The end of the night (15 page)

Scores of tips came in. The Buick, containing people matching the description, had been seen in forty different places, heading in every possible direction. These tips were reassigned to appropriate agencies to be checked out. As it seemed logical that the criminals might travel by night and hole up by day, state police in three states ran a motel and cabin check.

The autopsy on Crown was completed, showing that either the knife wounds or brain injuries were in themselves of suffi-

cient gravity to cause death. Measurement of the abdominal wounds showed that a rather small-bladed knife had been used, a blade about four inches long and a half inch wide, with one sharp edge, possibly a switchblade.

Howard Craft and Ruth Meckler were brought in and questioned again by Dunnigan and his people. They had told their story so many times that the facts had begun to be obscured by fantasy. Through adroit questioning the known facts were isolated. Additional fragments of description were pried out of the memories of the young pair. A commercial artist, following the pair's corrections and changes, tried to come up with pictures that would satisfy them. They were quite satisfied with the rendition of the husky one, and a little less satisfied with the drawing of the balding one with glasses. The other two would not come through. The two usable drawings were sent by wire transmission to thirty cities in the Southwest, with an urgent request for help in identification.

Of the dozens of photographs of Helen Wister available, Dunnigan selected the one he thought most satisfactory. The pictures were spread out on his desk.

"She is a beautiful girl," Dunnigan said.

"A one-time queen of the Dartmouth Winter Carnival, I understand," the agent standing at his elbow said. "A blond doll. With the faintly chilly look. A lady."

"A lady in bad company. Use this one," Dunnigan said. "Ask the wire services to use this one exclusively. Feature it. Get TV coverage. I don't think anybody will ever see the lady aUve again, but there is a ten thousand-to-one chance."

When the Buick had braked hard, one tire had stubbed and chattered on the road, leaving, in black rubber, the distinctive tread pattern of a Goodyear Double Eagle, sharp enough to indicate low wear. It was not a tire that would come on the car, so either the owner had had the tires installed before taking delivery, or he had worn out the original set and replaced them. In any case, it was a potentially valuable clue.

In mid-afternoon the car was identified, almost beyond doubt. It had been stolen on Friday evening in Glasgow, Kentucky, from a bowling alley parking lot. It was a dark-blue '59 Buick with low mileage, owned by a plumbing contractor. He had Goodyear tires installed before dehvery. The car had been left unlocked, with the keys behind the sun visor. The plate number was put on the teletype circuits immediately, plus the more positive description of the vehicle.

Acting on emergency instructions, the Glasgow police made a street by street search of the area adjacent to the bowling alley, expanding the area until they found an abandoned red-and-white Chevrolet with Arkansas plates, the car which matched the description of the one involved in the Nashville kilHng.

Specialists went over the car with great care. The steering wheel and door handles had evidently been hastily wiped clean. The car had been driven hard and far and fast, with the oil at too low a level. The bearing surfaces were badly scored, the car sluggish and noisy. There was half a fresh thumbprint on the rear-vision mirror. In the rear ash tray were several cigarette butts clotted with a heavy, dark-red hpstick. There was an empty tequila bottle under the front seat with many prints smeared and overlapping, and a few relatively distinct ones. A small smear of lipstick on the neck of the bottle matched the lipstick on the cigarette butts. Wedged in the front ash tray was an empty folder of book matches from a motel in Tupelo, Mississippi. An agent was sent immediately to Tupelo.

By eight o'clock on Sunday night, Herbert Dunnigan went to the Grill Room of the Hotel Riggs for dinner, accompanied by a young agent named Graybo.

Dunnigan felt weary but reasonably content "It's beginning to unravel," he said.

'There's still no identification."

"There will be. We'll find out where the Arkansas Chev was stolen, and we'll find the Ford wagon they took from that tile salesman, and that'll give us a little more, just like the Chev did. And the motel in Tupelo will give us a little more, I hope. And when we make one of them, we'll get a lead to the others, and then we'll know all of them."

"Do you think they've spUt up, sir?"

"Perhaps. But I don't think it will make any difference in the long run. Somehow I don't think they have."

"Why not?"

"They've taken crazy chances. They think they're invulnerable. Maybe one will get nervous and drop off. I think we'll take them in a package."

