Butcher

34

Bayou City

“Miss Kamen,” the police chief said, taking her hand, “I'm Jimmie Randall.” She shook his hand firmly. He sucked in his stomach slightly, a thing she noticed guys did sometimes when they saw her. She was too tired to be even faintly amused.

“I guess you got my message?” she asked.

“Yeah. I checked at the motel several times and left word. It doesn't look as if he's been back for two, three days. His clothes and things are still there."

“I know,” she said, starting to lose it.

“Listen,” he said, seeing that she was on the verge of tears, “we've got a quiet alert out for your father, but I want you to know that I am concerned.” He was picking up the phone even as he spoke calmly to her. He dialed.

She bit her lip, nodding, not knowing what to say. She watched him make his phone call.

“Lemme talk to the boss man. Thanks. Hey, bud, how's things? I have Sharon Kamen in my office.... Yeah...” A long pause. “I'm gonna call Bob.... Yeah. We have to bring ‘em all the way in now, I think.... Okay” He rang off and placed another call before he spoke to her again. “Bob Petergill, please. Bob, this is Jimmie Randall.... Fine. There's another development in the Shtolz business. Nobody's had any contact with Mr. Aaron Kamen for about three days it looks like. We got him in Sikeston—” he glanced over at a stack of notes on his desk. “Uh, let's see ... four days ago, or thereabouts. I think he may have, yes.” She didn't like the sound of that. “All right, sir. I'll be here.” He hung up the instrument.

“That's the head of the bureau in Cape,” he said. “We've got a real good relationship with the FBI here, Sharon, and we need to get all the big guns on this, I think. Might still be that your father is off somewhere and we'll find he's perfectly okay, you know?” She nodded again. She noticed he was no hick cop. In a few moments he'd done everything that could be done, passed the ball, put himself on a first name basis with her but not the other way around, and unless she'd misread him, he was now gently dismissing her.

She wasn't quite so easily finessed. She asked some more questions, most of them dumb, but at least she hadn't started sobbing. Mostly she found herself volunteering a lot of information about herself, the way one often does in a prolonged conversation with an experienced law officer. She decided the smart move would be to get a few hours’ sleep and begin anew. How lost could one get in Bayou City?

Apparently, if Alma Purdy and her father were examples, one could get altogether lost. Sharon came away from the city administration building with a couple of facts she hadn't had going in. She had a missing persons sheet on the Purdy woman and was surprised how relatively young the lady was. Her photo made her appear twenty years older. Second, she had the circular her dad had prepared for the rat hunt.

Back at the motel, all of three blocks from the police headquarters, Sharon shed her clothing and filled the tub, easing her tired body into it and loving the instant gratification of the soapy heat. She was an inveterate shower person but at this moment a hot bath and a long soak were in order. Just a couple, three hours shut-eye and she'd be recharged.

She looked at one of the circulars as she relaxed. Beneath the blowups of the likenesses of the Boy Butcher, Emil Shtolz, Aaron Kamen had added thoughts about the possibilities of reconstructive surgery:

Photograph One: Dr. Emil Shtolz the way he looked when he left Germany in the mid-1940s. Note birthmark.

Photograph Two: Dr. Emil Shtolz's photograph by the time he obtained a driver's license in the postwar 1940s (South America). Identical to photo used by War Crimes Tribunal when Shtolz was tried and convicted in absentia. By the time Shtolz had come to South America he had had cosmetic surgery. Note removal of “Tear of Satan” facial birthmark. Presumably his left arm might also show evidence of the removal of official Waffen-SS blood group tattoo. Following standard escape procedures employed, it is a reasonable assumption that upon Shtolz's emigration to North America additional plastic surgery would have been sought. Subject may no longer resemble photographs.

Kamen had also appended the following:

General Note: Intellectual capacity and language fluency will render this individual extremely difficult to identify physically if further cosmetic facial restructuring has been employed. (See dental records.)

Look for someone working either as a clinician, doctor, teacher, medical assistant, veterinarian, dentist, researcher, or in a related field such as pharmacology, biochemistry, etc. He may have an unusual number of pets, or in some way volunteer his services to help animals, children, and/or the elderly. Shtolz might do charity work for an animal organization such as the Humane Society, or work around livestock in some capacity. He might run a day care center or work for such organizations as the Boy Scouts of America. He might be posing as a priest or minister, or volunteer to work with church, school, day nursery, or nursing home groups.

He may wish to display proficiency in one of the scientific disciplines, for example, a laborer whose hobby is some avenue of clinical experimentation or a blue-collar worker who has treated illnesses. He will seek out contacts with young children, developmentally impaired people, senior citizens, animals, and those he considers vulnerable.

There were no further notes about checking out the man's paper trail for a fraudulent resume or references that wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, because that was basic to any investigation. It was the first thing one did as a hunter, one followed the trail.

The circulars were thin sheets of paper but they had a weight she couldn't believe. The weight pushed her down, made her ache inside, shudder, and she jerked her head, trembling, as she felt her face sliding down in the bathwater. How long had she been asleep in the tub? God! Unbelievable.

Sharon got out of the now cool water and rubbed vigorously with a huge, rough bath towel. The motel room had felt quite warm when she first entered it but the air dried on her now, making her tremble again, every pore of skin tingling. She was afraid and wasn't completely sure she should be. You could think about things in a way that might perhaps influence them. She jumped into bed and pulled up the scratchy blanket and the spread that smelled of tobacco smoke and was asleep before her beautiful, silky hair hit the pillow, She did not hear the rain that was pounding outside in accompaniment to her deep breathing.