The headache was reaching nightmare proportions and he popped a couple of Darvon when he finally realized the pills weren't going to get the job done today. The sound of a blaring newscast was more than he could handle. He couldn't find the big bands this morning. All the stations appeared to have been programmed by complete maniacs or the tone-deaf. He finally dial-twisted around and found an oldies station. They seemed to program only songs that were played before the last dance at old-time proms and sock hops, and it was somewhat bizarre driving to work while the station played “Teach Me Tonight,” “I Only Have Eyes for You,” and “Red Sails in the Sunset"—All before eight in the morning. But he left it on and drove, mind disengaged, through musical memory lane. He pulled up at headquarters in the middle of “Blue Velvet,” depressed all the way down to the soles of his flat copper feet.
He went in and had to fight with himself not to try phoning Noel Collier, who still hadn't returned his LAST call, then he finally reached the number in Scottsdale he'd been phoning for two days, not in, secretary, left word, got a cup of hideous coffee-colored semiliquid stuff, and decided to read the paper in atonement for missing the morning news.
A seventy-seven-year-old woman had been crushed to death under the wheels of a bus. A commuter plane in its landing pattern and a private plane in the midst of takeoff smacked into each other over the Salt Lake Valley in Utah. Early estimates said twenty-two dead. A cerebral-palsy victim who was described as “one of the most courageous men imaginable,” who'd established a successful aluminum can-recycling business in spite of severely impaired motor skills, was in his apartment when somebody broke in and attacked him, leaving him badly beaten and traumatized. A nine-year-old girl disappeared off the streets. It was believed that a four-year-old boy had died in a fire because the building's landlord had refused to install smoke alarms. The man who played the Lone Ranger on TV years ago was checking his baggage through a ticket counter at the Houston airport and someone stole his six-guns and silver bullets. It looked like everyone was going to survive the fifty-eighth anniversary of the birth of Martin Luther King. A day like all days. The Grave-digger was still out there somewhere, or right under their noses in maximum security lockup ... or C: None of these.
Jack could imagine how good that first one would taste. He knew just one would completely cut through all the fog and wipe that woolen sleeve right off his tongue and totally lose that dull headache, all in the first swallow. How could anything that therapeutic possibly be bad for you? He could just have ONE, he assured what was left of his conscience and common sense. Just one, come back to work, it would all be more better, brudda.
He tried another call. Another nobody home. He'd reached the point that was so familiar and dreaded to Jack, a hollow and unfunny phone paranoia, the end result of too many recorded messages, too long spent on hold, too many rate increases, too many “I'm sorry she's not in"s AFTER the secretary gets your name.
So when his line rang and he depressed the lit trunk line and said, “Eichord,” and the thing went “MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFF” real loud in his ear ... Jeezus. It was all he could do not to throw the piece of shit through the nearest wall. What a fucked-up week. He hung up the receiver and sat there for nearly a minute looking at the phone. Tasting something awful and sour in his mouth. Staring at his desk. Eventually the extension on his borrowed desk made its looney trilling sound and he snatched it off the cradle and snarled, “Eichord?"
“Long distance calling Jack Eichord"—from Mars it sound like.
“This is he, operator."
“One moment please, for Dr. Geary's office."
Ohhhh, shit. Can't believe it. Finally.
“Thanks,” he said, listening to long-line harmonics, the hammering in his temple having reached disco proportions. He noticed his right eye was trying to close. Just a little tic. Nothing serious.
“Jack?” the familiar voice.
“Hello."
“Jack—Doug Geary."
“Doctor, thanks for getting back to me. I need to pick your brain again.” Geary had helped him on the Demented case years ago. “I was wondering if the Arizona papers have been carrying anything on the Grave-digger stories."
“Yes. I take it you're on the case."
“I'm in Dallas now. Yes."
“The guy, what's his name—your primary suspect—Ukelele Ike?"
Jack laughed. “You're close—Ukie Hackabee."
“Yeah. So what can I tell you? Don't know much, but shoot."
“The subject in question is quite intelligent. But with a record of minor sexual offenses. He abducted a woman here in Dallas and held her captive for several weeks, This was the first time we know of that he raped. Prior to that it was public-nuisance stuff. All during the time he had her he was bragging about all these bodies he'd buried. Convinced her be was a killer. When she got loose she gave us enough information where some of the graves were located and they picked him up. He's open about it. Admits the killings, even give us more graves. Real antisocial type.
“But then he takes it all back. Says he didn't do the killings, he saw them happen in his head. Has this farfetched story about a place where he can go inside his head that's like a concrete tunnel, and a thing he calls a neural pathway where this man hurts him, then he shows him where various corpses are, but he never gets a look at the guy doing the killings, he always stays in the shadows. The suspect has the impression the man is tall, but he claims he knows nothing else about the buried bodies, only their locations."
“My God, that's wild."
“Yeah, I know. He sounds nuttier ‘n a fruitcake. Thing is, he's very smart. Real bright guy. A ne'er-do-well kind of schlub in one sense—had a background of failure in the workplace—an abortive career as a local MC in some of the sleazy strip clubs—a package as a small-time nothing con man.
“First, there's a strong possibility he's trying to build up an image so he can cop to an insanity plea. Second, the obvious possibility that he's crazy. Third-and here's what I want to know, here's where I'm really needing your help—how much of an outside chance is there that he's telling the truth? He goes on about this neural plateau in his head where the killer tortures him a little, shows him the bodies. Sounds on the surface like some whackaroony on a guilt trip the way I'm telling it, but this guy doesn't have a killer's profile at all.
“I think the Grave-digger thing has brought him to the point where he finally got the guts to abduct a woman and rape her. But the rest of it doesn't feel right at all. I don't doubt for a second he was an accomplice, or a hanger-on, had some part in the killings-perhaps in helping to select the victims or whatever. But I can t see this guy getting up for the muscle. Wet work would scare him silly, I'd guess. Part of a team is the way I see him. He's covering for somebody maybe. Someone who's bad enough to have Ukie very scared."
“Hmmm. Interesting possibilities. First—and I know you already know this but just to run over the old basics, don't ever disregard anything when it comes to the cry for-help department."
“Right,” Jack said.
“We've talked a lot about that, I know. But in the past we've both seen an awful lot of seemingly bizarre behavior that boiled down to being nothing more than an individual going down for the third time and crying out to the authorities as a father figure, ‘Help me.’ The classic cry, ‘Stop me before I kill again'. But some of the ways they do that don't look anything like a cry for help, they look like anything but."
“I know. And Ukie is very frightened. But having recanted—"