"It's all so . . . pointless."

"It's all for kicks, Graybo. Four misfits. Unbalanced people, full of hostility. Something tipped the lid off. Maybe an accident. Maybe the tile salesman was an accident. And that set them off. From then on, what could they lose?"

"That was back last Tuesday, sir. And they're still out there.

It's funny to think of them out there tonight. I wonder what they're Uke. I wonder what they're saying to each other. Unless we can get them—they'll do something else."

"Probably."

"So that means there's somebody walking around not knowing he's going to run into those four."

"You've got an active imagination, Graybo."

The young agent colored. "I was just thinking out loud."

"Don't apologize. Imagination can be valuable. Police work can take you only so far. Then a good guess can be worth all the rest of it."

"Sir, are you going to be able to talk to Kemp?"

"Who? Oh, the boy friend."

"He's been hanging around all day."

"It won't do any good. I ... I guess I can spare the time."

An agent named Stark came swiftly toward the table. Both men looked alertly at him as he sat down. "Bert, I think we've made the burly boy. Phoenix came through. We've got a good correlation on two print classifications, but it'll take visual comparison to check it out. They're wiring a mug shot we can check with the kids. He's small-time. Ninety days last year for assault. Robert Hernandez. Unskilled laborer. The only thing that doesn't seem to match up is the age. He's only twenty, but Phoenix says he looks older. No address of record. No record of other convictions."

"It sounds good enough so I think we should go ahead right now and check it out with the regional Social Security office and get . . ."

"I started that ball rolling, Bert."

"Good enough!"

An hour passed before Dunnigan remembered Dallas Kemp. He checked and found out that Kemp was still waiting, so he had him brought in.

When Dallas Kemp finally met Herbert Dunnigan, he felt a sharp sense of disappointment which he hoped was not apparent to Dunnigan. Kemp was shrewd enough to realize that— perhaps through the conditioning of television and its all-wise, all-powerful heroes—he had expected to meet some sort of father image, some idealized, personalized version of law and order radiating supreme confidence.

But this was a rather clerical-looking man, not large, obviously weary, obviously troubled. He had an indoor pallor, nicotine stains on his fingers. The slight suggestion of a stam-

mer contributed to the impression of ineffectualness.

"Sit down, Mr. Kemp. I c-can't give you much time. I suppose you want reassurance. About the only assurance I can give you is that we'll take them. Sooner or later. I don't know what that's worth to you."

Dallas Kemp sat in the chair beside the desk. He sat down slowly. Ever since it had happened he was aware of performing all physical acts slowly and carefully. He felt as though any hasty movement would destroy his control, and he would fly into small pieces, or begin yelling and be unable to stop.

"You see," he said, "we quarreled. The last time I saw her, we were scrapping." He paused. "That isn't what I meant to say to you."

"I can see how that makes it worse for you."

Kemp felt grateful to the man. He hoped the tears would not flood his eyes again. They were always there, a shght stinging sensation—always in readiness.

"I'm an architect,"

"I know. A good one, I've been told."

"I like form and order. Grace and dignity." He looked at his large hands, flexing the long fingers. "I can't fit what's happened into any frame of reference—into anything I know, Mr. Dunnigan. I guess I wanted to see you because I want to be told everything is going to be all right. I guess you can't tell me that."

"I could, but what would it mean?"

"I want to do something. It's been twenty-four hours. I can't just wait and wait. I want to be given something to do. Something that will help."

"This isn't a movie, Kemp. No chance for the hero to outwit the bad guys and rescue the girl. You have to wait. We aU have to wait."

"Do you know anything at all? Is there anything you know that you can tell me?"

Dunnigan hesitated, then handed Kemp a picture. It was on unusual paper, limp, glossy, yellowish.

"This is one of them," Dunnigan said. "The two kids made a positive identification."

The photograph was composed of tiny lines, as on a television screen. Some of the hues had not printed properly, but the face was clear enough, two shots, fuU face and profile.

It was a beast face, empty, unreachable, merciless.

Kemp tasted the sickness in his throat as he swallowed, "This—is one of them?"

"They beat and kicked and stabbed a stranger to death, Kemp. For no reason. What would you expect one of them to look like?"

