Savant (16 page)
The existence of the offender had been expunged from Whirlwind and other computers at that time, deleted but left as a trigger, to search, trace, and transfer back to the section any and all data about who might come looking. The trigger had various spurs. One of these had just been activated for the first time in more than six years.
Inside the control center, a pair of technicians finished their thorough investigation of the facility.
"Okay, folks," the sound man said, in the direction of a man seated at the central communications console. "We'll see you next month." Nobody acknowledged his comment or his wave. It was considered proper form to ignore them at all times. A professional habit. The men understood it. They wore Day-Glo yellow jackets bearing a stenciled admonition on the front and back:
ELECTRONIC SOUND SWEEP
IN PROGRESS
W * A * R * N * I * N * G!
DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OR
REFER TO MY PRESENCE IN ANY WAY
When the sound lock had been reactivated, he placed a secure call to the penitentiary, via double-scrambled hookup. After a moment, he heard Dr. Norman's voice on the hotline.
"Hello?"
"Yes. I'm afraid our problem is worse instead of better. I'm looking at some tragic data. If this printout is correct the person in possession of SAVANT has killed eight men and four women, that we know of—in the last few days—with no guarantee the end is in sight. He has to be terminated, as you predicted."
"It won't be a problem."
"Our superiors will be relieved to hear that taking out a cunning professional executioner armed with a million dollar weapon system is no problem." He said it without sarcasm.
"Not our problem, I should have said. We'll leave it to the individual most capable."
"What will you do to put this guy out of business?"
"With due respect, do you want to know details?"
"I think in this case—yes. I'll be asked for some of the operational details, I feel sure. What are your plans?"
"As I told you in our last conversation, I've been prepared for this contingency. A special communication has been constructed, which will be brought to the surveillance subject's attention. There is considerable history between the two assets, and subject's skills in such areas are unique. In time, he'll destroy the person who has the special weapon."
"Assuming he does that, what stops him from taking it and killing with it himself?"
"Well—" The doctor had to stifle a laugh at that one. "He neither likes nor trusts that type of weapon. It's much more likely that he'll destroy it along with the man, or damage it in some irreparable way. But as far as him sniping people-no. That wouldn't be his style at all."
"Um."
"Too, there's the matter of the implant. We'll continue to have him in our sights, and should it become necessary, we can simply put an end to him."
"What's to stop the sniper from using that same implant to track the target's whereabouts?"
"Nothing. But so far he's evidenced interest only in random kills of civilians. If he'd wanted to shoot our subject he's had hundreds of opportunities to do so. What we must do now is notify subject so that he can take certain precautions."
"You understand, Dr. Norman, I'm not personally questioning your methodology or tactics, but I'm going to be asked such things as—is this subject the only one you feel is competent to remove the person in question? And what sort of backup do we have, in the wings as it were, should things not work out as planned? Contingency plans? Backstops? Failsafes? That kind of thing."
"The most obvious aspect is that the OMEGASTAR tracker is a two-way unit. As he tracks subject, he too is under surveillance, in the sense that the control center monitors the locations of both the mobile tracker and the implant. So we have whatever backup we need from Clandestine Services, but the idea of utilizing the subject, to turn him back around, plays along a number of lines: first, there's the revenge aspect, subject is much attuned to that element; second, their past shared history will work to our advantage; third, there's subject's presentience. Should the person who is our SAVANT sniper decide to distance himself from the mobile tracker no one is better qualified to trail him than a man who has proven himself to be a stalker of unsurpassed efficiency. But rest assured that other measures have been taken."
"Excellent! Just a minor point—is there any chance that the subject, given his unique, er…personality, might ignore your attempt to communicate with him about the possible danger to him, and so on?"
"No. We'll be calling attention to the communication in a way that he'll find singularly disturbing."
"You mean with the dead animal? You mentioned to me something about roadkill?"
"Yes." The doctor had a distasteful expression. "This will disabuse subject of any notion he might entertain to, for whatever reason or whim, ignore our communication. It is a bit more subtle than it might appear. For all its crudity, he'll immediately pay attention to our message, but he will also grasp the implicit threat, albeit a nonchallenging one.
