Butcher (15 page)

Early in the morning he penetrated the inversion layer and a question rattled through the corridors of his sleeping consciousness. Does he see something? Is it shadow or bloodsplatter? He sees it above him.

Dreaming below a wall hanging that appears to depict acquatic Lentibulariaceae, alive with vesicular floats and hungry insect traps, he imagined his own eyeblink and pulse rapidity. The appalling grotesquerie under which he slumbered drooped, festooned, bulged obscenely, swagged in the center as the billowing middle of it loomed drippingly above his face. The chameleon's eye blinked and the bladderwort dripped into his snoring, open mouth. His shoulder burned, ached. Involuntarily, he swallowed.

How could he fail to recognize the unmistakably salty, metallic bloodtaste? Flanking the drippy Utricularia, the wall above his bed was splattered red with arterial fluid, veiny crimson, dark scarlet lifejuice. He knew full well that it was hers ... her blood, gore, and grue. He knew immediately he'd find her acephalous and dead beside him. His alert mind continued to catalog options, and map escape routes.

Sleep-cudgeled senses registered danger, intruder, violence. It shocked him out of his lethargy and he awakened and saw that it was only a wall hanging above him, that the splatter was naught but shadow, that the clutched object was a pillow not a child's torso with partial head, so for a second he thought it was all a dream. In the next eyeblink, in the next heartbeat, he remembered the details of the hag who recognized him and the Jew she sent to confront him. He knew which part was real now, and permitted himself to slide back down into the cradle of deep sleep.

He hoped he could conjure up the little girlchild, Marta, again. Pick up where he left off in a twisted fantasy, but stop it this time before the death scene. Linger with her, a fragment of delicious domination saved in his collection of monstrous artifacts, a small vignette of sadism he reinvented and played with over and over.

Emil Shtolz's self-protective urges and his pleasure-pain linkages made for restive bedfellows, however, and he could not fasten onto the pleasing parts of the dream. As he dropped back into sleep a corner of his sentient mind wondered who would come for him next. He supposed, incorrectly, it would be a policeman of some kind.

Bayou City

“
M
iss Kamen,” the police chief said, taking her hand, “I'm Jimmie Randall.” She shook his hand firmly. He sucked in his stomach slightly, a thing she noticed guys did sometimes when they saw her. She was too tired to be even faintly amused.

“I guess you got my message?” she asked.

“Yeah. I checked at the motel several times and left word. It doesn't look as if he's been back for two, three days. His clothes and things are still there."

“I know,” she said, starting to lose it.

“Listen,” he said, seeing that she was on the verge of tears, “we've got a quiet alert out for your father, but I want you to know that I am concerned.” He was picking up the phone even as he spoke calmly to her. He dialed.

She bit her lip, nodding, not knowing what to say. She watched him make his phone call.

“Lemme talk to the boss man. Thanks. Hey, bud, how's things? I have Sharon Kamen in my office.... Yeah...” A long pause. “I'm gonna call Bob.... Yeah. We have to bring ‘em all the way in now, I think.... Okay” He rang off and placed another call before he spoke to her again. “Bob Petergill, please. Bob, this is Jimmie Randall.... Fine. There's another development in the Shtolz business. Nobody's had any contact with Mr. Aaron Kamen for about three days it looks like. We got him in Sikeston—” he glanced over at a stack of notes on his desk. “Uh, let's see ... four days ago, or thereabouts. I think he may have, yes.” She didn't like the sound of that. “All right, sir. I'll be here.” He hung up the instrument.

“That's the head of the bureau in Cape,” he said. “We've got a real good relationship with the FBI here, Sharon, and we need to get all the big guns on this, I think. Might still be that your father is off somewhere and we'll find he's perfectly okay, you know?” She nodded again. She noticed he was no hick cop. In a few moments he'd done everything that could be done, passed the ball, put himself on a first name basis with her but not the other way around, and unless she'd misread him, he was now gently dismissing her.

She wasn't quite so easily finessed. She asked some more questions, most of them dumb, but at least she hadn't started sobbing. Mostly she found herself volunteering a lot of information about herself, the way one often does in a prolonged conversation with an experienced law officer. She decided the smart move would be to get a few hours’ sleep and begin anew. How lost could one get in Bayou City?

