Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (14 page)

Forty-Six

"And now" boomed the voiceover, "it's time for
Nation’s Most Wanted
, on Fox!"

A shot of the show's host fills the camera frame and then he turns and looked directly into the camera.  The camera cuts to a long, rectangular desk manned by men and women talking earnestly on the phone, or typing on computer keyboards.  A giant
Nation’s Most Wanted
logo, an eagle, looms in the background.

As workers scurry to and from the desks with papers in their hands, the gravelly voice of the narrator continues.

"Tonight, a killer is loose in Wisconsin, and detectives would like your help to lock him up and throw away the key!"

The logo zooms to full screen as the voiceover finishes with a big flourish.

"
Nation’s Most Wanted
- where America fights back!  And now, here's your host."

The camera cuts from the logo to the host, seated casually on the edge of one of the desks.  He is wearing a black checked sportcoat with a black turtleneck.  He is a rugged, handsome man with finely coiffed salt-and-pepper hair.  He speaks emphatically and punctuates his sentences with severe hand gestures.

"Tonight, Milwaukee police are hot on the trail of a serial killer.  Watch the following story and keep your eye open for this guy.  He's dangerous, and he's out there somewhere tonight, looking for his next victim."

The scene shifts to a re-enactment.  A coffee shop is having a slow night as a young, attractive blonde comes into the shop to order a coffee.  The host's voiceover continues over the scene.

"A week ago, Lisa Young was a woman with a bright future.  She was engaged, but hadn't told anyone yet.  Excited over the prospect of planning a wedding, she was having trouble sleeping, so she decided to go to the Java House, a small coffee shop north of the city."

On the screen, the blonde drinks her coffee, and flips through a magazine.  A slow dissolve shows the woman finishing her coffee, leaving a tip, and walking out the door.  A man follows her.

"When she leaves, several witnesses see a man follow her out of the shop."

The camera now shows the parking lot and the attractive woman is unlocking her car, when a shadow falls across her face.

"Lisa Young was never seen alive again."

The show cuts to videotape of the Menomonee River.

"Days later, a jogger is running along the Menomonee River, just forty minutes away from the Java House.   The river has been running high, even flooding in parts, so when the jogger sees something stuck in the footbridge, he isn't surprised.  Until he comes closer and sees that the object is a body."

The scene is back to the host, who is now pacing and pointing at the camera forcefully.

"Hours later, authorities confirmed that the body was that of Lisa Young.  She had been assaulted then brutally murdered.  Police had no leads until a second murder occurred, and this time there was an eyewitness.  We'll let Milwaukee homicide detective take the story from here."

Ray Mitchell's face appears on the screen.

"Using the eyewitnesses description from the second murder and from the patrons at the coffee shop, as well as some additional evidence, we were able to ascertain the identity of the suspect."

The host is again speaking to the camera.

"The man suspected of these two murders, as well as several others, is Joseph P. Ferkovich."

The same photo Mitchell first discovered is now flashed upon the screen.

"Please take careful note of the features.  Especially the lazy eye.  This man is extremely dangerous.  He's killed several people already, and he may be getting even more desperate."

Ferkovich's mug shot fills the screen again, along with the
Nation’s Most Wanted
logo and a phone number.  The host’s voiceover continues.  "Ferkovich was last seen in this pickup truck."  A still photo of Jimmy Tomczak's truck is shown.  "And he could still be in Wisconsin, Michigan or anywhere in the Upper Midwest."

The host turns dramatically to look into the camera as he stabs his finger directly at the lens before Ferkovich's mug shot flashes onto the screen once again.

"Look closely, if you can tell us anything about where Joseph P. Ferkovich might be tonight, please call 1-800-CRIME-TV.  Let's put this guy away for good!"

Forty-Seven

Conversation in Feit's Saloon resumed as the final stories on the show finished up, and credits for
Nation’s Most Wanted
rolled up onto the screen.  Rich Koshak turned the television to a hockey game, then looked at Hank Campbell, whose eyes were glazed and stared fixedly at the wall.

Koshak had seen Hank do this before and it always made him uneasy.  The only bartender of Feit's Saloon feared the incredible power behind Hank Campbell's massive fists, but what scared him even more was Hank's slow, dim-witted intellect, which, in his opinion, made the man even more dangerous.

"Jesus Christ," Koshak said.  "To think that fucking nut might be around here somewhere."

Hank pushed against the bar and heaved his enormous bulk off the bar stool.  A pitcher of beer halfway down the bar slopped over its edge and its owner turned angrily toward the end of the bar, saw Hank, and quickly turned the other way.

"I hope he's somewheres around here," Hank said, doing his best to pull up his pants.

"What would you do to him, Hank?"

The big man smiled and held up a fist the size of a Dubuque ham.

"Ever clobber a sturgeon over the head and seen its eyes fall out of their sockets, and watch it flop around the bottom of the boat?"

The bartender nodded.

"Well, there you go," Hank said, throwing a surprisingly swift and agile shadow punch in Koshak's direction.

The bartender shivered at the sight of how easily the big man moved.  Hank's bulk disguised the grace with which he moved.  The unlucky opponents who found themselves in a bar fight with Hank discovered just how deceptive his size was.

"Thanks for the beers," Hank said.  "I'll see you a little later."

Hank walked out of the dark tavern and behind him, the noise inside the bar rose a notch, everyone breathing a bit more freely after seeing the monster at the end of the bar vacate the premises.

Outside, Hank breathed in the cool crisp air.  The beers were doing their job, creating a nice layer of smooth velvet over his senses.

