In Dark Corners (30 page)

***

Buddha edges away from the bed. This sucker's really flipping out, he thinks anxiously. He backs to the door, then begins to turn—

An intense glittering makes him stop. He gasps.

Sweet Jesus! For a second it looked as if Trim were wearing a mask, a bright, shiny mask. Buddha shivers and shakes his head.
No
. He studies the prone man's pained face—the beads of sweat, the funny color. A gray sheen, but not metal. No.

Buddha's gaze drops to his own hands. He tries to wipe away the lingering sensation—the cold, clammy feeling.

Dr. Alexander Cato waited for his old friend, Shane McCarthy, at the top of the steep flight of steps up to the San Francisco Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, feeling more than a little apprehensive.

Last night he'd readily agreed to meet Mac, an attorney with the San Francisco Public Defender's Office, at 9:45 A.M. to conduct a psychiatric interview with the notorious Jack Dumont.

Now, Alex had second thoughts. After all, in the last six months since moving north to Marin County, he'd built up a pretty solid private practice. What did he have to gain getting involved with this case? From everything he'd read about the accused, it was pretty cut and dried. Dumont, a transvestite, had picked up and brutally killed five men during the last year or so. A week ago in a lot south of Market, four teenage squatters had witnessed him murder and mutilate his fifth victim. The cops caught him still in drag, knife in hand, and hands stained with his victim's blood.

Surprisingly, last night on the phone Mac swore that Dumont was innocent and he would convince Alex if only he'd meet with the accused. It was ridiculous—the man was obviously a sociopath, probably fit the FBI profile of a serial killer.

"Hey, pal!" Mac shouted, puffing up the steps, then hugging Alex, as he caught his breath. "Sorry I'm late. C'mon."

Alex's old friend led them through the noisy crowd loitering in the lobby and past the security station with the metal detectors, directing Alex into the elevator, finally leaving the din behind them. On the fourth floor they found the appropriate defendant's room: A small, depressing cubicle, dimly-lit, furnished with a heavy wooden table, scarred with scratched-out graffiti, mostly initials, and four matching chairs.

McCarthy sat his thin briefcase on the table, and nodded at Alex's huge, beat-up brown case still on the floor. "Planning on staying overnight?"

Alex laughed. It was indeed as large as a small suitcase, but he found it was just right for everything he needed when away from the office on assignment—a battery of psychological tests, a small recorder, notepads, pens, pencils, several large reference texts, and the usual medical diagnostic instruments.

The attorney took on a serious expression as he flipped open his briefcase, withdrawing a thin manila folder. "Here's what I have so far," he said, opening the file on Dumont. "He has no record, never been in any kind of trouble, except for a DUI in the distant past, nothing juvenile, at least that's accessible. He's never been in jail before. And never in a mental institution." McCarthy paused and glanced at Alex. "Our boy is clean, except for a possible drinking problem, which I'll come back to later. He grew up on the Peninsula, raised by a single mother. They lived in the same trailer park in San Mateo during most of his school years. After high school graduation, he spent four years in the Air Force, a bus driver at Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa most of that time. No problems in the service. Got out and drifted for about ten years, doing various kinds of work, but always employed. Only problem was with alcohol. About six years ago he settled down in the City, began going to regular AA meetings, and was on the wagon, until two years ago, when he started drinking again." He glanced at Alex. "That's the highlights, pal."

"Any problems as a kid?" Alex asked. "Channel 5 mentioned something about a history of abuse. And later, you know, torturing animals, being mean to other kids, that kind of thing?"

"I've got no details there, but I could have someone check the trailer park in San Mateo, see if anyone remembers him. Maybe check police complaint records there."

"What kind of work did Dumont do in the City?"

"He's been a veterinarian's assistant for five years. Let's see, Haig's Small Animal Hospital in the Marina. Dr. Haig has nothing but praise for his work."

"How about checking his co-workers, see how he actually treated the animals, anything else they want to say about him?"

There was a rap on the door, then a corrections officer led Jack Dumont in by the arm, seating him at the table and saying, "I'll be just outside the door, Mr. McCarthy."

