by Sean Lynch
Some parts of the puzzle were beginning to piece themselves together, but not fast enough for Scanlon. He was riding a lot of heat from the assistant director in Washington, and the press was more relentless than ever. So far, he’d been able to explain away some of the setbacks his task force suffered by implying Kearns was somehow implicated in the slayings himself, a speculation that the deputy’s behavior and the physical evidence increasingly seemed to support.
Yet Scanlon didn’t really believe Kearns was associated with the killings. Even his shooting of Brent Cuszack, an apparent cop-killer, on Elizabeth Slocum’s porch was clearly justified. But he wouldn’t publicly admit that until Kearns, his accomplices, and the suspect were in custody and the investigation concluded.
There was another lead in an incident at the VA hospital in Des Moines, but Scanlon and his team couldn’t correlate its significance. It was reported Kearns and his elder sidekick gained unlawful entry into the records division of the facility. But what they learned there, and what, if anything, they’d taken, remained a mystery. The records archive of the government hospital was in such disarray that agents couldn’t even determine which portion of the vast storage area Kearns and his partner breached.
And so it seemed Scanlon’s only tangible and available lead was the Slocum woman. Her doctor told Scanlon’s men she was not to be disturbed. The doctor ignored Scanlon’s insistence that he was on the trail of a killer and a renegade cop who was possibly aiding that killer, and needed immediate access to the injured woman. The physician was adamant, and refused to let Scanlon talk to Elizabeth Slocum. Especially after the donnybrook between Kearns and the Omaha FBI agent staking out her room.
Scanlon was furious over the incident. Kearns and a female accomplice entered the Critical Care Unit under false pretenses. They not only incapacitated and disarmed the special agent guarding Elizabeth Slocum, but pulled the hospital’s fire alarm to cover their escape, another felony charge to add to Kearns’ burgeoning list.
Whatever it was Kearns learned from Elizabeth, he risked a great deal to obtain it. And the older man with Kearns risked no less, burglarizing Elizabeth’s house while it was under FBI surveillance.
No matter how much the doctors protested, Scanlon was determined to interrogate Elizabeth Slocum. She was critical to the investigation, and he desperately needed to find out what Kearns and his accomplice risked so much to know.
Scanlon walked to the nurses’ station. A special agent from the Omaha FBI office was sitting in a folding chair in front of Elizabeth Slocum’s room perusing a copy of People magazine with Sean Penn and Madonna featured on the cover and a headline announcing their impending divorce. When Scanlon entered he dropped the magazine and stood up.
“I’m here to see Elizabeth Slocum,” Scanlon said in his nasal twang. “And I want to see her now.” When he said this, he flashed his gold badge and ID at the nurse sitting at the station.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the nurse said. “I’m to let no one see her. Her doctor was very insistent.”
“I’m countermanding those orders.”
Scanlon walked past the nurse, ignoring her commands to stop. She picked up a phone and began dialing. Scanlon strode over to the agent who’d been guarding Slocum’s room.
“I don’t care if you have to shoot somebody, I want at least five minutes alone with the broad. You read me?”
“Loud and clear,” the agent said.
Scanlon walked into the room and found Elizabeth Slocum sitting in bed, looking pale and drained. A translucent tube protruded from her nostrils, but her eyes were alert and focused. They widened at Scanlon’s entrance.
“I’m Special Agent Steve Scanlon of the Des Moines Office of the FBI. I’m heading a task force which is investigating the sex slaying of a child in Iowa, and a number of other homicides, including the murder of two Iowa state troopers. The investigation has led me to you.”
Elizabeth said nothing, her breathing shallow. She furrowed her eyebrows. Scanlon paused a moment to wipe his nose.
“A man came here last night to see you. He is a rogue deputy sheriff and a fugitive. He had a reason for coming here, and I want to know what that reason was. You’re going to tell me, and you’re going to tell me now.”
“He saved my life,” she whispered with effort.
Scanlon moved closer to Elizabeth. She noticed his black eyes under the dark glasses, and the plaster cast on his nose.