"I—don't know. Like this, I guess." He handed the picture back. He smiled. It was a grimace of tension, not a smile. "There isn't much Helen ... or anybody could say to that kind of a person. She's so outgoing. I'd thought that. , . if she had a chance to talk to them . . . but . . ."

"Get hold of yourself!"

"I . . . thanks."

"It's been twenty-four hours, Kemp. There's no point in trying to kid you. Pray she's alive. Pray they've kept her alive. They might do that. But if we get her back alive, she won't be in good shape. Face that at least"

"All right. But . . . damn it, it's such a jungle thing. It's out of the dark ages. A thing Like that shouldn't happen to her."

"In this day and age? Because we've got plastics and television and taUfins and charity drives? Human nature doesn't change, Mr. Kemp. Therell always be animals around, walking on their hind legs, looking just like you and me. You could have gone your whole life understanding that. But now you've had your nose rubbed in it."

The phone rang. Dunningan picked it up and put his palm over the mouthpiece. "All we can do is wait," he said. *Try to get some sleep."

As Kemp closed the door behind him, he heard Dunnigan say, "Too bad, George. That lead sounded good to me too."

It was a hot weekend over most of the country, with no news of any special interest to compete with the Wolf Pack story. Routine drownings and traffic deaths and drab political announcements, national and international.

There had been mounting interest and coverage of the story prior to the Crown murder and the Wister kidnaping. The pump was primed. The Monroe violence had the proper ingredients—a slain, unsuccessful suitor, a wealthy and beautiful blonde abducted, a woman in slacks wielding a knife, a country road, eyewitnesses.

And so, suddenly, it was BIG. There wrs a lot of Page One

space to fill. A lot of air time. A lot of television time. A lot _of people aching to get into the act.

Any fool could look at a map of the country and trace a line from Uvalde to Tupelo to Nashville at Glasgow to Monroe. Tuesday through Saturday. And any fool could project that line into the densely populated Northeast and make a guess—as good as anybody's—as to where they were going. Newspapers featured that map—and pictures of Helen Wister.

Look out for the Wolf Pack. Keep your eyes open. Look for the car.

In summer the crazies are in full bloom. Helen Wister was seen in Caribou, Maine, tied to a tree, being whipped by three burly men. A motorist, too frightened to stop, reported this. Helen Wister was seen in Miami, being forced, weeping, into a motel on the beach.

Three boys in Danville, Virginia, taking a short cut to a swimming hole, did find a dead blonde. But she was two weeks dead, and she had been half again as old as Helen Wister. It was a local problem.

Over thirty neurotic, semi-psychotic women presented themselves to police authorities across the country, claiming earnestly to be Helen Wister. The eldest was in her seventies. Once upon a time she had claimed to be Amelia Earhart.

The insane avalanche of false clues made the isolation and investigation of the potentially vahd ones almost impossible. Hysterical types demanded police protection. Mystics and visionaries knew exactly where to find the Wolf Pack.

In the city of Monroe, all day Sunday, the idle boobs rode around in their cars, gawking. They gawked at Arnold Crown's service station, and bought until the underground tanks were empty. A police guard kept them from turning into the driveway of the Wister house, or parking in front. They would park as close as permitted and get out and stare at the house. Some worked their way around to the lawn behind the house, trampling the flowers. A few parked and stared with endless, empty, idiot patience at Dallas Kemp's office and living quarters. But by far the favorite spot was the place on Route 813 where Crown had been killed. Two accidents occurred, one serious, where you turned off the pike onto 813. They parked up and down the road for two hundred yards in both directions. They climbed up into the sagging barn and looked out. They took hay as souvenirs, and grease-streaked grass out of the ditch, and fist-sized stones. "Hey, Mary Jane, maybe this

was one of the rocks they clunked him with, hey?"

Finally one too many climbed into the loft, The bam sighed and sagged, slowly at first, as the women went shrill with terror, and with a gentle rending sound and a thumping of timbers, it collapsed. A three-year-old named Walter James Lokey HI was crushed to death. There was one broken back, eight broken legs, three broken arms, several less important fractures, and dozens of sprains, bruises and abrasions. Ambulances howled through the noonday heat. A police guard was posted to keep people away. But throughout the afternoon they kept coming and trying to steal splintered pieces of the bam.