by GM Ford
“But just the implication that it might have been one of ours who was responsible for the release of classified information,” Rosen began, but Bobby cut him off. “His service record will deflect any sort of half-assed implications. The man’s earned two Presidential citations. He’s killed in the service of his country. Lost a hand. Been decorated no less than nine times. They don’t catch him with the smoking gun, they don’t catch him at all.” He made a Boy Scouts Honor sign with his fingers. His drawl was suddenly thicker. “And believe you me partner, they ain’t gonna catch that old boy standing on the rug with his johnson in his hand. Just ain’t gonna happen. Not in this lifetime anyways.”
Rosen seemed to relax. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember the last time Justice sent investigators over here, back when I first started. Not exactly awe inspiring investigative work as I recall.”
“Looked like two monkeys trying to fuck a football,” Bobby said.
42
He’d locked the kitchen door and slung his backpack over his shoulder when the rough voice nearly jolted him from his boots.
“Goin’ somewhere?”
Illinois State Police Officer, cruiser and all, standing in the back yard. Silly little trooper’s hat perched atop his big bullet head like a peanut shell on a watermelon. Sergeant’s stripes and insignia. Name tag read: Trooper Severs. Apparently, the cop had driven through the open gate, gotten all the way around to the back of the house while he’d been busy inside, closing up for the final time.
The trooper kept his right hand resting on the butt of his holstered nine- millimeter. The little leather safety strap was undone and pushed out of the way.
“Wha...what?” he stammered.
“Takin’ a trip?”
He pointed at the car. “My nephew. We’re gonna visit some relatives in Michigan.”
“Where in Michigan?”
“Calumet.”
“Cold up there this time of year,” Trooper Severs said with a mock shiver.
He picked up the conversational cue. Cue number nine. They were supposed to talk about the weather now.
“What can I do for you?” he asked instead.
The unexpected segue annoyed the trooper. This was an old fashioned bull- necked state cop, a man accustomed to asking the questions and having them answered. “You know a lady named Harriet Lopresi?” he tried.
“She delivers my mail.”
“Didn’t report to work this morning. Her car’s not in her garage either.”
“Huh.”
“Real outta character for her,” the cop said.
“Wouldn’t know,” the man said.
“Woman’s regular as rain,” the big cop assured him. “First work day she missed in eight or nine years. Been so long nobody knew exactly.”
Overhead, a rowdy gaggle of birds skipped shadows across the ground as they flitted and squawked their way up to the peak of the barn roof.
“We’re checkin’ everybody on her postal route,” Severs said. “See if maybe we can’t get a line on her.” He looked up, drawn by the erratic motion of the birds.
“Haven’t seen her,” the man said.
“Mind if I look around?” Severs asked.
“Go ahead.”
The affability of the offer seemed to relax Trooper Severs. He pulled his hand from the butt of his gun and made a bee-line for the barn doors. The man followed along, helped him slide the doors aside and then flipped on the lights for him.
Twenty-nine years of law-enforcement experience had not prepared Trooper Severs for what happened next. In all that time, he’d only drawn his service weapon on three occasions. All three times, when he reached for his weapon, it was right there, exactly where it was supposed to be, cradled in stiff leather, waiting for his big calloused hand to set it free.
He was pretty quick on the uptake for an old guy. Took him all of two seconds to reach for his weapon after his eyes beheld the scene inside the barn. Took another second for Severs to realize the gun was gone. He turned slowly toward the young man.
“Listen to me…” the trooper began.
The birds burst from the roof in a flapping mass of feathers, skimming low over the fields, forming a wheeling, veering squadron before disappearing into the black copse of trees to the north of the house.
He left the gate standing open, stopping only long enough to pull The Chicago Tribune from the plastic tube next to the mailbox.
43
From a quarter mile away, the undersides of the clouds throbbed like a day-old bruise. Hues of red and blue and yellow colored the sky, as the whirling reflections of a dozen law enforcement light-bars flickered like signal fires.
Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams stepped around the Illinois State Police cruiser blocking the end of the driveway. Audrey took the lead as they walked single file down the grassy berm, saving their shoes from the muddy ruts on either side.
The areas immediately adjacent to the farm house were bumper to bumper with official vehicles and humming with police activity. An enormous black FBI Mobile Command Module (MCM) was parked across the face of the red barn, blocking any possible line of sight from the road.
“House and fourteen acres owned for the past eighteen years by one Orin L. Townsend of South Chicago, Illinois,” Audrey said.
“AKA Harry Joyce,” Craig said bitterly.
Further regrets were interrupted as a figure in a gray overcoat detached himself from the crowd and started walking their way. Last of the flat-top hair cuts. His coat buttoned to the chin with a badge pinned to the collar. He moved like a man who seldom found himself impeded. Gold badge, Captain, Illinois State Police.
Drawing near, Audrey checked over her shoulder, thinking perhaps this was also someone whom Craig knew from a past life. Craig, however, had veered off to his left. He’d plucked a white cardboard box from the porch rail, opened the lid and was now peering inside.
The other man approached with his hand extended. Audrey took it.
