by Rex Miller
Apparently, if Alma Purdy and her father were examples, one could get altogether lost. Sharon came away from the city administration building with a couple of facts she hadn't had going in. She had a missing persons sheet on the Purdy woman and was surprised how relatively young the lady was. Her photo made her appear twenty years older. Second, she had the circular her dad had prepared for the rat hunt.
Back at the motel, all of three blocks from the police headquarters, Sharon shed her clothing and filled the tub, easing her tired body into it and loving the instant gratification of the soapy heat. She was an inveterate shower person but at this moment a hot bath and a long soak were in order. Just a couple, three hours shut-eye and she'd be recharged.
She looked at one of the circulars as she relaxed. Beneath the blowups of the likenesses of the Boy Butcher, Emil Shtolz, Aaron Kamen had added thoughts about the possibilities of reconstructive surgery:
Photograph One: Dr. Emil Shtolz the way he looked when he left Germany in the mid-1940s. Note birthmark.
Photograph Two: Dr. Emil Shtolz's photograph by the time he obtained a driver's license in the postwar 1940s (South America). Identical to photo used by War Crimes Tribunal when Shtolz was tried and convicted in absentia. By the time Shtolz had come to South America he had had cosmetic surgery. Note removal of “Tear of Satan” facial birthmark. Presumably his left arm might also show evidence of the removal of official Waffen-SS blood group tattoo. Following standard escape procedures employed, it is a reasonable assumption that upon Shtolz's emigration to North America additional plastic surgery would have been sought. Subject may no longer resemble photographs.
Kamen had also appended the following:
General Note: Intellectual capacity and language fluency will render this individual extremely difficult to identify physically if further cosmetic facial restructuring has been employed. (See dental records.)
Look for someone working either as a clinician, doctor, teacher, medical assistant, veterinarian, dentist, researcher, or in a related field such as pharmacology, biochemistry, etc. He may have an unusual number of pets, or in some way volunteer his services to help animals, children, and/or the elderly. Shtolz might do charity work for an animal organization such as the Humane Society, or work around livestock in some capacity. He might run a day care center or work for such organizations as the Boy Scouts of America. He might be posing as a priest or minister, or volunteer to work with church, school, day nursery, or nursing home groups.
He may wish to display proficiency in one of the scientific disciplines, for example, a laborer whose hobby is some avenue of clinical experimentation or a blue-collar worker who has treated illnesses. He will seek out contacts with young children, developmentally impaired people, senior citizens, animals, and those he considers vulnerable.
There were no further notes about checking out the man's paper trail for a fraudulent resume or references that wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, because that was basic to any investigation. It was the first thing one did as a hunter, one followed the trail.
The circulars were thin sheets of paper but they had a weight she couldn't believe. The weight pushed her down, made her ache inside, shudder, and she jerked her head, trembling, as she felt her face sliding down in the bathwater. How long had she been asleep in the tub? God! Unbelievable.
Sharon got out of the now cool water and rubbed vigorously with a huge, rough bath towel. The motel room had felt quite warm when she first entered it but the air dried on her now, making her tremble again, every pore of skin tingling. She was afraid and wasn't completely sure she should be. You could think about things in a way that might perhaps influence them. She jumped into bed and pulled up the scratchy blanket and the spread that smelled of tobacco smoke and was asleep before her beautiful, silky hair hit the pillow, She did not hear the rain that was pounding outside in accompaniment to her deep breathing.
35
New Madrid Levee
Daniel Bunkowski dreams of his third bit inside the House of Pain, which was one of the names the inmates gave to the Marion, Illinois, federal penitentiary.
Dr. Norman, in charge of the program that originally shoehorned Chaingang out of the maximum security side, enjoyed a unique position within the penal system, and his ties to clandestine intelligence, the military, and the law-enforcement community had, in a direct, odd way, filtered down to his principal charge: the only inmate within the federal system with a Level 7 rating.
The unprecedented cartes blanches this anomaly was given transmuted in strange ways. The correctional guards found the special procedures loathsome, but what the guard nicknamed Spanish felt toward Bunkowski could only be termed unnatural. It was a fierce, mad, irregular sickness that ate away at the man.
