by Mike McKay
Chapter 6
Mark returned to the Station just before two o'clock. From the Korean cafe he checked his e-mails and made a couple of phone calls. Alan Moss, the Medical Examiner and CSI supervisor, wrote that both victims had been ‘processed,’ and he would be ready to discuss the autopsy results in the afternoon. Sergeant Investigator Zuiko had finished with the potential witness search and targeted to several addresses from the database. There was neither new information on Nick Hobson's relatives, nor positive ID on the female victim.
On the way, Mark stopped at the local SWC. He visited this place two or three times per year, and almost every time it was about funerals. Formerly a Thrift Store, with slightly corrected red shield, it was called now Salvation Way Center. Large shop-windows displayed official propaganda. On one poster, a man in Salvation Way uniform held a donation bucket: Say NO to beggars. DONATE TO OFFICIAL CHARITIES* ONLY. The next poster stated: You are not alone. THE SALVATION WAY* SUPPORTS AMERICAN VETERANS. On the picture, a uniformed lady handed a carton, full of clothes and other donations, – to a wheelchair-bound vet. The asterisks pointed to small print, identical on both posters. Several lines in legalese explained that the explicit rights to solicit charitable donations on behalf of military veterans and other underprivileged had been granted to Salvation Way by such-and-such decrees on such-and-such dates. Mark grinned. His son William had never received any box, large or small, from the Salvation Way, or any other ‘official charity.’
The window at the entrance contained a message board. Letters cut from white paper, over blue background: COLLECTION COUNT. Monday, 8AM-11AM. Tuesday thru Saturday, 4PM-7PM. First-come, first-serve. Never tamper with bucket seals!
Mark read the next announcement, written in thick black marker over a sheet of recycled cardboard: NO SPOT-HOLDING. Effective immediately. No exceptions. Due to frequent disputes, permanent collection spots will be assigned TO QUAD AMPUTEES AND QUADRIPLEGIC ONLY. ALL OTHERS MUST ROTATE EVERY TWO HOURS. Please respect the fellow collectors and DO YOUR LΘΘP. In the ‘LOOP,’ both letters ‘O’ were converted into a resemblance of eyes, and above scribbled: Big Brother is watching YOU!!!
A little piece of paper below said: Due to temporary shortage of parts, no wheelchairs will be delivered in January 2030. ‘January’ was crossed, and above it said: Q1. The latter in turn had been crossed, with pencil explanation: No deliveries till August. Sorry.
Several notes were not on the board inside the window, but glued to the glass outside: REPAIRED SCHOOL BAGS! Many choice! Like-new condition! Below, a line of Chinese characters probably stated the same, and a phone number followed.
PRE-OWNED UNIFORMS AND OTHER CLOTHES. Buy, sell, barter, any alterations. GRS, Viet-patch 2, ask Hung.
NO LEGS? Fix your wheelchair at 50% discount! Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding, Mesa Drive. Hobson, Mark observed. He saw the name in the address list obtained from Identifications, and Mesa Drive was in their plan for Friday.
A short balding man past sixty appeared at the door, with a spray bottle and a scraper in his hands. “Special Agent Pendergrass?”
“Senior Officer Todd?” They exchanged a handshake.
The relations between Mr. Todd and Mark had been cordial, but chilled down after William joined Change for Vets. Trying to please Mark, Mr. Todd back then went into a lengthy speech, why the participation in the charity program is essential for the vets' mental and physical wellbeing, and how William and Clarice can benefit from it. Mark was not pleased, but rather hurt that now William had no choice, other than to become a donations' collector.
“I guess, you want to talk funerals again?” Senior Officer asked, “I saw the SRTV news. Unfortunate, unfortunate… The boy, they said, was a Marine…”
“They lied, as usual. Our SRTV never checks info. The boy served in the Corps of Engineers.”
