The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  So some corporate jerkoff sues a different corporate jerkoff who yells at his secretary, and she gives the guy at the Starbucks counter a hard time, and he goes out after work and gets drunk and punches me in the nose.

  And I don’t hate the guy that punched me. He’s just a conduit that anger flows through. No, I savor that anger. I add it to all the rage inside me, and let it build. Let the pressure change it into hate. And when that hate has coalesced into a hard little bullet, I go out looking for a corporate jerk off… and I give it back to him.

  Because it’s really his in the first place, isn’t it?

  Jack had converted the basement of the bungalow into his interrogation room, using plywood, foam insulation and sheets of black polyurethane to turn it into a sealed, soundproof cube. Nikki rarely went down there, but now she stood at the base of the stairs, in front of the locked door.

  Jack was upstairs, reviewing Djinn-X’s files. Usually at this point in the process, Nikki would be doing verification—checking dump sites or the killer’s house for evidence. Jack wouldn’t send her out until he was sure his subject wasn’t trying to set a trap or simply stalling for time.

  This time, though, was different—Jack was doing all the checking via computer. But that wasn’t the only thing.

  She unlocked the door and opened it.

  Djinn-X was chained, naked, to a chrome-frame kitchen chair Jack had bolted to the floor. His wrists were manacled to a chain around his waist, his ankles to the chair itself. A child’s rubber ball with a rope punched through its middle functioned as a gag. The only light came from the open door; Djinn-X’s head jerked up as Nikki entered, his lidless eyes twitching as he tried to blink. Dried blood streaked his face like rust-colored mascara. He grunted frantically.

  Nikki stepped inside. She turned on the lamp on the small table, then shut the door.

  “So,” she said. “You kill boomers. That’s fucked up, you know?”

  She sat down in the chair the Closer usually occupied.

  “I mean, much as I hate the assholes we usually burn, at least I understand them. They get off on hurting women, it’s that simple. Most people like it a little rough now and then, but these guys are wired wrong—they have to take it too far. That’s sick, but I get it. You, though—you kill people because they’re a certain age? Maybe you’re just nuts….”

  “Nnnn! Nnnn!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like I want to hear some fucked-up explanation about how aliens or Satan or your dead grandmother told you to do it. I don’t really care, okay? You did it, you told Jack where and how and when, and once we check a few things we’ll put you out of your fucking misery.”

  His eyes were two bloodshot, quivering orbs. She looked away, then fumbled at her purse.

  “All right, all right, just a second… here.” She pulled a bottle of Visine out of her purse.

  “Tilt your head back …okay.” She put a few drops into each of his eyes. He grunted gratefully.

  “Look, I want to ask you something,” Nikki said. “I’m not as good at that as Jack, but if you give me a straight answer, maybe I can do something for you. Send a last message to someone, maybe. Interested?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, like you’d say no. You better not lie to me, motherfucker.” She stood up, walked behind him and undid the gag.

  He spat out the ball. “What if I do?” Djinn-X said. “What are you gonna do—hurt me?”

  “I won’t do a thing. I’ll just tell Jack.”

  He gave a weak little snort. “I don’t think so. Only reason you’re asking me and not him is you don’t want him to know. And I don’t know if I can betray my old buddy Jack like that….”

  He started laughing, a choking, high-pitched kind of laughter on the edge of tears. It took all Nikki’s self- control not to scream at him to shut up.

  After a minute he wound down to little gasps. “Sorry. Sorry,” he managed. “Go ahead. Ask your question.”

  She stared at him for a second. “When Jack was… interrogating you. How was it affecting him?”

  He met her gaze unflinchingly. A grin slowly surfaced on his face. “I see. What you really mean is, did he like it?”

  Nikki studied him impassively. She said nothing.

  “You need to know just how far gone he is, don’t you? Whether or not you can still trust him. Man-oh- man. I can see how that might be kinda important to you….”