"He will be told the truth, without ornamentation: that there is only one reason he was permitted to be released from death row initially, that he has been a field experiment to give priceless insight into the behavior of one such as himself. That, when he was undergoing drugged hypnosis sessions, a device was surgically implanted in his brain to allow him to be monitored and followed; that while we understand he'll be enraged and wish to destroy us for this, that such a measure was the
only
way he would have been granted the freedom that he has. It will appeal marginally to his sense of logic. The implant, which he will despise, permits him to escape the confines of solitary and to do those things he does so willingly and so well."
"You are, I'm sure, aware of the incident with the motorcycle club that he blew up?"
"Of course."
"It seems to me, and forgive my continuing to play the devil's advocate here, but it seems unlikely such a man will willingly do your bidding. I should think his anger would preclude it. After all, the implant is a locator, not a control. What if he merely ignores both the message and the sniper?"
"When he is asked to extinguish this other asset, it will be made clear that the same person tried to assassinate him in Vietnam. That the target is at this moment trying to kill him. His survival instincts are astonishing. He'll be shown current photos of the sniper and schematics of the SAVANT weapon system, copies of the photos of some of its victims, and a piece of the OMEGASTAR unit that will not only allow him to track the sniper's moves but also educate him as to some of the mobile tracking capabilities we have. He is, in some ways, a true genius. I assure you he'll experience no difficulties in assimilating this data in all its implications, and he'll see that it is in his immediate best interests to destroy the target we give him."
"I know how high you are on the subject's proven abilities—and I'd be the last to quarrel with such an opinion—but from what I've heard, the sniper has a similarly impressive track record, and considering the fact he's armed with a long-range silent killing device that's without equal, and that he's able to monitor the subject's every move…" He let the question go unasked.
"It won't be a simple task. But think of it this way-imagine a batting contest between the greatest power hitters of all time: Joe DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and so forth. Who would win if they all entered a batting contest? You might argue that Ted Williams had the most perfect coiled-spring swing, or that Ruth had the greatest raw power, or that Joltin' Joe's numbers were the best, or that he was the most graceful natural athlete—and so on. You apply those kinds of criteria in hypothetical situations. But what if—just for the point of our discussion—we learn that King Kong has always enjoyed playing the game. We watch him at bat and he knocks them out of the park, and for a bat he uses a small tree." The man on the phone laughed at the analogy but Dr. Norman continued, in a serious tone. "And then you said to King Kong, 'King—only the one who wins this contest survives.' I would not wish to be Mr. DiMaggio or Mr. Ruth under those conditions. This is not a very carefully drawn parallel, but I guess what I'm asking you to understand is this: Whatever high technology we've given the man with the sniper rifle, I'm about to take away his most effective weapon. That has been secrecy. I am going to hand him to King Kong, one might say. And all the sophisticated electronics and weapons in the world will not counterbalance the subject's natural abilities and his drives. He is—in every sense of the phrase—a born killer. He's also the ultimate survivor." Then Norman said in a low whisper, "Truly, I would not want to be in the other man's shoes." And he meant it.
Kansas City, Missouri
W
hy don't we let this short cut grow out, Julie?" the hairdresser asked. "I've got a great cut in mind for your head."
"I like it like this, Sandra. It's nice 'n' short and I don't have to fool with it."
"You've got some natural curl in your hair. Do you know how many heads I cut would kill for some natural curl? My God, woman…"
"Whack it off," Julie said, laughing, knowing it bugged Sandra. Julie Hilliard was thirty-two and, like many women, had different looks at different times. She knew she could let it grow out a bit and Sandra would tease it to hell, and she'd put on a bunch of makeup, a ton of blush and lip gloss and mascara for miles, and some big dangly earrings, and smile with lots of teeth showing instead of her usual thin-lipped cop look, and she looked like an attractive woman. But Julie Hilliard was a cop, one of Kansas City's finest in a progressive shop that was staffed with more female dicks than any other homicide department in the country. She was also one of only two women on the prestigious Kansas City Metro Homicide Squad, a slot that had taken her eleven kick-ass years of casemaking to attain. Homicide was what she lived, breathed, and ate. And her look was just fine, thank you.
