by Henry Perez
Thinking about all of this, and flipping it around in his mind until separating fact from speculation became nearly impossible, reminded him of something. Chapa tracked Zach down in the archives, a crowded storage room located in a back corner of the second floor.
“Did you have a chance to look into the stickman murder connection?”
“Oh yeah, I did some online searches. There’s a whole urban myth surrounding it, dating back to the 1980s, but not a lot of hard info.”
“So it predates the Internet.”
“Pretty much. Check out the blogs, it’s all there.”
Chapa thanked him and headed back downstairs. On the way to his office he passed a guy whom he recognized, but not as a member of the staff.
“I’m Ted Bruce,” he said, though Chapa had not asked.
“Right, I saw you at City Hall.”
“I run a public relations firm that does a lot of good work with the city and its leading businesses.”
He gave Chapa his card.
“Of course,” Chapa said.
Ted Bruce vibed former jock, or he could’ve been that guy who was built like an athlete but never got into sports. He had high cheekbones and a hard chin. Chapa sensed the guy’s strong blue eyes were trying to read him like a security scanner.
“I’m here to see your boss.”
“Matthew Sullivan?”
“No,” Bruce smiled, but only the middle third of his lips got in on the action. “Bigger.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I assume you know where his office is located,” Chapa said, then started to point in the right direction.
“Of course,” Bruce said as he walked away.
Chapa continued to his office and did just as Zach had suggested. He found a couple of blogs that mentioned stick figures and pattern killings. One even had a photo of a purported crime scene.
There was one blog that he found of particular interest. It made mention of the Traveling Serial Killer Museum, another urban legend. In this case, one that Chapa knew to be true. But it did not connect back to anything like the stickman murders. A dead end.
Chapa looked over at the clock on his desk. It was a compact travel version he had picked up some years back while on assignment. A small plane attached to the end of the second hand was rotating around the dial. When he bought the clock at a shop in the terminal at Midway, Chapa hoped it would inspire him to travel more. It hadn’t worked out that way, but ten years later the thing still kept good time.
It was just after three. He was supposed to meet Erin and the kids at his house in a couple of hours.
He had finished two stories for the next day’s paper. One was the sort of space filler he was supposed to be writing, the other a vintage Chapa piece about Clarkson’s death, and the former agent’s theories about the stickman murders. He had done his best to keep that aspect of the story as low-key as possible. But ignoring it altogether would’ve been dishonest and irresponsible, and Chapa’s writing was never either of those.
Why had Clarkson asked Chapa to meet him at that park? Clarkson’s death fit the pattern he himself had identified, but only to a point. He wasn’t one of society’s lost souls. Maybe this killer doesn’t follow a strict pattern. Or maybe…
Chapa started searching through the notes that Zach had put together for him, placing the various sheets of paper across his desk in a chronological order.
What followed the killings in Baltimore? A cop turned up dead, then a respected businessman died in a car crash two days later. And the earlier murders in Pittsburgh may have ended with the accidental death of Clarkson’s wife.
Maybe those were unrelated, and two really were accidents. Or maybe this killer broadened his scope whenever he felt threatened. If that was the case, no one was safe now.
Then Chapa remembered something Tom Jackson said about a college student being killed at Fletcher Woods. He examined the Record’s computer files until he located the story. The man’s name was Wade Marshall. He’d been found with his neck split open on the east bank of the river, the opposite side of the park from the windmill. Police determined that the deceased had been involved in minor campus drug deals and a bit of bookmaking, and decided that he’d probably crossed the wrong person.
Chapa printed out a newspaper photo of the crime scene. A uniformed cop stood in the foreground, near the spot where the body was found. A wooden, curved footbridge angled off into the distance. Chapa wasn’t familiar with that area of the large park, but figured he could use the landmarks in the photo to find it.
He slipped the picture and story into his notebook, and turned his attention back to his own work. Twenty minutes later, Chapa had revised and filed his two stories. He turned off the computer, closed down his office, and headed off to Fletcher Forest Preserve.
Chapter 50
The man sits at a desk in his house, filling a legal pad with neatly drawn stick figures. Line by line, page by page. He hears the pen scratch another simple corpse into the paper.
He is still wearing the business clothes he wore at a board meeting earlier that morning. The same clothes he had on when he worked on a major deal just after lunch.
The room he is in, like the rest of his house, contains only what he needs, nothing more. And he doesn’t need much. Things like furniture, clothes, or any personal items can create a trail, and leave behind a mark. Make it easier for others to understand who you are. Not a good idea.
There’s a stale smell from the old air that fills the house. It’s the same air that’s been trapped there since the man moved in a few years ago, since he’s never opened a window or walked through a door without immediately shutting it. Can’t risk letting the outside in.
He continues his work, it soothes him. Line by line, page by page. He thinks about the stick figures he’s erased. The pimps, the pushers, the gangbangers, the thieves, the liars, and the cheats, and those who’ve shielded or defended them. Not human, really. Just two-dimensional creatures driven by their base urges.
The man believes he can see behind the masks that people wear. He sees the stickmen for what they actually are inside, whether they’re hiding behind a title or a weapon, expensive clothes or homeboy tattoos. He gets a special rush from cutting them open and letting the evil pour out.
He thinks about the community leaders who still don’t appreciate his efforts to make their town a better place by eliminating the worst of the worst. They need to learn the importance of appreciation. And they will. Soon. He’s already forced two of them to kill for him. They remind him of the men who used to pay to spend time with his mother.
