Deep Cover

by Edward Bungert

  Leverick took a seat to the far left of the window. He was glad he had his overcoat, the room air conditioned too cool for this time of year. Leverick's thoughts drifted to the last time he had seen Lindy—ten days before.

  It had been much hotter that day. Lindy had requested the meeting and Leverick complied. He complied as he had several times before in the past two years, each time learning more about the trail of murder and mutilation Lindy had left behind during his insidious career. Lindy's information led the FBI to more than three dozen bodies in places as far west as Goldfield, Nevada, and as far north as Tuftonboro, New Hampshire. Lindy knew he could stay alive as long as he could feed the Bureau information on his killing spree.

  Leverick waited alone in the visiting area. Lindy was brought in, hands and legs shackled, and sat down opposite Leverick at a four-foot-wide table. The watchful guard was positioned just beyond the wire-reinforced glass in the door.

  "Mr. Leverick. It's good to see you again. Thank you for coming on such short notice." Always the gentleman. This killer of God knows how many women.

  "Hello, Ed. Would you like a cigarette?" Leverick held out the pack, tips of the filters protruding from the top. Using his thumb and ring finger, Lindy carefully picked one and placed it behind his ear, his shackled hands moving in unison.

  "Maybe later," he said.

  Lindy, now forty-two, looked about ten years younger. He had a boyish smile and eyes the colour of the sky. Those piercing eyes, thought Leverick. His jet black hair was just beginning to recede. He was articulate, intelligent, and very, very dangerous.

  Leverick returned the pack to his jacket pocket. Both men sat silently for a moment. Too long for Leverick. Lindy could stare down a tiger, and he made Leverick feel uncomfortable each time they met. Those long periods of silence seemed to give Lindy his power. The longer the time, the more confident and cocky he would become. Leverick would never reveal it to Lindy, but the killer scared him. Leverick had read the detailed reports that were never made public. Looking into the eyes of a man who had bitten off and ingested the vulvas of all his victims made him quiver. On the inside.

  "Well, Ed. What do you have for me?" Leverick leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference.

  Lindy smiled. "The big one. The why." He clasped his hands under his chin, his forefingers pressed against his lips as he regarded the senior FBI agent.

  "That's old news, Ed. You've gone public with that already. Your abusive father who tortured all the neighbours’ animals and surrounded you with pornography since you were five—"

  "That was fish food for the guppies!" Lindy stood. Leverick straightened up in his chair, and the guard entered the room. Leverick held his hand up, assuring the guard that everything was under control, never taking his eyes off Lindy.

  He continued. "I'm talking about the real why. The why that has motivated dozens like me since probably before you and I were ever born." Lindy sat down, his breathing short and irregular. Very uncharacteristic for this stone killer.

  "You can do it, Dalton," Lindy continued. "You can get me a stay. What I have to say will shake up the entire world. It's big, FBI man. Bigger than you could ever imagine."

  Leverick pulled a notepad from his jacket. "I need more, Ed. I can't go back to the director and tell him that Ed Lindy is going to tell us why he did it, so hold the phone, stop the presses, and cancel the execution. You have to give me something."

  "Get me the stay. If I burn, so do the answers to a lot of questions." Lindy sat back and closed his eyes as though meditating. Leverick signalled the guard and left the room.

  Ten days later Dalton Leverick sat and waited for Ed Lindy to be escorted to the electric chair. Lindy's why—whether it was a towering revelation or a man's last desperate attempt to stay alive—would die with him today.

  Lindy was brought in by two uniformed guards. He still displayed the confident smile that had become his trademark. The smile that had lured more than thirty young girls to their early deaths. The smile that had so captivated a young Florida woman that she had married Ed Lindy while he was on death row and become pregnant with his child during one of the specially arranged visits. The smile that would soon disappear with the flick of a switch and the jolt of two thousand volts of electricity.

