Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “Nossir.”

  “How good is the info?”

  “Depends on your outlook.”

  “What?”

  “A psychic told me.”

  “A psychic.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need a vacation,” Ness said. “Some quiet time without distractions. Maybe a nice little room with white walls and wire mesh on the window. Don’t let her appearance fool you. Nurse Ratchet is really an okay gal.”

  “This lady told me what she did without any prompting or questions from me. I was dealing with her on something totally different. It just came out of her mouth. A day or two later, she didn’t recall saying it.”

  “Women do that. They don’t remember what they say, and they never forget what we say. Selective memory is the technical term.”

  “We were talking about other stuff and, right outa the blue, she gets kinda woozy and says something about the man with the knife wasn’t done, here and other places, too.”

  “You believe that shit?”

  “I don’t disbelieve it. It was a psychic that put me onto the general location where we found Ruby LaCost in that cave on the Spring River.”

  “The spider abduction lady?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen it work in other ways, too. Christ, Ness, I had the ghost of a woman murdered before I was born lead me into getting her granddaughter out of the hands of some Columbian assholes out in California. And the ghost had once lived in the same building in Kansas City I was living in at the time.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No.”

  “All right. But how is that bit of information she told you gonna help us?”

  “Got me.”

  “Can you talk to her again?”

  “I’ll see her later today on an unrelated matter. I’ll bring it up.”

  “Fuck, Crockett. I don’t believe this. You’re either totally full of shit, or I’m skipping down the yellow brick road on the way to La Land.”

  Crockett smiled. “Stranger things have happened, Loot,” he said.

  “Not to me. I’ll get what I can from Kleffner and the Feebs and be in touch. Pizza is on you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and by the way,” Ness went on. “The Bladerunner hit the daily double.”

  “What?”

  “Two corpses this time. Man and a woman.”

  Crockett put the dead phone back in its cradle and stared into his coffee.

  He was halfway through his second cup when his brain truly started to function. He picked up the phone, called the courthouse, and asked for Judge J.R. McPherson. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Deputy Crockett. Good morning to you, sir. To what do I owe the joy of this current encounter?”

  Crockett grinned. “The joy is all mine, your honor. I’m calling about the arraignment of one Lawrence Stephen Pike.”

  “Very well, sir. Proceed.”

  “Judge, the Pike boy’s father will not be around much longer. He will be leaving the country within thirty days.”

  “Indeed? How fortuitous. I must suspect, I’m afraid, that his upcoming exodus from our midst was not necessarily completely his conception.”

  “Nossir, it was not.”

  “I see. I would also assume that you, sir, might possibly be the author of certain encouragement for him to execute his upcoming departure?”

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  “I must ask you, Deputy, if your motivation resulting in this withdrawal was entirely legal.”

  “Nossir, it was not. Certain embarrassing information about the Reverend’s personal habits and past came to my attention. I presented proof of these facts to him late last night in what was either blackmail or extortion. I think you will find, however, that this morning’s arraignment of his son will be a confession of guilt, an exposure of complicity, and a plea for mercy.”

  “How refreshing. And what may I do for you, sir?”

  “Speed the sentencing and incarceration of the Pike boy. If his father’s residence is used as collateral for bond, it could influence the disposal of that property and the expedience of his resultant egress from our locality.”

  “Very well. I choose not to debate the legality of your methodology in this matter Deputy. I do, however, applaud the efficacy of that methodology. Please extend my best to your lovely bride. Good morning, sir.”

  Crockett grinned all the way down to feed the fish.

  As was usual, Crockett met Dale at the café late that afternoon. Smoot was just finishing a double cheeseburger.

  “How’d the Pike kid’s arraignment go this morning?” Crockett asked.

  “He confessed to everything. Not only the firebomb and stuff, but to harassing those women for the past year or two. Told who did it with him, the whole ball of wax. Asked for mercy and the rest of that shit. I couldn’t believe it. McPherson sentenced him on the spot. Three to five over in Licking.”

  “The South Central Correctional Center?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Christ, Dale, that’s a C-five. Maximum security! That kid doesn’t need to be in the middle of that mess. He’ll never survive.”

  “Settle down. They’ve got a whole new complex over there, behind its own wire and away from the real bad boys. Medium security for first time offenders. The kid keeps it together, he’ll be out in eighteen months.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I also heard him say his dad was moving away.”

  “No shit?”

  “What did you do, Crockett?”

  “Me?”

  “Never mind. Sorry I asked. I don’t really want to know.”

  Crockett smiled. “Chicken,” he said.

  “Damn right,” Smoot said, dropping a ten on the table. “And I intend to keep all my feathers.”

  Crockett watched the big man walk away and turned his thoughts to a nice piece of lemon pie.

  The sun was getting low when Crockett arrived at the Warner residence. Fran was standing in a room-sized scorched area in front of the singed oak tree. He de-trucked and walked over.

  “Things get outa hand when you ladies were dancin’ nekked around the fire last night?” he asked.

  Fran grinned at him. “Something about the Doobie Brothers that just makes us get silly,” she replied.

