by Mike McKay
Chapter 9
The deputy in-charge of South Mesa Slum was a Norwamerican named Lisbet, or in already Americanized style, Liz Holstad. Quite unusual to see a woman in the Beat Deputy role, but Liz herself was rather an unusual woman. With his above-average height, Mark was shorter than her by good two inches. Liz had a hobby of collecting black belts – in all kinds of Asian martial arts practiced around Houston.
Despite presence of paved roads, the dwellings both sides of Mesa Drive were a slum not a bit less than GRS. Prior to the Meltdown, only Mexamericans or low-income Caucasians lived here: with the McCarty Road Landfill next door, the area was not prestigious. The older houses were wooden one-story, – the type carried partially assembled on a semi-trailer and mounted over concrete posts. Since the Meltdown, ugly sheds and shacks filled all the gaps between the original structures. Population density became enormous: hardly three thousand before the Meltdown, now the slum had at least twenty thousand inhabitants. Sewage systems here died ten years ago, so the residents converted storm drains into open sewers. The resulting stench was as bad as the appearance. The soil on the former lawns, drenched with spent oil and compacted to a concrete-like hardness, supported no vegetation, save for few patches of withered grass.
“How do you like our beautiful neighborhood?” Liz inquired, browsing through the address list, “Ah! If no objections, – we start at number five. A very interesting family! I have to check on them, anyhow.”
She perched on her bike, Mark followed. Less than half a mile away, they dismounted in front of a one-story house. The house pediment looked like brick, but closer examination revealed a chipboard wall, covered on the outside with brick-textured decorative panels. Ramshackle sheds supported the house from both sides. Along the gutter-sewer, rusted hulls of partially disassembled cars piled up, in which two dozen barefooted and semi-naked toddlers played under a watch of several poorly dressed women.
“I hope, the girls are not asleep yet.” Liz banged her man-like fist on the flimsy door. “Open up! Police!” She knocked a couple more times before the door opened. A middle-aged Caucasian woman, wrapped in a tattered blanket, stood at the dark entrance. Apparently, under the blanket she was naked.
“Oh, it's you, Lizzie,” the woman yawned, “you have nothing to do but wake us up every other day? Want to scan our licenses again?”
“A standard procedure, my dear. You were late with payments last week, remember?” From her belt holster, Liz pulled an RFID scanner. Since the SSP laws in Texas, the Police got these tools from the Animal Control, along with the remaining stock of pet RFID tags, now used in licensed prostitutes.
“OK, fine,” the woman turned her left shoulder towards the officer.
The scanner emitted a barely audible beep. Liz checked the screen and nodded. “Well done, darling. All paid.”
“Can I go sleep now?” The woman reached over to close the door, but Liz put her boot at the threshold.
“Not so fast. Call the girls too. I have something else for you. This officer with me – is from the FBI.”
Mark produced his badge.
“What: now the FBI is after us? We're all legal, no probs! Our licenses are paid, medicals done, and we don't push no drugs. If you're after my Betsy – what can I do? We're a family business! She is fourteen in November, I buy her a license, and everything will be proper.”
“Take it easy,” Liz said. “Special Agent asks you few questions, that's all. The faster you call the girls, the faster we will be gone.”
“Freaking nice… Please come in. Make yourself at home,” she pointed to a sofa in the smallish sitting room and shuffled down the dark corridor.
“Did I promise you fun?” Liz whispered to Mark, “The house is a well-known brothel. A family business! The mother, they call her Maman, and three daughters – are licensed hookers. The youngest is still underage and waiting for the fourteenth birthday, so Maman can buy her a registration chip. What a wonderful birthday present!”
The house inhabitants appeared in the doorway. Maman was still wrapped in the blanket, only adding a pair of bushed slippers. Two girls wore torn nightgowns. One gown had no right strap, proudly exposing a well-formed breast. The clothing of the third girl consisted of extra-short Denim cut-offs, while the fourth was wearing a bath towel – over her shoulder.
Liz repeated the scanning procedure and holstered the scanner, satisfied. “Thank you for paying your professional fees on schedule!”
“Now ask your questions, Mister Special Agent,” Maman generously allowed, sinking into a chair.
Three girls sat on a threadbare carpet, while Betsy, the girl in shorts, propped herself in the door opening, gracefully toeing the frame. Mark heard of families, where parents sold child sex, but in his line of work he did not deal with such stuff too often. It took him few seconds to compose himself, then, he pulled out the victims' photographs and handed to Maman.
“Nope. First time I see them,” she said, briefly glancing at the faces, and passed the photos to her daughters.
