Deep Cover (29 page)

Epilogue

Thinking
back, I can't say for sure whether I regret that assignment. It was the worst experience of my life, but we did manage to disband The Henchmen. Some of the chapters dug up their previous colors and, having no mother chapter to direct their activities, went back to drinking, riding, and raising hell.

Parkins
was allowed to resign. He broke under pressure from Atwood's grilling, and admitted to "bad judgment" in not having supplied backup for the San Pagano incident. But he wouldn't admit to having tipped off Helmsford. I'll never manage to prove it, but I know it was him. At least we were able to bust Helmsford on his Henchmen involvement.

Atwood
retired last month and moved to New Mexico. Molly took early retirement because of her badly injured shoulder. Dalton and I are still good friends, although it's no more than an occasional phone call. He now heads up the team at Quantico, where they keep tabs on serial killings. He travels around the country, working closely with local police departments.

I
often think about Monk, Dog, and the other Henchmen I got to know and, in some ways, even to respect. They were a ruthless bunch, no doubt, but nobody took care of business like they did. I went into the assignment thinking it was a clear cut case of good versus evil. I was the hero—out to stop the evil doers at all costs. If I've learned anything, it's that good and evil exist only in the definitions agreed upon by the majority. A president can order the bombing of villages, causing the deaths of children, if the majority decides to call it "war." The Henchmen lived outside our society. Judged by their own agreed-upon standards, they were righteous. By our society's, they were not.

There
isn't much danger to my new assignment as Group Supervisor. I head a team of white-collar investigators. I'm home every night at six-thirty, and have the weekends off. Amy and I have another boy, Anthony, now almost two. My life is happy, organized, and simple, right down to the six new suits—all blue—that hang together in my closet. Right next to my Henchmen colors.

Acknowledgements

Special
thanks to my sister, Helen Bungert. If not for your coaching and encouragement, I might never have gotten started.

And in memory of “Buddha” from South Ozone Park. You taught me early in life that things are not always what they seem to be.

I'd like to acknowledge the following people for their assistance, encouragement, information, and coaching throughout the writing of this book: Juval Aviv, Debby, Dudley F.B. Hodgson, I.L., Robert Jaeger (R.I.P. old friend), James Keefe, Lilian Gilden, Hy Bender, Adam-Troy Castro, Maniac, Avril Hordyk, Judy Starger, Elena Gaillard, Tom Deja, R.P., Donna Ellis, Jennie Grey, M.L., Sharon Gumerove, B.M., Lisa Nowak, Michael Higgins, Shawna McCarthy, and A.R.

If you enjoyed
Deep Cover
you may be interested in
Stranglehold
- the next book in the series.

Extract from
Stranglehold
by Edward Bungert

One

The crowd had been gathering since midnight. Now, a few minutes past six, the mob outside the prison had grown to more than three hundred strong. Most were college students, many from the very campus where Edward Lindy had strangled and mutilated his last seven victims. Dalton Leverick's rented LeBaron inched its way through the crowd and to the gate. On either side of the car, angry students brandished posters and banners which read BURN, LINDY, BURN, ROAST IN PEACE, and THANK GOD IT'S FRYDAY. Leverick waited patiently until his escorts, two motorcycle patrolmen, led the way inside the federal penitentiary in Starke, Florida. This prison had been home to Ed Lindy for the past ten years, ever since his arrest and conviction for the murder of Lou Anne Saunders, a fourteen-year-old sophomore. At thirteen, Lou Anne had been the youngest person ever to be accepted into the University of Florida and was destined to be one of its most honoured alumnae until Ed Lindy's blood-lust rampage ended her young life.

She had arrived at her dorm at seven-thirty, having turned down yet another invitation to a party with the older students, unaware of the killer lurking in the darkness. As she opened the door Lindy pushed his way behind her, knocking her to the floor. The next person to walk through that door was Lou Anne's roommate, Alice. She found the youngster's headless corpse tied spread-eagled to the bed. Lou Anne's head was propped on an end table, eyes wide, as though horrified at what she had seen happen to her body. Unable to utter a sound, Alice managed to get the attention of campus security by activating her car alarm. It was more than four months before Alice spoke a word to anyone.

Dalton Leverick had only recently joined the division at Quantico, Virginia. He now directed over fifty agents who gathered and processed information on thousands of murders taking place each year nationwide. Lindy's was one of many cases he had inherited since leaving the organized-crime unit, where he and Martin Walsh had brought down the notorious Henchmen Motorcycle Gang. Lindy had been in prison for almost eight years when Leverick first interviewed him about his crimes. Today Leverick would see him die.

The police escorts, followed by Leverick, rode through three checkpoints before arriving at the office where Warden Jenkins would brief the witnesses on today's execution. Leverick already knew the drill—no photographs, stay with your correction officer escorts at all times, no interviews with any prison employee or trustee, etc., etc.

