By Reason of Insanity (63 page)

At 12:15 Kenton again called Amos Finch. Still no answer. He tried Los Angeles County General. The administration office was open and he was put through to one of the hospital administrators, a Mr. Hallock. He identified himself and briefly explained what he wanted.

Thomas Bishop? Yes, of course. He seems to be suddenly very popular. Umm. Yes. Born right here, April 30, 1948. How do I know? Had the same question couple weeks back. A policeman. Had the file right here on my desk. Only his legal name was Owens. Father was Harold Owens, mother Sara Bishop Owens. Guess that’s where he got the Bishop from. Not legal though, unless he had it changed. What? Yes, I’m positive. Thomas Owens. One of forty babies born that day. I checked them all just to make sure I got the right one because the policeman kept saying Bishop and it’s really Owens, you see. But I knew who he meant of course. With all the publicity when the poor man was killed, I certainly knew who Thomas Bishop was. He was Thomas Owens.

What’s that? The policeman? Yes, I think his name was Spanner. That’s right. Lieutenant Spanner… . Upstate somewhere. A town called Hillside, I believe he said. Had to call him there when I found the information… . No, afraid I didn’t keep the number. Quite all right. Glad to be of help.

Spanner! That was the name Amos Finch had mentioned. The cop who had once thought that Thomas Bishop—

Kenton grabbed for the earliest Mungo papers. He had seen that name before. He had seen it—there! Lieutenant John Spanner of Hillside, who had jurisdiction over the killing at Willows State Hospital. The killing of Thomas Bishop.

He quickly read through the account. Thomas Bishop’s face had been obliterated. Totally. Nothing was left. His identity was established largely by the clothes and personal possessions. It was a brutal, fiendish slaying. The work, it was said, of an absolute madman. Vincent Mungo.

Kenton lowered the paper.

Or an absolute Chess Man.

Chess Man.

Chess.

A master chessman. Every move carefully planned and brilliantly executed. He had made no mistakes. He had crossed a continent and shocked a nation. He had killed whenever he wanted and eluded capture wherever he went.

Mad he might be, but he was far from crazy.

He was also far from caught.

And he certainly wasn’t Vincent Mungo.

In later years Adam Kenton was to recall that moment many times as his mind made an intuitive leap, his imagination sparked a cerebral current that instantly fused all obstacles and impossibilities of an insanely devious and sinister scheme.

The idea grew even as his hand reached for the phone.

PETE ALLEN had tried a half dozen times to get through to Franklin Bush. Each time he was told the same thing. Mr. Bush was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed. But he would be given the message that Mr. Allen had called just as soon as he was free again.

On the last call Allen hung up abruptly. He didn’t think Bush would be free again for a long time. Being a good newspaperman, he didn’t take it personally. But he wondered how his friend’s superiors had found out so quickly about their meeting. Was the White House staff being spied on? Were they all followed wherever they went?

Or was he the one?

The
Washington Post
reporter went in to see his section chief

IN THE White House, Bob Gardner leaned back in the leather lounge chair that rested on a double thickness of plastic sheeting. Being somewhat shorter than the average male, Gardner had his chair fully raised and his specially-designed desk lowered several inches to give himself the maximum height advantage. The needed modifications helped to increase his feeling of security, which was one of the presumptives of power.

It had not been a particularly good Monday morning, all things considered, and Dean Gardner was not at his affable best. Demands for the President’s resignation were growing, following statements calling for such action by Democratic Senators Tunney of California and Inouye of Hawaii. Sunday’s
New York Times
had suggested resignation in an editorial, as had the
Detroit News
and the
Denver Post
. So had Joseph Alsop, long a Nixon supporter, and some TV newsmen, such as Howard K. Smith. The bandwagon was beginning to roll and Gardner definitely didn’t like the feel of it.

To make matters even worse the President was acting aloof, having abruptly left for Key Biscayne on Thursday and remaining in seclusion all weekend. And Wednesday evening he was due to make a televised speech to the nation on the energy crisis.

Dean Gardner sighed. He was going to suggest that the President end his speech on a personal note by saying he would never resign. Maybe that would stop some of the foolishness.

