The Shadow Man Read online

  Malcolm wondered if this was intentional.

  The detective sat down at the table and plopped down a legal pad.

  "First, the formalities. Name?"

  "Malcolm King."

  "What sort of work do you do?"

  "I'm a doctor. A surgeon."

  "Ah-hah. Live here in Savannah?'

  "Yep, for the last 14 years."

  "Married? Kids?"

  "Wife, Amy; one daughter, Mimi, short for Millicent. She's fifteen."

  Detective Baker grinned. His teeth flashed white beneath the shadow of his hat.

  "Teenage girl, eh? Good luck with that."

  "She's a great kid," Malcolm said.

  "As far as you know," Baker said.

  Asshole, Malcolm thought. But he simply smiled back, tight-lipped.

  Baker scrawled something on the pad.

  "You know a Philip Kretschinger?" he asked, looking up.

  "Knew him, barely. He was a patient of mine, years back. Filed a bogus malpractice lawsuit against me and lost. He stayed pissed at me the rest of his life because of that."

  "He's dead."

  "So I heard," Malcolm said.

  "You don't seem surprised."

  "Detective Adams told me."

  "Did he also tell you that one of your cards was found near his body?"

  "He did."

  "What do you make of that?" Baker said.

  "Coincidence. Kretschinger used to be a patient of mine."

  "And when was the last time you saw him as a patient?"

  "Over ten years ago."

  "Do you keep people's business cards for ten years, doc? Just lying around?"

  "Not usually."

  Baker leaned back into his chair and fished around in his jacket. He pulled out a pack of menthol Marlboros and a lighter.

  "Hope you don't mind me smoking," Baker said.

  Malcolm shook his head. "Didn't know you could smoke in a public facility, though," he said.

  Baker smiled.

  "My house, my rules," he said.

  The flame from the lighter illuminated Baker's face. He had deep-set green eyes that glittered darkly in their sockets. His eyebrows knitted together above his nose like mating caterpillars.

  The cigarette tip glowed a deep red.

  "Did Detective Adams tell you anything about the murder?" he said, exhaling a thin plume of smoke.

  "A few things."

  Baker opened a folder and spread a set of 8 X 10 glossy prints across the table.

  "What do you make of this, doc? Look surgical to you?"

  Kretschinger's body was splayed open like one of Frank Netter's anatomy diagrams. His colon was draped over his legs, omentum spread out like a fan. The small bowel coiled in his peritoneal cavity like a nest of snakes. The surgical sites from the man's Crohn's surgery and colon cancer resection were clearly visible; the killer had even taken the time to tie loops of string around each point of resection, drawing attention to them.

  "You recognize this, doc? 'Cause you've been there before."

  Malcolm felt a warm flush rise in his neck, spreading into his cheeks.

  "Years ago," he said. But his voice was a hoarse croak.

  "You sure?" Baker asked.

  He puffed his cigarette.

  "You sure it was all that long ago?"

  Sweat popped out on Malcolm's forehead.

  "This is . . . horrible," he said.

  "Did Ben tell you how Kretschinger died, Dr. King?" Baker said.

  "No."

  "Well here's why: we don't know. The incisions here were so pains­takingly done that the actual cause of death is impossible to determine. I mean, we kinda know why he's dead at this point. His organs are all cut out, and as you know, people generally don't function very well in that condition. Even us non-medical people can figure that one out. But our pathologist—and he's pretty damn good—says that whoever did this had enough surgical skill to cover up the exact cause of death"

  Baker took off his hat and placed it on the table. His hair was thin­ning, the eroding waterline of his scalp clearly visible in the ugly sputtering light. The detective leaned forward, shoulders hunched like the wings of a vulture picking at its prey.

  "What was it that you said you did for a living, Dr. King?"

  "Surgeon," he mumbled.

  "What's that? I didn't hear you."

  "I'm a surgeon," Malcolm said again, louder this time. He looked directly into Baker's coke-bottle-glass eyes, seeing them clearly for the first time.

