Last Seen
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Turley was shocked by the FBI activity because this part of Rogers Park had always been a tranquil enclave of urban professionals. Turley then nodded respectfully to the agent who held a small camera and was recording the search.
The agents entered Tate’s residence with guns drawn, sweeping through every room. The townhome was modest, a 1,097-square-foot multilevel atop a two-car garage. It had two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen that opened to the living room. The master bedroom had a whirlpool tub and separate shower. There was a study, a laundry room and a number of large closets.
Agents found no sign of Gage Hudson, or anyone else present, after clearing every corner of the townhome.
Then with quick, cool efficiency, the search team snapped on latex gloves and commenced execution of the warrant setting out to search everything within its scope. Every one of the agents was experienced with the procedure and familiar with the evidence listed.
The warrant encompassed potential trace evidence belonging to Gage Hudson—blood, hair, fibers, items of clothing or other personal items—any record of communication between Tate and members of the Hudson family, any weapons, any pornographic material, any items associated with the River Ridge Fairgrounds, the Chambers of Dread.
The list went on.
Aware that Tate could’ve disposed of or hidden evidence, the search team probed and examined every storage area with expert efficiency. While Tate had had the opportunity to conceal evidence, it had been diminished by the very speed and surprise with which Malko had arrested Tate away from his home.
Bearing in mind that time was ticking down on Gage Hudson, Gerard and the team moved as fast and as thoroughly as possible, searching for documents, photos, videos, records, wherever they could be stored—in computers, phones registered or disposable, containers, books or artwork. They’d noticed he had a large collection of books on the subject of Roman military history, campaigns, commands and ranks.
They seized Tate’s personal computer, which contained security manuals for the fairgrounds and Ultra-Fun Amusement Corp; they vacuumed floors, seized the lint trap in his dryer and collected the traps in his drains, to examine the matter collected for trace evidence.
Time was slipping by and nothing had yet emerged.
Looks like we’re going to strike out here, Gerard thought. The creeping sense of failure stung because Malko had drilled into them that this was their best chance to secure evidence, if it existed.
“We can’t hold Tate for long,” Malko had said. “If we miss anything with this search and release him, any evidence that does exist will be gone.”
Tate, being a seasoned law enforcement officer, would be smart about these things, Gerard admitted as he moved to consult with other team members.
Agents were going through Tate’s Ram pickup in the driveway in front of a small audience of local boys on bicycles who’d gathered to watch from across the street. One agent working the truck shook his head at Gerard, indicating the truck held nothing so far.
Then the first newspeople arrived from two TV stations. Crews hoisted cameras onto shoulders, aiming them at Tate’s townhome as Gerard, the back of his FBI jacket turned to them for a strong visual, moved into the garage and closed the door.
The garage was spacious and neat, with walls painted battleship gray and a polished concrete floor. Storage shelves stood along the right wall. They were jammed with cardboard boxes and plastic tubs. The opposite wall held shovels, brooms, a ladder and a coiled hose.
A workbench stood at one end with a big red metal toolbox on the counter; the wall above it held power tools, boxes of supplies.
“Anything?” Gerard said to the agents searching.
“Nothing yet. Wait, hold on!”
At that point an agent at the workbench who had been searching worn, torn cardboard boxes kept under the bench stopped and stared into one.
“Hey, Gerard, over here, look at this!”
Gerard joined the agent and when he saw what they’d found in the box under the bench his pulse kicked up.
He reached for his phone to call Malko.
43
River Ridge, Illinois
As the door to the interview room opened, Roy Tate downed the last of his tepid coffee, crushed the foam cup and dropped it in the trash can next to the table.
Malko had returned. He dragged a chair to Tate’s side of the table and sat in it, invading his space.
“You need to start telling the truth,” Malko said.
Tate eyeballed him with icy calm.
Malko never lost sight of the fact that this man had been tortured by enemy forces, had witnessed decapitations and was not easily intimidated.
He was prepared for the challenge. A second agent sat at the table with a file folder, a new one.
“We’ve executed search warrants on your home, your truck,” Malko said. “Things have taken a turn.”
Tate stuck out his bottom lip, nodding as if amused.
“Consequently we’ve got a number of critical points of concern, Roy.”
“Do you.”
“You told us that you’d only met the Hudsons once and that you’ve had no relationship or contact with them since. We’ve seen footage that shows you lied to us, especially about your relationship with Faith.”
Tate shrugged as Malko continued.
“A witness places you at the Hudson residence, either visiting or lurking.”
Tate said nothing and Malko let a moment pass. “You have expertise in security at the fairgrounds and with Ultra-Fun Amusement Corp.”
Tate scratched his nose.
“You can’t adequately explain why you were at the fairgrounds around the time Gage Hudson vanished, giving you a window of opportunity to commit the crime.”
