Psycho Save Us

by Huskins, Chad

Once a computer engineer and then an investigator at a bank’s fraud department, Basil O’Connor had become what he had become for very simple reasons: he preferred to work from home, and at his own pace. At least, that’s what he’d told Spencer almost a decade ago when they first met. Spencer had just been getting his feet wet back then, had happened upon a couple of people who introduced him to some rather influential members of Atlanta’s seedier side. Knowing the good contacts from the bullshitters, Spencer had thrown away the useless ones and maintained relationships with those who were worth the time. Basil was one of those worth the time.Basil the Yeti, master forger and counterfeiter, who so far had never been caught, was worth the time. He’d gotten his nickname not just because of his appearance, but because he was so elusive. Constantly moving, constantly changing cell phones, e-mails and IP addresses, one only knew how to find him if one knew others who knew him that could arrange introductions.

  “This is a, uh, surprise visit,” said Basil.

  “I paid you months ago, Yeti. You said they’d be ready next time I rolled through,” Spencer said, shutting the door behind him with his foot. “Well, here I am.”

  “I know, I know, man,” Basil said, his high-pitched voice nowhere near as fearsome as one would suspect from a sasquatch. He scratched at a red bald spot on his scalp, and the muscles around his neck spasmed. He’d been hitting the pipe recently, and like all addicts was trying (fruitlessly) to conceal the fact. “I got ’em all, too. You know me. They’re right here.”

  Spencer snapped his fingers twice and waved his fingers towards him, a sign of gimme.

  The Yeti nodded distractedly and moved about with renewed quickness. For all his disgusting habits, the man had a certain organization in his brain that only he understood. He pushed aside a few pizza boxes, two pairs of pants (Spencer had never once seen him wear pants) and six empty Mountain Dew bottles to reveal a small end table. This place reminded Spencer of that incident in Manhattan back in 1947 with those Collyer Brothers, Langley and Homer. Homer, who was blind, had been seen to by Langley, an engineer who designed their house to be filled with tripwires, traps, and a maze of trash, all to keep people from getting into their home and taking his brother away from him. Eventually, Langley had been crushed by his own trash and Homer, unable to help himself, had died of thirst and starvation.

  Maybe that’ll be the end o’ the Yeti, too, Spencer thought. He snapped his fingers impatiently. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I got work to do tonight.”

  “Yeah? Did you see Pat? He get you some work?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m working on. I gotta get moving.”

  Basil nodded jerkily. Long ago his central nervous system had lost the war against all the H he was putting in his system. These days it was so bad he could barely stand up straight. “You couldn’t wait on these, Spence?” he said, handing over the packet of fake IDs. He bent over against his will, then straightened up against his will. The H was wracking his body. He scratched at his skin and winced. “Like, I dunno, until morning?”

  “Naw, I might not be stayin’ in the A-T-L too long. Might have to fly fast. Never know. So, I’ll be needin’ these.” He opened it up, checked them out. He glanced up at the Yeti.

  “Yo, man, they’re all cool. You paid for the best and you got it.”

  Spencer had no doubt about that, really. Basil wasn’t just some moron who threw together a few pieces of paper with a new name on it and laminated the shit at Kinko’s. No, he was one of those rare and beautiful types in the criminal underworld, completely indispensible to all of the major players because he didn’t just invent IDs, he grew them.

  Anybody could go to a cemetery and find the name of a child who’d died soon after birth, then go to the courthouse and look at their records to get the dead infant’s social security number and start using it. That was probably the oldest trick in the proverbial book. But the feds were onto that trick, and modern computer systems had made it easier to check and double-check the background of an SSN. So gathering SSNs were only good if a person grew them. This meant that a professional forger like the Yeti had to keep his records regularly updated, and by whatever means. The old cemetery trick was sometimes good, but these days the best thing to do was steal someone’s ID from the Internet. A number of confidence scams made it easy to get people to hand that information over, even the information of a dead infant.

