Jack Daniels Six Pack (73 page)

I jerked my hand back, pulling out several strands and part of the scalp. The flesh had taken on the consistency of soap.

Game over. The smell had become a living thing, so potent, so pungent, I could feel it even though I held my breath. It dug into my pores, penetrating my skin, infecting me with its corruption.

I pressed my lips together and made it up the stairs before the vomit burst forth, spewing onto the stained mattress.

Herb approached me, concerned, but stayed back when the stench of me hit him.

“Call the Gary police,” I managed to get out between expulsions. “Tell them to bring digging equipment, HazMat suits, the county coroner, and at least twenty body bags.”

Herb fussed with his cell phone. “No signal. Where’s your phone, Kork?”

Bud Kork eyed Herb, an odd expression on his face. He didn’t seem nervous, or upset. More like curious.

“In the kitchen,” he answered.

“I’ll watch him,” I told Herb. He waddled off.

I coughed, spit. The smell was in my clothes, in my hair, on my skin. I knew from experience it would be hell to get rid of. I stared hard at Bud Kork, anger slowly replacing my revulsion.

“How many are down there, Bud? How many kids?”

He spoke softly. “ ‘He must manage his own household well, keeping his children submissive and respectful in every way.’ That’s 1 Timothy 3:4.”

“How many people, Bud? How many children?”

“Sinners. All sinners. I helped them atone.”

His palsy became worse, his fists shaking like he was plugged into an electrical outlet.

“Tell me about Diane Kork, Bud. Did you kill her?”

“I’m a sinner too. Lord, I am a sinner!

Kork dropped to his knees, his eyes filling with tears.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins . . .”

He began to rock back and forth, bending down, touching his forehead to the floor.

“Did you kill your son’s wife? Or do you know who did?”

“. . . because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You . . .”

“Do you have a video camera, Mr. Kork?”

“. . . my God, who is all-good and deserving . . .”

“Who brought the jar of toes to Chicago?”

“. . . of all my love, I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more!”

His rocking was violent now, and he snapped his body back and drove his head hard into the wood floor.

“Mr. Kork!”

“Sin no more!”

He smashed his head down even harder. Blood erupted from his face and nose. I made it to him in two steps, reaching for his shoulders, trying to pull him back. He was much stronger than I would have guessed, and he had momentum on his side.

“SIN NO MORE!”

With his final blow I actually heard the sound of his skull cracking. He slumped over onto his side, one eye closed, the other open and fully dilated.

“Herb! We need an ambulance!”

I put two fingers against his grimy neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but there.

Pulling back his collar, I noticed some scar tissue on his breastbone. A sense of uneasiness, of dread, came over me, and without thinking I lifted up his ratty undershirt.

It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen.

Chapter 22

A
LEX WAITS FOR
Dr. Morton outside the pizzeria, on the sidewalk. The doctor had gone in alone, eighty-five minutes ago. Long enough for a leisurely lunch. This place is known for its deep-dish pizza, baked in a pan with the sauce on top of the cheese. Alex has never tried it.

At the eighty-sixth minute after entering, Dr. Morton exits the restaurant. His face is the picture of shock and surprise when he bumps into Alex at the door. He recovers quickly, but Alex is secretly delighted to have flustered the shrink.

“Alex! Oh, hello. Just in the neighborhood?”

“There are more than three million people in Chicago, Doctor. What’s the likelihood we both just happened to pick the same restaurant for lunch?”

Alex watches him puzzle it out.

“So, you followed me. Was there any particular reason?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Dr. Morton looks at his watch. Very unprofessional. “I’m sort of pressed for time, Alex. Don’t we have an appointment tomorrow?”

“You spent eighty-six minutes eating pizza. You can’t spare ten minutes for me?”

“But I’m seeing another patient, Alex.”

“I have to talk to you now, Doctor.” Alex checks the street, which is clear, and casually pulls the gun out. “I’m having a crisis.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t look afraid. But that doesn’t matter.

