Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  “You don’t have to tell me the guy was tough,” Kearns said, pointing to the stitches on his head. “I danced with him, remember?”

  “You must be a bit of a badass yourself to have survived the encounter. But your peers at the sheriff’s department don’t believe that, do they? They think there was something more you could have done. They think you should have stopped him. Prevented the kidnapping and murder. They’re confused about why you survived and the kid didn’t.”

  Kearns kneaded the steering wheel, his face flushing.

  “You and I know something those fools will never know,” Farrell said. “We know who and what Vernon Slocum is. He left his mark on us both.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He kidnapped and murdered a Vietnamese kid in Saigon. Left him hanging from a lamppost just like Tiffany Meade. Couple of my men caught him; he damn-near killed them both. During the investigation I discovered he’d been doing a lot of that kind of thing out in the bush. The other Marines in his unit looked the other way; they were afraid to take him on.”

  “I can see why. But you said you caught him. Why wasn’t he locked up?”

  “I’m not sure how familiar you are with the history of the Vietnam era, but if you view it in the context of the times, it’s not hard to figure out. This was in ‘67, before the Tet Offensive and My Lai Four. A boy-next-door Marine, buttfucking little children and hanging them in the trees with their throats cut? Wouldn’t sound too good coming from Walter Cronkite on the evening news.”

  “Same modus operandi as the schoolyard,” Kearns said.

  “You got it. Slocum would go into a village with his unit, usually on a long-range patrol, and they would burn the village to the ground. Before they left he would leave one of his little playthings hanging from the trees.”

  “His superior officers knew about this? They condoned this behavior?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘condoned’ is the right word. His officers were out in the field with him for very long periods of time. Not only were they dependent on his considerable skills to survive, they were entirely at his mercy should they piss him off.”

  “I get it. Nobody in his unit would rat on him for fear he’d frag them. How did your men catch him?”

  Farrell pulled his flask from his side pocket. “He was wounded, and was sent to Saigon for treatment. Nothing serious; otherwise he’d have been shipped to Japan. But he forgot he wasn’t in the bush; he killed a kid in downtown Saigon.”

  “That must have been political dynamite.”

  “You ain’t kidding. It started a race riot. The two of my men who confronted him ended up a lot worse off than you. They had to shoot him.”

  “So what happened?”

  Farrell took a quick sip from his flask. “The government couldn’t very well bring charges against him. That would mean a court martial, and a court martial couldn’t be contained. It would expose the many other crimes Slocum committed in the field. War crimes. Crimes other Marines witnessed, along with Marine officers. That would have been extremely embarrassing to the war effort. It would have been impossible to keep out of the press.”

  “So they buried it?”

  “What else could they do? It was 1967, remember? The war was just starting to lose popularity at home. Most people still viewed the US forces as the good guys fighting for democracy and the American way. Nobody was paying attention yet to the hippies chanting that Uncle Sam was turning America’s hometown boys into baby-killers. If what Vernon Slocum did leaked out, America would pay attention.”

  “Let’s not embarrass ourselves over a few dead kids?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And they just let this Slocum guy walk?”

  “I don’t think they let him walk,” Farrell said. “I think they put him on ice.”

  “On ice?”

  “He didn’t go to Leavenworth, because I checked. And as far as I could tell, he never served time in any civilian prison. I had access to that information at work.”

  Farrell glanced out the window at the falling snow.

  “I guessed they locked him up in one of the VA hospitals somewhere; it would be the perfect place to stash him. Turns out I was right.”

  “Why a VA hospital?” asked Kearns.

  “Veterans’ hospitals have psych wards. A lot of guys come back from combat with their brains scrambled worse than their bodies. I figured the navy had Slocum locked up in a VA hospital psych-ward under the guise of being a mentally disturbed combat casualty. That way they could dope him up and keep him docile. Make him a zombie, and nobody would be the wiser.”

  “Now I know why we went to the veterans’ hospital. But how’d you know his records would be in the Des Moines facility?”

