killer."

Mercanto smiled. "I’ll be here."

Erin was waiting for him in the hallway. Dr. Foster
had already gone.

"
Where's the doctor?" he asked.

"He said something about doing more research,
then he's coming back. Well, what did the lieutenant want?"

"Just to give me my orders. I have to be back at
midnight to go on patrol."

"Patrol where?"

"
The park, maybe I can turn up Frankenstein's
monster."

"Don't joke." She took his arm in an
instinctive gesture, the hard muscle beneath his sleeve felt
reassuring. Ordinarily she had no doubt he could take care of
himself, but this was different. She had, after all, seen the type of
man they were after. "Be careful," she said. "I mean
it."

"I will . . . Now, how about some lunch?"

"You’re on."

Downstairs the desk sergeant stopped them. "Mercanto,
there’s a phone call for you. Line four."

On the line he heard the voice of DeBray, the man who
worked for his brother.

"Nate, I’m at the hospital. When I got to the
garage Frank was in a bad way. After I got him here he wanted me to
call you. Nate . . . he’s not going to make it. They’ve called
for the priest. You'd better hurry. The last thing he said was to
tell you to stop by his place and pick up his rosary, the one that
belonged to your mother."

He had known all along this day was coming, but now
that it was here he was no more prepared for it than if it happened
out of the blue. "I’m on my way," he managed to get out,
hung up and told Erin.

"I’m going with
you," she said, "and you’re not driving either. Give me
the keys."

* * *

Spring Garden Street was the quickest way to Frank's
garage but she had to slow down to twenty-five to make the lights. As
they passed the Fraternal Order of Police building near Broad he
thought of how he and Frank had celebrated his reinstatement to duty
there with two many beers at the conclusion of the Rudy Gunther
business. How proud he was

"
God, we had some times," he said, then was
silent again. She didn't try to make him say more, only gave his knee
a squeeze.

They parked in front of Frank’s garage. "Want
to wait here?"

"You're not getting rid of me so just forget
it."

All in Frank's apartment was clean, in its place,
unlike the last few times he’d been there. It was as if Frank had
known, used his last strength to be sure no one would see it that
way. She waited while he went to the bedroom, and in a moment heard
him saying, "No . . . no . . ." She ran in to see him
standing in front of an old bureau. One of the small drawers at the
top was open. In his hand was a wallet. She looked inside the drawer
and saw pictures, of Mercanto and Frank, the rosary and a
pearl-handled derringer.

"What's wrong?" she said, then looked down
at the wallet. It was open to a driver's license with a picture.

The name on the driver's license was Stanley
Hightower. "But that’s the name of the dead man? What does it
mean?"

He shook his head, remembering the day he found
Frank's phone number in Hightower's address book. "I don't
know."

He pocketed the wallet and started for the door. Erin
took up the rosary and followed.

At the hospital they were met outside the intensive
care unit by a black man dressed in work clothes and a cap
advertising Colt .45 Malt Liquor.

"Nate, thank God you made it . . . You can't go
in yet," he said, pointing to the door. "The doctor is with
him now. They had to put him on a respirator."

Mercanto looked around. The sights and smell of
hospitals was nothing new to him, dating back to their parents' death
and continuing through his years on the police force. He'd been in
corridors like this too many times.

"Where’s the priest?"

"Father Dom . . . he’s in there with him,"
DeBray said. Mercanto looked at him in silence for a moment, then:

"Come over here, I need to speak to you."