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Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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eager to endure the special hell of face-changing again.
So I hung on the outskirts--shit towns like Laughlin, Cooper's Mill and Hagertown. I crept back into Henderson for my personal belongings one night in October, and kept them in the trunk of my car. I switched cars three times on the trip back from Illinois; Doug really came through for me. I ended up with a used '72 blue Datsun, purchased legit from a dealer in Flagstaff.
I made it a point never to stay in one place too long. I left a trail only the most dedicated schizophrenic could follow. I even spent a couple of uncomfortable nights in the backseat of the Datsun, in the middle of the cold desert, to stay loose. Okay, maybe I spent those nights in my plush (and seldom-used) king-sized bed in the Brain Hotel while I had other souls baby-sit my physical body. But I woke up with the cramps and kinks. I think I can claim the hardship.
Why so paranoid? Three letters: F, B and I. They weren't amused to discover Agent Kevin Kennedy had been scamming the Las Vegas office for months. I didn't realize how easy it was to make the Bureau's "Ten Most Wanted" list. I was slightly comforted by the fact that I was wearing a different face; the likelihood of the Feds figuring it out was next to nil. Yet, paranoia still got the best of me. Every time I relaxed with a can of Fresca and a corned beef sandwich, I'd be struck with the horrid feeling that a rogue FBI sniper was yards away, lining up a shot. My cleaned-out skull would be quite a prize in Dean Nevins' office. KEVIN KENNEDY, the faux-gold etching would read. THOUGHT HE COULD SCREW WITH ME, SEPTEMBER 1975.
Meanwhile, the soul of the real Kevin Kennedy, inside the Brain Hotel, never forgave me for ruining his professional reputation. How dare I corrupt his office? How dare I soil the Kennedy name? (I figured it was a cheap shot to bring up Chapaquiddick.)
To further complicate matters, I caught the mother of all stomach bugs in February. Knocked me right out for two weeks straight. It took everything I had to suck down chicken bullion and stale crackers. I was off real food and drink for another two weeks after, and I still can't look a boiled hot dog and beans the same way again. Solve a murder case? Heck, I couldn't even solve the problem of how to keep solid food down. There went a month and change.
Brad was becoming increasingly pissed that I was taking so long to track down his killers. When I asked him for the tiniest morsel of Association skinny to speed my search, he refused. "A deal's a deal," he said. "And nothing I know will help you find my killers any faster. Believe me. If I did, I'd do it myself."
So, all told, the hunt for the Larsens' killers was turning out to be quite pathetic, considering a.) I knew the killers' names, and b.) I had one of the victim's souls absorbed into my own brain.
Plus, I was running out of money.
----
Nine
Sherman Oaks Gold
Despite the amazing powers my brain seems to possess--the ability to change my face, collect a soul, inventory and sustain countless unique intellects--I still have trouble managing a dime. To properly conduct an investigation of this magnitude, you need thousands of dollars. Right now, I had a little over $900 in my checking account. My MasterCard was nearing its limit, and this was my 5th card. Not everyone I collected had proper credit. If I wasn't careful, I would have a collector after me.
So, sometime around June, I came to the realization that I had to accept some freelance work. Good thing a couple of years ago I'd hung out my own P.I. shingle under the name "Stan Wojciechowski" (about as far from "Del Farmer" as you can get) in a variety of outlets--from racing newspapers to legal journals, and eventually, as a backup vendor for the internationally-renowned Brown Agency in L.A. That was a real coup, considering this P.I. stuff was only a sideline. I've met guys who would sell their left lung to be on Brown's backup list.
No matter the outlet,
So I hung on the outskirts--shit towns like Laughlin, Cooper's Mill and Hagertown. I crept back into Henderson for my personal belongings one night in October, and kept them in the trunk of my car. I switched cars three times on the trip back from Illinois; Doug really came through for me. I ended up with a used '72 blue Datsun, purchased legit from a dealer in Flagstaff.
I made it a point never to stay in one place too long. I left a trail only the most dedicated schizophrenic could follow. I even spent a couple of uncomfortable nights in the backseat of the Datsun, in the middle of the cold desert, to stay loose. Okay, maybe I spent those nights in my plush (and seldom-used) king-sized bed in the Brain Hotel while I had other souls baby-sit my physical body. But I woke up with the cramps and kinks. I think I can claim the hardship.
Why so paranoid? Three letters: F, B and I. They weren't amused to discover Agent Kevin Kennedy had been scamming the Las Vegas office for months. I didn't realize how easy it was to make the Bureau's "Ten Most Wanted" list. I was slightly comforted by the fact that I was wearing a different face; the likelihood of the Feds figuring it out was next to nil. Yet, paranoia still got the best of me. Every time I relaxed with a can of Fresca and a corned beef sandwich, I'd be struck with the horrid feeling that a rogue FBI sniper was yards away, lining up a shot. My cleaned-out skull would be quite a prize in Dean Nevins' office. KEVIN KENNEDY, the faux-gold etching would read. THOUGHT HE COULD SCREW WITH ME, SEPTEMBER 1975.
Meanwhile, the soul of the real Kevin Kennedy, inside the Brain Hotel, never forgave me for ruining his professional reputation. How dare I corrupt his office? How dare I soil the Kennedy name? (I figured it was a cheap shot to bring up Chapaquiddick.)
To further complicate matters, I caught the mother of all stomach bugs in February. Knocked me right out for two weeks straight. It took everything I had to suck down chicken bullion and stale crackers. I was off real food and drink for another two weeks after, and I still can't look a boiled hot dog and beans the same way again. Solve a murder case? Heck, I couldn't even solve the problem of how to keep solid food down. There went a month and change.
Brad was becoming increasingly pissed that I was taking so long to track down his killers. When I asked him for the tiniest morsel of Association skinny to speed my search, he refused. "A deal's a deal," he said. "And nothing I know will help you find my killers any faster. Believe me. If I did, I'd do it myself."
So, all told, the hunt for the Larsens' killers was turning out to be quite pathetic, considering a.) I knew the killers' names, and b.) I had one of the victim's souls absorbed into my own brain.
Plus, I was running out of money.
----
Nine
Sherman Oaks Gold
Despite the amazing powers my brain seems to possess--the ability to change my face, collect a soul, inventory and sustain countless unique intellects--I still have trouble managing a dime. To properly conduct an investigation of this magnitude, you need thousands of dollars. Right now, I had a little over $900 in my checking account. My MasterCard was nearing its limit, and this was my 5th card. Not everyone I collected had proper credit. If I wasn't careful, I would have a collector after me.
So, sometime around June, I came to the realization that I had to accept some freelance work. Good thing a couple of years ago I'd hung out my own P.I. shingle under the name "Stan Wojciechowski" (about as far from "Del Farmer" as you can get) in a variety of outlets--from racing newspapers to legal journals, and eventually, as a backup vendor for the internationally-renowned Brown Agency in L.A. That was a real coup, considering this P.I. stuff was only a sideline. I've met guys who would sell their left lung to be on Brown's backup list.
No matter the outlet,
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