“Where is your wife, Mr. Kork?” Herb asked.
“Roasting in the flames of hellfire.”
“Do you have other children?”
Kork looked beyond us, into space. “Had a daughter. My blessed little angel.
Helper and defender of mankind. She sits at God’s right hand and watches me from heaven, protects me from sin and from myself and from unnatural urges.”
“She’s deceased?”
His eyes glazed over. “Taken from me. By Charles. The devil took my angel. Matthew 4:1; ‘then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.’ Corruption of the flesh, of the soul, my poor little girl.”
“Do you have any other relatives, Mr. Kork?”
He shook his head. “No flesh of my flesh, no blood of my blood.”
“Cousins? Nephews?”
He made fists and pounded on his thighs. “NO FLESH OF MY FLESH AND NO BLOOD OF MY BLOOD!”
This wasn’t getting us anywhere.
“Jack . . .” Herb nudged me and pointed with his chin. Behind Kork was a refrigerator, old enough to still be called an icebox. Next to that, an open pantry, the shelf inside loaded with mason jars.
The law was clear when it came to search and seizure. A cop can only search if given permission, or with a warrant. Kork inviting us into his house wasn’t the same as permission to search, but if while in the house we saw evidence of anything illegal or suspicious, the evidence was admissible in court.
The mason jars lining the shelf looked to be the same type as the jar full of toes. I sidestepped Kork and peered into the cabinet.
“Mr. Kork, what’s this?”
I pointed to a jar full of small round things. Some were tan. Some pink. Some green.
He grunted. “Used gum. Help yourself if you want some, but I chewed all the flavor out.”
“This jar is similar to another jar we found, full of human toes. Do you know anything about that?”
Another faraway looked crossed Kork’s face.
“Mr. Kork? Did you hear me?”
“Niblets,” he breathed.
“Speak up, Mr. Kork.”
“Sweet.”
“What’s sweet?”
His focus came back, and he looked at me, a thin line of drool sliding down the corner of his mouth.
“The toes of babes. Sweet, like corn Niblets.”
Alarms went off in my head. I noticed Herb’s hand had returned to the butt of his gun.
“Did you own a jar of human toes, Mr. Kork? Some of them from children?”
“ ‘And they were bringing children to him, that he might touch them.’ Mark 10:13.”
“Mr. Kork, may we search your premises?”
“Two Peter 2:14. ‘They have eyes full of adultery, insatiable for sin. They entice unsteady souls. They have hearts trained in greed. Accursed children!’ ”
Herb came up to Bud, put a hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Kork, do we have your permission to search your house?”
Bud blinked, then looked at Herb.
“What did you say?”
“Your house, Mr. Kork. We’d like to search it.”
He grunted, nodding. “Go ahead. Help yourself.”
I began sorting through the cabinets. Herb tried the drawers.
“You might want to start in the root cellar.”
I stopped, stared at the old man. “What’s in the cellar, Mr. Kork?”
Bud Kork peered down at his bare feet, then put the rosary against his lips.
“That’s where I buried the bodies.”
Chapter 21
BUD KORK LED us out of the kitchen. He had a slow, bow-legged gait that seemed to cause him pain with every step. He took us past several cluttered, dirty rooms and through a closed door at the end of the hall.
A soiled bare mattress sat on the floor, pointy springs jutting out through the fabric. As in the first room, the walls were bare, save for a giant black crucifix hanging crookedly over the bed.
“This is the devil’s room. Unclean.”
Kork pointed to the closet, open to reveal a dozen empty wire hangers hanging from a rope nailed lengthwise inside.
“Under the board.”
The bottom of the closet had a four-by-four piece of plywood on its floor, three pairs of worn shoes on top. Herb kept watch on Bud, and I knelt by the board and lifted the corner, dragging back the wood to reveal a squarish hole.
The smell rose up like a ghost, catching in my throat and forcing me to gag.
