Slob

by Rex Miller

  "Yeah, I rectum so," he said, achieving for him what was a veritable Everest peak of wit.

  Bunkowski had been watching them for about half a block, coming silently behind them, stalking them in the darkness. He could make out most of the absurd, moronic conversation as he drew closer now, and the light glinted off the chain that the one called Tree wore over his shoulder, the thing that had caught Daniel's eye in the first place.

  Tree wore a huge chain, something off a motorcycle perhaps, an enormous thing that he ran through one of the shoulder loops on his leather jacket, and down into his pocket, to a heavy weight of keys, the other end of the long chain fastened to his belt. He liked to whip the keys out in a fight, and it was the silver chain catching the light that Daniel had seen.

  He loved the idea of taking off this pair of drooling punks with his own chain, a yard of taped tractor chain that had killed and killed again, and he planned to smack these loud-talking, ignorant insects just as you might swat a pair of buzzing mosquitoes. He liked to kill any living human, but little people were his first love, little strutting cocky bantam-rooster braggart smart-aleck punk loud-talking, ignorant little people wearing chains were right up his alley.

  "That shit we cooked up before was fucking decent, man. I mean it drummed on the inside of y'r head all fuckin' day. We can cook that shit and man, I'll be the fucking king of Australia." Tree had begun his fantasy-obsession about Australia several weeks ago, how they could go over and sell crank free from any laws, and so deep was the structure of his psychosis that each day he built another imaginary layer onto the foundation of his Australian dreamworld. He really believed at that moment, that any day now he'd be buying his tickets for the big boat ride to a ripe, wide-open paradise without authority or law.

  "They ain't hardly no big gangs ovah there, man. We can fucking control the crank market overnight. Brew up our own good shit. Be dealin three, four pounds a day. Be the fuckin' kings of—"

  They smelled Chaingang before they heard him or saw him, which isn't hard to understand when you consider that he was now spending most of his time down in a specially built trap hidden in a submain of the Chicago sewage system. Tree and Lester were no fragrant flowers themselves, but this—this thing could be smelled, sensed, half a block away, and as he drew near to them coming up behind them on the street even the most desensitized dolt would instinctively turn and look at the looming apparition coming up out of the night. In-stink-tively.

  Tree had the first syllable of his precious Australia in his mouth when he went down, appropriately, right in the middle of becoming the king of Aus—he caught the first chainsnap from the heavy, taped links that came snaking, snapping out silently and catching him along the hypothalamus and the medula oblongata and taking his dream down for good in a wet, scarlet sheet of blinding pain and smashed cells, tissue, vertebrae, cartilage, nerves, spine, brain. Lights out. And Bunkowski's tree-limb wrist snaps it back and out again in a lightning bolo throw; a vicious, unstoppable, furiously whizzing, deadly spinning chainsaw of certain death flung with incredible strength, and yet, amazingly, missing.

  Missing! Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski didn't know the word. Missing was not a part of his comprehension. The vocabulary was new. It took a giant heartbeat to sink in, that his killer chain had spun by Missing MISSING this insignificant wimp crashing through the side window of a parked Ford Escort in an explosion of spider-tracked safety glass. And in that heartbeat Leaping Lester did the only thing the little nerd was any good at. He fled. He got up on those filthy tenny-runs of his and he flat out boogied. He booked like the wind. And he was goneski.

  And Chaingang, killer of five hundred, killer of families, killer of professional mercs, killer of head-hunters, killer of hardcore soldiers, the assassin's assassin—stood motionless in his tracks. Chaingang stood there over the inert form of the Flames' fallen warrior Little Tree, and watched as a lucky wimp named Lester did the thing he did best. And for the first time he felt a nudge deep inside the bulky body somewhere, this man, this beast that knew no such emotions as fear or apprehension felt something and he could identify it, alien as it was. Because he had MISSED. Because he had been seen. Because he had made another mistake.