  “Slocum was from Iowa,” Farrell said with a shrug. “And after I read in the paper about the kidnapping of the Meade girl, I put two and two together.”

  “So you learned about the kidnapping from the San Francisco newspaper and figured it had to be the same guy?” Kearns couldn’t hide the disbelief in his face.

  “Look, kid,” Farrell said with a hard grin. “You’re a cop long enough, you stop believing in coincidence. There couldn’t be two guys who snatch their victims in a military raid and hang them up in the trees after sexually assaulting them. If there are, we’re in a world of trouble.”

  “You’re right. It’s too distinct. What you said just now, about the military raid? What did you mean?”

  “From what the newspapers said the suspect drove up to the schoolyard, got out of his car, and snatched a kid in broad daylight. Then shot a teacher who tried to intervene. That about how it went down?”

  Kearns’ stomach tightened. “That’s how it went down.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s Slocum’s signature. He didn’t take the kid quietly, on the sly, like he was afraid of getting caught. Most sex offenders would have waited till their victim was alone and nobody was looking; they wouldn’t want to get arrested. Slocum took his victim as if he was on a military raid, like in Vietnam. During the war, he was a member of a long-range reconnaissance unit whose mission was to penetrate deep into the jungle and disrupt the enemy at his home. Guerrilla tactics; gun and run. Most of that sort of thing was credited to Special Forces, Ranger units, and Navy SEALs, but a lot of it was done by the Corps in the delta regions with fair success. Slocum is merely following a pattern like he’s still in Vietnam. He commits his crimes like he’s in combat; not like a criminal trying to avoid apprehension and prosecution. Slocum isn’t a criminal. In his twisted mind, he’s still at war.”

  “That sounds pretty far-fetched.”

  “Maybe so. But when you’ve been a cop as long as I have, very little seems far-fetched anymore. Especially when it comes to sex crimes.”

  “Is that what you did for SFPD?” asked Kearns. “Sex crimes investigation?”

  “No. I was Property Crimes Inspector.”

  Both men were momentarily silent.

  Finally Kearns spoke, looking over at Farrell with narrowed eyes.

  “OK, Mister Farrell; you’ve explained a lot. But it still doesn’t answer all my questions. Why involve me? You didn’t need me to prove it was Slocum, you knew it already. By dragging me along you put me in deep shit.”

  “You can afford it, Deputy. You’re bought and paid for. You were marked as a scapegoat long before I came into the picture.”

  “How can they make me the bad guy?”

  “I told you: because the public is outraged and looking for someone to blame. Every time a ghastly crime occurs John Q Citizen screams, ‘Why didn’t you cops prevent it?’ Your boss, the good sheriff, has his job only with the support of the voting public. The investigation, from what I can tell, has gone stale. It’s in the damage-control phase now. It’s switched from a criminal hunt to a witch-hunt. And you’re riding the broom.”

  “I did all I could.”

  “I believe you. But do you honestly believe the people in th
ese parts are ever going to forgive and forget?”

  Kearns hung his head.

  Farrell rubbed his chin. “I can even tell you how they’re going to do you in. You signed your own death warrant when you punched out that FBI agent.”

  “That rotten bastard said it was my fault that the kid got killed.”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t deserve it. I’m saying you’ll be portrayed as an irresponsible hothead. It’ll be implied your lack of judgment, or your inexperience, or your temper, had something to do with your inability to prevent the kidnapping. Nothing will be stated outright, but the implication alone will be enough for people to draw conclusions. I’ve seen it done before, and nobody does character assassination better than the FBI. The press will be more than willing to help. It sells papers.”

  The men’s eyes met, and Kearns knew the older cop was right.

  “They’ve got to cover their asses,” Farrell said. “That’s just the way it is. If you believe the sheriff, and Scanlon, and the rest of those fucks aren’t going to sell you down the river, you’re even greener than I thought. Let me ask you something; has anybody yet made a statement to the press, or to anyone for that matter, in your support? Has anyone come out and said, ‘Deputy Kearns is a good cop who put his life on the line and did all he could to save a little girl’?”