He never missed an opportunity to be cruel to the occupant of cell 10, in the violent unit of disciplinary segregation—D Seg being prison jargon for solitary. It had begun with words, stories of animal cruelty and child abuse that he hoped would enrage the thing kept in restraints, cuffs, boxes, irons, and a biter. He graduated to photographs: shots of a kitten being tortured and sadistic kiddie porn. The guard had studied Bunkowski's dossier, on advice of various jailhouse “docs,” the specialists in the more depraved of sadomasochistic behavior.
The pictures had an effect opposite to the one he desired, however. When the monster saw them he simply turned to stone, and never again showed his antagonist any sign of response. The mistreatment then changed, taking on a physical edge, and Spanish began to beat on Chaingang when he knew he could get away with it. When Dr. Norman was out of town, as he was on this occasion, the opportunity was too good to ignore.
Warden Dickett put his trust in Captain Lawler, a brutal and by-the-numbers dope entrepreneur, who delegated to McCullough, Brock; and Lopez the daily responsibilities of prison business. They, in turn, farmed out the routine work. Thus, Spanish Rodriguez, through his bud Lieutenant Lopez, was able to cut himself a huss.
With quid pro quo in various currencies having greased his entrée, Rodriguez took a baton and wrapped it carefully in thick rolls of newspaper. When it was properly prepared he headed for the house where the beast was caged.
That particular date, the violent unit had just been repainted, and, like the rest of D Seg, it glistened with a fresh second coat of rather prepossessing institutional beige. The behemoth's house was unlike the others, however, as it was not only restricted with respect to personal contact, the cell bore its own unique caveat:
WARNING!
To all personnel/Effective immediately/TFN:
The following rules shall be rigidly adhered to regarding the maintenance of the occupant of Cell 10, MAX D SEG VIOLENT Unit: NO PERSONNEL SHALL ENTER THIS CELL FOR ANY REASON AT ANY TIME UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING SUPERVISORS:
1. Dr. Norman
2. Captain Lawler
3. Correctional Officer McCullough
4. Correctional Officer Brock
5. Lieutenant Lopez
6. Myself
ANY VIOLATION OF THIS POLICY SHALL RESULT IN THE IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF ALL PERSONNEL INVOLVED IN SAID VIOLATION.
Warden Carol A. Dickett
Spanish ignored the warning. His palms were sweating. “Crack Ten,” he shouted to the officer manning the controls, his voice hoarse.
“Hey, man, we're not supposed to—"
"Lawler knows, goddammit, and the fag is outta town, so crack the sum-bitch, aw'right?"
The other officer shrugged and unlocked the cell door, bearing its stenciled unit number and the rules, which were posted under a large sign reading Violent. The massive steel door also housed a special feeding and hygiene port, the operation of which was governed by its own set of security regulations. None of this mattered to Rodriguez. He wiped his perspiring hands on the sides of his pants and entered, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.
"How you doin’ ya fat fuck?” he asked, his voice soft, almost loving, as he struck the huge, bound figure a
cross one of its legs. “That feel pretty good?” It turned him on to put his weight into a baton swing like that. He swung again with all his might, aiming lower and connecting against the side of the beast's weak ankle. The muffled oof of pain was like a lover's orgasmic scream to the little man. “You behave, blimp, and when I finish with you we'll let the doctor check you out for these little aches and pains.” He drew back and swung again. Hard.
It was painful for Bunkowski to remember such moments. The vividness of the guard whacking away at him was irritating. Why, when he could recall nothing else, did he have to seize on that hurtful event to replay in his head? The way he tried to dodge the baton strikes, moving ever so slightly at the last instant; the guard's body odor, heavy as his own; the plan that germinated with the first clubbing; all sharp, clear memories.
His impaired mental computer also recalled the visit to the prison shrink called Hodge, although the memory of it was out of sequence with the beating. It became part of the same plan, but that was later. Or, was he confused again? Had he escaped that time or had he been set free intentionally? It was too complex to sort out the chronologies. It hurt him to concentrate. The flashback, more of a blurback really, reconstructed a moment of wounded time.
