by Thomas Laird
I won’t be out of the news very much longer, however. The plans are made, and all that remains is the execution.
*
I’m riding west through city traffic. I was so close to the Lake that it’ll take a while for the May breeze to stink of concrete and blacktop instead of lake water and dead perch. I miss the shore already as I cross Ashland Avenue and turn right and head north. I’ve bought a four-speed bicycle to keep things uncomplicated. The kids get more exotic bikes, but I just wanted simple transportation. And who’s on the lookout for a slightly older-than-usual throwback to the ‘70s? That’s the way it looks when I see myself now in the mirror. The mustache and beard have been dyed to match the raven-colored topknot. It’s a fair job of hairstyling, I must admit.
After an hour of pedaling past city traffic and tie-ups, I’m close to my destination. I have my gear stowed in the backpack on my back. The straps tend to bite my shoulders, but I have ignored that discomfort. I let them bite. It keeps me alert.
Helene’s .22 is in the pack. I’ve bought some fresh shells, but I’ve worked on them myself. I’ve rigged them into hollow points with a few tools I bought at the local hardware superstore. They will make gaping holes in whoever is shot with them. I have a few people in mind as targets.
I arrive in Bridgeport after an hour-and-forty-five minute ride. I notice the unmarked squad right away. I’m riding on the sidewalk, as you’re not supposed to do, but the cops aren’t very strict about bike riders on the walks. I’m pedaling slowly, anyway, almost casually. It’s just past eight in the morning, and these two plainclothesmen are settling in for an eight-hour stint. Must be awfully boring.
I go right by them without catching their eyes, and then I pull into the driveway alongside George Koehn’s next door neighbor. I’ve been here before, the night I trashed the old man’s house just for giggles and shits. I noticed an old lady going into this house by herself at about midnight. I saw her out George’s front window. I was concealed by his blinds. The old girl never saw me.
I’m betting the old bitch lives alone. This neighborhood seems to belong to geezers. George lives alone, too.
I go around back, and then I stand still. I listen. I don’t hear anyone stirring in the vicinity. I smell the air, but I don’t know what kind of scent I’m expecting to pick up.
Then I hop the old lady’s fence and land in George Koehn’s back yard. I look over his back fence, but I see no one parked in the alley behind his home. The cops can’t afford more than the two-man surveillance out front.
I proceed to Old Man Koehn’s back door. It’s a storm door and it’s locked, so I get the pick out of my backpack after I get out of the straps. I take the .22 pistol out of it as well and lay it on George’s fine little backyard lawn. He’s been cutting it already, and you can see it’s well-manicured.
I’m past the storm door, and then I have a deadbolt to pick. After the deadbolt is popped with my burglar’s helper, I contend with a chain. I’m able to use pincers to disconnect the chain, and then I’m inside.
I don’t hear a dog or any alarms, and I’m greatly relieved.
I don’t see George in the kitchen, either. Perhaps he’s a late riser. I move on to his bedroom. I know the room because I spent a lot of time and effort redecorating it last time I was here.
He’s under the covers. Snoring, sound asleep.
I walk right up next to him. I nudge his face with the barrel. Then he opens his eyes, and slowly the shock and fear gathers in his weathered face.
“All right. Tell me where it is,” I command.
“Where what…”
“Don’t play stupid or I won’t let you see your son’s execution.”
He bolts up.
“You worthless piece of…”
I prod him in the forehead with the barrel of the .22.
“Come on. Where you hiding it, George?”
He nods toward the nightstand, right next to the bed and us. I open the top drawer, and there it is. A .45 relic, from World War II, I’m guessing.
“Ooh. A big one,” I smile as I lift it out of the drawer.
I check to see if it’s loaded, and it is. Clip intact. Safety on.
“There are two cops sitting out…”
His face darkens angrily, and I can feel him tightening as if he’s a snake ready to spring up at me.
“I know. I rode right past them both into your neighbor’s backyard.”
I smile haughtily at him. But he refuses to wither. He refuses to reconcile himself to defeat.
“You don’t look…”
His brows furrow with interest.
“I know. I rather fancy it. You like my new look?”
“Why don’t you get out? You’re not going to make it out of here, whether you kill me or not. And Will’s not dumb enough to walk into this.”
His face tightens even more. His color has gone white with rage. I’m watching him very closely, now. I don’t want to kill him, yet.
“I bet he is. Want to bet?”
The old World War II vet remains mum.
There is a rotary phone on the nightstand. It’s black. Everything about Mr. Koehn, Senior, is retro.
I dial the number in Oakbrook. I know he doesn’t go on shift until this afternoon. I’ve pedaled past the CPD building in the Loop on my forays, and I’ve watched him for the past few days, courtesy of my altered state.
Hannah Menke’s number is still in the book, and she’s been stubborn enough not to change it. It might be because I’ve never called over to harass her or him there. Too fucking tacky. I like to be the phantom when it comes to hassling targets. I like to stay in the background until it’s time to acquaint myself with the vic.
She answers on the third ring.
