Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at our destination, Wolf Lake in Indiana. Leopold and Loeb dumped their victim Bobby Franks near railroad tracks at the north end in 1924. I imagined things had changed since. The proximity alone would suffice. I would photograph Harold there naked with a newspaper, chisel, and bottle of acid to coincide with the copycat idea. While not actually copying the murder, it would show my intent to do so.
I stopped in a dark area close to the eastern edge of the water. There were six or seven big trees and large, abandoned pieces of mechanical equipment along a gravel road. The junk would prove excellent backgrounds for the photos. I sat quiet. It was as I pictured death: dark, still, and your thoughts the only sound.
My eyes scanned the area for any signs of people or movement. I grabbed my masks and sat them on my leg. Between the night and the limited viewing of the stockings, taking photos would be challenging. I could leave Harold's hood on to work without my disguise. After considering the options, I tossed them back in the box between the front seats. I climbed out and worked my way around the van, taking my time observing the area.
It was time.
I unlocked and opened the side cargo door.
My chest exploded in pain. I flew backwards and fell to the ground stunned.
Harold bolted from the space and started into a sprint.
Then he stopped and walked back to me. "Jay? Jay Fitzgerald?" the blurry silhouette in front of me said.
"Harold I." I rubbed at my chest.
"Oh god, oh no, oh shit, shit shit! I screwed the pooch on this one didn't I?"
"What?"
"The initiation? I've, I've screwed it all up." Harold paced, his hands rising and falling.
My brain fought to clear the fog as it blinked back to life. "Sit down," I demanded, pointing at the van. I rolled and got my feet under me.
Harold sat in the doorway. "Have I Jay? Have I screwed it all up?"
"I believe you have."
"Aw man, I knew it. I knew I would screw it up. Can I get back in and we'll just forget I escaped?"
"How did you?"
"Escape?" His hands pulled together then flew apart. "Magic!"
"Magic?"
"I love magic Jay, especially escape artist tricks."
"But the handcuffs are real."
"As they should be."
"I-I'm afraid I don't understand." I continued rubbing my chest.
"I have handcuff keys."
"Where? In your underwear? That's why you wanted them back?"
"No Jay." Harold snickered. "Under my skin."
"Huh?"
"I use liquid latex, colored to match my skin, to conceal a handcuff key on my wrist and ankle. It's how the great escape artists do it."
"And you have these on you all the time?"
"Yes. It's one of the secrets from my list."
I went quiet.
"Can I have the rest of my clothes now?"
I glared at him, too angry to speak. He had gotten the better of me. It would not bode well for him.
"Now that I know it's you. Can you bring me home instead of leaving me here? It's kind of scary."
"Sorry, can't do it."
"Where are we?"
"Wolf Lake."
"Wolf Lake? The Wolf Lake from my History report? Is that why you wanted a copy?"
"Something like that."
"Wait. Is there a secret society? Or did you kidnap me? Jay?"
A glimmer of fear came over Harold and he bolted for a nearby road. I took off in pursuit and caught him in a few steps. It was his turn. He fell face first into the dirt. I climbed onto his back.
"Why do you want to kill me?" Harold asked.
"I don't. I was going to let you go."
"And now."
"I-I don't know. I need to think. Stay still so I can."
I stood with a foot on his back. Harold wiggled free and tried to take off again. I grabbed him as he got to his feet.
"Let me go Jay. I won't say anything."
"Right."
"I won't Jay I promise."
"Magic is making your life disappear."
I pulled Harold toward me and wrapped an arm around his neck. Stepping backwards, I started for the van. I wanted him in and gassed. Harold fought. One of his legs came between mine and we both fell. It was the second time he put me on my ass. As I reached to control my fall, Harold popped free. He screamed and pushed away. I spun swinging an arm. His legs went out from under him and I was quick to be on top.
"No, Stop!" Harold repeated as he fought.