Dr. Hodge, another of the zillion faceless sissies who'd been so fascinated with him over the years, resented Dr. Norman terribly, and all but throbbed with delight at the chance to have a session with the much whispered about occupant of cell 10 in D Seg of maximum security—the hole.
First there was the parade from the hole to Hodge's office, Daniel “Chaingang” Bunkowski, a quarter ton of dead weight, bound and gagged by every means possible. Even the handcuffs had their own boxes, as this inmate was notoriously monkey-pawed. A squad of strong, well-trained correctional officers shared the collective responsibility for controlling the occupant of cell 10 whenever he was moved. They were known as the SCUT squad, Special Convict Transport squad being the official title, but no army latrine honey-dipper or mental institution nut-wrangler ever faced such dangerous scut work. There was no letting down when you were within reach of the predaceous monster who lived in D Seg.
Chaingang, restrained and masked, had a badly swollen ankle and a cracked rib. The nonsequential illogic of the injuries defied analysis. Perhaps there had been other equally severe beatings. In any event he was transported to Dr. Hodge's office, rather painfully, but showed nothing in the hard black marbles that were his eyes.
“So, Dan...” the doctor began.
Dan? No one, not even sissy Dr. Norman, had ever used such a name on him. It would be like walking up to a rogue elephant with blood on its tusks and saying “Hi there, Jumbo."
Abject hatred flickered in the hard black orbs. “Let's talk about your mother, shall we?"
If a worse beginning could have been devised, it would be difficult to imagine.
“You loved her and hated her, is that fair to say? I mean your case history is quite classic in that respect. Your stepfather abused you something awful, beating you, keeping you under the bed in a punishment trunk, only bringing you out to assault you sexually, forcing his perverted attentions on you as your mother stood by. God, no wonder you hated her. Still, she was your mother. So all the long hours while you were kept inside the darkened closet, what sort of confused and bitter thoughts must you have entertained?” Dr. Hodge was enamored of his own rhetoric and continued at some length. Daniel, of course, was examining the room for opportunities.
“But why the hearts? That's the part I don't quite understand Eating...” he made an ugly face of distaste,” ... a heart! Why, Dan? Why did you eat the hearts after you killed your victim? What's that all about, can you tell me?"
He remembered that in their own way the sessions with Hodge were harder to take than the amateur beatings he'd been given.
He set his mind to work on various projects, waiting for an opportune moment when the idiot prison psychiatrist way briefly called out of the office. Finally, it came. Instantly he went into his belly stash. Chaingang could barely move his fingers, but he possessed incredible dexterity as well as strength. Deftly, with the greatest precision and focus, his fingertips found temporary freedom, curling down under his apron of belly fat, and producing a horde of tiny objects. A plastic thing that opened into a hinged hook; which was tied to a short length of stout monofilament line, a tiny stoppered vial, a stub of pencil.
After six attempts he was able to catch the grapple hook over the edge of the nearby wastebasket and with the greatest focus slide it over within reach of his fingers. His luck held and it did not tip over. Quickly, hoping time would also be on his side, he pulled the metal container up to where he could sort through it, looking for something he might use as a weapon, a metal nail file or rusty razor blade, anything. There was nothing of interest. Only the shrink's discarded junk mail.
Out of disgust he found a clean envelope and took a stamp from his tiny vial, wetting it with perspiration and applying it over the cancelled one. Dr. Hodge's address was on a peel-off label, which is why Chaingang had selected it. He removed the label and retrieved a junk novelty catalog from the trash. Skimmed the pages quickly until he'd found something, then removed the order form and filled in a number with his pencil stub, using the doctor's MasterCard number from a discarded receipt.
He was about to seal the envelope that would send away for the joke novelty item, when he saw something that made his coal black eyes sparkle with momentary interest: a harmless-appearing toy called Slingshot & Water-balloon Game!
