by Mike McKay
Chapter 11
The Beat door was unlocked, as promised. Mark stepped through the door and whistled in disbelieve. The tile floor, which was covered with usual grime during his last visit, was now perfectly shiny. The deputies' desks looked somewhat neater. A low coffee table was set against the wall, and the former pile of dog-eared reports had migrated to it from the desks. A standard-issue Police tablet, with a USB keyboard and a mouse, had been parked next to the pile.
“May I help you?” A head appeared from behind the desks. “Oh, you must be from the FBI? Kim called about you.”
Mark recognized her instantly. This was the legless vet from the roadside Korean cafe. Now he spotted the same battered skateboard, two wooden blocks, and the red donation bucket – neatly parked under the coffee table. The girl crawled from behind the desks. Instead of the full service uniform she was wearing back at the cafe, today she had dark-blue Navy T-shirt and utility trousers, crudely converted into shorts.
“Yes. Mark Pendergrass,” Mark replied, extending his arm for a shake. “Back at the cafe, we didn't ask your name…”
The girl shook Mark's hand. “My name is Katherine Bowen, sir. Call me Kate.”
“Please drop ‘sir’ and call me Mark.”
“Did I scare you by jumping from under the desk? It wasn't a prank. I was sorting out the mess in the drawers…”
“I just somehow expected to see Deputy Tan here. Kim didn't tell me who would be in-charge of the Beat today.”
“Oh, I'm not in-charge… Just helping out. Kim said, he is back in ten minutes. If you don't mind, have a seat.”
“I guess, the clean floor is your achievement,” Mark said. “This office had not been as neat from the time it was commissioned.”
“Partially. Kim asked if I can help with the paperwork. My part of the deal: do the floors first. At least, now I can move around without getting all sorts of crap on my pants. As for their case reports, amazing how much mess they accumulated.”
“Ah! So Kim invited you to work at the Beat as an unpaid volunteer.”
“More or less.”
Mark smiled. “Back at the cafe, when Kim said: ‘see you around,’ I didn't realize he had such a brilliant idea!”
“Oh, it happened by pure chance,” she smiled back.
“By pure chance? The same as your trip to Sheldon-Res?”
“Nearly so. The same day we met at the Korean place, I was returning home from the Loop. On my skate, and on those dirt paths, it takes a lot of time… Suddenly, Kim overtook me on his bike. He stopped and asked if I wanted a ride home. I did not mind. The skate wheels are too small and no good in the mud. He asked: where do you stay? So I told him: renting a corner, two hundred bucks per week. He said: want to come live with us – for free? His brother married last year and moved out. We can give you an entire sofa, Kim said. And I said: I'm halved; any half of your sofa can do.”
The door opened, and Deputy Kim walked in, breathing heavily from the bike ride. “Mister Pendergrass! Sorry I kept you waiting.”
“I am not in-hurry. Your new girlfriend and I had a nice chat!”
Kim flushed, but said nothing. Behind his back, Kate smiled and nodded.
Mark pulled out the postmortem photo of the female victim. “New developments on the Monday case, Deputy. This lady was an unlicensed prostitute, and Nicholas Hobson, the male vic, was her client for the night. The girl worked around South Mesa Slum, the pimp's name is Joe Vo. We have indications the girl's residence at your beat, Kim, but no exact address. Tons of legwork ahead! See, the vic's first name is Mel, but the surname – we don't know. The CSIs can run a name search, but there will be too many possibilities. Mel may be short of anything: Melissa, Melanie, Melody, Pamela, and so on…”
“Amelia?” Kate waved her hand.
“Well, ‘Amelia’ also fits the bill. Why are you asking?”
“I saw this name and the surname together – on the same piece of paper: Amelia Hobson! Just a second…” From the chair, she reached to the desk and passed Mark a manila folder.
UNSOLVED 2027, Mark read. The report Kate had mentioned was the fourth from the top. A dual rape. The victims: Amelia and Jasmine Hobson.
