The Howling III

Chapter Eleven

The people at the hospital provided Ramsay with a small unused office at the rear of the first floor, next to the kitchen, to use for his interviews with the staff and employees. It had only a desk, two chairs, a file cabinet that would not open, and a hastily installed telephone. There was also a pervasive smell of bland hospital cooking coming in through the single window.

One of the chairs was occupied by a stenographer on loan from Ventura County. She took rapid, silent notes as Mrs Audrey Thayer, secretary and receptionist for the late Dr Qualen, answered the sheriffs questions.

Through the window Ramsay could see search parties labouring up the thickly wooded hillside, where the suspect may or may not have been seen running by one of the orderlies who found the body. Overhead was the persistent thrum of helicopters. There was one from the Ventura County sheriffs office, and several from television news departments.

The media had appeared miraculously less than two hours after Ramsay had received the report of Dr Qualen's murder. So far he had been able to avoid them with the help of Deputies Nevins and Fernandez, who stood out in the hallway looking as mean as they could manage.

Sooner or later he would have to talk to them, but Ramsay was determined to get as much as he could of his real work done first. Like most lawmen, he had a healthy distrust of reporters, a distrust he knew was mutual.

"Is there anything more you can tell me about this Mr Derak?" Ramsay asked the woman across from him. "Any little thing, no matter how unimportant it seemed at the time, might be helpful."

Mrs Thayer frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. Her hands were busy twisting a flowered hankie into a snake. "I'm sorry, Sheriff, but there really isn't anything more than what I've already told you. He was just an ordinary-looking man. Rather pleasant, he seemed at the time. Very insistent, though, about seeing Dr Qualen."

At the mention of her late employer, Mrs Thayer's ample chest convulsed in a sob. She unwound the hankie and dabbed at her eyes. Ramsay waited for the spasm to pass before he went on.

"And he said nothing to you about what business he had with the doctor?"

"Only that he was sent up there by Eleanor Chung. She supervises the admission desk in the lobby."

Ramsay nodded. He had already talked to Miss Chung and the woman who was on duty when Derak came in. They said he insisted on seeing the patient known as Malcolm in Room 108. Since he could show no evidence that he was related, they explained he would have to wait until regular visiting hours, then clear it with the doctor assigned to Malcolm's case. They declined to give him any more information, and when the man refused to leave, referred him to Dr Qualen.

"How long was he in the office with Dr Qualen before you heard the crash of the window breaking?"

"Not long. Not more that fifteen minutes. I don't see how he could have… could have…"

Ramsay spoke up quickly to head off another outburst of sobs. "And you heard nothing before that because of the soundproof construction of the walls, is that correct?"

"Nothing. Once, very faint, I thought I heard a voice, but I couldn't be sure."

Milo Fernandez entered, glanced at Mrs Thayer and spoke to Ramsay. "Dr Underwood is outside with his report."

"Good. Thank you very much, Mrs Thayer. That'll be all for now."

"You'll catch the… the terrible person who did this, won't you, Sheriff?"

"Yes, we will," Ramsay said with a lot more conviction that he felt. "He won't get away."

Reassured, Mrs Thayer gave him a teary smile and left the office. Ramsay told the stenographer to take a break, and sat back waiting for the pathologist.

Neal Underwood was a man happy in his work. He was plump and pleasant and had thinning blond hair that still had a curl to it. His biggest satisfaction in recent years had been the cancellation of Quincy, the farfetched television show that had a choleric pathologist rushing around shouting at everyone, solving crimes, making fools out of doctors and police alike. Dr Underwood did his job in a quiet and efficient manner, and had far more friends than enemies. He could make small jokes about how his patients never complained, and he did not even mind being referred to around the hospital as Dr Underground.

He took the chair across from Ramsay and laid a folder on the desk between them.

"As savage a killing as I've seen in some time," the pathologist said pleasantly.

"What was the cause of death?"