  The guards stood on either side of Lindy as they sat him down in the chair. The attending physician, a thin, white-haired man in his late fifties, stood a few feet to the side, stethoscope in hand. The guards strapped Lindy's wrists to the armrests, quickly fastening the buckles. They then attached the metal clamps to his legs, just below the calf where they had earlier prepped the skin with a brine solution for better conductivity. One of the guards then placed the electrode, which resembled a short, medieval-looking helmet, to the killer's head. Lindy's eyes were focused straight ahead, his smile diminished slightly. Leverick felt like those eyes were staring straight at him, as though the one-way glass weren't there. This was the last time anyone would see those penetrating eyes. Patches of gauze were soon taped over each one. A long piece of adhesive was then wound around the killer's head to reinforce the patches. This would prevent Lindy's eyes from bulging out of their sockets.

  The guards stepped away from Lindy. Leverick was breathing deeply, his chest moving in sync with the killer's. Lindy's fists clenched tightly as the final seconds of his life counted down.

  The witnesses, including Leverick, jumped in their seats as Lindy's head jolted back and his hands shot open. His chin strained forward, and his head and body began to vibrate rapidly, saliva spewing from his mouth. A few seconds later, his convulsing body fell limp. The doctor walked over and placed the stethoscope over Lindy's heart. Sombrely, the physician looked up and shook his head. As soon as he was clear of the chair, an additional two thousand volts poured into Lindy. Blood began to stream from behind the bandages. Lindy was dead.

  It was raining lightly as Leverick drove through the prison gates, past the crowd of demonstrators. The crowd was in a jovial mood now that Lindy was dead. Some were drinking champagne. Some were singing and dancing in celebration. Slowly the sound of the crowd receded, and the squeak of the windshield wipers became the only sound Leverick could hear. The Lindy case closed, it was now time to concentrate on the Bureau's latest pattern killer, someone the press had tagged "The Wrestlemaniac." Leverick had a plan to track him, but first he had to convince his old friend Martin Walsh to go back under. Operation Biker had taken its toll on Walsh. He would probably tell Leverick to fuck off, friend or no. But he had to try. There was no agent more capable than Walsh.

  Leverick's thoughts returned to the images of the demonstrators outside the prison. The atmosphere of celebration had troubled him. He turned on the car radio, hoping to find some relaxing music, and the tumultuous voice of a southern preacher filled the air. ". . . and you have given them blood to drink as they deserve. Yes, Lord God Almighty, true and just are your judgments."

  They called it "The Grapple in the Apple." Two of the most popular wrestlers in history would face each other in tonight's main event. Madison Square Garden was full to capacity. The twenty-two thousand fans had already howled and whooped their way through eight preliminary bouts. The score card: good guys, five - bad guys, three. The master of ceremonies, Max Legend, was in centre ring, microphone in hand.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is time for the main event." There were cheers, screaming, and general pandemonium. "This contest is for the WWA World Wrestling Championship," the announcer continued. The challenger's theme music blared and the shouting crowd started to jeer and boo for "Mr. Psycho," the most dangerous wrestler alive. He was led through the crowd by four men in white suits, his guards from the mental health facility where he was kept between bouts. Each man held Mr. Psycho tightly by a rope around the wrestler's waist. The three-hundred-pound, six-foot-four wrestler growled and twisted wildly. The men in the white suits maneuvered him by keeping the four ropes taut, giving here and there in order to guide the hulking fig
ure toward the ring. The theme music, "They're coming to take me away, ha ha”, an 1960's novelty tune, continued to blare above the noise of the crowd.

  Max Legend continued his introduction: "Yes, it's him. That loony toon, the man with the loose screws, that full-moon madman—Miiiissteeer Psyyyyychoooo."

  Two of the white suits entered the ring and pulled the ropes toward them. Mr. Psycho followed, trailed by the other two white suits. Max Legend scurried to a corner of the ring.

  A man in a bright green tuxedo climbed into the ring and motioned for quiet. The crowd settled down to a low rumble in anticipation. The man held a sceptre-shaped object in his hand. The top of the sceptre had a spiralling red and green gyroscope. He approached Mr. Psycho cautiously. The wrestler turned his huge bald head away, trying to avoid eye contact with the gyroscope.

  "You cannot resist," said Green Tuxedo. "You are getting sleepy." Green Tuxedo held the sceptre in his left hand, inches away from Mr. Psycho's face, while he twiddled the fingers of his right hand. "When I snap my fingers you will be asleep." Mr. Psycho, no longer able to resist, stared dumbfoundedly at the gyro. When Green Tuxedo snapped his fingers, the wrestler's eyes closed, his shoulders slumped, and his head dropped forward, chin resting on his chest.

