Mayo had thought twice about taking Larry for this exact reason. Drake was new, but he was also smart and eager. This would be a good chance to see if he could stand the heat. If he could take it, then better things were in store for him in the Union. If he punked, this would be his last night on earth.
The three bound captives jumped and jostled on the van's padded floor as it hit bumps. There were two men and one woman. The woman and one of the men cried and begged through their gags. The third captive, who wore a bright yellow shirt, just sat and watched in a drug-induced stupor. Mayo had rounded them all up after he got the information from Magilla.
Larry guided the van on the Lodge Freeway headed downtown. He took the Interstate 94 exit west. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with sweaty hands. He thought he was going to make a drug run with Mayo, but when he saw Pit and Nam, he knew he was in for a much bigger undertaking. He knew them and their reputation. They were hired killers, two of the worst. He knew then that this would be a test for him, to see if he could hang with the big boys. He was scared but determined to make a good showing.
“I say we fuck dis ho,” said Pit, indicating the woman.
Her eyes widened. A muffled yell came through her gag. Her wide earrings clanked loudly against the van's dirty floor.
“Shut up, bitch!” said Nam pushing her head into the van's wall. “You oughta be glad us soldiers are willing to fuck yo skinny ass. And gimme this piece of shit.” He snatched the earring off her pierced ear. She screamed and blood flowed from the wound.
“I want it first,” said Pit, holding himself. “She look good to me.”
“All right, sergeant,” said Nam. “No problem.” He threw Pit the earring. He caught it easily. Pit threw the earring back at the woman, hitting her.
“Cheap ass, fake gold shit.”
“Watch that cursing, sergeant,” Nam said and they both laughed.
Mayo was amused. The crazy white boy really thought he was a soldier. In reality, he had never even been in the army. The closest he had probably come was doing drugs with soldiers after they returned home. “Come on, man,” said Mayo as he climbed into the driver's cab. “We ain't got no time for that shit.”
''Always time for fuckin',” said Pit, unzipping his pants. He went over to the thin woman on the van's floor, stumbling in a crouched walk. He knelt beside her. Her face was streamed with tears and veins stood out in her strained neck. “I ain't gone hurt you, baby,” he laughed.
“I don't want this shit!” yelled Mayo.
Pit looked at Mayo with anger, then smiled and backed off, but not before he rammed the woman's head into the van's floor, knocking her unconscious. He and Nam slapped five.
Mayo said nothing. They were going to kill her and the other two, but he had to keep control of the operation. Supervising killers was not an easy job.
Mayo instructed Larry to take an exit and turn north.
“Nervous?” he asked, watching Larry.
“Fuck naw,” Larry lied.
“Good. You know the street I want. Just be cool and this shit be over fo you know it.”
“What time is it? asked Larry.
“Eight thirty,” said Mayo.
Pit and Nam laughed in the back as Larry turned up Holland Street and killed the lights. The seven hundred block of Holland was a short block that looked like a war zone. There were only ten houses on the block and of those, only two were occupied. The streetlights had been shot out and the city had never come to repair them. The darkness and isolation were just what Mayo needed. Larry stopped in the middle of the block, leaving the engine running.
Pit and Nam grabbed the men and took them outside in the darkness. Mayo grabbed a red canister and joined them. Pit unbound their feet and began to beat one of them mercilessly. Nam chose the other man, the yellow-shirted addict. He seemed barely aware of the pummeling. Mayo watched with interest. Larry watched and tried to steady his knees.
“What they gonna do, beat 'em to death?” asked Larry.
“Naw,” laughed Mayo. “Just gettin' 'em ready.”
Pit and Nam let the men drop onto the ground. Mayo doused the men with gasoline from the canister. They screamed as the liquid hit their eyes and wounds. The muffled cries went unnoticed. Pit and Nam kicked the men and told them to get on their feet. When they wouldn't, Pit and Nam lifted them up. Gasoline dripped on them from their victim's clothes.
