by Jack Kilborn
“Starter fluid,” Taylor said. This conversation was getting surreal.
“Clever.”
“So what is it exactly you do, Donaldson?”
“For work? Or do you mean with the people I encounter? I’m a courier, that’s my job. I travel all around, delivering things to people who need them faster than overnight. As for the other—well, that’s sort of personal, don’t you think? We just met, and you want me to reveal intimate details of my antisocial activities? Shouldn’t we work up to that?”
So far, Donaldson had been the embodiment of calm. He didn’t seem threatening in the least. They might have been talking about the weather.
“And you spotted me because of the blood and the ether smell?”
“Initially. But the give-away was the look in your eyes.”
“And what sort of look do my eyes have, Donaldson?”
“This one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Taylor. ”The eyes of a predator. No pity. No remorse. No humanity.”
Taylor stared hard, then grinned. “I don’t see anything but regular old eyes.”
Donaldson held the intense gaze a moment longer, then chuckled. “Okay. You caught me. The eyes don’t tell anything. But I caught you casing the place before you walked in. Looking for cops, for trouble, for exits. A man that careful should have noticed some spots of blood on his shirt.”
“Maybe I cut myself shaving.”
“And the ether smell?”
“Maybe the rig was giving me some trouble, so I cleaned out the carburetor.”
“No grease or oil under your nails. Just dried blood.”
Taylor leaned in close, speaking just above a whisper.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you, Donaldson.”
“Other than the fact I have your knife? Because you should consider this a golden opportunity, my friend. You and I, we’re solitary creatures. We don’t ever talk about our secret lives. We never share stories of our exploits with anyone. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and I’ve never met another person like us. A few wannabes. More than a few crazies. But never another hunter. Like we are. Don’t you think this is a unique chance?”
The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor wasn’t hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what he claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent correct. Taylor had never talked about his lifestyle with anyone, other than his victims. And then, it was only to terrify them even more.
Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting caught. Not because he harbored any guilt, and not because he wanted to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to be open and honest about his habits with the whole world. To let a fellow human being know how clever he’d been all these years. Maybe have some shrink interview him and write a bestselling book.
How interesting it would be to talk shop with someone as exceptional as he was.
“So you want to swap stories? Trade tactics? Is that it, Donaldson?”
“I can think of duller ways to kill some time at a truck stop.”
Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork, shoved some into his mouth. It was good.
“Fine. You go first. You said you don’t like ether. So how do you make your—” Taylor reached for the right words ”—guests compliant.”
“Blunt force trauma.”
“Using what?”
“Trade secret.”
“And what if you’re too… aggressive… with your use of blunt force?”
“An unfortunate side-effect. Just happened to me, in fact. Just picked up a tasty little morsel, but her lights went out before I could have any fun with her.”
“Picked up? Hitcher?”
Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned. “Didn’t you know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of psychos out there.”
Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth, and followed it up with some mashed potatoes. ”Hitchers might be missed.”
“So could truck stop snatch.”
Taylor paused in mid-bite.
“Your fly is open. And I saw how you were measuring the resident pimp.” Donaldson raised an eyebrow. ”Have you relieved him of one of his steady sources of income?”
Now it was Taylor’s turn to grin. “Not yet. She’ll be dessert when I’m done with this meatloaf.”
“And once you’re finished with her?”
Taylor zipped up his fly. ”I like rivers. Water takes care of any trace evidence, and it’s tough for the law to pinpoint the location where they were dumped in. You?”
“Gas and a match. First a nice spritz with bleach. Bleach destroys DNA, you know.”
“I do. Got a few bottles in the truck.”
Taylor still couldn’t assess what sort of threat Donaldson posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.
“So, here’s the ten-thousand dollar question,” Donaldson asked. “How many are you up to?”
Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and seeing whose is bigger?”
“I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve read about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”
“So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many I can prove?”
“Both.”
Taylor shrugged. ”I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality.”
“You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for that many.”
“One in every state, old man.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably don’t have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID.”
“No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”
Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. ”Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”
“True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn’t so dangerous, I’d love to videotape a few.”
That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf. But mytrophy box will have to suffice.
“So how many are you up to, Grandpa?”
“A hundred twenty-seven.”
Taylor snorted. ”Bullshit.”