  The white suits quickly removed the ropes and straitjacket, leaving a shirtless, zombie-like Mr. Psycho in the middle of the ring. Max Legend moved closer to centre ring. He waved his hand in front of the sleeping brute. Satisfied, he continued his announcements. "And now, the WWA belt holder"—pandemonium returned and the blare of trumpets filled the arena—"that chivalrous champion, the one, the only, Sirrrr Gaaalahaaaad."

  Sir Galahad rode through the cheering crowd atop a white Arabian horse. His silver-white armour glistened under the lights and camera flashes. Galahad waved at the fans as his horse was led to the edge of the ring. Two beautiful women dressed in long, flowing gowns of purple lifted the ropes for Galahad to enter. He pulled his sword from its sheath, clasped it with two hands, and held it high above his head. He then knelt on one knee, as if in prayer. The trumpets continued to blare, and the fans went wild. Sir Galahad stood up and the purple-clad maidens began to remove his armour, revealing the champion wrestler's flowing locks of blond hair and his Herculean physique.

  Max Legend bellowed into the microphone, "This bout is scheduled for one fall. No time limit." Galahad walked up to within inches of Mr. Psycho, patted him on his smooth cranium, and strolled to a neutral corner, the laughter and applause of the crowd surrounding him. Green Tuxedo reappeared in the ring and approached the sleeping wrestler.

  The referee for the bout kept a safe distance, as he would during the entire match between these two powerful wrestlers. A snap of the fingers and Mr. Psycho's eyes sprang open. Green Tuxedo quickly jumped out of the way as Mr. Psycho let out a crazy howl and darted toward Sir Galahad, his arms extended, going straight for Galahad's throat. Galahad easily slipped under Mr. Psycho's attack, causing the hulking wrestler to slam into the turn-buckle. Galahad trotted to the centre of the ring as Psycho shook his head, violently growling and stamping his feet. Galahad held his arms high and the crowd went berserk. Psycho turned toward the centre. Galahad taunted him to come forward. The fans started to howl, mimicking one of Mr. Psycho's trademarks. The wrestler indulged them with a howl of his own as he leaped toward centre ring. Galahad jumped straight into the air and shot both legs out toward Mr. Psycho's chest. Both wrestlers fell to the mat. Mr. Psycho was the first to get up. He leaped on Galahad. Galahad rolled away just in time, and Psycho crashed to the canvas.

  Thousands of people yelled, "Whoa!" causing the arena to feel like a giant roller-coaster car. The two wrestlers battled back and forth for almost fifteen minutes, entertaining the crowd with an array of drop kicks and body slams. Now in the middle of the ring, Galahad jumped on Psycho's back and, one arm around his neck, raked the bald giant's eyes with the fingers of his free hand. With a sudden explosion of energy, Psycho threw Galahad off his back. Galahad was quick to get to his feet. Psycho, now on his feet as well, ran aimlessly around the ring, one hand covering his eyes, the other lashing out in search of his opponent. Galahad vaulted himself toward the apparently blinded Psycho and knife-handed him in the throat. Psycho grabbed his neck with both hands and appeared to be gasping for air. Galahad ran full speed to the opposite side of the ring, bounced off the ropes, and on the rebound caught Psycho with a powerful blow to the head with an extended forearm. Psycho hit the canvas like a rhino doing a back flip. Galahad circled the prone wrestler twice, relishing the screams of adoration from the fans. He then threw himself on top of Mr. Psycho, and the referee quickly moved in and slapped the canvas, "One . . . two . . . three." More roars from the crowd. Galahad was on his feet again, arms extended upward in victory.

  The maidens in purple quickly dressed Galahad in his white arm or. The horse had been brought back to the side of the ring, and the champion slipped through the ropes to mount it. He waved to the fans as he left the arena for the dressing room.

  A dazed and confused Psycho was now getting to his feet. Green Tuxedo jumped into the ring, and before Psycho could fully recover, shoved the gyrating sceptre in his face. Psycho was once again straitjacketed and roped by the men in the white suits. A snap of the fingers and the now conscious psychopath was led to his dressing room.