“Oh shit! It's the place Kim and I visited on Wednesday,” Mark scratched his head. “The hut was empty. We talked to the neighbor, an old military man. To our excuse, we were looking for a male vet, and not for a prostitute… The name is a perfect match. Obviously, it's a bit freaky: the hooker's surname is the same as the male victim's… Still, Natalie said, the DNA profiles are different, so the surnames may be a simple coincidence.”
Kim nodded. “No way they're direct siblings. The female is clearly Asian, and the male – White. They can be step-siblings, and from different parents, but why would a stepbrother go to a pimp and pay to hire his own stepsister for a night?”
“We should revisit the place at once. If it's a dud, we always can come back to the Beat and decide to do something else. But if we are lucky, it saves us many days. Good somebody started doing the Beat paperwork, after all.”
Kim stood up. “OK, let's ride on, sir.”
Kate gave them a mockery salute. “Good luck, gents! Myself, I will lock the Beat and go do some skating. If I fall behind my daily collections, the Salvation Way wrestle my bucket away. Besides, I desperately need a smoke, – and better not here. The smell is no good for the Police reputation.”
“Your To-Ma-Gochi again?”
“No choice, Mark. My legs are killing me. Especially the left foot. A phantom pain. Today is a bit worse than usual. The weather is changing…”
Mark nodded. William also complained about feeling his missing arms once in a while.
After Mark and Kim jumped on the bikes, Mark asked: “Did your Mom give you hard time for bringing a skate-bound legless girl home?”
“As a matter of fact, she did,” Kim flushed once again, “But knowing my Mom, she agreed on Kate staying with us far too easily…”
“Not a bad choice. I like her,” Mark said. “Your Beat is long overdue for the third deputy position. What's the latest estimate for the Slum population – sixteen and a half thousand?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“I can talk to Major Ferelli. No chance the Sheriff's Office agrees to have another deputy in here, – the budgets are bloody tight. But for an assistant position: a civilian, and a vet, – you may get lucky. The pay is a joke, but still more than Kate collects on her Salvation Way program.”
I must talk to Ben today, Mark noted. While I am still in the Bureau, and not an unemployed former Agent-in-Charge.
Soon later, Mark and Kim stood in front of the same little hut of the Hobsons family, still unlocked and deserted. The old man, who was telling them about his military service in Kuwait, sat at the same spot, across the narrow muddy path, which served here instead of a proper street.
“If you don't mind, can we ask you few more questions today?” Kim asked.
“Never mind, never mind, gentlemen. Ask your questions. Fire away. While I was in the Army…”
“Does this girl look like your neighbor from that hut across the street?” Mark pulled out the female victim's photo.
“Just a second, gentlemen,” he searched his pockets and finally shouted into the open door of his own little hut: “Isabella, Isabella, darling, have you seen my reading glasses?”
“My eyes are not as good as they used to be,” he admitted to Mark. A moment later, a mid-aged woman appeared, holding the requested optical instrument. The spectacles lacked both temple tips and had only one, and very thick, lens.
“You're asking the wrong person to check your photograph, officers,” the woman said. “My father's eyesight is not just ‘not as good as it used to be.’ It's more honest to say: ‘non-existent’!”
Kim gave Mark a flabbergasted glance. The last time, they automatically assumed he saw the opposite
side of the narrow path from his permanent observation post! To their excuse, the old man was so locked on his Kuwait military adventures, the short interview back on Wednesday was not too easy.
“Could you check the pictures for us, Madam?” Mark handled the woman the photographs of Nick Hobson and the female victim.
The woman picked the prostitute's photo right away. “This is our Amy all-right, but now she prefers everybody call her Mel. Strange, she is not here today. She is usually at home till about lunch time. A night shift, she says. Hence you've asked… I have not seen her lately! Now, you made me wonder… The other three: the second girl, Jass, and two boys – they leave at sunrise and come home after dark. But – I have not seen light in their hut either. Not as if I looked on purpose, if you understand what I mean. We don't spy on our neighbors!”
“Of course. Have you seen the man at all?” Kim asked, pointing to the second photo.
“I am not sure. A man visited them last week. I think, it was around Thursday, but I can't tell if the man from your photo or not. Would not lie to you, officers.”
