Houston, 2030 Read online

  Many believed the Butcher was called so because of the mutilated victims. Mark and few others knew the full story. The serial killer received this name after the forth murder. On the crime scene, officers found a flyer from one of the local butcher shoppes: a cow carcass scheme with names of different cuts. It looked like a valid lead initially. The killer was very proficient with the knife, as one would expect from a butcher, and the flyer uncovered several distinctive fingerprints. They followed the lead enthusiastically, locating the butcher's shop. Everybody had a rock-solid alibi. The fingerprints belonged to the male victim, the butcher's mother-in-law and two boys, one of them was the butcher's son. On the morning of the murder, the boys distributed the flyers to multiple dwellings, a house of the victim amongst those. Likely, the victim himself used this paper to wrap something before his date. Thus, the butcher flyer led them nowhere, but the name stuck. Probably someone in the Police should have kept his or her mouth shut. The newsies learned about the body parts being cut off, someone leaked that the FBI interrogated some butcher, and the media's vivid imagination did the rest. Anyhow, the name turned out sufficiently descriptive, and now even the FBI started using it in official documents…

  Mark glanced at the bystanders once more and mentioned that the crowd grew a bit. Inevitably, the detectives made the evening news again. One young woman in the crowd had a tiny video camera pointed at them. It looked like she was tending to a vegetable patch before running here with her camera: a conical straw hat, long-sleeved male shirt and khaki work pants, rolled up to the knees. The TV stations could not afford to dispatch their news vans anymore, but multiple volunteer correspondents, such as this girl, would readily supply the relevant footage. Add few wise-cracks from the evening news anchor, or an ‘educated opinion’ from a stand-by ‘expert,’ and the evening news show would be ready to roll. At least, Mark thought, there were no real news makers with their invasive long-shot lenses and directional microphones – less chance that any information would be leaked on TV.

  He retrieved his telephone from the grass. The red cross of the GPS fix sat over a toned-down satellite photograph, although on the screen Mark did not see any trail and any clearing, and the woods appeared a bit denser. No surprise here: the space photos dated at least fifteen years and did not match the actual land features anymore. He extracted the phone stylus and attached a note to the fix: ‘#16. ETOD 20:00 to 24:00 04/22/2030. Male: Caucasian, 20-22 yo. Female: Amerasian, 17-20 yo. M.O. consistent (gloves, knife).’

  The perpetrator was careful, methodical and what CSIs called ‘forensic-aware.’ In the chain of the fifteen known murders, there was no significant forensic evidence and no worthy witnesses! The same Army knife was used each time. Of course, if the knife was found on the perp, the CSIs would positively identify it as the murder weapon, but otherwise it was a poor lead. Thanks to the endless wars the USA had been fighting since 2001, there were millions of identical Army knives in circulation. The Butcher always had simple working gloves – textile with tiny rubber dots on the palm side. Such gloves left no fingerprints, and despite the limited supply for the last several years, one would still find a pair in every household. They had no usable footprints. None of the victims were sexually violated, which meant no biological evidence. On several occasions, they located potential witnesses, often young couples, who happened to be in the same woods around the time of the murder. On one occasion, the couple literally walked into a fresh corpse, less than an hour after the kill. But none of the witnesses heard any screams or mentioned anything unusual.

  The FBI best hope was that the Butcher would make a simple, stupid mistake. Why don't you, bustard, cut your finger or drop something from your pocket, Mark fantasized. Or get yourself robbed, so the mobsters can take your own knife and stick it back – between your ribs. Or get yourself into a traffic accident. No cars on the road, but you still can get under a horse or collide with a speeding cyclist. Or move to another state, why freaking not? Let say, Florida! Wonderful state and has plenty of forests. Move to Florida and kill lovers there, not on my territory. Or throw your ass from a sky-scraper. Or catch flu and die…

  “I don't have much for you, Mark. The boys were on the way from school,” Alex reported, returning to the picnic pad, “they study in the Null Middle, about two miles to the west. Live not too far from here – in the Chinamerican slums north of the Garret Road. I got the names and the parents' phone numbers, so we can contact them later, if anything. They say, usually they would swing by these woods, although seldom to this particular clearing. They saw just one body, the girl on the grass, blood and all, and ran to call adults. The blacksmith, that gentleman on the left.”

  “With the leather apron?”

  “Yeah, that's him. He called Kim at the Beat, then got here with the boys. The smith's helper – that fellow next to the blacksmith, a bodybuilder type, with no shirt… He came here next. Together, the good men prevented the crowd from roaming over the scene. Lucky us. The Beat cops got here twelve minutes later. The Beat is not too far – about half-mile to the north.”

