by Rex Miller
“I've never seen a home more beautiful, Noel."
“I'm glad you like it."
“This is just great. And all this ground—what a layout."
“It's nice to have a little room."
“You call this a little room; in Houston we call this an estate."
“Hey, wait now. I've seen how you guys live in Baghdad-on-the-Bayou. I know. This is only five acres of ground but it's plenty I think.” She got up and switched on the exterior floodlights.
“My God, you've got a fabulous yard."
She laughed. They started talking about other things and she asked him about his flying.
He quickly warmed to the subject of the Ultra-light and told her, “I can fly right hi here, land right down there, in your yard.” He pointed. “Perfect landing field."
“You can't fly right in HERE,” she said quickly.
“Oh, it doesn't harm your ground, Noel."
“I don't mean that, I meant I'd be frightened half to death to see you land that thing in my yard."
“Naw. It's totally safe. And even if you have, uh, let's say a little problem, it's no big deal."
“Crashing is no problem?"
“Well"—he laughed—"crash is a kind of strong word. I've crashed it a couple of times I guess you might say. But you know, it's no big deal, you walk away from it."
“I'd walk away from it all right. I'd set fire to it first and THEN I'd walk away from it."
“Oh, come on."
“I'm serious, Joe. It sounds so damn dangerous."
“It's nowhere near as dangerous as, oh, say, hang-gliding. It's very safe, really. Usually."
“Hang-gliding.” She sighed. “I suppose you do that too, right?"
“Umm,” he admitted. “It's not that hairy if you use your head. But I want you to see my baby. You'd enjoy it I'll bet."
“You're not getting me up there in that thing."
“No.” He smiled. “It's a single seater. It'll take four to five hundred pounds, though. And still get airborne. I want to come out here and show her to you. I can come right in there, all the room in the world.” He gestured over at the corner of her property, his hand sweeping across the glass in front of them. “Taxi along that little stretch of ground right there. You'd get a kick out of it."
“God, don't you dare,” she said but her eyes were sparkling and he could tell the idea of the little aircraft excited her. Everybody loved to watch him fly her.
“It's totally safe—truly. Unless you do something goofy. I used to stunt-fly, and that's kind of dumb to do aerobatics and such, but I don't do that anymore."
He was being very serious, gentle, she could tell he was wanting to convince her, as if she needed much prodding from him. She smiled inwardly at the word “prodding,” poking, get your mind off it girl, she chastized herself.
“I don't want to watch your third crash in my backyard."
“Piece of cake, really. I could even take ‘er in right under that power line. You've got fifteen, twenty feet clearance there and I only need about twelve feet or so. That's not necessary though."
“You bet it's not,” she roared and he couldn't help but laugh with her.
“Just wait till you see that baby. It's beautiful to watch. And I'll just drop her nose down and sit down pretty as you please right here. What do you say?"
She shook her head no, slowly, and both of them knew it meant yes as she smiled, purring inside at the prospect of seeing Joe again. And again.
Dallas
It was another in the world series of bad mornings. Eichord got up with a blazing screaming pulsating killer hangover pounding behind the eyeballs. Forced himself to get through his morning ablutions, put fresh water in the dog's container, which he now kept surreptitiously (by bribing the maids) beside the motel door, and made it to the cop shop downtown in more or less one piece. The traffic seemed particularly vicious this morning, and the mouthwash and toothpaste had done nothing to rid his tongue of the thick, stale, woolen sleeve it was wearing. At 7:50 A.M. he was already thinking about how good the first triple would taste over the rocks.
The headache was reaching nightmare proportions and he popped a couple of Darvon when he finally realized the pills weren't going to get the job done today. The sound of a blaring newscast was more than he could handle. He couldn't find the big bands this morning. All the stations appeared to have been programmed by complete maniacs or the tone-deaf. He finally dial-twisted around and found an oldies station. They seemed to program only songs that were played before the last dance at old-time proms and sock hops, and it was somewhat bizarre driving to work while the station played “Teach Me Tonight,” “I Only Have Eyes for You,” and “Red Sails in the Sunset"—All before eight in the morning. But he left it on and drove, mind disengaged, through musical memory lane. He pulled up at headquarters in the middle of “Blue Velvet,” depressed all the way down to the soles of his flat copper feet.