“Engineers, you say?” Mr. Todd sprayed the notes at the window glass. “Goddamn slum shops! I'm sick and tired cleaning this crap!”
“What's wrong with the notes?” Mark asked.
“Everything! Pre-owned uniforms! Many choice! If you want to do charity – give to our Thrift Store. Last year, we failed objectives again! How do I suppose to make a budget if nobody donates?” He touched the notes with his scraper, but the glue held. “Never mind, I do it later. C'mon in.”
Inside, the air was hot and humid. Its windows designed with air conditioning in mind, the Center had no air conditioners anymore. The propaganda posters, naturally, served as a dual-purpose technology: besides the routine brainwashing, they were intended to reduce sun glare. A fat girl in jungle camo and 'flops, repeatedly wiping sweat from her forehead, unpacked boxes with brand-new donation buckets. Similar to the schools, the Salvation Way somewhat relaxed its uniform requirements over the last few years. Even the Senior Officer was dressed in a dark-blue hat and a light-blue shirt with little shoulder emblems, but with khaki trousers and tire sandals.
Mr. Todd waved to a chair. “Your son is doing great! Yesterday, our Armless Boy delivered a personal record: two hundred and fifty-three dollars! He is a walking cash machine!”
“A walking cash machine?” Mark winced at the enthusiastic definition, which sounded a lot like a beggar's moniker.
Mr. Todd, oblivious to Mark's displeased intonation, continued: “Did Billy tell you he made into our top-ten list? Another week, and Collector of the Month may be coming his way! Tea?”
“I wouldn't mind a cup of tea…” Today, Mark needed Salvation Way more than the charity needed him. “Before we talk funerals, could you check your records? The deceased has no registration in Texas, but he is a military vet: no leg.”
“With one leg? It has nothing to do with us. Unless, the vet is our volunteer or in alcoholics' rehab, and such.”
“And who would have the full list of disabled veterans?”
“No idea. The Pentagon, I suppose. They don't report to us! OK, I'm joking: we're an independent charity! Can you ask in prosthetic clinics? No, that's not right. Not every vet is eligible for a prosthesis… I'm positive only the Pentagon has the names. It's a huge undertaking.”
“Why so?”
“Just too many of them. For example, in our Change for Vets, we have six hundred and twenty-four collectors. Top of the iceberg. As the statistics goes, for every vet without both legs, there should be eight or nine one-legged. Besides, if a vet has both knees, we don't accept him in the program. I'd say he should find himself a better job than shaking a bucket at the corner!”
“And how many would you estimate in total? For the whole ‘iceberg,’ I mean?”
“In our Center area? Six to seven thousand vets. I'd say, two and a half percent of the area's population.”
“Holy shit! You mean: one out of forty people? It can't be true!”
“Why not? Take your own street and do mental math: how many vets do you have? It can give you a general feel for the numbers.”
OK, take our little cul-de-sac, Mark calculated in his head. How many vets? Blind Paul, from across the road, a boy on crutches down the street, another boy with an artificial leg… Another one, the postman's son, what's his name? Still making his prosthesis… Plus Damian from the corner – with no hands, then, another young man in a wheelchair. Plus our William! Seven?
“On our street, I am getting seven. You must be right, even if it sounds unbelievable.”
Mr. Todd pulled an extra mug from the desk drawer and poured from a chipped teapot. The substitute tea had an unusual scent: burr or sagebrush, but otherwise was drinkable. “I can check my spreadsheets anyway. We may get lucky. What's the vets' name?”
“Nicholas S. Hobson.”
“Hobson, Hobson…” Mr. Todd took a sip from his mug and typed a search on his laptop. The poor contraption held on rubber glue and duct tape. “We have Hillary Hobson, a volunteer. Nice old lady. A widow, if I am not mistaken. Runs a soup kitche
n.” He turned the screen towards Mark.
Mark pulled his phone and compared the record with his own list. “Yep. I have her already.”