“I understand you feel indebted to him, but we need information on his whereabouts, and on the whereabouts of a murderer who at this moment could be killing again.”
Elizabeth struggled to speak. “I don’t think I like you,” she said.
Scanlon leaned his face to within inches of Elizabeth’s. “I don’t care what you like. I want some answers. What did Kearns want from you?”
Elizabeth fought back tears. Memories of her brutal childhood crept to the forefront of her consciousness and overwhelmed her. She thought she’d escaped that nightmare, and over the years learned to live, and love, and find purpose. But then Vernon returned; an emissary from hell. It was too much.
Elizabeth blinked her eyes. She didn’t have the strength to lift her arms and brush away the flowing tears.
“Leave me alone,” she said. “Go away.” It took virtually all her energy to speak these words.
A tide of anger, frustration, and impatience flooded over Scanlon. He leaned over and took her by the shoulders, sending shooting pains throughout her damaged body. Elizabeth gasped for air.
Scanlon’s face scrunched into a scowl. His black-rimmed eyes and dripping nose gave him the appearance of a troll from a children’s story. His grip on her shoulders tightened.
“Listen to me, you fucking bitch. You’re going to spill your guts, or I’ll see you in prison alongside that punk deputy you think is such a hero. You talked to him. You told him something. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re aiding and abetting him. You’re part of the whole goddamned conspiracy. So you’d better rethink your position on the matter. What did Kearns want to know?”
There was a loud pounding on the door to Elizabeth’s room. Through the window in the door, Scanlon could see the FBI guard trying to keep back a doctor and several nurses. The doctor wore an infuriated expression and the guard looked frantic. Scanlon was running out of time.
He squeezed even harder. Elizabeth’s breath came in rasps, and shivers of agony coursed through her chest and back. She tried to speak.
“Talk, goddamnit! What did Kearns want to know?”
Elizabeth thought she was going to retch. The only thing keeping her from drifting into blackness was the excruciating pain Scanlon’s hands were sending through her. She shook her head, gagging on the words as they came out.
“Brother… bro... th… er…”
Scanlon shook her again. “I can’t hear you! Tell me!”
“Vern… on. My bro… ther.”
“Who’s your brother? What are you saying? Who’s your brother?”
It was no use. Elizabeth slumped, and no amount of shaking would bring her back to consciousness. What had she said? Brother? Vernon? What did it mean?
The door to the hospital room crashed open and a deluge of people burst in. The FBI agent assigned to guard Elizabeth’s room had his revolver out and was waving it. Several nurses pushed him into the room, daring him to shoot, knowing he wouldn’t. The physician dashed past the agent and pulled Scanlon brusquely away from Elizabeth’s bedside. He looked at her briefly and began barking orders. The nurses then ignored the federal agents and began attending to Elizabeth.
As one nurse administered an injection into Elizabeth’s IV, the doctor, a broad-shouldered redhead with the name Hilger on his nametag, got in Scanlon’s face.
“Listen to me, whoever the fuck you are. I gave orders this woman was not to be disturbed. You may have seriously impeded her recovery with your stormtrooper tactics. You enjoy shaking the shit out of injured women?”
&
nbsp; Scanlon didn’t answer. The doctor, though no taller than Scanlon, was twice as broad, and by the look of his arms under the surgical garb a regular weightlifter. The doctor also exhibited the rabid gleam in his eyes Scanlon had seen before in homicidally dangerous criminals. The special agent was suddenly very aware how fragile his nose was. This physician looked as if he could punch hard enough to push his nose to the other side of his face.
“You have to understand, Doctor,” Scanlon stammered, the fear evident in his eyes, even behind the sunglasses. “We’re in the midst of a major criminal investigation, and…”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re chasing Bonnie and Clyde. You ever come into this hospital again you’d better plan on a lengthy stay. Get the fuck out of here, and take junior G-man there with you.”
Scanlon was more than happy to oblige. Motioning for the other agent to follow, he fled Elizabeth’s room, ignoring the hateful stares from the nurses as he left. He headed for the elevator, the other agent on his heels.
