Slice

STOBAUGH COUNTY

“Mr. Schott?” Both Eichord and the agent flashed shields and IDs. “Special agents. Can we talk to you about the—"

“Oh, shit, betcha wanna talk about them bodies. I knew it. Christ's sake I told Larry, the boy I work with, it's that spooky big sumbitch out there at Hora's. You know that Hora was a weird duck hisself ‘course I don't hold with talking about the dead. I mean rest in peace and whatnot. But he never did associate with nobody ‘round here. Had this woman he lived with out there on that there farm who was playin’ without all fifty-two cards in her deck if you get my drift."

“Wonder if we could talk inside?” Jack said, and the man stepped back as he kept up his running commentary. “He come here I dunno—it's been several years back, I think he was in Veetnam and maybe got shot in the head or whaddyacallit shell shock? Anyway, he took up with this ole gal—she didn't have a front porch onner house if you get me—and man he just never—"

“You said spooky, big man. Who did you mean—the one who worked at Michael Hora's?"

“Yeah. BIG mother. Like to go four hundred pound. Stood about seven feet tall. Fill up a damn doorway. Ask Buddy Retter about him, he seen ‘m load about three or four ton o’ them damn railroad crossties onto a flatbed truck in a couple hours. You couldn't do it with a goddamn FORKLIFT. Strong as a damn OX. Went out there and cleaned out every weed in Hora's pasture with a little old sickle like yea"—he gestured with his hands—"I know where he bought the damn thing ‘n you go over to Western Auto if you wanna hear some stories about that big ole boy. He only come up here about a year ago, I remember saying to Larry, this boy works with me? When he come to town I seen ‘m one day I said to Larry I said—"

“Uh, Mr. Schott, we have a couple of composite drawings of this Mr. Selkirk, the assistant to Mr. Hora that's missing? I wonder if you'd take a look at these and tell us if they resemble the man."

D'Amico was pulling out the drawings.

“Lemme see ‘em,” the voluble man said, pulling a set of spectacles from a case in his pocket. “I don't really need these I only wear ‘em when I wanna SEE somethin."

“Right,” Jack said softly. Schott shook his head.

“Naw. That don't look nothing like ... Ahhhhh, yeah, that's more like it only this here is wrong. It's more of a triangle, and the face was holes not scars. This looks like scars. He didn't look like that. Djew ever see Killer Karl Kemp rassle?"

“Pardon?"

“He looked just like Killer Karl Kemp's back. In the face, I mean. Killer Karl use to work over by Hubbard, an’ we went up there to see him rassle in the amp'theater a coupla times. He had two bullet holes in his back real close together an’ it sorta looked thataway, all puckered up. Coulda been anything made ‘em. I ain't saying they was bullet holes but they LOOKED like the ones in Killer Karl Kemp's back and I know they WAS bullet holes ‘cause I recall when Eddie Rogers shot him. It was over the woman Eddie was livin’ with and they got into a altercation over it and had ‘em a gunfight up in—"

Eichord was finally able to shut the man up, and they got him to agree to meet with the artist in the sheriff's office later and work up a new Identikit drawing.

They talked to two more persons and learned very little of substance and finally they were in the car and heading back to the temporary command post, Tom D'Amico, Walter Belcher, with one of Bob Andersen's uniformed guys, Gary Ammons, driving them. The radio crackled, and the driver rogered it.

“Task force call for special unit on frequency two."

“Roger, switching to two” He flipped a switch. “Kay zero niner on two, over."

“Is special unit in the vehicle?"

“Affirmative."

“Jack, this is Bob Anderson. Patching a call through from Buckhead, stand by one."

Gary Ammons handed the mike to Eichord, who leaned forward and keyed the press-to-talk switch.

“Eichord standing by, over.” He waited.

“Jack, can you hear me?” It was James Lee.

“That's a rog. Loud and clear, Jimmie."

“Need to talk to you on a land line immediately.” His voice was very cold and businesslike. Jack's first thought was that Chink had just caught the shit from IAD.

