by Sean Lynch
“Thanks for keeping me out of the dark.”
Farrell stowed the letters into his coat pocket. “I promised no more fast ones Kevin, and I meant it. You do the driving and leave the worrying to me. The trail’s getting warmer. When we catch up to Vernon Slocum I’m going to need you in my corner. I won’t jeopardize that. I’ll be dealing from the top of the deck from here on out.”
CHAPTER 26
Buddy Cuszack had purpose.
He sat behind the wheel of the truck with the engine idling. His hands were steady and he wasn’t trembling, even though the falling night brought the temperature down with it. The AR-15 rifle lay concealed, yet within easy reach, under the seat.
He was keeping watch.
The pick-up truck was parked at the intersection of 24th and Lake, not far from Creighton University, though far from the pleasantries of college life. This was one of Omaha’s worst districts, and OPD cruisers motored past regularly. The neighborhood was mostly African-American and Hispanic, and in the low-to-illegal income bracket. Run-down houses were interspersed between tenements, bars, hotels, and mission-churches. Even in inclement weather, hookers, hustlers, and drug addicts wandered the streets, dodging the cops and searching for victims.
Cuszack was a changed man ever since he and Vernon Slocum left two Iowa state troopers in a blood-spattered snowdrift. The time before that seemed only a hazy memory. Buddy had returned to the war.
Slocum had come back. He had again pulled Cuszack from the mire of his own subservience. Thanks to him, Buddy was no longer a man who whored himself and did the bidding of men like Zeke and Wolf. Slocum had given him his dignity back.
Buddy was a soldier again. He’d proven that in Iowa, in combat. In a firefight against two armed men. No matter that they were cops; they’d tried to kill Vernon, and therefore were the enemy. Slocum needed him, and he’d done his part. He knew he owed the big former Marine his life, but for the first time felt he was on his way to paying that debt. It felt good to be needed.
Both men hadn’t slept in over two days. They’d taken back roads through western Iowa, across the Missouri River into Omaha. They stayed hidden during the day and moved at night. Buddy split the watches with Vernon, eager to stand guard and be useful. They split the crank, too. Until now, Buddy used meth when he could get it, but usually he couldn’t. Now he and Vernon had a seemingly endless supply, courtesy of Zeke. He’d consumed more speed in the last two days than in the entire year previously.
The methamphetamine kept both men alert, and Buddy never felt so alive. It was good to be on a mission. He knew the meth blurred the lines between delusion and reality, but didn’t care. For Buddy Cuszack, reality had always been worse.
After Buddy saved Slocum’s life in Iowa, Vernon treated him differently, with respect. The two men seldom spoke, and Slocum hardly ever gave orders to Buddy any more. He didn’t have to.
Buddy sat in the truck and waited, standing his watch. Vernon had left an hour ago, taking only his .45 pistol and a bindle of methamphetamine. Buddy didn’t have to be told to wait; he knew. He circled the block occasionally, sometimes parking on different corners of the intersection, sometimes pulling into the parking lot of a nearby restaurant, sometimes getting out and stretching his legs. He didn’t want to attract the attention of any cops.
Slocum had gone into the Lakeside Hotel, a seedy-looking, by-the-hour flophouse situated over a tattoo parlor. Buddy had kept the truck inconspicuously away from the hotel, but near enough to get there in a hurry. He was thinking tactically for the first time in years.
In the hour that had passed since Slocum had left, the traffic on 24th had gone from moderate to light. Most of the hookers had given up approaching the cars as they stopped for the changing lights and resigned themselves to soliciting the pedestrians stumbling in and out of the saloons lining both sides of the street. Buddy kept his eyes roving, scanning the perimeter for the enemy.
Slocum came out of the hotel, moving fast. Something wasn’t right though; Buddy could tell. The normally-confident Marine walked too rapidly and looked to his left and right too much to not attract attention. A moment later Cuszack saw why.
Emerging from the hotel on Slocum’s tail was a large, solid-looking African-American man. He was no taller than Vernon, but much broader than Slocum’s sizable girth. He caught up to Slocum a few steps from the hotel and grabbed Vernon by the shoulder.
