Copyright 1992(c) Editor's Note: This is another in the highly-acclaimed series, Topic Cop, by the famous, (or infamous, depending on whether or not you've actually visited him), Kent Ballard. TOPIC COP 2 The Hunt for the Modem Killer The girl climbed onstage like a tired slug. She was about as happy to be there as I was. The music started, some noise from a buncha punks, and I glanced at my watch. My informer was late. She pulled off her top, a cheap red thing, and tossed it into the seat next to mine. No accident: the bimbo had a lot of practice at that. Just before the music became deafening, she pouted her lips and said, "You buy me drink after, okay?" I swatted her flimsy halter onto the floor and checked my watch again. The bouncer narrowed his eyes but kept his place by the door. He was smart, and didn't want to mess with me. Godzilla outweighed me by about 100 pounds, but he'd seen the Colt when I came in. And my badge. I'm a cop. A Topic cop. We get all types. One screw-up. That's all it took to get me on this rotten out-of-state detail. Hell, how was I to know that the wannabe that I shot was the Sysop's nephew? A shadow appeared over my table. My hand flashed into the jacket and slipped around the walnut grips of my only trustworthy friend in the place. But it was a false alarm, just like most of the crap that went on in California. The waitress recoiled for a second, then asked me, "Like another one, baby? You look thirsty." Then she added, "I get off at three in the morning..." I kept my hand over my Miller High Life. "You're lucky," I smiled at her, "most girls with your looks don't get off at all." She was cool, this one. "Okay. You're a smart guy. But a couple of people by the door told me to give you this." She handed me a note. She was cooler than I thought. I slipped her a sawbuck. "Bring us a round," I hissed, "and keep the rest. You saw right through me. You knew I had eyes for you the minute I walked in, didn't you sugar?" She grinned and strutted away. Not bad...not bad at all. Okay, so maybe I was hasty. But, business before broads. I unfolded the note. Hmm, no wonder my informer was late. Two hours ago a night watchman found him in a back alley. His throat was slit from ear to ear and he had a Chinese communist peasant's cap jammed over his head. There was only one guy on the coast who killed like that. And I was here to nail him. I threw my cigarette butt into the empty Miller can and stood up slowly. Acting nonchalant, I strolled towards the door. My local contacts sat together in a dark booth and it took me a minute to recognize them. I usually work alone, but these two didn't bother me. I'd heard they were good. I slid into the booth next to Detective Lieutenant Lyn Rust. I'd met her before when we worked the Suzuki case. She still had those heartbreaker eyes, but looked like she mighta gained a few pounds. No, a second look told me that the extra weight was a Kevlar vest under her blazer. I hoped the lady wouldn't need it tonight. Rust said, "Ballard, this is Sergeant Bill Weitz. He's from the San Jose office." I shook his hand. Weitz had a nice grip and steady gaze, like a guy who wouldn't let you down in a pinch. After we exchanged brief greetings, Lt. Rust opened a folder on the table. "The killer's been smart so far. We don't have much on him yet. He only hunts men who post conservative messages on BBS systems. The killings all have the same M.O., and all forensics can tell us is that he attacks from the rear and that he is a powerfully-built man. His psychological profile indicates that he's intelligent, highly motivated, and that he won't stop until we bring him in. The only witness was a wino who saw the third killing, but what we got from him doesn't make sense." I lit another Marlboro. "What'd the juicer say?" "He claimed the victim was killed by Ronald Reagan". My eyebrows raised. Just when you think you've heard it all... Wietz's brow furrowed and he tapped his pen on the table. I could see he was on to something. I took a drag from my smoke and asked, "What is it, Bill?" "I think it fits. The killer hates conservatives, right?" I flipped an ash. