Lockwood opened the van and started to look under the seat, working his way up to the glove compartment. He opened it and pulled out the three brightly colored balloons. "Somebody having a birthday party?" he drawled, then took the balloon he had already slit open and poured some of the heroin into his hand. "Looks like Mexican marching powder."
"That's not mine," Shiff whined.
Lockwood spun and grabbed his wrist, turning it palm up so he could see the vein in his skinny arm. There were track marks all over it.
"Bullshit, Bob. 'Less you're a diabetic, you been slammin'. I think if we went down to the station you'd 'Jones' in two hours…"
By this time there were thirty hopped-up kids rattling the chain-link fence. Shiff looked over at them, a gleam in his eye. "Hey," he yelled, "come get this guy off me…"
The crowd of fans yelled out and surged at the fence. Two of them started to climb over; two more were climbing around the sidepole. Lockwood pulled the old.45 out of the back of his belt and fired one shot at the wall of the theater. The report of the gun was deafening in the concrete-and-brick-enclosed alley. All motion stopped. The kids on the fence froze. Lockwood turned to Shiff "Why don't we have this discussion somewhere else?"
Lockwood parked the band bus in Bayfront Park. The moon was full and shimmered across the water on Biscayne Bay. A light sea breeze vibrated a palm frond next to the van. He turned around in the driver's seat so he could see Bob Shiff and Tashay.
"Nice concert," he said, looking at them carefully. "If you don't mind pukey lyrics and a fistfight with a downbeat."
"You a music critic?" Bob Shiff protested. "I thought you were a cop."
Karen reached into her purse and. Pulled out her ID, flashed it at him, then returned it before he could see that it was a civilian ID.
"We're working a murder case… I understand you got sent a woman's hand," Karen said, looking at Tashay.
"What the fuck you talkin' about? What hand?" Shiff said.
Lockwood leaned toward him. "Carl Zeno said Tashay gave it to him. It's been booked as a partial Jane Doe in the Tampa Coroner's Office."
"Tash, you got a fuckin' hand sent to us and you didn't tell me?" An amazed look spread across his narrow face.
"Hey, Bobby, we're getting a lotta wet packages. It's very cool an' everything, but I was afraid that whoever sent it was over the edge… y'know? So I called Carl. He made me give it to him."
They sat looking at one another for a long time. The silence became overpowering.
"We think the killer we're after may be the fan who sent you the hand. Maybe he came to one of your concerts?" Karen said.
"Lotta people come to our concerts," Shiff said insolently.
"This guy you wouldn't miss," Karen said. "He's almost seven feet tall, weighs three hundred seventy pounds." She reached into her purse, pulled out the printout of Leonard Land's DL picture, and handed it to them.
"Ever see him?" Lockwood asked.
Shiff studied the picture. "Ugly son of a bitch," he said, without interest.
Then Lockwood handed it to Tashay, who looked at it for a long time, her features furrowed in thought. "I don't think I seen this guy. You seen him, Bobby?"
Shiff looked at the picture again. "No, I'd remember. Can we go home?"
Lockwood took the picture back. "How 'bout the mail? You say you get wet packages. If he delivered this hand to you, maybe he sent you something else before this. You keep the mail?"
Tashay looked over at Shiff and he shook his head.
"No, we throw it away," Shiff mumbled.
They sat there for a long moment in a dark no-man's-land… A full moon lit the horizon to the east; the illuminated buildings of Miami framed the city behind them. A boat without running lights whined at high rpms somewhere out on Biscayne Bay.
"If you see this guy at one of your concerts, get in touch with us. This is my beeper number." Lockwood handed one of his cards to Tashay and then one to Shiff.
"Look man, it's real late. I need t'get home. Have we done this or are you gonna bust me?"
Without answering, Lockwood put the VW van in gear and drove out of the park and back along Miami Boulevard, past the graffiti-lined buildings, to the Loomis Theater. He knew they were probably lying.