“No fun if they don't run,” said Pit. He took several steps away from the men so that he would not ignite with them. Nam followed suit. The men moaned and wavered on wobbly legs. Pit and Nam each took a book of matches and struck one. They then lit the entire book, careful not to ignite themselves. Pit and Nam looked at each other and laughed.
“Flame on!” said Nam.
They threw the small torches on the men who lit up the area as they ran, screaming in the night. The yellow-shirted crackhead made a sound that was almost inhuman. The pain awoke him from his high. Even with the gags on, their cries were loud. Larry could smell the burning stink of the cheap nylon scarves that were used to gag them. It was heaven compared to the smell of burning flesh.
“Let's break!” yelled Mayo.
Pit walked backwards slowly to the van. He wanted to see the rest of it. He looked like a disappointed kid.
The van sped off. Larry swallowed hard. He was struggling to hold up.
Nam and Pit slapped five in the back of the van. The woman was still unconscious.
Larry's hands were shaking as he turned onto Van Dyke. “What about da girl?” he asked Mayo. “She yours,” said Mayo.
''All right.” Larry's voice almost cracked.
“You didn't just come to drive, did ya?” laughed Nam.
“Sho' he did,” said Pit. “He bout ta shit his pants. He ain't never seen no shit like that, have you boy?” Pit said. “Dis is the real shit here. You young boys think you tough. Ha! You been livin' a jackoff! This is pure pussy.” He slapped Nam another five. Nam began to make a noise like a chicken.
“Cut the shit!” snapped Mayo.
Larry gripped the wheel harder. He had to show them he was not a pussy, this was his time to shine. If he punked out now, he would never move up. He would be a two-bit roller forever, while he watched others get the big money and the best women. He would show his parents that he was a man and didn't need them. They could keep their cheap-ass house and their Jesus-and-cornbread philosophy. He took a deep breath. He was going to make it on the street and nothing would get in his way. “How do you want me ta do it?” he asked Mayo.
“It's on you,” answered Mayo.
Larry pulled the van over. He and Mayo changed places. He gave Mayo instructions. Mayo smiled and drove the van onto the I-94 service drive.
“Go to the overpass,” said Larry.
''Awww shit,” said Pit and Nam together.
“Boy's a killer!” said Nam.
“Hey, boy,” said Pit to Larry. “Why don't you let me snap this bitch's neck an save you some embarrassment?”
“Shut da fuck up!” yelled Mayo. He was seriously thinking of shooting them both.
“Don't worry bout da shit,” said Larry. 'Tm gone take care of it.”
Mayo pulled the van into the middle of the overpass and stopped the van with the engine running. Larry went to the back and pulled the woman to the side door and opened it.
“Wait!” said Mayo as a car went by. “OK, it's clear. Hurry da shit up.” Mayo knew what he was going to do. He smiled. The boy had balls after all.
Traffic roared on the freeway below. Larry dragged the woman out to the metal barrier on the bridge. She was dead weight and heavy. The night wind blew around them and it smelled like death itself. He took a deep breath and heaved her up. His whole body trembled with apprehension. He had never been so scared in his life. He debated stopping but he knew that Mayo would probably kill him after going this far.
The woman began to kick. She writhed in his arms, trying to move the gag free from her mouth. Larry almos
t dropped her. She fell on him. He hit her in the face. She tried to bite him, but the gag was still in place. He grabbed her head and forced it over the railing. He pressed hard and his thumb pushed the back of her other earring into the side of her neck. She groaned in pain.
Larry lifted her back up, and shoved her over the side, into the freeway. He watched in horror as her body hit a car and bounced off onto the concrete with a dull sound. The cars crashing into each other was louder. A large truck caught the limp body in the middle lane and dragged it under the overpass and out of sight leaving a trail of blood. Pit and Nam clapped and whistled their approval. Larry stood on the bridge, terrified, watching the carnage below. He hoped the others couldn't see his knees wobbling.
“Come on, boy;” said Nam.
