Death List (9 page)

Sam dropped on his knees beside the three-yearold, praying that there still might be life in the small body. His brain screamed over and over again, Who could be responsible for such a monstrous act? This wasn't the work of a sane mind. Whoever had committed these insane acts had more than just enjoyed them. He must have received a certain macabre fascination from such grotesque butchery. To be able to kill an adult was one thing; to kill children was another. But to be able to butcher a baby was yet another kind of murdering beast, one who needed to be destroyed at once.

For the moment though, Sam was too stricken even to think of revenge. He wanted to make whoever did this pay, but his mind was too shocked. Could this be some kind of payback for the killing Kingfisher had ordered? It was hard for him to reason that out. He thought he was dealing with men, and even though he knew they were violent men, it had never occurred to him that they were insane, and that was the only explanation he could come up with for whoever had done this gruesome work.

Then suddenly he heard it. It was low at first, but as he listened it grew. The low laughter began almost below the range of his hearing, then it picked up until he could pinpoint the source. He turned toward the sound. He hadn't tried to visualize what the person might have looked like, but now as he turned and saw the bloody human apparition standing behind the fulllength window curtains, he knew at once that this debased human was responsible for the destruction of everything he loved in this life. As he stared at the human riffraff, an almost imperceptible hatred increased inside his brain until it was a full-blown desire to destroy this thing.

The sound that came from the man's mouth didn't even seem human; he was enjoying every moment of this. He loved the sight of the grief that had overcome the big heavyset man. It seemed to bring him joy to watch the expressions that flashed across Sam's face.

Sam wanted to kill and destroy, and yet he also wanted to know. "Why, man? Why the kids?" he asked as he moved slowly across the room, unaware that he had even taken a step. The same question kept coming from him as he stalked the grinning Creeper, who watched him approach with a twisted smile on his face.

The enveloping blackness that invaded Sam's mind stopped him from thinking, or even reasoning. All he could do was move as if he were some kind of automaton-a machine with but one thought. There could be no other reason for him to continue to exist. To destroy, that was the only thought in his mind now. He had to destroy this creature that had so destroyed his life. Whatever else he had to do in life was gone from his thoughts. There wasn't anything left for him to do. His hands turned into huge claws. He didn't make a fist, but held his hands out and continued to move slowly toward the man across the living room. He didn't even notice the thirty-eight automatic with the long silencer that the man now held out in front of him.

The blood on the man's clothes only helped to drive Sam mad. The nearer he got, the more he could smell the stench of death that was on the man. The blood represented his family, his loved ones. The word still came from him as he neared his goal. "Why, why, why?"

The Creeper took his time and concentrated on the huge man's chest. The first shot didn't even seem to hit Sam as he continued his slow stalking of the murderer. There was no squeamishness about the Creeper though. He only grinned and pulled the trigger again. The silencer took care of all the noise. The second bullet that struck Sam sort of slowed him down, but he continued on after hesitating for a second. The third shot went unheeded, and so did the fourth. Now sweat broke out on the Creeper's forehead as he raised the gun a little higher and pulled the trigger. This shot blew the left eye out of Sam's face. He didn't resemble anything human anymore. But a strength derived from his hatred of what stood in front of him kept him on his feet.

The Creeper started to back up but had nowhere to go. The picture window had him blocked in. The only way out was past the stalking Sam, who continued to move, if ever so slowly, toward the killer. With one shot left in his gun, the Creeper took dead aim. Nothing under the sun could stand up to six wellplaced shots. Nothing human, anyway.

Now Sam was less than two feet away. He raised his arms to put his hands around the frail neck that was in front of him. He had forgotten why he even wanted to kill this thing in front of him. He was past that form of thinking. He was moving only through of some inner strength that knew what stood in front of him must be destroyed. He stretched his arms out, but the Creeper wasn't a weak man either. Being evil, he thrived on evil. He was also a brave man, and he was a killer. He was a man who didn't need the strength of other men to give him courage. He feared nothing mortal.

Even as Sam approached, even though his heart skipped a beat, he kept the sneer on his face and kept complete confidence in his gun. He waited until the outstretched fingers almost touched his face before using his last bullet. This time he aimed right at the center of the forehead. Nothing human could survive a shot at such close range. The bullet tore half of Sam's head off. The man crumpled up as if he was a rag doll at the feet of the Creeper.

THE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT was caught completely by surprise. The city seemed to burst wide open in a blood bath. They had been used to murder in the surrounding black ghettos, but now, in the last two weeks, three white gangsters, known to have been big men in the organization, had been found dead. The similarity of some of the murders to those that they had found out in Conant Gardens was too close to ignore. Nobody but an insane person killed with a straight razor, and two of the white gangsters had been found with their throats cut. One of them had been found with his wife dead beside him, and she had been killed the same way. There had to be a tie-in some where. At least that was what Captain Davidson believed, and this he passed on to his men at a meeting inside his office.

The afternoon sun blazed through his open window. Benson and Ryan loosened their collars, but Detectives Steward and Nelson didn't notice the heat. Their problem was the tough old captain who didn't want to hear any excuses. There had been too many deaths lately. Something would have to be done or somebody would be replaced, and it could be the captain from the way things were going. The captain paced up and down his office, wearing a groove in the dirty, three-colored rug on the floor. It had been there so long that there was a pale outline of where the captain and his predecessor had paced back and forth. Detectives Benson and Ryan watched him calmly. Suddenly he stopped and sat on the edge of his beaten-up desk.