“Talking the volunteer jobs, our Superintendent was very fond of your daughter-in-law. Rissy never says ‘no,’ and always smiles! I'm thinking: hence she has delivered already, we can give her a permanent placement in our Scoop of Soup Kitchens! Free food – every day! Why don't you ask her to fill an application? How is her new baby?”
“Her new baby is fine, but still inside! Clarice is not due for another two months,” Mark said.
“Two months? My bad! We have eighteen hundred volunteers, can't remember everybody, Mister Pendergrass.”
A very selective memory. Senior Officer recalled William's yesterday collection with one-dollar accuracy, and probably remembered serial numbers on all the red buckets in his Center, but Clarice's pregnancy was of no interest to the Salvation Way business.
“Clarice will not accept a permanent role, Mister Todd. If I understand her correctly, she has a firm intention to become pregnant again, and as soon as possible. Why are they so in-hurry to make kids?”
“Kids are the best investment nowadays! Francine and I were stupid to have just one child, and – you know what happened…” His face went bleak. Mr. Todd's only son was killed in action on the very first day of Operation Gas Shield in Libya, four years after the Meltdown.
“Sorry, Mister Todd.”
“Oh, don't apologize… I mention it myself… Shall we continue?”
“Yes. But I think we can save time if you just copy and paste all the Hobsons into a separate spreadsheet and e-mail it.”
“Oh, great idea.” Mr. Todd went silent, clicking the mouse button.
Strangely enough, I never thought we have that many war veterans, Mark contemplated. Earlier today, Kim told me about his slum: ‘one out of three families has someone killed or wounded,’ and I agreed: yes, our neighborhood was the same. But if every neighborhood was equally affected, the number of vets must be thousands and thousands. Take the US at three hundred and fifty million, two and a half percent would be what? Eight and a half mil!
While in the high school, Mark read about a cruel experiment: if you drop a frog in hot water, the frog jumps out. But if the water is cool initially, and you slowly bring it to boil, the frog sits in the pot – until it's too late. It had a scientific name: conditioning. Of course, they never performed such a test in the class. By double standards of the pre-Meltdown total political correctness, it was too gruesome! You could chop somebody's head or spill human guts in a mere PG-13 movie, but boiling a frog to death? No-o-o!
I should ask Samantha if they boiled frogs in their Science-and-Technology class, Mark decided. Ten or twelve years ago, a young man on crutches was a rarity. Now they were so common, one would pay no attention. Slowly, slowly it became absolutely normal. We had been bloody conditioned.
“OK, all done,” Mr. Todd reported, “eighteen Hobsons all together.”
Mark's phone made a short vibration, indicating the message from Mr. Todd had arrived, and Mark opened the attached file. Eighteen addresses were more than he was hoping for. It was clear the Senior Officer was not very adept to spreadsheet technology. The rows, obviously originated from different spreadsheet pages, had different formats. Mark removed cockerel backgrounds and began comparing the names with the Identifications hits.
Hobson, Andy and Suzy, he read. The address column said: Uvalde Rd, check in tents under US-90 overpass.
“Here, Mister Todd,” Mark pointed to the phone screen, “Hobson, Andy and Suzy. Are they new to the area?”
“Andy and Suzy… Hobson, Andy…” Senior Officer scrolled his spreadsheet. “Ah! Yes, they are new. The comment says: moved to Houston from Chicago, Illinois, this February. Andy has no legs, a collector in Change for Vets. Suzy is his sister, unemployed.”
“I see. An excellent find, thanks!” Mark copied the address into his checklist. “Shall we discuss the funerals?”
“Happy to be useful,” Mr. Todd smiled. “With the funerals, I see no problem at all. The man is a military vet. The USACE, you said? I will not even need an approval from the Houston Command! Who is the dead girl?”
“Apparently, she was the vet's girlfriend. No name yet. I doubt she had anything to do with the military.”
