The Red Mohawk

by AnonYMous

  ‘No, Jack. But Silvio Mellencamp made an absolute fortune as a movie producer in the eighties and early nineties. When he moved to Sherwood County he invested a lot of that money in the local businesses. He turned the whole place into a shrine to his favourite films. I’ve never been there but I’m told the whole place is a tribute to movie clichés from the eighties. They’ve got a Nakatomi Towers, a Rocky Balboa statue, a McDowell’s restaurant, you name it.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re saying right now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.’

  Munson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even though he had maintained his fitness and kept his weight down (to a degree), his clothes were even tighter than he’d realised when he first put them on in a hurry an hour earlier. He twisted his chair away from Fonseca for a moment and adjusted his trousers. After all, there was no sense in drawing attention to an ill-fitting crotch area.

  ‘What kind of movies did this guy make?’ Munson inquired. ‘Anything I might have seen?’

  ‘Porno,’ Pincent replied. ‘He was one of the biggest producers and distributors of the porn industry when VHS tapes were big. When DVD’s came along he’s one of the few that realised his days were numbered. He sold up and got out of the industry. And as I just said, he moved himself down to Sherwood County, invested a lot of his money in the local businesses and in turn, the townsfolk let him change the place completely, including the name.’

  ‘Townsfolk? That’s a good word,’ said Munson. ‘It’s not used often enough these days, if you ask me. I’m picturing bearded people with pitchforks.’

  ‘Well then you’re about right,’ said Pincent.

  ‘So then what do you need from me?’ Munson finally asked, still unable to fathom the relevance of all the talk about porn and B Movie Hell.

  Pincent took a deep breath. ‘We’ve got a major problem Jack. Actually, I’ve got a major problem, and I need you to clean it up.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Milena Fonseca called out.

  The door opened and an elderly woman with grey hair wearing a blue tunic backed in, pulling a hostess trolley with her. For the next two minutes no one spoke as she unloaded some coffee and pastries onto the table for them. When she was done, Pincent thanked her and she let herself out.

  As soon as the door was shut, Munson grabbed a cup and saucer and began pouring himself a coffee. Fonseca poured herself an orange juice while Pincent took the opportunity to get down to business. ‘Ever heard of Operation Blackwash?’ he asked.

  Munson took a sip of his black coffee. It tasted quite spectacular. He hadn’t had decent coffee in a long time. He answered Pincent quickly so that he could take another sip. ‘Nope. Never heard of it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. Sort of,’ said Pincent. ‘Although it does mean I’m going to have to explain it to you.’

  He took a second sip of the coffee and then congratulated Pincent. ‘Great coffee.’

  ‘I know.’

  He took another sip. ‘Should I have heard of Operation Blackwash?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘But you thought I might have?’ The caffeine was kicking in rapidly. Munson could feel his mind sharpening with each passing second.

  ‘You’re a clued up guy,’ Pincent went on. ‘But this was a top-secret project from years ago. Anyone who was involved in it would automatically deny all knowledge of it, even under intense interrogation. We had good people on board. The best.’

  ‘I only found out about it this morning,’ Fonseca added.

  ‘Me too,’ said Munson. ‘So is it safe to assume that Operation Blackwash has gone to shit somehow?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe Jack. I need you to clean it up. And fast.’

  ‘So tell me what information I need to know and I’ll get on it.’

  Pincent gave one of his brief fake smiles. ‘Good. Let me cut right to it,’ he said. ‘Operation Blackwash was the brainchild of a headstrong idiot in the department some years ago. Some dickhead who watched far too many spy movies thought we could create an elite army of highly-trained, robot-like spies and assassins. The plan was to catch them young, I mean real young. Some were new-borns, and the oldest was only about five. Anyway, we figured if we trained them up from that kind of age we could create a team of near perfect soldiers.’