Apparently, if Alma Purdy and her father were examples, one could get altogether lost. Sharon came away from the city administration building with a couple of facts she hadn't had going in. She had a missing persons sheet on the Purdy woman and was surprised how relatively young the lady was. Her photo made her appear twenty years older. Second, she had the circular her dad had prepared for the rat hunt.

Back at the motel, all of three blocks from the police headquarters, Sharon shed her clothing and filled the tub, easing her tired body into it and loving the instant gratification of the soapy heat. She was an inveterate shower person but at this moment a hot bath and a long soak were in order. Just a couple, three hours shut-eye and she'd be recharged.

She looked at one of the circulars as she relaxed. Beneath the blowups of the likenesses of the Boy Butcher, Emil Shtolz, Aaron Kamen had added thoughts about the possibilities of reconstructive surgery:

Photograph One: Dr. Emil Shtolz the way he looked when he left Germany in the mid-1940s. Note birthmark.

Photograph Two: Dr. Emil Shtolz's photograph by the time he obtained a driver's license in the postwar 1940s (South America). Identical to photo used by War Crimes Tribunal when Shtolz was tried and convicted in absentia. By the time Shtolz had come to South America he had had cosmetic surgery.
Note removal of “Tear of Satan” facial birthmark
. Presumably his left arm might also show evidence of the removal of official Waffen-SS blood group tattoo. Following standard escape procedures employed, it is a reasonable assumption that upon Shtolz's emigration to North America additional plastic surgery would have been sought. Subject may no longer resemble photographs.

Kamen had also appended the following:

General Note: Intellectual capacity and language fluency will render this individual extremely difficult to identify physically if further cosmetic facial restructuring has been employed. (See dental records.)

Look for someone working either as a clinician, doctor, teacher, medical assistant, veterinarian, dentist, researcher, or in a related field such as pharmacology, biochemistry, etc. He may have an unusual number of pets, or in some way volunteer his services to help animals, children, and/or the elderly. Shtolz might do charity work for an animal organization such as the Humane Society, or work around livestock in some capacity. He might run a day care center or work for such organizations as the Boy Scouts of America. He might be posing as a priest or minister, or volunteer to work with church, school, day nursery, or nursing home groups.

He may wish to display proficiency in one of the scientific disciplines, for example, a laborer whose hobby is some avenue of clinical experimentation or a blue-collar worker who has treated illnesses. He will seek out contacts with young children, developmentally impaired people, senior citizens, animals, and those he considers vulnerable.

There were no further notes about checking out the man's paper trail for a fraudulent resume or references that wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, because that was basic to any investigation. It was the first thing one did as a hunter, one followed the trail.

The circulars were thin sheets of paper but they had a weight she couldn't believe. The weight pushed her down, made her ache inside, shudder, and she jerked her head, trembling, as she felt her face sliding down in the bathwater. How long had she been asleep in the tub? God! Unbelievable.

Sharon got out of the now cool water and rubbed vigorously with a huge, rough bath towel. The motel room had felt quite warm when she first entered it but the air dried on her now, making her tremble again, every pore of skin tingling. She was afraid and wasn't completely sure she should be. You could think about things in a way that might perhaps influence them. She jumped into bed and pulled up the scratchy blanket and the spread that smelled of tobacco smoke and was asleep before her beautiful, silky hair hit the pillow, She did not hear the rain that was pounding outside in accompaniment to her deep breathing.

New Madrid Levee

D
aniel Bunkowski dreams of his third bit inside the House of Pain, which was one of the names the inmates gave to the Marion, Illinois, federal penitentiary.

Dr. Norman, in charge of the program that originally shoehorned Chaingang out of the maximum security side, enjoyed a unique position within the penal system, and his ties to clandestine intelligence, the military, and the law-enforcement community had, in a direct, odd way, filtered down to his principal charge: the only inmate within the federal system with a Level 7 rating.

The unprecedented cartes blanches this anomaly was given transmuted in strange ways. The correctional guards found the special procedures loathsome, but what the guard nicknamed Spanish felt toward Bunkowski could only be termed unnatural. It was a fierce, mad, irregular sickness that ate away at the man.