"Wouldn't it be fun if you could launch your water balloons 300, even 400 feet into the air?” the catalog copy asked, breathlessly. “Now you can! The Slingshot & Water-balloon Game was designed by a professional marksman to smack the target dead center every time! Competition-grade launchings can achieve super velocities of up to 250 miles an hour, just pull back the firing cradle, put your muscles behind it, and wing those water balloons skyrard. Warning: Do Not Aim At People Or Pets! Made in USA and 100% biodegradable. Comes with instructions, Poly-Vordex grips, rubber tubing, and nylon ammo cradle, plus water-balloon starter kit. Targets not included. “It was priced at $23.95. Chaingang thought it was a bargain.
There were two accessories to the game offered: one was a gross of heavy-duty balloons, which he ordered to go with his weapon, and a set of targets, which he didn't need. He already had a target in mind.
All these details were deliciously fresh. Daniel had no idea that the basic events had taken place nearly three years before and were unrelated to his present condition. They were, nevertheless, pleasantly comforting memories, albeit out of context and asynchronous. He recalled his ambivalence at finding the toy as it meant he would have to forgo the fun of sending for the gag item.
The peel-off label was reapplied to the order form. Thick fingers that could tear a human jaw loose took the stub of pencil, erased the item lot number he'd written, and ordered the slingshot and balloon set in its stead, crudely sealed the envelope, and daintily fiipped it into the Out tray of correspondence on the nearby desk.
One other slight change had been made: the order would be paid as a charge to Hodge's credit card, but while it would still be sent to the penitentiary, it was now coming to the personal attention of a trustee whose con name was Mousie. Chaingang had something Mousie wanted. Free enterprise will always rule. There would be some trade-offs. Bunkowski would end up with a weapon that he could transport with him wherever he went. Not rubber, nylon, plastic, nor “Poly-Vordex” would set off a metal detector. And while the hacks looked in Bunkowski's every orifice, there was one place no one, not even Dr. Norman, had thought to look: under his fat roll!
There were even prescribed methodologies for such unthinkable, unspeakable, unnatural acts as the monitoring of cell 10 occupant's bowel movements, the cleaning of and disposal of dejecta, and the post-excremental inspection of his anal aperture. (Talk about your scut work! But in these matters no stone could be left unturd.) A record of the occupan
t's feces production and wiping patterns was seriously kept and examined. It was known colloquially as the log log. Rectal, nostril, oral checks, and routine examinations of Bunkowski's head, armpit, and pubic hair were made by unlucky correctional personnel. They parted his toes, looked up his nose, and made him spread his rose looking for ... well, anything. He found their efforts embarrassingly amateurish.
No one considered that anything of practical use could be hidden under a mountain of surplus gut. After all, he was constantly subjected to metal detectors, and, frankly, if anyone had looked the experience would have been traumatizing in the extreme. The beast was careful never to wash there, cultivating a moldy green scum of toxic tummy-jam that gave off a powerful stink when exposed to air. Sewer shit, sour diapers, and gas line breaks were Chanel No. 5 by comparison to the paint-peeling, stinging, blindingly odoriferous nightmare of Chaingang's belly-slash stench. By the time Dr. Hodge returned, the mini-grapple and line were neatly lucked away under the mastadon's rubbery truck-tire-sized fat apron.
"Well now, where were we? Oh, yes, Dan, we were discussing your mother—” The doctor jumped at a loud sound escaping through the biter mask. It sounded like a lanyard being pulled on a chainsaw, the startling noise that Bunkowski made in lieu of a human laugh. He couldn't help himself. The bound, shackled inmate was amused at the thought of catalog number V-C-1238 arriving. He wished he could have sent Dr. Hodge the practical joke item from Illinois Novelties, Inc. It was fun to imagine the good doctor opening a package, finding Chaingang's “gift donor” card, and then the “realistic bloody heart."
36
Clearwater Levee Road
A kind of unusual thing, not a bad thing, but certainly out of the ordinary, surprised Keith Glenn and his father Thursday night, the twenty-third. They were watching a Goldie Hawn movie Keith had seen before but his dad hadn't, and he was mildly annoyed to hear the doorbell, till he discovered it was Doc Royal. Surprised, to be sure, because there was no sound of a vehicle out in the road.
