Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  “I can't believe we've done so little for the half-day of work!”

  “Yes, myself, I would rather prefer to see something more solid. However, our work is like this quite often. You run all day long and come empty-handed. At least, we got something. I can work on it after lunch. Thanks a lot, Liz…”

  The idea of working on the leads after lunch was a bit of a wishful thinking. After having a quick lunch at a food stall, Mark rode to the Station and spent the next three hours putting the paperwork in order. These activities always took twice as long as anticipated. At three, they had a bi-weekly teleconference with the FBI Headquarters in Washington.

  Back in 2020, having in-hand a chain of five or so dual murders, the FBI would parachute in a team of ‘alan-pinkertons’ to take care of all the legwork instead (but under the direct supervision) of Mark. If these produced no result in four weeks, the Headquarters would deploy their on-duty gang of ‘sherlock-holmes’ and ‘doctor-watsons’ to do some lateral thinking for you. And a team of ‘rambos’ on top of that – to apprehend the serial killer. Now, in 2030, all the Headquarters could offer was the data analysis and a good advice over the video link. It meant doing all the legwork and all the lateral thinking and all the muscle work strictly by the local resources. Not like the Headquarters ran out of those ‘pinkertons’ and ‘rambos,’ but delivering them to the place of action became prohibitively expensive.

  The teleconf went in the usual business-like manner. Mark and Alan presented the latest findings, the experts on the other side gave their, quite irrelevant, advices. The main discussion was about the female victim's identification. The participants in Washington correctly pointed out that even if the girl's name was discovered, it would probably add very little to the perpetrator's identity. The usual problem in such serial killer cases: the victims often had no connection to the killer whatsoever, and were killed simply being in the wrong place at wrong time. Alas, despite having the killer's vague description from Joe Heller, the detectives had no other leads. At least, looking for the girl's connections would give them something to do… Until the Butcher strikes again, Mark reflected.

  Suddenly, one of the men at the Washington end raised his hand. Mark did not see him before this teleconference and assumed he was one of the expert supervisors who just dropped in to kill his HQ boredom.

  “Mister Pendergrass,” the man started. He looked away from the screen, in some reptilian fashion, “perhaps, you have been assigned to this case for too long.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Mark replied. For too long, my ass, he thought. Twenty years ago there was such a rule. No agent would work on a serial killer case for more than six months, maximum a year. Such serial killer cases were considered to be emotionally-intensive, and the FBI tried to preserve the agents' mental health. Now, Mark had been working this case for nearly two years. Nobody gave a damn about the mental health, there were not enough agents around.

  “I read the reports, Special Agent-In-Charge,” the man continued, “two years is enough. We need to relieve you.”

  “Do you propose to send another agent in? To help Agent Pendergrass?” Benito asked.

  “That's a ‘maybe’, Major. For starters, we can put the case under the Harris County Police jurisdiction.”

  “With all due respect, sir, how is this going to help the investigation progress?” the Station Chief exploded, “you know the situation. I don't need to inform you how thin we are stretched here.”

  “It may not help the investigation, but may help the FBI budget. I doubt the FBI needs an active agent in those two districts, anyway.”

  “Does it mean I am dismissed, sir?” Mark asked.

  “Not yet, Special Agent. Not yet. But you better speed up the motions.”

  “We are doing everything we can, sir,” Benito started.

  The man raised his hand interrupting the Station Chief, “apparently, not everything. What about the volunteers?”

  On the teleconference screen, one of the Washington experts raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes a little, indicating to the Houston participants that he strongly disagreed, but was too afraid to voice his opinion.

  “But, sir…” Alan said.

  “No ‘buts,’ gentlemen. I will put it in simple terms. Two calendar years from the case number one, or the next Butcher's strike, whichever comes first. After that – we will make some tough decisions here. Show us some action, Mister Pendergrass…” – and the screen went blank.

  “Who the hell is this ass-hole?” Alan inquired.

  “No idea. He did not introduce himself. Probably he thinks he's such a big shot everybody must recognize him instantly. Do you know him, Mark?” Ben said.

  “No,” Mark replied, “but he is an ass-hole, no doubts. One of this new generation Washington clowns. Got into the HQ without being a field agent for a single bloody day. Do you have a Deputy position for me, Ben? I can be a clerk too. Or even a janitor.”

  “Don't you freaking joke like this, man!”

  “So, what do we do? Call the volunteers and show some action?”

  “You know better than me, Mark. It's no good.”

