Knorath, Joe - Jack Daniels 03 - Rusty Nail (14 page)
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.”
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.
I went back to the waiting room and watched CNN. Two guys in disposable paper suits and air regulators hauled another body bag out of Kork’s house. The top graphic read
Horror in Indiana,
and the rolling caption along the bottom of the screen told how this was the home of Bud Kork, supposed father of Charles Kork, the infamous killer known as the Gingerbread Man.
The scene cut away to some footage from two years ago, the day we closed the Gingerbread Man case. My face came on, full screen, and I said something about justice being served.
The graphic flashed my name, Lieutenant Jack Daniels, in large letters, and then went on to explain how the event turned me into a television star on the series
Fatal Autonomy.
I wondered if the superintendent watched CNN.
Mercifully, my big face was replaced with some awful tragedy happening in the Middle East. I buried my nose in a
Woman’s World
magazine and waited patiently for Benedict to arrive.
He did, twenty minutes later.
“There’s a horde of reporters out there, Jack. Maybe you want to take a back way out? Or wrap a sheet around your head?”
“Doesn’t matter now. I was just a sound bite on CNN, and they’ll replay it every forty minutes until this all blows over. Let’s just get out of here. It’s doubtful anyone will recognize me anyway.”
Herb and I stepped outside into a thick sea of reporters, cameras, and crews. Someone yelled, “It’s Jack Daniels!” and the mob closed in and swallowed us up, chattering and shoving.
“Lieutenant Daniels, did you make the arrest?”
“Lieutenant Daniels, have you spoken to Bud Kork?”
“Lieutenant Daniels, how does this compare to the Gingerbread Man case?”
“Lieutenant Daniels, you look like you’ve lost weight. Is it the stress?”
Herb tried to pull me through the throng of bodies, but the throng refused to budge. With no other options, I finally held up a hand and yelled, “I’d like to make a statement.”
Everyone shut up.
“I’m not in Gary because of Bud Kork. I was visiting the Blessed Mercy hospital to have elective surgery.”
“What kind of surgery?” eight or nine networks shouted.
“I was having my foot removed from a reporter’s ass. I don’t want to have surgery again so soon, so please let us through.”
They let us through. When we finally reached the car, Herb grinned at me.
“I’m guessing they won’t air that.”
“Who knows? Fox might. I don’t really care. My hand hurts, my lungs hurt, and we still have nothing at all on this case. And I smell like dead people. I just want to get home.”
Herb motored out of the parking lot and followed the signs to the expressway.
“We just took a very bad man off the streets, Jack. Should be happy about that.”
“He’s crazy. He’ll spend the rest of his life in some cushy institution, being scrutinized by ViCAT chuckleheads. He was doing a fine job punishing himself. We could have left him alone.”
“Punishing himself?”
I gave Herb the condensed version. He looked appropriately ill by the end of it.
“He cut off Little Willy?”
“Right at the root.”
“And the twins?”
“Lefty and Righty, both.”
Benedict shuddered. “Jesus. That’s who they belonged to. Cops found a set of genitals wrapped in foil, in the freezer.”
I made a mock-serious face. “Herb, you know what that is, don’t you?”
“No. What?”
“It’s a cocksicle.”
He didn’t laugh. Maybe my timing was off. Comedy is all about the timing.
“Guys don’t find castration funny, Jack.”
I nudged him with an elbow. “That’s because it’s like getting a lobotomy.”
“See? Not funny.”
But I still had more material.
“In a way, I kind of feel sorry for Bud. I mean, where does he put his hand when he’s watching TV?”
“Not all men grab themselves when they’re watching TV.”
“Or when they’re driving?”
Benedict looked down, noticed he was adjusting himself. He turned a shade of red normally seen on valentine cards.
“I wasn’t grabbing.”
“What were you doing? Frisking yourself?”
He went sheepish. “Just checking to make sure they were still there.”
Benedict merged onto the expressway. When his blush faded a bit, he changed the topic.
“We found some seriously awful things at Kork’s place. In the barn there was a locked wooden box, with tiny holes punched in it. When we opened it, the inside was covered in scratch marks. He kept people in there.”