by Dan Simmons
Those creative-writing papers had been the last time Hansen had told the truth about anything important.
At an early age, James B. Hansen had learned a profound truth: namely, that almost all experts and specialists and professionals are absolutely full of shit. The great bulk of each of their so-called professions is language, jargon, specialized babble. Given that, and some deep reading in the field, and the proper attire, anyone smart enough could do damned near anything. In his last thirty-two years of liberation from truth and imposed identity, Hansen had never impersonated an airline pilot or a neurosurgeon, but he suspected that he could if he put his mind to it. During those years, however, he had made his living as an English professor, a senior editor at a major publishing house, a handler of heavy construction equipment, a NASCAR driver, a Park Avenue psychiatrist, a professor of psychology, a herpetologist specializing in extracting venom, an MRI specialist, a computer designer, an award-winning realtor, a political consultant, an air traffic controller, a firefighter, and half a dozen other specialties. He had never studied for any of these fields beyond visits to the library.
Money did not run the world, James B. Hansen knew. Bullshit and gullibility did.
Hansen had lived in more than two dozen major American cities and spent two years in France. He did not like Europe. The adults were arrogant and the little girls there were too worldly. Handguns were too hard to find. But the fliks were as stupid there as cops were in America, and God knows, the food was better.
His career as serial killer did not begin until he was twenty-three years old, although he had murdered before that. Hansen's father had left no insurance, no savings, nothing but debts and his illegally obtained, Korean-era M1 carbine and three clips of ammunition. The day after his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Berkstrom, ran to the principal with Hansen's animal-torturing essays, Hansen had loaded the carbine, put it in his father's old golf bag with the clubs, and dragged the whole thing to school. There were no metal detectors in those days. Hansen's plan had been elegant—to kill Mrs. Berkstrom, the principal, the school psychologist who had turned traitor—going from recommending him for a gifted school to recommending intensive counseling—and then every classmate he could track down until he ran out of ammunition. James B. Hansen could have started the Columbine mass-murder fad thirty-five years before it finally caught on. But Hansen would never have committed suicide during or after the act. His plan had been to kill as many people as possible—including his coughing, wheezing, useless mother—and then, like Huck Finn, light out for the territory.
But a combination of his genius-level IQ and the fact that first period had been gym—Hansen did not want to go on his killing rampage wearing silly gym trunks—made him think twice. He hauled the stowed golf bag home during his lunch break and put the M1 back in its basement storage spot. He would have time to settle scores later, he knew, when it would not require going on the run for the rest of his life, with the cops chasing what he already thought of as his "larval identity."
So two months after his mother's funeral and the sale of their Kearney house, and one month after he had dropped out of the university with no forwarding address, Hansen had returned to his hometown in the middle of the night, waited for Mrs. Berkstrom to come out to her station wagon in the dim light of the Nebraska winter morning, and shot her twice in the head with the M1, dumping the carbine in the Platte River on his way east.
He had discovered his taste for raping and killing young girls when he was twenty-three, after the failure—through no fault of his own—of his first marriage. Since then, James B. Hansen had been married seven times, although he saved real sexual satisfaction for his episodes with the young, teenage girls. Wives were good cover and part of whatever identity he was inhabiting at any given time, but their middle-aged flab and used, tired bodies held no excitement for Hansen. He considered himself a connoisseur of virgins. And terrorized virginity was precisely the bouquet and aroma of the fine wine he most enjoyed. James B. Hansen knew that the cultural revulsion from pedophilia was just another example of people pulling away furthest from what they wanted most. From time immemorial, men had wanted the youngest and freshest girls in which to plant their seed—although Hansen never planted his seed anywhere, being careful to wear condoms and latex gloves since DNA typing had become so prevalent. But where other men fantasized and masturbated, James B. Hansen acted and enjoyed.
More than once, Hansen could have found it convenient to add "gay" to his repertoire of chameleon identities, but he drew the line at that. He was no pervert.
