Savant c-4

by Rex Miller

  Then in with the goodies, he'd salted the notes with stories that he hoped Barb would steal. The KPERS show, about an investigation into the Kansas Public Employees Retirement System, an exposé on white-collar crime, an interview with a guy in the Kansas attorney general's office that he knew would semi-suck, a big story on a judge who'd dismissed speeding tickets that was tied to ambiguous outmoded laws and "lost" ordinances, which would be about as much fun to research as gum surgery.

  He had a large, graphic presentation that looked so good he thought it would work as a show in spite of having been conceived to be swiped, a thing on the five planes found in formation, wing-to-wing, on the ocean floor, that appeared identical to the famous, missing "Flight 19." All the planes had been Navy Avengers, and one of the numbers on the war planes matched the unit that had lost a squadron in 1945 (a story that hadn't done anything to dispel the "Bermuda Triangle" myth). He'd tied that all into a famous local story about a woman who had proof her husband, an MIA in Vietnam since 1970, had recently been seen. "Missing In Action" had Sean Flynn written all over it—he knew he'd build something with it.

  Then there were the pure spikes. Tantalizing show titles he'd simply pulled out of thin air and his imagination:

  Fatal Attractions

  Up the Academy

  So Long, Mr. Farmer

  Bounty Hunters—Above the Law?

  Closing Costs, the Real Story

  High-Tech, Two-Edged Sword of the 21st Century

  Closing the Porn Shops

  Honorable Men in Politics—Are There Any?

  He'd crossed out "Men in Politics" and substituted "Politicians."

  Laser Surgery

  The New Retirement

  Politically Correct, Buzzwords and Censorship

  Outsmarting the IRS

  Last of the Pioneers

  Elvis Imitators—The Dark Side

  Back to the Middle East? Post-Victory Questions

  Religious Sex

  Palimony

  The Next Energy Crisis

  Payola's Resurgence in the Music Business

  Dubious Cures

  Dinosaurs

  Health Care—"Going Up?"

  On and on. He put his stack of "stealables" and related visuals to take to work aside, and concentrated on his real thesis, on American violence. Trask's précis was headed "Causes of Increased Numbers of Violent Crimes." Based on the report prepared in part by the Kansas City Metropolitan Police Department, the Missouri Health Department, and the Department of Justice, its primary elements were listed as follows:

  Cause:

  Abject poverty, unemployment, lack of hope.

  Solution:

  Government work programs, communitywide welfare projects targeting the lowest economic strata and the homeless, education about job-finding, education about alcohol, drug, and other substance abuse, more programs for substance abusers.

  Cause:

  Ghetto slums.

  Solution:

  Planning of urban housing codes and enlightened federal, state, and city housing authority decision-making, prevention of neighborhood deterioration by stricter enforcement of existing codes, prevention of deterioration by grass-roots citizens groups, formation of neighborhood crime-prevention organizations, more funding for police, more targeting of high-crime areas for patrol by law enforcement agencies, more undercover units in high-crime areas, more crack-house raids, more drug sweeps and streetcorner-dealer-level busts, more gangbanger sweeps, more DEA units.

  Cause:

  Abuse of children, females, elderly.

  Solution:

  Education, more enlightened foster parent systems, community programs for abusers and local PSA-campaigns aimed at increasing communication skills among abusers, toll-free "help" hotlines (1-800 numbers), more shelters and shelter guidance, increased funding for counseling.

  It looked hopeless when you imagined how much that kind of funding would translate into increased taxes. Perhaps the way to go about it would be to isolate certain areas of vested-interest lobbies—not defense spending, as that was too big a ratings tune-out. But the vested interests now controlled the U.S. Congress. There was an angle there. He wanted the solutions to completely resolve, at least theoretically, the thorny dilemmas which the series of programs on violence would imply if not categorically state.