Tate stared at his hands.
Malko stood and moved behind him, leaning into Tate’s ear.
“Roy, we’re starting to connect the dots and we’re seeing a line that points straight to you.”
The accusation hung in the air for a long, tense moment.
“Before you respond, you’d better think carefully, because as I’ve told you, things have taken a turn. Your situation is now a whole lot worse than it was when we started.”
Tate stroked his chin. “I met Faith Hudson at the mall by chance,” he said. “We just bumped into each other and she asked me how things were going. She said she’d lost friends in Iraq and was supportive.”
“Really, a woman you’d only met once, and just happened to bump into at the mall, is going this deep into conversation with a man who’s practically a stranger? You want me to swallow that one?”
“That’s what happened.”
“Then you show up at the fairgrounds when her son is missing?”
“I saw the alert on social media and since I used to work there I hurried down to offer help. Things seemed to be well in hand so I hung back.”
“Never approached Cal or Faith to offer sympathy or support?”
“I stayed out of the way.”
“All this for a family you told us that you didn’t know and had no relationship with? You know what that’s called, Roy?”
Tate said nothing.
“That’s called changing your story.” Malko slammed his palm hard on the table next to Tate. “Stop the bullshit and tell us where Gage Hudson is!”
Malko nodded to the agent sitting across the table to slide the folder to Tate so he could see the contents.
“These,” Malko said, “are pictures of a chain and lock we found in your garage. The serial numbers match the chain and lock purchased by Cal Hudson at Emerson Plaza, where we found Gage Hudson’s shoe in the Dumpster out back.”
Tate stared at the photos.
“Now, how did these items end up in your possession?”
Tate said nothing.
Tate’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.
“Are you ready to stop the lies and tell us about your involvement in the disappearance of Gage Hudson?”
Tate shuffled through the photos, thinking, not speaking.
“Who else is involved, Roy? Who are you protecting?”
Tate didn’t respond.
“Is it Faith? Cal? Both of them? Is it Beth Gibson?”
Tate didn’t answer.
“What did you do with Gage Hudson?”
Tate kept staring at the photos.
“The facts are piling up against you. Now is your chance to unburden yourself, to come clean, Roy.”
Tate slid the photos back into the folder.
“I want to exercise my right to an attorney.”
44
At the time Roy Tate requested an attorney, Faith Hudson was home alone slipping into a dark, bottomless chasm.
She stared blankly at the TV news, doing all she could to hang on to herself after the call by the disturbed woman who’d claimed to have Gage. Any hope the call had given Faith had melted away and nothing new had emerged in the search for him.
Now, she feared he may never be found, that he was hurt.
Or worse.
Her mind burned with scenarios of Gage suffering, crying out for her, overwhelming her with helplessness as she struggled to keep hope alive.
Her battle was made harder since Cal had gone to help the FBI scour his stories for leads hours ago, leaving their home dripping with mistrust in the wake of their argument following their polygraphs. Faith pushed herself to get past the pain of the accusations rising between her and Cal over Gage’s disappearance.
But she couldn’t escape feeling that something was going on.
Again, she tried calling and texting Cal but he didn’t respond.
Why won’t he answer me? What’s taking so long? What could he be telling the FBI? Did they discover something about Gage? About Cal? Or me?
What’s happening to us? Why do we suspect each other?
Faith suddenly remembered how she and Cal had been watching a movie about a fugitive. He had criticized the movie’s hero’s decisions, and boasted that he could do a much better job—that if he needed to, he could disappear, create a new identity and never be found.
Sure, he was only joking then, but Faith believed that if Cal wanted to vanish “off the grid” as he’d teased, he could do it. And now it didn’t seem so much of a joke.
What if he’d planned to leave me and take Gage?
No, she had to stop thinking like that.
Faith looked around the room, worry enveloping her.
She reached into her pocket for the rosary Pam Huppkey had given her and traced her fingers over the beads, the crucifix, the Madonna and Child. As she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer the doorbell sounded, pulling her from her anguish.
It was Samantha Clark, her neighbor.
“I dropped by to see how you’re doing and if there’s anything I can do?”
Wary of the patrol cars around her home and possible news cameras, Faith hurried Sam inside, closed the door, then broke down in her arms.
“I’m losing my mind!”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay,” Sam said, hugging Faith, helping her to the sofa. “Are you all alone? Where’s Cal?”
“He’s with the FBI, going over his old news stories.”
“Why?”
“For any threats, any potential retribution that could lead to Gage.”
“Are there any breaks at all?” Sam passed Faith a tissue box.
“A few hours ago, this woman called the Star-News, they patched her to Cal. She said she had Gage.”
“Oh, dear God!” Sam’s hand flew to her mouth. “What happened?”
“She was a disturbed person. The call was nothing. It was a false alarm.” Faith sobbed. “I don’t know about anything anymore.”
