by Sean Lynch
Farrell told Kearns at length about what he’d seen at the hotel. He listened in fascination as Farrell related the details of the dead hooker, strung upside down, blood dripping from her slit throat. Inside the hotel lobby Farrell overheard Omaha PD detectives discussing the crime, and at one point had the audacity to light their cigarettes.
There was no way it couldn’t have been Slocum. The modus operandi was identical, with one big exception: this time, Slocum had an accomplice.
It was just like the schoolyard in Iowa. More like a military raid than a crime. The hotel bouncers were dealt with in counter-ambush style. The upside-down prostitute made it certain. It was Lance Corporal Vernon Slocum, alright.
It was late afternoon. Farrell crammed another smoldering Camel butt into an ashtray already so full Kearns thought the entire tray would come careening down in a cancerous avalanche. Farrell refilled his cup with lukewarm coffee and added three fingers of bourbon.
As much as Farrell drank, he never seemed to get drunk. Like many long-time drinkers, he had a perfect knowledge of his alcoholic beverage tolerance. He also had a lot of practice in maintaining the outward appearance of sobriety.
“Want a snort?” Farrell asked, holding the pint towards Kearns.
“I’ll pass.”
“You don’t approve of drinking?”
“If I gave it any thought, I suppose I would.”
Farrell shook his head, grinning. “You’ve got to learn to lighten up, Kevin. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”
“Considering the trouble I’m in, an ulcer would be a walk in the park.”
Farrell took a sip and set down the cup. Turning in the seat to face Kearns he said, “It’s time to stop wallowing, OK?”
Kearns sat up abruptly to face the older man. He started to speak, but Farrell cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“I never promised this was going to be a trip to Disneyland. I never said if we caught Slocum we’d live happily ever after. All I promised was a crack at bagging him.”
Farrell started to light another cigarette, than changed his mind and threw the unlit smoke to the floor of the car. He pointed his finger at Kearns.
“You knew what kind of mess you were in a split second after you punched out that FBI guy. He did nothing more than say what’s always going to be on everybody’s mind. No matter where you go, somebody is always going to wonder what happened in that schoolyard. You can’t punch out the whole world.”
“You expect me to just forget about it? Win a few, lose a few?”
“I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. You’re going to have to work it out for yourself. But I can tell you what not to do, and that’s to let this thing eat your insides out. It will ruin the rest of your life if you let it.”
“What life?”
“That’s exactly the kind of self-pity I’m talking about. Poor Deputy Kearns. Woe is he. Enough. You think you’ve got it rough? I’ll bet Tiffany Meade would trade places with you.”
“That was below the belt.”
“If that’s where I’ve got to hit to reach you that’s where I’ll hit.”
Farrell’s voice softened. “You know I’m right. You’ve got to get over your guilt. Punishing yourself serves no purpose. You did all you could, and it’s time to put the doubt behind you. Not that I really give a shit. If you want to slobber in angst the rest of your days, fine by me. But right now I need you focused. I need your complete concentration if we’re going to come out of this in one piece. You know what Vernon Slocum is, and he isn’t acting alone; he’s got an accomplice. You’d better get your head out of your butt, or when we meet up with Slocum he’s going to bury us.”
Kearns nodded sullenly.
“And I know what else is eating you. You think that because of what happened you’ll never be a cop again. Even if we escape indictment, this will prevent any police or sheriff’s department from ever taking you on. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Of course it’s bothering me. I’ve lost my profession before I even started it.”
“Believe me, you should be glad. I’ve been a cop thirty years, and what have I got to show for it? I’ve been divorced twice and have a daughter that grew up without me. I live in a dive, drink too much, smoke too much, and was as desperate for a shot at Slocum as you were. Your reason for stalking him isn’t much different than mine.”
“How can you say that?” Kearns blurted. “You’ve had your career. You’ve been a cop; you’ve caught a lot of bad guys. What’s one more, give or take?”