“Tom Jankowski,” he said.
Audrey introduced both herself and Jackson Craig.
“Hell of a thing,” Jankowski said.
“What have we got?” she asked.
“Three vehicles. Three bodies,” he said. “One of them a local postal worker. The second apparently the one-time Sheriff of Sterling County, South Dakota. The third….” His voice cracked. He looked away and cleared his throat. “The third was one of our own.” He coughed into his fist and looked toward the barn. “Trooper Forrest Severs. Twenty-nine year veteran of the force.” He shrugged. “Counting the months until his retirement,” he said. “He and Pam…his wife Pam…just bought a place down in Naples, Florida.” Emotion overwhelmed him again. “He deserved better than this,” Jankowski said bitterly.
Jackson Craig appeared at Audrey’s side. The two men traded grim expressions and firm handshakes. Craig inclined his head toward the house.
“Chocolate cake,” he said.
“The locals tell me it came from the postal worker. Seems she’s famous for her chocolate cake. Won prizes at the county fair and all.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Audrey said.
Jankowski nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned and walked toward the barn, leaning forward as if forcing himself through a strong wind.
A flick of movement drew Audrey’s eyes upward, all the way up to the barn’s ridgeline, where half a dozen crows sat facing the other way, as if disgusted with the scene below.
Audrey followed the men around the front of the MCM and into the enormous farm building. The three cars were parked side to side to side across the front of the barn. Three collapsible gurneys. Three zipped-up body bags. A forensics team was dusting for prints. Two crews of medical technicians swarmed the vehicles like ants at a company picnic.
“Preliminary?” Craig asked.
“Trooper Severs was on patrol, looking for the mail carrier. He was shot once in the back of the head with his service piece.”
&
nbsp; “Stab wounds?” Audrey asked.
Jankowski shook his head. “No.”.
“The postal worker?” Craig asked.
“Shot once in the upper right thigh and three times in the forehead with a Smith and Wesson forty caliber revolver.” He pointed out toward the road. “My people tell me it happened out in the front yard.”
“Knife wounds?”
Jankowski gulped air. “He cut off her nipples and placed them over Trooper Severs’s eyes. Looked like he was…” Jankowski blinked several times, as if trying to make the image disappear from his mind. “Jesus,” he said. “I thought I’d seen it all.”
“As bizarre as it sounds, he’s done the same thing before.” Audrey pressed on. “And the sheriff?”
“He was found in the trunk of his car. Throat cut. Stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Too many to count. They all ran into one another.” He shot a quick glance at Audrey whose gaze was unwavering. “His penis had been excised,” Jankowski said.
“In the trunk with him?” Craig asked.
Jankowski shook his head and shrugged. “Nowhere to be found.”
“Probably had it out when he was attacked,” Audrey said.
The suggestion struck the men dumb. They passed a furtive look, neither of them willing to ask the obvious question.
Audrey explained about the conversation she’d overheard between Jennifer Parsons and her father, including the difficulty the old man was having relieving himself.
“What the hell’s the matter with this guy?” Jankowski demanded.
“That would fill volumes,” Audrey assured him.
“Anything forensic?” Craig asked.
“Clean as a whistle,” Jankowsi said. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small white envelope. “Except for this,” he said. “Found it in the sheriff’s car.” He shrugged. “Probably belonged to the old guy in the trunk…” He spread his hands in resignation. “But you never know.”
Jackson Craig peered inside, and then handed the envelope to Audrey Williams.
Inside was a perforated strip. The kind you tore off of a check. Craig held it to the light. A portion of a water mark was visible.
“Take it with you. You can probably get an analysis a hell of a lot quicker than I can,” Jankowski said. “We’re the better part of two weeks out.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Craig promised.
“The press has gotten wind of it,” Jankowski said. “We’re not going to have the scene to ourselves for long.” He pointed to the woods at the back of the property. “I’ve already had to chase a couple of camera crews from the trees back there.”
“Hey Jankowski,” someone shouted from inside the building.
“Mind if we look around a bit?” Jackson Craig asked.
“Be my guest,” Jankowski said before striding into the barn.
Took them an hour and forty minutes to make the circuit. The only thing notable was in the upstairs bedroom at the back of the house. In the room directly over the kitchen, three dirty mattresses lay in a pile beneath the rear window.
Craig folded his arms across his chest and stood staring for a long moment before bending and opening the lower half of the window. A frozen stream of air immediately plastered his trousers to his legs. Jackson Craig lowered himself face down onto the mattresses.
Audrey watched from the doorway as Craig swept his eyes in a wide, slow arc. His gaze moved from left to right and then stopped. She watched as he rolled up onto his left side, patted the pocket of his overcoat and extracted his binoculars.
Ten seconds passed. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
“What?”
Craig pushed himself to his feet. Held out the binoculars. “Have a look,” he said.
Audrey stretched out. The mattresses smelled of sweat and mildew. She pushed herself higher onto her elbows and adjusted the focus.
“See the tallest tree?” Craig asked.
Audrey said she did.
“Three thumbs to the right. Almost at ground level,” Craig prompted.