  “No one’s risen to my defense. They all keep looking at me with those accusing eyes. They don’t have to say a word. I know what they’re thinking.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re thinking, ‘How did you let him get away with that child, Deputy Kearns? Why didn’t you stop him, Deputy Kearns? Why are you still alive, Deputy Kearns?’”

  He put his face in his hands. Through his fingers he said, “Sergeant Evers didn’t want me to see the crime scene photos, but I did. They were on his desk. I saw the kid hanging upside down in a tree. Her eyes were open.”

  He took his face from his hands. “Every time I close my eyes I see those pictures. And the whole scene at the schoolyard replays in my mind. I can only sleep for a couple of hours at a time before I wake up. I don’t even want to sleep anymore; I dread it.”

  “That’s why I involved you.”

  Kearns snapped his face around to stare at Farrell.

  “What?”

  “That’s why I brought you along. Sure, I wanted to be certain it was Slocum, so I had you look at the photograph from his medical file. Except I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to get his medical file, or that it contained a photograph.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Jesus, you’re dense.” Farrell paused a moment. “I brought you with me today because I thought you’d want to join me. I’m going after Slocum. Not with the FBI, or the sheriff’s department, or anybody else. I’m going to get him so this time he’ll stay got.” Farrell’s eyes met Kearns’ dead on. “I thought you’d want in.”

  Kearns was dumbfounded. “If the FBI can’t do it, what makes you think we can?”

  Farrell laughed out loud for several seconds. “The illustrious FBI wants to catch Slocum alright, but they’ve got to play by the rules. They’ve got to get search warrants, and court orders, and be careful not to violate anybody’s civil rights, or do anything that might tarnish the Bureau’s sterling image.”

  Farrell stopped chuckling and his expression hardened. “And while they’re getting legal writs, and organizing task forces, and holding press conferences, Vernon Slocum is out there. Whose son or daughter will be next?”

  “It seems like a long shot.”

  A mischievous grin widened over Farrell’s face. “The FBI doesn’t even know who they’re after; we do. And all we have to do is catch him. We don’t have to play by the rules. We can lie, cheat, steal; do whatever is necessary to locate the bastard and punch his ticket.”

  “So that’s why all the bullshit today,” Kearns said. He pointed to the faded photo of Slocum lying on the dashboard. “You’re covering your tracks. Nobody will ever know where the file went.”

  Farrell smiled. “You learn fast, Deputy.”

  Kearns hesitated. “I’ve got to think about this for a minute. You’re asking me to break the law.”

  “You’ve already broken the law. What’re a few broken laws, more or less, if we nail Slocum?”

  “Don’t rush me. It’s not like I’m deciding what brand of beer to order.”

  Farrell stuck another cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

  “I’m hunting Vernon Slocum,” he said around the Camel in his lips, “whether you’re with me or not. I’m offering you a chance to accompany me for several reasons, not the least of which is because he is extremely dangerous. You’re young, strong, and tough, and I’m not proud: I need the help. But if you’re not interested, say so. I’ll take you back to the sheriff’s department and you can take your chances with the FBI.”

  “You’re offering me a chance to redeem myself, aren’t you?”

  Farrell exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “You wouldn’t be letting me tag along out of pity?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Twenty years ago I let the most vicious criminal I’ve ever known slip through my fingers because I didn’t want to rock the boat. I figured the system would take care of him. And after thirty years of Special Agent Scanlons, and Tiffany Meades, and Vernon Slocums, I’ve learned differently. The system is fucked.”

  Farrell took a deep drag on his cigarette. His eyes became distant.

  “You’re not the only one who has nightmares, Deputy.”

  “We’re talking vigilante stuff, aren’t we?”

  “Call it what you want,” Farrell said. “I’m on Slocum’s trail, with or without you. You in or out?” He extended his flask to the deputy, waiting for an answer.

