Joe R Lansdale Page 7

"The Hacker?" Rachel asked softly.

  "Yeah."

  "It's eating you up. Why? Why is this one so personal?"

  "I don't know. I guess because it's everything I'm against." He turned into her arms and held her.

  "Let's go to bed."

  "It's almost daylight. Been up this long I might as well stay up."

  "Who said anything about sleeping."

  "Ah, dark designs. What about the coffee?"

  "It'll turn off and be nice and hot when we're ready."

  "I'm getting nice and hot now."

  "And I'm ready."

  They went upstairs.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  He left work early that day with sickness as the cause. He went to his apartment and tried to sleep. He managed a couple of hours before the whine of the garbage compactor brought him awake. Giving up on sleep, he went to the flyspecked window and looked out. After a moment he raised the window and pushed the stick that held it up in place. He listened to the clang and clatter of the garbage truck; the banging of the garbage cans and the talk of the sanitation men at work. It was getting along toward evening, going from grey to black with wavey fingers of pink still sticking out like pulsing veins.

  The city. The crawling, clanging, banging city.

  The sour contents of the garbage truck drifted to his nostrils; vomit, baby diapers, stinking Kotex, mildewed underwear and all manner of food slop filled his head with its odor.

  He loved it. The smell was nectar. And slowly, his element, the night came; crawling, black velvet full of city sounds and city smells . . . and like free diamonds lying on the velvet darkness, were the women. Whores, each and every last one of them. And if he could, if there was that much time in a night, he would pluck them all from that velvet and leave its fabric blank of sparkle and full only of darkness . . . and red, red blood.

  But he must have patience. The city was on guard tonight. He must wait until it jerked its latch and threw open its doors. Then, when they least expected it ... he would strike.

  TUESDAY . . . 11:15 a.m.

  Tuesday, Philip Barlowe began a series about murders similar to those of The Hacker. He drew parallels. Joe Clark read the column carefully. When he finished, he cut it out and put it in the desk drawer with the others.

  Hanson, who was once again typing out reports in his stutter style method, said, "You still reading those?" '

  "It has to do with the case, doesn't it?"

  "Pretty vaguely."

  "Part of being a good cop. You want to see that list they gave me when I was taking criminology?"

  "What list?"

  "The list that tells what makes up a good investigator."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Nope. Want to see?"

  "Not particularly."

  Undaunted, Clark went around to the desk drawer again and dug down deep, came up with a purple folder full of papers.

  "Christ," Hanson said. "Is that the list?"

  "Not all these papers . . . they're related, but ..." Clark opened the folder and took out the top sheet of paper. "Look at this."

  "Shit."

  "Just for the hell of it."

  "All right. Give it to me."

  The list read:

  Suspicion

  Curiosity

  Observation

  Memory

  Ordinary intelligence and common sense

  Unbiased and unprejudiced mind

  Avoidance of inaccurate conclusions

  Patience, understanding, courtesy

  Ability to play a role

  Ability to gain and hold confidence

  Persistence and tireless and capacity for work

  A knowledge of the Corpus Delicti of crimes

  An interest in Sociology and Psychology

  Ability to recognize persons who are likely to be the subject of police investigations

  Resourcefulness

  Knowledge of investigative techniques

  Ability to make friends and secure the cooperation of others

  Tact, self-control and dignity

  Interest in job and pride of accomplishment

  Loyalty

  Hanson handed Clark back the list.

  "Well?" Clark asked.

  "Well what?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Pretty good," Hanson admitted grudgingly. "Seems right. I never thought about what it took for an investigator, but that's pretty close. One more maybe. Gut instinct. You've either got it or you don't."

  "Agreed," Clark said, nodding.

  "Wait a minute," Hanson said, "you're trying to tell me something."

  "Remember what we were talking about. I collect those columns because I'm," Clark looked at the list, "number two, curious."

  "That's an odd way to make a point."

  "Yeah. Do you remember number eighteen?"

  "No."

  "Tact, self-control and dignity."

  "So."