He buzzed his secretary. He wanted to speak to Ned Robbins of the White House legal counsel. On his desk was the Bush report suggesting that
Newstime
might be guilty of federal crimes as well as manipulation of news. Rumor had it that the weekly magazine was preparing an editorial strongly advising the President to resign. But pressure, as Bob Gardner well knew, could be made to work both ways.

In a few minutes he had Ned Robbins, who was very smooth and knew all the right people. He picked up the report.

“Ned? The President has asked me …”

IN NEW YORK Adam Kenton bit into the sandwich sent up for lunch. Corned beef on a roll, with Russian dressing dripping all over. Next to it the piece of pie looked anemic. He rested his feet on the desk and took a few minutes out to eat. His eyes fell on the dictaphone machine. George Homer had returned the tapes earlier, thanking Kenton for taking him into confidence. He had found the analysis of the problem compelling. He had also found no major flaws in the idea that Chess Man was not Vincent Mungo. But that was only half of the equation. What of the other half? Did Kenton also have a good idea who Chess Man was?

Kenton said he was still working on it.

Homer had brought down the remainder of the Caryl Chessman material as well, including the four books Chessman had written. He let it be known that he felt himself to be a qualified expert on the subject, having read everything. With Chessman, Senator Stoner, the maniacal killer, and sundry other areas of interest in and out of the company, it seemed to Homer that they were working on quite a few different stories at the same time.

Suppose they were all connected, Kenton had said.

What if they were all one story?

He finished the corned beef roll and wolfed down the pie with swallows of coffee. John Spanner had been out to his earlier call but was expected back at 1 P.M. California time. He glanced at his watch. It was after two o’clock in New York. Two hours to go. Meanwhile he had already spoken to Dr. Poole at Willows. Vincent Mungo did not know how to play chess; the man was not at all interested in such things. How about Thomas Bishop? Yes, Bishop had played chess. In fact he was a very good player. Really excellent.

Kenton had expected no less.

As his idea grew, so did his excitement.

For the next hour he reviewed the various parts of his puzzle, speaking into the machine, going over the pieces again and again. His original analysis still held up. He was seeking someone close to Mungo in the recent past. Thomas Bishop was his only friend at Willows. He was seeking someone who would be immediately suspected if not for Mungo. Thomas Bishop would be known as the killer if Mungo’s body had been found. But it was supposedly Bishop’s body that was found, so he had the greatest alibi in the world. He was dead.

The only major piece missing was the connection to Caryl Chessman. And that, he hoped, would be found hidden somewhere. Eventually. But only if his idea was right. If it wasn’t, nothing lost. Except maybe everything.

At three o’clock Kenton at last got Amos Finch at home. Did Finch know that Thomas Bishop and Vincent Mungo were both born in the same Los Angeles hospital, only five months apart? He did not. Did Finch know that Bishop’s mother lived in Los Angeles at the time of Caryl Chessman’s attacks, the same as Vincent Mungo’s mother? He did not. Did Finch know that Bishop’s father was killed by a man who was in prison with Caryl Chessman for years, who knew him on death row and talked to him many times? He did not. Finally, did Finch know that Thomas Bishop was an expert chess player? No, he did not.

Chess, as Kenton saw it, was the key to the puzzle. A superb series of chess moves brilliantly planned and executed. He reminded Finch that Vincent Mungo, who didn’t know the game, asked the doctor at Willows if he played chess. Why? Because he had been hearing his one friend explain their daring escape plan in terms of the game. Mungo was much impressed even though the game meant nothing to him.

And ever since then everyone had been assuming the comment applied to Caryl Chessman! Assuming that Mungo was identifying himself with Chessman publicly for the first time, although still symbolically. How ironic that such a simple statement should work so strongly in Bishop’s behalf.

Finch was excited and delighted. Even he in his pure scholar’s heart knew that his California Creeper, the now acknowledged equal of Jack Ripper and the other master artists of mass murder, must finally be brought to rest for the good of all.