“Let me call you in ... oh, five or ten minutes. Where are you?"

“Squad room."

Eichord almost said, What are you doing there? He figured he'd be at a pay phone.

“You want me to call you back at the squad room?” Eichord repeated, knowing Chink would get the point of the question.

“Yeah. Immediately. Soon as you can."

“Ten-four. Out.” The ride took a long six or seven minutes and Jack was outside in a pay telephone calling Buckhead Station and asking for James Lee in homicide.

“Jack, listen. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe something. Listen. Just heard about a mutilation homicide matches your MO there. Did anybody say anything to you about—"

CLIK. BBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

“Hello? Jesus, oh man, HELLO. SHIT.” Click, Tick ... tick ... tick ... tick ... Is he going to call me or is he waiting to get MY call but if I call HIM and my line is busy when he calls ME then he can't get in and...

RIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNG.

“YEAH!"

“—Were cut off. Listen, did you get that about a mutilation homicide?"

“No, what?"

“Can you hear me?"

“YES I CAN FUCKING HEAR. What about a mutilation homicide, Jimmie?"

“This side of Chattanooga, man. I-Seventy-five. A motel. Scene straight out of hell. The maid goes in to clean and runs out into the street screaming. Young girl in there ripped in half. Bed is covered in blood. Sliced open and gutted. Heart removed. Sealed up.” There was a noise like he was coughing. “Heart sealed up inside a little plastic bag and put back in the chest cavity. You still there?"

“Yeah. I'm here."

“Medical examiner thinks a baby was removed from the womb of the girl."

“ID?"

“Not yet."

“Let's have the rest of it."

“Yeah. You sittin’ down?"

“Yeah."

“Okay. The plastic bag in the chest cavity with the heart cut loose and—you know—sealed up in it. The killer printed your name on it. There was a long pause. Same MO as Bunkowski in Chicago."

“That doesn't mean shit. He could be a copycat, you know that. Let's not get crazy here."

“I thought you oughta know. I mean, the description of the dude matches the guy there. Big, massive Cauc. ‘Course that don't mean anything. All you white guys look alike anyway,” he said, trying feebly.

“Right."

“Hang tough. I'll have the results datafaxed right to you soon as we get. And call. Perp left prints ALL over the scene. We'll have something from docs on the plastic bag printing. Get it right to you."

“Yeah.” Eichord took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if he had a lungful of smoke. “Other than THAT, how's everything."

“Samey same, papa-san."

“Wonderful."

“I just thought,” Lee paused. He was acting like he didn't want to hang up yet. “Uh, you know, if it IS anything, the fucker was in Chattanooga this morning. Sort of on the way here, you know?"

“Yeah. I know. Lemme hear what you get.” The connection was broken.

And as he broke the connection he could only think of one thing: a phone call to a Virginia pay phone compliments of his old colleague Sonny Shoenburgen, a career colonel in the intelligence racket who had managed to survive the purges and climb into the senior strata of clandestine spookery. The call had been to an anonymous spook chief who had told him next to nothing about the man he'd been hunting in a notorious serial-murder case. A conversation pried loose through the sticky need-to-know tape that seals the doings of the folks who come out of various compounds and complexes and camps and forts with that special and unique attitude that is part mean and part tradecraft.

“This bridge is burnt. No matter what,” he'd said. It was after he'd told him about their “experiment with mercenaries in Southeast Asia,” and about this self-taught genius of assassination who had developed a taste for raw, fresh, human heart.

“What makes him kill?” Jack had asked. He'd never forget the sound of those three words down the long, hollow umbilical to spookland.

“He likes it,” the man had said.

Even though Eichord was not prepared to believe it was happening, he was galvanized into an orgy of action. Each phone call, each successive interview, every new fact that emerged, each word down the task-force line brought the distant image into sharper focus. Try as he might to build air castles of theory about copycat killers and this and that and the other, he was beginning to see the shape of the shadow that was blocking the other end of the tunnel. And it made him shudder with the icy reality of this terrible thing that could not now be denied.