Knowing the psychopathology of his own preferences, Hansen avoided stereotypical—and criminal "typable"—behaviors. He was now out of the age range of the average serial killer. He resisted the urge to harvest more than one kill a year. He could afford to fly whenever he wanted and took great care in spreading the victims around the country, with no geographical connection to his home location at any given time. He took no souvenirs except for photographs, and these were sealed away in his locked titanium case inside an expensive safe in his locked gun room in the basement of this house. Only he was allowed to go there. If the police found his souvenir case, then his current identity was long since blown. If his current wife or son somehow got into the room and got into the safe and found the case and somehow opened it… well, they were always expendable.
But that would not happen.
Hansen knew now that John Wellington Frears, the African-American violinist from his Chicago days two decades ago and father of Number Nine, was in Buffalo. He knew now that Frears had thought he'd seen him at the airport—which at first amazed and disturbed Hansen since he had undergone five plastic-surgery operations since Chicago and would not have recognized himself from those days—but he also knew that no one at police headquarters had given any credence at all to Frears's flutterings and sputterings. James B. Hansen was officially as dead as little Crystal Frears, and the Chicago P.D. had the dental records and photos of the charred corpse—complete with a partially identifiable Marine Corps tattoo James B. Hansen had sported—to prove it. And there was no question in his mind that others could not see any physical resemblance between the current iteration of James B. Hansen and that of his old Chicago-era persona.
Hansen had not heard the hullabaloo behind him at the airport—his hearing had been damaged slightly by too many years of practice shooting without ear protection—and did not learn about it right away at work because he had taken two days of vacation after his Florida business trip. It was always Hansen's practice to spend a day or two away from work and family after his annual Special Visit.
When Hansen did hear about Frears, his first impulse was to drive to the Airport Sheraton and blow the overrated fiddler away. He had driven to the Sheraton, but once again the cool, analytical part of his genius-level intellect prevailed. Any murder of Frears in Buffalo would lead to a homicide investigation, which would bring up the man's crank report of his airport spotting, which might involve the Chicago P.D. and some reopening of the Crystal Frears case.
Hansen considered waiting for the old black man to go back to his lonely life in New York and to his upcoming concert tour. Hansen had already downloaded the full itinerary of that tour and he thought that Denver would be a good place for a botched mugging to occur. A fatal shooting. A modest obituary in The New York Times. But that plan had problems: Hansen would have to travel to follow Frears on tour, and travel always left records; a murder in another town would mean that Hansen could have no connection with the homicide investigation. Finally, Hansen simply did not want to wait. He wanted Frears dead. Soon. But he needed someone else to be the obvious suspect—someone else not only to take the fall, but to take a bullet while resisting arrest.
Now Hansen went back into the house and moved from guest to guest laughing, telling easy stories, chuckling at his own mortality looming at the age of fifty—in truth, he had never felt stronger or smarter or more alive—all the while moving toward the kitchen
and Donna.
His pager vibrated.
Hansen looked at the number. "Shit." He didn't need these clowns screwing up his birthday. He went up to his bedroom to retrieve his cell phone—his son was on the computer and tying up the house line—and punched in the number.
"Where are you?" he asked. "What's up?"
"We're right outside your house, sir. We were in the area and have some news but didn't want to interrupt your birthday party."
"Good thinking," said Hansen. "Stay where you are." He pulled on a cashmere blazer and went down and out through a gauntlet of backslappings and well wishes. The two were waiting by their car at the end of the drive, hunkered against the falling snow and stamping their feet to stay warm.
"What happened to your vehicle?" asked Hansen. Even with only the glow from his distant porch lights, Hansen could make out the vandalism.
"Fucking homeboys tagged us when we—" began Detective Brubaker.
"Hey," said Hansen. "Watch the language." He detested obscenity and vulgarity.