And, of course, should it indeed turn out to be Thomas Bishop, he, Amos Finch, expert criminologist and recognized authority on mass murderers, would receive a certain amount of credit and would himself become a footnote in the pages of history. How splendid!

Any proof yet?

Kenton was working on it. He would be in touch soon.

Something in what he had said to Finch suddenly bothered Kenton, something elusive that kept slipping away from him. A word? A fact? What was it? He was missing a connection somewhere. Or was it just his heightened imagination? Was everything his imagination? All of it?

He would soon see.

At five minutes past four New York time, he called John Spanner in Hillside, California. Spanner was back in his office in police headquarters. Kenton introduced himself, mentioning Amos Finch and Mr. Hallock in the Los Angeles hospital, and quickly explained his mission. He was doing a
Newstime
cover story on the escaped Willows madman, who was now in New York. Amos Finch had mentioned the lieutenant as having once held a belief that Thomas Bishop might be the madman rather than Vincent Mungo. He was interested in that belief because of some information that had come to him, even though Finch had also said the current consensus was that it was neither Mungo nor Bishop.

Spanner wanted to know if Finch had explained how the circumcision angle didn’t work out.

He had.

And that there were other expert police authorities, like James Oates of the California Sheriffs Office, who believed it was someone unknown?

Yes.

What information had come to Kenton?

Just some oddities that by themselves meant little but might contribute to a general impression.

Such as?

Things like both men born in the same hospital at almost the same time, and Bishop’s father killed by a man who knew Caryl Chessman in San Quentin.

The police had known about those two, of course.

As he said, just oddities. The main thing actually was a feeling much like in a chess game, a series of moves that gave evidence of a certain cool precision and brilliance. When he learned that Vincent Mungo did not play chess, he quite naturally turned to other areas. At the moment he was particularly interested in the body found at Willows. Would the lieutenant remember if there had been any recent scars on the body? Knife scars, perhaps, or from some other sharp object, most especially on the arms or shoulders?

There was a small V-shaped scar on the upper right shoulder that had looked to be fairly recent. How did Kenton know that?

Only a guess. Mungo told a Willows doctor that he had become blood brothers with the devil. He probably meant it symbolically, but it could also mean the ritual arm cutting and mingling of blood between two men.

Spanner remembered the scar vividly since he had specifically looked for it when he first tried to prove the body was that of Vincent Mungo. Now he wondered if he had been too hasty. Could it be possible—? No, that was a long time ago. Four months, a lifetime. He wasn’t going to start that business all over again. Absolutely not. It was all settled in his mind. The Willows maniac was not Vincent Mungo or Thomas Bishop but someone unknown to any of them. That was obvious and the New York reporter would soon learn it for himself.

“Lieutenant Spanner?”

He pulled his attention back to the phone. “Yes, I’m here, Mr. Kenton.”

“I asked if you knew where Bishop came from originally. Before Willows, I mean.”

Spanner shook his head to clear it. Bishop? Bishop had always been at Willows. There was no before. No, that wasn’t right. He had lived with his mother when he was a boy. But Spanner couldn’t remember where and he said so.

Had he always lived in Los Angeles, perhaps?

No, that wasn’t right either. It was coming back to Spanner now. Bishop had been born in Los Angeles, but after the father’s death the mother had moved to San Francisco, and then eventually to— Damn! What was the name of that town?

Spanner told Kenton he couldn’t think of the town but it was about forty miles from Hillside. Just a small country place. As a boy Bishop had lived there with his mother— Justin! That was it. Justin, California. About forty miles west of Hillside and two hundred miles above San Francisco.

He repeated that to Kenton.

And after Justin?

After Jus tin came Willows.

Kenton didn’t understand. As a boy Bishop had moved with his mother from Los Angeles to Justin—.

To San Francisco.

To San Francisco and then to Justin.

That’s right.

And after Justin he was put in Willows for good?

Yes.

No other mental hospitals?

Just Willows.

Kenton tried to figure it out but it didn’t make sense. How old could the boy have been?

Spanner told him.

“Ten!” It was more a scream than anything else. “Thomas Bishop was placed in a mental institution when he was
ten?
”