My hands found his neck and I squeezed. Our eyes met and I turned away, closing mine. He pawed at me getting hold of my ear for a second then my shirt. I kept squeezing.
"Jay," he said in a raspy cry. "Jay."
I lifted my body from his to concentrate my weight on his throat. I wanted it done. "Shut up, just shut up. You did this."
He rolled to the side forcing me to release him to keep him from wiggling away again. With a hand on his arm, I pushed him continuing his roll until he was face down. I pushed at the back of his head trying to force his face into the ground. The ground was soft and muddy but he kept turning enough to continue breathing.
I noticed something to the left - something to finish him. Leaning I grabbed it and raised it with both hands.
"Jay you don't," Harold sputtered, spitting mud.
The hunk of metal smashed into the back of his head. Blood streamed into the air. Harold went still. I lifted the mass and hit him again. And again. On one strike, a piece of the metal flew and clinked behind me. I kept hitting him until Harold had found death, his last thoughts of me.
I collapsed to the side panting and gasping like a heavy smoker who had run a marathon. Harold's head leaned toward me lit only by moonlight. He held a blank stare. A dog barked and I snapped back to reality. I jumped to my feet and ran to the van.
Inside the passenger door, I found an empty bag. I slid the bloodied hunk of metal in and sat it on the floorboard. In the supply box, I pulled a roll of paper towels and wiped my hands and face depositing them into the bag with the metal. I was glad I had prepared. I found and lifted the glass bottle.
I walked to Harold and sat the bottle on the ground beside him. I tugged his underwear off as I rolled him over. Opening the bottle, I poured hydrochloric acid on his face, stomach and genitals as Leopold and Loeb had done to their kill. The smell was awful and worse than I could have ever imagined. I had to cover my nose to finish. I grabbed the Polaroid and snapped a couple of quick photos of my accomplishment.
The Indiana State Police would awake to a case more pressing than a bunch of missing 'Cans. It was late, too late to return the van without raising suspicions. I changed clothes and headed south to Hammond. There the van blended in the parking lot of a third-rate fleabag motel near the interstate. I paid cash and registered as Morton D. Ballard. It was the name used by Nathan Leopold when he rented the car used in the abduction, murder and transport of Bobby Franks. Tired, I fell dead asleep.
Einstein's definition of insanity failed to account for dumb fucking luck.
Patty and Dave persisted in searching for the missing boys in the area they were last seen hoping for a different outcome. Lucky or not, Patty considered anything better than spending the day in the office.
After learning of the detectives' interest, Walter drove to Indiana. He followed the Patty and Dave from their office. His sparkling white 280SL Mercedes trailed them to the quaint barrio in Hammond.
As Patty parked, Walter passed the unmarked sedan. Two blocks down, he made a u-turn and parked half a block from the detectives. Dave was out stopping people on the street and showing them papers from a folder. Patty leaned against the roof of the car smoking and watching traffic.
As Patty lit her fourth cigarette, Jay drove past. Walter watched.
"Dave," she said walking around the front of the car her eyes trailing the van.
&nb
sp; He noted her interest.
"Lowman - get your ass in the car."
Dave excused himself and jogged to the sedan. He opened the door.
"For fuck's sake, get in."
His butt found the seat. The car lunged from the curb. The door swung closed barely missing a parked car. Patty turned the wheel hard and sat on the gas pedal.
The Mercedes roared to life.
"What's going on?" Dave asked.
"Remember the delivery van I found suspicious."
"Sure."
"It just drove past - same sunglasses behind the wheel." Patty strained to see around the car in front of her. She was oblivious to the white car tailing her, two cars back.
"You mean the delivery van is making deliveries to the same area again. Well that is odd."
"Nobody likes an asshole, asshole."
"Patty."
"When I find this fucker, we'll see what tune you're singing then."
"Well you better do it fast, we're getting close to the state line."
"Screw that. I'm going to have a conversation with the fucker this time."
