J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

Dr. Murphy relented, and ushered me down a brightly lit hospital corridor to a room in the ICU. A uniform from the Gary PD stood guard by the doorway, young enough to still have acne.

“Just pulled out number twelve.” He tapped his radio and gave me a respectful nod. “You did Indiana a huge favor.”

“Let’s hope your district attorney thinks so.”

Though Herb and I went by the book, there might be prosecution problems because this wasn’t our jurisdiction. But I had more immediate concerns.

Bud Kork lay on a hospital cot, handcuffs locking him to the bed frame. White gauze swaddled his head like a turban. Cotton packed his nose, and a piece of tape stretched across the bridge. Two shiners encircled his eyes, and his mouth hung open, revealing decades of dental neglect in muted browns and yellows.

Dr. Murphy pulled back the sheet and the hospital gown, exposing the marks on Kork’s pale, sunken chest. The scars were in the shape of three-inch letters, forming the word sinner . The word was repeated eight times on his chest and abdomen in raised pink skin.

“I’m guessing this came from branding.”

“It was. We found the branding iron back at his house.”

That wasn’t all we found, so I had an idea of what to expect as the examination continued.

“Help me turn him over, Lieutenant.”

He pushed Kork’s shoulders, and I pushed at the hip. Kork flounced onto his belly. His back was a road map of pain. There wasn’t a single patch of unmarked skin from his collar down to the backs of his knees. It looked like a buffet of chopped, congealed lunch meat, knotted and discolored.

“Most of these marks appear to be self-inflicted.” Displeasure bunched up Dr. Murphy’s face. “Some kind of many-tailed whip with barbs on the end.”

In Kork’s bedroom closet we’d found an old toolbox full of implements. These scars would match the cat-o’-nine-tails he owned.

“Down here, along the thighs, the pattern is different.”

The rusty wire brush, used for stripping paint.

“These X ’s here, here, here, and here are burn marks.”

Another branding iron, in the shape of a cross.

“And these puncture marks appear to be from nails.”

We hadn’t found any nails in his mutilation kit, but they’d probably turn up.

“Let’s put him on his back again. There’s more.”

We flipped Kork over and his head lolled to the side. He snored softly.

“Brace yourself for this, Lieutenant. I’ve been an MD for sixteen years, never saw anything like it.”

He pulled down the sheet, exposing Kork’s groin. I winced.

Bud Kork had no genitalia. His penis and testicles were missing. A small brownish nub of scar tissue poked out of the nest of gray pubic hair.

The doctor dropped the sheet. “It gets worse. When I saw the mutilation to the genitals, I ordered a pelvic X-ray.” He pulled out the chart at the foot of the bed. “Take a look.”

I stared at the X-ray of Kork’s pelvis and thighs. It appeared to be covered with white scratches.

“See all of those lines? Between two and four centimeters long? There are forty-three of them.”

“What are they?”

“Needles.”

I stared at Kork in disbelief.

“He’s got over forty needles embedded in his groin, rectum, buttocks, and thighs. See the dotted lines here? Those are ones that have been in him for so long, his body is breaking them down. The pain must be unimaginable.”

I recalled how Bud Kork walked, like every step hurt.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“Could be in ten minutes. Could be next year.”

I gave the doctor my card. “It’s very important you call me if there’s any change. Or when he regains consciousness. Besides all those dead kids we found in his cellar, he’s a prime suspect in a current homicide investigation.”

“When he wakes up, he might not remember where he is or what happened. Head injuries are fickle.”

I offered a grim smile and shook the man’s hand. “I’ve dealt with something similar before. Thanks, Doctor.”

I stepped out of the room and asked the officer to contact the team at Kork’s house and put me in touch with Sergeant Herb Benedict. After a burst of static and some chatter, Herb came on.

“Hi, Jack. You’re missing a real circus here. Over.”

“Perp’s out, will be for a while. How’s the search? Over.”

“No camcorders, no videotapes. Guy didn’t even have a TV that worked. No black gloves or hunting knives either, over.”

The killer in Diane Kork’s murder video wore black leather gloves and used a hunting knife.

“Anything at all, Herb?”

“They’re removing the thirteenth body now. Plus, there’s some weird stuff.”

“On this end too. When you’re done, pick me up.”

“I’ll be there soon. Out.”

I’d left Herb on the scene because Gary PD broke the Kork story, and there were now more reporters in this town than residents. So far the hospital had kept them out, which suited me fine. I’m sure Bains was already cultivating an aneurism about the fire last night. If he saw me on TV, his head would explode.

I went back to the waiting room and watched CNN. Two guys in disposable paper suits and air regulators hauled another body bag out of Kork’s house. The top graphic read Horror in Indiana , and the rolling caption along the bottom of the screen told how this was the home of Bud Kork, supposed father of Charles Kork, the infamous killer known as the Gingerbread Man.

The scene cut away to some footage from two years ago, the day we closed the Gingerbread Man case. My face came on, full screen, and I said something about justice being served.

The graphic flashed my name, Lieutenant Jack Daniels, in large letters, and then went on to explain how the event turned me into a television star on the series Fatal Autonomy .

I wondered if the superintendent watched CNN.

Mercifully, my big face was replaced with some awful tragedy happening in the Middle East. I buried my nose in a Woman’s World magazine and waited patiently for Benedict to arrive.

He did, twenty minutes later.

“There’s a horde of reporters out there, Jack. Maybe you want to take a back way out? Or wrap a sheet around your head?”

“Doesn’t matter now. I was just a sound bite on CNN, and they’ll replay it every forty minutes until this all blows over. Let’s just get out of here. It’s doubtful anyone will recognize me anyway.”

Herb and I stepped outside into a thick sea of reporters, cameras, and crews. Someone yelled, “It’s Jack Daniels!” and the mob closed in and swallowed us up, chattering and shoving.

“Lieutenant Daniels, did you make the arrest?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, have you spoken to Bud Kork?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, how does this compare to the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, you look like you’ve lost weight. Is it the stress?”

Herb tried to pull me through the throng of bodies, but the throng refused to budge. With no other options, I finally held up a hand and yelled, “I’d like to make a statement.”

Everyone shut up.

“I’m not in Gary because of Bud Kork. I was visiting the Blessed Mercy hospital to have elective surgery.”

“What kind of surgery?” eight or nine networks shouted.

“I was having my foot removed from a reporter’s ass. I don’t want to have surgery again so soon, so please let us through.”

They let us through. When we finally reached the car, Herb grinned at me.

“I’m guessing they won’t air that.”

“Who knows? Fox might. I don’t really care. My hand hurts, my lungs hurt, and we still have nothing at all on this case. And I smell like dead people. I just want to get home.”