  "So you're taking this all too much to heart, Gorilla. It's eating your insides out."

  "You're starting to sound like Rachel."

  "Listen to the woman. She know of what she speaks."

  "Bullshit!"

  "Just promise me you'll try to take it easy."

  "This is crazy."

  "Promise me you'll take it easy. I don't need a partner with an ulcer."

  Hanson sighed. "All right. I know when I'm whipped. I promise to try."

  "Good."

  "Man, you college folks sure do go a long way to make a point."

  "Yeah, we're a real pain in the ass sometimes."

  "Most of the time."

  "Humm ... Oh, say, Gorilla."

  "Now what?"

  "When do I get my very own desk?"

  "You don't."

  "Oh."

  WEDNESDAY . . . 10:15 a.m.

  Barlowe's typing sounded like machine gun fire. Ratatattat, ratatattat, ratatattat.

  A feminine voice interrupted his progress with, "Philip?"

  Barlowe looked up from his work. "Yes?"

  Sharon Carson, the attractive brunette receptionist, stood over him, a long, blue envelope in her hand.

  "I found this on the desk a moment ago. It's addressed to you, but I don't remember seeing anyone put it there. Maybe when I went to the water fountain ..."

  "Put it down!" Barlowe snapped.

  "What?"

  "Put it down," he said more gently. "Excuse me for being so sharp, Sharon. But I think it might be from him."

  "Him ... The ... The Hacker?"

  Barlowe nodded.

  Sharon put the envelope on his desk as if it were a fragile Ming Dynasty Vase. "Christ, I never ..."

  "No sweat. It might be a bill."

  "It doesn't have a return address on it."

  "Yeah. The last one was in an envelope just like this. Thanks, Sharon. I'll handle it from here."

  "Okay. Man, I'm sorry."

  "Forget it. Go on back to work. I'll take care of it."

  Sharon, feeling as inadequate as the proverbial tits on a boar hog, went back to her desk. She watched tight faced from there while Barlowe, using a folded sheet of typing paper, picked up the letter in its groove and carried it into the office of the editor, Evans.

  "Chief," Barlowe said opening the door.

  Evans, a white-haired, plump-faced man with a body to match the face, looked up at Barlowe. "Yes." There was a scowl on his face and impatience in his voice. "What is it?"

  "This," Barlowe said dumping the letter and typing paper on Evans' desk. "Don't touch it, Chief."

  Evans withdrew the hand he had been snaking toward the letter. Recognition crossed his face. "Him?"

  "I think so. Sharon brought it to me. She found it on the main desk . . . just lying there. She didn't see who brought it in. One thing for sure. It didn't come in with the morning mail. There's no stamp."

  "I see that. I guess he just waltzed in and put the goddamned thing on the desk himself."

  Barlowe licked his lips. "L
ooks that way ... if it's him. I've got a feeling it is. I mean it does look like the last one. The blue envelope and all. My name on the front in carefully cut letters. Who else could it be?"

  "Yeah."

  "Should we open it?"

  "I don't think so. I'm calling the cops. Let them decide what to do."

  "It might turn out to be a note from one of my police informers?"

  "Then that's the breaks. The cat's out of the bag. Better that than us ruining evidence."

  "Yeah. I guess you're right . . . Besides, it's just like the last one."

  "It's him. I bet you my job. Sit down, Phil." Evans waved him at a chair. Barlowe sat. Evans pushed buttons on his phone. Fifteen minutes later the police were there.

  *

  Wearing sheer plastic gloves, Hanson opened the small blade of his pocket knife and cut one end of the envelope open. He pinched out the letter inside. It was typed on one sheet of typing paper, single space.

  Clark, standing at his side, said, "I guess he got tired of cutting out paper. Maybe the typewriter will give us a lead."

  "I bet not," Hanson said sourly.

  "What does it say?" Evans said, a bit surprised at his loss of self-control, a trait with which he prided himself.

  Hanson read it out loud, softly.