"Thanks, Gavin."

Dumont's physical presence surprised Alex. Of course the man wore an orange jump suit, like all San Francisco jail inmates, and he was shackled, both hands chained together to a waist belt, and his ankles too. No it wasn't that. It was his general demeanor.

Jack Dumont was older than he appeared on TV—forty at least. Alex had thought he appeared prematurely bald, but his blonde hair was just very thin on top and receding—you could see the pink of his skull—and combed straight back. His cheeks were rosy, which contributed to the youthful appearance. He wore a slight, pleasant smile, his gaze steady, his flat bluish-green eyes wide with a kind of childlike curiosity. He was neat and appeared to be very alert.

"Jack," McCarthy began, "this is my old friend, Dr. Alex Cato, a psychiatrist. He's here to help us with your defense. He may want to talk to you a number of times, give you some tests, whatever. Essentially, Dr. Cato is here to determine if you are the type of person who could have committed any of the five murders."

"I'm not crazy, doctor," Dumont stated bluntly, looking directly at Alex.

"No, Jack," McCarthy said emphatically, "that's not why he's here, to determine insanity…" The attorney paused, then added, "I know you're innocent,
not
crazy."

Dumont shifted his gaze to McCarthy, then nodded, his smile broadening slightly. "Thank you," he whispered gratefully, almost shyly.

"You're up, Doctor," McCarthy said, pushing back slightly from the table.

Alex took the recorder from his fat briefcase. "I like to tape my interviews, Jack, so I can listen to them again, perhaps jotting down additional questions I didn't ask and so forth. Do you mind?"

Dumont shook his head. "I don't have a problem with that, Doctor." His gentle voice matched his appearance.

For a moment, Alex forgot he might be talking to a murderer, and a very brutal one at that. He cleared his throat and began, "Jack, as I'm sure you might guess, I'd like to start back a few years."

But before he started the background questions, Alex slipped a pack of
Marlboros
and a lighter from his jacket pocket and put them down on the table just within Jack's reach, even with his hands shackled. Dumont didn't make a move toward the cigarettes, nor did he ask for one. "Smoke, Jack?" Alex finally asked, pushing the pack a little closer.

"Thanks, Doctor," Jack replied, managing to clumsily slip a cigarette from the pack. Alex lit it for him, smiling to himself. It was a rough measure of impulse control that Dr. Michael Jennings had often used back at L.A. County Hospital psychiatric unit when Alex was still an intern. "Okay, let's begin with your family…"

***

About an hour or so later, Alex and McCarthy were still in the room, but Jack Dumont had been taken away by the guard.

The attorney made an anxious shrugging gesture with his hands, shoulders, and eyes, as if asking his friend:
What do you think
?

"Well, he doesn't fit the typical profile," Alex said. "There may have been some childhood abuse from several of his mother's boyfriends, but she was usually the victim. He doesn't indicate any early problems with animals or other kids—no latent hostility. In fact, he seems to really like animals, wants to breed dogs some day. He's older than the serial murderer profile indicates. Of course there have been older serial killers, but their grisly work was delayed by being institutionalized. You say there is no record of that. The excessive drinking may indicate some kind of problem—I'm not sure if it's sexual or not. He did have a girlfriend until two years ago. And he doesn't really fit the sociopathic pattern either. His speech is very measured and precise, thoughtful, almost painstakingly so, not the least impulsive. His behavior doesn't seem impulsive either. He appears to know right and wrong and have a conscience. Able to give and receive affection. There's lots of other stuff. I'll need to do extensive testing
if
I decide to get involved. But I want to listen to the tape tonight, before I give you a final decision on that, okay?"

"Well, take this home, too, pal," the attorney said, pulling a long sheet from his briefcase that resembled a seismograph with its squiggly lines. "This is a lie detector test, given two days ago by one of the City's best. The attached report unequivocally states: Jack Dumont does not
believe
he killed anyone, ever. My client is innocent, Alex."

"Then how do you explain the eyewitnesses and other evidence?"