"My preliminary findings show it to be loss of blood from a severed jugular. The lower face, throat, and upper chest were severely lacerated. Many of the wounds, I'm relieved to say, probably occurred after the victim was already dead. He died very quickly."

"Any guess as to the weapon?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

"Teeth."

Ramsay let several seconds go by while he held the pathologist's mild gaze. "Teeth?"

"I told you you wouldn't like it."

"Human teeth?"

"Not likely. The human jaw is not constructed for attack. To kill with its teeth, an animal needs a protruding muzzle. That allows the jaws to open like this." Underwood demonstrated with his two hands, touching at the heel, making teeth of his fingers.

"What kind of an animal might that be?"

"Oh, lots of them. Shark, alligator, tiger, hyena… "

Ramsay saw him hesitate. "And?"

"And a wolf."

"Uh-huh. Would you say it's possible to construct a weapon that would make wounds like that, resembling teeth?"

"I suppose it would be possible, but it would make a damned inefficient weapon. It would be an awkward thing to carry around too. Impossible to conceal."

Ramsay pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on, but the next question had to be asked.

"Have you seen a killing like this before, Doctor?"

Underwood nodded slowly. He was no more eager to answer than Ramsay was to ask. "Similar. Several of them."

"Like to tell me where and when?"

"Right here. Last year. During the business at Drago."

Ramsay groaned inwardly. The damned dead village of Drago was destined to haunt him. "What do you think killed those people?"

"Wolves," Dr Underwood said without hesitation. "Yes, I know there hasn't been a wolf sighted around here since the turn of the century, and I know none was ever found, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Wolves. Where they came from, where they went, that's not my problem."

"You heard the stories?"

"Werewolves? Sure, I heard them. Who didn't? But if you think I am going to write werewolves and witches and fairies into my reports… well, forget it."

"It was no wolf that walked into Dr Qualen's office," Ramsay said quietly. "A man walked in there. One man. He carried no visible weapon."

"Sheriff, I don't envy you your job." Underwood slapped the folder he had laid on the desk. "There's my preliminary report. Make out of it what you will. Beyond the medical facts and observations contained therein, I have nothing to offer."

"Easy," Ramsay said. "Believe me, Doctor, I don't want werewolves any more than you do. I've just got to come up with some answer as to how a single man could do that kind of damage in a short space of time, then jump through a reinforced plate glass window to a concrete slab twenty feet down, then run off up into the woods and somehow elude a professional ground and air search party."

Underwood gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sheriff, I'll bet nobody told you it was going to be easy. Are you through with me?"

Ramsay waved him away. "Yeah, thanks, Doctor. I'll be down to talk to you later. Try not to mention you-know-what to our reporter friends, will you?"

"Are you kidding? I walked past a bunch of them in the lobby, and all they're talking about is werewolves. I even saw a couple of them sharpening wooden stakes."

Ramsay could not resist a smile. "That shows how much they know. Stakes are for vampires."

Dr Underwood nodded sagely and left the office.

It was past two o'clock and Ramsay had not eaten since a coffee and donut early this morning. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of the omission. He got up and went to the door where the deputies stood guard. To Fernandez he said, "How about seeing if you can scrounge something to eat. I'm not ready to run the gauntlet in the lobby yet."

Before the young deputy could answer, Holly Lang appeared wheeling one of the hospital food carts.

"I thought you men might be getting hungry," she said.

"You're magic," Ramsay told her.

She gave a tray to each of the deputies and wheeled the cart into the office. Ramsay closed the door behind her.

On covered plates there was coleslaw, roast beef, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, and peas. There was Jello for dessert and a flask of coffee.

"Not exactly cordon bleu, but nutritious, or so they tell me in the cafeteria."

"It looks great. And I promised the next meal was going to be on me."

"I'll catch up with you," Holly said. "Dig in while it's hot."

Ramsay began to eat. He could feel Holly watching him. "Go ahead and ask," he said.

"All right. How are you doing?"

