by Rex Miller
Tomorrow maybe he'd check out the house when nobody was there. He wanted to go back with Donna Scannapieco. See what might shake loose when she saw the place where Hackabee had kept her and put her through the weeks of slavery and horror. What would she think when she saw the awful place where she'd been repeatedly assaulted? What would anybody think?
When the awful anger welled up would anything else float to the top? Would she see something that triggered a forgotten terror, a clue to the odd and oddly impenetrable man who claimed to be “the world's greatest mass murderer” and then recanted? Who was six feet one or two of good-looking guy yet had to wag his wiener at strangers or kidnap and force a victim to get up for it. Would she be able to point Eichord onto the trail of anything that might lead to a clear picture of this character? Was there even a remote chance that he'd seen those bodies buried the way he claimed?
Among other calls made were those to a clinical psych he'd worked with before, currently in Boston, to somebody in Prescott, Arizona, to the MCTF chain of command for access to an on-line terminal. This and that. He thought about calling Donna Scannapieco and asking her about a point they'd missed in her latest debriefing, but he let it go.
He looked at the legal page covered in doodles: a large number one. A picture of a gun. The gun shooting a target with the word “FLIPPO” printed in the bull's-eye.
Two ... A drawing of a glue bottle spilling out a lake of glue and a HAMMONTREE growing out of the glue pond.
He could run nearly sixty numbers and names through his mental data processor that way, and the association would stay with him for as long as he needed it. Each of the symbols was a memory key and he preferred this to working with a recorder and mike, which he would sometimes use in a vehicle, but they came in handy at other times. Not just doodles or games or free association.
They were for those moments when he was analyzing the cadences or the silences of a conversation, the times when the trivia and the subtle changes and the nuances were nudging him. This is the way he'd school himself to remember the “throwaways.” The images would stick.
Three ... Idly, he doodled three interlinked Os.
This time he crumpled the doodle into a ball and round-filed it, tried to make a couple of more calls, and then went in to watch the Ukie tapes over again. He saw nothing. Just a frustrated, strange man doing his thing. It told him nothing. When he heard Ukie say the “neural pathway” nothing signaled him. No neon signs lit up for him. No light bulb came on above Ukie's cartoon head. It was just a waste of time. He felt drowsy. Boozy. Old. He was hungry. He said, “Chuck it, fuck,” and left. Nobody knew he was gone and nobody would have cared if they'd known.
Out by the Lido he went in this place and bought a small smoked ham, a fresh loaf of pumpernickel that smelled so good he wanted to eat it right there, and a jar of sweet mustard that cost nearly three dollars. He couldn't believe it. He asked the clerk to make sure and she double-checked and by God that was how much it cost. He'd been wanting some of it since Chink and Chunk had hipped him to it. It was made someplace called Wolf Island, Missouri, and he'd been told, “Once you try it you'll kill for it."
He put money in a pay phone and started to dial Jones-Seleska on a whim and checked himself. He just couldn't handle one more rejection. He went into his motel room, threw his sport coat over a chair, and took his knife and cut a slice of the ham about an inch thick. He spread pumpernickel with the Wolf Island mustard and took such a huge bite he nearly bit into his thumb. He hadn't realized how hungry he was till he had taken the food back to the loaner and when he got into the car with that fresh pumpernickel smell he noticed he was salivating like a madman. He swallowed and hurried. This had been worth it, definitely. Oh, yeah. This WAS three-dollar mustard. He couldn't remember a ham sandwich ever tasting so good. He sat there drinking a semicold Michelob and eating ham and fantasizing about Noel's pad. He was sitting on a motel bed with his sock feet up on a nineteen-dollar sling chair. Boy. I guess they know how to live—them rich folks.
Funny thing about all that is, he thought, no matter if you go to Neiman's for the clothes, and you go to Gucci's for the leather, and send to France for the china, and you don't have to worry whether you can afford three-dollar mustard or not, and you have a fridge full of dreamripened manzanilla olives ... hey, even if you've got five hundred dollars’ worth of beluga on the side, a ham sandwhich still is pretty much just a ham sandwich. Why sell your life down the tubes for it? You still gotta pull on the pants one leg at a time. You still get into traffic snarls whether you're sniffing leather in a Rolls or vinyl inside a Ford. Like a friend of his was fond of saying, “End's what counts, baby, and in the end it all comes out dead."