  If Kansas City was under the gun, as he believed, in the midst of a horrible series of homicides orchestrated out of racial hatred, and as retribution against encroachment on a drug mob's territory, what would the white population do? He envisioned a white response, a backlash to the response, and these widening out into all-out racial war. If Trask wasn't very careful about every move he made he could imagine himself touching off a powder keg!

  He thought of another swipable note and jotted it down: "The maddening waste, abuse of perqs, and financial mismanagement by the House and Senate—did this earn them each a raise?" Then he decided that wasn't necessarily stealable and put it in a stack of "iffy angles." It had been jarred loose by his thinking on the lobbies, and maybe it belonged in some kind of sidebar to his precis. Trask made another note to go through the "iffy angles" pile and sort out those things that might have some relevance to possible solutions. He made a list of interview subjects: four blacks; an Asian; an Israeli man who was particularly articulate; two whites. He jotted a note for himself to make a "list of suitable Congresspersons worth interv'g."

  Trask saw a scrap of note he'd made headed "B.R. Sez Station Bugged." He lifted his phone from the cradle and hit numbers. In a few seconds a young, chirpy woman's voice announced "Z-60" in his ear.

  "May I speak with Buzz Reid, please?"

  "Buzz Reid?" she said, in the voice operators always use when they're unsure if such a person works there, or in fact exists. "Um—just a moment, please." Another voice came on the line.

  "Reid."

  "Hey. It's me—Trask."

  "You got a cold or somethin'?"

  "Somethin'. Hey. About our recent talk. Any chance you could give me another chance to pick your brain about the same topic?"

  "I charge."

  "Oh-oh. How much? I'm poorfolks."

  "At least a cuppa Java."

  "Okay. I might be able to scrape that up. Same place?"

  "Nah. You at the other place?" He meant the radio station.

  "No. Home."

  "That's better. You know where the fountains are? The ones we like?"

  "You mean—" Trask thought he meant downtown.

  "The old tasty fountains," Reid said to him, in the kind of codephrase an old colleague would remember. They had once talked at great length about great fountain sodas "just like they used to make." Only this one small greasy spoon still made them—or so they had agreed.

  "Ah! The fountains of our youth."

  "That's the place."

  "Yeah." It was a few minutes away. "When?"

  Reid gave him a time, and Victor Trask thanked him, hung up the phone, and headed for the bathroom. The thought of burgling KCM had loosened his thirty-six-year-old wimpy bowels.

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  18

  Marlon, Illinois

  Dr. Norman had a large stack of mail waiting for him when he returned to his office. He sorted through it quickly, not opening the envelopes, which he was in the habit of slitting himself, going through the obvious offers, junk mail, and work-related communications from various sectors of the scientific, penal, or other government agencies with whom he had contact. He was used to a great deal of mail, and much of it was discarded.

  There were three packages, one of which immediately froze him the second he saw the address. A crudely sealed envelope, which appeared to have been run over by a truck, had been addressed with a black Magic Marker, the writer using overly hard strokes, mushing the tip down as he pressed his marks into the paper, making block letters. The handwriting immediately identified the sender. He looked at the address, afraid—it was only natural—wondering
if the contents would hurt him physically in some way. The address was this: "DR. NORMAN, Ph.D., Marion Federal Penetentiary (sic), U.S. Prison System, Marion, Illinois." Daniel did not have enough information to address the package correctly, and since he'd never been permitted to receive mail during the periods when he was incarcerated, he did not know the exact address of the place where he'd spent several years of his life.

  Should he get some bomb-squad personnel to open it for him? That was ridiculous. If Daniel was going to send him a mail bomb he'd do it much more cleverly than this. No-this was not going to be a bomb. He brushed aside the packages from Justice and NSC, gently touching Daniel's envelope. It was not hard. He lifted it. Relatively light.