McCarthy grinned wryly. "The eyewitnesses are all wrong. That wasn't Jack Dumont. If you decide to get involved, I'll show you the real killer."

Show
me?

They stood up at the same time, Alex more than a little confused. His initial findings? A lie detector confirmation that Jack Dumont was innocent? And his friend's promise to reveal the real killer?

"Call me when you decide to climb aboard, Alex," McCarthy said, as they parted at the bottom of the steps to the Hall of Justice.

***

Alex Cato called Shane McCarthy later that night and agreed to work with him on the Jack Dumont defense. He was almost positive that Dumont was not a sociopath and didn't fit the typical serial killer profile either; but it was curiosity that really hooked him. Curiosity and a chance to do something more exciting, perhaps
be
in the public limelight. Even though McCarthy enthusiastically welcomed him aboard, Alex couldn't get the attorney to say anything more about the
real
killer. They agreed to meet again with Jack Dumont at the Hall of Justice, the next day at 3:00 p.m.

***

Tuesday afternoon, the attorney read additional information his staff had uncovered as they waited for Dumont in the defendant's room. "The old couple managing the trailer park remember Jack as a good kid. No problems, except with a couple of his mom's boyfriends. Loud arguments, that type of thing. His co-workers at the vet say he likes animals, period. And they are shocked that he is accused of any crime of violence." McCarthy glanced at his notes. "Oh, and no formal police complaints in San Mateo, except for one assault complaint against a boyfriend, when they first moved to the park. That's all I have."

The door opened and the same guard ushered Dumont in. Shackled, the defendant sat on the other side of the table after first saying hello to both of them.

"Jack, Dr. Cato wants to do a number of tests," McCarthy explained. "But maybe he can do those tomorrow or sometime later in the week. I'd like to…Oh, I brought you something." He opened his briefcase, taking out what looked like a pair of binoculars; then, unscrewing one of the lenses, he turned to Alex. "You need to forget what you're seeing here, Doctor." He extended the binoculars to Dumont, who tipped the opened lens to his lips and greedily gulped down the contents from the disguised flask. "Jack gets pretty dry, and this will help lubricate his vocal cords," McCarthy added by way of explanation, actually winking conspiratorially at Alex.

Jack Dumont sighed, and handed back the binoculars. The attorney screwed the lens on and put the disguised flask back in his briefcase. "Just an ounce of good bourbon." Then he pointed at Dumont, who was slumping down in a very relaxed posture, chin against his chest, eyes closed.

McCarthy turned to his friend, explaining, "I first discovered this after another lawyer back at the office, Trey Ellroy, suggested that maybe booze tipped off something in Jack. As you recall, Dumont fell off the wagon about the same time as the first killing. So, I took a chance, smuggled in a small drink. Boy, was Trey right. Watch this!"

After a moment or two, Dumont, who appeared to be asleep or in a trance, suddenly sat up and visibly shuddered, as if experiencing a nightmare. Then, he gasped in a deep breath, and his eyes snapped open. His facial features had been dramatically transformed. Hardened, more streetwise, more cunning; the eyes less childlike and deepening in tone, actually glittering with an emerald fire of malevolence; the lower lip was pushed out slightly in a kind of seductive pout.

"Jackie, are you here?" McCarthy whispered, peering intently into the bright gaze.

The eyes blinked, focused on the attorney. "Yeah, man, I'm right here in front of you." It was not Jack Dumont's gentle, shy voice. It sounded like a woman's…kind of loud, hoarse, and sexy.

Then the light bulb went on over Alex's head.
Jesus
. He was looking at a multiple personality alter—opposite gender.

"Jackie, this is Dr. Cato. He's here to help Jack beat this thing."

The crooked smile was actually kind of attractive and reminded Cato a little of the actress Ellen Barkin.

"Hey, a shrink, all right, and not a bad lookin' dude, either," Jackie said, staring into Alex's face, licking her lips in a provocative manner. Then she laughed deeply. "Don't worry, Doc, I ain't puttin' no moves on ya." She shook her head. "I usually go for a little rougher trade, if you know what I mean."