He will. Soon.

“Can we talk in my car? Just five minutes. I can even give you a ride back to the office, save you some cab fare.”

The doctor lets out a slow breath. “Fine. But I want the gun.”

“Don’t you trust me, Doctor?”

“You said yourself that you’re having a crisis. I wouldn’t want you to do anything regrettable.”

Alex smiles, hands over the weapon.

Dr. Morton shoves it into his blazer pocket, and Alex leads him to the car. If the good doctor notices the missing side mirrors, he doesn’t say anything about it.

After the doctor puts on his seat belt, Alex jabs him with the needle in the upper arm.

“Alex? What are you doing . . . ?”

“Just something to relax you, Doctor.”

Dr. Morton’s mouth opens. He’s shocked. He isn’t used to surprises. He’s used to being in control. Alex can read it in his face.

The doctor grabs for the door, but Alex has disabled the handle. He pulls four or five times, but it doesn’t open.

“Sorry, Doc.” Alex grins.

“Let me out of here, Alex.”

“I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a loose end. I told you too much, and now I have to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” His words are beginning to slur.

“I’m going to cut a small slit in your belly, right under your navel. And then I’ll stick some tongs in there, and pull your intestines out through the hole. Then you’re going to eat them.”

Dr. Morton’s eyes get comically wide. He gropes for the gun and pulls it out.

“Do you know how to work a semiautomatic, Doctor? That one has a safety on it.”

The doctor obviously doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he’s trying to pull the trigger. Alex reaches over, flips off the safety for him.

Dr. Morton doesn’t hesitate. He points the gun at Alex’s head and fires. There’s a clicking sound, and the slide goes back.

No bullets.

“I’m disappointed, Doctor. Is that how you deal with the mentally ill? By trying to shoot them in the head? I’m surprised you have any patients left at all.”

The doctor raises the gun, tries to hit Alex with it.

Alex laughs, easily blocking the blow, then pops Dr. Morton in the nose, causing a minor explosion of blood.

“Don’t bother trying to fight, Doctor. I’m stronger than you are.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t listen. He again tries to club Alex with the gun. Alex slips the blow and takes the gun away.

“Enough. It’s nighty-night time.”

“Please.” Dr. Morton’s head lolls to the side. He’s almost out.

Alex pats him on the head.

“You’ll have plenty of time for begging tomorrow, Dr. Morton. I promise.”

Chapter 23

W
HEN THE DOCTOR
came into the waiting room to talk to me, he looked ashen. I put him at about my age, five-ten, graying temples, nurturing a pot belly on an otherwise skinny body. His name tag read
Murphy.

“How’s Kork doing?”

“The patient has a linear skull fracture, a third-degree concussion, and a broken nose. I also put six stitches in his scalp. You said this was self-induced?”

“He banged his head into the floor.”

He pursed his lips. “That makes sense, considering the overall shape he’s in.”

“You’ve obviously seen his chest.”

“The chest is child’s play compared to some of the other things I found. He has no relatives?”

“None.” I stood up, stretching my back, my vertebra popping like a cellophane bag. I’d been cramped in the little plastic chair for over three hours.

For the second time this week I sported the latest borrowed hospital fashion: baggy jeans, a Pacers shirt, and sandals. The clothes I’d put on this morning, including my Dior flats, were double-bagged in plastic. I doubted I’d ever get the stench out of them.

The hospital had been kind enough to let me use the residents’ shower, and I scrubbed myself pink with industrial strength antibacterial soap. It still hadn’t been enough to get the stink of rot out of my hair and skin. The stench lingered like a perfume I’d put on. Eau de Decay.

“I’d like to see him, Dr. Murphy.”

“He isn’t conscious yet. Might not be for a while.”

“I want you to show me the other things you just mentioned.”

The doctor hesitated. I had no authority there, but I pressed anyway.

“He’s a mass murderer. They’ve pulled eleven bodies out of his basement already, and more are on the way. Let me see him. It may help save some lives.”

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.