He took some trash out later because he didn't want it stinking up the room overnight, and out by the dumpster he saw a hungry, collarless dog of indeterminate breed sitting there. It cocked its head warily at Eichord, who said, “Hey, boy, come here.” He squatted down but the dog didn't budge. “Come here, buddy. I won't hurt you."
It just watched him.
What kind of pup are you anyway?” He could see it was a male and very thin. He said, “Okay, boy, we're gonna give you a feast. How does that sound?” The dog hadn't even blinked. Eichord started to move but the dog took off and ran behind the dumpster. It was a street dog who was wary of the apparently kind stranger, and it was trying to survive.
Eichord talked to it in his gentlest tones, “Yeah. I understand. But don't go ‘way, see. You stay right where you are. I'll be back.” He hurried back to the room.
In a couple of minutes he came back with a tin dish something had come in that he'd fished out of the wastebasket, and a sack. Inside the sack was the leftover ham, which he'd sliced into little chunks. He took a newspaper out and folded it down on the pavement and spread the ham in a pile and sat the tin water dish beside it.
“Dig in, pal,” he said, and walked away.
He walked down the concrete drive and out through the motel entrance, going up on a little hilly piece of ground that ran in back of the motel rooms on his side. He approached the back of the motel from up on the hillside and when he got to the end he stopped. He could see the dog gobbling up all the ham. He laid the sack down on the ground and sat on it, watching the dog finish and then drink the water.
It drank for a long time and licked its chops and went over and sat down behind the dumpster.
“Hey,” Eichord said, and the dog wagged its tail and ran over to where he was sitting, but kept its distance.
“That's a good idea,” he told the dog. “You need to trust a few people sometimes, though. Come here.” He patted his leg.
The dog walked over to him, very alert, sniffing the outstretched hand. “No. I don't have any more food. But I'll bring you some more tomorrow, huh?” He was whispering softly. “Meanwhile, how's about us bein’ pals? Huh?” The dog came closer and he gently scratched it behind the ears. “Yeah. That's a boy.” He gave it a few pats and then he slowly got up.
“Well, it's been a long day, pal. I'll see ya tomorrow, huh?” He walked down off the slope and threw the sack into the dumpster, then went back to his room, the dog still sitting on the hillside. He went in and took off his shoes again and began laying out his things for tomorrow. He took the paper over by the open window and glanced out and the dog was out in front of the motel room, looking up at the window. Waiting for more. Too much of a good thing is never enough.
Dallas Lockup
Gray and cold.
Stone corridor.
Absolute stillness.
Harsh light far in the distance.
A chilling, enveloping shadow.
He stands on the dark pathway, waiting.
Dallas
The day would prove to be one of the longest in his career. It would unwind like a broken clock spring and he would watch—helpless.
The morning drive southward into downtown was familiar enough now that Eichord flipped on an all-talk radio station and heard the fo
llowing:
It was January 13. The president was still treading water in the Iranscam caper. In New York, Messrs. Corallo, Persico, and Salerno each drew one-hundred-year sentences for racketeering. In Houston, two guards with the Rockets tested positive for coke and were suspended. It was two days before the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr., and there was widespread racial violence throughout parts of the country, particularly in some southern cities.
The Metroplex had its share, and between the pro-and-con King sentiment, and the recent cop-versus-blacks trouble, the angry rhetoric was reaching the boiling point. The talk station aired phone conversations between citizens via a seven-second-delay device, and Eichord listened to the calls as the level of bitter oratory built in intensity.
“We were fine here,” a man was complaining, “and then the blamed CORE or NAACP war treasury paid for a colored family to put a down payment on a house down the block and the property values—"
A black-sounding gentleman cut him off with, “Yeah, YOU were fine but what about the colored, before there was an N double A er-ah C P do you know the colored didn't have—"
And he was in turn interrupted by the white-sounding man who said, “Sure, never mind what happened to OUR family it's just the COLORED that count, well I'm SICK of hearing about the COLORED and..."
