A Wake of Vultures
Patrick C Kansoer Sr
Copyright © 2018 Patrick C Kansoer Sr
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1719529817
ISBN-13: 978-1719529815
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the late Sherman Skolnick who singly invented being a paralegal.
It is also dedicated to the many people who have added experiences both positive and negative to my life. I have based all my characters on real people and real events. Some of you may recognize yourself. To maintain privacy I am altering names, places and incidents both to fit the story line and to avoid law suits.
"If we understand the nodes that control opinions,
we can interpret the data, then intervene...
Why would you want to have a network and not control it?
Whether it is the Internet, a power grid,
or an organization with a CEO at the helm,
someone has control."
-Albert-László Barabási - Davos Economic Summit 2012
DISCLAIMER
A Wake of Vultures a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. . Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary.
No part of this Book or EBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
(c) 2018 Patrick C. Kansoer Sr
All Rights Reserved
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book is never the work of one person. If I were to try to thank all who helped I would most certainly miss someone, so for all who have been instrumental in this creation, thank you sincerely.
I must, however single out, without naming names, the attorneys, peace officers and those in the intelligence community who have given so much of their time and expertise to help make this vision a reality. The credit for information is theirs, the responsibility for any errors is mine alone. Grateful thanks to my patient friend and editor Charles Loebbaka, charter member of the Knights of the Blue Pencil who, with unflagging patience endured my sloppy spelling, my gruesome grammar and my shattered syntax.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
I
1
A Writhing of Maggots
1
2
A Scurrying of Cockroaches
4
3
A Mischief of Rats
16
4
A Parcel of Pigs
21
5
Feral Cats
29
6
A Cackle of Hyenas
53
7
Prairie Dog Town
71
8
Scorpions and Sand Fleas
79
9
Possum Knob
112
10
11
12
Flying to the Weeping Camel
What Happens in Vegas
A Wake of Vultures
About The Author
148
165
197
234
1 A Writhing of Maggots
Good people are rarely suspicious. They cannot imagine others doing the things they themselves are incapable of doing; usually they accept the undramatic solution as the correct one and let matters rest there. Then too, the normals are inclined to visualize the psychopath as one who's a monstrous in appearance as he is in mind, which is about as far from the truth as one could well get... These monsters of real life usually looked and behaved in a more normal manner than their actually normal brothers and sisters; they presented a more convincing picture of virtue than virtue presented of itself--- just as the wax rosebud or plastic peach seemed more perfect to the eye; more of what the mind thought a rosebud or a peach should be, than the imperfect original from which it had been modelled.
--William March, The Bad Seed
There is blood all over the room. It’s on the walls and it has seeped into the cracks in the floor. There are smears of it on the doorknob and bloody hand prints on the lampshade, the light switch, and the walls. There is even a large pool of it congealed under an old fashioned occasional chair, where the victim's corpse is securely zip tied. As if by some occult magic flies have appeared for a macabre banquet, on the lampshade, on the light switch, on the walls, but mostly under the final earthly remains.
That’s the thing about a bludgeoning, the blood spatters everywhere.
Sherman Melvin Jacob was short, overweight, unkempt and more than slightly casual about personal hygiene. His nose was flattened from a beating he suffered as a youth and a complexion that looked like someone set his face on fire and then put out the flames with a golf shoe. Sherman Melvin Jacob was one other thing. He was absolutely, positively and unequivocally dead.
Someone had done a very meticulous and thorough job of making certain that Sherman Jacob's death was horrific, up-close and personal... very, very personal.
His run down little house just a block south of Skokie’s main drag, Dempster street... had a rickety fence overgrown, carpeted with weeds. It was a small frame house that badly needed painting, the last structure on a block that had been cleared for a slum clearance district, showing a sad face to the world.
The interior was worse than the places described in the tabloids about hoarders. Filled with old newspapers, crushed Golden Arches bags containing greasy burger wrappings, dirty clothes and crumpled Styrofoam coffee cups and the mummified remains of franchise pizzas in their boxes that weren’t worth eating when fresh. Jacobs abode closely mirrored his disheveled self.
It wasn’t always like this, not when his mother was alive. Back then it was clean and neat. Mama Jacob had a pride of place that was not transmitted to Sherman.
He was a “loner” for the most part spending most of his time on his computer. He was not a pleasant or likable person, but he was doggedly persistent.
His one redeeming attribute was that he was a “squirrel whisperer”. Diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, a milder form of autism, he was a loner in high school, antisocial and awkward, (which earned him his broken and misshapen nose).