“I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones.”
“Dangerous to carry those around with you.”
“I’ve got them well hidden.” Donaldson stared at him, his eyes twinkling. ”Would you be interested in seeing them?”
“What do you mean? One of those I’ll show you mine if you show me yours deals?”
“No. Well, not exactly. I’m not interested in seeing your driver’s license collection. But I would be interested in paying a little visit to your current guest.”
Taylor frowned. ”I’m not big on sharing. Or sloppy seconds.”
Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. ”I understand. It’s just that… you know how it is, when you get all worked up, and then they quit on you.”
Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon felt like having something precious stolen from him.
“You don’t seem like the shy type,” Donaldson continued. “I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind doing your thing when someone else was there to watch.”
Taylor smiled. “Aren’t you the dirty old man.”
Donaldson smiled back. “A dirty old man who doesn’t have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently have. I see no problem in going second. As long a
s there’s something left for me to enjoy myself with.”
“I leave all the major parts intact.”
“Then perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Perhaps we can.”
Donaldson’s smile suddenly slipped off his face. He’d noticed the same thing Taylor had.
A cop had walked into the restaurant.
Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.
“Here comes trouble,” Donaldson said.
And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next to them.
-4-
After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went in search of food.
The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn’t worked Vice in well over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning their living illegally.
Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each other. I’d done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted some coffee and a hot meal, which I believed would wake me up enough to get me through the rest of my road trip and into the very patient arms of my fiancée.
I expected at least one or two catcalls or wolf whistles when I entered, but didn’t hear any. Sort of disappointing. I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann Klein pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three inchKate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a bit frivolous, but the jury couldn’t see my feet when I took the stand. I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and wore the shoes because Latham loved them. I had even painted my toenails to celebrate our vacation.
Maybe the current diners were too preoccupied with the hired help to know another woman had entered the place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a “cop vibe” that people could sense, but he assured me I was stillsexy. Still, a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning filled with lonely, single men, and I didn’t even get a lecherous glance. Maybe I needed to work-out more.
Then I realized I still had my badge clipped to my belt. Duh.
I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the emergency exit, counting the number of patrons and employees, identifying potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at me. He gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him a look that said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated prostitutes, I loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you earned just because they were bigger than you wasn’t fair.
But I didn’t come here to start trouble. I just wanted some food and caffeine.
I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold stares, and found counter space next to a portly man. I eased myself onto the stool.
“Coffee, officer?”
I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my mug and filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had cheese curds—those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive to Wisconsin.
“The meatloaf is good.”
I glanced at the man on my left. Big and tall, maybe fifteen years older than I was. He had a kind-looking face, but his smile appeared forced.
“Thanks,” I replied.
I sipped some coffee. Nice and strong. If I got two cups and a burger in me, I’d be good to go. The waitress returned, I ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of cheese curds.
“Never seen you here before.”
The voice, reeking of alpha male, came from behind me. I could guess who it belonged to.
“Passing through,” I said, not bothering to turn around.
“Well, maybe you can hurry it along, little lady. Your kind isn’t good for business.”
I carefully set down my mug of coffee, then slowly swiveled around on my stool.
The pimp was sticking his chest out like he was being fitted for a bra, a few stray curly hairs peeking through his collar. One of his women, strung out on something, clung unenthusiastically to his side. Her concealer didn’t quite cover up her black eye.
“I’m off duty, and just stopped in for coffee and some cheese curds, which I can’t get in Illinois. I suggest you mind your own business. This isn’t my jurisdiction, but I’m guessing the local authorities wouldn’t mind if I fed you someof your teeth.”
The older fat guy next to me snorted. The pimp wasn’t so amused.
“The local authorities,” he said it in a falsetto, obviously trying to mimic me, “and I have an arrangement. That arrangement means no cops.” He gave me a rough shove in the shoulder. ”And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I fed you—”
I drove the salt shaker into his upper jaw with my palm, breaking both the glass and the teeth I’d promised. Besides being hard and having weight, the shards and the salt did a number on the pimp’s gums. Must have hurt like crazy.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his face and howling, and three of his women dragged him out of there. I did a slow pan across the room, looking for other challengers, seeing none. Then I brushed my hand on my pants, wiping off the excess salt, and went back to my coffee, trying to control the adrenalin shakes. I hated violence of any kind, but once he touched me, I didn’t have any other recourse. I didn’t want to play footsie with the local cops he was paying off, trying to get an assault charge to stick. Or worse, wind up in the hospital because some asshole pimp thought he could treat me the same way he treated the women who worked for him.