“Call Tatters at Omaha PD,” Scanlon told him. “Have him contact the Veterans’ Administration in Washington. He’s to scan for a Slocum, Vernon. I want any and all files on him to be forwarded to me, top priority.”
“Why can’t you check with the VA in Des Moines?”
Scanlon punched the elevator button. “Because that’s what Kearns and his buddy were doing at the VA in Des Moines. I’ll bet you a paycheck the file on Vernon Slocum won’t be in Des Moines; it’s been pilfered. It’s with Kearns, and has been all along.”
“OK, I’ll call Tatters. Then what? You want me to stay here? I’m sure as hell not going to be allowed back in the Critical Care Unit.”
The elevator doors opened and Scanlon stepped in. “Stay in the lobby and watch over Elizabeth Slocum. It is unlikely Kearns will return, but I don’t want to take chances. And who gives a shit if you’re unpopular with these assholes? You’re a Bureau man; you aren’t getting paid to make friends.”
The elevator doors closed. The Omaha fed let out a sigh and wished he was home with his family. He watched the elevator’s indicator lights trace Scanlon’s progress down to the lobby.
“Yeah, I’m a Bureau man alright,” he said aloud. “I get paid to watch senior Bureau men beat the shit out of crippled women.”
CHAPTER 36
Vernon Emil Slocum did not smell good.
The three-day bus ride west to Northern California was a haze of nightmarish fever dreams. His wounded leg was going septic, and the odor it gave off was beginning to alarm his fellow passengers.
The crowded Greyhound bus was filled with holiday pilgrims. Vernon sat in the back, in the smoking section, consuming an endless stream of Pall Malls and fading in and out of troubled sleep. His skin was pale and fine sweat covered his face. He knew he was running a high fever, and when the bus stopped for a one-hour layover in Cheyenne he used the time to hobble on his cane to a drugstore near the bus station. He purchased some aspirin, rubbing-alcohol, and the most potent non-prescription antibiotic ointment he could find.
Vernon also bought two pints of gin and several large rolls of surgical gauze. He returned to the bus station feeling faint and dizzy. The pain in his leg was steadily increasing, and he tried to remember the first-aid training he received decades ago in the Marine Corps. He needed to know how to treat gangrene, but his mind wouldn’t let him recall anything but fragments.
Once back at the bus terminal he staggered to the men’s restroom and into an enclosed toilet stall. Several of the restroom’s patrons eyed him suspiciously, but were afraid to say anything to the huge, sick-looking man in the badly fitting suit. There was something about him which made even the curious avert their eyes.
Slocum removed the heavy .45 from the back of his waistband and placed it on top of the toilet tank. He took off his damp jacket. His shirt was soaked in a rancid sweat. He’d been making frequent trips to the bus’s tiny bathroom during the ride and inhaling increasingly larger amounts of methamphetamine. He also sprinkled the dirty-brown stimulant into the ugly holes in his leg, to anesthetize it.
The shotgun pellet embedded in the bone of his shin taxed his tolerance for punishment to the limit. But his leg was getting worse, and the meth no longer stemmed the rising tide of pain.
Slocum leaned his cane against the toilet tank and sat heavily on the seat. He uncapped one of the pints and took a long drink from the bottle. The gin was like fire, and settled in his stomach like molten soup, but he felt the sharp edge of searing pain in his leg fade to a dull throb. He turned to his damaged limb.
Rolling up his left trouser leg, Vernon examined his shin. It was no mystery why his fellow passengers noticed an odor about him. The torn strips of bed sheet around his wounds were soaked in pus. Blood, mixed with this excretion, dried to a tacky scab around the pellet holes. He took another swig of gin, then clenched his teeth and unwrapped the bandages.