  It caused a major controversy ten years ago, but by now the consensus in Houston had been that the Police Localization program was simply the best idea implemented by the Harris County Sheriff's Office. Both the HPD and the Highway Patrol had been disbanded and combined with the Sheriff's Office. After the Meltdown, the highways were almost deserted, and the Highway Patrol hardly had anything to look after. The entire county, including the Houston incorporated areas, was divided into manageable districts, no larger than seventy square miles, and each district got an independent Police station. Then, the Sheriff's Office confiscated few hundred bankrupt businesses here and there – at that time, there were still plenty to choose from, and converted them into the Police beats. The setup was basic, but efficient: a one-room office, some with a mini-jail at the back, and two to four Police officers, strictly local, so they would know everything and everybody in the neighborhoods. Some beats would also have a Justice of Peace office located next door. Each beat covered an area no more than two square miles, so the cops could reach every place on-foot or on bicycle in reasonable time.

  As with any other post-Meltdown arrangements, there were disadvantages in spreading the Police officers so thin, but the benefits far out-weighted. Some other cities were not as prompt in establishing the localized Police force and continued to use the traditional patrol car approach. After several years they ended up with vast areas which would see a policeman once per year or no Police at all. In Los Angeles some gangs declared a good chunk of the southern suburbs a ‘Police-free zone.’ See a cop – kill the cop. Alas, the LAPD did nothing and accepted the new reality.

  Houston was, by far, not the worst city to live in. As in every large city, one got to be street-smart. Leaving a wallet or a cell phone unchecked for few seconds would surely result in a loss, and walking on the wrong street at wrong time would often end up with a robbery, or worse. There were some positive developments too: the drug trafficking had been on decline for the last several years, as well as the sex crimes. At least, average citizens, such as this local blacksmith, respected the Police and readily offered help.

  “Anybody else has seen anything?” Mark asked.

  “Nope. Not really. All the others just saw what we saw. I've collected the names and phone numbers, all the same…”

  As expected: no worthy witnesses.

  “Can we get the local deputies to do a door-to-door tomorrow? In particular, might be useful to locate anybody who was in the woods last night.”

  “Not a problem. I will come here myself to give them a hand,” Alex replied readily.

  Natalie handled Mark two plastic bags with the victims' belongings: no IDs and no mobile phones. The girl's purse included the usual lady staff: a little mirror, a re-manufactured lipstick and a comb with few missing teeth. The man's pockets contained about nine hundred dollars, in small bills: twenties and fifties. In the purse, there was a single five hundred dol
lar bill. Less than fifteen hundred dollars among two of them – not much. The couple was surely not murdered for their money.

  “I got the vics' fingerprints and sent them to the Identifications,” the CSI commented, “for the male vic, we got a positive already. You have a CC. For the female – they are still searching, but – I would not expect an ID any time soon.”

  Mark nodded and pulled out his phone. The e-mail had an attachment: a standard US Army personnel record, in PDF format. He scanned through the terse statements. Hobson, Nicholas S. Born in 2009. Middle school. Started High, but dropped off… No criminal record… Drafted in 2027, the US Army Corps of Engineers. Went to a boot camp in Fort Worth, 2027… Deployments: Colombia, 2027, Mexico, 2028, Venezuela, 2028. Decorations: a Purple Heart, 2029… Honorably discharged in March 2029… Shit! William also got his Purple Heart in Venezuela, also in 2029, Mark observed. The victim and his son served side-by-side!

  He tried to calm down and continued reading. The last known address: 187 Street, New York, NY. No registration in Texas whatsoever. It was not unusual. The people kept migrating from the colder northern states to the South. And being without a leg, the guy would not need to register his address with the Armed Forces' Career Office. The file contained a mobile phone number. Mark dialed it right away, just to hear an automatic message: “this number has been disconnected and no longer in use.” There was an e-mail address too. Mark quickly composed a message: “If you are reading this, please contact urgently…” Mark's e-mail address and the phone number followed. As slim as the probability was, the e-mail account might have more than one owner.

  “I am afraid, no ID on the female,” Natalie said, looking into her phone. This was not unusual too. Twenty years ago, a girl of the victim's age would be getting her driving license, and with the license came the mandatory fingerprinting. Now private cars were no longer in use, and the driving license dropped off the girl's priority list. Few years back, a proposal came to introduce a mandatory ID, fingerprinting, and address registration for all Texas residents, but it failed quietly for the usual reason: the lack of money. Only the Department of Defense supported the mandatory conscripts' registration, and only for combat-fit young men.

  “This e-mail address,” Mark pointed to his phone screen, “can we figure out how to get the data from the provider? The recent mails sent or an address book on the server?”

  “Already thought of this, sir,” Natalie replied, “unfortunately, the server is in Quebec, the former Canada. For those guys up-north, an order from a Texan Justice of Peace and an order from the little green Martians, – have about the same legal power. Even if they reply, they will tell you that the entire account is encrypted, the key has been thrown away, the server has been set on fire, the backup copies are being shipped to Bulgaria, and the damn Yanks Police may go mind their own business, thank you so much! Or should I say: merci beaucoup?”

  “Still, a polite asking will not hurt.”

  “I will try tonight. But I am almost sure it will not work, sir. I'm no good in French.”