They were out on the edge, where bizarre behavior blends with anarchy. He was a cop and the enemy.
Lockwood set the hand brake and moved around the van as Shiff got behind the wheel. Lockwood slid the door open and Karen jumped out. Before he could close the door, Tashay Roberts stuck his business card back into his hand. She closed the door and Bob Shiff, a. K. A. Satan T. Bone, pulled the van out, squealing the tires slightly for effect. Lockwood looked down at the card… Tashay had written something in cramped handwriting on the back. He held it up in the dim light of the street lamp. "Call me, 555-6245. I know something," he read.
He spun back just in time to see the van speed around the corner and out of sight.
Chapter 27
PROFILE
The barge rocked softly on a wind tide.
The Rat leaned over and got his CD headset. He put the earphones on and hit Play… Satan T. Bone's raspy voice filled his head with glorious hatred:
Hit on the girl, screw her at last, Cut off her arms, plug up her ass.
The screaming will end when the body goes soft. The fucking will start when her head is cut off.
He swayed to the music in the cooling air as he worked. He had saved the head for last. The Rat knew there were more than one hundred identification points on the face and neck. For the Beast to come to life, it had to look like Shirley. So far, all of his searching had found nobody who answered his need. He had always known the head would be the hardest. The head would be his final victim. He was being pursued now, so he had to turn away from this difficult selection and deal with his enemies.
Using his modem and cracking kit, it had taken The Rat almost two hours to penetrate security blocking codes in the computer at the U. S. Customs Service. As was always the case, he had searched for a hole in the system, and had finally broken through. Lockwood's picture and file were now in front of him on the screen. He read it quickly, his eyes scanning the information. The sweltering afternoon heat in the wetlands around the Little Manatee River had lessened with the evening breeze and he had left the hatch open to catch its wispy coolness. Sweat was drying on his slick, shiny skin. He could feel the beginning of the stinging sensation which indicated that The Wind Minstrel was starting to emerge. In two or three days, he would claim The Rat's body. He knew when that happened, The Wind Minstrel would be enraged. The Rat had made no selections for him. He was not ready to give The Wind Minstrel the final victim to possess.
John Lockwood's file gave The Rat a quick but thorough look at this enemy: unorthodox, talented, frequently reprimanded but usually successful. There were pages of Internal Affairs complaints against Lockwood, and yet there were pages of official commendations for excellence. It was a confusing picture of success amid failure.
The Rat realized, after reading the file carefully, that Lockwood was an awesome threat that would not go away. The picture of the handsome agent stared accusingly out of the computer screen at him. The Rat hated him on sight. Lockwood had been given a gift of physical attractiveness, while The Rat had been forced to live in Leonard Land's fat, ugly body… always hiding, always being laughed at and despised.
A plan formed in The Rat's clever brain. He felt he could attack and kill Lockwood without ever leaving the rusting barge. It required very little beyond his genius and a little luck to accomplish the feat. He needed to download Lockwood's Customs picture and prints… and he had to alter them slightly and add a few manufactured details. Then he had to crack into one more "secure" computer. After he had accomplished that, he would simply wait for the right moment to spring his trap. In the meantime, he would take care of a much easier problem. He would reach out and end the life of Malavida Chacone.
The gas station was at th
e north end of Miami. Karen was filling the tank while Lockwood stood at the pay phone near the corner, gripping the receiver too tightly. He had tried to call Tashay Roberts but had gotten her answering machine. Then he dialed Children's Hospital in California.
Heather's voice sounded frail and uncertain, coming across three thousand miles of telephone cable. "I'm okay," she said bravely. "When will you come home, Daddy? I'm worried for you."
"I promise nothing will happen to me, but I have to finish this… It's very important. I'll be careful. Don't worry about me."
There was a long, awkward silence on the phone and then, "Daddy… I want us to live on a farm, like you said. I've been thinking about that. I want to leave Los Angeles. Can we really do that?"
"It's a promise."
"A promise on a promise?" she said, her voice small.