  This line sung to the tune of "Fun, Fun, Fun," by The Beach Boys. "Gonna hack, hack, hack 'til the cops take my bayonet away." And I may have fun indefinitely at the rates those fools work. I sent this note to you, Barlowe, because I kind of like your reporting. Good, sensational stuff you write. Tell the cops this: I'm gonna hack and rip all I can. I'm gonna cut every woman I can find from gut to gill. They're gonna suffer. Think about that. Think about it real hard. It could be your sister, your lover, your wife, or even your mother. And it'll be me, old Houston Hacker, leaning over them with my sharp blade and rising passion. And let me tell you, I am passionate. I love my work and I want Blood!

  THE HACKER

  When Hanson finished Barlowe said, "Christ!"

  Hanson folded the note, returned it to the envelope. He gave the envelope to Clark, removed his gloves and stuffed them in his coat pocket. He said to Barlowe:

  "I hold you half responsible for this."

  Barlowe frowned. "What in the fuck are you talking about?"

  "The sensationalist crap you write. Just like it said in the goddamned note. He likes it. That's what drives him on, keeps him killing."

  "Preposterousl" Evans said.

  Hanson ignored him, continued talking to Barlowe. "An ego, Barlowe, a goddamned, warped ego is what keeps him going. And you're helping the sick bastard satisfy it."

  "Easy, Gorilla," Clark said.

  "I just print the facts," Barlowe said. "What I write doesn't make him kill."

  "Sure," Hanson snapped. "Just the facts."

  Clark took hold of Hanson's arm. He could feel the muscles knotting through Hanson's jacket. Any minute he expected Hanson to lunge at the reporter.

  "Come on," Clark said gently. "Enough."

  Barlowe's grey eyes were churning with anger. "You can't talk to me like that."

  "I just did," Hanson said.

  Nervously, Barlowe pushed his long blond hair out of his eyes. His knees were quivering. Clark wasn't sure if it was from fear or anger.

  "You're doing your job, I'm doing mine," Barlowe said.

  "Yeah," Hanson growled.

  "Look," Evans said. "You get your ass out of here . . . or . . ."

  "Or what?" Hanson said giving Evans a sour look. "You'll call the police? Is that it?"

  "No. Guess not," Evans said. "The police are a bunch of hoodlums."

  "Uh huh. And you folks are a bunch of swell guys," Hanson said.

  "Take it easy," Clark said again. He still held Hanson's arm.

  Hanson pulled his arm free, snarled, "Shut up, Joe." Then to Evans and Barlowe, "You folks just print the facts, huh. Sit in your offices and lay the news on the line. Well, we're the ones that have to deal with the nuts. We have to take the abuse . . . and you give the public blood. You people are sicker even than the goddamned Hacker."

  Clark grabbed Hanson's arm again, half tugged him to the door. Hanson protested at first, but after a moment relented. Clark opened the door and pulled Hanson out of the office and into the sound of a dozen typewriters. He closed the door so Evans and Barlowe couldn't hear.

  "Are you nuts?" Clark said flatly.

  "Maybe," Hanson said.

  "I don't doubt it none. Listen to me, man. We don't need the press against us. Got me?"

  Hanson didn't say anything.

  "You're the one that taught me to keep my cool, to only get tough as a bluff or when you really had to. Neither rule applies here. You're just plain being a horse's ass." '

  Hanson took in a deep breath. "Yeah, I know . . . It's getting to me, Joe."

  "Why now? I mean do you think I like to see those hacked bodies?"

  "Of course not."

  "You're the senior officer. You're my example. Now pull yourself together."

  Hanson ran his hand over his forehead and into his hair.

  "Well?" Clark said.

  "I'm together."

  "You're sure?"

  “I’m sure.”

  Clark smiled. "Remember. It's you black folks that are cool. Us honkeys are excitable. Got it?"

  "Yeah, I got it."

  "I'd apologize if I were you."

  "What? Oh come on, Joe." Hanson's voice was back up to shouting level again.

  Clark said calmly, "Looks damn tacky for the cops to spend all their time shouting at one another."

  Hanson noticed that the typewriters had stopped. People were watching them.