I covered my mouth and nose. “Something dead.”
Herb’s nostrils curled back. “Many somethings. Call the GPD?”
I glanced at Kork, who was gnawing on a dirty fingernail. I could smell the schizo on him like I could smell his stale sweat. He was completely unreliable. Maybe there were indeed corpses under the house. Or maybe there were dead dogs, or a pig, or he simply used this hole to dump leftover cooking grease.
“We need to confirm first. Got a flashlight in the car?”
Herb told me no.
“I have a lantern,” Kork said. “In my room.”
I nodded at Benedict, and he whisked Kork away to locate the lantern. Holding my nose, I took another look into the hole.
It seemed to be very deep. Ancient wood was laid into the dirt floor, making a kind of staircase that led down into blackness. The smell was so bad it penetrated my tongue. The smell of decay. The smell of rot. The smell of old death.
Herb returned, Kork in tow. He held an old-fashioned gas lamp, the wick burning bright inside the glass.
He cleared his throat and asked, “You or me?”
I had no idea how big the space was down there, and Herb was almost double my size. I held out my hand for the lamp.
“Want me to hold your shoes?”
Wrong day to wear Dior.
“No. They only cost me eight bucks. But I could use your handkerchief, if it’s clean.”
He pulled it from his jacket pocket. “Snot free.”
I pressed it over my nose and mouth, held the lamp before me like a talisman, and began my descent.
The stairs canted at a steeper angle than normal. I took them slow, careful of my footing. The walls were cut directly into the earth, like the sides of a freshly dug grave, and the black dirt absorbed the lantern light. The dirt also absorbed sound, and my climb was eerily quiet.
I counted thirteen steps before reaching the bottom. It had a dirt floor, bumpy and uneven, and the lamp revealed an area of roughly twenty feet by forty feet. The ceiling was low, brushing the top of my head. This made the space seem small and tight, and I felt a spark of panic that the ceiling would collapse on my head, burying me alive. I controlled my fear and moved on.
Three steps into the room I saw the first mound. A raised pile, no more than six inches higher than the surrounding earth.
The length and width of a child.
“Herb!” I yelled through the handkerchief—the smell was abominable. “I need a shovel!”
“Just a minute!” He sounded very far away.
I went deeper into the room, illuminating more burial mounds.
I counted eighteen.
“Shovel coming down!”
With four clangs and a thud, a spade hit the cellar floor. Long-handled, with a rusty blade. I set down the lantern and was forced to tuck the handkerchief into my pocket—I couldn’t dig with only one hand.
I picked the nearest mound. The spade dug easily into the earth, biting deep with each swing.
Every breath provoked a gag.
I badly wanted to spit the taste of rot out of my mouth, or to vomit, but I kept swallowing it back, unwilling to contaminate the scene. The lamp cast wild flickering shadows along the walls and ceiling, and I knew I was getting close to the end of my reserves. I had two minutes, tops, before I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.
I dug faster, my back muscles screaming, my jaw set tight. The smell made my eyes tear up. The ceiling pres
sed down, as if I were sinking.
That was enough. I couldn’t do it. I was going to barf all over, and no force of will could stop it.
My blade hit something.
Hurrying, no longer caring about getting dirty, I dropped to my knees and scooped away handfuls of earth, inch by terrible inch, until the child’s head appeared, a pink barrette still clipped in the muddy blond ponytail.
I jerked my hand back, pulling out several strands and part of the scalp. The flesh had taken on the consistency of soap.
Game over. The smell had become a living thing, so potent, so pungent, I could feel it even though I held my breath. It dug into my pores, penetrating my skin, infecting me with its corruption.
I pressed my lips together and made it up the stairs before the vomit burst forth, spewing onto the stained mattress.
Herb approached me, concerned, but stayed back when the stench of me hit him.
“Call the Gary police,” I managed to get out between expulsions. “Tell them to bring digging equipment, HazMat suits, the county coroner, and at least twenty body bags.”