Buddy knew his cue. He put the Dodge into gear and pulled up to the sidewalk adjacent to where Slocum was standing. Ignoring the AR-15 as too cumbersome, he reached his bony hand under the blanket on the passenger seat and came up with the sawed-off shotgun. Breaking open the action, he ensured it had been reloaded since the shootout with the Iowa troopers. Under a nicotine-yellowed thumb Cuszack felt the rims of two 00 twelve-gauge rounds. He snapped the action back into place and thumbed off the safety.
The black man spun Slocum around to face him. The noise of passing traffic prevented Cuszack from hearing the words he said to the big Marine. Slocum said nothing in reply and instead looked around until his eyes met Cuszack’s. Slocum smiled when he saw Buddy, and nodded.
The big African-American did not seem pleased at Slocum’s silence. He put both his huge hands on Slocum’s chest and pushed.
He shouldn’t have. Slocum clasped both of his own hands over the hands on his chest, and instead of returning the push, stepped back. This pulled the African-American off-balance. Slocum bent his body forward at the waist, trapping the black man’s hands. Cuszack heard the crack as his wrists broke from a distance of twenty feet.
Slocum separated the man’s hands from his chest, holding them apart. The man was momentarily unable to resist, paralyzed by pain and shock. With his arms apart and his belly exposed, Slocum kicked the bigger man in the groin. When Slocum let go he saw the man collapse to the sidewalk.
The African-American gurgled, and two men came running from the hotel to his aid. One was a black man almost as large as him, the other a short Hispanic fellow. Cuszack’s eyes narrowed. The Hispanic wasn’t wearing a coat, and the butt of a revolver was clearly visible in his waistband. Cuszack stepped from the driver’s seat, the cut-down scattergun boot-legged along his thigh. A small crowd of onlookers stood watching. They were focused on the downed man on the sidewalk, and paid Buddy no heed.
Slocum put his right hand inside the pocket of his field jacket and turned facing the two newcomers. The black man had a huge belly, and was holding a cut-down pool cue in one clenched fist. The Hispanic man kept both hands near his belt line where the six-gun was tucked.
Buddy sized up the newcomers and knew instinctively their plan of attack. The larger one with the club would spring at Vernon, diverting his attention. The Hispanic would then draw his weapon and fire. Slocum could get one, but not both, and they were closing fast. A siren wailed in the distance.
From behind Slocum came the deafening roar of a shotgun blast. Both barrels of Cuszack’s shotgun took the Hispanic in the center of his thin chest. He staggered backwards, his abdomen obliterated in a torrent of shredded meat and bone. He fell to the ground, steam rising from his middle.
Slocum didn’t even look behind him to see where the shot came from. The heavyweight African-American dropped his pool-stick and began to back up, a look of terror on his face. Cuszack saw Slocum smoothly draw the .45 from his pocket. While Buddy and the onlookers watched Slocum fired four times, hitting his large target in the upper torso. The final shot tore out the black man’s throat; he stumbled on the sprawled body of his dead partner and fell heavily to the sidewalk. His wounds also created rising tendrils of steam in the cold of the Nebraska December.
Slocum went to the truck and got in. Cuszack was already in the driver’s seat. A moment later the Dodge pick-up was gone. The sirens grew louder.
A marked police sedan skidded to a halt in front of the hotel, parting the crowd which had materialized there. Officer Don Twining got out with his Smith & Wesson revolver in hand. He and his
partner, Officer Barry DeBoer, had responded to the “shots fired” call from seven blocks away. Both veteran cops, they were no strangers to the violence of the streets, and on more than a few occasions witnessed its ugliness firsthand. DeBoer also had his revolver in hand, and Twining intentionally left the car’s rotating emergency lights on as a beacon to other responding units.
The people in the crowd were talking and yelling at once. Twining first checked the hands of the men lying on the sidewalk, out of professional habit. Better to secure the scene first, and make sure nobody can hurt you. Questions could be asked later. DeBoer cautiously approached the African-American man puking in the street. Twining checked the other two men lying sprawled on the pavement.
