SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT - The Complete Psycho Thriller (The Complete Epic)

by Blake Crouch

  A gun show.

  Hmmm.

  In theory, he hated them. Or rather, he hated the people who attended them. Small-dicked redneck pieces of shit who had no concept of the beauty and function of a perfectly-constructed weapon. Crackers who didn’t have a drop of the inner-steel it took to use them for their true purpose.

  It wasn’t shooting mangy-looking deer, and it wasn’t shooting targets at the range.

  But despite this, he could feel himself coming to the gradual realization that he kind of wanted to go. The billboards said the show was being held at the Indianapolis Merchandise Mart, which was right off I-70, not even ten miles ahead. He’d driven all night out of Pittsburgh, and he was already well-ahead of schedule. Even better, since his Escalade was in the shop for a new sound system install, he’d rented a brand new 2003 Infiniti G35 sedan for this job.

  Which had a trunk.

  Which was where his cargo currently slept in a blissful black tar dream. He could simply redose her, hit the gun show for several hours, and see if there was anything special that caught his eye.

  Porter

  Leo Porter, of Porter’s Guns and Ammo, surveyed the customers milling about in his eponymous shop and frowned. He was busy, but not busy enough. Unless he started selling some big ticket merchandise, and plenty of it, he was never going to be able to repay the loan.

  The loan, eleven thousand bucks, had been given to him by Sal Dovolanni, a Chicago wiseguy who wanted the principal, plus an outrageous thirty percent interest, by noon tomorrow. Porter had taken the loan to bid on hosting the annual Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show. The BABGAKS traveled around the country, and Sal had done well as a vendor during the past years. But he’d been told the big money was in sponsoring the event. If Sal did that, the vendors would pay him, and he’d be able to offer his entire inventory for sale, rather than just the limited amount of firearms he could cart from state to state.

  So he’d taken the loan, convinced that he’d make the money back and plenty more besides. And actually, he’d more than doubled the loan. But he’d forgotten something extremely important.

  The majority of his sales were by credit card. Porter wouldn’t see that money until next week, when it was direct-deposited into his bank account.

  Dovolanni wanted cash. Wanted it right fucking now. And Porter only had 5k in the safe, maybe another few hundred in the register.

  He’d realized his mistake that morning, but a frantic call to Dovolanni for more time had been met with derision. Sure, Porter could be late. But he’d get two broken legs just the same.

  So earlier that day, Porter began offering drastic discounts for cash. In some cases, he was actually losing money by selling below cost. But he liked his legs as they were, functional and unbroken. Years ago, he’d dislocated a finger. That had been agonizing. He couldn’t imagine the pain of a larger bone being broken. If it came down to that, he’d seriously consider eating a bullet first. Porter knew plenty of guys who’d been shot. Supposedly, it didn’t hurt that much.

  “How much is this box of 7.62 shells?” The question came from a guy in fatigues with SWANSON stenciled on his breast pocket. Two other matching wannabes named MUNCHEL and PESSOLANO flanked him. Porter knew they were wannabes because they called the ammo shells instead of their proper name, cartridges. He would have bet all the cash in the safe that none of them had a shred of military experience.

  “Price is on the box, like all the other cartridges you asked about,” Porter said. These guys had been in his shop for over an hour and hadn’t bought a single thing.

  “Right,” said Swanson, “but you said there’s a twenty percent discount for cash.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how much?”

  Porter fought not to shake his head, and instead explained, with infinite patience, as if speaking to a brain-damaged child, how to calculate twenty percent off.

  The moron put the ammo box back anyway.

  Porter turned away and sighed, wondering if he should run for the border now, or at least wait until closing time.

  He decided to ride it out. Occasionally, miracles happened.

  Maybe he’d stumble into one today.

  Jack

  Cops and guns went together like cops and donuts. While I’ve never been partial to donuts, except for an occasional Boston Crème, I did respect and appreciate guns.

  Last year, the Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show had been in Chicago, and I’d attended with my partner, Herb Benedict, for the express purpose of buying a semi-automatic.

  My carry gun, a .38 Colt Detective Special, held six cartridges and weighed twenty-one ounces. It was no longer being produced, and I was becoming the butt of ageism jokes around the station. The latest was a Photoshopped pic of me wielding a wooden club with the caption: “Lt. Daniels Finally Upgrades Her Weapon.”