Herb fussed with his cell phone. “No signal. Where’s your phone, Kork?”
Bud Kork eyed Herb, an odd expression on his face. He didn’t seem nervous, or upset. More like curious.
“In the kitchen,” he answered.
“I’ll watch him,” I told Herb. He waddled off.
I coughed, spit. The smell was in my clothes, in my hair, on my skin. I knew from experience it would be hell to get rid of. I stared hard at Bud Kork, anger slowly replacing my revulsion.
“How many are down there, Bud? How many kids?”
He spoke softly. “ ‘He must manage his own household well, keeping his children submissive and respectful in every way.’ That’s 1 Timothy 3:4.”
“How many people, Bud? How many children?”
“Sinners. All sinners. I helped them atone.”
His palsy became worse, his fists shaking like he was plugged into an electrical outlet.
“Tell me about Diane Kork, Bud. Did you kill her?”
“I’m a sinner too. Lord, I am a sinner!
Kork dropped to his knees, his eyes filling with tears.
“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins . . .”
He began to rock back and forth, bending down, touching his forehead to the floor.
“Did you kill your son’s wife? Or do you know who did?”
“. . . because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You . . .”
“Do you have a video camera, Mr. Kork?”
“. . . my God, who is all-good and deserving . . .”
“Who brought the jar of toes to Chicago?”
“. . . of all my love, I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more!”
His rocking was violent now, and he snapped his body back and drove his head hard into the wood floor.
“Mr. Kork!”
“Sin no more!”
He smashed his head down even harder. Blood erupted from his face and nose. I made it to him in two steps, reaching for his shoulders, trying to pull him back. He was much stronger than I would have guessed, and he had momentum on his side.
“SIN NO MORE!”
With his final blow I actually heard the sound of his skull cracking. He slumped over onto his side, one eye closed, the other open and fully dilated.
“Herb! We need an ambulance!”
I put two fingers against his grimy neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but there.
Pulling back his collar, I noticed some scar tissue on his breastbone. A sense of uneasiness, of dread, came over me, and without thinking I lifted up his ratty undershirt.
It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen.
Chapter 22
ALEX WAITS FOR Dr. Morton outside the pizzeria, on the sidewalk. The doctor had gone in alone, eighty-five minutes ago. Long enough for a leisurely lunch. This place is known for its deep-dish pizza, baked in a pan with the sauce on top of the cheese. Alex has never tried it.
At the eighty-sixth minute after entering, Dr. Morton exits the restaurant. His face is the picture of shock and surprise when he bumps into Alex at the door. He recovers quickly, but Alex is secretly delighted to have flustered the shrink.
“Alex! Oh, hello. Just in the neighborhood?”
“There are more than three million people in Chicago, Doctor. What’s the likelihood we both just happened to pick the same restaurant for lunch?”
Alex watches him puzzle it out.
“So, you followed me. Was there any particular reason?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Dr. Morton looks at his watch. Very unprofessional. “I’m sort of pressed for time, Alex. Don’t we have an appointment tomorrow?”
“You spent eighty-six minutes eating pizza. You can’t spare ten minutes for me?”
“But I’m seeing another patient, Alex.”
“I have to talk to you now, Doctor.” Alex checks the street, which is clear, and casually pulls the gun out. “I’m having a crisis.”
Dr. Morton doesn’t look afraid. But that doesn’t matter.
He will. Soon.
“Can we talk in my car? Just five minutes. I can even give you a ride back to the office, save you some cab fare.”
The doctor lets out a slow breath. “Fine. But I want the gun.”
“Don’t you trust me, Doctor?”
“You said yourself that you’re having a crisis. I wouldn’t want you to do anything regrettable.”
Alex smiles, hands over the weapon.
Dr. Morton shoves it into his blazer pocket, and Alex leads him to the car. If the good doctor notices the missing side mirrors, he doesn’t say anything about it.