“No big deal: funerals for one or for two – the same expense. Ten o'clock tomorrow. We arrange the standard music and rifles… Fine with you?”
“Absolutely.”
“When do you want my volunteers to retrieve the bodies from your morgue?”
“Today! Major Ferelli will chew my ass if we run our generator for another night.”
They quickly discussed the usual details: closed caskets, photographs, et al.
“Before I forget,” Mr. Todd said, extending his hand for goodbye, “Was your Billy in the Engineers?”
“In the diggers, yes. William even went to Venezuela just after this Nicholas Hobson was there.”
“Excellent! Our Armless Boy must attend the funerals!”
“I'm not sure it's a good idea, Mister Todd. The cemetery is five miles from our place. William can't go alone, and Clarice is seven-months pregnant… As you know now.”
“Five miles? For such a strong girl? No big deal. Look!” Senior Officer pointed to a map on the wall. “The Beaumont Loop! I have collectors here, here, and here! Also here: next to the bars, and here: at the flea market,” his sausage-like finger circled the area. Arrows and crosses resembled a war plan. No effort was spared to stick a disabled vet at every corner. “Unfortunately, the legless are not as effective as they used to be, and we are missing revenue – big time! Billy, our walking cash machine, – must help!”
Mark lifted the corners of his lips in a half-polite, half-upset smile. “OK, Mister Todd. I will pass the word. Let Clarice decide if she is up to such a walk…”
Back to the Station, Mark went to see the CSIs and the Medical Examiner. Doctor Alan Moss was in his office, typing a report and sipping acorn coffee. He often complained that caffeine deprivation was the only real concern in his life.
“Perfect timing, Mark,” he stood from his chair and waved two CSIs in the adjoined cubicles into a conference room. The wall LCD panel was on. “Natalie, let's start from the crime scene!”
Natalie nodded. “We have the usual stuff: the same polka-dot gloves, and the same knife blade… The most interesting lead is the bike sprocket imprint on the female vic's jeans. On the road, I picked a fresh tire trail. Mountain bike tires, my measurements suggest: twenty-six inch. The rear tire has a distinct patch. We will give you a positive ID. If you can find the bike for us, naturally.”
They browsed through endless crime scene photos. Mark remembered terse definitions from the Butcher's profile they requested at the Washington Behavioral Unit: well organized, high IQ, forensically aware, pays close attention to details, prefers to be in control…
“Now – the male vic,” Alan said, “With the military record, – identification is trivial. We have compared all ten fingers, just to avoid any mistake: Nicholas Hobson, confirmed. There is something to narrow your search. Tom ran serial numbers from the prosthetic parts. The vic got his leg in New York, and was at the rehab center from the fourteenth till the thirty-first of May 2029. Then, he had a follow-up visit to the same rehab on the sixth of September. Unfortunately, in Texas Nicholas Hobson had not visited any rehab and left no paper trail.”
“The cause of death?”
“Severed carotid artery. He expired in seconds. No other evidence on the body, no marks from struggle, nothing. I doubt the perp touched the vic with anything, but the knife blade. One single blow, very professional. Well, it's identical to all the other cases.”
Mark nodded. This was the usual modus operandi. The serial killer swiftly killed the male victim, so there would be no struggle, and the female had l
ittle chance to escape. All suggested some kind of special training: the Navy SEALs, or Marines, or Special Ops.
Last July, Mark obtained a list of the former servicemen with the special forces' background: six hundred and something names. He asked Benito Ferelli to spare six officers for two weeks. Major only gave two men, but for two months. They went from address to address, asking the same set of questions. What did you do in the Army? Where do you work now? Do you have a standard-issue Army knife? The answers to the former questions were somewhat different; the latter universally produced: yes, why do you ask? The problem was that back then the FBI did not know much at all. The knife and the polka-dot working gloves, but Mark decided not to mention the polka-dots in the interviews. They had too many information leaks, and he was concerned about potential copycats.