The girls scrutinized the pictures a little longer. The Nick Hobson's was discarded with no comments, but upon the look on the female victim the girl with a torn gown strap said, “I think I saw this slit-eye somewhere. Don't ask the name – I have no bloody idea. But I'm pretty sure she works other side of Mesa. Are you a real FBI or from Sex Trade Control?”
“The girl. Do you know who is pimping her out?” Mark asked.
“Nope. We're licensed and work from home. We don't mess with those slits. No gain, just bloody trouble…”
Ten minutes later, Liz and Mark stood at the gates of a workshop, sandwiched between two dilapidated houses. As in the previous place, rusty car frames stretched along the street. Instead of a playground, these vehicles served for a residence: in each of six broken vans lived a family. Due to the absence of better spot, their kids played right in the sewer.
“Knock, knock! Anybody home?” Liz shouted.
A man of thirty-five, in a grease-smeared coverall and tire sandals, appeared from the gates and scrutinized the bikes, “Wanna fix, Deputy? We have a discount for law-enforcing agencies!”
“No, the bikes are all-right,” Liz said apologetically. “Are you Mike Hobson? Like in Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?”
“Sure I am, ma'am,” the man nodded, now looking at the bikes with regret. From the depths of the backyard, the rest of workshop personnel emerged: a man in his early twenties, also in a dirty coverall, but with no sandals, and two teenagers, just in shorts and extensively smeared with grease. Mark flashed his badge and pulled out the same photos.
One teen tried to reach for the photo, but the young man slapped the boy's hand, “Where are you going, greasy fingers? Look, don't touch.”
“Sorry, officers, can't help,” the workshop owner shrugged. “But if you need something welded – come only here! Ask anyone: Mike Hobson has the best arc welding this side of the 'Fill. Our generator always starts, and we never short of gas, unlike the competition. Oh, did I tell you the Police has a discount?”
“Not much for two addresses,” Liz said after they left the workshop.
“It's only in TV re-runs the FBI looks so cool,” Mark said. “Car chasing and gun fights! But in reality – the job is like this. Tons and tons of legwork, but not much excitement.”
“Well, we don't chase cars now – that's for sure! When did you join the FBI?”
“Since 2006.”
“Did you fire weapons often back then?”
“Once a week. Sometimes – every other day.”
“Really? The Police service was probably much more dangerous than now…”
“Oh, it's not what I mean! We only shot at the firing range. Back then, FBI agents had to practice with handguns at least once a week. After the Meltdown, our big bosses decided we need to save ammo, so the firearms' practice was reduced to once per year. And then: sorry, no
more. Now I clean my gun: the poor thing is twenty-three years old. She fired her last round nine years ago. If I need to use her, she may even blow the barrel…”
“The same story here. Last November, I tried to fire my TASER. All by the rules, shouted: on the ground, or I tase you! No reaction, so here we go. I press the trigger. Pop! The electrode comes out, slo-o-owly… And falls under my feet! Good, I didn't step on it, or it would electrocute me… So I threw the damn TASER away and used my baton.”
“I'm sure you managed with flying colors,” Mark smiled, admiring the policewoman's upper arm.
“What else could I do? Oh, we have arrived. Address number six from your list!”
This family rented a shed, but neither the Hobsons nor their landlords were at home. The street was unusually deserted, save for a bunch of toddlers playing in the road dust at the intersection, and a paraplegic vet in a wheelchair watching them from the shade. Just in case, Mark presented the photos to the vet, but he only shook his head.
At the number four, nobody was home too. A little soap factory next door emanated its aroma all over the street. A fat woman in rubberized apron, constantly stirring an evaporation tank, examined the photos and said: “No, definitely not the neighbor. She is an Asian type, Vietnamerican, I think, but nothing like the lady on your photo. About thirty, a single mom with two kids. Her husband was killed in action. In Libya… or in Saudi, not sure…”
They finally hit paydirt at address number seven. A hangar stood thirty yards from the former storm water reservoir, now half-filled with nauseating black sewage. Upon the corrugated iron, a proud inscription read: SIMPSON & KAUFMAN. Sewage Removal, Fuel, Fertilizers.
Mark checked his phone. “AFCO database has an industrial building address for a family. Strange, isn't it?”
“Not too strange,” Liz said. “This particular enterprise – is special. Once you become a sewer man, – you're like a leper! Very few landlords want you for a tenant, so most workers end up living in here, next to their beloved shit…”
One of the two intrepid entrepreneurs, Mr. Kaufman, met Mark and Liz at the door of his office container.