“Is your husband there?”
I can barely restrain my glee.
“Who’s this?”
Her voice is solemn, concerned, but not yet hysterical.
“An old, old friend.”
I wonder if she can visualize the wide grin on my face. She must have hit the wall of anxiety, by now, however.
She goes for her hero immediately.
“Yes?”
“I’m at Dad’s.”
I can barely keep my good humor to myself. I’m on a roll, now. I’m the stage comedian who’s got them crying, they’re laughing so hard at all my great mirth.
“You’re where? Who…”
“You know who this is, Will. I’m pointing a .22 with hollow points right at his venerable nose.”
I show his old man a sobering glance. No more fucking around.
“Leave him…”
“No time for idle talk, Will. I might let him live if you show up all by yourself.”
My cheeks are aflame for a killing. I feel the adrenaline coursing through me.
“There are cops right outside his…”
“I noticed as I went right past them.”
“What do you want? Meet me alone. You don’t have to…”
“I do. I do. It’s in my nature. You should know. You’ve read all those profiles about serial killers, Detective.”
“You hurt him, and I won’t kill you but you’ll wish I did.”
“You haven’t got it in you. Come alone, and we’ll discuss it.”
Then I hang up.
“Why’re you going after my son? He’s just doing his job.”
“It really shouldn’t have become personal, I know. I’m not a personal kind of guy. It’s just that he’s so goddamned tenacious, George. I’m sure you must know that about your own son.”
My smile has returned. I’m having fun, now. I’m being jovial, even amusing for old George, here.
“He knows shit when he smells it.”
The old man flashes anger at me.
“Very good. Very funny.”
The smile disappears on my lips. The fury returns, and I’m suddenly at boil, with this ancient prick, this relic of the 1940s.
“I wasn’t joking.”
> He’s got murder in his eyes. I can almost feel his heat rising.
“I gathered that, George. You don’t graduate Magna if you’re dumb.”
“How’d they fuck up with you, then?”
He gives me a one-up kind of grin, the old prick.
“Is your boy as badly mannered as you are?”
“Worse. And he won’t be coming alone.”
He’s still smiling at me as if he’s whipped me in chess.
“I think he will be. I think you mean too much for him to chance it and for him by fucking with me.”
I’m in command again. My voice has leveled itself back to pure calm. I won’t let this goat rattle me. No, I will not.
“Wait. See.”
The grin is gone. George Koehn has gone dead serious on me.
“Indeed.”
He lies back with his head propped up on the pillow.
“I did my homework on you and your boy, too. Quite a few decorations in that historic conflict, yes, George?”
He doesn’t acknowledge my question.
“There’s no need to be humble. You’re a brave man. I can tell.”
“What would a cowardly puke know about bravery?”
“I was decorated, myself.”
“Who fucked that up?”
He’s got that smiling, leering look on his senior-citizen face.
“It’s amazing how paperwork can lie. I was decorated, yes. But the reports were greatly--embellished, shall we say. It all looked great on my fucking resume.”
I glare at him as if I’ve returned serve when he never expected the ball back on his side of the court.
“You’re on the bottom of the ocean, just like whale shit, aren’t you.”
He thinks he’s really winning. It’s painted all over him, the old bastard.
“I was improperly raised, George.”
“You have someone to blame, of course.”
“Sure. It’s the times. None of us in the’ 90s accepts responsibility, George. Haven’t you read the news or watched the media? They’ll tell you. We’re the new Lost Generation. Lost in materialism. Lost, without direction or goals or values.”
“Don’t you bore yourself?”
Now he looks bored with me.
“Very astute,” I have to laugh. “Maybe I’ll kill you anyway. I haven’t decided. If I leave you alive, then you’ll have to relive all this, endlessly. Now there’s terror for you, George old boy.”
“I’ve finally met a crack baby.”
He gives me a look of real sympathy that I cannot bear.
“My mother was not a drug addict.”
There has to be venom dripping from the corners of my mouth, at this precise moment. I loathe George Koehn. I loathe his son. I hate his whole fucking family.
“No. I meant you were the product of a wad that slid down the crack of your mother’s ass. That’s what I meant, Benjamin.”
He grins yet again. I think I want to waste him now.
“You know my name! I’m so honored!”
The flush of genuine anger is rising in my cheeks, and I can feel it soaring.
“You’re like an empty fucking barrel. Nothing inside at all.”
“You’re trying to arouse my anger, aren’t you? I’d expect that tactic from a defenseless man. There is no hope, George. I don’t provoke.… What movie’d that come from?”
I am provoked, however, and this old prick knows it.
He doesn’t answer. This time he remains silent. I don’t feel like messing with him until his son arrives, anyway.
*
I pass the wait by remembering Officer’s Training in Quantico. It was where I first met Carl and Philip, before we reunited twice in Kuwait. The three of us were part of the youngest and the brightest. We were gung ho. We were killers and lean green fighting machines, and all the other assorted horseshit with which the Corps evangelizes the troops.