Farrell laughed, unnerving Kearns a little. “Kid, I’ve wasted my life doing the job. I have nothing to show for it but a pension. I was forgotten the day I retired. My only mistake was being like you; young and full of ideals, and believing I could make a difference.”
He turned to stare out the windshield into the gray sky. “Kevin, it’s all shit. As a cop, all you’ll ever do is make apologies to victims and get eaten up inside with frustration. Frustration at a rotten system that was loused up beyond repair long before you pinned on a badge.”
“If you’re so disillusioned why are you here tracking Slocum? Why aren’t you back in San Francisco taking it easy in retirement?”
Farrell turned back to stare at Kearns. “I already told you; because I’m taking Slocum out. Thirty lousy years of watching the system fail has made me want to do something right. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do. Or lose.”
Kearns fidgeted uneasily at Farrell’s words.
“You and I aren’t so different. I’m a reflection of you; your personal Dorian Gray. Maybe I’ve dumped all my frustration and regret on Vernon Slocum. Maybe it’s torn me up all these years, knowing he’s out there somewhere and that I’m responsible. If I’d done the right thing in Saigon, a Christmas stocking with the name Tiffany Meade embroidered on it wouldn’t be sitting empty by the fireplace this year. And maybe a good cop would be at home patrolling his beat, instead of parked in the snow with a drunk, fighting off his conscience.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“Don’t be. You asked, so you’re going to listen. You want to know why I’m here? You think you’re the only one wrestling with guilt? You think you’ve cornered the market on self-pity? You’re wrong.”
Farrell went on, his face tight. “At least you had a shot at him. At least you went toe-to-toe with the motherfucker. You got to feel his blood under your knuckles.”
His voice sounded far away.
“I knew what Slocum was all those years ago in Vietnam. Pure evil. I saw it face to face. I talked with it. And I stood there, slack-jawed, and let him get away. I told myself that it was wartime and it wasn’t my concern. I’d go back to the States and forget. Go on with my police career. Be a good cop. I tried.”
Farrell took a deep breath. “But evil doesn’t go away; it’s got to be vanquished. And once you’ve seen it you can’t forget. The blood of Tiffany Meade is on my hands as much as yours. I knew what Slocum was, and I didn’t even try to take him out when I had the chance.”
Long minutes passed in silence. Kearns ran his hands through his short hair.
“I could use that drink now, Bob.”
Farrell grinned and uncorked his pint of bourbon. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I didn’t mean to climb on a soapbox. Maybe I’m drinking too much.” He shrugged. “Or not enough.”
Farrell was pouring whisky into Kearns’ Styrofoam cup when the deputy abruptly pulled his hand away. He ignored his spilled beverage and began hastily wiping off the condensation from the windshield of the Oldsmobile.
“Jesus, Kevin, you dumped it all over–”
“Look! That truck!” Kearns exclaimed. “It’s him! It’s Slocum! He’s driving that truck! Do you see it?”
Farrell spit his cigarette out the window and reached below the seat. He came up with the Remington. He racked a round into the chamber.
“Yeah, I see it,” Farrell said. “It’s him alright. Do you recognize t
he other guy?”
“I’ve never seen him before.” He hoped the tremor in his voice went unnoticed. He took his revolver from its holster and checked the six cartridges in the cylinder. He glanced over at Farrell, who was calmly staring back at him, a confident look in his eyes.
CHAPTER 28
Elizabeth Pauline Slocum sat up in bed and tried to fluff the pillows beneath her to a more comfortable shape. She’d been bedridden for three days with a severe bout of the flu.
Elizabeth missed work, even when away for the two or three days a year she took sick. Though a sturdy woman, Elizabeth suffered badly during the winter months as she fought off the annual respiratory infections that spelled possible pneumonia.
She was a full-time counselor and administrator at a youth shelter funded by the Catholic Diocese. The facility specialized in problem children under the age of sixteen. Elizabeth herself had been such a child, and first learned of the home as one of its guests at age thirteen.
