The Creep (11 page)

"Now what I do is take a day off during the week. You could say I work a four-day week for a six-day week salary and that's the way I like it. It works for me. That's how we're here today and that is why many times I've been able to spend weekdays and long weekends with you. What doesn't suit me is having all my work gobbled up by the computer the minute my back is turned." Anita rubbed suntan lotion on her tummy and asked Harvey to do her back. She was sensually soft. He couldn't keep his hands off of her. He felt himself getting an erection and had to drag himself into the sea to cool his ardor - as well as his
'
ard on!

Each regression brought new revelations about Bishmans' gory past. Harvey now brought two tape recorders. One to tape Bishman and the other to put his private thoughts onto, many of which were quite disturbing:

Bishman had just arrived in Manhattan having got a ride from a guy in Maryland, and had a good feeling he was in for a lot of action.

It was the 28th October, 1982, and if you're a New Yorker you probably remember exactly what you were doing at 7:45 that evening. You'll probably never forget.

As for Bishman, he was walking down Eighth Avenue on 44th Street, juggling with Jesus amongst thousands of blacks, Hispanics, Chinese, Africans, Vietnamese, Puerto Ricans, Haitians, Philipinoes, Mexicans, Cubans and Koreans, all jockeying for position and hustling for a buck. Just like the third world! There were also lots of beautiful young hookers, dressed to the nines, their pimps only a stone's throw away.

Suddenly the Big Apple was plunged into darkness. New York had a complete power failure and a major problem on its hands. A lot of New Yorkers thought the Russians were coming. Within
seconds
Bishman watched a youth snatch a woman's pocket book and disappear into the darkness.

Bishman decided to play it cool. He stood and he watched. A few ideas popped into his head. Police sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. Pandemonium and panic - and the lights had only been out for three minutes. Bishman waited. Within another five minutes the power was restored. Bishman wasn't convinced the restoration of power was going to be permanent. He had a hunch, he kept plotting and planning and his hunch turned out to be reality.

The power failed yet again and subsequently remained off for the next two days.

That night was when the poor got rich, if only temporarily.
Within minutes of the lights going out the second time, four stores had their windows smashed and the serious looting had started. Looters were filling up supermarket trolleys with televisions, radios, stereos, whole lambs,
hind
quarters of beef, jewelry and tins of food. Others loaded up with cakes, records, clocks and fruit. It was an incredible sight, a real live free-for-all, people struggling down the street bumping into one another with televisions and leather-bound sofas, dining tables and washing machines, all under the cover of darkness.

At one clothing store, even the mannequins disappeared into the night along with the cash register, display cabinets and every single item of clothing. Looters were taking orders and going out and fulfilling them, wholesale! They'd get you what you wanted, big discount guaranteed! The word went out, time to go to work, let's get busy, and they did. Free shopping!

The first thing Bishman did was to get a gun and he did that by killing a cop. In the blackness, the only light came from car headlights, and what really stood out were the bright blue flashing lights from the police cars.

When the big rattlesnake drive goes down in Texas, they deliberately beat the bushes and grass to make the rattlesnakes 'rattle' and give themselves away. To find a gun, all Bishman had to do was find a blue flashing light.

Bishman approached cautiously. He wanted to ensure the cop's partner was busy and he most certainly was. He was tied up with about fifteen blacks who were putting an empty fifty-gallon drum through a store window.

Bishman crept up behind the cop, by the patrol car and slammed a four-foot section of scaffold pole into his skull. He never knew what hit him. Bishman said to himself:
You thought you could control the city with the lights out, but instead I've stuck your lights out - permanently. He was a fuck pig anyway. If you've got three cops up to their necks in shit, what have you got? Not enough shit, right.

Bishman had a problem getting the gun out the holster, but after a bit of fumbling he
managed it. It was a Glock-17
that usually held seventeen rounds. Sometimes the police have access to clips that hold thirty-two rounds. This one did.

Bishman looked around and surmised there was a certain advantage to being black on a night like this. It was dark enough on its own but the blacks really did disappear into the shadows. Spooky! He smiled.

All around were the sounds of huge plate-glass windows getting smashed and big cheers going
up.
There were lots of gunshots, automatic fire as well.

A lot of businesses were cleaned out that night. By morning, hundreds of stores were stripped clean. A lot of people had had their lights stuck out permanently, too. Bishman killed at least eighteen people that night - maybe more - but the
others were just wild shots and he couldn't establish his kills.

Bishman was not the only serial killer on a spree. During the first night he saw over one hundred and fifty bodies. Some maniac had been firing an automatic and you could hear that dull rat
-
tat
-
tat all night long, right up until sunrise
. O
n Eighth Avenue and 42nd Street there was a pile of bodies, maybe as many as forty or fifty, in body bags.
A special police unit, dressed like a SWAT team, were
loading them onto a truck. Bishman noticed that each member of the team carried three Colt .45 automatics.
One on each hip and one in a shoulder holster.
While they were loading the bodies their buddies stood back-to-back keeping guard and carried Uzis and AK-16s as well as the three Colt .45 autos.