  And Jack Eichord the cop would not know of this for a time. He was busy in the middle of a meeting where he was hearing was what shit-assed, bad, amateurish police work he'd been doing. Not him personally, you understand, just any warm body involved in Kasikoff, anybody who'd managed to let this ballbusting mother come turn around and kick the PC's ass, which in turn caused the chief to get his ass reamed, which is how come the deputy chief had the end of his dick stepped on, which is why all these cops were working a sixteen-hour day and still stuck in the cop shop at this late hour in an emergency meeting of the coppers in the Sylvia Kasikoff investigation.

  Because this morning the package came. The package with the neat, block-lettered JACK ICORD, the one with the bad weight and the loose, harum-scarum feel; the one Jack was afraid of long before he examined the writing, long before he had them open it up in the bomb vault downstairs, long before he saw what was in the package the thing had sent him.

  This was the morning the papers would go back to when the Lonely Hearts killings became a new headline in the tabloids. This would be the day Eichord would remember for a long time to come, and a day that would keep him awake at night goading him, stabbing at him with the little ice picks of fear each time he thought about the package and what it meant. This would be the day that put him to bed more naked than he could ever remember being; more vulnerable to evil, his outer covering of hard cop removed, decorticated by the awfulness of it, stripped bare like a tree with the bark peeled away.

  This would be the day the papers began calling the sensational case the Jack-of-Hearts Murders.

  Need to know

  What they could have done, what they normally do, is throw the shredded paper mass into the incinerators and erase the computer memories and a thing simply ceases to exist. They are the people who first used stonewall as a transitive verb. When they chose to forget something or somebody, that thing or that person never existed. But because of the time and the pressures and the sensitivities and the climate, something still lived on to tell of the beast's existence. And it couldn't have been more telltale if it had in fact been a bloody smear right there on the printout.

  "Extension 2228," Eichord said, waiting as the line hissed all the way to Washington. Had they simply shit-canned it, what the administrators would normally do, that would have been the end of it. But some dim-witted, superbureaucratic type at a desk decided to classify the prints, blood group, and the related ident of those individuals involved in what had once been our military/clandestine intelligence shop's most secret experiment—once called Special Action Unit/Covert Operations Group, pronounced "saw-cog," a euphemistic acronym meaning assassination squad.

  And so instead of "No Response" or "Insufficient Data" or whatever, instead of the normal absence of data the feds kicked it right back with an "Officially Deleted," which lit up the printout like a neon sign.

  Eichord had been on the telephone for over two hours and his arm was so numb he thought for a second he might be having a small heart attack. And then the phrase heart attack slapped his brain around a bit; as a crisp, female voice snapped him out of it:

  "Twenty-two, twenty-eight?"

  "Sonny Shoenburgen, please," he told her.

  "One moment please," she said, pleasantly putting him on hold.

  "Thank you," he told a hissing Ma Bell, AT and fucking T, Western Electric, and God only knows what other congloms all seething in their postdivestiture irritation, all hissing at him from within the sanitized, swept, shielded, sound-secure landlines of one of the largest spook complexes west of the Atlantic.

  Finally, after what seemed like a month or so, a different voice comes back on the lines, this one male, not quite so pleasant or friendly saying:

  "May I help you?"

  "Sonny?" />
  "I'm sorry but we have no one here by that name."

  "Listen, I'm with Justice and this is an emergency so cut the crap and put Sonny Shoenburgen on, please."

  "Sorry, but he's tied up in a meeting," the voice said after a very brief hesitation. "May I tell Colonel Shoenburgen who's calling, sir?"

  "Tell Sonny it's Jack Eichord, E-I-C-H-O-R-D, and I need to talk to him very briefly but I need it to be now.

  "Right." Another hesitation. "And you're with whom, did you say?"

  "Justice department," he lied smoothly.

  "Yes, sir, one moment please." The lines hissed and booed again. One moment could be anything. He had once waited one moment for Federal Express on a weekend call that had run twenty-five minutes of the most tortured Muzak to which he'd ever been subjected. Twenty-five ear splitting minutes of some of the most wonderful ass-kissing ricky-tick numbers imaginable. A moment in D.C. time could be fucking anything. He was reaching his telephone tolerance for the day. It was a thing that had crept up his left arm, then his right arm, into both ears, and was now drilling inward, inward toward the soft core of the brain.