  Right, no good, Mark thought: what do I do if they kick me out of the FBI? All he knew in his life was the criminal investigations. Well, besides the FBI stuff, he had plausible carpenter skills. He even made stools and shelves for the neighbors. Hey, he enjoyed working with wood! Should he open a carpenter shop in his garage? Probably, the income levels would be a fraction of what he made in the FBI…

  “All-right, gents,” Mark said with the resolution of the nearly-dead man, “let's go do some work.”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, when Mark arrived to the Station, Alex Zuiko waited at Mark's desk. By the look of Sarge's red eyes and unshaven face, it had been an all-night operation.

  “If you have a minute, Mark, I can introduce you to Miss Jen Lien,” Alex was delighted to report a successful catch, “she was kind enough to join us. Spent six or seven hours in the slammer. Last night, I made my overtime worth every single dollar…”

  “How did you manage?” Mark asked. Alan and Alex were resourceful investigators, but he did not expect this happen so fast.

  “An old friend of our good doctor was passing the town. Alan convinced him to do a little job for us.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Yeah. No names are allowed… And irrelevant… The man used to be a stock broker. After the Meltdown, he became a con artist. Which is pretty much the same line of work, considering. He's in nearly full retirement now, but likes to pull one or another of his old hustles. Even for the Police, and totally free of charge. He does it for the adrenaline rush. Loves the art, I guess.”

  “And what hustle has he pulled this time, Alex?”

  “Simple one. The con artists call it exactly this: ‘Now, You Are in For a Murder.’ Only instead of the con crew, the Police officers' parts were played by the real Police officers. Based on her criminal record, Alan figured out our Jen gets greedy too easily. So the set up came like this: his con artist friend, with little make-up and rigged with a microphone, comes across and asks the pimp for a girl. Miss Lien runs all her usual checks, but in terms of the craft she is no match to our man. Like a school basketball team against the NBA. Anyhow, they began walking to the ‘house.’ To get the money and introduce our man to the ‘friend,’ the usual drill. A deserted street, and all. Suddenly, our con artist simulates a stroke. Chokes and drops on the ground. He also had a little piece of plastic straw in his mouth, with some food coloring and soda sealed in it. He bites it open. Yellowish bubbles from the mouth – all very realistic.”

  “Obviously, Lien took it for a real thing…”

  “Who wouldn't? This man is a bloody professional, I tell you. I expected he would be doing something like this, and even I almost shit my pants when I heard his agony wheezing in my earphone! I thought: he is an old chap, and this stroke is for-real! Like, died at the line of duty. Anyway, if our
Miss Lien was any good, she would call for help. Or if she was a scary-cat, she would run away. In both cases, she would get a free run. But hey, she is neither good nor shy! Greedy, exactly as we expected. Our man was continuously flashing his gold watch, his gold ring, and his gold chain. And – flipped his fat wallet a couple of times. So our Lien girl figures out the man will die soon, and decides to relieve him of all these expensive things. In the Heaven or the Hell, the gold watch is totally unnecessary, right? Besides, she doesn't need to share her take with any other girl… So in the following three minutes, she makes a quick profit and runs away. Well, not too far, – straight into the long arms of the Law. My arms, ha!”

  “And?”

  “She was darn bold, I admit. Said: no probs, Sergeant, I am legal. I say: I trust you, Miss, but let me scan your dog-tag anyway. She pulls the tag from under her scarf, I pull the scanner, and alas, it plays ‘ta-da’ and says: tag not current. She says: try again. ‘Ta-da.’ I rigged the scanner, see. After that – all by the Standard Operational Procedure. I put her against the wall, call a female officer, and we pat her up. Here come: the wallet, the smart-phone, the golden male watch, the ring and the chain. O-la-la! The watch has a little engraving on the back: ‘To Charles Smith for 25 years of service.’ And the same name – on the phone's welcome screen!”

  “Nicely done!”

  “Well, our con artist is a pro, as I told you. She's obviously in complete denial, says the client gave it to her, or the stuff belongs to her uncle's grandpa, or something along these lines. No problems, I say: enter the password on the smart-phone. If the phone unlocks, I cut you a fine for the late tag payment and let you go continue your busy night shift. But the phone, darn, - does not want to unlock. So I say: Miss, it seems you are suffering from severe amnesia. I simply cannot leave you on the street in such condition and will have to book you in for tonight. And we send her to the slammer, as if to keep her till the morning. One hour later, I get her out and tell her: the diagnosis is crappier than I thought, Miss. It's not amnesia, after all. A body has been found. Charles Smith! ‘Now, you are in for a murder.’ She went into a panic mode and started, like: he was already dead, he was dead! In front of the CCTV… Stupid. So now she is firmly on the hook, marinating in the cell. I gave her a hint she might be getting twenty-five to life.”

  “This will not hold in a court. Our con man is alive, right?”

  “Alive, well, and already on the military truck to his home in Corpus Christi. But Miss Lien does not need to know, does she?”