Eichord had the oddest feeling he was stuck back in the mid-60s. He'd heard so many similar exchanges. To Jack it was just the same old broken record. It was a day like all days except he was there.
And when he walked inside, sitting there at the front desk, pretty as you please in a blazer, charcoal flannel slacks, blue-and-white polka-dot tie, $250 shoes, blue silk shirt, was none other than a calm, clean-shaven Ukie Hackabee.
“What the—” It came out before he could catch himself and the clean-cut Ukie smiled his big Cary Grant grin and said in a rumbling, beautiful baritone, “Don't suppose you'd be Mr. Eichord?” and offered his hand.
Jack took it, nodding as if in a fog.
“I'm Joe Hackabee. Good to meet you, sir.” Firm shake.
“Joe,” he said, catching his breath, “I, uh—"
“Right.” The man smiled easily. It was a warm, genuine smile. Not a sleazy, sardonic grin. Not a snickering, mean sneer. This was the smile of somebody who sincerely liked people. He'd never seen Ukie smile this way before.
“I-I'm just, you know."
“Right.” He talked quickly, softly, in the reassuring, measured tones. “I know"—a little smile in the voice—"I'm used to it, believe me. We had a lot of years of people doing a double take."
“Yes. It's quite amazing."
“Identical twins, as you can see. I'm probably a little tanner than Ukie, Bill to me, I guess I'm the only person who still calls him Bill. And our personalities are completely different. Other than that we're a matching set. Kind of hits you if you're not prepared for it, eh?"
“Nobody said. I mean, I knew Ukie's brother was going to be coming in but I hadn't heard you were twins. It just surprised me. I thought it was him sitting here.” Cops would walk past and do a double take, Eichord noticed, even in their brief exchange. Joseph Hackabee was drawing a crowd inside the station.
“I spoke with Miss Collier and she said you were leading the investigation into the, uh, tragic situation here. I was hoping we could talk if your time permits."
“Sure. Come on. Let's get a cup of coffee and ... Right in here, please."
“No coffee, thanks. Don't use it."
“Have a seat,” He ushered him into a vacant cubicle in the homicide division.
“Thanks."
“Have you spoken to your brother at all since the murders took place?"
“I haven't spoken to my brother in ... Oh, I guess four and a half years. Over four years. We were very close but like people always say, we just grew apart. I'd almost lost track of him completely, which I deeply regret,” he sighed, “but these things happen. Anyway, I didn't even know if he was still in the Dallas area until I saw something about his having been arrested as a suspect in connection with the killings.” He shook his head. “Absolutely beyond anything believable."
“Can you give us anything that might shed some light on all of this? On the murders?"
“I don't know a thing about this. Nothing beyond what I've heard on the tube and read in the papers. And of course what I've heard from his lawyers. As I said I did talk to Miss Collier. She suggested we get together as soon as you had time."
“I was going to arrange to see you as soon as you got in. I had some men who were going to advise me when your plane got in but as you can see that clearly must have been one of those best-laid plans you're always hearing about going astray. I didn't even know you were here in Dallas."
“Sure. Well, the reason why you didn't hear was I didn't fly in to the airport. I came straight here from my home in Houston. Flew here in my own craft. I can land anywhere."
“Oh, I see. You're a pilot, are you?"
“Ultra-light.” He nodded.
“Yeah? I've always wondered about those. You flew all the way from Houston in an ULTRA-LIGHT?"
“Yep.” He laughed a deep and natural laugh. He had a great laugh. Eichord liked him on the spot just as he'd disliked Ukie, the other Ukie, on the spot the second he met him. “I had to touch down a few times but she's easy to gas up. Right back in the air.” He made it sound like parallel parking.
“I'd be scared to death to get in one of those. Aren't they made out of steel tubes or something?"