  I liked revolvers, because they never jammed—one of my first cases almost ended in my death because I’d been relying on a semi-auto. But last year I’d been tempted by a Heckler & Koch P2000, which weighed the same as my Colt, and held a clip of ten .357 Sig rounds. I liked how it fired, how it felt, how it didn’t jam even though I put two hundred rounds through it on the practice range, and I’d been very close to sealing the deal when Herb was overtaken with a particularly terrible bout of food poisoning, publicly erupting at both ends. Which, coincidentally enough, came from eating donuts. I took him to the ER, intending to return to the show, but didn’t have the chance. And while Illinois had its fair share of gun shops where I could order an HK P2000, real life had gotten in the way and I never got around to it.

  But my Captain had forced me to take a day off, and so I drove out to Indiana for this year’s BABGAKS, with the intent to pick one up. It didn’t hurt that the gun dealer from last year was easy to look at. Though I was currently living with a guy, things had been going poorly, so it didn’t hurt to keep my options open. My boyfriend was the reason for my recent tendency to put in more hours at work. Better to stay at the Job than try to deal with our growing dissatisfaction with one another.

  The show took place under a gigantic tent, in a parking lot adjacent to Porter’s Guns and Ammo. Half of it was apportioned to the vendors, the other half to speakers for various demonstrations. Even though it was cold outside, the body heat generated by the number of people inside provided so much efficient heating, I regretted not leaving my Donna Karan jacket in my car.

  The crowd was 90% men, most of them carrying. You’d think there’d be strict regulations about bringing in ammo for fear of a disagreement that ended in a shooting, but in fact the opposite seemed to be true. When everyone was armed, people tended to stay on their best behavior.

  The remaining 10% of the crowd consisted of young girls in bathing suits—the promised Babes. They strutted around in high heels, passing out vendor fliers and presentation schedules.

  In the background, some speaker droned on about the velocity, energy, and stopping-power differences between .40 S&W and .357 Sig rounds, and since I was planning on going with the .357, I gave him partial attention as I weaved through the throng of armed men. Using a vendor map supplied by one of the Babes, I located the booth I was looking for—Theel Firearms. After three minutes of walking, and two more checks of the map, I arrived at my destination.

  Except it wasn’t manned by the cute guy from last year. It was manned by another cute guy, several years my junior.

  And by “several years” I meant “at least ten, maybe fifteen.” But he had a strong chin, the rugged good looks of a cigarette model, and kind eyes. He also wore a uniform with a patch across the heart in the shape of a badge. It read, “DEPUTY OF THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE – LA PLATA COUNTY, COLORADO.”

  He was in discussion with another cop, a portly Sheriff in green khakis with a tan shirt. Name badge read D. EISENHOWER. This man was bald, and had a round, doughy face.

  “I’ve never been asked that before,” said the cute guy. “All rounds fired at a human being are goin
g to cause some bleeding. I don’t know which ones would cause the least amount.”

  “I’d go with a steel jacket, use fewer grains for a lower velocity,” I chimed in. “The round exits the body with minimal target damage, minimal expansion.”

  They both looked my way.

  The cute one had no name tag.

  “The lady is right,” he said, giving me a fast wink. “We don’t carry anything like that, but if you load your own, I could set you up with some equipment.”

  D. Eisenhower grunted, hitched up his pants, and walked off without another word.

  “Odd fella. More than a passing resemblance to that Pillsbury mascot.”

  “I’m looking for Chester,” I said.

  “Chester’s not here today. I’m his little brother, Clayton. Call me Clay.”

  He didn’t offer his hand, but his smile was inviting, and he leaned over the table just a bit to get closer.

  “Hi, Clay. I’m looking for an HK P2000.”

  “Replacement carry, Detective?”

  “Lieutenant,” I corrected. “Yes. My team is giving me shit for my current carry.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Detective Special.”

  He nodded. “Colt. A classic. May I see it?”

  I tugged the revolver out of my shoulder holster. Clay had correctly deduced I was a cop because we were the only ones allowed to carry concealed. Since I was in plainclothes, he had incorrectly assumed I was a detective. But then, I could forgive the assumption—I liked to think I looked too young to be a Lieutenant. I released the cylinder, spilled the bullets into my hand, and gave him the weapon.