Elizabeth was taken to the home after being removed from her own in Ogden, Iowa. She was the youngest of four children, and two of her three brothers were in Vietnam. Many of the memories from that time in her life, the time before the shelter in Omaha, she’d tried to block out. Mostly she was successful, but sometimes the dreams returned and things she thought long buried would dredge up to her consciousness.
She remembered beatings; savage, brutal beatings. She remembered always being cold, and in darkness. She vaguely remembered the outline of her mother’s face, and warm feelings associated with that image. Elizabeth recalled constant screaming, and her brothers scrambling about a cluttered room, cowering in fear. Elizabeth remembered fear very well.
She remembered the sticky-sweet alcohol smell always surrounding her father. She remembered nights when he came into the tiny, dirty room where she and her three brothers slept on a mattress on the floor. Her father would take one, or all, of the boys to his room each night. Elizabeth would try to close her ears with her tiny hands, but she couldn’t shut out the screams. Then one night her father started coming for her.
By the time she was in junior high school, the pale, sickly Elizabeth Slocum attracted the attention of one of her teachers; a kind woman who somehow aroused in Elizabeth the faded images of her mother. Elizabeth had pneumonia and if the teacher hadn’t taken her to the doctor she wouldn’t have lived through the winter.
It was at the hospital that the physicians examining Elizabeth discovered the overwhelming evidence of long-term physical and sexual abuse. The sheriff’s department was called, and when deputies kicked in the door of the squalid farmhouse the only person they found was Emil Jensen Slocum. Of his three other children, two were in Vietnam, and the youngest, Cole, had run away. With two exceptions, Elizabeth had not seen any member of her family since.
Elizabeth grew to womanhood under the gentle guidance and care of the nuns at the shelter. There she regained her health and learned nights didn’t have to be filled with the screams of children.
Elizabeth loved the youth shelter, and when it came time for her to leave she did not. She earned a work scholarship at Creighton University, and spent all of her free time doing volunteer work at the shelter. After graduation she continued her education, working her way through graduate studies in psychology as a full-time counselor at the home she loved. Memories of her childhood in hell gradually faded.
Elizabeth bought a modest home and lived alone. She never thought to take a husband; she was too busy helping the endless number of children who needed her.
In 1984 Elizabeth received word her brother Vernon was in the veterans’ hospital in Des Moines. She knew her oldest brother Wade was killed in Vietnam, because she’d been the recipient of his military death benefits. She assumed that because she’d never heard from Vernon he’d died in the war as well.
On a hot July afternoon Elizabeth Slocum climbed into her Volkswagen van and headed for Des Moines. She wasn’t sure why she’d gone, but did. The five-hour drive to Des Moines was an odd journey back into feelings she thought she’d long forgotten, and she was anxious and uncertain when she pulled into the parking lot of the VA hospital.
Elizabeth Slocum hadn’t seen her brother Vernon since she was twelve. She stepped hesitantly into the hospital and was led by an orderly to a room where visitors were allowed to meet with patients. She wouldn’t soon forget what transpired next.
She walked into a clean, white-walled room which smelled of ammonia. Several men were there and most didn’t look up when she entered. The men were unsettling.
Elizabeth was accustomed to working with children who had been severely traumatized in one way or another. She wasn’t prepared for what she saw in these men, however.
Most of the men looked drugged, and Elizabeth guessed that was indeed what caused their appearance. From her psychology studies, she knew many patients in VA hospitals were battle-crazed, violent men, who couldn’t return to the civilized world from a place where violence and killing had once been a way of life. Yet these men didn’t seem violent. They were blank; human voids where minds had been. She searched through the maze of doped faces for her brother, uncertain she would recognize him.
Suddenly there he was. Elizabeth recoiled in horror, stifling a scream. It was the face of her father. He was sitting at a card table staring at her.
A rush of memories choked Elizabeth’s confused mind. He was big; as big as her father, with the same angular jaw and broad shoulders. He had a look of coiled power, like a snake at rest. Yet it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. Eyes so brimming with evil she took an involuntary step backwards. She wanted desperately to look away, but couldn’t. Vernon’s eyes drew her into them.