"A promise on a promise."
"I love you, Daddy. I've asked God to look after you. Mommy's with Him, and they're both looking down. I'll pray to them not to let anything bad happen."
"I'll pray too."
"Here's Grandad," she said. "Bye."
Then Rocky was on the line.
"She sounds better," Lockwood said.
"Think?" the voice was gruff and distant. "She cries in her sleep and don't talk much… lookin' out the window most'a the time… If that's better, then she's better."
Lockwood winced at the remark but kept going.
"When will she be getting out of the hospital?"
"Couple a'days. Then we're gonna take her back to Minnesota, whether you agree or not."
"Maybe that's best. It's familiar surroundings. I can meet you there when this is over."
"I'm sure you'll do whatever it is you want," his father-in-law said without emotion. "But this little girl can't take no more, John."
And then, without saying good-bye, Rocky hung up and left Lockwood with the phone pressed hard against his ear. He replaced the receiver and looked over to Karen, who had finished gassing the car and was wiping the windshield. He moved to her slowly.
"How is she?" Karen asked.
"She's…" He stopped, not sure how to put it. "Hurting," he finally finished, deciding to leave it at that.
He got into the passenger seat, and Karen pulled out of the gas station. The silence in the car was nerve-racking. Lockwood looked over at Karen; her brow was furrowed and she was deep in thought.
"You're worried about Malavida?" Lockwood said, and she looked over. "I'm sorry about not going down there, it's just I know what would happen."
"It's okay," she said. "It just seemed like we owed him some support. Not that he'd even know we were there."
The silence brimmed around them. Lockwood speared it again.
"What happened between you two while I was gone?" he finally asked, and she turned her gaze quickly out the front window in a reflex action that Lockwood didn't need twenty years in police work to read. She focused her gaze on the flying night bugs lit by their headlights: specks of light that vectored and occasionally wiped out on the windshield.
"Whatta you mean, what happened?" she said, so softly he had to strain to hear it.
"Y'know, Karen, it's not a good idea to get romantically involved with people you're working a case with. Especially people like Malavida, who see life from a completely different angle."
"Why are we having this conversation?" she finally asked, still not looking at him.
"I have a distinct feeling that something changed while I was gone. I'm just telling you that we're up against a monster here. We can't have our personal feelings changing the perspective on our judgment."
"It sounded for a minute like you had something else you were trying to say." She now turned and looked at him.
He felt his heart beating in his throat; he shifted in his seat under her gaze. His face reddened slightly. "Whatta you mean?" he finally asked lamely.
"It sounded like you were staking out some sort of claim yourself, to use at a more convenient time."
Again they fell into an awkward silence. Lockwood felt himself choosing his words carefully. "I like you, Karen. I didn't think that was going to be the case when we first met in Washington, but you turned out to be a very pleasant surprise." He stopped because he was sure he was moving in the wrong direction. He didn't want to declare any intentions… He was too mixed up.
"But…" she prodded.
"But, my life is in turmoil. Claire is dead. And I'm responsible. I'm not dealing with that well. I have Heather to think about… and I want to catch this son of a bitch who killed her, or I won't be able to sleep."
"You're not saying anything that I don't already know."
"Malavida's not for you," he blurted. "I know guys like this, he's on the con. He sees people as targets, he'll work you like a mark to get what he wants."
"I see. And what do you want…?"
Lockwood fell silent. Finally, he looked over at her… "I'm not sure how good a friend I can be to you or anybody right now. I know I want to be, but-"
"You're right, John. Something happened between us, and I'm not sure right now how I feel about it. But Malavida is in the hospital, he may be dying. If he lives, he may never be the same, and I'm worried about him. I think you should be too. It bothers me that you aren't." Lockwood looked over at her; she was very beautiful in the reflected dash lights. He hated hearing her admit that she had started something up with Malavida. Was she right? Was he staking out some claim to pursue when the timing was more acceptable? He had come to the point where he didn't trust his ability to evaluate himself anymore. He had been doing things for all the wrong reasons lately.
