by Nat Williams
Carroll took the paper, gave it a good look, folded it and gripped it tightly.
“First real lead we’ve had.”
Bachelor looked down and tapped his desk.
“We get the owner of the truck … well, at least we got someone to talk to.”
After Carroll walked out of his office, Bachelor picked up the phone and called the state FSC office. Trisha Danning answered. Danning was a lab rat – a specialist whose duties and presence were confined to the laboratory in Belleville. She didn’t do any field work.
“I know it’s early, Trish, but do you have anything yet?”
“Sure, we’ve got stuff. But right now, that’s all it is. We got some prints, blood, hairs, maybe some DNA. What we don’t have is someone to match it to. Whether it belongs to the victims or whatever.”
“I’ll see about getting samples from family members and others who had legitimate reasons to be there,” Bachelor said. “I may need something on tire tracks.”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s a blacktop circle drive, you know.”
“But not everyone drives on the blacktop. Especially if they’re in a hurry. There are tracks in the grass.”
“That’s true. Let me check to see if we have anything on that.”
Bachelor knew that meant Trish was immediately on the horn, ordering someone to get back to the crime scene, check out the grassy areas of the yard outside the driveway and let her know right away.
His secretary, Liz Johnson, buzzed his line and told him Gilbert County State’s Attorney Vernon Hilliard was waiting.
Hilliard was sixtyish, gaunt, with thinning blond hair that was fading into gray. He had a welcoming face that easily reflected whatever emotion he happened to be expressing at the time, from disappointment to excitement.
“Hey, Vern,” Bachelor said as he rose and shook Hilliard’s hand.
“What do we have?” Hillard said. He remained standing, as did Bachelor.
“We got a vehicle. A bread truck driver saw a pickup truck pulling out of the Van Okins’ in the wee hours of the morning. Seemed out of place. He’s an observant guy. Noticed some details about the vehicle, including a partial license plate number.”
“That’s encouraging,” Hilliard said. “The Secretary of State’s office can probably get you something on that.”
“We’re working on it,” Bachelor said. “I’ll drop your name. Maybe that’ll help expedite things.”
“Do that. Though the double murder should be enough to get their heels clicking. Take care, Frank. I got a birthday party. Nephew. One year. Cute little guy. He won’t know what the hell’s going on. But it’ll be good to get together with the family. Cookout. Brats, beer and lots of boring photos of people standing around. I hate that anything you do nowadays – even in a casual family situation – can, in theory, find its way onto the internet. Anyway, keep me posted. I don’t have to tell you how big this is. Our asses are on the grill, and the coals are getting hot.”
“Will do,” Bachelor said as Hilliard left the office.
Bachelor called the Illinois Secretary of State’s Office. The responsibility of the office, based in the state capital of Springfield, was regulating motor vehicles, among other things. Bachelor was put in touch with the geek team and hooked up with Samuel Choi.
“We have a vague vehicle description and partial tag number. Can you narrow things down for us?”
“That’s what we live for,” Choi said. “Give me what you got and I’ll give you the dope.”
“Sounds like a drug deal. You’re not recording, are you?”
“Of course. We’re the government. Anyway, don’t worry. Dope is what we call our analytics software.”
“What does it do?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Humor me.”
“It cross-references a bunch of data and spits out something that may be useful.”
“That is pretty complicated. But I’d like to learn a little more, as long you stay away from two-syllable words.”
“Sorry. It’s been a shitty day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“No problem,” Bachelor said. “Believe me, I understand. I’m having a pretty shitty day myself.”
“Again, sorry. Anyway, in our department, we’re usually trying to match as many bits of data we can, to narrow it down to a single vehicle.”
“What types of data?”
“Well, there’s the VIN.”
“Vehicle Identification Number,” Bachelor butted in.
“Yes. And the license tag, the make, the model, the year, the color, the owner history, the insurance company standing behind it, the dealership that sold the vehicle, body work, emissions control data, the vehicle’s history of traffic violations, parking fines ... what do you need?”
Bachelor was speechless. But speech did come, in a single word.
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Welcome to 1984. Big Brother, but with better technology.”
CHAPTER 18
Three Days Before the Crime
FBI agent Doug Munro sat upright in a comfortable, leather-backed chair in a handsome office at Holy Trinity Catholic Church. The wall was adorned with an intricately carved mahogany crucifix. Across the desk from Munro sat Father Travis Haywood. He was casually dressed, wearing tan slacks and a golf shirt. His receding hairline opened up a strong face, with a Roman nose and ruddy cheeks. He wore fashionable, wire-rim glasses.
Haywood clasped his hands in front of him, resting them on the desktop.
“So what can I do for you, sir?”
Munro checked his cuticles, admiring them. The manicurist did a good job. He pulled out a card and placed it on the desk in front of the priest.
“I suppose you and I are in the same business.”
Father Haywood looked closely at the card, reading every word.
“And what would that be, sir?”