"Sorry, Captain," said Brubaker. "Myers and me were following down a lead this morning when the locals spray-painted the car. We—"
"What is this important news that couldn't wait until Monday?" interrupted Hansen. Brubaker and Myers were dishonest, venial cops, associates of that murdered, crooked cop Hathaway, whom the entire department shed crocodile tears for the previous fall. Hansen detested crooked cops even more than he detested obscene language.
"Curly died," said Myers.
Hansen had to think for a second. "Henry Pruitt," he said. One of the three Attica ex-cons found on the I-90. "Did he ever regain consciousness?"
"No, sir," said Brubaker.
"Then what are you bothering me for?" There had been no real evidence on the triple killing, and none of the witnesses' descriptions from the restaurant had matched any of the other's. The uniformed cop who had been sapped remembered nothing and had become the laughingstock of his division.
"We had a thought," said Detective Myers.
Hansen restrained himself from making the obvious comment. He waited.
"A guy we had a run-in with today is an Attica ex-con," said Brubaker.
"A fourth of the population of our fair city has either been in Attica or is related to someone in Attica," said Hansen.
"Yeah, but this perp probably knew the Stooges," said Myers. "And he had a motive for offing them."
Hansen stood in the snow and waited. Some of his guests were beginning to drive off. The cocktail party had been a casual buffet affair, and only a few of his closest friends were staying for dinner.
"The Cell Block-D Mosque gang had put a fatwa out on our guy," said Brubaker. "Ten thousand dollars. A fatwa is—"
"I know what a fatwa is," said Hansen. "I'm probably the only officer in the division who's read Salman Rushdie."
"Yes, sir," said Myers, apologizing for his partner. Click and Clack.
"What's your point?" said Hansen. "That Pruitt, Tyler and Banes—" he never used nicknames or disrespectful terms for the dead "—were trying to cash in on the D-Block Mosque's bounty and your perp got them first?"
"Yes, sir," said Detective Brubaker.
"What's his name?"
"Kurtz," said Myers. "Joe Kurtz. He's an ex-con himself. Served eleven years on an eighteen-year sentence for—"
"Yes, yes," Hansen said impatiently. "I've seen his sheet. He was on the list of suspects for the Farino massacre last November. But there was no evidence to tie him to the scene."
"There never is with this Kurtz," Brubaker said bitterly. Hansen knew Brubaker was talking about the death of his pal Jimmy Hathaway. Hansen had not been in Buffalo long when Hathaway was killed, but Hansen had met the man and thought he was possibly the dumbest cop he'd ever encountered, which was saying a lot. It had been Hansen's professional opinion—shared by most of the senior officers, including those who had been in the division for years—that Hathaway's ties to the Farino mob had gotten him killed.
"Word on the street has it that Kurtz tossed that drug dealer, Malcolm Kibunte, over Niagara Falls right after he got out of Attica," offered Myers. "Just threw him right over the fucking… sorry, Captain."
"I'm getting cold," said Hansen. "What do you want?"
"We been following this Kurtz some on our own time," said Brubaker. "We'd like to make the surveillance official. Three teams can do it. Woltz and Farrell aren't assigned to anything right now and—"
Hansen shook his head. "You're it. You want surveillance on this guy, do it on department time for a few days. But don't put in for overtime."
"Aw, Chri… cripes, Captain," said Myers. "We've put in twelve hours today already and—"
Hansen cut him off with a glance. "Anything else?"
"No, sir," said Brubaker.
"Then please move this piece of junk out of my driveway," said Hansen, turning back toward his lighted house.
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
« ^ »
Angelina Farino Ferrara sat in her expensive rink-side seat at the Sabres game and waited impatiently for someone to get hurt. She did not have to wait long. Eleven minutes and nine seconds into the first period, Sabres defenseman Rhett Warrener got Vancouver Canucks captain Markus Naslund against the boards in the corner, threw him down and fractured his tibia. The crowd went wild.