Ordinarily, he would've sat on his bar stool until bar time or the first good fight came his way, but tonight he promised to stop by and see his buddy Darren Mazier, who was moving to a new apartment now that his old lady kicked him out, and he wanted Hank to help him move the refrigerator. Well, actually, he wanted Hank to move the fridge, Darren had seen his big friend lift one all by himself, so when the time came to get his shit out of the house, Hank's name was the first to come to mind.

Hank Campbell unlocked his door and clambered into the big Ford Bronco, the smell of beer and stale body sweat greeted him upon arrival in the driver's seat.

His mind thought back to what he'd seen on television, and a slow anger rose inside him. 

Damn, he thought to himself, I've hurt some people in my life, but not like that.  I only bust up the ones that are cruisin' for a bruisin', not some young women and shit like that.

The jail cell was not an unfamiliar place to Hank Campbell, but he'd never been put there for harming anyone who didn't deserve it.

He thought back to that day in school when he hit Miss Karpinsky.  She didn't do anything wrong, he was just drunk and way too young to know how alcohol affected him.

He still felt kinda bad about the incident.  That was before he figured out how to keep his temper under control.  He was much better now, and he had changed.

The fact was, even though Hank Campbell had an extensive rap sheet on file at the sheriff's office, and despite having lost his driver's license a long time ago, he thought of himself as one of the good guys.

The job at Feit's hadn't really changed him as a man, but it had changed his perception of himself. Although he would never qualify to be a cop, he fancied himself a civilian cop at Feit's, the strong knight defending the rights of peaceful drinkers everywhere.

He liked the new Hank.

The fact was, he didn't really know what self-esteem was, but he was beginning to feel better about who he was.  Sure, people knew about how he kept his dead mother in the bathtub, but shoot, no one talked about it much anymore.

A vague thought occurred on the fringes of his brain that maybe no one said anything about it to his face, but maybe there were still people who made fun of him for it, but the thought never truly materialized.  Hank had heard the phrase "ignorance is bliss."  He'd never understood what it meant, but now, it didn't matter, he was too pleased with himself to give a rat's ass.

His work, as the bouncer at Feit's, paid him enough for groceries and not much else.  But he could drink all the beer he wanted as long as no one got the better of him in a bar fight and managed to bust up the place. 

Koshak had told him that since Hank had taken to sitting at his usual spot in the bar, fights were almost nonexistent. 

Hank Campbell had finally found something he was good at doing, that he enjoyed doing, and that he could make a living doing.  Drinking in a bar and fighting.  It was perfect.

He was the epitome of the happy, productive worker.

And he even had a girlfriend.  Betsy Thompkins, a slicer at the cheese factory, had lately taken a liking to Hank.  She was a big girl herself, over six feet tall and at least two fifty, but it was all muscle and she was tough as nails. 

By all accounts, Hank Campbell was having the time of his life.  Except for one small thing.

He was just about out of gas.

The small horizontal orange light had blinked on his dashboard, indicating that the Bronco's gas tank was running low.

He cursed, but knew that he was stuck with the big vehicle's pitiful mileage.

There was just no question that Hank would own his Bronco forever.  The two were simply too good a team to break up.  But sometimes, especially on nights like this, Hank got pissed at how much gas the big V-8 sucked, his last ten dollars were about to go in its gas tank.

But the minute he thought about trading in the big gas guzzler, he quickly dismissed the thought.

Even with his diminished capacity for observation, he knew he'd look ridiculous in anything smaller, if he could fit into it in the first place.  He sincerely doubted that Subaru made anything big enough to fit him comfortably.

He popped in his favorite cassette, The Oak Ridge Boys, and began singing "Elvira" at the top of his lungs.

His speech was a bit slurred, and he carried a tune about as smooth as a burro hauling rocks up a mountain, but that didn't faze him in the least. 

The Bronco's wheel turned easily in his hands, and he pulled out of Feit's parking lot, onto the main road, desperately trying to remember where Darren lived and what would be the fastest way to get there.

The lights of the Amoco station changed his mind.

He would put the gas in now, then drive around looking for Darren's place, he was sure he could find it once he got into the general neighborhood.  Hank told himself that just because he could never remember addresses didn't mean that he was dumb or anything, he just had trouble with numbers and words.

He pulled on the left side of the station's only pump.

A Taurus was parked in the lane closest to the shop, and Hank saw a person stretched out in the backseat.

He popped the lid on his gas tank and unscrewed the cap, then pulled the nozzle out of the pump and stuck it inside the tank.  He set the clip on the highest speed and listened to the sound of gas being propelled quickly into the Bronco.

His eyes drifted over the Taurus.

Hank casually took two small steps closer to the pump, giving him a better view of the car's back seat.

A woman, with brown hair and a pretty face was sprawled out on the back seat, her left arm trailing into the floor space.

Her face was partially in the shadow cast by the pump's supports which held up the metal roof.

Hank turned his attention back to his pump and saw that the numbers were rapidly approaching the ten dollar mark.

He reached over quickly and snapped the release on the trigger lever, and the numbers stopped.  His thick fingers slid into the handle and he pumped the trigger slowly, taking the numbers higher until they reached ten dollars and no cents.

Hank replaced the nozzle on the pump, screwed the gas cap back on, and snapped the lid closed.

He walked toward the shop and pulled his wallet out, rummaging around inside for the ten dollars he knew were crumpled somewhere near the bottom.

The bells on top of the shop's door jingled, and Hank looked up just in time to see the man walk past him, toward the Taurus.

Hank stopped.

His synapses, clogged with alcohol, struggled to fire.  The man seemed familiar, but Hank couldn't place him.  He turned and got one more quick look as the man ducked into the Taurus, started it up and drove off.  Hank felt his heart beat increase.

Something was happening here.  He walked briskly inside the shop and paid the attendant.  On the way out, he stopped in his tracks as the realization hit him harder than any fist ever had.

He lumbered toward the Bronco.