“Mel and Jass. Do you know their full names, by chance?” Considering their blooper three days ago, Mark was careful not to miss any facts.
“Amelia, and Jasmine, I believe.”
“Amelia and Jasmine Hobson?”
“Amelia is not quite Hobson. She often goes under a different surname. ‘Han,’ ‘Khan,’ or ‘Khai.’ Asian. No idea how it's spelled.”
“In the AFCO database this address listed for Hobsons, not Khans. That's why we came here first place,” Mark pointed out.
“The younger kids are surely Hobsons. This surname is from their father, – he was White. Mel is his stepdaughter, and her dad was Asian.”
“Do you know this family quite well?”
“We are not too curious about the neighbors, if it's what you mean. But – cannot live thirty feet away for ten… no, already eleven years and don't know them at all.”
“Tell us.”
“We moved to Houston in 2019. From New York, originally. And this family – also from the Big Apple. Robert and Rae-Ann Hobson, they both were strips. I mean: in the stripping business.”
Mark nodded. The so-called stripping companies were booming for several post-Meltdown years. As the commercial property market collapsed, many office buildings, especially downtown high-rises, stood unoccupied, or worse: attracted squatters, winos, or drug addicts. The stripping workers, or strips for short, demolished the unwanted structures and recycled all more or less usable materials within.
“Your father told us Rob Hobson was killed in an industrial accident, is it right?” Mark asked.
No wonder. Right after the Meltdown, the safety rules were strict, but the collapsing economy changed it overnight. The strips stopped using mechanical lifting gear, coveralls, and other ‘unnecessary stuff’. Their methods became crude and dangerous: after stripping off wires, pipes, glass, and timber, they cut steel with gas torches and pushed scraps out of the windows. Accidents were common, with the fatality score running into several hundreds per year. Never mind: the business was lucrative, and the pay was better than at digging landfills or growing veggies. For every dead strip, there were two new ones! The late Rob Hobson was a lucky man if he survived in this business for whole seven or eight years!
“Yes, that's correct. Rob had an accident in 2024. Rae-Ann went into depression. She died a year and a half later, in 2026. The doctor said: lung cancer – from asbestos. Myself, I think it's from her depression. So they say, the mental state and the immune system are linked.”
“So the kids were left orphans?”
“Yes. Two girls and two boys… Amelia, she is the eldest, now nineteen, I reckon. As I said, she is from Rae-Ann's first marriage, before Rob. Then, the second daughter, Jasmine. She's about fifteen now. Two boys: Milton and Albert. They are ten and twelve, if I am not mistaken.”
“Ten and twelve? How did they get into the AFCO database? You, sir,” Mark turned to the old man, “you said, they went to register? For the Army?”
“Yes, they went to register, young man! If I told you they went to register – they went to register.” The Kuwait hero was obviously aggravated his daughter told the officers about his poor eyesight.
“Ah, it must be the local AFCO initiative,” Kim said, “It started last year: once per month, on Sunday, half a day, with a free lunch. The kids are not doing anything like military, more like a boyscout camp. The real purpose is to make sure AFCO has all the potential draftees in the database.”
“OK, never mind,” Mark said. “You, Madam, – do you recall anything about the dual rape three years ago?”
“Sure! How can you forget such a horror? The Police came and we all made statements… Early in the morning, Bertie, – that's Albert, – came, shaking like mad, and said the girls were raped. We called 911 – right away! Both Mel and Jass were raped! They said: a whole gang – five men. The boys were relatively unharmed. The men tied them up, but nothing else. Anyway, after the rapists left, Bertie struggled himself out of the ropes and ran for help. It was pretty much all we knew. The rapists were never caught…”
“You said you didn't see the family recently. For… a week?” Mark asked.
“Yes, that's about right. But I can be mistaken. They use this tiny solar-power lantern, Sunbeam. Maybe, they were at home, but I didn't see. Besides, as I said, Mel works a night shift.”
“Do you know where she works?”
“Never asked.”
“Are the younger kids at school?”
“The boys – yes. They have books and uniforms, and Mel makes sure the boys look neat and clean. I think they also work somewhere after the school and till the late evening. Despite it's illegal.”
