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formidable challenge in that department. He hoped to do a little homework on her today with Hackabee. What would anybody that big hope to gain from defending a dead-bang murder one headed for death row? It would be different if she'd been some court-appointed pee-dee, but this was THE Noel Collier of Jones-Seleska. Why would they touch a loser like Ukie?
    There was a lot of ink flowing over this, on the other hand. Every paper had Grave-digger headlines. Was a movie deal in the works? Had Swifty called with a book offer? There had to be something sweet and Jack would check it out. Meanwhile he'd go around with Ukie again. He took a couple of aspirin and wished for something to wash them down but he decided he'd better settle for that clear stuff that you get out of a water fountain. He took another deep breath, tried to shake the cobwebs loose, and opened the door that led to interrogation.

Dallas
    M artin Scorsese it ain't, but each tape begins with a pro slate like a TV commercial or something. And this one says:

    A/N SURVEILLANCE
    VCR V-3102-H WH/14
    PROPERTY: HOMICIDE

    And in a different handwriting:

    Hackabee #14

    The shot is from over Eichord's right shoulder. The resolution—grainy.
    “Hi, Jack. No pun intended. Suppose I start by saying hello in a perfectly normal fashion. No tricks. No logorhumbano horizontal bopping of the cerebellum,” it sounded like he said, and Eichord interjected, “'Scuse me. I don't know the word logorhumbano. Define please?"
    “Whoops.” He smiled. “Clarity is in order. I said, no LOGO-RHUMBA no word dancing, a coined word, no lofo-rhumbas, no horizontal bop, dig?"
    “Okay."
    “I begin with ordinary speech. Relating, say, to the weather. I say, ‘Nice day, Officer.’ You go, ‘Nice day,’ in reply. I tell you how it looks like it's too cold to snow but snow is predicted. Or I tell you how I love the smell of rain. Or whatever mundane weather fact. Or I say, ‘Didja’ see those Giants? How's about that playoff game, eh? Kicked the stuff outta the Redskins. Who do you like in the Super Bowl?’ And you think, Hey, gee, this is a regular person, after all. And we begin fresh. See where I'm coming from?"
    “Uh huh,” Eichord said.
    “Idea here is that we reestablish my credibility as a human being. Because I want to talk to you, Jack. I want to tell you how I did it. I want to lay it all out for you and try my damnedest not to go off on one of my goofy word-flights, because it's important somebody understands what they've got in Ukie Hackabee. So first I've got to build up a little credibility and you might say belief insurance—so here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you some dead people. A whole bunch of them. Isn't that exciting? So you're taking notes, the tapes are rolling, I assume, and let's just pitch right in to the nasty business at hand. I'd like to begin with a cute little number who I picked up in fact not too many miles from this very spot. She's in a nice deep grave waiting for you right now, even as we speak. Do you know where the reservoir is?” And he began a nonstop tirade of talk that ran for twenty-two minutes. In twenty-two minutes he gave up another grave every two and a half minutes roughly. In twenty-two minutes of wild and crazed conversation and rambling reminiscing he told Eichord and the men and women at the monitors where they could disinter nine more victims. Exact almost pinpoint locations. He'd obviously rehearsed this in his mind overnight.
    “Can you think of any more?” Eichord prodded gently when Ukie had apparently run out of steam.
    “I can think hundreds more, my friend. Thing is, I have to have something for something. I want my uke and I want an adequate channel of communication for legal representation assured me. I want confidentiality for my new attorney. I want—I want to be treated with respect. I don't want that weinie-wagger shit in my file. I want...” He trailed off with a pleasant expression on his face.