“Indiscretions. Sin. Exploring what, who and why,” Munro said.
“I guess you could say that, though I prefer to concentrate on the first two and leave the last one to God.”
Munro rubbed his strong chin.
“That’s not a bad strategy. Unfortunately, the closest we get to God in law enforcement is a judge or jury. Not perfect, but the best we can do, you know with our sinful nature and all.”
The priest exhaled with more force than he intended.
Munro held up his hands, palms out.
“Don’t worry. This has nothing to do with you or the church. We’re not chasing pedophile priests. Not that you’re one of them. No, I’m looking into a matter that I’m simply hoping you could shed some light on, so to speak.”
Haywood got up and approached an antique oak cabinet. He opened the doors and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses.
“Would you care to join me?”
“I’m sure you’re aware that law enforcement officers aren’t allowed to consume alcoholic beverages while on duty.”
“Of course, Agent Munro. My mistake.”
“Unless they are undercover officers. Which I’m not. Though I could be. Always wanted to be, actually. Or, of course, unless the other party doesn’t rat me out.”
Haywood set a glass down in front of him and the other in front of Munro. A relaxed smile crossed his face as he filled them both half full.
“And I’m sure you know that members of the clergy have a certain … measure of discretion when it comes to serving those who come to us for spiritual council.”
Munro picked up the glass and circled it for a moment, watching the liquid swirl around the edges.
“Aw, let’s cut the bullshit, Padre. We both have jobs with frustrating rules.”
He lifted it to his lips and took a swig.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
Father Haywood sat up.
“I was getting ready to ask you the same thing.”
Munro lit a cigarette. His words followed the smoke rising to the arched ceiling
of the priest’s office.
“I’m investigating something … something that may be referred to as a medical oddity. You know, like a place where there’s an unusual number of residents contracting disease.”
Father Haywood excitedly pulled a cigarette out of a case, put it between his lips and lit it, seemingly with a single motion.
“I’ve heard of such things,” he said. “Fascinating. Like when a high percentage of a natives of some village contract leprosy. Or members of a family seem to get a rare form of cancer. But nothing like that has happened around here that I know of.”
Munro flicked ashes off his cigarette into the ceramic ashtray on the desk. It was decorated with scenes of ancient Rome, done in olive green ink.
“Not exactly. I haven’t seen any lepers running around. But it seems like there’s been a high number of serious medical problems plaguing the migrant community, wouldn’t you say?”
The priest was enjoying the encounter. He suddenly imagined himself as Father Brown, the Catholic Sherlock Holmes.
“I really don’t know. Are there?”
“But you would know, wouldn’t you? I would imagine a good portion of the migrants who work around Cherokee Camp are Catholics, right? And I’m sure many attend services here.”
Haywood grinned and took a drink.
“Mr. Munro, I am enjoying your company. However, I’m not sure how I can help you. I really don’t know what you want from me.”
Munro pushed his cigarette pack into the inside pocket of his dress jacket.
“Father, I don’t know anything about farming, but I do know a little about math. And if these migrant workers are as sick as the Medicaid records show, there’d be damn few to pick any peaches. Or pineapples. Or whatever the hell they pick around here.”
He pushed his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, leaving a dark circle on a rendering of the Coliseum.
“Yet I haven’t heard about an employment problem around here. It wouldn’t be unusual for you to pray with your flock about all this sickness, would it? I mean, you being a priest and all.”
Munro opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet listing names of migrants along with Medicaid billings for treatment of their serious ailments.
“Maybe you could look these names over and let me know whether these people are really sick, or just being used by another one of your parishioners. Just place a mark where the disease doesn’t match the name.”
The priest held the paper as if it were toxic.
“That way, I won’t have to come to Mass next weekend and make it all public, asking for prayers for things that may not be all that real,” Munro continued. “Mass is open to the public, is it not? Especially to public servants such as FBI agents. Catholic in good standing, even.”
Father Haywood looked over the list of names.
“Let’s treat this as a confession, shall we?” he said, as he uncapped a Sharpie.
CHAPTER 16
Three Days After the Crime
David Purcell’s cellphone rang as he was pulling into the driveway. The number wasn’t familiar, but he figured it was the sheriff’s office. It was.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, David. Frank Bachelor. Can you come down to my office?”
David pulled the phone down to his chest and quietly exhaled. He put it up to his ear.
“Now?”
“Now would be good.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.”
“We’ll see you then,” Bachler said.
Forty minutes later, Purcell strolled into Bachelor’s office wearing a smooth pair of Levi’s, scuffed boots and a wife-beater shirt. Bachelor stood and directed him to an interrogation room. There were three folding chairs and a table. The walls were drab gray.
“Need something to drink?” Bachelor asked as David sat down.
David waved him away. “I’m OK.”
Bachelor sat down across the table. He didn’t have anything in his hands. No folder. No photos. Nothing.
“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I’m not going to say I know how you feel, because I don’t.”
David shifted.