“Let's get the fuck outta here,” said Mayo.
Larry was frozen for a moment. He expected to turn around and see the van taking off, leaving him there to take the rap for all of the deaths. But when he did turn around he saw the sick faces of Pit and Nam clapping and smiling. He rushed back into the van, shaking and breathing in short, quick gasps. Mayo burned rubber and they pulled away. Pit and Nam clapped Larry on the back and heaped praises on him.
“Way to go, boy;” Pit said.
“Good show, officer.”
Mayo said nothing.
Larry fought to keep down the burger and fries he had eaten. He was terrified of what he had done. But he was more concerned with what Mayo was thinking. You had to be tough to be big time in the Union. You had to kill without fear.
Larry eased when he saw Mayo turn to him. He was smiling.
“Good job,” Mayo said. “Good job.”
24
Story of the Year
Carol Salinsky was a little nervous. She didn't like to be seated when giving the news. She was a street reporter, not a mannequin like the regular anchor crew, and she liked to be loose and spontaneous when she worked. She fidgeted in her chair on the set of Channel Five's Eyewitness News. The lights were hot and it seemed like everyone was about to go crazy. The regular newscasts went smoothly, but whenever there was a special report, these guys completely lost it.
A makeup man fussed over the shine on her nose. A hair stylist made wheezing sounds as she wrestled with her hair. And the director was shouting for her to sit on the edge of her jacket so that her suit would look tapered on camera. She felt like an asshole.
Stanley Cramer paced around behind the camera crew. His fight with Yancy had left him determined to get the story out to the public accurately and before the eleven o'clock report. He knew that Yancy would try to scoop him with a live press conference, so he decided to put Salinsky's story on first. He would interrupt regular programming during the nine o'clock hour, and do a short news segment.
Dane Williams, the station's regular co-anchor, was pissed. She wanted to do the story without Salinsky, but Cramer had insisted that Salinsky be on the air with her.
“All right, people!” yelled the director. “Let's do it in thirty. Dane, you'll introduce Carol.”
Williams was getting her makeup checked. She turned to Salinsky. “How does it feel to be in the hot seat?”
“My butt's kinda narrow for it, but I'm sure yours fits,” Salinsky said, not looking up from her copy.
“You should feel right at home, Carol. You can move your lips when you read here and it's OK.”
The makeup woman fought the smile spreading on her face.
“You know what you can do with that shit-grandma.” Salinsky gave her a nasty look.
“OK,” the director began. “In five ... four ... three ... two ... one--”
“This is a special report of Channel Five's Eyewitness News with Dane Williams,” said the off-screen announcer.
Williams began, “A shocking revelation has just surfaced in the serial killings committed by the notorious Handyman--”
**********
At the same time, Chief Fuller stepped in front of a row of cameras, but this time Tony was standing next to him. They both looked nervous as the reporters assembled at police headquarters. Fuller patted Tony on the back and smiled at him confidently.
The lobby of 1300 buzzed with chatter. Channel Five's crew was noticeably absent. Chuck Deele, a mayoral assistant, clapped his hands together to get attention. “We are about to start, everyone,” he said.
The chatter subsided.
“You all know our two speakers, Chief Fuller and Inspector Tony Hill of the Police Department. Gentlemen-”
Fuller cleared his throat. “We are here to favor the press with information in the Handyman investigation which we feel is vital to the security of the people of this city....”
PART 2: THE SUMMER MADNESS
1
Chain of Fools
It was hot in the Sewer. The news that the Handyman was white hit the city at the same time an early summer had set in. The humidity typically hovered around ninety percent throughout the summer in Detroit and today, it was also ninety-one degrees.
Tony plucked his shirt from his wet body as he stood at a cubicle in the Sewer, yelling on the phone over the clamor of the office. He was giving new marching orders to the uniform commander on the case. He had given out the wrong assignments, pulled them, then given them out again. It made him embarrassed and angry, but was secondary to keeping a lid on the Handyman fallout.
