Tunnel of Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

what’sdrawing me to this particular volume, but I’ve learned not to second-guess my instincts. No word from Janet?”
    I glanced at the empty fax machine, shook my head, and returned to my work at the computer.
    “Hmphh. She didn’t say anything about going out of town.”
    Pop curled up with his book, and I continued to bang away at the keyboard. I had installed his disks and had the software operating. Now I wanted to pump my father for characteristics related to the shooter so that I could feed them into a set of search criteria. He was more interested in Margaret Wagner’s description of the exploits of Peter Kurten, a German serial killer from the 1920s and ’30s.
    “I’m not fond of computers anyway,” he said. “I agree with the Unabomber’s professed philosophy about technology. Fortunately, I have a different way of expressing it.”
    “It’s giving me twelve spaces,” I interrupted, futilely hoping to turn his attention back to the program. “What about ‘crack shot’?”
    “Marksman. One of the FBI’s mind hunters’ claims credit for the term ‘serial killer.’ Margaret Wagner came close. She called Peter Kurten a ‘series killer.’ In the 1980s, the feds went to categories and definitions— cooling-off periods, a minimum of three dead, that sort of nonsense. Great fun if you have the mind of an accountant, but not if you want to catch a killer. Where would we be as a civilization without labelers?”
    I had a certain fondness for my father’s favorite polemic but enough was enough, “You fully awake now?” I asked.
    He nodded happily. “Coffee’s good. Double Italian roast.”
    “Whatever that black stuff was in the freezer. Now, are you ready to help me with this?” I nudged, indicating the computer program.
    “I’ll learn more from Peter Kurten. You know, I was a labeler all those years that I went to my office. This one’s schizophrenic. That one’s borderline. The one who’s examining the walls for thought-stealing devices is a tad paranoid. Insurance companies and health management outfits require labels so they can determine if a patient needs three sessions or five—as if anything could be cured in that time. Clerks who don’t know a schizoid from a solenoid make those decisions.”
    “C’mon, Pop. I need some help.”
    “Okay,” he said, sighing. “We don’t know a hell of a lot. So I don’t know why you’re bothering me. He’s bright, and he’s deliberate. He had to do some homework to know that I had a security system in place. Maybe he was here before, saw the perimeter guard, and realized that it can’t be disarmed outside. If you tamper with it, it goes off. So, he could have waited for me to shut down the system, or he knew that I would have it down. I don’t know what that program wants, but I want to get back to my book. Peter Kurten said that the biggest disappointment in his life was that he wouldn’t get to hear his own blood drip into the bucket when they decapitated him. Charming fellow.”
    “All right, all right, tell me about him,” I said, leaning back in my chair, giving in to the inevitable. Besides, he obviously had something on his mind and it was bound to be more interesting than the database.
    “Kurten fascinates me. He killed his victims in virtually every imaginable manner. He set fire to women. Stabbed them with screwdrivers. Bludgeoned children. Drowned them. He operated on the basis of what hecalled Compensatory justice.’ Simply stated, his sole motivation was vengeance. He believed that every slight, or perceived affront, gave him license to enter any home, to assault, maim, murder anyone he selected, so that Society received its payback. For years he terrorized an entire city. He said at his trial that he was sending them a message. I think I’m beginning to understand why I woke up drawn to this particular book. Vengeance is a good choice of motivation for our shooter. But for what? What did I do to him?