"And if he did anything wrong we'll have no leg to stand on in court."
"There he is. Two, three, four cars ahead."
"I see it."
"How far to the state line?"
One of the cars in front turned right.
Dave opened the glove box and removed a map. Stretching it open, he searched for street names.
"If we cross into Illinois, I at least want to get the company name, plate and any vehicle markings."
Another car turned off.
"I'm okay with that because I'm not going into court with your intuition as probable cause."
"One car between us so shut up and figure it out."
"I'm a detective not a navigator."
"Then detect our location compared to the state line."
A sporty white coupe jumped past the car forcing itself in front of the detectives. "What the fuck?" Patty yelled. "Mr. Mercedes if I didn't have another fish to fry I'd so be all over your ass."
"Three blocks," Dave said.
"Three? Three, three." Her hand tapped at the steering wheel. "If I hit the lights before the line we have jurisdiction to cross."
"Patty. I thought we already settled this. There's no probable cause."
"I'll flip the light on and see if he runs. If he does, he must have - oh come on, a minute ago you were Mario fucking Andretti and now you're my goddamn grandpa reading the newspaper." Her voice rose to a scream, "Get the fuck outta my way." She pounded the steering wheel.
"They're obviously looking for an address."
"They're obviously looking to have their ass kicked is what they're doing. I can't fucking believe this guy."
"We just crossed the state line."
"Fuck! The van is way up there now. I'm going to lose it thanks to this asshole."
"Maybe he'll stop to make a delivery."
Patty scowled at Dave. "Finally," she cheered as the white car's right turn signal blinked.
The car crawled to a stop in front of them. Patty eyed Dave in disbelief. It jumped to a start and darted away fast. Two blocks ahead, it stopped again. The left blinker started. A line of on-coming traffic guaranteed a lengthy wait.
"Oh I'm gunna shoot this guy in the nuts. I swear. In! The! Nuts!"
Without looking, Patty pointed at Dave knowing he was enjoying her stress.
"Car Delta 8, Central Dispatch," the radio called.
Dave pulled the handheld microphone from the police band radio. "Go for Delta 8."
"Delta 8, contact Commander Long on channel 3."
"Copy Central, channel 3."
Patty and Dave gawked at one another.
"Channel 3?" Patty questioned.
Dave rolled the radio dial.
"Commander Long, Delta 8."
"Delta 8 what's your 20?"
"Vicinity of State Road 41 and 165th sir."
Patty chuckled, "Vicinity," and scanned the area.
"Copy. I need you to get up to the east side of Wolf Lake. 119th street."
"Roger Commander. What regarding?"
"Just get here."
"Copy, Delta 8 out."
"Must be something big," Patty said.
"You think so?"
"Oh come on. The fucking Commander is on scene. And he doesn't want to say what it is over the radio. It's big, I'm telling you - big. I think we caught a murder."
"If it is, I hope it's not one of ours."
"Our what?"
"Our boys," he said slapping at the folder. "One of the boys in here."
"Those kids are long gone Dave. We've been chasing ghosts."
"I hope not, to be a ghost you must be dead."
"Oh," Patty slapped at the steering wheel, "it, it, it could be something to do with that kidnapped rich kid from Chicago."
"I haven't heard about that."
"No, from what I hear the FBI thinks he's being held in Indiana."
"Who do you know with the FBI?"
"No one, a Whiting cop told me about it."
"I still hope it's not one of our missing boys."
"Let's go find out."
Truth and honesty are the meat and potatoes of any relationship.
Dinner long since served and enjoyed; only the drinks remained. Bo felt bolder. The redhead blushed a matching tone. Smiles ensued and nervous hands rambled between glassware, twitching hair, and telling eyes. As the table rose withered, something more blossomed.
"Excuse me, Mr. Boson," the maître de said.
Bo sat back. "Yes."