He went in and had to fight with himself not to try phoning Noel Collier, who still hadn't returned his LAST call, then he finally reached the number in Scottsdale he'd been phoning for two days, not in, secretary, left word, got a cup of hideous coffee-colored semiliquid stuff, and decided to read the paper in atonement for missing the morning news.
A seventy-seven-year-old woman had been crushed to death under the wheels of a bus. A commuter plane in its landing pattern and a private plane in the midst of takeoff smacked into each other over the Salt Lake Valley in Utah. Early estimates said twenty-two dead. A cerebral-palsy victim who was described as “one of the most courageous men imaginable,” who'd established a successful aluminum can-recycling business in spite of severely impaired motor skills, was in his apartment when somebody broke in and attacked him, leaving him badly beaten and traumatized. A nine-year-old girl disappeared off the streets. It was believed that a four-year-old boy had died in a fire because the building's landlord had refused to install smoke alarms. The man who played the Lone Ranger on TV years ago was checking his baggage through a ticket counter at the Houston airport and someone stole his six-guns and silver bullets. It looked like everyone was going to survive the fifty-eighth anniversary of the birth of Martin Luther King. A day like all days. The Grave-digger was still out there somewhere, or right under their noses in maximum security lockup ... or C: None of these.
Jack could imagine how good that first one would taste. He knew just one would completely cut through all the fog and wipe that woolen sleeve right off his tongue and totally lose that dull headache, all in the first swallow. How could anything that therapeutic possibly be bad for you? He could just have ONE, he assured what was left of his conscience and common sense. Just one, come back to work, it would all be more better, brudda.
He tried another call. Another nobody home. He'd reached the point that was so familiar and dreaded to Jack, a hollow and unfunny phone paranoia, the end result of too many recorded messages, too long spent on hold, too many rate increases, too many “I'm sorry she's not in"s AFTER the secretary gets your name.
So when his line rang and he depressed the lit trunk line and said, “Eichord,” and the thing went “MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFF” real loud in his ear ... Jeezus. It was all he could do not to throw the piece of shit through the nearest wall. What a fucked-up week. He hung up the receiver and sat there for nearly a minute looking at the phone. Tasting something awful and sour in his mouth. Staring at his desk. Eventually the extension on his borrowed desk made its looney trilling sound and he snatched it off the cradle and snarled, “Eichord?"
“Long distance calling Jack Eichord"—from Mars it sound like.
“This is he, operator."
“One moment please, for Dr. Geary's office."
Ohhhh, shit. Can't believe it. Finally.
“Thanks,” he said, listening to long-line harmonics, the hammering in his temple having reached disco proportions. He noticed his right eye was trying to close. Just a little tic. Nothing serious.
“Jack?” the familiar voice.
“Hello."
“Jack—Doug Geary."
“Doctor, thanks for getting back to me. I need to pick your brain again.” Geary had helped him on the Demented case years ago. “I was wondering if the Arizona papers have been carrying anything on the Grave-digger stories."
“Yes. I take it you're on the case."
“I'm in Dallas now. Yes."
“The guy, what's his name—your primary suspect—Ukelele Ike?"
Jack laughed. “You're close—Ukie Hackabee."
“Yeah. So what can I tell you? Don't know much, but shoot."
“The subject in question is quite intelligent. But with a record of minor sexual offenses. He abducted a woman here in Dallas and held her captive for several weeks, This was the first time we know of that he raped. Prior to that it was public-nuisance stuff. All during the time he had her he was bragging about all these bodies he'd buried. Convinced her be was a killer. When she got loose she gave us enough information where some of the graves were located and they picked him up. He's open about it. Admits the killings, even give us more graves. Real antisocial type.