  “Corpus Christi? This con artist friend of Doctor Moss is a very rich man. A civilian, getting a ride from the Pentagon? Must cost a fortune!”

  “I have no idea if he is rich or not, but he's traveling for-free this morning. The miracles still happen, even with the privates and sergeants who run these trucks. Sometimes, they get very altruistic. It's amazing what a second-hand Colonel uniform can do if applied properly…”

  “A second-hand Colonel uniform? Cool… OK, never mind your con stock broker, whatever. Let's go have a nice talk with Lien. What do you want to do: good cop – bad cop, for starters?” Mark suggested.

  “No, it is not what this particular hustle recipe calls for. Instead of a good cop and a bad cop, there should be two bad cops: one from the Police and one from the FBI. You play, naturally, for the FBI: you are crooked, but cautious; and I will play as I am plain crooked…”

  They walked to the back of the Station, into the interrogation room. The on-duty deputy soon brought in the unlucky prostitute. Her face was covered with leaking eye shades and smudged lipstick. She probably already felt very scared, but Alex was not the one to leave the intimidation business unchecked. Just before the deputy opened the door, he started explaining Mark, as if continuing a long story: “…And so I say, why the hell did you stick a lady into the male camp? And the Corrections' man says: hey, what do you call a lady? She is a goddamn SSP! If the girl is a registered hooker, this is the only way. How else can we keep our men in-check? And I say: but the girl died. Didn't your boss rip your ass for a dead convict? And he says: nobody said nothing, man. The hooker is a hooker. She probably even enjoyed sleeping with forty or fifty boys every night, and who cares?” Alex turned to the door and made it look like he just saw Lien and the deputy entering, “oh, sorry, bro. I was telling the Special Agent about my recent trip to the Corrections… Never mind. Please leave Miss Lien with us, thank you…”

  After the deputy shut the door, Sarge pointed to the chair, “please have a seat, Miss Lien.” Then, he turned to back to Mark and continued his ‘story’: “and so he says, the hooker eventually got pregnant, but this is a big no-no. Not in the male camp. No problems, the convicts know what to do. They take an aluminum spoon from the canteen, and a candle. Make the spoon very hot. Sterilization of sorts. And stick the hot spoon into… Oh, never mind. Let's finish with Miss Lien quickly, and then I'll tell you the rest.”

  “OK, Sergeant,” Mark played along.

  “Sorry for making you wait, Miss Lien,” Alex turned back to the hooker, “this is Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, from the FBI.” He pointed to Mark, who in turn demonstrated his badge.

  “Perhaps, I should not be talking to you two. I want a lawyer,” Lien said.

  “As you wish, Miss. Just remember, I have read you your rights, and you already have been talking. And: we have this all on camera, don't we? You will need some serious lawyer to pull you out of this crap. Real shark! The cheap one will make the things only worse…”

  “I'll get one. I have money…”

  “E-e! Reality check! These shark lawyers cost per hour more than you make per week… Basically, we want to make it as easy for you as possible. I will give you a list, and you will memorize all six cases.”

  “What six cases?” Lien was flabbergasted.

  “You see, we have six cases – with the same M.O.,” Sarge explained, “a rich man gets himself a hooker. Ka-boom, and we find a dead body. Poisoned and robbed. 'Cause we are certain you did Mister Charles Smith tonight…”

  “I don't know no Charles Smith!”

  “This is not what you said earlier. In front of the camera. Anyway, lady. I don't need that video anymore. The CSIs are starting on the body. Your fingerprint is on the dead man's belt buckle. Plus another one – on one of the buttons.”

  “I told you, he was dead already!” she started sobbing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smearing even more eye shades over her cheeks, “yeah, I took the watch… And the other things… But I didn't… didn't kill him!”

  “Oh, darling, stop it! No need to cry,” Mark played his ‘crooked FBI man’ role, “what done is done. I know, you didn't want to kill the man, it just happened so. Just tell us what you used. Sleeping pills? ‘Ice’?”

  “I don't use nothing! I told the Sergeant…”

  “What about the crack cocaine we found on you?” Alex interjected.

  “What crack cocaine?”

  Alex triumphantly placed on the table an evidence bag. Inside, there was a tiny package with some white powder. Mark saw that the package had been dusted for prints, with a distinct fingerprint clearly visible on the side. “This crack cocaine, lady.”

  “This is not mine!” She yelled.

  “It's yours now,” Sarge replied, “you wrapped it. See that print on the scotch tape?”

  “You… You! Shit! You wiped my fingers before deputy took my prints! You had that plastic film! In the towel! Mister… what's your name? Pendergrass, sir! This Sergeant! He got my print on this – already at the Station. I had no crack on me. I swear to God!”