KIA

by Thomas Holland

  “You can let me off here,” Fick quietly interrupted as they drove past a dark-colored Ford Taurus. Whatever color it was, it appeared almost purple in the yellowish glow of the overhead streetlights. “This is my vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir. You okay to drive home, General? You look kinda beat.”

  Fick smiled as he opened the car door. “Good night, Chief.”

  Deveroux waited long enough to ensure that Fick had his keys, but not so long as to tempt the general’s patience with his concern, and then continued around the lot to the back side closer to where his room was located. As he pulled into a vacant spot, he recognized his own pickup truck parked nearby. One of the other calls he’d made earlier in the afternoon was to Kel to tell him that there was no way he was going to be able to interview Ngo and get back to Warrensburg before tomorrow morning. They’d agreed that Kel would drive the pickup down to Waynesville as soon as he was finished examining the body and that Deveroux could drop off his rental in Rolla in the morning. He looked at his watch as he climbed out of his car and locked it—almost ten o’clock.

  It took a few minutes to hunt Kel down. He was in the small restaurant attached to the motel, eating a thick, sticky wedge of Karo nut pie and sipping slowly on a perspiring glass of sweetened tea. He looked up as Deveroux walked in and took a seat.

  “I see that you made it,” Deveroux said as he motioned at the waitress for attention. She grabbed her notepad and started to move.

  “Yup,” Kel replied in between bites. “You really need to get your speedometer cable greased. Screamed like a sonofabitch the whole way down. I’m half deaf.”

  “Yeah. Does that sometimes. It’d have stopped eventually if you’d kept goin’.” He nodded at the slice of pie. “Any good?”

  Kel shrugged and took another mouthful. “Don’t know if there’s such a thing as a bad nut pie. It’ll make your fillings ache, if that’s any indication.” He shrugged again. “Not as good as my mother-in-law’s, but then we ain’t at my mother-in-law’s.”

  “I hear ya,” Deveroux replied as the waitress reached the table. Close up, Deveroux realized that she was much younger than she’d appeared from across the room. She was no older than nineteen and had the long thin face of a Korean. He’d noticed when he checked in that the motel’s owner was a middle-aged Korean, and he wondered if the young waitress was a daughter or a granddaughter. “Evenin’, ma’am,” Deveroux responded to her smile. “Just a Coke Cola and a wedge of that nut pie, if I could.”

  The waitress smiled again as she wrote a series of what looked to Deveroux like a mess of squiggles on her notepad. She hadn’t said a word, and he wondered whether she spoke any English.

  Kel waited until she’d started back toward the kitchen before picking up the first dangling thread of the impending conversation. “How’d it go, boss? Successful?”

  “Well, I can tell you one thing. If the rest of the Five Bubbas are anythin’ like Mr. Ngo,” this time he intentionally dragged out the mispronunciation as EN-go, “then it’s no wonder they’re all endin’ up dead. I wanted to kill that little sonofabuck myself. In fact, I’ve got half a mind to drive back over there right now and pound the livin’ snot out of him with a crooked stick.”

  “That productive, huh?”

  “Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’. Hey, you’re a man of the world, what’s a Zipperhead, anyhow?”

  “A what?”

  The waitress returned with Deveroux’s order and slid it across the table. The plate clinked against the laminate tabletop. She smiled again and hesitated, her expression asking if there was anything else needed, before turning and walking back to the counter, where she busied herself folding napkins for use in the morning.

  “Nothin’. Forget it.” Deveroux sighed a day’s worth of accumulated exhaustion. He shook his head slowly as he took a large bite of pie. “Real piece of work,” he mumbled. “He no longer has any stars on his shoulder so he’s decided to wear a chip instead. I tell you what, it’s like he’s ashamed to be Vietnamese or somethin’. I mean, you ought to see this guy’s house; I’m not kiddin’, it’s decorated in like early nineteenth-century Minnie Pearl.”

  “How ’bout Tenkiller? Mr. Ngo know anythin’ about him? D’you get a chance to ask him or were you too preoccupied examinin’ his décor?”

  “Tenkiller? You kiddin’ me? He doesn’t even claim to know the other four brothers—they’re such common names, in case you didn’t know—give me a break—like every Vietnamese male who checks into a cheap motel signs is as Colonel Pham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. And, oh by the way, only four of the five ever made it to the U.S. Fick says that the fifth brother never made it out of Vietnam.”