Sam rubbed Faith’s arms. “You’ve got to stay strong, honey.” She looked around. “How did you come to be left alone here?”
“I guess everyone’s at the community hall, or searching, or getting on with their own lives.”
“No, that’s not right. One of us should be here with you at all times. You’re not going through this alone, okay?”
Faith nodded, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. “Sam, you know the FBI made Cal and me take polygraph exams, and the questions they asked were horrible. They practically accused us of abducting Gage and now I don’t know what to believe or trust. I’m losing my mind.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going through hell. Have you eaten anything? Have you slept?”
“No, how can I? How can I do anything when my little boy’s out there and I don’t know if he’s hurt, if he’s alive, or...”
“Shh, shh, you’ve got to eat something and you need to rest.”
Sam got Faith to take some tea and chicken noodle soup with crackers but she was unable to sleep. After eating she just sat at the table, kneading the rosary.
“I’m being punished for being a terrible mother,” Faith said, tears brimming. “I should’ve been watching over him.”
“Faith, you’ve got to stop talking like this and stop blaming yourself.”
“I’m a horrible person. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve failed at being a good person... I just—”
“Faith, you’re in shock, you’re facing the worst anyone could face. Feeling guilty is normal. Please, stop beating yourself up.”
Faith thrust her face into her hands and fought to compose herself.
“I don’t want to stay here, Sam.” She grabbed her phone. “Let’s go to the community hall.”
* * *
They took Samantha’s car.
River Ridge police made no secret of having a patrol car follow her.
The hall was a mile away. It was a restored World War Two–era stucco building with more than two dozen vehicles parked in the lot. Inside, the walls were covered with enlarged photos of Gage, huge maps of River Ridge with colored search zones and log-in sheets. In the center, folding tables had been arranged in a horseshoe pattern where some forty people were at work, poring over maps, studying data on computers, talking on phones.
Volunteers were making and distributing flyers; search teams were being dispatched while others returned. Everyone took a moment to embrace Faith and offer words of support. Her employer had put up the reward money and had arranged for a website and app aimed at finding Gage; other volunteers were helping to widen the search into other areas of metro Chicago.
Faith left Sam and moved through the hall, drawing comfort from the effort, thanking each person who talked to her, noticing that Pam Huppkey, working alone at a separate table, had glanced at her, then quickly looked away.
What was that about?
One white-haired woman in a turquoise tracksuit approached Faith. Her glasses hung from a chain and she slid her phone into her pocket before taking Faith’s hands in hers, which were vein-webbed and wrinkled, yet strong and warm.
“I’m with the Golden Grannies Gang,” she said. “We’re helping search everywhere for Gage. Don’t you worry, dear, because I know in my heart that we’re going to find your son.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” Faith smiled before her attention went back to Pam.
She was wearing a hoodie and jeans and her trademark hoop earrings and bracelets. Their eyes met but only briefly. Faith nodded to Pam but Pam had failed to acknowledge her, instead going back to her work reviewing and crossing off names on what looked like address lists.
Faith went to her.
“No, nothing.” Faith touched Pam’s arm. “Thank you, for all you’ve done, for all you’re doing. I appreciate this from the bottom of my heart.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” Pam concentrated on her address lists. “We’re all praying for Gage to come home.”
“Thank you for giving me this rosary.”
Pam nodded weakly without making direct eye contact.
“Is there something wrong?” Faith asked.
Pam lifted her head but didn’t answer. She was looking over Faith’s shoulder at what was happening behind her. Faith’s face creased with puzzlement and she followed Pam’s gaze, turning to see that two uniformed officers had entered the hall and were talking to volunteers who were nodding and pointing to Faith.
The officers approached Faith and Pam quickly, their portable radios crackling with dispatches.
“Excuse us, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes?”
“We need you to come with us, now.”
Faith’s stomach clenched. “Why? Did you find Gage? What is it?”
The radios continued with their static-filled exchanges as one of the officers lowered his volume. Volunteers had stopped working, conversations halted and heads turned to Faith.
“We don’t have any further information. We need to take you to headquarters, though. Please come with us.”
“But wait! What’s this about?”
“Ma’am, please. We need to go.”
One officer reached for Faith’s arm, his radio was still squawking; but before he could turn it down it released a clear transmission. “FBI says no handcuffs. Copy?”
“Fourteen-thirty, copy,” the officer said into his shoulder microphone. Then to Faith, he said, “Ma’am, let’s go. Now.”
As they led her away, Faith looked back at Pam, who’d cupped her hands to her face.
“Will someone tell me what’s happening?” Faith said.
The reference to handcuffs had rippled through the hall with people staring at Faith in disbelief, including a student intern from the Chicago Sun-Times, there to do a feature on volunteers searching for Gage.