He never missed an opportunity to be cruel to the occupant of cell 10, in the violent unit of disciplinary segregation—D Seg being prison jargon for solitary. It had begun with words, stories of animal cruelty and child abuse that he hoped would enrage the thing kept in restraints, cuffs, boxes, irons, and a biter. He graduated to photographs: shots of a kitten being tortured and sadistic kiddie porn. The guard had studied Bunkowski's dossier, on advice of various jailhouse “docs,” the specialists in the more depraved of sadomasochistic behavior.

The pictures had an effect opposite to the one he desired, however. When the monster saw them he simply turned to stone, and never again showed his antagonist any sign of response. The mistreatment then changed, taking on a physical edge, and Spanish began to beat on Chaingang when he knew he could get away with it. When Dr. Norman was out of town, as he was on this occasion, the opportunity was too good to ignore.

Warden Dickett put his trust in Captain Lawler, a brutal and by-the-numbers dope entrepreneur, who delegated to McCullough, Brock; and Lopez the daily responsibilities of prison business. They, in turn, farmed out the routine work. Thus, Spanish Rodriguez, through his bud Lieutenant Lopez, was able to cut himself a huss.

With quid pro quo in various currencies having greased his entrée, Rodriguez took a baton and wrapped it carefully in thick rolls of newspaper. When it was properly prepared he headed for the house where the beast was caged.

That particular date, the violent unit had just been repainted, and, like the rest of D Seg, it glistened with a fresh second coat of rather prepossessing institutional beige. The behemoth's house was unlike the others, however, as it was not only restricted with respect to personal contact, the cell bore its own unique caveat:

WARNING!

To all personnel/Effective immediately/TFN:

The following rules shall be rigidly adhered to regarding the maintenance of the occupant of Cell 10, MAX D SEG VIOLENT Unit:
NO PERSONNEL SHALL ENTER THIS CELL FOR ANY REASON AT ANY TIME UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING SUPERVISORS:

1. Dr. Norman

2. Captain Lawler

3. Correctional Officer McCullough

4. Correctional Officer Brock

5. Lieutenant Lopez

6. Myself

ANY VIOLATION OF THIS POLICY SHALL RESULT IN THE IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF ALL PERSONNEL INVOLVED IN SAID VIOLATION
.

Warden Carol A. Dickett

Spanish ignored the warning. His palms were sweating. “Crack Ten,” he shouted to the officer manning the controls, his voice hoarse.

“
Hey, man, we're not supposed to—"

"Lawler knows, goddammit, and the fag is outta town, so crack the sum-bitch, aw'right?"

The other officer shrugged and unlocked the cell door, bearing its stenciled unit number and the rules, which were posted under a large sign reading Violent. The massive steel door also housed a special feeding and hygiene port, the operation of which was governed by its own set of security regulations. None of this mattered to Rodriguez. He wiped his perspiring hands on the sides of his pants and entered, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.

"How you doin’ ya fat fuck?” he asked, his voice soft, almost loving, as he struck the huge, bound figure across one of its legs. “That feel pretty good?” It turned him on to put his weight into a baton swing like that. He swung again with all his might, aiming lower and connecting against the side of the beast's weak ankle. The muffled
oof
of pain was like a lover's orgasmic scream to the little man. “You behave, blimp, and when I finish with you we'll let the doctor check you out for these little aches and pains.” He drew back and swung again. Hard.

It was painful for Bunkowski to remember such moments. The vividness of the guard whacking away at him was irritating. Why, when he could recall nothing else, did he have to seize on that hurtful event to replay in his head? The way he tried to dodge the baton strikes, moving ever so slightly at the last instant; the guard's body odor, heavy as his own; the plan that germinated with the first clubbing; all sharp, clear memories.

His impaired mental computer also recalled the visit to the prison shrink called Hodge, although the memory of it was out of sequence with the beating. It became part of the same plan, but that was later. Or, was he confused again? Had he escaped that time or had he been set free intentionally? It was too complex to sort out the chronologies. It hurt him to concentrate. The flashback, more of a blurback really, reconstructed a moment of wounded time.