Stone Shadow

Buckhead Station

The flaky homicide detectives started doing schtick immediately upon encountering one another in the precinct house, Jimmy Lee saying to Dana Tuny, “Eichord downstairs?"

“Hey, do I look like Mr. Keen? The fuck should I know?"

“No. You look like an elephant wearing a man's shirt, but if you see Jack down there, tell him line four."

“Some get a kick from co-caaaaaaayyyyyyyne,” the fat cop sang as he clomped down into the squad room. “But I know that if I would eat me some quiff it would bore me terriff-ically tooooooo. Hey! Eichord. Pick up four."

“Homicide."

“'Zis Jack Eichord?"

“Speaking."

“Jack, this is Wally Michaels. You remember me?"

“Oh—sure,” Eichord said unconvincingly.

“I met you in D.C. a couple years ago, remember? I was in the class you lectured at Quantico."

“Oh, yeah. Sure! Hey, Wally. How's it goin'?"

“Goin’ great. Still with Dallas PD. I hear about you all the time, of course. MacTuff went and made you a star, man.” They laughed. “Jack, I'm asking for your help through channels. The chief is calling your honcho or maybe has already this morning. We need ya to get down to big D ... Are you tied up with anything right now?"

“Not anything I can't shake loose of, far as I know. What's cookin'?"

“We got a serial murder. Thing's really hot. Weird M.O. Whacko time. Nearly forty possibles. Random kills. Killed at least seventeen people already around the Dallas—Fort Worth area. Other than a family of migrant workers they appear to all be unrelated.” Wally began running the case down to Eichord, who sensed something pulling at him the way all the big ones seemed to do. Giving him that first taste. The first little frisson of beckoning excitement, the first shudder of fear that came from knowing an unknown killer was out there somewhere.

The Major Crimes Task Force was a federally funded unit for which Eichord worked as a sometimes agent-at-large. He would work out of a local police force or whatever, nominally under the ranking officer, but often working independently from whatever official investigation might already be under way. His title, that of special investigator, told you nothing. In truth he was that rara avis of coppers. He answered to no one.

Eichord thought of his boss as the Captain, if you'd ask him, the honcho of his detective bureau at home, but captain was merely the bottom rung in a lofty ladder of command. The captain of Buckhead Station just happened to be the lifer who handed Eichord his ticket to ride when MCTF reached out for him.

When Eichord wasn't involved in a task-force-sanctioned investigation, he was just another city flatfoot. But everyone from the newest patrolmen on up knew that he was only there to await the bidding of a higher master. Because of his low-profile demeanor and self-effacing nature, the unique status accorded him had never become the personnel problem that it might have had Jack's ego been less healthy. But he saw himself as just another hardworking, dedicated cop. Period.

The limelight that plagued him so in recent years had been a real two-edged sword. His success track record, real or hype job, allowed him to come and go as he liked. Disappear, in fact, for weeks on end. Report or not report—with paychecks mailed by the Treasury Department to a box number. He was as close as it really gets to having a license to kill. All he needed was a black mask and a faithful Indian friend. He unholstered his Smith that night as he began packing for Dallas, and—sure enough—he had plenty of silver bullets.