  Another night of pro wrestling had come to an end. The crowd began to filter from the arena.

  ***

  The Ramada Hotel is one of Manhattan's most active establishments. Located directly across from Madison Square Garden, the building has over seventeen hundred rooms, thirty meeting rooms, and a twenty-four thousand-square-foot conference centre. On the night of a major sporting event or rock concert, there isn't a room available, most of the hotel filled with performers, their entourages, and fans. Once, in 1985, Bruce Springsteen rented an entire floor for just himself and his girlfriend while the rest of the band stayed two floors below. But tonight belonged to professional wrestling. The wrestlers, promoters, managers, and those die-hard fans who could afford the ninety dollars per night room rate kept the hotel staff hopping with orders for room service, extra pillows, and requests for wake-up calls. It was almost dawn before the last of the parties ended and the tired, drunk participants began to make their way to their own rooms.

  Robert Matthews, thirty-eight years old, the head of a Cleveland-based manufacturer of chalk, took a deep breath and tried once again to insert his card key. He mumbled a few curses under his breath and tried again. And again. Then finally . . . "click." He stumbled into the room and fell onto one of the king-size beds. His head was spinning from too many shots of Johnny Walker Red, and he wished he had never walked into Room 603.

  The conversation had begun innocently enough with a woman in the lobby's lounge. Robert was in town for the trade show at the Javits Center and rather than spend another lonely night in his hotel room, he decided to seek out some companionship. The woman seemed genuinely interested as Robert enthusiastically explained his company's line of over two hundred types of chalk, including the new six-pack of multi-coloured glow-in-the-dark chalk which he would be unveiling tomorrow. Robert told her how he had lost his wife in a car accident two years ago. He confided how hard it was to leave his two little boys with their grandmother each time he had to go out of town. He would assure two saddened faces that he would bring them something special on his return. She sympathetically agreed that it must be tough for a man to raise two young boys alone. Then she excused herself, said she had to return to her room to freshen up for a party. Before she left she invited Robert to meet her at the party. Funny thing was that the woman (he never did get her name) never showed at Room 603. Robert got stuck chasing shots with a couple of wrestling fans from New Jersey.

  Now, too drunk to do anything but collapse, Robert was unaware of the presence of an intruder in his room. As if struck by a jolt of electricity, he became instantly sober as an arm grabbed him around the neck, cutting off his air su
pply. He instinctively tried to pry away the arm, gasping for air. The assailant then dug his fingers deep into Robert's eye sockets, ripping through the muscles which hold the eyeballs in place. With a vicious raking motion, both of Robert's eyes were torn from his head. Before he could scream, a powerful strike to his throat ended his suffering. Robert's mutilated body would be discovered by housekeeping during the morning rounds. The thirty-eight-year-old maker of chalk would be missing from today's trade show. The two little boys in Cleveland would never get their surprises.

  Two

  “Kill him!" shouted Alex.

  "Yeah, stomp him well good," his three year-old brother added, jumping up and down furiously on Martin Walsh's chest, while the TV set blared the delayed broadcast of Saturday's main event between Sir Galahad and Mr. Psycho.

  Martin Walsh rolled over, playfully taking his youngest son, Anthony, to the carpet.

  "Mr. Psycho's got you now," he teased the toddler, supporting himself on his elbows with young Anthony caught in his arms. Alex, coming to his baby brother's rescue, jumped on Walsh's back.

  "Sir Galahad's got you in a stranglehold," whooped Alex. Walsh let the toddler crawl out from under him, then fell flat on his face, Alex's five-year-old arms still wrapped around his neck. Then, placing his tiny mouth next to Walsh's ear, young Anthony screamed (and he could scream), "Un, Tow, Twee, Yaaaay." The two boys danced around the living room, their arms raised in victory. Walsh, his face still buried in the carpet, lay defeated, mumbling, "Next time victory will be Mr. Psycho's."

  The sudden silence caused by the abrupt turn off of the wailing TV set caused all three boys to look up. Amy Walsh shook her head in mock disgust. "As soon as you children are done horsing around, there's a roast chicken waiting in the kitchen."