Angelina hated ice hockey. Of course, she hated all organized sports, but hockey bored her the most. The potential of watching these toothless apes skate for an hour with the possibility of no score—no score at all!—made her want to scream. But then again, she had been dragged to Sabres games for almost fourteen years by her late hockey-loving father. The new arena was called HSBC, which stood for some banking thing, but everyone in Buffalo knew that it meant either "Hot Sauce, Blue Cheese" or "Holy Shit, Buffalo's Cold!"
Angelina did remember one game she had enjoyed immensely, many years ago when she was young. It was a Stanley Cup play-off game in the old Coliseum, and the season had run later than usual, deep into May. The temperature was in the low nineties when the game began, the ice was melting and setting off a thick fog, and the fog awakened scores of bats that had been hanging amidst the wooden rafters of the ancient Coliseum for years. Angelina remembered her father cursing as the fog grew so thick that even the expensive-seat holders could see almost nothing of the action, merely hear the grunts and shouts and curses from the rink as the players collided and battled in the fog, all the while the bats darted in and out of the mist, swooping among the stands, making women shriek and men curse all the louder.
Angelina had enjoyed that particular game.
Now, as trainers and medics and hulking teammates on skates huddled around the fallen Naslund, Angelina headed for the ladies' rest room.
The Boys, Marco and Leo, knuckled along beside her, squinting suspiciously at the crowd. Angelina knew that these two were decent bodyguards and button men—at least Marco seemed to be—but she also knew that they had been chosen by Stevie and that their first job was to report her actions and behavior to her brother-behind-bars. Angelina Farino Ferrara was all too familiar with public figures—Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, for one—who had been gunned down by their own turncoat security detail. She did not plan to check out that way.
At the entrance to the women's rest room, Marco and Leo continued to hulk. "Oh, for God's sake," said Angelina. "No one's lurking in the John. Go get us some beer and Cracker Jack and a hot dog. Three hot dogs." Marco nodded at Leo to go but seemed intent on staying around the women's rest room. "Go help Leo carry," she ordered.
Marco frowned but followed the other huge man around the corner toward the refreshment stand. Angelina stepped into the crowded rest room, did not see Joe Kurtz standing around in drag, and quickly stepped back out into the corridor.
Kurtz was leaning against the wall at the opening to a side hallway across the way. Angelina walked over to join him.
Kurtz kept his right hand in his peacoat pocket and nodde
d for her to walk down the narrow service corridor.
"Is that a pistol in your pocket," said Angelina, "or are you just happy to—"
"It's a pistol." Kurtz nodded for her to open the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY at the end of the hall.
Angelina took a breath and went through the door, noticing that the latch had been taped Watergate-style. A metal stairway led down to a wildly cluttered underground filled with boilers and countless pipes and valves running to the rink above. Kurtz pointed down one of the narrow walkways through the machinery, and Angelina led the way. Halfway across the space, a black man looked through the window of his office, nodded at Kurtz, and went back to his business.
"A friend of yours?" asked Angelina.
"A friend of Ben Franklin's," said Kurtz. "Up that way." Another long, metal staircase led to a side door.
They emerged at the dark end of the parking lot behind the huge heating and air-conditioning blowers.
"Spread against the wall," said Kurtz. He had removed his .40-caliber semiauto and held it steady.
"Oh, for God's sake—" began Angelina.
Kurtz moved very, very quickly, spinning her around and shoving her toward the wall so fast that she had to raise her hands or plant her face in the brick. He kicked her legs farther apart, and she thanked the gods that she had changed out of her dress into wool slacks after visiting Gonzaga earlier in the day.
Once again, Kurtz's frisk was fast and effective and impersonal, if you can call having someone's hands moving across your breasts, buttocks, thighs, and crotch impersonal. He pulled the little .45 from its holster in the small of her back and slid it into his pocket while he pawed through her purse.