"There's a phone call for you." The man in a well worn suit placed an avocado green phone on the table. A long slender wire snaked through the dining room. He presented the handset to Bo.
"Ello?"
"Hello old friend," the caller said.
"Prescott?"
"Yes Bo, it is I."
"It's good to hear from you but not when you call me at a restaurant."
"Still chasing the smartest blondes eh?"
"You know me better than most." Bo's head took to a swivel as he scanned the dining room. He noticed two burly statues standing posts aside the front door.
"Sorry to interrupt."
"Where are you?"
"Not far now. I will be there momentarily."
"Two goons at the door and calling from a patch, I take it this is official."
"Afraid so."
Bo apologized to his date and left money for the bill. He promised to phone later, if possible. As he made his way to the street, a black Suburban sped to a stop, blocking traffic. Bo approached. The rear window lowered.
"Where we off to?" asked Bo.
"Indiana, Wolf Lake."
Bo tapped the chrome and steel.
"Okay if I bring Blue?"
"Sure, but do try to keep up."
They both chuckled.
"So what is it Prescott, what brings us together today?"
"Murder. A child."
Bo’s head fell. He scratched at the crown of his head. Something left caught his eye. A sliver of indigo silk, one large printed daisy wrapping a sublime waist grounded by white patent leather six-inch pumps. The necklace of lapis lazuli, quartz and gold coordinated. She cast one sexy shadow. Raven stood at her tiny green Alpha three cars down. She watched Bo. A stone cold exterior, fire raged in her eyes. Whether the sunlight or contempt, her hair burst brighter.
Bo considered what he was abandoning. His face filled with disappointment. For him, relationships often ended with a similar beginning and this one likely too soon. The potential found in young hope often developed into an underwhelming. Bo could not help wonder if it would be only this and nothing more. If a glass raised to this Raven shall be lifted – never more.
A replica or something altogether different was the underlying question. And which the prize he truly sought. He realized he might never have the opportunity to determine an answer. Bo dismissed the change in his da
y with a deep breath falling into a lonesome sigh. He patted Prescott’s door. His head agreed with the new task. “I’ll be right behind you.”
His Camaro rumbled to life. Inside, Zeppelin bellowed their Immigrant Song. Fat tires scratched at the pavement and sang to all who would listen as Bo leapt to catch his friend, FBI Special Agent Prescott Farber.
At the scene of a murder, the V.I.P. treatment loses all significance.
The Suburban stopped at a police barricade. A uniformed officer playing security guard spoke with someone inside. The Suburban pulled ahead and the policeman motioned Bo through. Bo waved a flat hand.
They parked in an open field. Across the gravel road a small crowd gathered near the lakeshore. The Windward Blue 1969 Camaro Z28 with its twin racing stripes and mag rims looked an oddity among the collection of government vehicles.
Within the group, Bo recognized Patrick Carlton, the Illinois State Police Commander. He was speaking with two others. Based on the standard issue black suit Bo presumed one was Prescott's man. The other gentleman was familiar but Bo could not place him. He climbed from the car and walked toward the men.
"Bo," Commander Carlton said.
The men shook hands and exchanged niceties. The man in black directed Prescott aside to speak in private.
"Do you know Milton Long?" Patrick asked.
"I know the name but haven't had the pleasure," Bo said extending a hand toward the gentleman.
"Milton," the man said introducing himself.
"William Boson. Call me Bo."
"Nice to meet you. Your reputation precedes you."
"They do tend to do that, don't they?" Bo said.
"Are you on the payroll?" Prescott asked joining the conversation.
"We haven't gotten anywhere close to that yet," said Bo.
Patrick focused on Milton. "Prescott and I both know Bo so it would be a no-brainer for either of us. That being said, it's your jurisdiction so it's your decision."
Prescott added, "I believe Haverly made himself quite clear on his expectations."
"Haverly?" Bo questioned. "Are you referring to Horatio Haverly?"
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 5