“But then he takes it all back. Says he didn't do the killings, he saw them happen in his head. Has this farfetched story about a place where he can go inside his head that's like a concrete tunnel, and a thing he calls a neural pathway where this man hurts him, then he shows him where various corpses are, but he never gets a look at the guy doing the killings, he always stays in the shadows. The suspect has the impression the man is tall, but he claims he knows nothing else about the buried bodies, only their locations."
“My God, that's wild."
“Yeah, I know. He sounds nuttier ‘n a fruitcake. Thing is, he's very smart. Real bright guy. A ne'er-do-well kind of schlub in one sense—had a background of failure in the workplace—an abortive career as a local MC in some of the sleazy strip clubs—a package as a small-time nothing con man.
“First, there's a strong possibility he's trying to build up an image so he can cop to an insanity plea. Second, the obvious possibility that he's crazy. Third-and here's what I want to know, here's where I'm really needing your help—how much of an outside chance is there that he's telling the truth? He goes on about this neural plateau in his head where the killer tortures him a little, shows him the bodies. Sounds on the surface like some whackaroony on a guilt trip the way I'm telling it, but this guy doesn't have a killer's profile at all.
“I think the Grave-digger thing has brought him to the point where he finally got the guts to abduct a woman and rape her. But the rest of it doesn't feel right at all. I don't doubt for a second he was an accomplice, or a hanger-on, had some part in the killings-perhaps in helping to select the victims or whatever. But I can t see this guy getting up for the muscle. Wet work would scare him silly, I'd guess. Part of a team is the way I see him. He's covering for somebody maybe. Someone who's bad enough to have Ukie very scared."
“Hmmm. Interesting possibilities. First—and I know you already know this but just to run over the old basics, don't ever disregard anything when it comes to the cry for-help department."
“Right,” Jack said.
“We've talked a lot about that, I know. But in the past we've both seen an awful lot of seemingly bizarre behavior that boiled down to being nothing more than an individual going down for the third time and crying out to the authorities as a father figure, ‘Help me.’ The classic cry, ‘Stop me before I kill again'. But some of the ways they do that don't look anything like a cry for help, they look like anything but."
“I know. And Ukie is very frightened. But having recanted—"
“Also, Jack, someone disturbed enough to be part of mass murder, however passive the role, out of sheer hatred or mental imbalance or whatever, let's say, but bright enough and imaginative enough to have created a make-believe world where someone shows them pictures of graves inside a concrete tunnel—that is going to be one complex individual. He will probably sense he is deeply disturbed if his dementia allows rational introspection. Thus you have the cry."
“But what if it's for real?"
“Is your sense of Ukie that he's being influenced or manipulated by an accomplice? How do you clock him? And what does the testing show? Pollies and all."
“Polygraphs haven't shown diddly. Just too conflicting and inconclusive. I think my sense of it is that not only is Ukie capable of BEING influenced, I think somebody has been terrorizing him. It's hard for me to buy any part of the thought-manipulation in a brain pathway, but I don't think he's faking the scared part. He may even believe all this stuff—who knows? Another thing I wonder. Could he have killed all these people, through anger or whatever, then blocked it all out, and is using this as the way of taking it all back inside his head?"
“Mmm. I suppose it would be remotely possible, but if he is an extremely tormented individual who finally went all the way ‘round the bend and began murdering random victims, it's rather unlikely when he abducted a woman and raped her that he'd let her live for days, much less weeks. That kind of a criminal psychotic would be much more likely to rape and kill her at the moment of ejaculation or soon after. Or, like a friend of ours from the past, kill the girl and THEN rape her. You're dealing with massive amounts of rage and hostility."
“What's your feeling about the theoretical possibility of a neural pathway, and the likelihood that a stronger, dominant person could somehow cause you to think or visualize things on that level whenever they wanted?"
“You mean by hypnosis or sheer will or whatever?"