  The detective's eyelids closed. He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette and pursed his lips together, spewing smoke directly in Malcolm's direction.

  "Look at the rest of them," Baker said.

  "What?"

  He spread the glossy photos across the tabletop.

  "These. Take a look," he said.

  He spun one of the photos so that Malcolm could look at it.

  "Phillip Kretschinger," Baker said. "Remember him?"

  Kretschinger's head was sitting on a blue-and-white porcelain tray in the center of what appeared to be a dining room table. His glassy eyes were wide open, their pupils dilated. Dark blood had filled the base of the tray and spilled over the edges.

  And the killer had jammed a Granny Smith apple into the dead man's mouth, as though he were the main course at a holiday meal.

  "See that?" Baker asked, pointing to a rectangle positioned neatly next to the man's head.

  Malcolm felt ill. He recognized what Baker was pointing to—knew the insignia, the inscription on it, knew every word.

  "Oh, God," he said, his mouth dry as sand.

  "So you do recognize it?"

  Malcolm nodded.

  "That's my card," he said.

  "So you can see why we thought you needed to come in to answer some questions?"

  Malcolm nodded.

  "But do you really think I'd just kill someone and leave my card there like that?" he asked.

  Baker shrugged.

  "I've seen stranger things," he said.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and flipped to a fresh page on his legal pad.

  "So where were you the night before last?" Baker asked.

  "At home."

  "Anyone who can confirm that?"

  "Only my dog. My wife is out of town and my daughter spent the night with friends. But the police came to my house in the middle of the night that night after my home was broken into. I'm sure there's a report about it here someplace. I spoke to a Lieutenant Chu. He came to my house."

  Baker's caterpillar eyebrows creased.

  "Really? Nobody told me that."

  "Look it up," Malcolm said.

  The detective scribbled furiously on his legal pad. "How about yesterday during the day?"

  "I was cleaning up after the break-in that morning. I did surgery yesterday afternoon. And last night I stayed home again. Spoke to both my wife and daughter—they can confirm that for you."

  Baker gathered up the pictures and shuffled them as though he was going to put them all away.

  And then he stopped, scratched his head just where the hairline had begun to recede, and looked up.

  "Does the phrase 'From hell' mean anything to you?" he asked.

  Malcolm felt ill.

  "Dr. King?"

  "Well, it's something from the Jack the Ripper mythology."

  "And how do you know this?" Baker said.

  Malcolm sat still for a moment. The overhead light dimmed and jittered, threatening to short out.

  Damn you, Ben, he thought.

  "I was a history major. My Master's thesis was on Jack the Ripper," Malcolm said at last.

  "Is that so?"

  Baker plucked two of the glossies from the folder and laid them out on the table in front of Malcolm.

  "See anything familiar?" he said.

  And Malcolm did.

  The first picture did indeed show the words "From hell" written on the victim's wall in the exact scrip
t that the Ripper had used in writing that phrase in his letter. Every curve, every nuance of the Victorian killer's scrawl had been painstakingly reproduced. The resemblance was uncanny.

  The second picture was even more chilling—an anatomical diagram, written on a sheet of paper, of what had been done to the now-departed Mr. Kretschinger in full-blown surgical detail. Nerves, arteries, and veins were identified by name; all of the muscles and organs were clearly labeled.

  And at the bottom, written in what appeared to be blood, was a name:

  Jack.

  9

  The ride home was silent at first.

  Ben drove, eyes pasted straight ahead, while Malcolm stared out of the window, his breath fogging the glass.

  "You okay?" Ben said at last.

  "Yeah," Malcolm said. And then, "No."

  "You wanna talk? Off the record, I mean. I'm not on the clock here."

  "Ben, I'm being set up."

  "Maybe it's all coincidence."

  "It's not, Ben. The killer left my business card next to the guy's head. You don't think that was intentional? He drew an accurate anatom­ical diagram to illustrate a very surgical murder. He also deliberately used references to Jack the Ripper at the murder scene. Anyone can look up my Master's thesis online and can see that I've done research in that area. Somebody is trying to make me the fall guy here. And I have no idea who the guy is."