“Yeah, it’s tough,” he said.
Bachelor looked into David’s eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“I know what you went through before,” he said. “I wasn’t here then, but I heard all about it. Your parents, I mean.”
David Purcell said nothing.
“Anyway, we need to get as clear a picture as we can of the night of the crime. You know anyone who might have wanted the Van Okins dead?”
Purcell shook his head. His head lowered. He pulled back up, put his hands together and brought his brown eyes back up to meet Bachelor’s blue ones.
“Can’t think of anyone.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with them?”
“We always got along. Well, not at first. The doc didn’t approve of me and Janet getting together. But things changed once he knew we were in love and we were gonna stick it out and everything.”
“You were pretty close, weren’t you?” Bachelor said. “You know, you and the doc.”
“Yeah, like I said. We got along. He figured out I was OK, and I figured out he was OK. We patched it up pretty good. Actually, we had a lotta things in common.”
He turned his head toward Bachelor and looked him straight in the eye.
“I loved Doc. He was as good a man as my father, and I don’t say that lightly, because my dad was … is … my hero.”
David fell back into the chair. Bachelor slowly leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table and tucked his knuckles under his chin.
“So, where were you that night?”
Purcell took in the starkness of the room.
“I was home. You can ask Janet.”
“I did. But she said you didn’t sleep together that night.”
David shifted in his seat. Folding metal chairs don’t provide a lot of comfort. Especially these.
“So?”
“So we hear you’ve been having some problems.”
“Yeah, well, every couple has problems. I slept on the couch.”
Bachelor leaned back in his chair. David pushed his body forward.
“I had pillows, a cover and everything. I’ve been sleeping there a lot lately. Ask her. Hell, you can ask my dog. He was there all night.”
Bachelor kept his eyes on David. Purcell shifted some more, clearly uncomfortable.
“Are you shittin’ me? You think I killed my in-laws?”
“I don’t think anything,” Bachelor said. “I like to let the facts speak for themselves. And the more facts, the better. That’s all. I don’t know if you killed them. But someone did.”
“I didn’t have a reason to.”
“OK. So you’ll help us?”
“Whatever you need,” David said. “But you gotta understand, I got a wife whose folks just got killed. She’s gonna need some ... you know … support. There’s funeral planning, all that.”
“Of course,” Bachelor said. “Take care of your wife. We’ll be in touch.”
Purcell started to rise, then Bachelor raised his finger, as if a thought had just come to him.
“You mind if I take a look at your cellphone?”
“Why do you want my cellphone?”
Bachelor shrugged.
“Just to nail down a timeline. It’s routine.”
David hesitated.
“I don’t have it with me. You kinda caught me by surprise. Plus, I need to keep hold of it. It’s my business, you know. Nobody can survive two minutes without their cellphone.”
Bachelor handed his business card to Purcell. He took it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
“Let me know if anything comes to mind. We’re in this together, you know.”
“Will do. Can I go now?”
“Sure. You’re a free man. For now.”
Purcell walked out of the office, out of the cou
rthouse and onto the street. He took Bachelor’s business card, secured it between his thumb and index finger, then flicked it forward, trying to make it fly like a Frisbee. It didn’t. It fluttered and fell to the sidewalk.
He got in his truck and pulled away.
CHAPTER 17
“Got a hit,” Carroll said as he burst into Bachelor’s office. He was holding a paper he had just pulled from the fax machine.
Bachelor took the paper and scanned the sheet, printed with the heading Office of the Illinois Secretary of State, Information Technology. The truck was indeed a white 2004 Chevy S-10. The vehicle identification number and full license plate number was listed.
The truck was registered to a Jake Alvis, 10450 Hays Road, just a few miles outside Cherokee Camp.
“Let’s go pay Mr. Alvis a visit,” Bachelor said to Carroll as he placed the sheet into a folder. “See why he was turning around in the circle drive of the Van Okin house in the wee hours of the morning of August the third.”
They hopped in a squad car and a few minutes later pulled into the driveway of the Alvis place. It was a handsome yet dated one-story ranch-style house with a one-car garage and a couple of outbuildings.
Parked in front of a small pole barn was a white 2004 Chevy S-10 with the license plate L34M397.
The drapes were drawn on the windows of the house. There were no swing sets or other indication that children lived there. The landscaping was bare bones. The grass was getting a bit long.
Bachelor knocked on the front door as Carroll stood on the porch, looking around the grounds. There was no answer. He knocked a few more times, again with no response.
The two officers walked around the back to see a small screened-in porch. No one seemed to be home.
“Let’s check with the neighbors,” Bachelor said.
They got in the car and pulled into a drive just down the road from the Alvis home. This time they didn’t need to knock. There was a party going on outside. Burgers and brats were sizzling on the grill and about a dozen people were standing around drinking beer and talking. Children giggled as they took turns running through a sprinkler. Everyone looked up as the squad car pulled into the drive. The officers got out and approached them.