  Once the Yeti had this info, he grew the ID, used it to open a credit line with a bank, maybe just a hundred bucks, maybe a thousand, and then quickly paid it off. Then he might enroll this fake person in a school system. Doesn’t matter that they don’t show up, especially if it’s an inner city school where the attendance was always shoddy anyway. This all cost money, of course, and the more cultivated you wanted an ID to be, the more you had to pay. For instance, enrolling this fake person in college would be a little more costly, because for Basil, this meant spending his time filling out documents for online courses, maybe even completing a degree in the liberal arts if the client wanted something impenetrable.

  Some clients even wanted a picture ID of themselves from their early years placed into various databases to make it appear as though they had carried this identity for all their lives. This might entail taking their childhood school photos and placing them into old newspaper clippings that were now kept online, which required hacking, of course. This way, a person could appear to have been enrolled in, say, a chess club when they were twelve, and then a swim team competition when they were eighteen, and so on. All of this helped fill out an identity so much that it would take a superhuman feat to unravel it and determine it was 100% fake.

  Basil kept this information in reams of folders, probably the folders strewn all around the apartment. He stored it for years, gathering new identities while simultaneously cultivating old ones. He waited until they ripened, held onto them for prospective customers, and then finally attached the necessary faces and finalized a few things. It was a full-time job that allowed him to work at home and at his own pace doing something he loved—hacking and research, both of which provided a creative outlet for his talents.

  The computer age and technology had done a lot to inform people, but people like Basil O’Connor were using it to rewrite history.

  So, with some credit history and an education background, Spencer had two new identities he could choose to disappear into. One of them was Paul Quinton Ramsay, a 32-year-old man from New Jersey with a credit history and an MBA from DeVry University. The other was a little less cultivated, a man named Michael Frederick Voigt, a 31-year-old from Tuckerville, Georgia. Voigt had a little credit history but no education history.

  Spencer kept looking at the Yeti, who shrugged and said, “I gave you one great one, and one pretty good one. And, hey, that’s a real charity, man. You know? I did it because you paid everything up front. Few people trust me with that.”

  The Yeti was big on trust, and Spencer had known that. That’s how he played him. Still, it had been a gamble. If the Yeti had gotten busted (not likely) or had moved someplace where Spencer couldn’t find him (more likely), then he would’ve been out the fifty g’s he’d fronted the tall hairy beast.

  “We square, Spence? Everything cool?” he asked, in the hopeful manner of a schoolboy who was offering a gift to a bully he didn’t want a beating from anymore.

  Unfortunately for the Yeti, this was, to Spencer, another obvious avenue to manipulate him and keep him honest. “Yeah,” Spencer sighed, putting the IDs back in the folder. “I guess they’ll do.” But something else was bugging him. He still couldn’t say why, but it was. Maybe it was the way Pat had spoken about those vor, maybe it was just that his interest had been piqued. Maybe I’m still pissed off about Baton Rouge. “But this is bullshit an’ you know it,” Spencer added, taking a step towards him.

  The Yeti took a step back, almost tripping over a stereo speaker. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “A ‘charity,’ you called it?” Spencer said. He shook h
is head. “No, man. That’s not how this works. I know how much you charge—”

  “Rates go up—”

  “Not with me, they don’t,” Spencer said. “And don’t give me inflation or cost o’ services fluctuation. I don’t give a shit about economics. I’ve been one o’ yer oldest customers. I’ve brought you other work. I gave you the intro to Pat an’ the others, remember? I’m the whole reason your operation exists.”

  “Yeah, man. Hey, chill. It’s like this, man, I had to—”

  “No, it’s like this. I want a discount. Cash money. Now.”

  “Man, you know I don’t deal with cash,” he laughed, shifting his weight. “All my shit’s in the Caymans, dig? I put my shit there because it’s a tax haven. You dig, man, right?”

  Spencer had taken two more slow steps towards him. He’d never hurt the Yeti before and didn’t plan to, but the Discovery Channel would be interested to know that the Yeti was a frightened creature when trapped alone in the wild, even when in the company of familiar animals. “Alright,” Spencer said. “Alright, fuck your tax haven, then. I need somethin’ else done.”