“What school are they in?”
“No idea, sir.”
“And Jasmine Hobson is not at school, is she?”
“She's at the 'Fill, I am positive.”
“About the 'Fill: she told you so, or you just guessed?”
“Guessed. But I know a scav if I see one! Jass has digging tools: two wooden planks for the feet and a garbage hook. Besides, she has a wall-eye and several scars on her face. She said: a battery explosion. Must be from the 'Fill, what else?”
Mark and Kim spent another two hours going from dwelling to dwelling. The neighbors did not tell them much beyond the facts the detectives already learned from the Desert Storm veteran and his daughter.
“I can come here after dark and check if Hobsons are back home,” Kim offered.
“Try it, you may get lucky,” Mark said. “but remember, the neighbors had not seen the kids since the day of the murder.”
“Unlikely the Butcher killed the children, sir.”
“That's not what I mean. I just think the kids are scared because of the sister murder and don't sleep at home.”
“And how do we find them?”
“At the McCarty Road Landfill, of course.”
“There are thirty thousand workers, sir. We have no photographs. Wait! The lady says: Jasmine has a damaged eye and facial scars?”
“I believe, I've seen this girl before, Kim. Three years ago, I heard all three names: ‘Jasmine,’ ‘Amelia’, and ‘Khan,’ from one battery girl at the Day-Pay. The girl was about eleven at the time, had facial scars and a wall-eye. Coincidence? I don't think so. First thing tomorrow, I pay a visit to the 'Fill. If unlucky, I can come again on Monday. What if the girl takes Sundays off? But unless Jasmine Hobson left Houston, we find her, no problems.”
As soon as Mark returned to the Station, his telephone started playing a melody reserved for private calls.
“Mark, darling,” Mary's voice crackled in the speaker, “Mike is just back from the 'Fill. Guess what? He's got a draft notice! Can you come home earlier?”
“Draft orders you mean? Just a boot camp, I hope.”
“No, Ma
rk. The paper says: three years.”
Holy shit, Mark suddenly felt sick in his stomach: they kick me out from the FBI, Mike goes to the Army for three years. Do we have enough food on the table? Mark's carpenter shop was just a distant dream… Mike might send few thousand a month, but not while in the boot camp… William's compensation? The first tranche is in 2033! Mary's vegetable beds at the backyard? Few ‘unnecessary’ things they might sell at the flea market? It looked uncomfortably tight.
Ashamed about the calculator running in his head, Mark said: “Honey, I will come right away.”
Without changing from his office clothes, he jumped on the bike and rushed home. Despite the busy late afternoon traffic, he completed the ride under fifty minutes. A quarter mile from the house, Mark unexpectedly caught up with William, Clarice, and little Davy.
“You're early today, Mark,” Clarice waved her hand and pulled William's camo T-shirt, trimming her husband in the right direction.
“Mike got draft orders!” Mark said, dismounting his bike and trying to catch his breath.
“With Mike's stellar school record, they must send him straight to the Air Force!” William laughed. An Army joke. The perpetual shortage of aviation fuel and spare parts reduced the Air Force activities to flying the President in his Air Force One. The air bases and ground radars were either abandoned or manned with cheaper civilians, so the chances of getting into the Air Force for an average draftee were next to none.
“Is it just a boot camp?” Clarice asked.
“Apparently: three years! Must be a mistake…”
“Let's run home, Rissy,” William said. “We can do your navigation practice some other time.”
Navigation practice – again. Clarice insisted that guide dogs were hardly smarter than two-year-old kids, so little Davy could be trained to guide his blind Daddy around the Loop while she is busy with the newborn. Mark did not like the idea.
Behind the dining table Mary and Mike studied an officially-looking paper.
“The draft orders, Dad,” Mike said. “The AFCO dudes were around our shit-pile today, giving these to everybody of the right age. Mine is for the Infantry.”
“Butt in the mud. Fine occupation. Better than being a digger, anyhow,” William said.
“I recall, two years ago you told us just the opposite. Something about the Engineers being far safer than the Infantry,” Mark said.