Elizabeth felt twelve years old again, and in the grip of an unspeakable fear. Her older brother Vernon sat leering, a grin spreading over his face. He sensed the fear in her and relished it. He looked, to Elizabeth, like a predatory animal. She began to tremble.
She wanted to scream, but no words came. She wanted to run, but was fixed to the spot like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Vernon’s eyes bored into her. His yellow teeth gleamed large and bright, accentuating his resemblance to a ravening insect. He began to laugh; a guttural bellow that made Elizabeth put her hands over her ears; she’d heard that laugh before. Her mind was a whirlwind. She struggled to remain composed and suppress the victim inside her.
She saw the object of Vernon’s mirth and was instantly repulsed. Below the card table, Vernon had the drawstring of his trousers untied. He was holding his erect penis in his hand. He leered at Elizabeth, his eyes scorching holes in her soul. Choking back sobs, she turned and fled down the hospital corridor. Vernon’s malignant laughter echoed in the halls behind her. She never went back.
The years passed. Elizabeth put aside the experience at the veterans’ hospital. She devoted her time and energy to the youth shelter, and when not there scoured the welfare departments of the Tri-State area looking for abused children to add to her flock.
And now, a few weeks before Christmas, she’d taken sick again. Elizabeth suspected she would. She took sick every year at the first snow. Her propensity towards respiratory illness was a remnant of her tortured childhood.
She didn’t sit idle at home. It had been nothing short of a blizzard in the Iowa/Nebraska area for almost a week solid, and she was busy with planning the holidays at the Siddartha House. She was also polishing the outline for a lecture she was to give at the community college in January.
Elizabeth sat in bed, a cup of tea at her elbow and books and notes on her lap. An earlier weather report warned Omaha residents to prepare for several more days of sub-zero temperatures and snow.
She was viewing a VCR tape she’d made of the Phil Donahue Show. The episode dealt with child abuse, and Elizabeth was gathering popular culture resources for her lecture. She’d just finished fluffing the pillows around her when a loud and insistent knock sounded on her front door.
; Elizabeth carefully set aside her tea and padded to the front door. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
When Elizabeth opened the door the first thing she met was a blast of brutally cold air. It stung both her eyes and lungs. The second thing she met was no less unpleasant.
Standing on Elizabeth Pauline Slocum’s porch was as scruffy-looking a man as she’d ever seen. He was of medium height, but extremely thin. The heavy work clothes he wore hung on him like a scarecrow. He had long, greasy hair and a beard. Even in the cold wind, Elizabeth could smell the aroma of unwashed body. He looked about fifty years old. His face was emaciated, and a coat of grime covered the portions of it not hidden by hair. She had never seen him before.
“Can I help you?” Elizabeth asked, stifling a cough.
“You Elizabeth Slocum?” the man asked in a rough voice.
“Yes I am. May I help you?”
Elizabeth knew if she stood much longer in the freezing doorway pneumonia was certain. She was not overly concerned the strange man knew her name, because it was listed in the telephone directory and engraved on her mailbox. She was more concerned with getting back to the warmth of her bed.
“I got a message for you. From your brother.”
Elizabeth was confused. “From who–”
The man pushed her forcefully back through the doorway and into the hall. He darted in after her and closed the door. It happened within an instant. Her eyes widened when the man drew a revolver. Elizabeth couldn’t know it was taken from the body of an Iowa state trooper. The man lit a cigarette and smiled, showing several missing teeth.
“What do you want?” Elizabeth asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice.
“Like I said,” the man drawled, exhaling smoke. “I got a message for you. Vernon sends his regards.”
Elizabeth’s memory was jarred at the sound of the name. “Vernon? Is Vernon here?”
“He’ll be along in a minute,” the man said casually. “I’m his partner. We figured you might be looking out the window. Thought you might recognize Vernon and freak out. So I came first to make sure the coast was clear. Pretty smart, huh?”