We traveled via the van to the bank and then to a small apartment building on campus. On the third floor we knocked on the door of apartment 313 and were greeted by a pale, skinny, white guy with black Buddy Holly glasses. This was a geek who was proud of it. I was surprised he didn’t have a pocket protector, although his black high-waters and white button down shirt were sufficient emblems of his geekdom. Bob introduced the guy as Steel Jackson, though I suspected his real name was Eugene.
It looked like a Radio Shack had exploded in his apartment. He had no furniture other than a long table and five chairs. The place was wall-to-wall wires, computers, and electronic equipment. The bedroom door was closed, but I suspected he slept on a giant computer motherboard. We left an hour later with a trunk full of electronics. I was also a thousand dollars lighter.
Next stop, a pawn shop in downtown Champaign. For $200 Bob purchased a small safe that was apparently a dollar a pound. I assumed the slot in the top allowed employees to make deposits without giving them access to the contents. We also purchased a large brass padlock.
We returned to my house. Perhaps because of the heart in my refrigerator, Bob insisted we order out. While I divided the General Chicken, Beef with Broccoli and Crab Rangoon, Bob re-wired my house. “I need a room with a door—one you don’t use.”
I pointed to a walk-in closet in the guest bedroom. I could provide an electric drill and wire cutters, but for the other twenty things he needed he had to go to Menards and Radio Shack and I had to go to an ATM.
I have known Bob for over ten years and always assumed he was lazy. Yet to see him in his element was impressive. He worked without tiring—all concentration and hard work. Since I was not needed, I sat at the kitchen table drinking a Mountain Dew.
For me caffeine is no substitute for sleep. In a few moments my eyelids had grown heavy, so I rested my head on the table. When I looked up I was in a boat on a small river. From the landscape and the familiar foliage I assumed I was in the Midwest. Oak, maple and red bud trees drifted past my boat. An occasional cypress tree would go by, its roots emerging from the water like the tiny knees of wood sprites.
When I looked up again the oak and maple trees were interspersed with less familiar trees. I could recognize mangrove trees, with their strange roots hanging from branches. I also saw mango and banana plants ripe with fruit. I felt a bump; my boat had landed on an island in the middle of the river. The island was small and covered with white sand, and a single mapou tree grew in the middle. Its trunk looked as if it was made up of twenty tree trunks all pushed together to form one enormous tree. The branches were covered in thick green leaves and filled with large black fruit that dripped red juice. The flies were feeding upon the nectar. As I looked more closely I realized that I was not looking at fruit at all but at hundreds of severed heads. Thomas’s eyes opened.
“Wake up, buddy, I’m done.”
“What time is it?”
Bob looked at his watch, “Five a.m. Get up let me show you this.”
Bob had placed three tiny cameras in the house and one on the front porch. Each camera would go unnoticed unless you were looking for them and knew where to look. The indoor cameras were placed in the kitchen, bedroom and the living room. They were all attached to four six-inch monitors in my guest room closet.
“This is the best part,” he said.
He showed me eight wires that threaded through the slot in the safe, leading to four tape players.
“These record what the cameras see on a forty-eight hour loop. Anything that happens—like strange produce appearing in your fridge—you play it back and see who left it there.”
“How often do I need to change the tapes?”
“Never; they just record over the same tape every two days, and no one can mess with the tapes since they’re in the safe. Your combination is six-six-six, by the way.”
“Of course it is.”
“Actually I would get a new tape every couple months because the tapes can get old and break.”
“Does it works on ghosts?” I inquired.
“Ghosts, no, but Juju priests and zombies? You betcha.”
“What the fuck is a Juju priest? A holy man who hands out Jujyfruits, Jujubes and JuJu gum to all the parishioners?”
“A Juju priest is a Voodoo priest. Think of a witch doctor with style.”
“Are you holding back on me? What else do you know about all this crap?” I said.
“You don’t watch a lifetime of horror movies without picking up a thing or two along the way.”
“What can I do if I’m cursed? Not that I believe in this crap—”
“Shit, you don’t believe in anything. If not for Descartes, I’m not sure you would believe in your existence.”
“Descartes ... he didn’t really exist, did he?”
“Hey, why don’t you go to a Juju priest?” Bob suggested in a weak attempt at humor.
“Great idea. I will look one up in the phone book under ‘I am completely nuts.’ ”
“Chicago has a large Haitian community,” Bob said. “You could start there.”
Chicago was about a two and a half hour drive north of Urbana, with a population of around three million. I was sure it had a large community of every race, religion and culture.
“I will do that. I just want to get a quick lobotomy first,” I added sarcastically.
“Lobotomy? I can help with that.” Bob held up a thin screw driver.
I heard a loud thwack against the door and involuntarily jumped. Bob got up, as if he owned the place, and grabbed the newspaper. I expected the main headline to read, “Man killed in ritual murder” with the subhead, “It is believed to be his stupid lawyer’s fault.” What I found was even stranger: the killing was not mentioned in the paper at all. The lead story was about a German company named Schlangenol Pharmaceuticals that had donated 100 million dollars to the University of Illinois for a new building. Apparently the head of the Chemistry Department, a guy named Rudolf Friedrichs, had been a consultant for the company since the sixties. He was given credit for the large donation. Although I’d heard of the company, I didn’t know much about it. It had been around since the 1930’s and manufactured some of the drugs we all know and love. This was big news for the university, but it was no ritual murder and decapitation.
I had to decide what to do next. I was pretty much at a dead end. “Well, Bob, I guess the next step is to wait here to be arrested.” I was sure I sounded as defeated as I felt.
“What about the tape?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone paid a lot of money to add just enough shadow to hide a tiny part of a drug transaction from a nobody to a nobody.”
“That’s odd, but Thomas is dead. How can it help?”
“Maybe it has something to do with the murder.”
“Even if it does, the police want to put me in jail, and Thomas is dead. Who is left to ask?”
“Too bad you don’t know the guy who bought the drugs.”
“Well, maybe I do. Thomas said his street name is Biscuit. I bet we could still find him around the park if he’s not dead or in jail.”
We stopped by Bob’s house and were able to print out a still picture of Biscuit from the video disc showing the sale. We managed to make it to West Side Park before noon. After talking to three drug addicts and two alcoholics—all of whom we paid five dollars to and none of whom had ever seen or heard of Biscuit—we left the park.
“What are you going to do next?” Bob asked.
“I will wait until Monday; then I’ll try the Public Defender’s Office. If Biscuit is in jail, they will know.”
“And if he’s not in jail?”
“Then I will check the morgue.”