“I had no first-hand battlefield experience back then. Now I have a lot. My first-hand experience, my second-hand experience, and my twenty-twenty vision.” William rotated his arm stump, demonstrating the experience level. Another masochistic joke was in the making.
“But wait! William has served already, and he is a disabled vet. Did you tell the AFCO guys? You even don't need to tell them such stuff. They should have a database record, no?” Mark asked.
“AFCO explained why William doesn't count. He's married, so technically he is not an immediate family member anymore. Besides, there is a new set of rules this year, so even if he wasn't married, I would be serving full-term. Read here.”
Mark took the paper. “It says: you may be eligible for the active duty exemption if (a) two or more of your immediate family members have been killed in action while in the US Armed Forces in the last fifteen years; (b) two or more of your immediate family members are disabled military veterans, with disability at or exceeding 35%; (c) one of your immediate family members is a disabled military veteran, with disability at or exceeding 90%, and (d) if you are a single parent or a guardian of at least three children less than fourteen years of age… What a…?”
“Right! An exemption, my ass! I especially like those disability percentages in there. Hey, Billy! How much, you said, do they give for a missing arm or a missing leg?”
“Thirty percent.”
“And here they say: thirty-five! So freaking nice: your entire family is on crutches, but you still have to go for the full three years. Hey, Billy, I'm disappointed. If you had lost enough body parts to become ninety-percent disabled, we would convince Rissy to divorce you, and I would have a slim chance to exercise the bloody exemption.”
“Sorry, Mickey. I blew up myself to my best ability. Seventy-nine percent – all we can do for you.”
“So! What can we do now?” Clarice asked.
“Nothing. Orders are orders. Do I have a freaking choice?” Mike replied.
“I don't know. Run away and hide?”
“Once the draft orders are issued, running away is like deserting from the Army at the time of war. Punishable by a firing squad – bang! I probably can run to Mexico, but this is the only option, and it's not too bloody attractive. We are at war with the Mexos, lo entiendes? They figure out I'm fit to serve, and I will be conscripted – but for the other side. Serving in the stinking Mexos Army – not my piece of cake. Nope. My only way out – if I fail the medical.”
“Don't hold your breath, bro,” William said, “My medical was a brutal ten-minute affair. If you can walk, can see, and can pull a trigger, you're perfectly good for the Infantry.”
Mark scrutinized the paper once more. “It says to report on duty next week.”
“Yep! The medical is on Monday.”
“Shite! Why so soon?” William asked, “When I got my orders, they cut me full two weeks to get affairs in order, and all…”
“No idea. You were married and a school grad. At the 'Fill, everybody got just a day notice. I reckon, they're afraid the draftees from our shit-pile are too bloody smart and find a way out if you give them enough time. The real pity – is my job! I get five grand per week, sometimes more. Will be a shame to lose such a place. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mister Stolz is really pissed off. His Arne got the orders too! Plus myself and one boy we hired from the Day-Pay. Our plant will be losing two key hands and one roughneck at once.”
“Arne Stolz got the orders? That's a different deal! We can keep this lucrative place for you, Mickey,” William said.
“What do you have in mind?” Mark asked, already expecting the answer.
“Our Sam, who else? She is fourteen, all-legal. Sam can take Mike's position. Why don't you ask Mister Stolz? Surely, at his plant, he would prefer a trusted neighbor instead of an abstract Day-Pay dude…”
“No bloody way, William!” Mary interjected. “Samantha will graduate!”
“The value of high school is grossly exaggerated, Mom. I have graduated, so what? Without my Ris, I can't read a letter or count my freaking donations. I wasted three years writing essays and studying Calculus – for bloody nothing!”
“I am telling you once again, William: only over my dead body!”
“Calm down, honey,” Mark scratched his forehead. “You both have a point, but what William suggests sounds right. We all wanted Samantha to graduate, yes. But William came back with no arms… Sorry, William… And now Michael got drafted! And now…” no, he was not ready to tell Mary he might soon leave the FBI. “Never mind. I will go talk to Fred Stolz. Besides, he still may very well say ‘no’…”