  “Wh-what, man?” He was fidgeting. The Yeti scratched at his skin, his left eye was twitching and the muscles in his neck started going through spasms again. “N-Name it.”

  “AXC 371.”

  “What?”

  “A license plate number. I need it looked up.” He didn’t know why, but something about the way Pat had talked about them, like he was warning Spencer away. Like he was afraid of them himself. He even said he didn’t want to do work with Spencer if he was mixed up with the vory v zakone. It was like…

  Well…

  Like they’re untouchable. Just like the bullies at Brownfields Elementary School had once felt. Just like Miles Hoover, Jr. had once appeared. Yes, the vory v zakone had a certain amount of clout, evidently. And clout and perceived power was something that Spencer Pelletier inherently felt he needed to test. The same thing when Brummel had leaned in and shouted in his ear, “You ain’t ever getting out of my prison! You understand me, boy!”

  The challenge had been issued. It practically begged to be done.

  “H-hey, man, it’s late,” said the Yeti, “a-and I ain’t got that kind of hookup no more—”

  “That nigger that works down at the DMV still hooks you up,” Spencer said, taking a step over to the Yeti’s computer array and looking over it. “He gave you that back door into the DMV’s system. C’mon, I know that’s how you keep up with the updates on driver’s license designs and whatnot. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You still got that back door, don’t you?”

  “Oh…oh, that hookup. Hey, y-yeah, man,” he laughed nervously again.

  “Look it up. License plate AXC 371.”

  The Yeti hustled over to his computer desk and pushed a few files to the floor, as well as a copy of The Making of Citizen Kane. “Hey, y-you got it, m’man. Coming right up. AXC 371. You got it. Coming riiiiiight up.”

  “Oh, and a cell phone,” Spencer said. “A prepaid one. I know you’ve got three or four of ’em lying around here somewhere. I want one.”

  “H-hey, you got it, man. Whatever.”

  The fire trucks had every lane blocked, and the sidewalk was no good because the burning wreck was on one side and all the rubberneckers were on the other. Hydraulic rescue tools (those Jaws of Life) had been pulled out, and they were all excited to see a dead body pulled from the car-b-cue. The air was filled with the acrid smell of upholstery turned to carbon. Leon fumed and tried to back up, but by now half a dozen cars had stacked up behind him. He put it in reverse and honked his horn numerous times, rolling down his window and yelling for those behind to back up.

  When finally he had enough room to get off this street, he had a decision to make. He could take Nickel Ferry Road to get there quicker, but there was no way to Hillside from there and he’d have to leave his car on the sidewalk and run through a short patch of woods to get to the apartment complex. If he wanted to be able to park his car someplace relatively safe and use it to block off the entrance and Pelletier’s escape, then he’d need to head down to Johnston Street, take a right onto Perris Way and then another right onto Roundabout Road (suitably named for this night’s errand).

  Leon had to decide. It took all of three seconds to opt for Nickel Ferry Road. He drove halfway up, parallel with the woods separating Nickel Ferry Road from Hillside Apartments, then pulled up onto the sidewalk. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be sorry he left his car in this neighborhood.

  Before getting out of the sedan, he made sure to take the radio and his cell with him, of course, so that he could coordinate with the backup which should be on the way.

  As he shut his door, Leon’s right hand went for his pistol without even thinking. He pulled it out and put it at ready-low position, and dashed through the woods. If he was just questioning a suspect or a witness in a kidnapping, he would never have drawn his weapon. But this was the sick fuck from Baton Rouge, the one who killed six men in a public park, cut the nuts off one and, according to one terrified thirteen-year-old, laughed while he shoved them down the dead man’s throat.

  In all the excitement, he forgot his flashlight. It wasn’t his only mistake. In his hurry, he’d also forgotten to lock his car.

  Spencer clapped Basil companionably on the shoulder as he stepped outside. “Thanks, Yeti.” He had the printout from the DMV’s records in his hand. He folded it and placed it inside his hoodie’s pocket. “You’re a good guy, I don’t care what others say behind your back.” Another clap on his arm. “Just kiddin’, man. You’re the best.”