“Aluminum"—he laughed again—"and Dacron—you know, the sailcloth-type covering. They're pretty safe.” His smile changed. “Mr. Eichord—"
“Jack, please."
But Hackabee was immersed in thought and repeated, “Mr. Eichord, what about Ukie? I know there's absolutely no way he could have done the awful things I've heard about."
“Well"—Eichord gestured with the palms up, hands spread, laid his arms back to rest on the desk—"he did bad things to the Scannapieco woman"—Joe Hackabee looked down and nodded assent—"and bragged to her about the bodies."
“That's Bill. I, uh, look, you know he's had a mental history. He's had problems. Sex offenses as I'm sure you know. But the bragging. That's just his big mouth. He'd never be able to actually do anything. He was always like that. All talk. All mouth."
“More than mouth this time, I'm afraid. He knew where the graves were. Even if he could prove he hadn't killed the victims he'd be an accessory. We're talking as many as a hundred victims now. Maybe more. It's one of the worst mass-murder sprees ever and the facts are—much as I hate to say it—your brother is involved. Deeply."
“I just can't believe it. No way. He's a little nuts, sure. Has the sex thing. Shows himself. Harmless stuff. Even taking the woman like that. I don't know how it ever happened. It's just not the guy I know. I don't think he could harm a fly."
“He abducted, repeatedly raped, and savagely brutalized Donna Scannapieco. Held her captive for a month. This fits the profile of a man who has very little regard for the lives or the welfare of other human beings. I have to tell you that your brother is in a world of trouble on this."
“But Jones-Seleska says he's claiming that he didn't really commit those murders, he only knew where the bodies had been, you know, hidden. He says someone else did the crimes and told him where they were."
“Someone else."
“Right."
“Someone killed them and then told Ukie."
“So he'd take the blame."
“I think at the very least he'll be proven an accomplice to murder one on a minimum of seventy-five or eighty counts, and then only if he gives up the person or persons who were involved with him, which so far he has refused to do."
Eventually the conversational ball just rolled into the corner and stopped and Eichord told Hackabee to meet him this afternoon if he could and they'd have time for a longer exchange. What Eichord wanted was to start going off Ukie's background, from childhood on. Find out,
if he could, just where the desire to punish and destroy first took root. Trace the twisted thing that had manifested itself in degenerate sexual behavior. Try to get a picture of the real William Hackabee. Look inside the dark shadows where Ukie the murderer lived.
He was blown away by Joseph Hackabee. Nobody in the cockamamy case, from the perp to the defense counsel to the rape victim to the brother of the killer, was what he would have expected. Ukie having a twin was so dumbfounding. Then he got another surprise.
A secretary told him two guys from the AG's office were here, and he went out front totally perplexed to find a pair of shoe flies in from Austin. They sat with Eichord at another borrowed desk wanting to know what about leads. Was Mr. Hackabee part of a “salt-andpepper team” (which Eichord had to have explained to him)? Were any of the victims black? (Say WHAT?) The guys from the state AG's office were such a drag Jack was almost relieved when he went in to confront Ukie again.
“Let's talk."
“Yeah. Okay. What?"
“Your serve. Whatever you want to talk about."
“Let's talk about me getting outta here, howzzat?"
“Ukie, come on. You're not seriously expecting anybody to turn you loose after everything that's gone down, are you?"
“Please, man. I've told you. I didn't do it. I saw the bodies being buried and I made a mistake in judgment. I thought I could fake my way into headlines, be a big star for the week or two, just enough I could maybe get some kinda half-assed shot. Clubs or whatever. Wail with all the publicity. I knew I could act real crazy and carry it off. The thing with the cu—with the woman, I just, you know, let her go, man. I LET her escape. Just like I gave you the graves. Ask yourself this, if I was really the killer why would I want to admit it? Why give myself up?"
“You didn't give yourself up. You got caught putting one of the bodies in the ground."
“BullSHIT. I didn't ... I wasn't burying anybody. I was digging to see if there really was a body in there. The thing had been coming and putting all this shit inside my head and I had to see, man. I wanted to know if I was going nuts or if it was for real."