“Jeremy Hobson? Yes, it's a whole-family contract. Also, his wife, and two maggots – whatever the hell their names are. Want to see them? Only – please kindly watch under your feet. The stuff we've got here – you know…” He sat down on a bench next to the container door, kicked off his tire flip-flops and inserted feet into high rubber boots.
“The stuff is too dense, so the sewers don't flow by themselves,” Mr. Kaufman explained the manufacturing process. “We send scoopers to collect the crude and deliver it here.”
“Scoopers?” Mark asked.
“That's how we call 'em here. A barrel on wheels, and a scoop. It's a big business! Some days, we have twenty-two crews working! They also can empty your backyard latrine, of course, for a moderate fee. How much crude do we collect every day? Seven hundred cubic feet! We treat it here and convert into fertilizer. Works marvels for plants! Perfectly harmless, – whatever paranoids say! Last year, we started another product line: fuel bricks. Did you know our processed dung burns better than coal?”
“Yes, I've seen these around,” Mark nodded without much enthusiasm. He remembered the barefoot cobbler family in GRS. Clarice had tried the novelty fuel bricks once, but decided not to use them again. Despite being significantly cheaper than firewood or coal, the Simpson and Kaufman production generated suffocating smoke, and did not burn as long. The fertilizers were marvelous for plants, but not always good for humans. Horror stories circulated how entire families got very ill or even died after using such ‘perfectly harmless’ inventions.
“Let see if Hobsons are back,” Mr. Kaufman looked around the busy yard, “oh, you're in luck!” He pointed to a refuse barrel and screamed, “Hey, Jeremy! This is after your ass. From the FBI!”
A man of thirty put aside his scoop on long wooden handle, removed his gloves and approached Mark and Liz. The other three family members followed: a short woman and two girls, about the age of Mark's Pamela and Patrick. Mister Hobson was in rubber boots and Army pants, and with a heavy apron over his naked torso. The woman and both girls worked in regular tire flip-flops. The girls' clothes, feet, hands, and even hair – were smeared with black refuse. No wonder local landlords were not too keen having these scoopers for tenants!
Mark pulled his badge. “Your daughters are not in school, Mister Hobson.”
“Which one may accept scoopers' kids, anyway? As soon as the teachers learn what me wife and me self do for living, they say: sorry, no vacancy…”
“OK, never mind. It was an off-topic question: I'm not from Child Labor Control. Could you look these two photos for me?”
“No probs, sir. No, I haven't seen 'em before. Why, sir, you ask just me self and not the others?”
“We are checking everybody with surname Hobson. This man on the photo…”
“Wait… Mister Kaufman, sir! Could you come here, please?”
“Yes, Mister Hobson?”
“Remember, a week and a half ago, you asked me if any relatives in Houston?”
“Why I asked? A young man came to my office, looking for a job. His last name was Hobson! The given name?” He rubbed his forehead, “Nick, he said, if I remember it right. I thought, is he a relative to our Jeremy? May I look at your pictures?”
He scrutinized the pictures and tapped his fat finger at Nick Hobson's photo. “That's him, exactly. I said: do you understand what kind of work we do here? He said: I can do anything. Anything? Good man! We talked the pay. He agreed to our conditions. I said, no problem, we'll prepare a contract, you may sign and start from Monday. Only: you should buy yourself a pair of rubber boots. The stuff we've got here – you know… We have occupational safety regulations! Personal protective equipment and such. Boots are mandatory.”
“Really mandatory?” Mark asked. Just few seconds ago, a team of teenage ‘maggots’ passed behind Mr. Kaufman's back pushing a cart full with manure. Out of six boys, only two were shod, and not in the mandatory rubber boots either, but in the common tire sandals.
Mr. Kaufman glanced at the flip-flops of Mrs. Hobson and her daughters and corrected his statement: “You may work in sandals too, but need to be careful… Anyway, that Nick Hobson… As I told him about the boots, he said: sorry, I forgot to inform you. I have – a prosthetic leg. So I said: why do you waste my time, young man? We have tried hiring vets before. Nothing but trouble, no good. You may slip, and whack! Head-first into crude, and the end of you as we know it. And I will get all the trouble, yes? I am really sorry, I said, but I can't employ a vet. He quickly said goodbye and left. Well, it's for his own good. The stuff we've got here…”
“When was this exactly, do you remember?”