  “So there’s only four.” Kel followed his comment with a sip of tea.

  “Were. Past tense. Were four.”

  “Were. Right. And now there’s only one. That kinda begs the question, doesn’t it? Any chance Ngo’s your man? You think he could do it?”

  “You mean, is he the killer? Could he be?” Deveroux pursed his lips in what amounted to a shrug. “I didn’t give it much thought goin’ into it, but after meetin’ with him—he’s a piece of work, that’s for dang sure. Fick says he had quite a reputation durin’ the war for roughin’ up young women. He may have even rubbed out the fifth partner—his own dang brother-in-law…so, yeah, I guess all things considered, he could, but…”

  “Your gut?”

  “My gut says maybe. Not yes, not no, I mean, maybe. But then it’s not like I have any other suspects right now either. No, I’d have to say it’s not Ngo.”

  “No pun intended, I’m sure. So, how about Tenkiller?”

  “Tenkiller?” Deveroux seemed genuinely caught off balance. “First he’s KIA, then he’s a deserter, then maybe he’s involved in the black market, and now we’re talkin’ about Tenkiller being the killer? Some résumé.”

  “It’s called multitaskin’.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Why not? Think about it. We know that he’s alive—at least we think we know. He was connected to all of them. He may have a motive.”

  “Like what?”

  Kel smiled and shrugged. “You’re the G-man. I’m just an anthropologist. But don’t forget that scalpin’ business…”

  “I’m not forgettin’ it, but it’s kinda obvious, isn’t it? No offense there, Doctor, but I suspect that scalpin’ is somethin’ of a lost art among Indians today. Besides, seems a bit of a stereotype comin’ from an anthropologist.”

  “I didn’t say I was a good anthropologist. All right, it’s not Ngo, and you also say it’s not Tenkiller…then who? Takes you back to the drawin’ board, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? I just wish we knew for sure that all three of these cases were linked.”

  “What?” Kel’s voice betrayed his surprise. “You are shinin’ me on, aren’t you?” He held out his left hand and ticked off his fingers as he made his points. “Let’s see here, Chief Warrant Officer Special Agent Shuck-my-grits Deveroux, count with me here: It’s like your monkeys jumpin’ on the bed. We start with five Vietnamese gentlemen who form a secret group to engage in illegal activities; next, they all arrive in the Land of Milk and Honey on the same day—at least four of them do, all in the same U.S. government airplane, all end up homesteadin’ next to an active military base—I’m runnin’ outta fingers here, Shuck—they begin showin’ up dead within a few months of each other—after almost forty years of peace and quiet, mind you—and three of them are now missin’ their scalp locks.” He held up six fingers, showing them to Deveroux. “Yeah, you’re right. If we could get all these pesky coincidences out of the way, we might be able to see a pattern.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re real funny, Kel.” He put both palms on the edge of the table and pushed so that his back was tight against the booth seat. He sighed again. “So, how was your day, Doctor?”

  Kel finished his pie and moved his empty plate aside. He dabbed at his lips with a red
cloth napkin before replying to the change in subject. “Fair to middlin’, I’d say. Ended up drivin’ over to Columbia with the body, and stayed around for the start of the autopsy. I tell you what, it’s pretty interestin’ stuff, in a disgustin’ sort of way. It’ll be interestin’ to see the final report. I’m also anxious to see the other two—the ones in Louisville and Nashville—see how they compare.”

  Shuck Deveroux took another large mouthful of pie before responding to Kel. “Well, I’m anxious for you to take a look at them, too. But tell me, what about Mr. What’s-his-name?”

  Kel knotted up his forehead while he deconstructed the question. “You mean Mr. Doan Minh Tuyen? The fella in Warrensburg?”

  “Yup. I’m not even goin’ to try sayin’ these names anymore. Gets me nothin’ but grief.”

  “Well…he’s seen better days, I ’spect. Dr. Cooke—the ME—he’s pretty damn amazin’. Don’t know how many autopsies you’ve seen. He started on the head for my benefit. He figured he could do the full post-mortem after I left. Anyhow, from what he determined, someone grabbed Mr. Doan from behind and cut him from left ear to right.” He drew his right index finger along his neck. “Your suspect is probably righthanded.”

  “Oh, great. That helps. Eliminatin’ southpaws and switch-hitters, and that gets us down to—oh, what d’you think—maybe two hundred million suspects?”