  Munson took another sip of his coffee and placed the cup down on the table. He reached over to the tray of pastries and grabbed a croissant that had caught his eye. ‘I can see where this project went wrong,’ he said taking a bite from the croissant. ‘I bet you ended up with a bunch of Danny DeVito’s instead of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, didn’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite that bad, but you’re on the right lines.’

  ‘And the clown who thought the idea up?’

  Pincent gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Like I said, a headstrong idiot.’

  ‘You also said dickhead.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s back in the days when I was trying to make a name for myself by being forward thinking and innovative. Thing is, back then I thought that just being different meant I was clever. You know what I was like. We all learn, in the end.’

  ‘So what happened with the project?’

  ‘It was disbanded years ago.’

  ‘After how long?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  ‘Twelve years?’ Munson balked. ‘It took you twelve years to realise that it was a shit idea?’

  ‘That’s what happens when it’s your idea Jack.’

  ‘And what made it get disbanded?’

  Fonseca interrupted eagerly. ‘One of the test cases committed suicide.’

  Jack looked at her. She was deadly serious. He turned back to Pincent. ‘Only one? You went twelve years before one of them topped themselves? I’m impressed. How many test subjects were there?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five? From the start?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think I’ve figured this out already. One of the average ones committed suicide so the project got disbanded, but in your group of five, you had one that fitted the mould didn’t you?’

  Pincent nodded and looked away.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Munson raising an apologetic hand. ‘It’s the caffeine kicking in. Carry on. I didn’t mean to jump ahead.’

  All through the conversation Milena Fonseca had been studying Munson’s every move. He had a feeling she was assessing him. She would only know whatever Pincent had told her about him and it looked like she was trying to get a feel for what kind of agent he was. He wondered if she had sussed out yet that he was a drunk, amongst other things. He glanced over at her and smiled. She kept up her stare but didn’t reciprocate the smile. Yep, she’d rumbled him. She could probably smell the rum on his breath. Good, he thought. Let her focus on that, she’ll maybe miss the important stuff.

  Munson popped the last piece of his croissant into his mouth, winked at Fonseca and turned his attention back to Pincent who had just finished pouring himself a coffee.

  ‘There was some, what you might call, dubious experimentation carried out on them,’ Pincent continued. ‘We’d never get away with it nowadays of course, what with all these human rights laws and stuff.’

  ‘And the fact that they were kids.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Munson grinned ever so slightly. ‘So, what kind of dubious experimentation?’

  ‘Well, first of all there was all the military training, which, let’s face it you can give to anyone if you catch them young enough. But then we tested some mental enhancement drugs on them.’

  As he took his last sip off coffee and considered how long to wait before pouring himself another, Munson became aware that both Fonseca and Pincent were staring at him. This was obviously a crucial part of the story.

  ‘So what did the drugs do?’ Munson asked.

  Pincent carried on. ‘Some were designed to increase awareness, heighten senses, t
hat kind of thing, and others were used with the intention of helping the subjects to take orders.’

  ‘Mind control drugs?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Munson couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed the coffee jug and poured himself another drink. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think I’ve heard enough about the Blackwash thing to work out the rest for myself.’ He sniffed his second cup of coffee. It didn’t smell as great as the first one, a sure sign that he was now fully awake. ‘I suppose the big question is, if one of them committed suicide and you scrapped the whole project, what happened to the other four?’

  ‘Wanna take a guess?’

  ‘I’d guess that three of them are six feet under, but your golden boy was kept on in some other capacity?’

  ‘Close.’

  ‘So tell me. ‘Cause I’m dying to know how this has panned out.’

  Pincent took a sip of his coffee. ‘I should have cleaned the whole thing up back in the day. Instead, I let my emotions get involved and now I’m fucked. That’s why I need you. This is the reason I kept you on the payroll.’

  ‘I thought you kept me on the payroll because you liked me.’

  ‘Nah. It was as contingency for the current situation. This is even more “off the record” than your usual assignments.’