  “Ha! Everything all right?”

  “No real damage. The neighbor down the road has a tractor with a front-end loader and a backhoe. He’s gonna come up Sunday, dig out all this polluted dirt and bring in some fresh from down by the pond. We’ll seed it and have new grass this spring.”

  “Nice to have good neighbors.”

  “Especially with machinery.”

  “You guys meet every Thursday?”

  “For over thirty years.”

  “Just women?”

  “Most men can’t handle it. Of course, none of them could ever sit in that chair either.”

  “That an invitation?”

  “You need one?”

  Crockett grinned. “I told my wife about your bunch. She’s showing a little interest. She’s had a brush with a couple of things in the past year or two. Curious.”

  “She’s welcome. Strong lady.”

  “You just divine that or whatever?”

  “I’m dealing with her husband,” Fran said. “Dead giveaway.”

  Crockett laughed.

  “There’s more about you today than just a visit,” Fran went on. “What else, Crockett.”

  “You remember the guy with the knife?”

  “No.”

  “The one you said wasn’t done yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you were right. There’s been another killing. I came to see if you might know anything else.”

  Fran studied him for a moment. “I’m not a reader,” she said. “I don’t channel or throw cards or anything like that. I do charts and interpret them. That’s all. Whatever else happens, just happens. I have no control over it. I don�
��t want any control over it.”

  “I see,” Crockett said. “Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks anyway.”

  “Don’t give up,” Fran went on. “Let’s go talk to mom. She should be up by now. She had another doctor’s appointment today. That always tires her out.”

  “Oh. I hope she’s all right.”

  “She has cancer. Has had for nearly fifteen years. It’s in remission right now. She’ll be glad to see you. She says your energy is a lot like her grandfather’s.”

  Verna Warner was sitting in front of a cup of coffee at the kitchen table when they went inside. She smiled at Crockett.

  “You’re here,” she said. “Good. I was expecting you. Sit down. Coffee?”

  “No thanks,” Crockett replied. He felt a little spacey. “Nice to see you, Ms. Warner. I’m glad nobody got hurt last night.”

  “Oh, you would never have allowed that. Call me Verna. You have a question or two, I believe?”

  “Yes, ah…there have been some murders. Your daughter mentioned something about the man who does these things to me recently, but she has no memory of it. I was wondering if you might be able to, ah…if you could…”

  Verna was not there anymore. Her posture hadn’t changed, but she was somehow different. Her eyes were closed, and Crockett could see them shifting rapidly beneath their lids. He shut up and waited. After a moment or two, they opened and she seemed to be looking both at him and through him.

  “The young woman’s mother suffers selfishly from the loss of her child and doesn’t believe you will be able to help,” she said. “Her religion holds her hostage. The man who does these things feels he must. The violence and killing are not new to him. He has practiced it for years. He travels. He associates with one of the deep and the dark. He will not stop until he is stopped. It is not possible for you to even attempt to stop him unless he comes to you. At this time, that remains undecided.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then her eyes focused totally on Crockett and she smiled.

  “Pretty mysterious, huh?” she said. “Perhaps at a later time I will understand more completely or have additional information for you. It will be whatever it becomes.”

  Crockett felt like the room was tilted. “If the offer still stands, I think I will have that coffee,” Crockett said.

  Fran chuckled. “Won’t help,” she said, and got out another cup.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Ness didn’t call Crockett back until the next Tuesday.

  “What took you so long, Lieutenant?”

  “Them damn Feebs,” Ness complained. “Those shitheads would stake out a mouse hole for three days before they tried to borrow a trap and the cheese to go in it. You know how many FBI agents it takes to screw in a light bulb?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “They don’t either. They haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “You give ‘em any information on the other hits?”

  “Not a word. I don’t want those assholes underfoot, gumshoeing around my turf.”

  “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Pictures of the bodies, the scene, the autopsies, the conclusions drawn by their expert crime scene people, the usual.”

  “Any revelations?”

  “Nope. You get back to talk to that lady?”

  “Yeah. To her mother. She said this guy had done this kind of thing for years and that he travels. Says he feels he has to do it and that he won’t stop until he is stopped. She also said that I wouldn’t be able to stop him unless he came to me, or something like that.”

  “I don’t think I’d want this guy to come to me,” Ness said.

  “I’m paraphrasing what she said, but I do remember something nearly word for word. She said that he associates with one of the deep and the dark.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Got me.”

  “Like the devil? Devil worship, sacrifice, or some shit like that?”

  “Could be the dark arts or something,” Crockett said. “I have no idea. She’ll get back to me if anything comes to her.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense,” Ness said.

  “I been in this stuff before,” Crockett said. “It makes perfect sense. We just don’t have enough information to see it for what it is. When we do, it’ll all fall together, and I’ll wonder how the hell I missed it.”

  “Lunch tomorrow?” Ness asked.

  “D’Bronx?”

  “Sure. One o’clock.”

  “This stuff all fit in a shoebox?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Supposed to be a nice day. Stitch and I’ll come in on the bikes. A shoebox’ll fit in one of his bags.”