  Norman got a metal box and placed the package in it very carefully, trying to decide whether or not to X-ray it. It had already passed through the prison detector. Of course, that in itself was no guarantee of anything. Daniel could have something in here that would be sufficiently ingenious to appear innocuous and still inflict a terrible death on the unwary. Dr. Norman could imagine him turning to one of the secret pages he'd torn from his ledger, building a small contraption that would scratch the recipient in such a way as to infect that unlucky person with an HIV-positive blood specimen. He'd know a thousand ways to maim, kill, burn, slice, explode, infect, poison, blind, or otherwise incapacitate the target with something as ordinary as a hastily sealed envelope.

  Logic won out. Dr. Norman slit the envelope open, wearing face-shield and gloves, holding it behind an impromptu screen, just in case he'd misjudged Daniel's sense of humor.

  A plastic bag, the kitchen type, sealed with duct tape. There had barely been time for Daniel to react to the dossier and he would, of course, be enraged by the implant. He would not forgive Dr. Norman for the liberties they'd had to take with him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. What Daniel had sent him was his way of responding—letting him know that he'd be coming for him in due time. The moment he saw it he knew precisely what it was, and scientific detachment notwithstanding, it had the desired effect. Seeing the object was like being cursed by one's own son. Norman put the bag down and went to his desk. The message had hit him hard.

  He picked up the classified directory and punched in a number over his sanitized landline. In the operations section of a unit known as Clandestine Services, a secure phone rang and was answered by a warrant officer. Norman established bona fides and made his request.

  "I need a team to locate and isolate a female Caucasian who was last believed to reside in Kansas City, Kansas. She is probably in her late sixties or early seventies. The name she went by was Nadine Garbella." He spelled it, and gave an address on Bunker. He was reading from Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski's dossier. "If this woman is still alive, it is vital she be fould and taken immediately to a safe location. It is also imperative I then be notified the moment that is accomplished. If there are any encumbrances, get in touch with me as soon as possible."

  Inside the bag, browned with blood, was the heart from a small animal. Dr. Norman fully understood the nature of the insult, and its attendant implicit threat. The heart of the dead opossum spoke volumes.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  19

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Okay, Buzz. I think I get the idea. And I could get all that stuff—you know—without a problem?"

  "Go over a few blocks to Radio Shack, man. Get everything you need to build a great bug." He shook his head. "Get your earplug or headset, your connectors, your listening unit, monitor, recording unit, everything you'd need to be in business."

  "I didn't know it was so easy to record private conversations."

  "For all we know this could be recorded. The guy who owns it is worried one of his waitresses is running setups, okay? People eating steaks and lobster and paying half their tab. The waitress and the customers are both ripping him off. Happens." He shrugged again. "He thinks the cook's in on it. So he bugs a few of the booths and tables. We could be on tape right now. You called the station—for all we know that's on tape. It's absurdly easy to record conversations."

  "But you wouldn't use the, uh, jammer thing."

  "No. See—that tells them you're hip to being recorded. Hell, if somebody is bugging you, get smart. Get even. Bug them." The thin, wiry man took a noisy sip of coffee. "Fuck 'em all, down with everything, and up with the ladies' dresses."

  Trask laughed quietly and unfolded a twelve-by-eighteen-inch sheet of art paper he'd been working on—a rough layout of the radio station. "Recognize it?"

  Reid just stared for a minute.

  "KCM."

  "Yeah. I see it. There's the front doors. What's all that shit?" Reid pointed.

  "That's the second floor—see—upstairs?

  "Um."

  "Wow, Buzz. You mean you don't think I'm too great an artist, eh? Man, I'm hurt."

  "I wouldn't give up your other job yet."

  "Okay. Anyway, let's say you wanted to do what we had discussed? How would you do it? You got a twenty-four-hour security guy right here."

  "Okay. That's easy. You come in to work. Do your thing. Go home. But you forget something. You go back—all right? This is about three-thirty-five A.M. There are fewer employees between three-thirty A.M. and four-thirty than at any other time. Right?"

  "Yeah."