  “What have I got to lose?” Kearns accepted the flask. He took a long gulp of bourbon, wincing as it burned down his throat.

  “I’m in.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Buddy Cuszack was huddled on the passenger’s seat of the truck. He hadn’t moved since he and Slocum left Zeke Fornier’s place in flames several hours earlier. Both men smelled heavily of sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and hard liquor. Cuszack also smelled of vomit.

  It had taken over four hours to drive the thirty miles to the interstate from Coon Rapids, and they wouldn’t have made it without the truck’s four-wheel drive. Darkness had fallen by the time the duo reached I-80.

  The storm subsided somewhat, but traffic on the highway was scarce. Slocum hoped by the time they reached the Missouri River the storm would subside completely. Council Bluffs, only twenty miles away, would take an hour to reach at the pace they were traveling. Slocum was anxious to be west of Iowa.

  Cuszack sat wearily up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. He ran his filthy hands through his thick hair and beard. When his eyes finally focused, he saw Slocum behind the steering wheel driving them through the storm.

  “Hey Buddy,” Slocum said, in his deep, gravelly voice. “How you feelin’?”

  “I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack.”

  “Here you go.” Slocum handed Cuszack several items extracted from the pocket of his fatigue jacket. “This’ll make you feel better. Go ahead, eat something.”

  Cuszack accepted a can of sliced peaches. The thought of eating made Cuszack feel like vomiting again, but he didn’t want to offend Slocum. Slocum handed him a multi-bladed pocketknife.

  “It’s got a can opener, and a fork and spoon. Drink all the juice. You need some fluids in you.”

  Cuszack stared incredulously at the big former Marine. How could anyone be so utterly savage one minute and nurturing the next? It made him nervous. Not nervous enough, however, to disobey.

  “Thanks, Vern,” he mumbled. “I could use something in me besides Jack Daniel’s.” Cuszack had the can opened in no time and was surprised to find the peaches delicious. He was apparently hungrier than he’d initially thought.
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  In better spirits, and with peach juice soaking his beard, Cuszack asked, “Where we going?”

  In response, Slocum offered his pack of Pall Malls and Zippo. Cuszack first lit Slocum’s cigarette, and then his own.

  “We’re going west.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you want to go?”

  “I got a trailer back in Coon Rapids and dogs to feed.”

  “Forget that shit,” Slocum said. “It’s behind you.”

  Buddy didn’t answer. He slurped down the last of the peaches and tossed the can onto the floor of the truck.

  “We’re soldiers, you and me. Our whole lives, that’s what we been the best at. Everything else we’ve done, we’ve been complete fuck-ups.”

  “Ah, it ain’t as bad as all that.”

  “It’s the truth, and you know it. Look at you. You was a gopher for a scumbag dope dealer who treated you like a dog. It’s all you been since the war, somebody’s dog. You was a fuckpunk in the VA hospital, remember? And you’re a fuckpunk now.”

  Tears started down Cuszack’s face. “Vern, that ain’t true.”

  But he knew it was.

  “It don’t have to be that way, Buddy. You don’t have to be a sniveling fuck all your life. You was a soldier once. You was a crew chief on a chopper in the Air-Cav, remember?”

  Cuszack wiped snot from his nose and smoked his cigarette. He wouldn’t look Slocum in the eye.

  “I took care of you in the VA hospital, didn’t I? I looked out for you.”

  “Yeah, Vern, but–”

  “But nothing. I put you on your feet; gave you some fucking pride and dignity back. I done the same for you last night. Only you’re too fucking stupid to know it.”

  “That ain’t true,” Buddy slobbered. “Zeke and Wolf were my friends, man.”

  “They wasn’t your friends. They treated you like a slave. You were so fucked up all the time, you couldn’t see it. Just like you can’t see what I done for you last night. I freed you. Like in the VA. You owe me, Buddy.”

  Hearing Slocum say those words again sent chills down Cuszack’s spine. He’d heard them before; in the VA hospital, and last night before entering Zeke’s house and unleashing a bloodbath.