Once removed, he wished he’d left the bandages untouched. The skin between his knee and ankle was tinted an angry purple. The bullet holes were raised and full of a seeping, greenish matter. He plucked the strips of sheet from the craters in his flesh, tearing the scabs from their foundations. This renewed the flow of infected blood. He bit his lip savagely. Wave after wave of agony pummeled his body. He nearly lost consciousness and was forced to wait many minutes before continuing.
Vernon took another long drink from his pint of gin, emptying it. He uncapped the rubbing alcohol container, poured the fluid into the pellet holes, biting down on the leather-wrapped handle of his Ka-Bar knife to keep from crying out. Then he blacked out.
He regained consciousness a minute later, his leg on fire. He spit the knife out, and wiped away as much crust from his wounds as possible using a handful of toilet paper from the dispenser in the stall. Sweat dripped from his body.
Vernon opened a tube of topical antiseptic and applied it to his leg. He rewrapped the leg tightly; it had already swelled measurably since he’d removed the original bandages. He feared it might swell too much for the trousers he was wearing, which were a snug fit anyway.
Once he completely encircled his shin with fresh gauze he unlaced his shoe. He didn’t remove it, afraid the swelling would prevent him from getting it back on. He didn’t want to limit his mobility any more than necessary. Vernon poured aspirin into his mouth, washing the tablets down with a slug of gin from the other bottle.
He waited in the stall for his strength to return. The redressing of his leg sapped his dwindling reserves of energy. Eventually he put his jacket on and replaced the pistol in the back of his waistband. He scooped up the rancid dressings and tossed them in the toilet. He tucked the remaining gauze and medical supplies into the pockets of his coat. Before pocketing the remaining gin bottle he took another long drink.
Vernon limped stiffly over to one of the sinks and splashed cold water on his face. Looking up, he saw a mirror.
The reflection he met was a frightening one. Beneath his crew-cut was a pair of hollow, dark-rimmed, and emotionless eyes. His swollen and crooked nose sat atop a square jaw. The mouth between the nose and jaw was a thin, horizontal slash, wholly unfamiliar with the mechanics of smiling.
Vernon wiped his face with a paper towel and hobbled on his cane out of the restroom to the bus, which was boarding. He went straight to his seat at the rear of the Greyhound. By the time he eased himself painfully into the chair, his face and body were again drenched in sweat.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The pint of gin he’d consumed was taking effect, and he felt the pain in his leg fade to numbness. He let himself drift towards sleep.
But sleep, for Vernon Slocum, did not come easily. He twitched in his seat, mumbling and dozing. He dreamed.
He was a child, in darkness, feeling the bitter cold of an Iowa winter. He was afraid; the uncompromising terror only a child can know. His father’s stern and slurred voice yelled at him. He saw his brothers, and little sister. He watched them scamper and dodge blows.
Vernon was unable to control the images drifting back and forth in his mind. He wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or awake. He couldn’t tell if he was seeing things which had happened, or were happening.
He lay slumped in his seat, his cigarette a burning coal in his hand. He occasionally nodded his head, as if obeying hidden commands. People sitting near him on the bus conspicuously ignored him.
Other images began to take shape, but Vernon couldn’t distinguish between memory and dream. He remembered Daddy always came at night, and would take Wade, or Cole, or Elizabeth to his room. There he punished them. He knew he’d been punished in Daddy’s room, too. But for some reason Vernon couldn’t remember what the punishment was, or even what the inside of Daddy’s room looked like.
The clearest images were always of the Corps; the clickity-clack of spit-shined boots on the parade ground, and the smell of gun oil. There was discipline in the Corps, and pride, and a sense of belonging. Daddy was proud he was a Marine. Whenever Vernon’s mind faltered, he could always count on one thing: he was a Marine. Even after the doctors at the VA hospital had stolen his mind, he didn’t forget that.
He was a Marine.
With that knowledge came different images and recollections. Again, he couldn’t be sure if they were memories or dreams. These dreams came with sounds.
Sometimes he still heard the earth-shattering whump of the incoming mortar rounds as they slammed into the ground. He also heard screams. The screams bothered the other Marines, but not Vernon. Screams didn’t bother him at all. They were his friends.