  “Don’t fuck with me—”

  “’Cause what if he turns out to be one of the bad guys, right? Maybe he’s ‘wired wrong’ too? Or maybe its just that all men are like that, deep down. Maybe you’ll wake up one night and find out you can’t move your arms or legs and there’s a bright light in your eyes and now it’s your turn to answer questions—”

  “I said don’t fuck with me!” She slapped him across the face, hard. He gave a loud whoop and started laughing, harder than before. She glared at him, then reached over and picked up a ball-peen hammer from Jack’s table of instruments.

  She smashed it into his knee, hard. His laugh turned into a scream.

  Her head was pounding. Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped the hammer. She leaned against the wall dizzily, afraid she might pass out.

  Djinn-X sobbed in pain. Nikki took deep breaths and tried to get herself under control.

  “Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Djinn-X managed.

  “Shut up.”

  “I could tell you what you’re afraid to hear. I could tell you that he loves it, that he had a huge hard-on the whole time he was pulling my eyelids off. I could tell you that and you’d believe it… but I’m not going to. Fuck, that hurts.”

  Djinn-X took a long, shaky breath. “The truth is— it’s killing him.”

  Nikki closed her eyes. She focused on two things: Djinn-X’s voice, and what her gut told her about what he was saying.

  “He’s empty inside, girl. All the torture, all the terrible things he does—that’s just his fucking job. It doesn’t bother him at all. He’s like somebody running a concentration camp—here comes another truckload of victims, into the gas chamber, is it time for a coffee break yet? People can get used to anything—after a while, even torture is routine. Fuck, I swear I caught him yawning once.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “But even Nazis have lives, right? Hobbies. Families. But not the Closer… this is all he’s got, isn’t it? All he does, all he is. That’s how he caught me, how he caught all of us. He’s pure fucking predator.”

  “He’s a man—”

  “He’s a cannibal. He’s eating his own because there’s a big black void inside him he’s trying to fill and never will. Sooner or later he’s going to figure that out, and then he’s going to implode. And you’re gonna be standing right at ground zero, sweetheart.”

  “Maybe,” Nikki said. “But at least I’ll be standing. You’re never getting up from that chair.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Now, while we’re both being so fucking honest, are you gonna deliver my last message or not?”

  “Tell me.”

  She listened to what he had to say. She thought about it for a long, silent moment.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “If that’s what you really want.”

  On the table beside the Closer’s instruments, a pen lay on top of a yellow legal pad. Nikki glanced down at Jack’s notes. They were in his usual neat handwriting, but there was something different at the bottom of the page.

  It was a doodle. A martini glass, with an eyeball instead of an olive, skewered on a little sword. There was something shriveled and reddish brown stuck to the drawing, positioned along the top of the eyeball.

  Something with black, curly eyelashes jutting up from it…

  A Guide to Tracking and Killing the Hippie in His Natural Habitat

  By Djinn-X, Esquire

  Ah, the wily Hippie! Where once teeming herds thundered majestically across our fruited plains, their locks flowing freely in the patchouli-scented
air, there is now a landscape littered with strip malls and skinheads. The Hippie is now only found in isolated game reserves in Oregon and California, where it is protected by local zoning ordinances.

  Fortunately, there is still a way to obtain the magnificent tie-dyed pelt of one of these creatures. Many species of Hippie are migratory, and often congregate in large groups called Festivals. By studying the location and frequency of these Festivals, a hunter can easily find a large herd that will stay in one place for an entire weekend.

  A) SPECIES

  The Hippie is, by and large, a peaceful herbivore. Their senses are usually dulled by the consumption of marijuana, and the fiery political convictions of their youth invariably dim into a pacifist, nonconfrontational acceptance of the universe. Most species are more to be pitied than feared, with several notable exceptions:

  1. The Junkie. Any Hippie who wasn’t killed off by the eighties or his own addictions is dangerous indeed. Subgroups include the Speed-Freak, the Cokehead and the Acid-Casualty. The first two tend to be aggressive and violent, while the last is unpredictable in the extreme. Cross-breeding between these species and Bikers are commonplace. While their position outside the mainstream of society can make them seem an attractive target, their paranoia and tendency to own guns makes them tricky to bag safely.