  “Give or take a couple hundred thousand. Not countin’ tourists and illegal aliens.”

  “Yeah, give or take. And to think I was startin’ to despair of solvin’ this case. Thanks, Doc.”

  “Just doin’ my job, partner. Now, where was I? Cut from here to here,” he again mimed the action. “Deep too. Cut clean through both the carotid and jugular. Poor sonofabitch bled out in minutes. Like a stuck pig. Must have looked like a damn PEZ dispenser.”

  “Deep? Yeah, I guess I’d call cuttin’ somebody’s head clean off deep.”

  “Yeah, well I guess I’d agree with that, except that his head was cut off later—after his throat was slit. Best Dr. Cooke can figure—at least in the short while I was there—was that the throat was cut first. Slit the throat, drop him to the ground, and then put a foot or knee in the square of his back. There were abrasions on his chest and a muddy impression right between his shoulder blades.” Kel stopped and took a sip of tea. “Doc thinks your killer pinned Doan down, foot or knee in the back while he scalped him.”

  Deveroux leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So he was scalped? I mean, not just an expression. Really scalped? What the cops said was accurate then? Just like the other two. You sure it’s not some sort of collateral damage? I mean, somehow incidental to the decapitation.”

  “Nope. Someone out there’s countin’ coup.”

  “What about the head?” Deveroux asked.

  “What about it?”

  “You said it was cut off afterward? After he was scalped, you mean? How do y’all know that?”

  “Well, I don’t, but Cooke thinks so.” Kel paused and sorted his thoughts. “It’s based on where there’s blood and where there isn’t. That’s his area, not mine, but the cuts associated with the actual removal of the head don’t show any significant bleedin’ in the tissues. Cooke says that the most likely cause is that he’d already bled out by the time those cuts were made—no more blood, no more blood pressure. Also, there’s a whole different set of cut marks. The cut along the throat was deep enough to nick the lower cervical verts—here and here. Fine, slashing cuts with a sharp blade.” Kel pointed to the base of his neck near his left collarbone. “But the head was severed higher up—between the third and fourth vertebrae. I tell you what, you wouldn’t know it from all the horror shows on TV, but heads are actually fastened on pretty damn good and tight. They don’t just come poppin’ off like bottle caps the way you see in all the movies, and unless you know what you’re doin’, it’s a real chore to get a head loose.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m dismemberin’ someone.”

  “Yeah, make sure to budget some extra time, ’cause it’s a chore.”

  “So, you sayin’ the killer knew what he was doin’? I mean, like a doctor?” Deveroux asked.

  “Hell, no. You’ve been watchin’ way too many of those movies I was talkin’ about. Fact is, most people don’t know how to remove a head properly, and neither did your boy. Neither do most doctors, actually. Not much call for it in a normal practice. No, in this case, the middle cervical verts are chipped all to hell where he got some thick-bladed knife or somethin’ in there and just levered and pried until he got the damn thing loose.”

  Deveroux’s head was hanging down, shaking slowly from side to side. “At the risk of chewin’ our tobacco twice, how about that?”

  “How about what?”

  “Takin’ the whole head off. You say the three cases are so similar, but how do you explain the overkill that you see with the last one?”

  “Escalation,” Kel answered. “The profiler folks have got some fancy term for it. Can’t recall it right this minute, but these guys sometimes unravel. They have to escalate the act to get the same effect. Kinda like eatin’ potato chips or dialin’ up Internet porn.”

  “Personal experience talkin’?”

  “Yeah. Keep gettin’ the computer keyboard all greasy, but, no, it’s true. These guys have to keep uppin’ the ante.”

  Deveroux kept shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. I went to all those continuin’ education courses as well, but this isn’t a sex crime or a thrill killer. This guy’s not unravelin’, do you think?”

  Kel shrugged as if to admit it was out of his league.

  “I just don’t understand it, Kel. I mean, what kind of man would do that sort of thing? Until the day I die, I won’t understand this sort of thing. What kind of man?”

  “One with a lot of hate, Chief. A whole bellyful of pent-up hate.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Rolla, Missouri

  THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 2008

  Kel rolled over, hoping that the pounding in his head would subside. It didn’t. He rolled over again and cracked an eye long enough to read the red, glowing letters of the alarm clock—6:32 A.M.