He checked the Hispanic man first and found lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. In the bloody mess of the man’s torso Twining found a Charter Arms .38 revolver. He tucked it into the waistband of his Sam Browne belt. Normally a beat cop would leave all items at a crime scene untouched, but the people in this neighborhood wouldn’t miss a chance to snatch the weapon for their own purposes, and Twining was too experienced a cop to leave a gun lying around that wasn’t in a fellow officer’s hands.
DeBoer was alternately talking to the puking black man and talking into his portable radio. Twining recognized the man as the doorman of the Lakeside Hotel. He knew the hotel as a flophouse for vagrants, a shooting gallery for junkies, and an office for any number of the local working girls. DeBoer wasn’t having much luck with the doorman, who was barely able to speak.
Twining looked over to the body of the other black man and winced. The puddle of blood from the man’s throat extended from the door of the hotel to the curb. He’d seen enough torn arteries to know one when he saw it. The coppery smell of blood, the smell of gun smoke, and the pungent odor of vomit filled the night. Twining was grateful for the biting wind, which carried the scents away. At the dead African-American’s feet was a cut-down – and probably lead-filled – pool cue.
Two local knee-breakers; both armed, both dead. Another badly beaten. All at the doorstep of the Lakeside Hotel. It appeared to Twining this was nothing more than a gang reprisal, or maybe a protection beef, turf dispute, or drug deal gone sour. It was a cinch the city wouldn’t mourn the loss of the two dead men, and the survivor could be counted on to be uncooperative with the police. A lot of paperwork for nothing.
Twining shook his head. DeBoer seemed to be making some progress, and was getting hesitant answers from the still-puking bouncer. Two more police units pulled up along with an ambulance. The crowd edged back, and soon the scene was littered with people in uniform.
DeBoer approached his partner, his gun still in hand. He pointed to the African-American doorman, who was known to him from previous incidents at the hotel.
“Fat Eddie says it was a trick who nutted up inside the hotel. Says there were two of them; both white guys; one real big. They fled in a white pick-up truck. Nobody got a license plate. I broadcast a description, for what good it’ll do.”
“What does he mean the trick ‘nutted up’? A no-pay?”
DeBoer shook his head. “He says the guy went up with one of the regular girls, hooker named Chrystal. Eddie figures she was doing him for dope, cause when a girl has a money customer they’re supposed to leave a dollar-a-minute deposit on the room; usually a twenty. If not, the girls have to split the dope with the guy at the desk when they come down. Chrystal didn’t leave a deposit.”
“Then what?” asked Twining.
DeBoer holstered his sidearm. “Chrystal and the guy go into room twenty-two, and a half-hour later, only the guy comes out. Fat Eddie gets pissed, because Chrystal hasn’t come down to split any dope with him. It’s house rules.”
“Nice to know Fat Eddie is a stickler for policy.”
“Yeah,” DeBoer agreed. “A real company man. So when Eddie accosts the guy outside, the fireworks start. He gets kicked in the nuts. The two stiffs, who also work at the Lakeside, come out to rescue Fat Eddie and get gunned down.”
“Sounds like we should talk to Chrystal,” Twining said.
“My thoughts exactly. Room twenty-two.”
Twining looked over at Fat Eddie, who was being attended by paramedics. He was still retching.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “You got a lot of info out of that puking piece of shit.”
“Of course,” replied DeBoer indignantly. “I speak fluent scumbag.”
“My ass. Let’s check Chrystal’s room.”
Officer Twining and his partner of over three years climbed the urine-soaked steps of the luxurious Lakeside Hotel. Doors held partially open snapped shut when the eyes behind them saw badges.
“Charming place,” DeBoer remarked, checking the numbers stamped on the doors. “Here’s twenty-two.”
Twining rapped on the door with his baton. “Chrystal, it’s the police department. Open up. We want to talk to you.” There was no response.
Twining checked the doorknob; it was unlocked. He opened the door to room twenty-two. Greeting them was a sight that made the crime scene outside look like a Currier and Ives holiday postcard.
Hanging upside down from the ankles, which were tied to the ceiling light fixture by an electrical cord, was the body of an approximately eighteen year-old girl. She was naked, and in the low-roofed hotel room her outstretched hands came to within a few feet of the floor. Her lifeless eyes stared at the two patrolmen. She wore two smiles. One was the odd smile gravity lent her mouth as she hung upside down. The other was the ghastly red smile of her cleanly slit throat. There was a lake of blood on the floor.