"I can't trust Malavida because I know how he thinks," he started by saying. "I'm sorry we got him hurt, but I'll never be able to trust him. I know you probably think that's cold, but he and I come from the same place. He and I were both disenfranchised by the system and then incarcerated by it. I've been behind bars. I know how that changes you. He sees everything and everybody as a player. He calculates everything by how it affects him, or how he can use it. I know because it's still how I think. I'm not sure you should take a chance with either of us."
"You know what I like best about you?" she finally said. "You never try and lie to yourself or about yourself. You wound yourself with honesty. It's noble, but hard to witness."
Lockwood knew she was close. He had come to believe that in most people, their strongest link was directly hooked to their weakest link. He thought his strongest link had always been his ability to level frank appraisals. He cut himself no slack. It was also this quality that was now destroying him. "Why don't we get something to eat?" he finally said, desperate to change their conversation.
They stopped at an all-night fish house called The Blue Fin, at Miami Beach Marina. They got a table out on a deck that overlooked the water. A fleet of commercial and private fishing boats was slipped there. A light breeze swayed the boats' outriggers. Water lapped up against the concrete pilings under the deck. The waitress had a name tag that said she was Claudine. She wiped a shiny varnished table next to the rail before they sat down.
"Cocktail?" she asked.
"What's it gonna be, Lockwood?" Karen said. "Another Scotch with a beer back?"
"That was Washington. Up there in the spring I drink Scotch to forget my sinuses. I'm allergic to something blooming in that damn swamp. Down here I'll just have a Heineken in a bottle."
"Two," she said. And Claudine moved away on shapely legs.
Lockwood surveyed the fishing fleet. His brow furrowed while Karen looked at him. The residue of the conversation in the car was still on them, and they were both unsure about it, trying to put it behind them.
"John," she finally said, a bit too brightly, "I know if we get The Rat, we go a long way toward making things better. So let's get started." She pulled a yellow legal pad out of her purse.
He looked down at it, nodded without speaking, then reached over and turned the pad so he could read it. He glanced at the colum
ns of behavioral traits she had listed, and then turned the pad back.
"A real psychotic?"
"Far from it," she said. "A psychotic is someone who's lost touch with reality. Psychotics are easy to catch. They don't usually have a plan. The Rat has a strong reality. He knows what he's doing. He's organized, methodical, and very smart."
"So what is he?" Lockwood asked.
"He's a psychopath," she replied. "Psychopaths are much more dangerous."
"I stand corrected," he sighed, "but you know what I meant."
"Right. Sorry. In my field of study I tend to be a little anal." She smiled. "I've been trying to predict his behavior," she continued, "because all of this is useless unless we can figure him out and get a step or two ahead of him."
"Right."
She paused as Claudine brought back the beers and waited while they glanced at the menu. Both of them ordered stone crab and key lime pie.
After Claudine had gone, Karen went on. "I think his post-offense behavior is very significant. I've been focusing on that. He does his mutilations after death. That probably means he's not a sexual sadist. He's not killing for sexual gratification. Even though he masturbates at the scene of the crime, it isn't, in my opinion, the main reason for the killings. I've been trying to categorize these murders. I think they belong under the general classification of personal cause homicides."
Lockwood's career in law enforcement had concentrated on drug and gun smuggling and money laundries. Psych murders were a category he had never focused on.
"They are acts resulting from interpersonal aggression," Karen explained. "The victim in a personal cause killing might not know the killer, and the homicide is not generally motivated by material gain or sex. Emotional conflict usually drives the act."
"Oh," Lockwood said, not much closer to understanding.
"To further tighten the classification, he shows some signs common to two sub-categories: One is Erotomania, which is fantasy killing stemming from the UnSub's fusion of identities. The other category is Extremist Homicides, which are characterized by an overwhelming political or religious belief. I also think he may be a Collector. He's collecting body parts…"
Final Victim Page 22