During the course of the evening, thousands of gang members made their way over to Manhattan from Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx and New Jersey. The police had slide-action shotguns on Brooklyn Bridge to deter gang members from coming over. The patrol was taken out with an AK-47 with a starlight scope within ten minutes. They weren't replaced.

Bishman's 'kills' were anyone who came into his line of fire, providing he had at least two escape routes. He was dropping people like flies. The deadly 9mm Glock-17 had almost pinpoint accuracy. He fell in love with the gun. Extremely powerful, the Austrians made the gun using seventeen percent non-metallic polymer, making it really light - it weighed in at twenty-three ounces. This was one heck of a gun. You could
drop this baby from a helicopter at three hundred feet or leave it buried under ground for a year and it would
still
work. No wonder New York City was the first police force in the country to buy a thousand of them.

Bishman came across some twenty or thirty blacks raping a white girl. Her boyfriend was putting up one hell of a struggle. Bishman fired one shot at
him and put him out of his misery. After that he let the blacks get on with it. The time wasn't right to be caught with his trousers down.

In Brooklyn looters were driving cars right out of showrooms without even opening the plate-glass doors. In Queens a liquor store was completely emptied in
under
four minutes. The youths had organized themselves like a chain gang and cases of booze were shooting down the line like greased lightning, straight into the back of a pick-up-truck they'd commandeered ten minutes earlier. The driver was still lying in the passenger's seat with a bullet in his head, blood gushing from a gaping wound you could put your fist through.

Bishman continued his bloody tour of the city and came across a gang of youths who were lining up to gang bang a girl in a Seventh Avenue parking lot. Bishman joined the line, he was about ninth. Every time someone finished humping, a big cheer went up. The staying power of some of these black guys was incredible but others in the line grew so impatient they jerked themselves off right there and then. That got rid of three of them. It was nearly Bishman's turn. God knows how many guys had gone through the girl
before Bishman, but it certainly wasn't a case of sloppy seconds.

Bishman's turn came. The guy in front dismounted, everyone cheered. Bishman was just getting
ready,
he was about five feet away, keeping well out of the guy's way, when the girl exploded.
Jeeeezus, Fucking Shit.
She didn't explode literally, but she had a volcanic eruption between her legs and a vast column of steaming hot jism shot past Bishman, just missing him. There must have been over a gallon of the stuff, all building up inside of her, and something had to give. It did, with the strangest slurping and gushing noise Bishman had ever heard. Bishman had never witnessed anything like it in his life before and he doubt he'd ever witness anything like it again. He gave her one. He didn't last long and she never said "Thank you."

One of Bishman's 9mm bullets was kept for something special. He'd been waiting for years for the right opportunity to come along. Now it was here. He walked over to Fifth Avenue in the dark, and stood on the top step of St. Patrick's Cathedral. He waited 'till there was sufficient light from passing cars and pumped a single 9mm round into the head of Atlas on the other side of the road. The bullet went straight through the bronze sculpture and smashed the window behind. The window was replaced the next day; the neat 9mm
hole
in Atlas's forehead still remains today. Every time Bishman was in Manhattan he'd check that it was still there.

One of Bishman's victims was a guy driving a Plymouth. Bishman shot him through the
heart when he pulled up to investigate a burning car blocking his way. Bishman thought
‘
the bozo
’
s as dead as a dodo
’
as he put the body in the trunk and drove around Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens before setting fire to the car at the end of two action-packed days.

From what he saw, Bishman calculated there were over a thousand stores with their windows shattered, three times that many cars burnt out and well over a hundred and fifty killed. The more he thinks about it the nearer he puts the figure to five hundred, perhaps even a thousand - there was that much going down.

The smell of cordite hung in the air for days, as did the acrid smell of burning car tires and car upholstery. Police helicopters flew overhead constantly and at least one of them was taken out by automatic fire. Bishman witnessed it crash into the East River. There were SWAT teams and riot police everywhere.

Bishman lapped it up and in those 48 hours took many more risks than he would have done ordinarily,
but when you're on a roll, you're on a roll.

Sometime later, Bishman heard that the police drained the Reservoir, the vast man-made lake in Central Park, three days after the blackout, and
found one hundred and thirty-nine bodies all suffering from either knife or gunshot wounds. The lake has remained dry from that day forth.

One thing Bishman does know for sure is that all the burnt-out cars are still being stored in a huge lot in Newark, New Jersey. He found that out six months later when a truckie asked Bishman
if he wanted to see the
'Sea of Steel'
. Bishman said "Sure," and the truckie took a detour.

A buddy of his had told him about it. It turned out the
'Sea of Steel'
was a
'Sea of Rust'
but sure enough, about three thousand cars all with New York plates, all wrecked, burnt-out and rusty, were being stored. Bishman was pleased to see none of the trunks or hoods were popped. He could only assume the body of the Plymouth owner was still in the trunk.

Nine months after the blackout there was an explosive baby boom in New York, but that's probably another story, right?

Harvey dropped Bishman off in downtown L.A. just by the Greyhound station. He made his next appointment with him and drove off.

Unbeknown to Bishman, Harvey went to Chinatown on a binge and got extremely drunk and violently sick.