  2. The Back-to-Earther. Often similar in appearance to Bikers, this species favors rawhide over leather and tends to be tough and self-reliant. They live in the wild, and usually shun civilization. Some band together in tribes known as Communes. Years of hard physical labor make them physically strong, and some even shun drugs. This species has sharp instincts, and are hard to fool. Fortunately, many remain deliberately ignorant of advances in technology, which can be used to your advantage.

  3. The Vietnam Vet. Many of these turned Hippie after their military service. Potentially mean, weapons-proficient and savvy, their mental and emotional instability can produce nasty surprises.

  However, the mortality rate among Junkies and the antisocial nature of Back-to-Earthers mean you’re unlikely to run into either unless you deliberately seek them out. Likewise, the number of Vietnam vets turned Hippie continue to shrink every year (and as a rarer breed, some consider them more valuable).

  More common types (and much easier to take down) are:

  4. The Deadhead. Even though Jerry Garcia’s heart exploded, this species is still widespread. They can be readily found at Rainbow Gatherings and Phish concerts.

  5. The Flower Child. Usually attracted by the lifestyle or the philosophy, many young women turn Hippie every year. While this is good news for the overall health of the herd, many consider these to be mere imitators and not true Hippies at all. Still, there’s nothing like the sight of a long-haired, eighteen-year-old Hippie chick, stoned out of her mind and dancing naked around a campfire. Until, of course, you hang her with her own intestines.

  6. The New Ager. Despite their claim to be something “new,” they dress like Hippies, they act like Hippies and they smell like Hippies—although they lean more toward incense and sage than B.O. New Agers embody the flakiest “spiritual” ideas of the Hippies, which can range from reincarnation to alien abductions. Naïve and gullible, they’re among the easiest to isolate and kill.

  B) TRAPS AND LURES

  As in hunting most game, one of the paramount principles is to lure the prey into a controlled environment to minimize the chance of interruption and maximize a leisurely enjoyment of the kill—both before and after the fact. The Hippie mindset and the terrain they choose to occupy are, fortunately, ideal for this.

  The simplest and surest incentive is drugs. Few true Hippies can resist the call of the little plastic Baggie, and it offers the perfect excuse to get your prey alone. Pot is easy to obtain, even if you have little or no street experience, and you don’t even have to smoke yourself—with a little practice it’s easy to feign taking a puff from a pipe or doobie, and after a few hits it’s unlikely your target will notice anyway.

  The method of ingestion makes it hard to effectively add a knockout drug to marijuana, but it is useful as a “gateway” drug—one of the common side-effects is dry mouth, and a casually offered bottle of water will rarely be turned down or questioned. Always make sure you familiarize yourself with side-effects and onset times before using chemical methods, though—nothing can ruin a good time like the prey wandering back to the party and then passing out, or worse, choking on their own vomit while you’re in the bathroom.

  If you feel uncomfortable using drugs as bait, there’s always protective coloration. A wig, a beard, some sunglasses and a tie-dyed T-shirt— not only will you fit in, you’ve got a handy disguise as well.

  Then, of course, there’s always sex—but be careful. Hippies are promiscuous and notoriously lax about hygiene. No prey is worth getting a disease over.

  Probably the best lure to use on a Hippie is their own psychology. Remember, Hippies want to Make the World a Better Place; if you tell them you need help, you’ll probably get it. Ted Bundy got a lot of mileage out of the old fake arm-in-a-cast bit, and I’m sure it’d still work on any Hippie today. However, be wary of getting too much help—Hippies tend to live and travel in groups, so it’s essential to cut one out of the herd before going after it.

