Savant

29

Trask finished reading the news account that blamed the spate of Kansas City homicides on a pair of killers, a man described as a renegade sniper, an "ex-mercenary" named Robert Price, and the legendary mass murderer and serial killer, Chaingang Bunkowski, who authorities claimed had escaped from federal prison. It was quite a scandal, and Trask wished he could have been part of the team that finally broke it in the press. He read about the terrible long-range weapon called SHERFSAVANT, and the cache of unique ammunition that had been found. It was some ending to the violence piece, if he'd only had a show to produce it for.

He turned the radio on and heard his ex-boss ask a guest, "Why is there so much violence in America today? And what can we do about it?"

"I'll tell you one thing—we better get serious about putting the crooks and rapists and killers in prisons that can hold them. We coddle them too much. If somebody rapes a child, for instance, they oughtta be castrated, or if it's a woman—you know—something else like that."

"Go back to an eye for an eye?"

"Well—"

"There's no proof that deters crime."

"Lock 'em up then for life and make sure they can't break out. Make the prisons better."

"Who's gonna pay for all these better, bigger prisons? You and I? The taxpayer? You really want to pay, for some more prisons?"

"I'll pay for my share if they take away the damn TVs and the privileges. Make prison tough again. And stop worrying about overcrowded prisons. Stack 'em. in there like cord wood. Why worry about being so humane to animals who rape and molest and murder? Worry, about the victims for a change…" Trask turned the radio off.

All heat and no light.

The room was still papered in notes. He looked at the chronological summary of the violence material. It was as thick as a book. He pictured Sean Flynn at the mike. Listening to himself inside the old pair of Stanton Dynaphase Forty cans he always wore on the air, big vinyl, chrome, and blue steel headphones, plugged into the air monitor. A researcher—probably some kid fresh from Tennessee—and Babaloo would be in there making notes to slip to him. The idea of going back to radio was a repugnant one. He'd had his share of radio.

Trask picked up the story about the sniper weapon and the serial homicides and thought out loud: "I wonder if I could get a book out of this?"

It wouldn't cost anything to try. God knows he had the research already done. Not to mention the dubious distinction of his nightmarish experience as an eyewitness to a kill.

He took some paper and put it in his machine and typed "THE SHOOTER" by Victor Trask. Changed his mind. Pulled it out and inserted a new sheet of paper, typing a fresh title page:

SAVANT