by Mark Gessner
It was a cake like a urinal cake. The label on the bottom of the bait said it was composed of a fast-acting neurotoxin mixed with Warfarin, a powerful blood thinning agent. The neurotoxin paralyzed the rat, then the Warfarin killed by simultaneously thinning the blood and eating a hole in the stomach. Like an ulcer from hell. The animal would nibble a bit of the flavored bait, then it would drop. Wherever it fell, it would bleed to death internally. Eat a little; bleed a little. Eat a lot; bleed a lot.
He'd picked up a refrigerated shrink-wrap microwave hamburger at the local Circle-K. It couldn't have been very good, because it'd cost him only a buck eighty-nine, but he was pretty sure the dog wouldn't give a shit. He hoped that the biology of a dog was similar enough to that of a rodent for the poison to work. He was an engineer, not a biologist, but he was pretty sure that it would work. A human could eat warfarin in small doses. It was used as medicine for people with blood clots or stroke. But it had to be carefully monitored. Even relatively minor accidents could bleed you out faster than a sleepy teenager in a Freddy Kruger movie.
Most of the poison cake fit into the center of the burger. The rest he kept in a baggie in his pocket. Who could say? He might need it later.
He sheltered in the women's room at the preserve. It was a concrete structure, shut down for the season, with doors padlocked. It sat on an out-of-the-way parking area that had been gated off for the season, so there weren't even any hikers around. The city shut the water off months ago, but that was not a problem. In Chicago in January, Mother Nature provided all the water you needed. He'd been drinking melted snow. He'd even shaved in it. Piled it in the stainless steel sink, then let it melt, then trimmed up the beard, so that he didn't have that homeless look. The padlock had been easy. The lock was rusted and a couple whacks with a rock had busted it clean off. People were stupid sometimes. Well most of the time. They'd spend the bucks to bolt the best burglarproof hasp onto a thick steel door, but then hang on a flimsy old two-dollar lock.
As he was scouting the area around the shelter, an empty plastic drink bottle at the bottom of the trashcan outside the restroom caught his eye. He had to pry it up off the frost at the bottom of the can. From its mouth jutted a pad of blue ice. He'd stopped worrying about cleaning the bottles. There wasn't time anymore.
Glancing side-to-side to see if there were any witnesses, he tucked the bottle in his coat and slipped inside. He latched the door. He quickly unzipped. He emptied his bladder, filling the steaming bottle halfway. He wanted to run, run anywhere. He had to get out. He felt dizzy. The room lurched. He felt trapped. Confined. His hands shook. He dropped the bottle. He scrambled to his knees to snatch it up before it emptied. Bracing himself with a firm grip on the sink, he knew had to suppress the urge to run or it would make him do something stupid. That thought itself, of the panic, of it causing him to do something dumb, frightened him even more, which in turn amplified the panic. He whimpered; tears clouded his vision. His breath thickened. His heart pounded. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the room began to twist and swirl and warp, like a funhouse mirror. Nothing made sense. He couldn't think. The walls closed in. Squeezed him. He pawed at the door latch with one hand. His chest hurt. He had to get out.
Get out!
He squeezed the bottle and jammed it to his lips.
The killer was drinking his own urine as often as twice a day now. Each time, the calming effect didn't last as long as it did the time before. Each time, the far-away look, the catatonic state lasted longer. Afterward he cradled the warm bottle longer. Leaving the bottle behind was hard. He was compelled to store them, collect them, treasure them, keep them safe. He didn't understand or even try. He only knew that it must be so.
Chapter 21
5:37 P.M.
ZINNY OPENED THE DOOR of his minivan and let the dog out. The day had been a tough one, but as usual, he'd gotten kicked out of the office by five.
Barkley took off running, also as usual. The city had a leash ordinance, but neither Zinny nor Barkley paid it any mind. Barkley was a friendly dog, but spent most of his time running through the forest. For every mile Zinny walked, Barkley probably covered ten. Zinny pushed the clicker on the van, and the double-chirp and flash confirmed that it was locked and armed. Schaumburg was generally a safe place but Zinny didn't take any chances. He walked, heading for the path into the woods. It was paved in concrete for the first few hundred yards, and then degraded to gravel. There had been enough foot traffic today to mush the snow down pretty well in most places, and the footing was good. The sun had just set, but the sky was clear and a deep azure arced overhead. Zinny liked this time of day best. Twilight.
Zinny was forty-seven, going on forty-eight. His doctor had prescribed a daily regimen of drugs after his heart attack last year. He hadn't been a candidate for bypass surgery. Instead the doctor had decided to go with an arterial stent. Zinny was still taking the medicine, probably would have to take it for the rest of his life. It helped keep the blockages from forming in his other arteries. But the best prescription the doctor could have made was the daily exercise regimen. At least one hour a day of walking or cycling. Zinny wasn't a cyclist, just couldn't see himself wearing those tight black lycra shorts and fluorescent jerseys, so he walked. And so far, in a year, he'd seen a noticeable improvement in his health. He had more energy, he felt alive for the first time in how long? He couldn't remember. At least since his twenties.