Leverick grabbed his overcoat from the backseat. January in Florida was unpredictable. This morning it was near thirty. By afternoon it would be ninety. The cool, moist air reminded him of early March mornings in Virginia. He took a deep breath and went inside. The police escorts stayed on their motorcycles, where they would remain until his return.

After the briefing, Leverick, Warden Jenkins, two newspaper reporters, an assistant from the D.A.'s office, and a local sheriff were escorted into the viewing chamber, a fourteen-by-nine-foot room. Seven folding chairs were set up in front of a one-way glass. Beyond it was the chair—one of the last still in use in the industrialized world. The method had changed very little since its premiere in New York City in 1890.

Leverick took a seat to the far left of the window. He was glad he had his overcoat, the room air conditioned too cool for this time of year. Leverick's thoughts drifted to the last time he had seen Lindy—ten days before.

It had been much hotter that day. Lindy had requested the meeting and Leverick complied. He complied as he had several times before in the past two years, each time learning more about the trail of murder and mutilation Lindy had left behind during his insidious career. Lindy's information led the FBI to more than three dozen bodies in places as far west as Goldfield, Nevada, and as far north as Tuftonboro, New Hampshire. Lindy knew he could stay alive as long as he could feed the Bureau information on his killing spree.

Leverick waited alone in the visiting area. Lindy was brought in, hands and legs shackled, and sat down opposite Leverick at a four-foot-wide table. The watchful guard was positioned just beyond the wire-reinforced glass in the door.

"Mr. Leverick. It's good to see you again. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Always the gentleman. This killer of God knows how many women.

"Hello, Ed.
Would you like a cigarette?" Leverick held out the pack, tips of the filters protruding from the top. Using his thumb and ring finger, Lindy carefully picked one and placed it behind his ear, his shackled hands moving in unison.

"Maybe later," he said.

Lindy, now forty-two, looked about ten years younger. He had a boyish smile and eyes the colour of the sky. Those piercing eyes, thought Leverick. His jet black hair was just beginning to recede. He was articulate, intelligent, and very, very dangerous.

Leverick returned the pack to his jacket pocket. Both men sat silently for a moment.
Too long for Leverick. Lindy could stare down a tiger, and he made Leverick feel uncomfortable each time they met. Those long periods of silence seemed to give Lindy his power. The longer the time, the more confident and cocky he would become. Leverick would never reveal it to Lindy, but the killer scared him. Leverick had read the detailed reports that were never made public. Looking into the eyes of a man who had bitten off and ingested the vulvas of all his victims made him quiver. On the inside.

"Well, Ed. What do you have for me?" Leverick leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference.

Lindy smiled.
"The big one. The why." He clasped his hands under his chin, his forefingers pressed against his lips as he regarded the senior FBI agent.

"That's old news, Ed. You've gone public with that already. Your abusive father who tortured all the neighbours’ animals and surrounded you with pornography since you were five—"

"That was fish food for the guppies!" Lindy stood. Leverick straightened up in his chair, and the guard entered the room. Leverick held his hand up, assuring the guard that everything was under control, never taking his eyes off Lindy.

He continued. "I'm talking about the real why.
The why that has motivated dozens like me since probably before you and I were ever born." Lindy sat down, his breathing short and irregular. Very uncharacteristic for this stone killer.

"You can do it, Dalton," Lindy continued. "You can get me a stay. What I have to say will shake up the entire world. It's big, FBI man. Bigger than you could ever imagine."

Leverick pulled a notepad from his jacket. "I need more, Ed. I can't go back to the director and tell him that Ed Lindy is going to tell us why he did it, so hold the phone, stop the presses, and cancel the execution. You have to give me something."

"Get me the stay. If I burn, so do the answers to a lot of questions." Lindy sat back and closed his eyes as though meditating. Leverick signalled the guard and left the room.

Ten days later Dalton Leverick sat and waited for Ed Lindy to be escorted to the electric chair. Lindy's why—whether it was a towering revelation or a man's last desperate attempt to stay alive—would die with him today.

Lindy was brought in by two uniformed guards. He still displayed the confident smile that had become his trademark.
The smile that had lured more than thirty young girls to their early deaths. The smile that had so captivated a young Florida woman that she had married Ed Lindy while he was on death row and become pregnant with his child during one of the specially arranged visits. The smile that would soon disappear with the flick of a switch and the jolt of two thousand volts of electricity.

The guards stood on either side of Lindy as they sat him down in the chair. The attending physician, a thin, white-haired man in his late fifties, stood a few feet to the side, stethoscope in hand. The guards strapped Lindy's wrists to the armrests, quickly fastening the buckles. They then attached the metal clamps to his legs, just below the calf where they had earlier prepped the skin with a brine solution for better conductivity. One of the guards then placed the electrode, which resembled a short, medieval-looking helmet, to the killer's head. Lindy's eyes were focused straight ahead, his smile diminished slightly. Leverick felt like those eyes were staring straight at him, as though the one-way glass weren't there. This was the last time anyone would see those penetrating eyes. Patches of gauze were soon taped over each one. A long piece of adhesive was then wound around the killer's head to reinforce the patches. This would prevent Lindy's eyes from bulging out of their sockets.