Better to nip it in the bud and drop him fast. Though I didn’t have to feel good about it.
I took a deep, steadying breath, and managed to sip some coffee without spilling it all over myself, all the while keeping one eye on the entrance. I’d hurt the pimp bad enough to require an emergency room visit, but if he were tougher and dumber than I’d guessed, he might return with a weapon. I set my purse on the counter, my .38 within easy reach, just in case.
“You’re Lieutenant Jack Daniels, aren’t you?”
I glanced at the fat man again. Even though I’d been on the news many times, I didn’t get recognized very often in Chicago, and it never happened away from home.
“And you are?” My voice came out higher than I would have liked.
“Just a fan. You got that serial killer Charles Kork, the one they called the Gingerbread Man. How many women did he kill?”
“Too many.” I turned back to my coffee.
“I saw the TV movie. The one that became the series. You’re much better looking than the actress who played you.”
I was in no mood to be idolized. Plus, there was something creepy about this guy.
“Look, buddy, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not up for conversation right now.”
The fat man didn’t take the hint. ”And you got Barry Fuller. He killed over a dozen, didn’t he? He was both a serial killer and a mass murderer, due to all those Feds he took out at that rest stop.”
I sighed. The waitress came by with my cheese curds. She set down the basket and winked at me. “These are on me.”
“Thanks. I could use some salt.”
I tried a curd. Too hot, so I spit it back out into my palm and played hot potato until it cooled off. My biggest fan refused to give up.
“There were others in the Kork family as well, weren’t there? A whole group of psychos. I heard they killed over forty people, total.”
I really didn’t want to think about the Kork family, and I really didn’t want to have a late-night gabfest with a cop groupie.
But, on the plus side, knocking out that pimp’s teeth really woke me up.
When the waitress brought me the salt, I asked for my meal to go. The fat guy apparently didn’t like that, because he gave me his back and had an intense whisper excha
nge with his buddy; a younger, attractive man in a flannel shirt. The young guy nodded, got up, and left.
“Just one last question, Lieutenant, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
I sighed again, glancing at him. ”Go ahead.”
“Did you ever try to take on two serial killers at once?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
He smiled, lopsided. ”Too bad. That would have been cool.”
The fat guy threw down some money, then followed his buddy out.
No longer pestered, I decided to eat there, and settled in to eat my cheese curds.
-5-
Taylor hadn’t ever killed a cop. He came close once, a few years ago, when a state trooper pulled him over, and asked him to step out of his truck. Taylor had been ready to pull his knife and gut the pig, but the cop only wanted him to do a field sobriety test. Taylor wouldn’t ever risk driving drunk, and he easily passed, getting let off with a warning and pulling away with a dead hooker in his sleeping compartment.
But he was itching to get at this cop. Taylor liked strong women. He liked when they fought him, refusing to give up. They were so much fun to break. Especially when they had such adorable feet.
As Donaldson suggested, Taylor had left the diner and gone back to his rig to grab the ether. Candi with an I was still out cold, but she held far less fascination for Taylor than this new prospect.
I’m going tohave a little nip of Jack Daniels, he thought, smiling wildly. Maybe more than one. And maybe not so little.
For helping out, he’d let Donaldson have Candi. While Taylor wasn’t into the whole voyeur scene, it might be interesting to watch another pro do his thing. Hopefully, it didn’t involve any sort of sex, because he had zero desire to see Donaldson’s flabby, naked ass.
Taylor grabbed the plastic bag—the ether-soaked paper towels still moist—and met Donaldson in the parking lot.
“The best spot is here, in the shadow of this truck,” Donaldson said.
Taylor didn’t like him calling the shots, but he heard the man out.
“She thinks I’m a fan,” Donaldson continued, ”so I’m going to call her over here, ask for an autograph. Then you come up behind her with the ether.”
“She’s armed. Her purse was too heavy to only be carrying a wallet and make-up.”