  “Bikes? Motorcycles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, Crockett. You’re a little old for a middle age crisis.”

  Crockett smiled. “I’m a little old for a lot of things, Lieutenant,” he said.

  At around three the following afternoon, Stitch and Crockett sat at the kitchen snack bar looking at the crime scene and autopsy photos.

  “Sure enough the same cat, man,” Stitch said. “Look here at the dude. Six cut attack, just like the first chick. Two to the throat, two to the inside of the thighs, assisted cut to the center chest, horizontal slash to the low belly. This cat an’ his lady were walkin’ back to the hotel or somethin’. First, he does the dude. She don’t freeze like most people would, seein’ somethin’ so, like, bloody and brutal, ya know? No man, she books it. Runs right outa one of her heels in the first couple a strides. The doer catches her ass in about forty or fifty feet. Check out this cut on the back of her thigh. Hamstrings her. She falls, does a face plant, and slides about four or five feet. Now dig this shot of the back of her neck. After he hamstrings her, he drops a knee in her back and goes for the wind gate.”

  “The what?”

  “The wind gate. Stab to either side of the spine, just below the skull at the atlas-axis. Knife goes in angled slightly upward and a little toward center. Dude is right handed, Crockett. Came in to the right of the spine. Stick it in, scramble it a little, out and gone. She’s dead. Just takes her a minute, maybe less, to get there.”

  “That’s where the two broken ribs on the autopsy report came from? His knee?”

  “Yeah. Double purpose. Knocks the wind outa her so she can’t struggle, gives him better balance for the thrust. Ya gotta hit the wind gate just right. He did. Motherfucker.”

  Crockett shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “This guy is something.”

  “He takes out the dude in, like three or four seconds,” Stitch went on, “runs the chick down in nothin’ flat, hamstrings her, changes knives, finishes her off, and is gone in a total of maybe ten seconds, man. Freaky, ya know?”

  “Changes knives?”

  “Yeah. The back of the neck thing was a stab, man, not a slash. Cat’s got at least two knives. Probably smithed them himself. Remember, most a them kinda cats do. Hell, he may carry a throwin’ knife or two. Anything under thirty or forty feet, man, an’ a gun ain’t gonna give you no advantage with this dude at all. One scary fucker.”

  “Special Forces trained, huh?”

  “This shithead left special forces behind, man. A lot of them cats, Rangers an’ SEALs an’ shit, do what they do ‘cause it’s fun, dude. Lot a difference doin’ this shit because it is fun, than doin’ it for fun. This motherfucker is sick, and this shit is his medicine. Looks like he’s pickin’ up the pace. That old chick said this guy travels and does this?”

  “More or less.”

  “No tellin’ what his body count is. Unless all his shit is investigated by one federal agency, there’s no way of tellin’. Indiana don’t know what’s goin’ on in Colorado, man. Georgia don’t know shit about Michigan, ya know? These could be his last kills here. Go to Ohio or someplace and start over fresh. No trail. Surprise!”

  “It’s true,” Crockett said, “that most serial killers have a trigger of some kind that sets them off and sta
rts the ball rolling. And it’s true that most of them accelerate in violence, frequency, or both. However, it is also true that from time to time one of these guys will take a year, two years, or even more off, until something sets him on the road again. Some of the toughest investigations were of guys who traveled in different states, even if those states were in generally the same part of the country. Plus this guy is a pro at what he does. He’s trained on how to do it, logistics, evasion, escape, and a whole lot of other shit most cops, including the celebrated Eff, Bee and Eye, never come up against. Jesus, what a mess.”

  “Maybe this cat’ll get hit by a bus, man.”

  “Better be a really big bus,” Crockett said.

  Crockett got into work a little late that evening and missed Dale at the café. He settled for the usual bland coffee and made his escape as soon as politeness would allow. Just as he was leaving town, headquarters called.

  “HQ to Hart two.”

  “Go ahead, headquarters.”

  “Hart two, return to post one please. See the man.”

  Now what? “Ten-four HQ. Two minutes.”

  The man turned out to be Keith Underwood. He and his wife, Suzanne, were waiting for Crockett in the tiny lobby. The stood, shoulder touching shoulder, smiling nervously, as Crockett walked into the room.

  “Well,” Crockett said. “Hello you two. Are those smiles I detect on your faces?”

  “Yes, they are,” Keith replied, stepping forward and offering Crockett his hand. “Suzanne and I wanted to stop by and thank you for the way you handled our little, ah, difficulty the night I parked the truck in my house.”

  “You did a really nice thing for me that night,” Suzanne said. “You didn’t do it nicely, but you did it. Most people wouldn’t have had the interest or taken the time to, ah, set me straight. But you did. I didn’t like it very much when it happened, but I like it a lot now.”

  Keith picked up the ball. “And you didn’t shoot me,” he said. “I consider that a significant kindness.”

  Crockett couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Thank God for your attitude,” he said. “I was afraid the two of you were here for revenge.”