"Just swell. It appears that a nice-mannered fellow named Mr Derak walked into Dr Qualen's office, bit him to death, jumped out the window, and disappeared. It's a piece of cake."

"You know Malcolm is gone, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"The nurse, Rita Keneally, says Dr Pastory came in early this morning, had Malcolm sedated, and took him away."

"So?"

"Don't you think there's a connection? This man Derak came here wanting to see Malcolm."

"If there is a connection, I'm sure it will come out when we talk to Dr Pastory."

"But I've asked, and nobody knows where he is."

Ramsay swallowed a mouthful of roast beef. "Holly, I am investigating a murder. I have two capable deputies and more help than I really want from the sheriffs of Ventura and Los Angeles counties. Suppose you stick to curing the sick and leave crime to me."

"God, I hate it when they get condescending."

"If by "they" you mean me, I'm sorry that's the way it sounded to you, but I do have an awful lot on my mind."

"Isn't kidnapping a big enough crime to get some attention?"

"Kidnapping? You're talking about Malcolm?"

"Who else?"

"As I understand it, that was a fairly routine transfer of a patient from one facility to another."

"Bullshit!"

Ramsay lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes back to the plate. From a desk drawer he drew a clear plastic folder with several sheets of a printed form inside. The sheets were spattered with a brownish stain.

"I have here," Ramsay said, "what they tell me are the official and correct forms for transfer of our patient Malcolm from La Reina County Hospital to some clinic. They are a bit messy because they were found on the desk of the late Dr Qualen, who was more or less lying on top of them."

"Have you read them?"

"Well,no, but-"

"I have," Holly snapped. "And there are some glaring irregularities."

"How did you get hold of these reports before I did?" Ramsay asked.

"I have friends here. The point is that although Dr Wayne Pastory's name is all over those forms transferring Malcolm to his own clinic, nowhere is the location of that clinic spelled out."

"So?"

"So I want to know where Malcolm was taken."

"When Dr Pastory shows up we'll ask him. How about that?"

"Fine, but what makes you think he's going to show up?"

"What happened here this morning won't exactly be a secret by the time the six-o'clock news hits the air," he said. "Unless Pastory is a damn fool, he'll show up here voluntarily and give us his version of what happened."

"Pastory is no fool," Holly said tightly, "but he may be something much worse."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Malcolm could be in real danger. While you sit here waiting for Pastory to stroll in and chat, he could be harming that boy in some dreadful way."

"Now listen to me, Holly. I know you have a special feeling for Malcolm, but it seems to me you're letting it get in the way of your professional judgement. I will want to question Dr Pastory as a witness, but as far as I know, he has committed no crime. This man called Derak is a bona-fide murder suspect. That is my number one priority, and it's going to stay that way until I have reason to change my thinking. Is that understood?"

She glared at him. "Oh, absolutely, Mr Sheriff, sir. You just go ahead and play Dirty Harry and hunt down your phantom murderer. I trust you won't mind too much if I do what little I can to try to find a boy who may be in trouble like you've never imagined."

"Do whatever you want to, Holly," Gavin said, making an effort to soften his tone. "But I'll appreciate it if you'll try not to interfere with the investigation."

She sprang to her feet and glared, fists clenched at her sides. "Don't worry, Sheriff. I won't come within shouting distance of your precious investigation."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she spun on her heel and marched out of the office, startling Nevins and Fernandez, who were finishing up their lunches out in the corridor. By the time Ramsay got to the door she was not in sight.

"What did you do to the lady doctor, Sheriff?" Roy Nevins asked. "She came out of there like her tail feathers was on fire."

"I asked her to please stay out of the way."

"Oh. Well." The deputy nodded as though that explained everything.

When he could postpone it no longer, Ramsay made his way out through the crowded lobby of the hospital. Every third person seemed to be carrying a television minicam on his shoulder. Those that didn't have cameras had tape recorders and phallic microphones which they thrust at anyone who moved within range. When Ramsay appeared they surged toward him like piranha to a goldfish. "Have you made an arrest, Sheriff?" "Any suspects?"