The doctor had also prescribed stress reduction. That meant no more working late or weekends. That had been the hardest to give up, but his boss the Vice President had been understanding, having gone through his own heart troubles a few years before. He mandated that Zinny knock off no later than five P.M. each day, then sicced Zinny's secretary on him to enforce the ruling.
After about ten minutes of walking, Zinny noticed that Barkley was gone. "Barkley, here boy," called Zinny, his breath billowing clouds that wafted in front of his face. He whistled, but the dog didn't respond. He heard the faint roar of traffic along the boulevard north of the mall, filtered through the trees and snow. He heard the rushing of the creek a few hundred feet off to the left. He heard his own breathing, and he could feel his heart beat under his heavy wool coat. Only the tell-tale crashing of Barkley through the ice-crusted brush was missing. He retraced his steps, trying to see where Barkley had gotten off the path.
The dog followed the trail of burger-bun crumbs just as the killer had planned. The dog ran right up to him, and when he saw the treat held for him, he tried to jump up on the killer to get it. The mark of a poorly trained dog. The killer jerked his knee up hard into the dog's ribs, sending him sprawling backward into the snow and mud. The dog got back up though, and cautiously approached this time, head held sideways, eyes averted, hoping to get some of the treat.
"There, there big fella, how would you like this tasty morsel?" the killer said, and then he tossed the sandwich toward the dog. The dog snatched it out of mid-air and the cheap burger was gone in two or three gulps, beef patty, stale pickles, bun, neurotoxin, warfarin and all.
He watched the dog for a few minutes. It didn't take long. After sniffing around for more burger, the dog ran off to sniff a tree, marked it, sniffed a few more trees, marked them, came back to sniff the killer's hands, see if he had more treats, circled three times in the snow, whimpered, and then lay down on its side, convulsing and panting heavily. It slavered yellow foam. The foam turned a deep reddish-orange as the dog bled out through its mouth.
After about five minutes, the killer gave the dog a swift kick in the belly. The dog twitched, blurted out a long rattling fart, but didn't even look up. His eyes were open but no one was home. Barkley had chased his last rabbit.
The killer walked a few paces back into the woods. He ducked down behind a snow-covered deadfall and waited.
He heard whistling off toward the path. Zinny had tracked poor Barkley back to the point where the dog had left the trail. He'd be here in a couple minutes.
The kill
er could wait.
Chapter 22
Motorola Schaumburg Division Newsletter,
January 20, Page 7
In Memoriam: Dziennik Martyn "Zinny" Chorzempa.
Dziennik M. Chorzempa, work/life balance manager at corporate HR, will be remembered as a man of humor, a loving father and devoted company man of 24 years service. "Zinny," as he was affectionately known to his co-workers, started his career at Motorola in the Arlington Heights office in the late 70's, where he was instrumental in molding the company culture and implementing new corporate diversity programs. The changes he made during his 24 years have spread throughout the company. Though his legacy continues, he will be missed.
Chorzempa was brutally murdered Wednesday while walking his dog in the Spring Valley Nature Center. Police are still investigating the murder, and at the time of this writing had no leads. Motorola Corporate has offered a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer.
"Motorola is deeply saddened by the death of Mr. Chorzempa," said Dick Mathers, General Manager of the Schaumburg facility in a statement. "The employees of Motorola were always Zinny's number one priority, and in this time of mourning, we encourage them to seek solace and counseling. Zinny's family, friends and coworkers, both here at the Schaumburg facility, and worldwide, will be in our thoughts."
"Anytime we lose a member of the Motorola family, it is upsetting, and it pulls us together, makes us a stronger family," said Lynn Huffman, assistant vice president of human resources. Huffman also said counselors will be available in the cafeteria Monday for employees who needed to talk.
Employees are reminded that mischarging is illegal. Time must be charged against sick/personal time codes for all hours spent in counseling sessions.
Chorzempa is survived by his widow Millie and their three children, all of Arlington Heights.
Chapter 23
Austin Texas
Monday, March 3
"ALTURUS INDUSTRIES INCORPORATED, HOW may I direct your call?" droned the receptionist, a fat bald man with a terminal case of comb-over. Company policy required a pronunciation of Al'-too-rus, but he slurred it to something like "Al'-trush." He was a security guard dammit, not a receptionist, yet receptionist is what he did, wearing a security guard uniform. He had a badge, but no gun. He'd have to find some time to look for another gig. In this economy, at his age, you took whatever job you could get, and that nagging bitch called pride, you slapped her around, showed her who was boss, shoved her in a corner, and never let her get in the way. Not if you wanted to eat. Pride couldn't cook.
Kurt tried to get out of the house once a week for what he wrote off on his 1040 Form Schedule A as business networking and job search expense, but which was really just lunch with his buddies. Who knew, maybe someday it might lead to a job. Besides, as Kurt's dad always said, if you've never been audited by the IRS, you're paying too much.
Today it was just Kurt and Jason, but sometimes there'd be a couple other guys from the office tagging along. They'd usually pick up a cache nearby if there were any. Today there hadn't been any within five miles, so they had gone straight to lunch.