Jim was out covering the investigation of a Union hit on a crackhouse. They'd hit the Southend Crew, killing several rollers and drug addicts. And they had apparently killed the crackheads just for the hell of it. Clearly, the plan was to reinforce their reputation on the street. A large U, the Union's calling card, had been machine-gunned into a wall of the Southend crackhouse.
The war was on.
“... OK then, I want night teams six and seven to cover the first three sectors and back up my detectives,” Tony said. And I want all arrests processed at local precincts. Don't bring any suspect or witness downtown unless it significantly impacts the case. That's it.” He hung up the phone. “Damn,” he whispered. He was still upset by having to redeploy the men. Thank God Jim had spotted the mistake in time.
Tony took a moment and sat on the cubicle's desk. The Dream had come again last night, a maelstrom of guilt. Tony was still slow with decisions as a result and generally screwing up everything he touched. Jim was covering for him like a pro, but it was a big job, and with the added pressure of the Handyman news, people were beginning to notice his blunders.
Tony knew well that one postulate of policework: troubled cops were removed from cases. A cop in trouble, plus policework, equaled disaster. If Tony knew another cop had his own problem, he'd pull his ass off the Handyman case faster than you could blink. But he was in charge and he knew he could handle it.
A small desk fan blew warm air into his face. There were only a few air conditioners in 1300, and the one in Tony's office was shot. Tony was miserable, as were all the other officers. He picked up the receiver and dialed another number.
“What happened to the A/C units I asked for? We got extra troops on the case, and we're frying,” Tony said. “OK ... ASAP all right?” Tony slammed down the receiver. “Idiots.”
The citizenry was going crazy. The city's quiet racial undertow was Swirling into a tidal wave. Fights had broken out in several places over a T-shirt being worn by white kids. It read, THE HANDYMAN FIXING THE PROBLEM, and had a picture of a dead black drug dealer at the foot of a white man carrying a large knife. The shirts were banned in schools, but it was a free country. Vendors continued to sell and people continued to buy.
Tony couldn't believe that the killer was becoming some kind of folk hero. It just proved what he always knew in his heart: the races hated each other, and it was a deep, immutable feeling that festered in them all.
Detroit had a long history of using race as a political and financial tool. There were those who would us~ the Handyman revelation to further the cause of hatred. To these people, the killer was a godsend and w
ould he used to beat white people over, the head with their past deeds and extract favors in the process.
Two prominent civil rights groups had already issued press releases saying that the Handyman killings were indicative of today's hatred of blacks. The releases never mentioned, however, that the victims were drug dealers. Both groups had pledged help to the city and requested donations be given to their respective groups to further their cause.
Tony understood that this was how the game was played. Over the years, some blacks had become, in a sense, professional victims. Lacking great financial strength and unable to control their political power, these people resorted to using guilt as a means of effecting change. It was a sorry-ass way to make a needed point. Tony didn't care about the activists' self-serving concern, as long as it didn't impede his investigation.
He reluctantly returned to his office. It seemed that he had put his men into action too late on the Handyman case. And as a result, they had a house full of dead rollers, two people burned to death, and a woman wasted for half a mile on the freeway. And to top it off, the bastards had killed a baby.
Tony looked over the preliminary reports on all of the killings. The Southend crackhouse and the random crackhead killings had occurred within hours of one another. It was obviously a planned effort by the Union.
All this because of the killer, Tony thought. A killer who was as clever as he was deadly. The Handyman's pattern was no longer a pattern at all. He had shot the woman at Shalon Street, but stabbed the men, and only took the hands from two of them. Derek and Rolan Nelson had been separated from their respective appendages but the third man, Jonnel Washington, was spared that treatment.
Tony ran a computer check on the victims, cross-referencing their backgrounds, and ran into a black hole of information. The Handyman's victims had no criminal history in common except membership in the Union. Everyone speculated that the Handyman just didn't have enough time to take the hands off Jonnel Washington and the timing of the deaths suggested that this theory was the best possibility.
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