  As far as traps go, think mobile. Hippies made the van popular, so it’s fitting it gets used against them. As long as you’re meticulous about cleanup, a van makes the perfect Killing Floor on wheels, letting you go where the action is and then move to a more secluded location. Hippies are also one of the few groups stupid enough to still hitchhike, so you never can tell when an opportunity might come up. Afterward, body disposal is as easy as taking a drive in the countryside.

  If you’re worried about being pulled over and searched, or having that old assault charge come up when the cops run your license plate, you might want to consider a tent. Hippies love the great outdoors, and placing your camp a five-minute hike away from an outdoor festival can ensure you plenty of prey to pick from and all the privacy you need. Cleanup is also simplified—the entire crime scene can be bundled up and disposed of. Ah, there’s nothing like the smell of fresh blood and pine needles!

  There was more, much more. Jack shook his head and got up to get more coffee.

  Djinn-X had contributed a lot to the Stalking Ground—weapons lists, methods of body disposal, even historical research on other killers—but he devoted the most space to essays. Topics ranged from the ethics of killing children to the pros and cons of matricide. While the essays were the least useful in terms of hard data, Jack read them all first. They were good for learning Djinn-X’s politics, his prejudices, his sense of humor. Even hints of his history came out—his father’s army career, places he lived in as a boy. By the time Jack read the last of them, he thought he knew his subject—no, his “prey”—quite well.

  Jack leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed his temples. The laptop sat on the table in a pool of light thrown off by a desk lamp, but the rest of the room was dark. He hadn’t slept in over thirty hours; once he started an interrogation, he didn’t quit until he was done. This was by far the most information he’d had to digest, though, even more than the oil-rig worker in Calgary had given up—he’d babbled non-stop until his voice was no more than a croak, realizing that when he stopped talking he stopped living. When all he had left to offer was whispered gibberish, Jack cut his throat.

  But even then, all Jack had to do was verify a few key facts, and turn the rest over to the police. Djinn-X’s information had to be understood… absorbed. He’d never had to do that before.

  It was easier than he’d expected.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat back down. Normally Jack took cream and sugar, but now he was drinking it black—Djinn-X’s preference.

  He took a long, bitter sip, then closed his eyes. Thought about a generation stealing his birthright. Thought about his bastard of a father. Thought about a lifetime filled with frustration and dis
appointment and rage.

  He opened his eyes. Reached out and tapped a key.

  A menu scrolled down: KILLS.

  “All right,” Jack whispered. “Let’s fucking rock….”

  KILL #1: Let’s Make a Deal

  “Ah, I see you’re looking at the Lexus. Sweet ride.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Kinda pricey, though.”

  “Sticker shock, huh? Well, that’s just a starting point. Actually, I was just coming out here to mark this puppy down. Here—that seem a little more reasonable?”

  “Well, yeah—”

  “Whoops! Made a mistake. Actually, this should be a seven. Better?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get in, see how it feels. Check out the stereo. Nice sound, huh? Kleghoffer speakers. CD player, even satellite radio—why listen to all that drivetime crap, right? Pick a station that gives you what you want and listen to that. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure, of course. Here, take the keys, start it up. Vortech engine. Sounds good, but it drives like a fish and couldn’t pass a tricycle—ha, ha, just kidding. There’s only one way to see how she performs, and that’s to take her for a spin. C’mon, just around the block.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Great! Just turn left, that’ll take us toward the freeway—may as well open her up, right? Don’t worry, the gas is on us, ha ha. Listen, I can really offer you a great deal on this car. Don’t be fooled by the price, it’s actually a lot cheaper than you think. Our financing department can work with anyone, any situation. They can have you cruising around in this for what you spend on lattes. And a car like this, it’s actually an investment, right? It’s an investment in your image, in your lifestyle. Just hang a right up here.”

  “I’m a little lost now.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands—what am I gonna do, kill you? Ha ha. This road’s in terrible condition, which is why I always take people up here. See, with the suspension system this car has, you hardly feel a bump. It’s got Positrack stabilizers, complete BS frame, and Thisisallcrap struts.”