They'd eaten at a little Korean-owned sandwich shop in the strip mall out by the interstate. You stood in line and watched them build your sandwich while you waited. The cook, actually the owner's wife, weighed out the exact quantity of lunchmeat on a scale before slapping the sandwich together. Real low budget operation; they didn't even have any music playing to help with the ambiance, but the food wasn't bad, and it had the location that brought in hungry software engineers from all the software mills within three miles.
Kurt told Jason about his date with Judi. He mentioned that he couldn't sleep after the date so he kicked off a search for the Krager dog online, and then later found the other dead dogs and urine bottles scattered all over the country. Jason was intrigued, and he volunteered to help Kurt continue the search back at his office after lunch.
Kurt followed Jason around the guard's desk. They walked past a block of empty glass-walled conference rooms into a cubicle farm of biblical proportions. The building used to be an industrial warehouse. The corporation had leased it and outfitted it as an office building for as little outlay as they could get away with. The ceilings were still the original corrugated metal, three stories high. Metal lattice and exposed galvanized ductwork crisscrossed the open space above, while high-intensity discharge lamps blared a harsh light down on the workers below. The tiny cubicles were cheap pressed metal and grey cloth, badly in need of refurbishing. Metal grid tracks hanging overhead carried bundles of black networking cable and power to and from distribution points.
Jason settled into his cubicle near the back of the farm, and tapped the keyboard. From the adjacent cubicle, and from cubicles somewhat further off, they could hear explosions, gunfire, laughter, and the occasional shriek, over constant frenetic keyboard tapping.
"Another LAN party?" asked Kurt.
"Yep," said Jason. "When the cat's away..."
Kurt wondered how this company stayed in business. He'd been here a dozen times. Each time he ran a mental tally. At least seventy-five percent of the employees were goofing off at any given time. Gaming, internet surfing, socializing, you name it, these guys had slacking down to an art. Someone could write a book about all the techniques these guys used to avoid work.
"Yeah, those guys have a network party just about every day," explained Jason. "Some of them play eight, ten hours a day, if the game's hot. You want to try the search or should I?"
"You go ahead, it's your machine," said Kurt.
"OK let's call up what you did the other night and start from there," he said, with a burst of key tapping.
Jason pulled up Kurt's previous search. He clicked through on the Post-Gazette article. He registered under a bogus name, and then displayed the full article in a new window:
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, December 27 - Page B3
VALLEY MAN MURDERED WITH BRUSH TRIMMER
HARRISON VALLEY (AP) - In a scene uncharacteristically grisly and violent for this small community, a local man was murdered Thursday morning at the Harrison Valley Country Club. Police report that the victim, James Albert McChasney, 65, of Harrison Valley was attacked by an unknown assailant with a brush trimmer. McChasney was the head greenskeeper at the country club.
Sources close to the investigation say that McChasney was working in the maintenance barn the morning after Christmas, finishing up some work on a plumbing leak. His badly mutilated body was found in the basement stairway of the maintenance barn, a shop area where mowers and engines are repaired.
Police have no leads in the case. Anyone with information about the murder is requested to please contact the Harrison Valley Police Department. The Harrison Valley Country Club has posted a $75,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and/or conviction of the murderer.
According to the assistant greenskeeper, a Mr. Terry Zupansky, 43, of Murrysville, the brush trimmer that was used in the attack was a "Brush Monster" brand, an industrial strength variety not available to the general public. The Brush Monster is so bulky that the operator has to strap it on using a thick leather strap.
The trimmer used in the attack had had the protective blade guard removed. Zupansky said that this was commonly done to allow a tool to do its job better. Zupansky said that the "Monster" requires a strong operator, someone who works out. "We only got three guys on the crew what can even lift it," he said. Police stressed that Zupansky, in line to succeed McChasney as head greenskeeper upon McChasney's retirement, was at his grandmother's house in Murrysville during the time of the attack and is not considered a suspect in the investigation.
Billy D. "Dalton" Whorter, foreman of the day crew, stated that McChasney was "a very well liked man, a very fair man. He was the best greenskeeper we ever had."
The Post-Gazette has discovered that the day before the murder, police responded to the maintenance barn at McChasney's request,
in a matter involving his dog "Wolfie," which was found dead on the road running through the golf course. Police have stated that the two events are unrelated.
McChasney, who was slated to retire January 4th, is survived by his spouse Adele, 63, three adult children, and nine grandchildren.
"Jeez that's messed up," said Jason.
"Holy shit, a fucking weed whacker?" said Kurt.
"You see that seventy-five K reward? Man those rich country club dudes must be really hacked off," said Jason.
"Shit, what I could do with seventy-five K right about now," said Kurt.
"There's still a lot of information in these other searches. Let's see what we have," Jason said, "Okay I think --let's try to clean this up a bit." Jason applied various filters to the search results, then after some more tapping had distilled it down to a handful of entries. He rose, turned to his markerboard, erased a big swath out of the middle of some software design diagrams with the heel of his hand, wiped the hand on his pants and then quickly drew a table. "Okay so here's what we have so far, based on your search." In a clumsy block print, he wrote the following:
