She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,33

know we’re being recorded, right?”

“Nobody listens to this shit.”

“Still shouldn’t say those kind of things aloud.”

“Just think them to myself?”

“Yeah.”

“So you think about killing him, but you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Now you’re twisting my words. I didn’t say that.”

“It’s not right to leave him in there like that, to spend his life in a box. Nobody should have to live like that, not even him.”

“Since when do you have a conscience?”

“Even worse, what happens if he gets out?”

“They won’t let him get out. He’d never make it out of the building.”

“You don’t think so? With what he can do?”

“There are built-in safeties, protocols, probably a million things in place to keep that from happening.”

“Have you ever been briefed on a single one?”

Silence.

—Charter Observation Team – 309

1

The summer of 1988 was one of the wettest in Pittsburgh history, and August 8 was no exception. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, there were flash flood warnings in effect for most of the city.

Auntie Jo said Mom would understand if she postponed her annual cemetery visit until after the monsoon broke. She also added that she hoped this would be the year my dad’s grave flooded and he floated off and disappeared in one of the three rivers so my mom could finally rest in peace without that “Good for nothing, piece of garbage, alcohol-soaked excuse for a human being” beside her. I noted that Auntie Jo said all this as she finished her third glass of wine and puffed away on the first cigarette of her second pack of the day from the comfort of her recliner at our apartment window.

Neither Dunk nor I heard from Detective Faustino Brier in the past year. There also wasn’t much news about Andy Olin Flack in the paper or on television after that initial story. Turns out, nobody really wanted to hear about a “piddler-diddler.” Most probably thought he got what he deserved.

At exactly 5 p.m., I left the apartment, thankful Auntie Jo insisted I take an umbrella and my jacket, and by 5:30 p.m. (after visiting the graves of my parents), I trudged up the soggy hill, past the glistening mausoleums, and took a seat at the bench, immediately regretting that I didn’t bring a towel or something to dry off the seat. Within seconds, my jeans were soaked, my bum was wet, and I was beginning to have second thoughts.

“Red Leader to Red One, come in, Red One, over.”

Dunk insisted we use some of my money to buy walkie-talkies, and although I didn’t want to at first, I couldn’t see his plan working without them. The Radio Shack on Brownsville Road carried a large selection, and after a detailed comparison of the various models and attributes, we decided on four Wouxun KG-UV899s with dual band 136-174MHz 400-520MHz FM transmitters. They had a range of nearly two miles and were small compared to some of the others, easily concealed.

I reached inside my jacket and pressed the transmit button on the radio stashed in the inner pocket. “Red One in position, over.”

“Roger. Red Two, report?”

There was a crackle of static, then: “Red Two in position. It’s cold as balls out here, over.”

“Noted, over.”

Red Two was Willy Trudeau, who insisted on being called “Tru Dat” when he wasn’t Red Two. He also claimed to be the next big white rapper. An odd claim, considering there had yet to be any good white rappers. His red hair, pale skin, and obscene amount of freckles did little to help the image he attempted to cast with his oversize Adidas tennis shoes and assortment of track suits he insisted on wearing at all times. There was also the career ending fact that he couldn’t rap—he had zero rhythm, and he danced like a muppet having a seizure. His only shot at rapping for a living was if he stood in line behind Dunk while he conned the Devil out of a car, then worked out a side deal of his own. Without such intervention, he was destined to become an accountant in a track suit and flashy tennis shoes.

Dunk gave Willy twenty dollars from my money. In exchange, Willy “Tru Dat” agreed to help today, no questions asked.

“Red One, this is Red Leader. Can you describe the vehicles again?”

We had covered this. I pressed the transmit button. “White SUVs, at least three of them. Maybe more, maybe less. They’ll be identical, probably driving together. Over.”

“This is Red Two. Do we have a make and model? Over.”

Willy