  "Yeah?" the voice said, quietly.

  "Hello?" He had been on the line for some time, picking up his phone without a discernible click. Some cordless, shapeless thing that you never touched, Jack supposed. A telephone that was formed like a microorganism and surgically implanted, perhaps. These bastards had everything.

  "Sonny, it's Jack Eichord."

  "Agh, you worthless heap of dog shit whatcha' up to?"

  "Up to no good. I—"

  "You here?"

  "Huh?"

  "You here in D.C.?"

  "No. Chicago. Chicago PD at the moment on a homicide case."

  "Jesus H. S. Christ, Junior. Whenja' move to Chi-town?"

  "Well, I didn't move here exactly. I'm on loan to 'm for a serial-murder thing. Through Major Crimes. I'm in some deep damn puppy poop too. I wanna' tell ya'."

  "I don't doubt that for a damn second." The colonel laughed.

  "I need some— "

  "Hey! Since when are you with Justice, asshole."

  "What time is it now? How many victims. He's a real maniac. Cuts their hearts out. Leaves whole families mutilated. It's one of the worst serial-murder cases ever. We gotta' run this down."

  "Okay. But nobody puts 'Officially deleted' on filed fingerprints. Certainly nobody here. Nobody at the Company. The Bureau. I never heard of an agency doin' it. If you see deleted in a sanitized or declassified document that's being downgraded after so many years, just as an example, like something the agency has to make available under the Freedom of Information Act, you know damn well it's nothing very sensitive to begin with or it'd never got a new rubber stamp. That's the nature of restricted material. This is an error. Some tired clerk who— "

  "No, hold it. We assumed that too. But I had our chief out here run that aspect down himself through the Bureau and it isn't a clerical mistake. That is some kind of maximum security deletion. Somebody with heavy-duty clout pulled a curtain down on that person; the error was that they shouldn't have identified the deletion, But what was apparently somebody's in-house response to an inquiry went public in the bureaucratic computer shuffle. I gotta cut through this, Sonny. Please, man, you need to help me on this one."

  "Official channels, pal, that's the way to move. I couldn't do it any faster than the Major Crimes Task Force, fer' Chrissakes. Just put an urgent/special-priority request trace in motion through your chief of police or whatever and— "

  "Will you listen, man? I've already gone that route. I've already banged up against all those walls. Hey. We gotta PC out here with ties to plans at CIA. Big personal pal of the former deputy director, okay? He called himself. They say it's out of their hands. Deleted at the highest levels of government. That's gotta be one of your people or a cabinet secretary, or somebody swimmin' around at the presidential level. I gotta have serious help on this one, Sonny. And I don't wanna say you owe me but You Owe Me."

  "All I can do is check it out, Jack. What's your number?" Twenty-five minutes later Colonel Sonny Shoenburgen was on the line telling him the same crap he already knew.

  "Jack, your partial print check was run through McTuff, and NCIC, all the usual, and it got kicked out. Printout flags an official deletion and nobody can go behind that. Someone very senior has put the identity of the subject under a tight national security lid. Best I could do was run it back to the input point which appears to have been Fort Meade, but there's nothing more I can do on it, pard."

  "Bullshit Sonny. I gotta have it. This guy is ripping the hearts outta people, goddammit, I need you on this, man. You have to fucking help me!" Eichord was yelling into the telephone.

  "Well. Shit. What can I say, Jack?" A pause and he says, "I know a guy. I can't promise anything."

  "That's not what I said to you, man, once upon a time. I don't like saying this, but dammit when you needed me, I was there for you and now I could have found out this much on my own, and I need to know who this fucker is, Sonny—and I need to know bad . . . please."

  "I'll call you back," he replied, with an audible sigh.

  "When?"

  "As soon as I fucking can, all right?" Sonny promised, somewhat pissed, and hung up the phone—not too gently.

