The Golem Part 7

"But the earthquake took care of that, I take it."

"Yes. And as for the sawmill, there's only remnants of the foundation there now. I doubt that the people of Lowensport will ever sell the land, or build on it, even though it's some impressive waterfront property."

"Why not?"

"It's important from a historical standpoint."

"Oh, right. The mill that made Gavriel Lowen's fortune."

"Exactly, and an example of good old ingenuity. And not to sound too morbid, but it's also the final resting place, so to speak, of Lowen himself."

Seth didn't get it. "You mean he was buried at the mill?"

Croter put his papers away and closed his briefcase. "Well, in a sense. He was murdered there."

"You're kidding."

"I'm afraid not. Lowen's success as a businessman generated quite a lot of sour grapes among the true locals of the area. They were a motley bunch known as the Conner clan. Even though Lowen owned the land free and clear, the Conners regarded it as their own-they were Americans, Lowen and his people weren't."

"Czech immigrants, you said."

"Yes, not to mention they were Jews. Back then Jews were persecuted in this country just like they were in most countries, and as was common in those times, there were ongoing feuds, which got quite ugly." Croter flinched from some sudden unease. "Anyway, in late July 1880, Lowen was abducted by Conner's men."

Croter seemed finished with the story, as though he cared not to go on, but Seth was already piqued.

"And?" Seth goaded.

"He was tied up in the mill, beaten, and then Conner's men dynamited the place with him in it; at the same time, the rest of Conner's clan went on a house-to-house murder spree. Every man, woman, and child was shot dead. The women were raped first, and there was talk of some of the older children being raped as well. Only babies and very young children were spared. But by the end of the night, Gavriel Lowen and the entire adult population of Lowensport were dead. All because they were Jews."

"Sort of like a night of the long knives," Seth said, irked. "But what did you mean when you said that Lowen was buried at the mill *in a sense'?"

Croter hesitated. "It's pretty grim, Mr. Kohn, but since you asked...there really wasn't much left of Gavriel Lowen to bury. He was tied to a box of dynamite, and then the box was set off by a fuse."

"Oops," Seth remarked for lack of anything else. "That'll do it."

"According to the lore only his head was found. It was buried on the site."

"I hope at least Conner and his people were eventually brought to justice."

Croter seemed either weary or unnerved by the story now. "Not by the law, if that's what you mean. The marshal and his deputies back then were quite anti-Semitic themselves."

"So what happened?"

Croter grabbed his case and headed for the door. Only now did Seth notice the Star of David around the Realtor's neck.

"Over the course of the next week," Croter finished, "every single member of the Conner clan-over a hundred of them-were slaughtered most viciously. Not merely shot, mind you-they were mangled, decapitated, or torn limb from limb."

Seth squinted at the other man. "But...how on earth...If every adult in Lowensport had been murdered, who wiped out Conner's clan afterward?"

"No one knows," Croter said, then quickly turned and left.

III.

"Somner's Cove Unit Two, do you copy?"

Rosh frowned at the darkened dashboard. He grabbed the girl by the hair and lifted her face out of his lap.

"Hey, don't you want me to-"

Rosh sputtered, keying the mike. "This is Somner's Cove Unit Two, go ahead."

"Meet officers at 12404 Pine Drive for multiple Signal sixty-four."

You've got to be s.h.i.+tting me! Rosh yelled in thought. "Roger, I'm ten-eight to Pine Drive now," he said and then hung up the mike.

The gla.s.sy-eye girl peered at him. "What's a multiple Signal sixty-four?"

The cop hastened to buckle his pants, redon his drill sergeanta style police hat, and start the car. "It's a multiple murder." He leaned across her and popped open the door. "Now get out. I've got to go."

Her lip trembled in defiance. "Gimme my rock first." "You didn't finish, honey. So get out."

"Bulls.h.i.+t! It ain't my fault you got called! Gimme my rock!"

Rosh would've liked to crack her right across the face with his nightstick, but that wasn't his style. It was easier just to give it to her. "Okay." He flicked the tiny baggie out the door like someone tossing a cigarette b.u.t.t. "Now get out."