Two corrections from Craig and she was on it. “What is that?” she asked.
“A target,” Craig said. “Human silhouette.”
She looked again. “You’re right.”
“I’d be willing to wager that the distance from here to the target is going to be seven hundred and some odd yards. Downward trajectory. Wind in the shooter’s face.”
“Just like Wyoming.”
“Look at those hay bales out in the field.”
“What about them?”
He pointed at the nearest bale. “Hundred yards.” He pointed again. “Two hundred yards.” His bouncing finger found each successive bale, all the way out to the silhouette at the back of the property.
“This is where he practiced the Wyoming shot,” Audrey said.
“He’d been planning this for a long time.”
“That’s how he operates,” she said. “He practices everything. He has to. Everything he knows about surviving in this world he probably had to learn for himself. So he’s developed a system for himself.. Keep what works. Throw the rest out.”
“Which is why we have to keep pressing him,” Craig said. “We’ve got to keep him outside of his comfort zone. Keep him improvising, which, as it happens, isn’t what he’s good at.”
Twenty minutes later, Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams stood on the front lawn looking down at a patch of matted, bloodstained grass.
“Obsessively clean and tidy,” Audrey commented. “Place looked like my grandmother had cleaned it.”
Craig nodded. “You were dead on about the ‘nesting’ syndrome,” Craig said. “Except Colin didn’t have to make a nest for himself. He already had this place. This is where Harry brought him when he was a boy.” He swiveled his head. “Did you notice the locks on the doors and gates?” he asked.
“Williams of Sonoma State,” Audrey quipped. “The place is a prison camp.”
“He was planning to settle in for a while. Get the boy accustomed to the situation, get their routine established.”
“The abused become the abusers,” Audrey observed.
Jackson Craig didn’t argue. A sudden gust of wind swirled the snow in the front yard. The pair of troopers out in the street were telling a passing motorist to keep it moving. They watched the car creep out of view.
“I wonder what changed his mind?” Audrey asked.
Craig gestured disgustedly toward the porch. “Maybe he didn’t like chocolate cake.”
“The mail carrier must have had something to do with it,” Audrey said. “Otherwise there was no point in killing her. Maybe she showed up unannounced with the cake and saw something she shouldn’t have seen.”
“Makes sense,” Craig allowed.
“What now?” she asked.
“We keep pressing him. We can’t let him have time to carry out whatever he has in mind. We have to keep him on the move. The question is: to where?”
“Same as before,” Audrey said. “He goes home. Back to the only place he knows. Back to where he feels safe.”
“South Chicago.”
“Gotta be.”
Jackson Craig thought it over. “I’ll make some calls,” he said after a moment.
“I’ll make the call to Sheriff Parsons,” Audrey said.
Jackson Craig winced. “You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “You handled Rebecca. I’ll take care of the sheriff.”
44
“Don’t cry,” Michael said, reaching out toward the man, who flinched at the boy’s touch and jerked his arm away.
“It’ll be alright,” the little boy whispered.
“Shut up,” the man said.
He’d been alternately crying and screaming at the walls for over two hours. He’d swept their chips and deli sandwiches from the table, torn the newspaper to confetti, and kicked the TV over on its side where it lay hissing on the damp stone floor.
Michael backed into the far corner
of the room and watched the man throw his head back and bellow at the ceiling until he began to drool from the corners of his mouth.
They were in a series of connected tunnels, bisected here and there by stone drainage canals. The area smelled like the ocean, damp, salty, and alive with slimy green moss. Michael crawled deeper into the corner, squatting onto his haunches, flattening his back against the wet brick wall.
The man was raving now. Screaming about the lies. Calling somebody a lying filthy bitch over and over and over as he stumbled around the room, destroying anything and everything in his path. “One,” the man screamed. “One…”
The man stood in the center of the space and chanted the word more times than Michael could count. The boy closed his eyes, put his hands over his ears and tried to push himself backwards through the wall.
__
“I want that poster on every light pole. Every mailbox. Every business with a window. Talk to people. Nobody lives in a neighborhood for twenty-some years and doesn’t leave a footprint of some kind. There’s a link out there somewhere. Be the one to find it.”
Seventy-three frozen faces bobbed this way and that in order to get a better line of sight. Jackson Craig continued. “This is old-fashioned police work. The kind of thing a computer is never going to be able to do.” He looked them over. “No sequence of plusses and minuses is ever going to form a bond with people. That’s what the Chicago PD is training you to do. Go do it.” He paused.
“Any questions?” he asked.
This year’s training class of The Chicago Police Academy stood in loose ranks on the outdoor basketball court of the South Chicago Community School. Each trainee wore a day-glow green safety vest over his uniform. Some flapped their arms to keep warm; others hopped from foot to foot. Ten seconds passed. Apparently nobody had a question. “Muster back here at six p.m. ,” Craig yelled as they began to disperse.
Craig once again thanked Detective Sergeant Leonard for the use of the Police Academy recruits.
Detective Sergeant Barry Leonard looked the part. A solid six feet, hundred and eighty-five pounds of hair helmet, clad in an immaculate English suit.