The Naked Face

Judd’s throat was dry. He was suddenly aware of how much he had counted on this. Surely Moody wouldn’t have given him the name unless he was certain. And he hadn’t said that Don Vinton was an accomplice; he had said he was behind the whole thing. It was inconceivable that the police would have no record of a man like that. Moody had been murdered because he had gotten onto the truth. And now that Moody was out of the way, Judd was completely alone. The web was drawing tighter.

"I’m sorry," Angeli said.

Judd looked at the detective and suddenly remembered that Angeli had not been home all night. "I appreciate your trying," he said gratefully.

Angeli leaned forward. "Are you positive you heard Moody right?"

"Yes." Judd closed his eyes in concentration. He had asked Moody if he was sure who was really behind this. He heard Moody’s voice again. Dead sure. Have you ever heard of Don Vinton? Don Vinton. He opened his eyes. "Yes," he repeated.

Angeli sighed. "The n we’re at a dead end." He laughed mirthlessly. "N o pun intended." He sneezed.

"You’d better get to bed."

Angeli stood up. "Yeah. I guess so."

Judd hesitated. "How long have you been McGreavy’s partner?"

"This is our first case together. Why? "

"Do you think he’s capable of framing me for murder?"

Angeli sneezed again. " I think maybe you’re right, doctor. I’d better get to bed." He walked over to the door.

"I may have a lead," Judd said.

Angeli stopped and turned. "Go on."

Judd told him about Teri. He added that he was also going to check out some of John Hanson’s former boy friends.

"It doesn’t sound like much," Angeli said frankly, "but I guess it’s better than nothing."

"I’m sick and tired of being a target. I’m going to start fighting back. I’m going after them."

Angeli looked at him. "With what? We’re fighting shadows."

"When witnesses describe a suspect, the police have an artist draw up a composite picture of all the descriptions. Right?"

Angeli nodded. "An identi-kit."

Judd began to pace in restless excitement. "I’m going to give you an identi-kit of the personality of the man who’s behind this."

"How can you? You’ve never seen him. It could be anyone."

"No it couldn’t," Judd corrected. "We’re looking for someone very, very special."

"Someone who’s insane."

"Insanity is a catchall phrase. It has no medical meaning. Sanity is simply the ability of the mind to adjust to reality. If we can’t adjust, we either hide from reality, or we put our selves above life, where we’re super-beings who don’t have to follow the rules."

"Our man thinks he’s a super-being."

"Exactly. In a dangerous situation we have three choices, Angeli. Flight, constructive compromise, or attack. Our man attacks."

"So he’s a lunatic."

"No. Lunatics rarely kill. Their concentration span is ex tremely short. We’re dealing with someone more compli cated. He could be somatic, hypophrenic, schizoid, cycloid – or any combination of these. We could be dealing with a fugue – temporary amnesia preceded by irrational acts. But the point is, his appearance and behavior will seem perfectly normal to everyone."

"So we have nothing to go on."

"You’re wrong. We have a good deal to go on. I can give you a physical description of him," said Judd. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating. "Don Vinton is above average height, well proportioned, and has the build of an athlete. He’s neat in his appearance and meticulous about everything he does. He has no artistic talent. He doesn’t paint or write or play the piano."

Angeli was staring at him, open-mouthed.

Judd continued, speaking more quickly now, warming up. "He doesn’t belong to any social clubs or organizations. Not unless he runs them. He’s a man who has to be in charge. He’s ruthless, and he’s impatient. He thinks big. For exam ple, he’d never get involved in petty thefts. If he had a rec ord, it would be for bank robbery, kidnapping, or murder." Judd’s excitement was growing. The picture was growing sharper in his mind. "When you catch him, you’ll find that he was probably rejected by one of his parents when he was a boy."

Angeli interrupted. "Doctor, I don’t want to shoot down your balloon, but it could be some crazy, hopped-up junkie who – "

"No. The man we’re looking for doesn’t take drugs." Judd’s voice was positive. "I’ll tell you something else about him. He played contact sports in school. Football or hockey. He has no interest in chess, word games, or puzzles."

Angeli was watching him skeptically. "There was more than one man," he objected. "You said so yourself."

"I’m giving you a description of Don Vinton," said Judd. "The man who’s masterminding this. I’ll tell you something more about him. He’s a Latin type."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because of the methods used in the murders. A knife – acid – a bomb. He’s South American, Italian, or Spanish." He took a breath. "There’s your identi-kit. That’s the man who’s committed three murders and is trying to kill me."

Angeli swallowed. "How the hell do you know all this?"

Judd sat down and leaned toward Angeli. "It’s my profession."

"The mental side, sure. But how can you give a physical description of a man you’ve never seen?"

"I’m playing the odds. A doctor named Kretschmer found that eighty-five percent of people suffering from paranoia have well-built, athletic bodies. Our man is an obvious para noiac. He has delusions of grandeur. He’s a megalomaniac who thinks he’s above the law."