Jacob began interacting with his neighborhoods friendly gray squirrels in 2012. Once hand tamed, he idly wondered what one would look like with a hat on its head. The resulting picture became an internet sensation. Pleased with the result, he gave a copy of the photo to his mother, who loved it.
The squirrels helped Jacob come out of his shell.
“The squirrel’s actually a good way to break the ice”, he explained when asked, “because I’ll be sitting here petting a squirrel and other people will come over and we’ll just start like feeding the squirrels together and talking about them.”
It would take a while before anybody missed Sherman Melvin Jacob, about three weeks to be exact...
2 A Scurrying of Cockroaches
George Papalounis, the owner of The Little Club in Skokie, one of the people who had talked with the squirrel whisperer on occasion walked past the front of the house and noticed the smell. It was the sick, sweet but metallic smell of death. George remembered that smell from when he was in the war. He called the cops.
Operator: “Skokie 911, what’s the address of your emergency?”
Caller: “Hi, I’m, on the street in front of this house and I think I smell something dead”.
Operator: “Give me the address.”
Caller: “8117 Bronx St near the
corner of Carroll.”
Operator: “Bronx St.? You said, at Carroll?”
Caller: “And there’s a (inaudible) out the back, yup, yup. And I think I smell something dead but I just... I don’t know.”
Operator: “Okay, well I already got a call started and an officer is on the way. Uh, can you see anything, or you’re just smelling something dead then, is that what you’re saying?”
Caller: “Yeah. It smells like a dead dog or something, but the place looks abandoned and I know the squirrel whisperer guy lives here… or at least he used to.”
Operator: “OK, I’ve already got an officer on the way. What is your name?”
Caller: “George.”
Operator: “George, what’s your last name?”
Caller: “Papalounis, George Papalounis. I’m the owner of The Little Club on Golf road.”
Operator: “George.”
Caller: “Yeah.”
Operator: “Your phone number?”
Caller: “(847)583-0000”
Operator: “OK, we’ve got a squad on the way. If anything changes before we get there just give us a call right back, but officer should be there soon.”
Caller: “Thanks.”
Operator: “OK, not a problem.”
Dispatch: “Skokie 203”
Officer: “203 Skokie, go ahead”
Dispatch: “Skokie 203, check for well-being. 8117 Bronx St. corner of Carroll. See the complainant, George Papalounis.”
Officer: “10-4 Dispatch. 8117 Bronx St., corner of Carroll, Check for well-being. See complainant George Papaloonies. Any further info?”
Dispatch: “Complainant states strange smell at this location like something dead. Nothing further at this time Skokie 203”
Officer: “10-4 dispatch. On my way. ETA about 3 minutes. Skokie 203 clear.”
Officer Tom Skrzyniarz was a good cop, an active cop and an experienced cop. During the previous year he had a number of citizen contacts resulting in forty-three custodial arrests.
In his twelve years on the Skokie force there wasn't anything that could happen in that small city that would shock or surprise him. On the way to the call he thought to himself; “Strange smell like a dead ‘possum maybe. Oh well, it’ll give me a chance to get out of the squad and stretch my legs.”
Officer: 203 Skokie, 10-23 8117 Bronx street.
Dispatch: 10-4 Skokie 203.
Rolling up to the location, officer Skrzyniarz thought that the block looked like a scene from an “end of the world” movie. All of the surrounding structures had been razed by the same genius urban planners that failed to account for the lack of available Federal funding needed to finish their grandiose plans.
What remained was this one forsaken house surrounded by overgrown weedy lots. This was starting to look like it might be something more than a simple dead animal call.
Exiting his squad Tom observed a short balding nervous looking guy that was most likely his complainant.
“Hi, I’m Officer Tom Skrzyniarz sir. Are you the person that called about the foul smell?”
“Yes officer, I’m George Papalounis. I was walking past here looking to see if the guy I know as the squirrel whisperer was out. I haven’t seen him around in a couple of weeks, and as I was walking by I noticed this terrible smell, so I called.”
“O.K. Mr. Papaloonies, you mentioned a “squirrel whisperer” what’s that all about?”
“Well officer, you see, the guy that lives in this house is kind of a strange duck. He’s not too sociable, but he has this way of taming squirrels. He gets them to eat out of his hand, pets them and even puts little hats on the and takes pictures?”
“Hats? This guy puts hats on squirrels?”
“Yeah, I know it sounds kinda weird, but it was really sort of interesting and I would stop here and talk to him and watch the squirrels with him once in a while when I go for my walk. But I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks and today there was this smell, so I called.”
“So, how close a friend was this guy? Did you visit much? Did you know him well or anything else about his friends or family? You say you haven’t seen or talked to the guy for a couple of weeks?”