I was a killer before I met Carl and Philip. They’d never killed anyone, yet. I explained how I shot up my foster mother with a lethal dose of digitalis. Lethal, but the coroner and the Medical Examiner managed to miss it. It was all just a natural heart attack, the report read.
Thomas and Brandon looked at me in awe when I told them the tale at the Officer’s Club in Kuwait City.
“What does it feel like?” Carl asked.
“You’re like God,” I told him.
Brandon literally had his mouth open.
The oil scenario fascinated them both when we discussed it on the internet. Oil was the hook and bait. I knew I couldn’t kill a whole family by myself. Not in the middle of a fucking war. There were other rapes and other murders by other killers over there while I was still in uniform, but they were sloppily executed killings and assaults. The point was not to be caught.
After the second family, I became bored, although I had more than a year to go on my hitch. I just couldn’t see finishing it all out stateside, waiting for the days to dwindle, so I got out with a little help from David Crowley.
My foster father knew I was twisted, but I don’t know if he knew what I was really up to. He might have suspected drugs and such, but I don’t think he ever wanted to really believe I was a murderer.
It’s been a half hour. Will Koehn should be approaching Bridgeport, if I’m not mistaken.
I return to the interview with the father of Detective Will Koehn. I can’t resist trying to somehow win back all the points I’ve seemed to have lost.
“They say that blood tells, George. Is that really true?”
“Why do you ask?”
He looks at me as if he’s finally interested in anything I say.
“Because I never had real parents. I keep hearing it’s different, if you’re raised by your biological parents.”
“You having a moment, here, Benjamin?”
The wise-ass smiled has returned.
“I could just shoot you now and wait for your son to come after me so I can kill him, too.”
“You’re not leaving here alive today, Anderson. You’re already dead and you don’t even know it. I saw guys die on beaches in France. They always looked surprised, just the way you’re going to look, real soon.”
“I know.”
He looks at me quizzically.
“You know?” he asks.
The interested expression is on him again.
“Yes. I’m going to die. I’m not afraid. I was never afraid in Iraq or Kuwait, either.”
He seems stunned, briefly. But then his pugnacious grin reappears.
“If you ain’t afraid, there are only two possibilities.”
“Which are, George?”
“You’re insane, or you’re bone fucking stupid.”
I slap him hard, but he never flinches. Then I slap him again, and there’s still no overt reaction. Same smile. Same unflappable stare.
I’m becoming bored with him, now.
“You’re proud of Will, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s telling me he’s through talking to me.
“He was everything you wanted in a son, right?”
Still no reply. The air is becoming too thick to breathe. I feel as though I’m going to start gasping soon. I want to kill George Koehn now, but he’s the bait for the detective son outside, somewhere.
“It must be comforting to know your boy has become an honorable man.”
“You don’t know a goddamned thing about honor, you pathetic puke of a human being.”
I slap him again. But this time, real rage shows in his eyes. He wants to come up at me and tear out my throat.
“Give it up, Benjamin. Just walk outside, throw down the gun, and get yourself a comfortable cage to live in for the rest of your life. Go on! You don’t really want to die, today.”
I look at him, my ears burning for his blood. And for the blood of his honorable son.
“Did you ever have a friend, Benjamin? A man or a woman?”
Now I’m the one to refuse talking back to
him.
“I don’t need this, George. I really don’t.”
“What’s the matter? Mommy didn’t breast-feed you long enough? She never bought you a fucking pony?”
I aim the gun at his forehead.
“Better men than you have pointed a piece at me. They’re dead, at Normandy.”
I lower the gun. Then I smile. It takes every ounce of strength that I can muster, but I radiate at George Koehn. I remember, now, why I came here in the first place. I came to explode into flames, like the Phoenix.
Will Koehn. The good boy. The good and honorable son.
The dutiful son. The honorable man. The brave soldier and honest policeman.
He is everything in this world I despise and still hate. He was my brother, Abel.
My name? Cain, naturally.
40
One of our SWAT guys is an ex-Marine sniper who was in Desert Storm around the time I worked for NCIS. His name is Bailey Jackson. I knew him at the Police Academy here in Chicago, and I’ve stayed in touch with him as I got my shield and as he went into SWAT. He killed men from unbelievable distances when he was in the Crotch. I also used to think those Marines exaggerated what they could do, until I saw the bodies that resulted from some of their handiwork over in Iraq.
“Get him by the window, the front window,” Bailey tells me.
“The shades are shut,” I explain.
Bailey is a big, athletic man. He is African black. There is almost a blue sheen to his skin. He is a very handsome young man. He’s also married with three young children, two of whom were conceived just before he left for the Middle East.
“Makes no difference. Get him close enough to the center of that big bay window as you can. We’ll call your dad’s number. If anyone answers, say his last name as loud as you can, and then make sure you and your dad are nowhere in front of that bay window. And if he doesn’t get hit, you’re going to have to try and knock his ass down until we come through that window and the back and front door.… Remember, if he answers the phone, say his last name as loud as you can. He won’t have time to move. Just get the fuck out of the zone, my man.”