  “H-hey, Spence, man. Anytime, you know?

  The Yeti smiled big, splitting that beard of his in half. Many in the world thought that the Yeti was elusive because he wanted to be left alone. But Spencer knew the truth. The Yeti was alone only because he didn’t know how to make friends. He wanted friends. Just like Martin Horowitz had wanted a friend. Everybody wanted a friend, Spencer supposed. Forgers and pedophiles were no different. Spencer was happy to oblige them when they showed a use.

  “I appreciate this, Yeti. You do good work. Maybe I’ll see ya around?”

  “Yeah, hey, definitely,” he said. Basil glanced back inside anxiously. His pipe was calling. Human interaction, as much as the Yeti desired it, still agitated him to no end. Though he wanted it, there was one thing he wanted more. “Yo, p-peace, Spence.”

  “Peace in the Middle East.”

  Basil laughed. “H-hey, I like that, man. Peace in the Middle East! For sure. And tell Pat I said hey, if you see him.”

  “Cool, man. Thanks.” Spencer offered him his parting smile. The door shut in his face, Spencer turned to walk away, and knew something was wrong almost immediately.

  Someone in the joint had once called it street sense. It was the same with another inmate he’d known named Daniel Patterson, who’d shown keen prison instincts because he’d been incarcerated since he was fifteen years old. Patterson called it the “ebb and flow” feel, the ups and downs, action and reaction. A wilderness survival expert Spencer knew years ago called it the “concentric rings of nature”—a squirrel jumps on a tree and scuttles to the other side, so you knew that danger was coming from the opposite side of that tree.

  Whatever you wanted to call it, it was there, yelling at him. And it came to him from every direction. The first thing he recognized—without knowing he recognized it—was that the music had been turned down. No more loud bass bumping from the other apartments. That was especially interesting because the party on the second storey had been the loudest. They probably had a bird’s-eye view from up there. What had they seen? What put a damper on the party?

  The second thing he noticed—again, without knowing he noticed it—was that the Hispanic prostitute was back. She walked by him quickly, and took something out of her purse. She walked casually by a row of bushes and her hand moved. Did she drop something? If so, what for? What was she ditching, and who was she hiding it from?<
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  By the time the third clue came (someone hollering “Five-oh!”), Spencer had already turned away from the parking lot and was walking into a patch of woods on the south side of the apartment complex.

  Though he never saw one of the cars, he spotted flashing blue and red lights from around a small hill. The lights quickly switched off. That was the final clue. They were entering without sirens blaring. The lights had gotten traffic out of their way, but they’d switched off the lights at this point in order to serve a clandestine “no-knock” warrant.

  Somebody’s apartment is about to get hit. Alarms were going off in Spencer’s head.

  The forest was nearly pitch-black. Spencer heard other footsteps around him. He saw the silhouette of one fellow rushing out of the woods about forty yards up from him, his trench coat flapping behind him. Big fucker, that one, he thought. Has to weigh two-forty, two-fifty.

  The big fellow ran across the parking lot, disappearing behind a few cars. Now came the sound of several car doors opening and slamming. A few men shouting orders to one another, coordinating an attack.

  Definitely a raid. But on who?

  But Spencer already knew. Somehow, it all just added up, and the glance back only confirmed it. Indeed, they were headed for the building marked APARTMENTS 0400-0500.

  All right, so they’re onto me, he thought calmly. How they’d gotten onto him was anybody’s guess, and, as it happened, not very important. Could’ve been Pat, could’ve been a witness who saw him hop out of the Tacoma earlier and then boost the Aerostar, it could’ve been a lot of things. The important thing to do now was to walk away normally, no rush, no haste in his step, just keep moving.

  Spencer took out the piece of paper Basil had given him and reviewed it.

  VIN: WBLLV82746KT77311 Class: Upscale – Near Luxury

  Year: 2007 Engine: 5.4L V-8

  Make: Ford Country of Assembly: USA

  Model: Expedition Vehicle Age: 5 year(s)