Creepers by David Morrell Page A

bunch of glorified conductors. Now, you want to tell me about Ted Slade, or do I have to let the right people know that you're waltzing any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asks through the morgue?" Playing it so tough was a long shot; Corelli had no authority even to be at New York Mercy. Besides, the men Geary worked for obviously had this operation well-coordinated, and getting rid of a problem named Frank Corelli would probably be easy.
    "Okay, Corelli, okay," Geary finally relented. "Just leave my name out of it. None of the missing masses of tissue were found."
    "You mean whoever did this took hunks of the body away?"
    Geary nodded. "Why?"
    "Your guess is as good as mine. As to the wounds in the pubic region and lower body . . ." Geary's eyes widened. "They were made by teeth."
    "Teeth?" The word exploded in the room like a cannon shot.
    "You wanted the truth. That's it. Slade's dick and balls were chewed off. The circular marks covering his legs-- teeth marks."
    "How many sets?"
    "At least three." Geary's smile betrayed his admiration for the astuteness of the question.

"Jesus, are there wild dogs--wolves--in the subway?"
    "There's everything else," Geary said flippantly. "Detective Corelli, the answers to those questions are your province, not mine. I just examine the hamburger that's left and file a report." He edged closer to the outer door.
    "Is it possible Slade was killed elsewhere and dumped in the tunnel later?"
    Geary shook his head. "Not a chance. The forensic boys did a thorough search of the area. There was too much blood there for him to have been killed anywhere else." Geary now opened the door and ushered Corelli back out into the main corridor.
    "Did you do a saliva test on the wounds?"
    Geary hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Sure, it's standard procedure."
    "And...?"
    "The results aren't back yet," the doctor said, averting his eyes. "Now, I've really got to get back to work." Without another word, he turned and went back into the morgue.
    Willie Hoyte stepped onto the sidewalk and paused a moment, shading his eyes as he basked in the harsh afternoon light. He'd only been in jail overnight, but in that time he'd seen enough darkness to last him a lifetime. The men's house of detention--generally known as the Tombs--was not a place he ever wanted to call home, not even for another twenty-four hours.
    He shook himself as if discarding the memory of last night, then started down the street, trying to pull himself back into reality. For the past eighteen hours his life had begun and ended with the question: When do I get out of here? Now, striding over toward City Hall on the lower end of Manhattan, Willie found it strange that such a short detention had produced such a strong feeling of isolation and futility. Although the myriad details of his detainment--the call to his mother, the questions, the humiliation of being treated like a new species of vermin, the very injustice of being held without being formally accused--evaporated instantly as the raucous street sounds assailed his ears, that deeper feeling of helplessness lingered on. To be whipped psychologically was new for Willie, and he prayed he'd never again experience it Willie Hoyte was somebody outside. Inside he was nobody, nothing. And his pride--scratched, but not wounded--still smarted.
    He made his way toward City Hall, intending to catch the Eighth Avenue uptown express train. Now that he was free and out from under the law's thumb, Willie had things to do. Like find out about Ted Slade's death, for instance. All through the long night Willie had vainly tried to sleep, but each time he drifted off, the grisly memory of his pal's body seeped back into his consciousness to torment him. After waking three times gasping in terror for breath, his every muscle knotted with fear, Willie gave up trying to sleep and just sat thinking. He'd liked Slade a lot, though he never would have said so to his face. And he last night promised himself he would find the