  A born night owl, and still a little jet lagged, he hadn’t actually gone to sleep until sometime after four in the morning, and now, less than three hours later, he was awakened by a pounding in his head like someone rapping on the inside of his eyelids. He closed his eye and rolled over a third time. The pounding intruded into his dream.

  “Kel. Hey, Kel. Doc. You awake?”

  Kel cracked an eye again. It wasn’t a pounding in his head. The pounding was at the door.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Hey, Doc. Wake up, bubba.”

  Kel coaxed the second eye open. He blinked and verified the time on the clock radio.

  Six-thirty-three. Shit.

  “Yeah,” he managed to say, though to an outside ear he was sure it sounded more like a death gurgle. He cleared his voice as he rolled out of bed and answered again, only slightly more clearly. “Comin’, comin’.”

  It took a moment to manhandle the chain and deadbolt with his eyes closed, but he managed to work the door open before Deveroux felt the need to knock again. It was painfully bright for so early, and Kel was forced back a stagger. He stood, in his underwear and a faded gray T-shirt that had once read University of Missouri, leaning against the television.

  Deveroux walked in quickly but held the door open, as if he was in a hurry and didn’t intend to stay. “We got to roll, cowboy. I’ll fill ya in on the way. Get dressed.” He punctuated each statement with a short nod as if he were hammering them in like roofing nails. “Meet you in ten minutes at my truck. You ain’t gonna believe this.”

  “What?” Kel asked. He was still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Didn’t we establish for the record that I’m not one of your mornin’ types?”

  “Why, yes. I believe we did. Now, I like standin’ around in dark motel rooms lookin’ at men in their baggy underwe
ar as much as the next guy, but we really do need to get goin’.”

  “Where?” Kel blinked hard.

  “You just see if you can find your way to my truck. I’ll take it from there.”

  Ten minutes later, Shuck Deveroux put his truck in gear and pulled out of the parking lot at the DeVille Motel and headed northeast toward Rolla.

  Kel yawned and shook his head like a wet dog. Sufficiently awake, he restated his question. “Commissioner Gordon flash the ol’ symbol again, Batman?”

  “Sort of. Ready for another coincidence?” Deveroux shot a quick look at his passenger and then re-engaged the road.

  “Sure.”

  “Got a call this mornin’ from a homicide detective in Rolla. Lieutenant Rugelo, Larry Rugelo. I’d called him yesterday as a courtesy, you know, hey, I’m here knockin’ around in your sandbox, goin’ to be talkin’ to one of your fine citizens—you know—just a courtesy thing.”

  “Sure, I’ve always said you were the courteous type. So, I’m guessin’ he got some information for you?”

  Deveroux laughed. “Actually, Kel, he thinks I’m the one with the information. Seems he wants to question me in the death of one Mr. Ngo Van Thu, late of Rolla, Missouri.”

  “Who?”

  “You heard me. Ngo. General Ngo.”

  Kel blinked hard. “Ngo? Ngo? But…”

  Deveroux was shaking his head as he replied. “I’m serious as a heart attack, cowboy. Don’t have many details. I was sound asleep when Rugelo called, but it seems that Mr. Ngo’s house caught fire last night, or early this mornin’ some time. I guess they’ve been fightin’ the fire all night and now that it’s light, the fire marshal finally got in there to poke around. Found Ngo’s body fried up like a pork rind.”

  Kel joined Deveroux in shaking his head. “I’ll be goddamned,” he said almost to himself; then he turned to Deveroux. “Any reason to suspect homicide?”

  “Hello? Weren’t you the one that was tickin’ off all the links in these cases? Yeah, I’d say there’s every reason in the world to assume the worst, but to answer your question, no, Rugelo didn’t give me any reason on the phone, but then I doubt he knows very much just yet. Rolla PD isn’t technically involved at this point other than Mr. Ngo seems to have been a fairly influential member of the community so there’s the usual interest. Fire marshal called PD as soon as they found the body, but I guess at this point they’re still assumin’ it was just an accident. Lord knows he was smokin’ like a blue-tile chimney while we were there last night, ash trays full and all, maybe he was smokin’ in bed. Or maybe he was just so filled up with hate that he went and spontaneously combusted like you read about in them tabloids. We’ll find out soon enough, but in the meantime, this cop in Rolla wants to know what I was doin’ talkin’ to Ngo last night. Can’t say I blame him, but it is some kind of ironic.”