“That’s right officer. I didn’t know him very well at all. We just were more like passing acquaintances rather than friends. I would stop by here on my constitutional occasionally when he was out with the squirrels and we would chat, mostly about the squirrels. He did stop by my place, The Little Club for dinner once in a while.”
I guess it’s been more like three weeks to a month since I saw him last. The last time was just after the last rainstorm. He was in my restaurant with a lady friend for dinner. Seemed a bit strange, him being with her. I had never seen him with a lady before and she was quite a looker. Tall, pretty, reddish-blond hair, the kind of a gal you would turn around and take a second look if you saw her on the street. Probably was some kind of business dinner. She looked like a real estate agent and you can see that his house here isn’t much. Maybe he was looking to move into something better.”
“Okay Mr. Papalounis, you just hang out here for a while if you can. I'm gonna check things out but I may need to talk to you further after.”
Tom began moving carefully toward the house taking his time to carefully observe as much of the scene as he could without making written notes.
From past experience he knew that this was the best way to make sure that his written report would be as accurate as it could be. The sergeant was a bit anal about clean and accurate reports and from experience Tom knew that a happy boss was an easy boss.
The front gate looked as though it hadn't been used in quite a while since there was quite a tangle of weeds surrounding the gateposts and the greenery hadn't been trampled down.
Walking up to the stairs, he saw no evidence of recent traffic and there was no mail in the rusted mail box that hung forlornly to the right of the door.
He rang the bell and spoke loudly; "Officer Tom Skrzyniarz, Skokie police... is anybody home?"
There was no response. He then rapped strongly on the old wooden front door and repeated, louder; "Officer Tom Skrzyniarz, Skokie police... is anybody home?"
Still no response, just silence. He did notice a faint smell of what might have been a dead squirrel or cat. Nothing overwhelming, but it was there, none-the-less.
Moving off the porch Tom checked out the yard to the west of the house. There was nothing unusual to make note of except for the overgrown condition of a yard choked with weeds. No sign of either people or animals having disturbed the thick vegetation.
Moving back toward the east Tom followed what was once a walkway to the back yard. The side yard was also overgrown. The three windows on this side of the house were grime encrusted and opaque.
Slowly and carefully he continued his progress to the back of the house.
The backyard was as overgrown as the rest of the property with the singular exception of a pathway out to the alley and the semi-abandoned municipal parking lot to the north. Someone had been making entrance and egress from the house by this route, but the degree of overgrowth showed that it hadn't been traversed for some time.
As Tom approached the rickety back stairs leading to the rear entrance to the house, the smell of putrefaction increased. Carefully mounting the steps and looking if there was any indication of human activity, he approached the closed door and knocked. The door swung inward with the force of his knuckles on the wood and the smell of rotting meat assailed his nostrils like a wind out of hell. There was definitely something... or someone dead inside.
"Officer Tom Skrzyniarz, Skokie police... is anybody home?" Tom announced while reaching for his Kel-light flashlight with his left hand while drawing his 9mm service weapon with his right.
"Officer Tom Skrzyniarz, Skokie police... check for well-being"; he announced as he flicked on the Kel-light and carefully entered the building.
When just inside the door, he found himself in the kitchen.
Sweeping the light slowly from left to right while keeping his service weapon at the low-ready position, he mentally recorded the fact that the kitchen had not seen use as a food preparation area for some time.
Paper plates were piled on the sink; dirty plastic ware with the rotting remnants of food was on the drainboard and the stove veiled with a coating of dust.
The only evidence of life were the many paw prints in the dust on the floor. Paw prints that appeared to be from squirrels or cats. There were two sets of human footprints leading into the house but only one back out again toward where Tom was standing.
As he made these observations, be noticed the longer he was in the kitchen the putrid smell increased in intensity.
Something deep in his consciousness made him want to leave this place. There was danger here and instinctively Tom knew it, but, as he was taught in his many years as a cop, you perform as you train and his training overrode his instinct. He moved further into the darkened house.
Moving through the kitchen door into the dining room he swept the beam of his light from left to right, alert for any movement that would trigger his action response. The antique dining room table was piled high with old newspapers, junk mail and other flotsam and detritus.
There was an old pizza box computer with a tiny monitor on a table against the wall. It was also covered in dust and looked like it had been quite some time since it had been powered up.
The old dining room floor was replete with animal paw prints embedded in the dust and under those he could barely make out two sets of human footprints leading to a room to his right but only one set leading out and back to where he stood.
Carefully walking to the side of the footprints so as not to disturb the scene, he slowly worked his way to the doorway of the room on his right. Getting to the opening he stood for a minute listening.
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