  "You're right," Hanson said calmly. "I lost my head. I'm not going to like this, but you're right. I'm being a horse's ass."

  "And doing an A-One job of it, I might add."

  "Guess so."

  "No guess. You are. Come on, let's go back inside."

  The typewriter symphony started up again.

  Clark opened the door and Hanson went in first. Hanson's apology was brief and to the point. Evans and Barlowe accepted, made some feeble apologies themselves. No one's heart was in it.

  Clark did most of the questioning of Barlowe and Evans after that. Hanson went out to interview Sharon Carson who had discovered the note. It was his method of getting away from Evans and Barlowe gracefully. He asked Carson several questions. She tried, but none of her answers were very helpful.

  WEDNESDAY . . . 11:45 a.m.

  When Hanson and Clark left The Bugle, Evans and Barlowe went to the lunchroom for coffee. Two years back the paper barely had enough room for a coffee break. Now it was successful enough to provide a lunchroom with machine-served food; it didn't taste like mama's, but it was a long way from the old one-room newspaper office.

  Over a cup of coffee Barlowe said, "You think I'm overdoing it, Chief?"

  "Overdoing what?" Evans asked around a mouthful of ham sandwich.

  "You know, the Hacker stuff."

  "You're doing your job."

  "The column's all right, then?"

  "It's all right," Evans replied with his usual impatience. "It sells papers, don't it?"

  "That's not what I meant. Personally. Now tell me honest, don't hold any punches. What do you think? You think maybe I'm overdoing it? Tell me honest now."

  Evans gulped down another mouthful of sandwich, leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his ample belly. "Phil," he said, "we get along together, right? I mean we aren't bosom buddies, but then neither of us are exactly the best company in the world. We're too damn driven. We're newspaper men. We live it, breathe it, shit it. Right?"

  Barlowe nodded.

  "You worked your way up to that column. Started with obits. Hell, no way you're going to forget that."

  "No way is right." Barlowe smiled. "I remember once you told me if there ain't nobody dead, go out and kill somebody, but fill that column."

  This time E
vans smiled. It looked like it really hurt him. "I remember," Evans said. "You earned that column you got. It's the most popular thing in the paper. I'll admit it's a little different, not really journalistic in format and presentation, but we didn't start at the heights, boy. Something about your style appealed to me."

  "That's sort of what I mean. I mean ..."

  "You mean is that old black fart right about us making people go dingo?"

  "Yeah."

  "No. He isn't right. Your column is more graphic than most, but compared to books and movies these days it's as tame as my Aunt Martha's rabbits . . . That's not a cut. I'm just saying that for a newspaper of our kind that column is perfect. That what you wanted to hear?"

  "I suppose."

  Evans made with the painful smile again. "Remember the first time you came to me with the idea for the column?"

  "Sure. I was scared to death."

  "That you were. But I liked the idea then and I like it now. I'll be frank as shit with you, son. The paper wasn't doing worth a frog fart 'til you started up that column. It wasn't much at first, but it was novel, and it led to other ideas. Look at all the columns we have now, even that short story page ... I mean all that came directly from the success of The Crime Scene. It fostered the others. It's the big papa. I'm the editor of this rag. I pay your salary. That should be answer enough. If I thought you were hurting The Bugle, or if I thought your work was horseshit, I'd tell you. You know goddamned good and well that I would. Right?"

  "Right."

  "All right. Now the hell with worrying about it. You keep on diggin' dirt, and keep on writing your column, and let me keep you in line. Right now I think you're doing a hell of a fine job . . . and Phil?"

  "Yeah."

  Evans rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger, he was smiling again, and this time the operation looked painless. "I think your next column should have something in it about the visit we got from the cops; something about that big coon blowing his stack. Remember as much of that note as you can. I can help you some since I've got a good memory for things like that, and run that in your column, too. Play up the angle on how frustrated the fuzz are."

  "Gotcha. And no problem on the note. I damn near have a photographic memory . . . and better yet, I have contacts at the police station. My main contact, the one that's been helping me on The Hacker stuff, is set for an appointment today."