"Not only that, this cut is all wrong for your face." Sandra had the scissors going but she was going to bitch about it all the same. "You've got terrific eyes, and you should spotlight them. This downplays them."
"The A-holes I deal with, they don't like my eyes anyway."
"Yeah, but God forbid you'd want to get married someday…"
"Oh, Lord."
"Meet a nice guy, settle down—"
"You sound like my mother, now."
"Well, I'm just saying…I could make you so much prettier. Check it out, perm those curls, eh? Layer through here, bevel the ends, keep it short back on your nape, but longer here on the sides and maybe streak it here, see? All you do is scrunch it. Shampoo, towel it off. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"
"Whack it off," Julie Hilliard told her, looking into the mirror but seeing the bulletin board above Llewelyn's disaster-area of a desk.
"Well, at least let me spike it."
She finally took her freshly shorn head, and all the rest of her well-distributed 127 pounds, and got in her unmarked unit, returning to 1125 Locust. At headquarters, she immediately headed for the squad room, She nodded to people on the way up, and familiar faces in the hallways, but did not speak until she was inside the door marked Metropolitan Major Case Squad, which was the real name of the unit, but which nobody ever used.
Leo and T.J., the only other female detective on the squad, and the El Tee, were occupied elsewhere. Marlin Morris had been waiting for her so he could brief the three detectives present at one time. Michael Apodaca and his partner George Shremp, nicknamed "Abba-dabba" and "Jumbo" respectively by the other cops, and Julie Hilliard—who normally worked alone—were the only dicks in the room. Sergeant Morris did not have to refer to notes.
"Honcho's with Leo 'n' T.J. They're working the firebombing. We've got thirteen people on Boyles. Rotating teams." Boyles was the name of the file on the "pro" hits, as they were perceived, beginning with the slaughter of a guy who appeared to have no ties to anyone, a colorless loner of a person, a part-time cabby, a twenty-three-year-old man named David Boyles. "That's not counting us. Right now we're going to concentrate on Mr. Dillon and see what we can break loose." He handed out a photocopy of a two-page report and a composite of twelve shooting victims' pictures. There was a second composite showing thirteen faces of young gang members killed in the firebombing/shooting incident. "I think an obvious possible tie is Tom Dillon to the bike gang. He coulda been dealing easy. He was a thief. Maybe he was selling or fencing stuff through the gang? Anyway let's look at everything. Show those pictures. See if anybody makes anybody." They knew what he meant.
Detective Sergeant Morris, a thirty-year-old lifer with a droopy semi-Fu mustache and thinning hair, a hardcore casemaker, talked about the weapon that had been used on some of the bikers outside their clubhouse, and discussed the reports on the various victims, speculating as to what had killed them. Julie Hilliard made notes as he spoke, realizing she was just doodling, really, as she saw she'd written
acceleration…explosive
… and
propellant
and had no idea what Morris was saying. She snapped back to life and listened to firearms and high-explosive talk.
"Neither the regional crime lab nor the FBI has anything yet?" Jumbo Shremp asked. She was thinking the same question.
"Huh-uh. Negative, so far."
"Some kind of rifle grenade," Shremp said. "That's what I think. Fits the pattern. A pro."
"Are we—" Julie heard her own voice. "Is anybody asking the military? This guy obviously has a background—a military service record, right? Couldn't we put it on the computer and program it through to give us likely names on who has the expertise for all this stuff…uh, you know, capabilities. Demolition. Firearms. And then run those names against the vics? Would that work?"
"Yeah," Morris said. "That wouldn't take more than about ten million hours to program. No—it's probably the way to go." He shrugged. "But we gotta narrow this thing down first. You got too many guys in the services know this shit. We probably need to start trying to get some patterns here. I don't think this is random work. I think we're gonna find Dillon and some of the bikers tied together."
