The big party is still crammed behind the wheel of his uncomfortable stolen Cougar, and he is drawing in a large book that appears to be a bookkeeper's ledger of some kind. He is working on a diagram with the printed caption '#610,' and he draws freehand but with perfect, sure strokes. At the moment he is designing a wooden ladder device. He is working on his book of Chicago escapes. He is about to use the book, the results of many hours of methodical preparation, for the first time.
The ledger is a piece of genius. Evil genius to be sure, but true genius nonetheless. Bunkowski has no problem murdering. It is in him, his second nature. His only problem as a killer is how to escape the modern, sophisticated police technology. How does a man who weighs almost five hundred pounds and stands six feet seven inches, a man who looks like an insane cross between an enraged gorilla and the Pillsbury Dough Boy, how does someone like that achieve a low profile? Where can he go to hide?
Bunkowski has prepared carefully. He emulates his former enemy, the VC, and so he prepares now to build and enter that other world, the world he will make for himself below the city. The Cong who hid by day, going down into the tunnels beneath Vietnam to sleep and nurse wounds, would come out at night. They would come out to resupply, to intimidate, to gather intel, to harass, and of course to hit and run. To kill. And so this is precisely what Chaingang will do.
We exist in today's high-tech society by the infinitely complex interwoven web of utility services that run beneath the urban megaplex. We maintain our level of civilized societal convenience and comfort through our sophisticated telephone cables, our electrical hookups, our water supply lines, our sewage disposal pipes, our arterial service tubes, our transit modes, our pipelines to and from the urban masses of working humanity, the huge and generally unknown subworld that exists below the surface of the city streets.
191800. Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski is diagramming rung supports and listening to traffic. Edith Emaline Lynch is walking through a room that smells of cologne and stale popcorn, and listening to ringing telephones and subdued conversations, and Jack Eichord is walking down stairs and singing jumbled bits of half- recognizable songs.
'Sinatra, you ain't.' A voice from an open doorway above and footsteps behind him on the stairs. Jack turns with a smile in place as he sees Arlen.
'S'matter, Lou, you don't like music?'
'Come on. We got another one,' the lieutenant says as he rushes past him.
'Christ.' Eichord hurries to keep up with him as they run to a unit. It is a call that was first handled by a single patrolman in a roller who answered the call on what he thought would be another domestic dispute. It was a young boy. Teenager. Cauc. Sandy hair. Husky build. The heart gone. The MO appeared to be identical. Body mutilated. Burn marks. Looked like a torture-homicide. Only one thing different. This time there was an eyeball witness.
'She's pretty shook up,' the cop was telling them, 'but she saw this dude clear when he got out of the van to dump the kid. Big mother. Sounds like our man.'
'Description?'
'Better. A description and a fucking license number.'
213430. Edie is talking with a thirteen-year-old girl named Pam who is pregnant, alone in the Big City, and afraid to go home for what her father will do to her. Edie is begging the girl to stay on the line as she signals for a legit counselor to pick up the telephone. Eichord is on his way to a Chicago suburb with a convoy of vehicles closing in on a Ford Econoline which has been spotted by a state rod who is at this second in pursuit. The two-way sounds like World War IV. Bunkowski is in a field next to a construction site building a sturdy wooden ladder. He saws through a two-by like it was made of balsa wood.
Garrett Aldrich, the director of the center, is busy on the Crisis Hotline and Edie decides to walk to the car by herself. No big deal. The street is still busy with traffic and brightly lit. She click-clacks out of the center and along the sidewalk. She has her key ready and unlocks the car door instantly, immediately locking the door after her. She sits behind the wheel thinking. For the first time today she really thinks about how fast everything is going. How deeply she and Jack are getting involved with each other's lives, and the implications on both herself and Lee Anne. This is what she is thinking when she looks across the street and chances to see him.
It is a man. A huge man. He is running out into the street with a big ladder over his shoulder. He takes a kind of hook and lifts the manhole in the street, drops the ladder down into the hole, and begins squeezing himself down into the opening as Edie stares, transfixed. He happens to glance up by chance and sees a woman in a parked car sitting there looking at him as he squeezes his huge girth down through the manhole opening in the street. The time is 222030.
Edie sees the big man look up at her and freeze. She feels intense fear and intuitively grinds the ignition key, jumping to discover she'd already started the car's engine. Without glancing back at the strange menace, she trods on the accelerator, dropping the transmission lever into drive, and shoots away from the curb. When she glances into the rearview mirror, it is too dark and her perspective has shifted enough that she fails to see that the man has come out of the manhole opening and has moved with deceptively quick strides toward where Edie had been parked.
She sees none of this as she turns the corner, breathing more normally as the weighty presence of dread lifts from her like an invisible stone, and she puts the menacing weirdness of The Manhole Man out of her mind. She has much more interesting and rewarding things to concentrate on as she wonders if Jack will call her late tonight as they discussed, and when they will see each other again. But at 222030 Eichord's thoughts are far from romantic. He is all cop, standing with other men at the scene of an arrest. They have taken a suspect into custody and the air is electric with the possibility of these men having caught the Lonely Hearts killer.
'So what's the problem, Jack?' one of them is asking Eichord.
'It just isn't that tight.'
'Wrong-oh.'
'Say?'
'Shit, man, it's absolutely dead bang. What more do you want here? We've got that sonofabitch.'
'I don't think so.'
'It's dead bang, Jack,' another cop says.
'No. I don't believe it's dead-bang sure at all.'
'We've got an eyeball witness. We've got a perp with a psycho package. We've got a blade man. A resisting arrest. We got a body. We got blades. He fits the whole MO. We got opportunity. We got motive. Dead-bang solid.'
'No.' Eichord shakes his head.
'Come on.'
'Huh-uh. He's not our man.'
'Eye-fuckin'-witness, Pops.'
'That's the dead boy. Okay. That's what we've got. He did the boy all right. But as far as Sylvia Kasikoff I gotta' tell you guys, I just don't like him for it at all.'
'Talk,' Arlen says.
'You're gonna find out that it isn't the same blade. He took the heart out with a scalpel. A little—what the hell was it?—a Benson and Hedges—uh, some name like that—the little blade?'
'Brookstone and Jensen surgeon's scalpel.'
'Right. He did the boy with it, bet money.'
'So he used a scalpel this time. We've got the big hunting knife that he used on all the others. Maybe it was getting dull. Whatever. So he used a scalpel. Same difference.'
'When the lab tells us the hunting knife was the blade,
'Jack.'
'Lou?'
'What throws you off on this guy . . . I mean, how come you don't like a guy who takes a heart for Sylvia Kasikoff all of a sudden?'
'The burns. I dunno. Something about the fact that he tortured the boy. It's like he was playing with him and then did the heart number to throw us off the other. Make it into a Lonely Hearts. And he just cut the heart out of the chest cavity and pitched it. The other times somebody took the heart and did something with it, disposed of it