The girl slipped out and slammed the door.

Rosh flipped on the cruiser's lights and hit the red and blues, then burned rubber out of the alley. The darkness of the ill-lit roads seemed to swallow him. He sped down Main Street and then Cove, past the monolithic subsidized housing projects where so many of his customers dwelled. Keep cracking up, sc.u.mbags, he thought. You keep buying, we'll keep supplying. As the middleman in this covert operation, Rosh felt perfectly safe. He made the transfers and delivered the crack to the bagmen, while they took all the risk. It was good money. By the time I'm eligible for Social Security there won't be Social Security, he reasoned. If he didn't do it, somebody else would. Business is business. It's not my fault people are stupid enough to experiment with drugs. They should know better.

The shabby house looked like a light show when he parked the cruiser. Three other cars were there, along with ambulances. Cops and EMTs swarmed the perimeter. Rosh disembarked to immediately stop one cop, Eliot, who seemed to be staggering out the front door.

"What the f.u.c.k's wrong with you?" Rosh demanded. "You sick?"

The younger officer looked back woozily, his face sheet-white. "Oh...Captain Rosh. Jeez..."

Rosh smirked. Appearances were important. "Straighten up, private. You're a cop. Christ, you look like you're about to throw up."

"I...already did, sir. In-in the house."

Rosh brushed past, caught Stein at the door. "What gives, man? This looks more like a hostage situation than ahomicide."

Even Stein looked a bit shaken. He lowered his voice. "It's the gig we gave to D-Man and Nutjob."

"The dispatcher said multiple homicide. All I paid 'em to do was Cookie."

"Yeah? Well, you got a little extra bang for your buck." Stein showed him into the house, which was packed with cops and evidence techs. Flash units on cameras snapped repeatedly, the sudden bursts of light causing Rosh to flinch.

"In here."

It was the living room, if one could call it that: stained walls with holes the size of fists, dilapidated furniture and a collapsed couch, plus lots of plastic milk crates that the crackheads sat on when they came here to light up. The place smelled like urine and sweat-like any crackhouse-but there was something else more pungent in the air that Rosh knew had to be fresh blood. Garbage was piled in the corner, while several crack pipes lay on the ancient carpet, along with familiar one-by-one-inch plastic mini-baggies.

"Where the f.u.c.k is Cookie?" Rosh whispered.

"In the bedroom. With the rest. That's where they all ran to."

Down a shabby hall with mold-stained carpet, then Rosh turned into a room where more photo flashes popped...

Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake! The sight made him feel kicked in the face.

"The tech says six bodies total," Stein advised.

"How the h.e.l.l can he tell?" Rosh shot back.

It wasn't bodies as much as body parts that lay strewn about the reeking room. Arms and legs that appeared yanked from their sockets could be seen anywhere Rosh looked. Here the original color of the carpet was almost completely masked by still-wet blood.

Rosh counted six torsos, though he couldn't be sure because two of them looked pulled apart. Another's belly gaped raggedly, showing glistening loops, and another showed a rib cage that looked dragged open. Rosh stared at the unbeating heart.

Yet even amid all this gore, he got past the initial shock quite quickly. Business, indeed, was business. This roomful of dead losers don't mean s.h.i.+t to me. I paid those two rednecks to do a job and they d.a.m.n well better have done it. Rosh scrutinized each severed head.

Stein nudged him. "On the dresser."

Rosh hadn't caught it. Atop an old dresser with opened drawers full of trash sat the head he was looking for. The head lay on its side, rheumy eyes still open, lips curiously pursed as if in contemplation. It was beyond doubt the head of Tracy "Cookie" Roberts.

Good job. Rosh wanted to clap out loud that this informant-to-be was no longer a threat to them...but that might be inappropriate. But I wonder... "Hey, Cristo?" he asked the county evidence tech who was placing a severed arm into a large bag. He wore plastic booties and a hairnet. "The head on the dresser. Any idea which torso is hers?"