  Ben pulled the Volvo over to the side of the road and looked at his friend.

  "Mal, level with me. You've not been having blackouts, have you? Headaches? Anything unusual? What is that they call it? A split personality?"

  "No—Jesus, no! You're thinking I'm looney now?"

  Ben shrugged.

  "It's been known to happen. I know that the Malcolm King I grew up with would never do these things. But maybe one of the other person­alities—the one committing the crimes—wants you to get caught."

  "First of all, dissociative identity disorder is very, very rare. I've never seen even one single case of it. Second of all, you know me as well as anyone. Do you really think that I'm Dr. Jekyll, and I've got a Mr. Hyde lurking around in my skull someplace? Really? I mean, this is real life, Ben, not some cheesy movie script."

  Ben stared straight ahead, but he blinked a few times.

  "How would this guy find out about your Jack the Ripper connec­tion? I'm just curious. I mean, nobody knows what papers I wrote in college," Ben said.

  "My Master's thesis was published, Ben. Anyone can look that up if they are trying to find out things about me. Anything else? Want to check my bite radius?"

  Ben shook his head and eased the car back onto the roadway.

  "I'm sorry I brought it up. I guess it is a bit far-fetched."

  "I can't believe you told that asshole about my thesis."

  "He needed to know. You gave me that information willingly and Jesus, Mal. I'm a cop. This is my job. I can't just withhold something about a case because you're my friend."

  Malcolm placed his hand on Ben's shoulder. Ben flinched. The car swerved sharply, then straightened up.

  "Whoa!" Malcolm said. "A little uptight?"

  "Sorry. Reflex."

  "Ben, okay. I get that you've got to do your job. But I'm going to need your help here. That guy that I called you about who came to my house—the fake cop? The more I think about it, the more I think you were right. He's got to be the real killer. I need to find out who he is."

  "Now how do you plan to go about that?"

  "With your help. You can be my man on the inside."

  Ben shook his head.

  "I can't do that."

  "What do you mean? This is my life here!"

  "Mal, you know you're my best friend, and God knows I owe you a lot, but if I did that, I'd get canned. Feeding information to someone about an ongoing investigation is one of those things that are just off-limits for a cop—particularly if the person you're giving this information to may be a suspect. It's taboo."

  Ben hit the turn signal and slowed as they approached Rose Dhu Road.

  "Well, what am I supposed to do?" Malcolm said.

  "Look, keep your eyes and ears open. Anything suspicious, call me. I'm a firm believer in our criminal justice system. It works. Let us do our job and catch this guy."

  Malcolm was quiet for a minute or two. The radio was playing an incredibly sad ballad about lost love. The tires on Ben's car groaned as Ben made the turn into the driveway, drowning the singer out.

  All of his life, Malcolm had lived by the rules. He had done every­thing you were supposed to do, had been responsible and honest and by-the-book. And the realization he had come to was this: despite this, there were things in the universe that he could not control, forces he could not see that were trying to drag him into oblivion.

  He felt like he was walking on a high wire. Without a safety net, no less.

  "Ben?"

  "Uh huh."

  "If anything happens to me, promise me you'll make sure that Amy and Mimi are okay."

  "Oh, Jeez, Mal, it's not going to . .

  "Promise me, Ben. We don't know how this is going to turn out."

  "But I . . ."

  "Blood brothers, remember? That's what we said when we were ten. Remember that? Like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. I need to know that I can count on you to take care of my girls."

  Ben sighed.

  "I promise. I've got your back," Ben said.

  They pulled up at Malcolm's home at Rose Dhu under a moon­less sky. The ancient white house loomed in the shadows of several moss-draped live oak trees, ghostly and indistinct. The wide expanse of the Vernon River curled up at its back. Only a pair of gas lanterns kept the structure from being completely invisible.

  "Forgot to turn the lights on before I left," Malcolm said. "Amy usually does that."

  "You want me to come inside with you to make sure you get in okay?" Ben said.