  "You come back. 'I forgot something, damn it,' you say as you bullshit with the guard. I assume you bullshit back and forth, right?"

  "Not really. They just wave you on in. We don't talk that much back and forth."

  "Okay. You go in. Walk back, go in the elevator. Get off on the second floor, and you go right back to Engineering. Now the last time I was there they had monitor cameras here, here, and here." Reid made dots in the foyer, in the elevator, and across from the programming department in the hallway.

  "As far as I can recall—yeah. I think those are the ones I'd go past on the way to Engineering."

  "There aren't any cameras back there. You'd open the door across from Purchasing with a key I would make a copy of for you. You unlock the Engineering Supply door. You close it behind you and lock it."

  Trask sneezed. "Sorry about that." He blew his nose.

  "You close and lock the door. You try not to sneeze real loud." They both laughed. "You unlock the cabinets against the west wall with a key—as before, I make a copy of for you. You pull out the shit on the floor, stack it neatly in a row, and pull the floor hatch out. If it's locked, you'll take a prybar or whatever—you'll get it open. No big deal. You'll see a ladder. You'll carefully climb down. There's a little ledge just a few feet away. You'll have a flashlight—and get the kind with a ring you can attach a cord to and tie this thing to you so it can't be dropped. Make sure your batteries are new. Okay, you still with me?"

  "Uh-huh." Trask felt as if he were in dire need of a half hour on the po-po. This could be a miracle discovery—want to be regular again? Move up to the ultimate laxative-contemplate burglary!

  "You're standing on the ledge now right back of the heating ducts, the pipes are in front and back, electrical cables, air conditioning, and what you do now is—"

  It was way too much for him. He'd known it to begin with but the idea kept appealing to him. What a payoff to the violence-theme series, to have proof of his own employer's intrusions against the staff. He didn't have a clear way to tie it in yet, but something along the lines of psychological battering might work. Wasn't this a kind of force being exerted against the worker ants?

  He listened to Buzz tell him how simple it would be to remove, bulk erase, or simply rewind and sabotage the six security camcorders with the remote unit. Photograph the room, take examples of illegally taped phone conversations and bugged offices, and go back up the ladder, replacing hatchways and locking doors.

  "'Course—" he heard Reid tell him by way of a disclaimer in case he was caught or captured, "I'm not sure how you neutralize a hidden security monitor, but I don't see 'em being that smart or what
ever. I think you'd have some trouble bypassing an alarm system, too, so if they got an alarm set you might trip that. But they're probably too fuckin' cheap for that. With those two exceptions, it would go smoothly. It would all be a lot easier than it sounds."

  "Man, I gotta tell you." Vic Trask smiled. "There's no fucking way. I'd love to do it. They deserve it. But halfway through your thing there, I felt my balls shrink to approximately the size of frozen peas. Okay? I just don't think so. Thanks anyway, buddy."

  "Fine. Okay. Just go to the Shack, or go to Bob's Electronics and get what you need. Bug 'em back. Get your proof thataway."

  "Yeah. Write down what I need to get and show me how it. connects together." He folded the large piece of art paper so Reid could write on the back.

  They shot the breeze a while longer and Trask thanked him and they said their farewells.

  Less than two hours later he was back in his apartment sitting on the john, sipping O.J., munching aspirin, and wondering what to do next. On the table in the next room, in a Bob's Electronics bag, were a few small packages that had kicked a great big hole in the middle of his checkbook. But he now had the ability to secretly record private conversations.

  Trask went back to the station the next afternoon with roughly the same feeling of happiness one has on the way to an IRS audit or triple-bypass surgery. Gloom descended over him the moment he came through the big showy double doors, clip-clopped down the impressive first-floor foyer past Security and the front desk, and hit the UP button on the elevator. It took some discipline not to look up at the camcorders, but he made it upstairs. Monica Heartbreak said nice things to him, cooed solicitously, and he started feeling a bit better.