Cristo appeared unfazed by any of the horror that lay about him. "Oh, the redhead." He pointed to a torso in the middle of the room. "Probably that one there's my guess, but I can't be sure right now, not in this mess of a jigsaw puzzle."

Rosh got it at once. Cookie was a redhead and the torso had red pubic hair. Wow, he thought. That's some primo work.

"What's, uh, what's the thing hanging out of her, uh, you know-"

Cristo smirked. "Her v.a.g.i.n.a, Captain?"

"Yeah."

"It's her uterus and complete ovarian process."

Rosh raised his brows. "How could, uh, how could-"

"How could her uterus and ovarian process wind up outside her v.a.g.i.n.a, Captain?"

"Well, yeah."

Cristo got back to his arm. "I got no idea. A hook, maybe."

"A hook?"

"Yeah. When I worked in Seattle we had a chick who got iced by her boyfriend on one of the waterfront piers. He stuck a gaff pole up her and pulled stuff out."

"My, what an...awful world." Rosh was about to leave until he saw something else, and his heart leapt in more exuberance that he was forced to conceal. On a bed mattress that now looked tie-dyed with blood and various other bodily stains lay another head, that of an African-American male in his midtwenties. He had a silly earring of a tiny gold dolphin and, unbelievably, on his head was a New York Yankees ball cap.

"I'd recognize that head anywhere," Rosh announced. "That's Caddy *Kapp' Robinson!"

"You're s.h.i.+tting me," Stein said, squinting.

"His and his brother's faces are on the station wall. d.a.m.n, Sergeant Stein, don't you ever look at our local wanted posts? Caddy always wears a Yankees hat, and his brother Jary always wears Red Sox."

"You know..." Stein squinted harder. "I think you're right."

"I know I am. One half of the Cracksonville Boyz, man. Big big crack dealers." He pulled Stein out of the house and back outside to the car.

"Don't look quite so happy," Stein whispered when they could no longer be heard.

"Hey, I'm a constable of the law and I'm merely overjoyed that a despicable drug dealer will no longer be able to corrupt our youth with the far-reaching evil of narcotics."

Stein smirked. "You're overjoyed because the Crack-sonville Boyz are our only compet.i.tion."

"Well..." Rosh cut a grin. "No s.h.i.+t! Talk about a bonus! We paid the Two Stooges to whack Cookie and they also wind up whacking one of the sc.u.mbags who's cutting hard into our profits. G.o.d bless those guys!"

"Yeah, but-Jesus." Stein let out a breath. "They didn't have to do quite so good a job, did they? I've never seen so many chopped-up people at one time in my life."

Rosh chuckled and popped a Certs in his mouth. "Oh, I'm singin' the blues, Stein. I'm weeping. Christ, a couple of junkies get b.u.t.toned and you're acting like it's a human tragedy. f.u.c.k. I love it. I love seeing dead crackheads, man. A day like today, Stein-" He slapped Stein on the back and laughed. "It's a Good To Be Alive day."

"You really are f.u.c.ked up."

Rosh snapped a hard stare on his subordinate.

"I'm sorry," Stein apologized. "You really are f.u.c.ked up, Captain."

"Better!" Rosh grinned. "I was beginning to think you were losing your manners!" He looked at his watch. "Hey, McDonald's is still open, isn't it? I could go for a double fish. You ever had a double fish?"

Stein's face seemed to lengthen in astonishment. "We just walk out of a slaughter house and you're hungry?"

"That's a big ten-four, good buddy!"

"Hey, Captain?" came an interrupting voice. They turned to see Cristo approaching, snapping off his evidence gloves.

"There he is, the Gore House Trooper," Rosh chuckled. "Bet'cha wish you wore hip-waders to night, huh?"

Cristo sighed. "You're a real odd guy, you know that, Captain?"

Rosh mocked offense. "I'm not odd, Cristo. I think of myself as unrepresentative, which means extraordinary."

"Fine, but-" Cristo seemed irked by something.

"What is it? You find a gaff pole in there?" Rosh laughed.

Cristo cleared his throat. "Remember that sixty-four we had last spring, the crackwh.o.r.e that someone stashed behind the Chinese restaurant?"