The Fury - Jason Pinter [62]
by a string of homicides occurring at seemingly
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Jason Pinter
random locations at random intervals. Between
August 1987 and October 1988, two dozen men
were found murdered execution-style, often with
one or two bullets emptied into their heads. These
men were notable because they had previously
been either arrested or identified as drug dealers,
peddling primarily crack cocaine (among other
narcotics).
It was felt, both by the law enforcement com
munity as well as within the criminal element it
self, that these murders were part of a larger
consolidation of Manhattan's drug trade. Whis
pers began to grow about a man presumably re
sponsible for the carnage, a ghost whose identity
nobody could confirm, and details about whom
nobody would (or could) go on the record about.
In fact, the only evidence there was to this
man's existence at all was at the murder scene of
one Butch Willingham. Willingham had been shot
twice in the back of the head. The wounds were
catastrophic, though miraculously, neither bullet
was instantaneously fatal.
The autopsy concluded that Willingham had
lived between five to ten minutes after the shoot
ings, though the terminal damage to his brain pre
vented him from moving, speaking or doing
anything to save his own life.
Apparently the bullets did not completely de
prive Willingham of all of his motor skills during
that brief period he remained alive, because while
Willingham lay dying, his skull shattered by the
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183
slugs, he scribbled two macabre words on the
floor of his apartment, using only the blood leak
ing from his own body.
The Fury.
21
I spent the rest of the night rereading Through the
Darkness. It had been several years since I'd last read
it, and the sense of awe I gained by reading Jack's work
was tempered by the sudden knowledge that a forgot
ten passage from the book was somehow relevant to two
murders today.
Most of the book came back to me, like seeing a
good friend after a long absence. Amanda woke up,
kissed me on the cheek and left for work, knowing how
important this was. There were no other explicit refer
ences to the Fury, no other mention of who it was, or
whether or not he or she even existed. People say some
strange things when they've been shot in the head.
I opened up the search engine on my computer and
looked for any old interviews Jack had done for the
book. Unfortunately most had either not been archived
digitally or they'd been lost, because only two came up.
Neither mentioned the Fury in any way.
Working at the Gazette, Jack's presence was missed
on a daily basis. Now, his absence felt like a hole in my
stomach, an emptiness. I needed to talk to him, to see
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185
what he knew, what he remembered. But Jack was re
covering from his own battle with alcohol, and I
couldn't bring myself to interrupt that. There was one
person, though, who might be able to help. Thankfully
he worked long hours, and started the day early.
Wallace Langston picked up on the second ring.
"Henry," he said. "I was wondering when next I'd
hear from you. You do still work here, right?"
"How are you, Wallace?" I figured I'd ignore the
question.
"I'm doing well. Henry, what's up? Or did you just
call to make sure I'd had my morning coffee?"
"Actually, that's why I called," I said. " Seriously, I
need some help. Listen, Wallace, I need to ask you a
question. It's about Jack."
There was a moment of hesitation on the other end.
"What is it?" Wallace said curtly.
"I'd rather we talk face-to-face. It's not about my job
or the paper. You can say no if you want...but I need to
know. It's kind of personal."
"My door's always open, Henry. As long as you're
honest with me about what you want and why you need
it."
"You have my word. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."
I was putting on my shoes before I even heard the dial tone.
The newsroom was loud, boisterous.
I heard Frank Rourke shouting at someone over the
phone, something about a report that the Knicks were