  His eyes narrowed with focus as he studied it.

  “I see a lot of use, but this is in great shape. I like a woman who takes care of her weapon.”

  “I admire the same thing in a man,” I said.

  “Nice butt.”

  “Thanks. I work out.”

  His smile widened. “I meant the grip. Older guns, the wood sometimes cracks. You looking to sell this? I’d make you a good deal.”

  “No, thanks. Do you have the P2000?”

  “Sure do.”

  He handed my gun back, and while I reloaded and holstered it, he ducked under his table and took out a metal gun box. When he flipped open the top, I was staring down at an HK with a spare clip, each nestled in foam.

  Clay removed it, did a customary check of the slide to confirm it was empty, and handed it over. “Chambered for .357 Sig rounds.”

  I noticed a thin sheen of oil on the piece. “Brand new?”

  “A virgin,” he said.

  “I like mine with a little experience.”

  “We could work something out. My other brother, Remy, is taking over in a few minutes. If you’d like, we can go to the range at Porter’s next door. Try before you buy.” His eyes flicked down to my hands. Checking for a wedding ring, maybe?

  “That would be great, Clay. Thanks.”

  “I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant...?”

  “Daniels. Jack Daniels. Call me Jack.”

  His eyes lit up. “Your reputation precedes you, Jack. Even as far west as Colorado. I watched that TV show based on you. You’re much better looking than that chubby actress, if I may say so.”

  “You may. And you just did.”

  It felt good to flirt with a cute guy, especially since my current romantic interest had been treating me so icily I could see his breath when he spoke.

  “Here comes my bro, Remy. Remington, this is Jack Daniels.”

  Remy nodded at me. He looked even younger than Clay, though not nearly as cute.

  “Chester, Clayton, and Remington?” I said.

  “Dad said he wanted a ton of kids,” Remy said, shrugging.

  “Remy, I’m going to take Jack and Alice to the range, see if she’s interested in buying our P2000.”

  “Alice?” I asked.

  Clay smiled, and from under the table removed the biggest revolver I’d ever seen. It was nickel-plated and had RAGING BULL engraved on the barrel.

  “This is Alice. A Taurus .454 Casull.” He beamed like he was watching his son score a winning touchdown.

  “You named your gun Alice?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, putting his hand on the table and vaulting over it. “Haven’t you named your Colt?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s see how she fires,” Clay said, winking and cocking out his arm for me to take. “Maybe we’ll think of something.”

  Mr. K

  The man known in law enforcement circles as Mr. K walked past the attractive woman and the cop she was flirting with, and approached a booth occupied by Morrell’s Edges. Morrell was an older man, sturdy, his red cheeks separated by a black mustache, known to be one of the finest custom knife makers in the country, if not the world.

  Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.

  Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.

  Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.

  The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.

  “I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “You’re welcome to look through my custom book, Mr. Donaldson.” Morrell indicated a cheap, bound photo album, full of his designs. “But ivory is illegal, and I don’t mess around with that.”

  “I already looked through the book,” Donaldson said. “Wasn’t in there.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Mr. K offered a pleasant, “Excuse me,” and then butted in front of the sweating fat man. “Mr. Morrell, you did a special order for me. Walnut handle, blade like an ice pick.”

  “Indeed I did. I had one helluva time tempering the steel to make it strong enough to hold that edge, Mr…”

  “I didn’t give you my name,” Mr. K said, offering a tight smile. “But I did pay you in advance, and I’d like my merchandise.”

  Morrell nodded.

  The fat man folded his arms. Scowling like a pouting child. He glanced over at Mr. K.

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “You as well,” replied Mr. K. “Staying out of trouble?”

  “Hell, no. You?”

  Mr. K shrugged. He remembered Donaldson from a short car ride they’d shared years ago. He had found the man to be unpleasant back then, and was in no mood to play where has all the time gone.

  “Are these knives?” Mr. K and Donaldson turned to see a young girl, short and thin, with a stunningly-beautiful face. He would’ve placed her in her twenties, but her blond pigtails made her seem younger. So did her shoes, which were pink and appeared to be made out of foam.

  “Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an interesting choice in footwear.”

  “They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”

  “Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.

  “I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.

  The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.

  Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table
and carefully unwrapped it.

  At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.

  This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.

  “May I?” Mr. K asked.

  “Please.”

  He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.