After the doctor puts on his seat belt, Alex jabs him with the needle in the upper arm.
“Alex? What are you doing . . . ?”
“Just something to relax you, Doctor.”
Dr. Morton’s mouth opens. He’s shocked. He isn’t used to surprises. He’s used to being in control. Alex can read it in his face.
The doctor grabs for the door, but Alex has disabled the handle. He pulls four or five times, but it doesn’t open.
“Sorry, Doc.” Alex grins.
“Let me out of here, Alex.”
“I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a loose end. I told you too much, and now I have to take care of you.”
“Take care of me?” His words are beginning to slur.
“I’m going to cut a small slit in your belly, right under your navel. And then I’ll stick some tongs in there, and pull your intestines out through the hole. Then you’re going to eat them.”
Dr. Morton’s eyes get comically wide. He gropes for the gun and pulls it out.
“Do you know how to work a semiautomatic, Doctor? That one has a safety on it.”
The doctor obviously doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he’s trying to pull the trigger. Alex reaches over, flips off the safety for him.
Dr. Morton doesn’t hesitate. He points the gun at Alex’s head and fires. There’s a clicking sound, and the slide goes back.
No bullets.
“I’m disappointed, Doctor. Is that how you deal with the mentally ill? By trying to shoot them in the head? I’m surprised you have any patients left at all.”
The doctor raises the gun, tries to hit Alex with it.
Alex laughs, easily blocking the blow, then pops Dr. Morton in the nose, causing a minor explosion of blood.
“Don’t bother trying to fight, Doctor. I’m stronger than you are.”
Dr. Morton doesn’t listen. He again tries to club Alex with the gun. Alex slips the blow and takes the gun away.
“Enough. It’s nighty-night time.”
“Please.” Dr. Morton’s head lolls to the side. He’s almost out.
Alex pats him on the head.
“You’ll have plenty of time for begging tomor
row, Dr. Morton. I promise.”
Chapter 23
WHEN THE DOCTOR came into the waiting room to talk to me, he looked ashen. I put him at about my age, five-ten, graying temples, nurturing a pot belly on an otherwise skinny body. His name tag read Murphy.
“How’s Kork doing?”
“The patient has a linear skull fracture, a third-degree concussion, and a broken nose. I also put six stitches in his scalp. You said this was self-induced?”
“He banged his head into the floor.”
He pursed his lips. “That makes sense, considering the overall shape he’s in.”
“You’ve obviously seen his chest.”
“The chest is child’s play compared to some of the other things I found. He has no relatives?”
“None.” I stood up, stretching my back, my vertebra popping like a cellophane bag. I’d been cramped in the little plastic chair for over three hours.
For the second time this week I sported the latest borrowed hospital fashion: baggy jeans, a Pacers shirt, and sandals. The clothes I’d put on this morning, including my Dior flats, were double-bagged in plastic. I doubted I’d ever get the stench out of them.
The hospital had been kind enough to let me use the residents’ shower, and I scrubbed myself pink with industrial strength antibacterial soap. It still hadn’t been enough to get the stink of rot out of my hair and skin. The stench lingered like a perfume I’d put on. Eau de Decay.
“I’d like to see him, Dr. Murphy.”
“He isn’t conscious yet. Might not be for a while.”
“I want you to show me the other things you just mentioned.”
The doctor hesitated. I had no authority there, but I pressed anyway.
“He’s a mass murderer. They’ve pulled eleven bodies out of his basement already, and more are on the way. Let me see him. It may help save some lives.”
Dr. Murphy relented, and ushered me down a brightly lit hospital corridor to a room in the ICU. A uniform from the Gary PD stood guard by the doorway, young enough to still have acne.
“Just pulled out number twelve.” He tapped his radio and gave me a respectful nod. “You did Indiana a huge favor.”
“Let’s hope your district attorney thinks so.”
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 57