"What kind of wounds did the dead man have?" "Is it true his head was bitten off?" "Is there a link to the killings last year at Drago?" "What's your opinion of the werewolf theory?" Ramsay held up a hand like a traffic cop and waited a full minute until the reporters subsided into near silence. He said, "There have been no arrests. We are following up on several possible suspects. I cannot describe the fatal wounds at this time for fear of jeopardizing the investigation. The victim's head was not bitten off. No connection has been found to any other crimes. In my opinion werewolves exist only in cheap horror movies. Thank you all very much."

As he started toward the door the reporters crowded in around him, thrusting their ball-headed microphones close to his face, gabbling questions all at the same time.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I have a very important meeting that could be vital to the investigation. No, I cannot give you any more information. Excuse me."

Ramsay's progress through the crowd slowed to a near standstill as the mass of bodies around him pressed closer. As he was about to be pushed backward, a thick-shouldered man with forearms like Popeye shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints and curses from the reporters.

"Right this way, Sheriff. The car's outside." The man was vaguely familiar, but Ramsay could not immediately place him. However, this was no time to ask for ID. He fell in behind the man like a running back behind his pulling guard, and together they ploughed a furrow through the gaggle of reporters, out the door, and down the wide walkway to a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle.

Ramsay jumped into the passenger's side and the other man wedged himself behind the wheel. He slammed the little car into gear and they took off, barely missing a camera crew from the Los Angeles ABC affiliate.

By the time the reporters had collected themselves and dashed for their own vehicles, the Beetle had roared around the corner and turned off the road on to an all but invisible wagon track that led out of sight behind a row of eucalyptus trees. There the driver stopped and cut the engine.

When the caravan of media cars had roared past on the highway, Ramsay turned for a better look at his driver. "Thanks for the rescue," he said. "You've got a handy way with crowds."

"I played a little football years ago at Stanford."

"Do I know you? Ramsay asked.

"You might have seen me around. Name's Ken Dowd. I own a little shop in Darnay. Heard about what happened at the hospital this morning and thought maybe I could help you out."

"That so? In what way, Mr Dowd?"

"Call me Ken. Well, I heard how they're saying this killing was like the ones they had over at Drago before the town burned down. Werewolves, you know."

"I know," Ramsay said wearily.

"Well, back then I had occasion to help a fellow out. Came up from LA. Had to go into Drago after a woman or something. He came to my shop."

"What do you call your shop, Ken?"

The broad-shouldered man looked embarrassed. "The Spirit World. My wife's idea. I told her it sounded like a liquor store, but that's what she wanted, and half the money to set it up was hers. We sell occult books, Ouija boards, powders, potions, charms, chants. You name it."

"That's interesting, Ken, but I don't see how it's going to help me."

Dowd reached behind the seat and brought up a cardboard box the size of a double deck of playing cards. He handed it to Ramsay. The box was surprisingly heavy for its size.

"What is it?"

"Take a look."

Ramsay raised the flap and looked inside. It took a moment for him to recognize the contents.

"Silver bullets?"

"Calibre.38. I figured they ought to fit your police revolver."

"You're not joking with me, are you, Ken?"

"I am not. And I won't waste a lot of time arguing with you about whether there's such things as ghosts and vampires and werewolves. I have my own beliefs, but I'm not interested in convincing anybody else. I saw the way some of those people died in Drago, and I don't want to see any more. You can take these bullets or not, whatever you want. I happen to think they might save your life, and maybe some others too."

Ramsay looked closely at the man and decided he was not drunk or crazy or a fool. He hefted the box of bullets and dropped it into a side pocket of his uniform jacket.

"Thanks, Ken. I'll take them."

Dowd nodded soberly. "I don't think you'll be sorry, Sheriff." He fired the Volkswagen engine and drove back to the road.