  ‘You being blackmailed?’

  ‘No.’ Pincent grabbed the largest croissant from the silver tray and took a huge bite out of it, then spoke with his mouth full, almost as if he wanted the words not to come out, but Munson heard them loud and clear anyway.

  ‘You were almost right. Three of them are gone. But the fourth one doesn’t work here, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He paused for dramatic effect before adding, ‘the fourth one got away.’

  ‘Got away? How?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  Pincent made a loud gulping sound as he swallowed some of his croissant. ‘I let him go,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I liked him.’

  ‘Good answer.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So you let him go because you liked him. But now he’s resurfaced?’

  ‘Actually he resurfaced a few years ago. He was arrested for murdering some one in a small village.’

  Munson feigned a sarcastic look of shock. ‘And what? He’s now been released from prison and he’s coming after you, because this time it’s personal?’

  ‘Very funny, but I’m afraid it’s worse than that.’

  ‘He’s coming after me?’

  ‘Enough with the wisecracks, already. No more coffee for him Milena. He gets snippy.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Fonseca pulling the jug of coffee away from Munson’s reach.

  ‘Look,’ Pincent went on, ‘after he murdered the nun, he should have gone on death row, or at the very least life imprisonment.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I pulled some strings and we got him off on an insanity plea. He was sent to a mental institution instead.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I told you. I liked him.’

  ‘A lot by the sounds of it. Good looking was he?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Pincent’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. ‘He was a good kid. Well he was back in the day. He’d been orphaned. They all had. But I liked him. He was the best one of all of them. A real natural. Killing came easy to him, and not because he was evil, but because we caught him early and showed him that it was all right to kill.’

  Munson blew out his cheeks and checked with Milena Fonseca to see how she felt about the situation. Her face gave away nothing, so he turned back to Pincent.

  ‘And now he’s escaped from the asylum?’

  Pincent nodded and pushed the remainder of his croissant around the plate. ‘You got it. He’s been on the loose for almost thirty-six hours.’

  Munson nodded, acknowledging Pincent’s problem. ‘Do you want him found? Or not found?’

  ‘I want him to have never existed.’

  ‘Okay. What damage has been done so far?’

  Milena Fonseca suddenly sprung into life and butted in. ‘In the early hours of this morning a cop in B Movie Hell had his head cut off by a psycho in a yellow mask with a red mohawk on the top of it.’

  Munson raised his eyebrows. ‘And that’s our guy?’

  ‘It has to be,’ said Pincent.

  ‘But if he’s wearing a mask how can we be absolutely sure?’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Fonseca. ‘But even if by some freak chance it’s not our guy, it certainly won’t hurt to catch him will it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Munson eyed up a Danish pastry with a jam filling, only for Milena Fonseca to snap her fingers at him and divert his attention back to her. ‘Now here’s the thing,’ she said. ‘The yellow mask is a blessing in disguise. A real Godsend for us. At this point no one knows who’s behind the mask except for us.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be hard to work out though,’ said Munson.

  True,’ said Pincent, ‘but I’ve bought us some time. Under instruction from me, the asylum hasn’t yet reported that our guy has escaped.’

  ‘Our guy?’ You’ve not mentioned our guy’s name yet,’ Munson noted.

  ‘His name is Joey Conrad.’

  ‘Joey Conrad? Hmmm. How many people in the department know about this?’

  ‘Not many.’ Pincent stood up and adjusted his tie as if he was looking into an imaginary mirror. ‘Jack, these days, you’re about the only person I can trust to clean up a mess like this. Milena will go with you and oversee everything.’

  ‘Why? What’s she bringing to the table?’

  Fonseca cleared her throat. ‘I’m the ranking officer here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Devon’s had some problems recently and I’ve been brought in to oversee his operation. I’m coming with you to make sure this all goes smoothly.’

  Munson didn’t like the sound of that one bit. ‘Devon. That’s not gonna work.’