  "No, that's okay. The alarm's on. I'll flick the lights when I'm in to let you know everything's good."

  Ben clapped Malcolm on the shoulder and looked his old friend straight in the eyes.

  "I really do have your back, man. You know that, right?"

  "I do," said Malcolm.

  Mal turned off the alarm and flashed the front porch lights as he entered. He watched the taillights of Ben's car as he drove away.

  The house was dark, but everything seemed to be as it should have been.

  "Well, hello, Miss Daisy!" Malcolm said.

  The old dog laboriously gained her feet and nuzzled his hand, grunting happily.

  Malcolm turned the rest of the house lights on and noticed that the answering machine was blinking: five quick blinks for five messages. He switched it on to play while he was getting Daisy's dog food out of the bin.

  The first message was from Mimi.

  "Dad, have you heard from Mom? What's up with Gram? Call me," she said.

  The second message was a recorded political call. The third person said nothing. And the fourth was Amy.

  "Hey, honey, Mom's better. Sorry I decomped there a bit. Lisa's coming in tonight to take over after we get Mom back home, so I'll be home tomorrow. Love ya."

  The fifth messenger also said nothing. But the message went on too long. He could hear a television blathering. But there was another sound—a muttering, mewling sound, in the background, as if somebody was talking in another room in the caller's house.

  "What the . . .?"

  Daisy nuzzled Malcolm again, hungry.

  "Hold on, girl," he said.

  He turned the volume up on the answering machine.

  The background noise was partly muffled by the television—an obnoxious infomercial selling some sort of colon cleanser—but it was clearly there: a man's voice. There was an anxious edge to it. The man was pleading.

  "N-n-no, sir, I p-p-promise. I'm sorry I ever d-d-did it. P-p-please don't k-k-kill me. I have a d-d-d-daughter."

  Malcolm stopped breathing and put his ear to the speaker.


  "Rowf!" barked Daisy.

  Malcolm nearly jumped out of his skin.

  "Shh, girl!" he said.

  "P-p-p-please, Dr. King! D-d-don't do it!" the voice on the message said. Kretschinger's voice.

  And then there was a scream—a loud, terror-filled scream that ended, suddenly, in a gurgle, as if someone had flicked a switch.

  At that point the message ended.

  "My God," Malcolm said.

  He played the message back again, hoping somehow that he'd heard things wrong.

  It did not change.

  Malcolm felt a wave of nausea sweep over him.

  The caller ID said the call was indeed from the home of Phillip Kretschinger. But how did the killer get Malcolm's home number? It was unlisted. No one knew it except the office, close friends and family.

  Malcolm's heart raced. He was jittery, hands trembling, his palms sweaty.

  He sat down at the kitchen table.

  Malcolm knew he should call Ben. But the call implicated him, did it not? Kretschinger had mentioned Malcolm by name. "Wait a minute," he said.

  He checked the time the call was made. It had been made the night before, while he was sleeping. But how had he missed the phone ringing?

  "Ah, crap," he said out loud. "I was in the guest bedroom."

  The guest bedroom had no phone. But how had the killer known he would not pick up?

  Or maybe he wanted me to pick up, Malcolm thought.

  He got back up from the chair and fed Daisy, filling her water bowl as she ate.

  I've bothered Ben enough today, he decided. I'll call him about this tomorrow. He turned on the alarm after meticulously checking the doors and windows.

  Malcolm spent the rest of the evening trying to relax. He read the latest issue of the American Journal of Surgery and a flipped through a few other periodicals that had arrived in the mail. The AJS did not have much in it; in fact, the most interesting thing he read the whole night was an article in Time about the disastrous filming of a new Brad Pitt film, a voodoo flick being shot in Haiti which had seen both the second unit director and the lead cinematographer die under mysterious circum­stances. That piece was far more engrossing than the meta-analysis of the latest techniques of laparoscopic inguinal hernia repair, which had been the lead article in the AJS.

  He fell asleep on the sofa, his reading light still on. Daisy slept on the floor beside him.