  A minute became an hour. Eichord, way, way beyond having any reluctance to push this one regardless of how badly it maxed out the colonel, called Sonny. Colonel Schoenburgen was on another line and would Mr. Eichord like to wait? Why the hell not? Five minutes and he's getting really steamed and he hangs up. Nervously, he's trying to figure what to do next. Two minutes later his line rings.

  "Eichord."

  "Okay," Sonny told him, "I had to call a big fucking favor for this, so don't do anything like this to me again, Ever, I mean this is Payback—in spades. You roger that?"

  "Affirm. Whatcha got?" Eichord asked eagerly.

  "I got a deletion for maximum national security reasons, which we knew. Military intelligence at the highest levels. It was part of a sanitization program that swept a lot of the dirty files clean at the time of the big shake-up over at the Company.

  "From what I can gather this was a joint thing between Clandestine Services and the military people. Something that was in place right before the

  Phoenix Program. Not domestic, best I can make out. I'm going to give you a telephone number to call. Now listen to me, Jack old buddy ole' palsy-walsy, man—no follow-ups. None. I had to pay some fucking long coin of my own to get this son of a buck to hold still for it. I explained the subject is some nut who committed every murder back to the Kennedy assassination, so it's up to you now.

  "He'll give you about two minutes on the phone so don't expect more and don't call me back because I won't be here anymore for you. Understand? That's it for me—even steven, agreed?"

  "Gotcha. What's the guy's name and who is he?"

  "Negative. You just call the number and ask him what you want to know. Don't fuck around with him. He'll hang up and that'll be it. I've given it my best shot." He told Eichord the number, which happened to be a Virginia pay phone, wished him a cool good luck, and clicked off.

  "Yep," a gruff voice barked on the first ring.

  "My name is Ja—"

  "I know who you are, Mr. Eichord, I ran my own check," he said talking very fast, slurring his words slightly. "And as it happens I also know about the Kasikoff case. The man you're looking for is—and get something to write with now, although I assume you have a tape rolling too, is—I'll spell this name, B-U-N-K-O-W-S-K-I. Bunkowski, Daniel Edward Flowers and he's killed a lot of people. I assume he's still at it, right?"

  "Right. What's the story on him and why was his identity deleted?"

  "Can't tell you that. He was part of a program that was run back when we were experimenting with the use of mercenaries and such over in Southeast Asia, and this the early sixties, back before we got completely involved in the war. Around sixty-four, something like
that, he came into the program, which was disabled after a very brief period.

  "Deleting his identity was the right thing to do, the mistake was to have those blood groups and prints in the computers, but those things sometimes happen. I'm telexing you his dossier as it applies in your case, and sending the official photograph of Bunkowski down the fine to you as well. Don't bother trying to reach me again here or through Sonny Schoenburgen because he will not be able to contact me again. This bridge is burned—no matter what."

  "Hold it, mister. This Bunkowski may have killed dozens of innocent people and the entire city is about to be thrown into a grab-ass panic the likes of which you've never seen. So let's cut out all the national security bullshit for a goddamn second and give me some real cooperation here. I need anything at all that might give us some perspective on the man. I mean . . . what makes him kill? How does he know to pick certain victims? Who taught him to kill so well? What are his weak points? How is he vulnerable? How can we catch him? I need to know how—"

  "What makes him kill? He likes it. Who taught him to kill? We sure as hell didn't. He was self-taught. What are his weak points? Well, he weighs about 450 pounds, Mr. Eichord, so if you wait long enough he'll probably eat himself to death. Dossier's on the way. Good-bye, Mr. Eichord."

  The machine rumbled inside, printing hundreds of thousands of impulse dots, and he waited for it to give him an electronic facsimile of a face. And he took it from the machine when it was through and saw, for the first time, the face of the beast.

  Below

  The smell in the trap was the smell of excrement multiplied by what? A million? Ten thousand? Was there an olfactory scale for shit stink? Was this 147.2 on the shit scale, 139,000 stink power? It was almost more than he could take and he could take anything. And so he uncapped the quart of bourbon and took a mouthful and swallowed it, loathing the taste and gagging nausea as he swallowed but welcoming the deadening of the sensory organs and the blocking of the afferent nerve impulses.