Once again, he was in his ride, parked near the police headquarters, monitoring that damned hidden mike. He'd told himself the reason was that he was going to get up the nerve to go in and get it—but deep inside he knew there was no way. He wasn't really waiting to see Hilliard, or some other cop he knew by name, leave the building so that he could go up to the metro-squad room and ask if they were in, using that as an excuse to be in the building. He was here because he was drawn by that damned bug—he wanted to know what was going on in a case that had become an obsession.
Crucifixion Killer Strikes Again!
That was the banner headline across the front of a morning tabloid, which he was perusing as he sat monitoring background noise in Llewelyn's office.
Federal agents today joined investigators from the Kansas City Metro Squad, the Homicide Unit of the Crimes Against Persons Division, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and the Violent Crimes Task Force, in an investigation into the death of John Esteban…
It is believed that an explosive device, such as the military fragmentation grenade which police say caused the explosion of a fleeing motorist's abandoned car…
He finally realized he was seeing something that was part of a submerged iceberg. It was pointless to listen for scraps. The cops—assuming they knew anything of substance at all, which he doubted—had no real handle on the apparently senseless and disconnected homicides.
It would be suicide to go up there after the microphone. He'd forget about it. When and if it were discovered, even if they managed to trace it back to Bob's Electronics—his name wasn't on file there, and after a while, it was unlikely his face would be remembered. If he didn't go back to get it, or return to the electronics shop, he could write his indiscretion off as a real bad idea and go on from there.
Trask started the car, pulled out, and drove to the nearest Dumpster, where he ripped out the tape and deposited both it and the earpiece. The radio receiver went into the first creek he crossed.
Lieutenant Llewelyn was far from the cop shop. He and a cluster of coppers and forensics people were at Mount Ely, where Kansas City Homicide detectives had found the place where the sniper blew off the heads of the bikers.
'The killer had to come up here after they were on the crosses,' Llewelyn said. 'For what purpose—target practice? It makes no sense at all. He'd killed up close—Ms. Hildebrande. If he was the one using the rifle grenades, he'd have taken the head shots down there. Somebody went to a lot of work to get into this position. The doer who did the bikers was under surveillance, it appears to me. We're looking at
'We got reporters now crawling all over the place. They say the mutilation murders—the hearts ripped out— and the size and description of the—grenade perpetrator all match the M.O. and appearance of Chaingang Bunkowski, who as we all know is slammed down on death row. We're telling the reporters—yeah, we don't know if it's a copycat killing spree or what. But we got a partial off a shell casing and the national printout came back as 'I.D. deleted.' Ran it by the feds and got zip.
'I'm just guessing—but who do you know ever killed like this but the infamous Mr. Bunkowski? Suppose, just for the sake of being the devil's advocate, he escaped from prison? They decide not to publicize it, for all the obvious reasons. When we inquire to the warden at Marion he says, 'Yeah, Bunkowski's in solitary.' But he's really here. Whacking bikers and other citizens. Wouldn't that theory explain why some asshole decides to delete his fingerprint identification? Figure it's for 'national security' or some such bullshit?'
'Yeah,' Hilliard said. 'That could fly. But who's the
Everybody just stood there. Nobody was speaking. They had the expressions of animals at night, when they're caught in the headlights of a fast-moving car.
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28
'Mr. Conway,' the veterinarian explained to the tall, heavyset man, 'we'll certainly do our best. But what do you want us to do if in a reasonable time we can't find good homes for all of the dogs?'
'How much would you want to continue to board them, say, for a year? If you couldn't find homes for them?'
'Just the cost of the dog food, I suppose. We could donate the care and feeding.' The vet had been carefully selected by Daniel, who had tried to find someone who genuinely cared about animals. His sense of it was that the puppies would do as well here as anywhere, until homes could be found. This was the second vet who'd taken twenty dogs. He'd told them they'd been rescued from the Rutledge, Missouri, Animal Auction, which was a notorious marketplace frequented by 'dog bunchers,' who specialized in selling large numbers of animals to medical laboratories.
The care for these forty mutts had severely depleted Chaingang's war treasury, but it was of no consequence. He found money absurdly easy to acquire and of no interest in itself. After paying for a warehouse full of dog food and medicine, and impressing the vets with the fact that he'd eventually be returning for an accounting of the animals' welfare, he proceeded to drive back into Kansas, and found himself once again on the dreaded Bunker of his childhood.
He'd removed forty-nine starving, dehydrated pups from Mr. Esteban's home. Three hadn't survived. Forty were in good hands. But he hadn't found other vets he trusted sufficiently to use—and his bullshit detector was second to none. Six dogs cavorted in the back seat of the Buick. He parked, opened the windows so that there'd be ample air for the puppies, and reached back into the furry tangle of wiggly bodies, selecting one, tucking it into his voluminous shirt and starting up the stairs.
Had someone been watching him—this behemoth making his way up the rickety stairs of the crumbling tenement—they'd have seen him apparently talking to himself. He was reassuring the little dog.
He knocked and heard an old woman's frightened voice. 'Who is it?'
'It's me. The man who gave you money—remember?' he asked, rather unnecessarily. After a few moments, he heard her unchain the pathetic thing that held the door.
'Um?' She was less than overjoyed to see this nightmare, money notwithstanding.
'I wanted to stop and see how you were doing. Did those boys bother you any more?'
'No,' She thought for a moment. 'They never came back.'
'I don't think they'll bother you again. I brought you a present. To replace your cat.' He reached inside his shirt and got out something brown and wiggly, which he handed to her. The old woman took it like it was a lit firecracker, but smiled when she saw what it was.
'Oh! A little dog.'
'You like dogs?'
'Uh-huh.' It apparently liked her as it was giving her kisses on her wrinkled, veiny hands. 'But I can't afford to buy dog food.'
'That's all right.' He pulled two cans from his voluminous pockets, and then handed her some money. 'This will buy lots of food for you and your new pet. Don't forget to give him water and plenty of affection.' Doctor Bunkowski found a dirty dish and put water in it, and spread a newspaper down. The old woman was petting the dog, somewhat dutifully, but he was certain they'd become fast friends.
'Thank you,' she said, as he turned to leave. 'Um. Wait.' He turned back to her. 'You asked about that lady who lived here. I asked my friend about her. She said she knows where she lives now.'
'Mrs. Garbella?' he asked.
'I wrote it down somewhere.' She went over to an old table and sorted through things for what seemed like an eternity. 'Here it is.' She held a scrap of paper out to him in her frail hand. The dog had found an old shoe and was busily chewing it to shreds.