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. He's slit fourteen of their throats lately." "Well, it's impossible for him to see conservatives as anything other than evil. And who is the most conservative guy you could think of?" "I don't follow you." "He's using a Reagen mask for a disguise. It fits the profile." "Of course!" Rust answered. "The killer is trying to make it look like the conservatives are being murdered by one of their own. And the hats he puts on each of their heads is an indication of his own beliefs. The guy is making a political statement!" Oh brother. God spare me from Californians with "psychological profiles" and weird "political statements". A killer's a killer, right? I couldn't wait to get out of yogurt and tofu land and back to the real world. The way I looked at it, everyone in California oughta be locked up. But I kept my trap shut--for once. Lt. Rust jotted in her notepad. "Good idea, Bill. I'll call this in to Steve King down at headquarters. Captain King ought to be back from the latest murder scene by now and-- BALLARD! LOOK OUT!" I ducked instinctively. Something hit the wall behind my head with a loud WHACK! It was a butcher knife, sticking in the wall right at throat level. If Lyn hadn't yelled... The crowd screamed. Standing at the doorway of the stripper's dressing room was a big guy wearing a Ronald Reagan mask. He turned and ran into the room. The door stayed open and I could see him trying to jimmy the window. If I was quick--real quick--maybe I could get a shot off. I jumped up with the Colt already out. "EVERYBODY DROP!" I crouched in a two-handed combat stance and let fly with a round. The .45 boomed like a stick of dynamite. At the last split-second, the waitress from whom I'd ordered our drinks from came around the corner and stepped directly into the line of fire. The slug hit her in the arm and spun her completely around twice before she hit the floor. Nuts. Don't these stupid civilians know what "drop" means? Rust was on her feet beside me. "Weitz, you take the front and go around. Ballard, put that cannon away. We want this one alive. Follow me!" Good cop or not, I didn't think much of having a dame as a partner in a hot pursuit. But before I could say anything Lyn dashed towards the room. The killer jerked the window open and leaped outside. Lyn shouted at the bartender to call an ambulance, and as I jumped over the waitress lying in a spreading pool of blood I said, "Sorry, toots." She just stared at me dumbly, already deep in shock. It looked like they might be able to save her arm. I felt bad for her, but hey--I yelled a warning, didn't I? Next time I bet she'd listen. Lyn went through the window and dropped to the left. I came down on the right. The killer stopped about fifty feet away in the alley. He was giggling insanely and fumbling with a grocery bag. Weitz appeared at the other end of the alley and shouted, "Drop the bag and put your hands up! You're under arrest!" To hell with these Californians and their psychological profile crap. I'd show `em how we do things back in Indy. The Colt came up again. "Last chance, punk!" He shoved his hand into the bag. The Colt thundered twice, illuminating the alley with muzzle flashes. The perp cartwheeled backwards in midair, flipping the bag high over his head. He landed face-up, his shirt shredded open and the messy remnants of his chest exposed. A shower of Chinese communist caps fell around him as the bag came down. *** It was raining softly by the time the crime lab boys finished their work. Lt. Rust rode with the waitress I shot to the hospital, and Sgt. Weitz was sitting in the back of a patrol car doin' paperwork. Detective Captain Steve King watched as the killer's body bag was loaded into the meat wagon. After taking our statements, he cleared me when he heard that the killer had reached into the grocery sack. He acted like he was doin' me a favor. There had been no gun in the bag, just those dopey hats. Then he chewed me out in front of everyone and said that if I was on his force he woulda busted me all the way down to patrolman. He stuffed a plane ticket in my jacket pocket and said, "It leaves in two hours. Be on it." "Thanks ever so much." I lit a cigarette and nodded towards the body. "Did he have any ID on him?" King glared at me for a moment, then said, "No. We don't know who he is. Records will come up with something in the morning. All we found was a handkerchief in his pocket. It was embroidered with the initials "P.Z.". We'll know more in a few hours. Now get out of my face." I went into the bar, called a taxi, and ordered a double scotch. Weitz came in and sat down next to me. He looked at me sadly. "I almost shot him myself. You did okay. I hate to tell you this, but while I was in the car I heard something over the radio. You've been given another assignment." I almost dropped the scotch. "But my boss said that I'd get some offtime if I...aww, *damn*! Now what?" "There's a guy in Missouri who's been doing nasty things to women. Nine so far, and all of them bbs users. Sounds like another psycho. He's got a unique calling card. At every scene he leaves a computer printout." "What's on the printouts?" I motioned for another scotch. "That's the funny thing. Nobody knows what they mean. The printouts all read, "Plutonomie$ for the Masses..." It was gonna be a long summer. END