  Devon shook his head apologetically. ‘We all have our orders Jack. Milena is no fool. Don’t underestimate her.’

  ‘Fine. So what’s in it for me?’

  ‘After this job, you can retire properly. On a very substantial pension.’

  Munson pretended to mull over the proposition for a few seconds even though his mind was already made up. He wanted the action way more than he wanted (or needed) the financial incentive. ‘Okay. I’m in.’

  ‘Good,’ said Pincent. ‘The two of you are going to pose as mid level ranked FBI agents. Milena has sorted out some identification for you, and the B Movie Hell police have been told to expect you. Milena will sort out anything else you need while you’re there. If anything dangerous comes up, she’ll stay out of it. But if anything happens to you, she can report back to me immediately.’

  Munson smiled. ‘If anything happens to me?’

  ‘Jack, you’re the best I have available to me, but be under no illusions, Joey Conrad is a killing machine. If you do find him, there’s a good chance you’ll wind up dead.’

  Munson didn’t really need to be told the last part. He knew Joey Conrad every bit as well as Pincent did. And just like Pincent had said, no one who worked on Operation Blackwash ever admitted to it. And that included Munson himself.

  Five

  Down in The Booty Parlour (a private underground area of The Beaver Palace) the on-duty greeter Clarisse, a veteran of the place, stubbed out her sixth cigarette of the morning. She wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to what she was doing, so she winced when out of the corner of her eye, she spotted some of the ash spill over from the overloaded ash-tray onto her desk. Her boss Silvio Mellencamp didn’t like to see a loaded ashtray on his greeter’s desk. It created an impression that hygiene wasn’t important, he said. And hygiene was a major selling point in The Beaver Palace.

  But today everything was on hold. A murderer who the loca
l cops had dubbed “The Red Mohawk” had created quite a stir. Everyone was glued to the local news, hoping to learn more. Clarisse was no exception. Her attention flitted between the constant drone of the newsreaders on the small TV on the wall and the vibration of her cell phone when her friends texted her about “updates” from the news. It seemed that all anyone could think or talk about was The Red Mohawk. In a town where nothing ever happened, this was some serious excitement.

  No one knew who the masked killer was or where he had come from. Or why he’d killed Pete Neville. Young Mr Neville had been a regular visitor to the whorehouse and he had always been pleasant. He hadn’t been particularly skilled in the bedroom but he had always treated the girls with respect, which was more than could be said for a lot of the other customers. With no motive yet established for Pete’s grisly murder, that meant that anyone could be next.

  Clarisse heard a couple of the girls getting into a scuffle in the hallway. They were always getting into arguments, usually over things like missing tubes of mascara and lube.

  ‘Can you idiots keep the noise down?’ she yelled down the corridor at them.

  ‘Sissy’s got my vanilla scented lube!’ one of the girls shouted back.

  ‘She’s wearing my leopard print pants!’ another voice screamed. The sound of some face-slapping and the tearing of clothing followed that particular announcement. And someone called someone else a skanky bitch.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ Clarisse called out. ‘I’ll get Mack down here. He’ll put that lube to good use on both of you if you don’t behave. Now pipe down. I’m trying to watch the news!’

  The girls went deadly quiet for a few seconds. Then right on cue, just as Clarisse expected, she heard a slapping sound followed by the rapid pounding of footsteps and finally a door being slammed shut. She sighed and shook her head before turning back to the news reporter.

  Work was annoyingly distracting that day. Especially given that only one client had come in. A young man named Kevin had taken advantage of the local outpouring of grief and sympathy at Pete Neville’s death to make his first visit to The Beaver Palace. He was an anxious young man with bright ginger hair and matching freckles, and he came from a strict family. His father was the local priest and his mother a charity worker, so visiting a brothel was risky business for him. Not that he needed to worry. Discretion was valued as highly as hygiene in this place.