Iceman by Rex Miller

Lonely Hearts, and Gravedigger cases, among other infamous crimes. And perhaps he'll be able to help us understand this rash of violent crime,” Ginger said, shaking her head.
    “Look at this,” she continued as the screen flashed a graphic. “Here's a nice little item for every Buckhead motorist. If somebody tailgates you or cuts in front of you, or you just don't like the color of their car, and you're driving down the boulevard, you just push this and strafe their car with simulated machine-gun fire.” Laughter. “Nice healthy way to get rid of those mounting hostilities."
    The audience hooted as the noise of the toy machine gun punctuated her comments.
    For more times than he cared to admit to himself Jack Eichord was being manipulated. By his fearless leader at Buckhead Station, that bastion of law enforcement the captain, by MacTuff and all who sailed aboard, and by the fickle middle finger of unruly fate.
    Channel 4 and the taping of one of “those” talk shows. Ginger Stone all coiffed and propped and prompted, ready for the winking red-eyed monster that bestows fame, fortune, or any number of negatives from calumniation to sudden death. Fucking TV. McLuhan's cool medium of the eyeball massage. The tribal communicator.
    Somebody high up in the task force had fixed it in their head that Jack was a perfect buffer between The Press and the blues. On too many occasions he'd found himself gliding across the screen in his television tapdance. A circumlocution of bullshit designed to keep the lid on potentially volatile situations.
    But the lid was off. Violence was a bloodthreat that had finally pounded on the door of even the swankiest suburban homes. People were scared. Gangs from the eastern and western inner cities, fueled by dope and hyped by the promise of virgin sales markets, had pushed inward toward the soft American heartland and its vulnerable underbelly.
    Somebody, to top it all off, had abducted the famous feminist Tina Hoyt right out in front of Buckhead Christian. Taken her out to the park, maybe played with her awhile, then shoved an icepick through her ear and into her brain. He'd then submitted her lifeless body to one final degradation, according to the sperm traces in the victim's mouth.
    “We had to promise Mr. Eichord we wouldn't ask about any ongoing investigations,” the attractive redhead said with a flashing smile, “so we can't ask you about progress in the so-called Icepick Murder can we?"
    “'Fraid not,” he said, his mouth tightening.
    “That's a shame, you know. Because the subject is the one thing that's on everybody's mind right now, and all of us feel so helpless in the grip of the violence we see around us more and more. I mean, we can't understand how a respected civic leader like Tina Hoyt could be abducted right there in front of a crowded CHURCH and the police not have a single clue.” He didn't respond. “I mean that's what we're all thinking. We don't feel safe anymore."
    The small studio audience clapped loudly.
    “I can sympathize with that feeling."
    “You can sympathize with it, you can empathize with it, you just can't do much about it. Can't you even comment to say whether or not you've made any progress in the Hoyt slaying, or if you even have a suspect.” After a moment's pause an abrasive voice spoke off to Eichord's left.
    “Let ME answer that one for you.” It was Councilman Bissell, the bitter enemy of the Police Department. “I think we know how much progress the cops are making in the Hoyt killing. And for that matter, how much progress they're making in stopping the flood of violent crime. ZERO is the answer. They've failed miserably in their sworn duty to serve and protect the honest, law-abiding public paying their salaries. The man on the street is no longer safe from the animals."
    More applause.
    “Jack ... is what Mr. Bissell says true? Are we no longer safe?"
    “How do I answer that? Are we safe? The police do everything humanly possible