“Just a moment…” He scratched his nose. “The sixteenth! Tuesday. On Monday, I take a day off – for Sunday. We work seven days a week! Yes, it was positively on Tuesday. Around noon. Eleven or eleven-thirty…”
“Two achievements,” Mark commented after they said goodbye to the scoopers. “One, we learned that the male victim was looking for a job only ten days ago, or seven days before the murder. He was ready to accept anything, even work at a sewage plant. Taken together, this makes me conclude Nick Hobson came to Houston very recently – less than a month, I'd say. Two, the hookers told us the female victim may be an illegal SSP, working this side of Mesa Drive. But the latter – still pure probability, not a fact.”
“I can't believe we've done so little for a half-day of work!”
“Better than nothing, Liz. I can follow these leads after lunch…”
The idea of following the leads was just a wishful thinking. After having a quick sandwich at a food stall, Mark rode to the Station and spent the next three hours putting his paperwork in order. These activities always took twice as long as anticipated. At three,
they had a bi-weekly teleconference with the FBI Headquarters in Washington.
Back in 2020, having a chain of five dual murders, the FBI would parachute in a team of ‘alan-pinkertons’ to take care of all the legwork instead (but under direct supervision) of Mark. If no results in four weeks, the Bureau would deploy their on-duty gang of sherlock-holmes and doctor-watsons to do lateral thinking for you, plus a team of rambos – to apprehend the serial killer. Now, in 2030, all the Headquarters could offer was good advice over the video link. Washington did not run out of those pinkertons and rambos, but delivering them to the place of action became prohibitively expensive.
The teleconf went in its usual business-like manner. Mark and Alan presented the latest findings, the HQ experts gave their, quite irrelevant, opinions. The main discussion rotated around the female vic identification. Washington pointed out that even if the girl's name was discovered, it would probably add very little to the perpetrator's identity. The standard problem in such serial killer cases: the victims had no connection to the killer whatsoever, and were killed simply being in wrong place at wrong time. Despite having the killer's vague description from Joe Heller, the detectives had no other leads. At least, looking for the girl would give them something to do… Until the Butcher strikes again.
Suddenly, one man at Washington end raised his hand. Mark did not see him before this teleconference and assumed he was a supervisor, which just dropped in to kill his HQ boredom.
“Mister Pendergrass,” the man said, looking away from the screen in strange reptilian fashion, “perhaps, you have been assigned to this case for too long.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Mark replied. For too long, my ass! Twenty years ago, no agent would work on a serial killer case for more than six months, maximum a year. The FBI tried to preserve agents' mental health. Now, Mark had been working this case for twenty-two exhausting months! Nobody gave a damn about his mental health, there were not enough agents around.
“I read the reports, Special Agent-In-Charge,” the man said, “two years is enough. We need to relieve you.”
“Do you propose to send another agent in? To help Agent Pendergrass?” Benito asked.
“That's a ‘maybe’, Major. For starters, we can put the case under the Harris County Police jurisdiction.”
“With all due respect, sir, how is this going to help the investigation?” the Station Chief exploded. “I don't need to inform you how thin we are stretched here.”
“It may not help the investigation, but may help the FBI budget. I doubt the FBI needs a permanent agent in those two districts, anyway.”
“Does it mean I'm dismissed?” Mark asked.
“Not yet, Special Agent. Not yet. But you'd better speed up the motions.”
“We are doing everything we can…” Benito started.
The man lifted his palm off the table. “Stop it, Major. Apparently, not everything. What about volunteers?”
On the teleconference screen, one of the Washington experts raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, indicating to Houston participants he strongly disagreed, but was too afraid to voice his opinion.
“But, sir…” Alan said.
“No ‘buts,’ gentlemen. I put it in simple terms for you. Two calendar years from the case number one, or the next Butcher's strike, whichever comes first. After that – the HQ will make tough decisions. Show us some action, Mister Pendergrass…” – and the screen went blank.
“Who the hell is this asshole?” Alan inquired.
“No idea. He didn't introduce himself. Probably he thinks he's such a big shot everybody must recognize him instantly. Do you know him, Mark?” Ben said.
“No,” Mark said. “He's from the new-generation Washington clowns. Got into the HQ without being a field agent for a single bloody day! Do you have a deputy position for me, Ben? I can be a clerk too. Or even a janitor.”
“Don't you freaking joke like this, dude!”
“So, what do we do? Call the volunteers and show some action?” Alan asked.
“You know better than me, Alan. It's no good,” Ben said.
No good, Mark thought: what do I do if they kick me out of the FBI? Should I open a carpenter shop in my garage? Hey, I enjoyed working with wood and made stools and shelves for neighbors! But the income would be a fraction of what he made as an FBI agent…
“All-right, gents,” Mark said with resolution of a nearly-dead man, “Let's go back to work.”