The guards stepped away from Lindy. Leverick was breathing deeply, his chest moving in sync with the killer's. Lindy's fists clenched tightly as the final seconds of his life counted down.

The witnesses, including Leverick, jumped in their seats as Lindy's head jolted back and his hands shot open. His chin strained forward, and his head and body began to vibrate rapidly, saliva spewing from his mouth. A few seconds later, his convulsing body fell limp. The doctor walked over and placed the stethoscope over Lindy's heart. Sombrely, the physician looked up and shook his head. As soon as he was clear of the chair, an additional two thousand volts poured into Lindy. Blood began to stream from behind the bandages. Lindy was dead.

It was raining lightly as Leverick drove through the prison gates, past the crowd of demonstrators. The crowd was in a jovial mood now that Lindy was dead. Some were drinking champagne. Some were singing and dancing in celebration. Slowly the sound of the crowd receded, and the squeak of the windshield wipers became the only sound Leverick could hear. The Lindy case closed, it was now time to concentrate on the Bureau's latest pattern killer, someone the press had tagged "The Wrestlemaniac." Leverick had a plan to track him, but first he had to convince his old friend Martin Walsh to go back under. Operation Biker had taken its toll on Walsh. He would probably tell Leverick to fuck off, friend or no. But he had to try. There was no agent more capable than Walsh.

Leverick's thoughts returned to the images of the demonstrators outside the prison. The atmosphere of celebration had troubled him. He turned on the car radio, hoping to find some relaxing music, and the tumultuous voice of a southern preacher filled the air. ". . . and you have given them blood to drink as they deserve. Yes, Lord God Almighty, true and just are your judgments."

They called it "The Grapple in the Apple." Two of the most popular wrestlers in history would face each other in tonight's main event. Madison Square Garden was full to capacity. The twenty-two thousand fans had already howled and whooped their way through eight preliminary bouts. The score card: good guys, five - bad guys, three. The master of ceremonies, Max Legend, was in centre ring, microphone in hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is time for the main event." There were cheers, screaming, and general pandemonium. "This contest is for the WWA World Wrestling Championship," the announcer continued. The challenger's theme music blared and the shouting crowd started to jeer and boo for "Mr. Psycho," the most dangerous wrestler alive. He was led through the crowd by four men in white suits, his guards from the mental health facility where he was kept between bouts. Each man held Mr. Psycho tightly by a rope around the wrestler's waist.
The three-hundred-pound, six-foot-four wrestler growled and twisted wildly. The men in the white suits maneuvered him by keeping the four ropes taut, giving here and there in order to guide the hulking figure toward the ring. The theme music, "They're coming to take me away, ha ha”, an 1960's novelty tune, continued to blare above the noise of the crowd.

Max Legend continued his introduction: "Yes, it's him.
That loony toon, the man with the loose screws, that full-moon madman—Miiiissteeer Psyyyyychoooo."

Two of the white suits entered the ring and pulled the ropes toward them. Mr. Psycho followed, trailed by the other two white suits. Max Legend scurried to a corner of the ring.

A man in a bright green tuxedo climbed into the ring and motioned for quiet. The crowd settled down to a low rumble in anticipation. The man held a sceptre-shaped object in his hand. The top of the sceptre had a spiralling red and green gyroscope. He approached Mr. Psycho cautiously. The wrestler turned his huge bald head away, trying to avoid eye contact with the gyroscope.

"You cannot resist," said Green Tuxedo. "You are getting sleepy." Green Tuxedo held the sceptre in his left hand, inches away from Mr. Psycho's face, while he twiddled the fingers of his right hand. "When I snap my fingers you will be asleep." Mr. Psycho, no longer able to resist, stared dumbfoundedly at the gyro. When Green Tuxedo snapped his fingers, the wrestler's eyes closed, his shoulders slumped, and his head dropped forward, chin resting on his chest.

The white suits quickly removed the ropes and straitjacket, leaving a shirtless, zombie-like Mr. Psycho in the middle of the ring. Max Legend moved closer to centre ring. He waved his hand in front of the sleeping brute. Satisfied, he continued his announcements. "And now, the WWA belt holder"—pandemonium returned and the blare of trumpets filled the arena—"that chivalrous champion, the one, the only, Sirrrr Gaaalahaaaad."

Sir Galahad rode through the cheering crowd atop a white Arabian horse. His silver-white armour glistened under the lights and camera flashes. Galahad waved at the fans as his horse was led to the edge of the ring. Two beautiful women dressed in long, flowing gowns of purple lifted the ropes for Galahad to enter. He pulled his sword from its sheath, clasped it with two hands, and held it high above his head. He then knelt on one knee, as if in prayer. The trumpets continued to blare, and the fans went wild. Sir Galahad stood up and the purple-clad maidens began to remove his armour, revealing the champion wrestler's flowing locks of blond hair and his Herculean physique.