Officer Barry DeBoer said nothing, his face ashen. He pointed to the chalk-white abdomen of the suspended girl. His partner only nodded. His face too was the color of the snow outside.Semper Fi.
CHAPTER 27
Deputy Kevin Kearns’ stomach roiled. He’d been sitting in the cramped Oldsmobile sedan for the better part of two days breathing Bob Farrell’s cigarette smoke. His body ached and he was irritable from lack of exercise and sleep. What he needed was a couple of hours in the gym, a steaming shower, a hot meal, and a full night’s uninterrupted sleep. He’d have settled for a shave.
The road-dirtied Oldsmobile was parked in Omaha’s Leawood West district, near 130th Street, not far from Boys Town. They’d arrived the night before last. They’d found Elizabeth Slocum’s house easily enough.
Kearns assumed Farrell had a scam already planned, and they would simply knock on the door and elicit the whereabouts of Vernon Slocum from his unsuspecting sister. He was wrong.
Farrell told Kearns to drive around the block and look the neighborhood and house over. What they saw was a typical Midwestern suburban neighborhood in the grip of an early winter. Elizabeth Slocum’s house was the same single-story tract house as a hundred others nearby, and in no way distinct. It was the most peaceful place they’d been thus far.
So Kearns was surprised when Farrell announced they would sit on the house for an indeterminate amount of time. “Reconnoitering” was all Farrell would say. That was two days ago.
Kearns had his coat wrapped tightly around him, though unbuttoned. He’d learned that lesson back at the Slocum farm. He sighed. It seemed he was doomed to be dragged around by an alcoholic ex-cop with nothing better to do than pass the time in a parked car, in suburban Omaha, breathing secondhand cigarette smoke and waiting.
He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t remember being so bone-tired. Each time he nodded off, images of Slocum, like a hell-sent demon, dominated his dreams. Sleep was no reprieve at all.
Farrell was getting on his nerves, too. They’d agreed to start working as a team, but Kearns knew that his inexperience put him at a disadvantage. He had little choice but to trust the shifty Californian and take him at his word.
The only consolation Kearns derived was from the knowledge that Vernon Slocum was near. Farrell said he could almost feel it, and Kearns had to admit the retired San Francisco cop seemed to know what he was doing.
He knew Sergeant Evers and Detective Parish, along with that rat FBI Special Agent Scanlon, were no closer to identifying the killer than they were a week ago. And here he was, shivering in a smoke-filled rental car in Omaha, Nebraska, knowing not only the identity of the child killer, but actually laying in wait for him.
Maybe Farrell was beginning to rub off; he too could almost feel Slocum’s nearness. Or maybe it was wishful thinking.
The police scanner alerted them to a murder scene the night before last, at a downtown Omaha hotel. Farrell and Kearns drove there. Farrell hoodwinked his way past the beat cops guarding the scene, posing as a coroner’s deputy.
Kearns watched in amazement as Farrell took one corner of a stretcher and made small talk with the ambulance crew as if he’d known them intimately. He entered the hotel past throngs of onlookers, cops, reporters, and street people like he was supposed to be there.
Ten minutes later Farrell emerged from the hotel. He told Kearns to drive directly to Elizabeth Slocum’s address, and there they’d been ever since.
The quiet residential neighborhood where Elizabeth Slocum lived would have been difficult to stake out had it not been for a large public park within sight of her house. Farrell explained that to sit on the street in a parked car and watch the house would have undoubtedly attracted the attention of neighbors and the police. Subsequently the Oldsmobile was nestled out of view in a corner of the park behind several dumpsters and a snowdrift that connected them.
More than once Kearns suggested they drive around the block to break up the monotony. Farrell politely disagreed, saying such activity would draw attention. He reminded the deputy their quarry was not thinking like a criminal, but instead like a soldier. If they gave up their vantage point, even for a few minutes, it would increase the chance that Vernon Slocum could slip into the neighborhood without their seeing him. Kearns reluctantly agreed.