“Right.” Eichord could hear the doctor let out a deep breath as he framed his reply.
“Wish I could recall those findings on telepathic manipulation. Years ago some institution—Duke University perhaps, I just don't remember-Aid a major study. Check the psych abstracts."
“Somebody else told me to do that. What are they exactly?"
“Okay. You're in Dallas, right?"
“Right."
“Great—” And he began telling him where he could go and how to use the psychiatric abstracts, and how to look up the subject matter and the date, and as he was explaining how to use the catalogued data Eichord said, “You mean just look up the general heading first, like ‘TWINS,’ and then—” “Whoa. Shit, Jack. Did I read somewhere the suspect had a twin sibling?"
“Yeah. Twin brother."
“Whooooooaaaaaabhhhhh. Hold it, hold it, hold it. Whoa, horse."
“Huh?"
“You didn't say anything about a twin. Ukie is a twin!"
“Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just hadn't got around to it yet."
“Oh, well, WELL now. That could change everything. Let me think now, just a second.” He paused and Eichord said before he forgot to ask, “Let me say one thing while you're thinking. Would you be so kind as to let me ship these surveillance tapes to you? I know it's one hell of an imposition, but would you have time to take a look at them? I'd just send one or two to give you a feel of the man. I'd be so grateful if you would have time to—"
“Send ‘em soon as you can. Glad to do it. Now listen. You're talking about identical twins?"
“Yep. I met the brother. Ukie in appearance. Deeper voice or more mellow in his speaking voice. Dresses better. Seems mannerly. Speaks in a very soft-spoken, not exactly deferential way but just a very pleasant way. Nice dude, Seems awfully, genuinely personable. Totally unlike Ukie or at least that's what you get right under the facade. Same exterior, totally different interior is the impression. Clean background. Ultra-successful businessman in Houston. Doesn't seem bitter in any way toward his brother. Acts convinced that Ukie is innocent."
“The twin thing..."
“Yeah?"
“That changes everything, though, Jack. It adds another dimension. If our Ukie is a same-twin you've immediately got a whole new set of possibilities, see? And they're diametrically divergent. You know the fantasy of having a twin is that it's another you but it doesn't w
ork that way. You think you're going to have a best friend who looks like and thinks just the way you do. It's like a kid having a pet but better because it talks. But the twinning reality is often quite different. Largely negative relationships can develop. One can be super-critical or jealous of the other, If Ukie was hostile toward his twin, and bright, this could be an extremely intricate piece of invention to put a frame around his brother's successful neck, right? Conversely his brother-okay, this gets very iffy—but suppose Ukie's twin could manipulate him in some way, the way the frame might work in reverse. Both theoreticals are too far out for me, I'm just shooting from the hip. But the twin thing. Ahhhh, now that's a rich area."
Eichord made a pained noise like a “hmmmmmmm” and the man said, “Jack, I think you might want to look closely at the twin brother's relationship to our suspect."
“Oh, Doctor, I don't really feel like there could be much there. I'm checking it out but aside from a bit of resentment on Ukie's part for what he imagines as disloyalty—you'll see that in the interrogations I'll send you—I don't think there's too much happening there. Joseph Hackabee, the twin brother, he came in on his own when he saw the story in the newspapers in Houston. I doubt if we'd ever found out about him or reached for him had he not shown up wanting to help his brother. They had falling-out several years ago and hadn't kept in touch over this last four or five years ... Eichord trailed off.
“Twins is something, though, Jack. There's a wealth of potential for a uniquely complex relationship and this series of crimes—wow. I mean, do you still use the rule of thumb that anything beyond four killings qualifies?"
“Yes. That's pretty much the official line. Once the tally goes past four it's a serial-murder case and I get notified. Of course you can have ten or twenty deaths in an isolated shooting and not have a serial killer. I get tapped when there are more than four different homicides within a geographic area or a proximate occurrence pattern timewise. Unofficially the definition is simpler. If it makes headlines."