"I don't care for no excuses," he began. "I've had enough of them to last a lifetime. This shit has got to come to an end. This kind of murdering just won't be tolerated by the newspapers, and when the newspapers start playing up something like this, heads begin to roll." He held his hand up for silence. "Now, I don't want to replace any of you guys, 'cause I know you're doing your best, but I'll have to replace somebody just to prove I'm trying. Now, do you see where I'm at?"

He stared around at the four men, his eyes steel gray points peering out over the large horn-rimmed glasses he wore. "I like my job. I mean to keep it. So if something don't come up soon, some of you guys had better dust off those old blue uniforms you used to wear when you were in the ranks."

Suddenly Captain Davidson snapped his fingers in the direction of Detective Steward. The young, blond detective glanced down at the worn rug. "And you," the captain began again, "I asked you two weeks ago to get in touch with Ryan and Benson here about that first murder, but oh, no, not you. You're too fuckin' smart. What did you tell me? Wasn't no spade behind that hit. It had to be organization crap. It was too big for a spade. Wasn't that your opinion?"

The younger man looked away, not wanting Benson to see his eyes and not wanting the captain to see through him. He still couldn't believe that blacks were behind it, unless it was a big, important black gangster, and there really wasn't but one that big in the city.

Steward glanced over at his partner, Nelson, then spoke what was on his mind. "Captain, it's not but one black man in this city big enough to even think about making a hit on these guys, and that's the one they call the Kingfisher."

The roar the captain let out could be heard throughout the building. "Kingfisher, my ass! He's in the same fuckin' pot that all the big shits uptown are in. Those were his men that got knocked off first. Those happened to be his pushers that got knocked off last week. But I forgot. You're too big of a guy to keep up with the little people that get killed in the ghettos. And since you didn't, let me clue you in. That pusher killed last week was one of the Kingfisher's men."

Steward shrugged, then speculated quietly, "Maybe they got a gang war going on? I mean, who else would even have the names of these big wheels? I just can't picture some small hood down in the ghetto coming up with the information he'd need to reach these guys."

For a minute, as Benson watched, he thought the captain was about to have a heart attack. The man turned red in the face, then he seemed to have trouble breathing. He leaned over the desk, trying to catch his breath, and when he straightened up, sparks flew from his eyes.

"Boy," the captain roared, "I don't give a fuck what you can't picture, do you understand that? I want you and your partner to get off your fuckin' asses and do what I say. When I say get in touch with Ryan and Benson and compare notes, I mean just that."

Nobody bothered to speak. They all just stared at the captain. All of them had seen him in his moods before, but nothing like this. He was really upset, which just went to show them how important it must be for them to solve the spree of crimes.

The last thing Benson wanted was to have to work alongside the two young officers whom he disliked, but it looked as if he wouldn't have any choice in the matter. Things had gone too far; there had to be an end to them.

At the same time that they were having their discussion at police headquarters, another meeting was going on at the penthouse that belonged to Kingfisher.

Kingfisher paced his front room just as the captain paced his tiny office, only the Kingfisher was scared-not frightened from fear of losing a job but frightened for his life. It was getting too close for comfort. He didn't need anybody to spell it out for him. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was on the death list. He glared at his henchmen as he paced past them.

"I'm telling you guys for the last time," he swore angrily, "that I don't want nobody..., and I mean just that, nobody..., who hasn't been here before to get into this apartment. If somebody tries, I want that man or woman held, searched, and make damn sure they don't have no kind of weapon on them. But when I say don't let nobody back here to these apartments, I mean just that. I don't even want a goddamn fly coming in. You guys want me to write that out for you, or do you understand?"

Kingfisher stared from one face to another, then spoke to a lean man standing near the black grand piano. "Big-Time, what's been happenin' on that matter I sent you to? Did you get in touch with the fuckin' creeps?" Before Big-Time could answer any of the questions, Kingfisher began again. "These punks are the reason behind every fuckin' thing going on. I know it, I feel it here." He placed his hand over his heart. "We didn't have no trouble until this punk Kenyatta comes along talkin' about you can't sell no more drugs in the ghetto. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

Finally Big-Time spoke up. "I been going by this joint they got over on the north end, you know, but the place is damn near deserted. I finally caught a dame there and gave her the message, you know, and she says to check back with her the next day. So when I go there, here the bitch is already waiting for me."

He slowed down, to make sure the Kingfisher was listening, then continued. "Well, the dame asked me right off, as soon as I entered the joint, if you done quit pushing dope inside the city. I hesitated for a minute on that one, King, 'cause I didn't know what to say. But before I could even lie, the broad speaks up again. She says they know fuckin' damn well you ain't, but she says to tell you that Kenyatta says he's taking care of your white friends right now and he'll see to it personally that somebody checks you out 'cause you're the one who's really putting that shit in the ghetto."

Before he finished talking, Big-Time had removed a hankie from his center pocket and wiped his brow. He didn't like the message any better than his boss, and it was obvious that the Kingfisher didn't like it at all.

It was as if somebody had hit the Kingfisher in the stomach with a fist. The man stood in the middle of the floor blowing like a fish out of water. "She said that? The part about knockin' off my white friends?"

As the Kingfisher waited for Big-Time to answer, he stared at the man's face, reading whether or not Big-Time was lying. Then he did something that took all his men by surprise: he turned around and count ed them. When he finished, he said, "Let's go. I want to talk to this bitch myself." .