The hope was that they could identify men who get too nervous being confronted by a policeman. If someone ran, it would be a possible hint for further digging. Alas, no luck. If the killer was amongst the listed men, he had guts to stay calm during the short interview.
Another hope was that the perpetrator would hear about the knife and change his weapon. This would indirectly indicate ‘their’ man had been on the list. But – no luck again. The knife remained the same through the subsequent kills. Perhaps, ‘their’ man was not amongst the ones they had questioned. Or he anticipated the trick and left the weapon unchanged; forensically aware, exactly as the profile said.
“Anything we can learn from the female vic?” Mark asked.
“Oh, this came more intriguing than it looked initially! I let Natalie explain.” Alan located a photo in his laptop and projected to the screen: several hairs photographed under magnification.
Natalie took a laser pointer. “As usual, we do the external search first. These hairs come from five different people. The numbers three to seven – positively a pubic hair. These two hairs on the left – they have follicles – so we extracted DNA. The DNA – next photo, Alan, – is from two different males, and neither of them is Nicholas Hobson. And not from any of the victim's close relatives. All patterns are too distant.”
“You don't believe, how much trouble it cost me to convince our Major to let us use yet another DNA kit…” Alan clicked photos back and forth. “Budget is tight, he said. Budget-schmudget, my ass!”
“So I was told, you can be very convincing, Alan,” Mark said. “To the point of being abrasive! What exactly did you call Benito this time?”
“Never mind. What I called him, I am not sharing with you… But, we haven't told Mark the main thing, Natalie! Please continue.”
“Here we have the female vic's abdomen,” Natalie pointed to tiny scars. “She has been surgically sterilized! Also, the autopsy strongly indicates she had a second-trimester abortion, probably at the same time as the sterilization. OK, if not for the pubic hair from five different men, this could mean practically anything. But, in combination with the hairs – there is only one prominent possibility: our female vic must be a hooker!”
“And all odds are she works… was working – for a pimp. The ones who work for themselves, seldom do this type of surgery,” Alan added. “After the abortions and sterilizations became illegal, only a rich, fat pimp can smack enough cash on the table for a laparoscopic procedure.”
“That would explain the male removing his prosthesis,” Mark agreed, “if the girl was doing sex for money, she didn't have much choice. To the contrary, I can't understand the thermal flask and the home-made cookies. Imagine somebody hires a prostitute – to serve her tea? Besides, the female didn't have a license tag.”
“The absent tag means nothing,” the second CSI, Tom, objected, “for each licensed, Houston has at least three illegal.” This was true. Despite five-year effort to legalize (and tax) the sex trade business, most of the ‘workers’ still preferred to stay unregistered. “In the unlikely case she had her chip removed, we can quickly scan the SSP database for a fingerprint match.”
“You're too late with your suggestion,” Natalie said, “I requested the SSP check yesterday. No luck…” The abbreviation SSP stood for ‘Sexual Services Providers,’ but most translated it as ‘Some Serious Prostitutes.’
“This make me think of something,” Mark said. “The Salvation Way organizes a funeral service for the vics – tomorrow at ten. Do you, guys, have a reliable friend around the Harris County Cemetery? Got to be no association with the Police whatsoever. Preferably a young woman – it's typical for the role. I wonder if we can outfit her with a high-definition camera, like a news volunteer. To maintain the cover, we can later send her footage to SRTV, no harm here.”
“You don't hope the perp shows up at the funerals, do you?” Alan asked.
“No. That's not what I have in mind. If the female vic is indeed a hooker, especially an unlicensed one, we may see her pimp in the footage. He is probably missing his asset and wonders if she's killed.”
“I can go,” Natalie volunteered. “Just dress like a landfill worker.”
“No, not any of us. Our faces have been on TV more than few times already. I wanted to go myself, but on the second thought, the total stranger with a camera would give us marginally better chance.”
Alan nodded. “If any at all…”