  “Another thought,” Alex added, “the male vic is not registered in Texas, but his family members may be. Can you ask the Identifications to run all the registered Hobsons in the area?”

  “Hobson is not an unusual family name, Sarge. How wide do you want the search?”

  “The victims must be not from far away,” Mark pointed out, “I don't think the young man was walking more than a couple of miles on his artificial leg…”

  “Oh, you never know, Mark,” Alex disagreed, “a young man may go into a great deal to impress his date. Take my son Peter, on his prosthesis… On the second thought, you are probably right. The girl has these hand-painted wooden flip-flops. Flowers and hieroglyphs. Jandals, they call them… On these, one can't walk fast, and surely get too tired after walking a mile or so.”

  Natalie chuckled: “You, gentlemen, do not use wooden jandals much, do you? They are more of a fashion accessory, not practical shoes. Personally, if I have to walk a mile or ride a bike, I would kick them off. These even have a special string to carry them in hand… Wait a moment… You do have a point! The girl surely came here by bike! On her jeans, there are three little black spots, see? I didn't get it first, but guess what?”

  “What?”

  “It's an impression of the bike's rear sprocket. She was riding on the bike's cargo platform! OK, this may be just a coincidence…”

  “Well, there is no bike at the scene,” Mark observed, “the Butcher may take it, but it does not fall into his modus operandi… Probably, somebody had visited the clearing before the boys got here this afternoon. If the victims indeed came on a bike, it opens our search to ten miles or so.”

  “OK, I will ask the Identifications to run ten and twenty mile radii. But I would not hold my breath, gentlemen. There will be plenty of totally useless hits.”

  They worked the scene for another hour, carefully searching the grass and the bush around the clearing. Several e-mails from the Identifications confirmed that no female's ID could be recovered, and the current address of the male victim was unknown. No missing person with matching description had been reported. The search by the surname returned over fifty addresses, some with associated phone numbers, most without. Mark rang all the numbers, without much luck. He envisaged several long days ahead: checking all the other addresses.

  “It will go dark in two hours. I'd say, we bag the vics and bring them to the Station morgue,” Mark decided.

  “Yep. No sense to wait,” Alex nodded, “our torch lights are pretty wasted. On a full charge, the batteries will not last even twenty minutes.”

  This was a bit against the standing orders. Every effort was applied not to bring the bodies into the morgue, but to make the relatives to pick them directly from the scene, so the fuel and electricity would be saved. In this case, however, Mark had no choice. They could not wait much longer.

  After wrapping the bodies into reusable tarps (the Station's supplies of single-use body bags were long exhausted), the policemen carried them one after another to the pickup. The evidence was all packed and loaded, and the local deputies had removed the Police tape. Right before the sunset the detectives left the scene. This time, Natalie was driving – she begged Sarge to allow her to get behind the steering wheel. With two hours of her mandatory driving training, she was not going any faster than any bicycle, but managed to deliver them safely to the Station.

  It took them another hour and a half to siphon the remaining truck fuel back to the jerrycan, surrender the car key to the on-duty deputy, and to complete the paperwork for the bodies and the evidence. The rest would wait till the morning. Ten or fifteen years before, the high-profile crime investigations would go on day and night. Not anymore. The electricity and fuel were too expensive to perform any meaningful activities during the dark hours, and the trivia, such as the paperwork and database searches, could be done from home. Alex and Natalie assured Mark that they would be back to the Station at half past six in the morning.

  Mark changed from his office clothes to a T-shirt, shorts and sandals and jumped on his bike. He lived about five miles away from the Station. Considering the total darkness and the inevitable potholes, the trip would take anything from forty minutes to an hour.

  He rode east, towards the Sam Houston Tollway. This was the better part of town: newer houses, with better incomes, away from the main slum areas. At this time, everything was locked up. The streets were deserted. The houses were almost totally dark, save for an LED lantern here and there, and an occasional dim glare of TV and computer screens in the windows.

  Back in 2007, at the time Mary and Mark bought their house, the streets here would be brightly lit all night. The local shopping malls would be open till nine or so; some supermarkets, restaurants, and bars operated all night long. The electricity was a simple thing. People would conveniently flip a switch turning night into day. The Americans just assumed that the abundance would last forever. Even the fi
rst-generation immigrants from the third-world countries, who should have known better, believed in the endless energy myth. Naturally, few of these ‘Peak Oil’ alarmists warned that this abundance would not continue. The damn peakniks insisted a global depletion catastrophe would arrive in a decade or two. Well, nobody listened. The life was so stable and wonderful, who needed the bad news?

  The first major shock came in 2008. The Global Financial Crisis, or GFC, wiped clean few major banks. Quite a few businesses in the neighborhood closed completely, others survived, running reduced personnel and shortened hours. To avoid the excessive electricity costs, the city decided to switch off the street lights after midnight. There were other saving and recycling measures here and there, but the message did not get through. Most people remained reasonably optimistic and treated the GFC as a temporary event.