J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“No technospeak. Please.”

“Fine. Just watch this and tell me what you notice.”

This was one I hadn’t seen, and had no desire to see. Dailey retrieved a remote from his attaché, pressed a few buttons, and the image showed Charles Kork brutally slapping a bound woman. The slapping went on and on, the camera zooming in closer and closer, until you could clearly see the marks Kork was making.

Dailey paused the video.

“Did you notice that?”

“I saw a woman getting beaten. It was revolting.”

“Of course it was revolting. But what else did you see?”

He began the scene at the same point, and again we witnessed the atrocity, starting with Kork full body and ending with him right in our faces, close enough to see his sweat.

Herb pointed at the screen. “The zoom.”

Then I got it. Kork was in front of the camera. If he was in front, who zoomed the lens in?

Now I got excited.

“Was it an automatic zoom?” I asked. “Or a remote control?”

“That RCA model doesn’t have one. Not only that, we analyzed this frame by frame. The camera is mounted on a tripod, but at the beginning of the zoom, the picture jars slightly. Consistent with someone behind the camera, pressing the zoom button.”

“The Gingerbread Man had a partner.”

Dailey nodded, somber.

I sat on my desk. Bud Kork, though a serial killer himself, couldn’t have been Charles Kork’s accomplice. Bud was in a coma when I received the videotape this morning. And the cameraperson who taped Diane Kork’s death had steady hands; Bud’s were racked with Parkinson’s.

“Who?” Herb asked.

“We’ve discovered that Bud Kork had a common-law wife for twelve years. She’s doing life for manslaughter – she sliced up a girl she believed was sleeping with Bud.”

“She’s still in prison?”

“Yes. And she had a boy of her own. We know he was one year younger than Charles, and they lived together for a while.”

“Remember what Bud Kork said yesterday?” Herb nudged me. “ No flesh of my flesh . This kid lived in his house, but wasn’t Kork’s son.”

I tried to picture two little boys, growing up in the hell house of Bud Kork. They’d both be majorly screwed up. Chances are they relied on each other. Bonded. Maybe developed the same grotesque appetites.

“Where’s this guy now?”

“We haven’t been able to locate him. Last known address is in Michigan.”

“Record?”

Dailey paused. “Assault and battery. Burglary. Armed robbery. Rape. Did a few stints in prison. But three years ago, the guy just disappeared.”

“Have you asked his mother where he is?”

“Not yet. As of today, the special agent in charge of the Chicago office is sending me to Gary to assist Special Agent Coursey.”

Now this generous sharing of information made sense.

“You came to us, knowing we’d want go and interview her.”

Special Agent Dailey smiled. “We’re all on the same side, right?”

“Fine. What’s her name and where is she?”

Dailey played coy. I stated the obvious.

“You want something.”

“The Behavioral Science Unit is facing cutbacks. Homeland Security is getting all of the funding. We’re going to be downsized. A major bust would go a long way to preventing that.”

“You want the collar.”

Dailey nodded. “We’re willing to share. But we’d like to be in on it. If I give you the woman’s name, and you find out where her son is, we’d like to assist in the arrest.”

“Won’t that only matter if state lines have been crossed?”

“We can still be there to smile pretty for the cameras.”

I mulled it over. “We could find her on our own.”

“Maybe. But it will be tough. You don’t have access to all of the information that we do. You’d need subpoenas to obtain records. All of that will take time.”

I glanced at Herb. He shrugged.

“Deal.” We shook hands on it. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Lorna Hunt Ellison. She’s currently in the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. Son’s name is Caleb.”

I wrote the info down, then hit the Eject button on my VCR.

“I got another tape this morning. It shows the death of the handwriting expert who helped with the Gingerbread Man case.”

Dailey raised an eyebrow. “You believe Diane Kork was killed on the first tape, correct?”

“We don’t have a body, but the tattoo matched. And someone burned down her house when I showed up. I find it hard to believe that’s coincidental.”

“So do we. And it’s also not a coincidence that the handwriting expert was killed. It appears that the Gingerbread Man’s partner is targeting people involved in that case. Who else had a hand in it?”

“Harry McGlade, obviously. And a guy named Phineas Troutt helped out. Some men from the medical examiner’s office, Phil Blasky and Max Hughes. A handful of uniforms from my district, who did legwork. Guys from the Evanston PD.”

“And us.” Agent Dailey frowned. “We’re on his list too.”

INDIANAPOLIS WAS A three-hour drive. Herb and I made arrangements with the warden to visit with Lorna tomorrow afternoon. Indianapolis was also the hometown of Mike Mayer, who rented the Eclipse. We could check out his house after visiting Lorna.

I still hadn’t heard from Phin. Herb vehemently disliked Harry, and not even a free meal would convince him to sup with the PI. Racking my brain for someone else to bring was an exercise in futility. I didn’t have any friends. I hadn’t dated anyone in months. My life was police work.

I wondered, ironically, whom I would ask to stand up if I ever got married. I was in the same boat as McGlade in that respect.

Not that I’d ever have to face that situation.

“You gonna eat that?”

Herb pointed at the cranberry granola bar sticking out of my jacket pocket.

I flipped him the bar. He took a tiny exploratory bite.

“This is awful.”

“I know.”

“And so tiny.”

He finished it, then traded me a five-dollar bill for singles to go on what he called a Carb Quest – a trip to the vending machines.

“Want anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll drop by later.”

“Herb… let me know when you get the biopsy results.”

I gave the Detroit PD a call, and asked them to give me whatever they had on Caleb Ellison. They reiterated what Dailey had told me. Ellison was a career dirtbag who dropped off the face of the earth.

“Probably in a shallow grave someplace,” said the cop I spoke with. “No big loss.”

I asked him to fax over Caleb’s record, which turned out to be a Greatest Hits package of felony arrests. Presuming Caleb wasn’t in a shallow grave someplace, he was in his late thirties, two hundred pounds, with red hair and lots of tattoos.

I switched gears, and hunted and pecked my way through the reports I’d been neglecting, beginning with the fire from two days ago.

Three hours later I was bleary-eyed and falling asleep. The phone snapped me out of my stupor.

“Hi, Jack. It’s Phin.”

That was a relief. “Hey. Thanks for calling.”

“Where are we meeting?”

“At Mon Ami Gabi, a French steakhouse in Lincoln Park. Three o’clock. Reservations are under the name Buttshitz.”

“Unfortunate name.”

“It’s not real. Harry thinks he’s funny.”

“See you at three.”

He hung up. I yawned, stretched, checked my watch. Twelve thirty. Back to the thrill-a-minute fast lane of report writing.

The writing was so white-knuckle exhilarating that I actually did fall asleep. Someone nudged me out of slumber an undetermined time later.