The man is almost done with the last page, the last line, but stops when there’s only enough room left for a few more figures. Then the man slowly fills in the space he imagines had been reserved for Martin Clarkson.
He knows who the last space is for, it’s the reason he chose this place. Then he thinks about Alex Chapa and how he allowed his daughter to wander where she should not have been. And how he keeps digging around, even though he isn’t getting anywhere. Though he did find Clarkson’s body. What was he doing at the park?
The man was there, hiding in the trees, watching the police move in from the other direction. He planned it so well, but he had not planned on Chapa. Maybe the man should have taken both of them out. He could have finished Chapa with one quick cut.
But he had already phoned the police. He could not have known how long it would take them to get there.
The man can’t be certain, but he wonders if Chapa was the person who showed up at his workhouse after that old woman filed a complaint. The man wasn’t there at the time, but his associate told him all about it. A guy from the city. Only a simple creature like Cal would fall for that.
He wonders if that’s why Clarkson asked Chapa to meet him there at the park. Could’ve had something to do with the dead reporter. Maybe it was about the punk he killed there last year.
Could there be any traces left of that killing? T
he man considers whether he should go back and see. He’d been very careful, as always, then made certain police came across some of the details about the victim’s life.
But could he have missed something? That was months ago, but Clarkson was once a good agent. He might have found something.
Again he thinks about Alex Chapa, and how the reporter keeps turning up where he shouldn’t.
The man digs his nails into the wood table as if he’s trying to scratch an itch he just can’t get at. Again and again. The table is scarred with the remnants of old frustrations alongside newer ones.
Perhaps he should go back to Fletcher Woods. He could go right now, get there before sunset. Then he’d know for sure. There would probably still be some police milling around the area where Clarkson was killed, maybe even a TV reporter or two, but that was a separate area of the park.
He could go right to where he’d made the kill and left the body that a boater found the next day. No one would see him. And what if they did? Wouldn’t matter. He’s a vital member of the community, just out for a stroll after a big day of meetings and deal making. Just winding down.
The man thinks about this for a while, and decides it’s a good idea. He’s not clawing at the table now. He thinks about the other reporter who got too close, the one they’re putting in the ground tomorrow. Then his mind rushes back to Alex Chapa.
A smart reporter would’ve stayed away from Chakowski’s death, just like a good father would’ve left his daughter at home. He decides that Chapa is not a good father, but he might be too good of a reporter.
The man resists the urge to dig his fingernails into the table again by focusing on the inch-long blank space at the end of the last line. He decides to leave it that way, with enough room for three or four or more figures. Then he grabs his car keys and heads out the door.
He figures it should take him no more than ten minutes to reach the forest preserve.
Chapter 51
Fletcher Woods, as everyone in the area called the preserve, hugged the Fox River for nearly five miles on the east side and three on the west. But Chapa was only interested in a few yards down near the waterline.
He parked in a small secluded lot off Culverson Road, not far from a deserted picnic area. There were four other vehicles there, but Chapa didn’t see anyone. This half of the park was a favorite destination for runners and bikers, because the kids and the families didn’t find it as appealing.
His cell phone signal was low and battery power lower. So he plugged in the charger and stashed the phone under the dash.
Examining the crime scene photo, Chapa determined that the small bridge and the area he was looking for should be about a half mile to the north. He started down a paved path, which eventually became gravel, then dirt, and finally matted grass. He soon realized this wasn’t a well-traveled area.
The gusts that had blown shut the windmill’s door earlier that day had given way to a far more agreeable breeze, which brushed against the branches and shook the surviving leaves. The sun was in full descent, and Chapa had no interest in crossing the woods after dark.
Chapa first saw the footbridge from a distance of roughly forty yards through a small clearing. He resisted the urge to cut through the trees, and instead remained on the path, which had turned into dirt again. When he emerged from the woods, Chapa saw that he’d been wrong about the location of the crime scene.
The bridge was much smaller and farther from the river than it appeared in the photo. It was more ornamental than anything, traversing only a pond so small that it probably dried up altogether during droughts.
The mental image that he’d formed of the area from the photo seemed distorted now that he was actually there. Some landmarks were too far away, others closer than imagined.
Holding the photo out in front of him, his back to the river, Chapa walked away from the bridge until it seemed to be about the right size as in the picture. He looked around at the area where he was standing. There was nothing unusual about it. The tree line curved past, about thirty feet away. Forty yards or so downriver, the sun shone off a large metal bridge connecting one bank to the other.
Chapa imagined folks fishing off it on weekend mornings. Fathers dropping a line into the dark, rushing water while sharing memories with their kids, having no idea of the violence that occurred just a few feet up along the shore.
But in a sense, that made this place no different from many other places. Chapa figured out long ago that there wasn’t a square mile of land that had not once been home to death.
Chapa was wondering if the killer and victim came here together, or if one was waiting for the other, when he heard a sound that seemed to be coming from beyond the trees, away from the path. He turned in that direction, looked for movement, waited, but saw none.
The woods were home to a variety of wildlife. Every couple of years someone would get arrested for hunting deer in this area, and that thought made Chapa think about the clothes he was wearing. Maybe something bright and orange would’ve been better than the dark jeans, dark green polo, and black jacket he had on.
When a minute had passed and nothing jumped out of the woods, Chapa resumed his search, though he wasn’t entirely certain what he was looking for. He walked over to the footbridge, and started up one of its steep curves, searching for a stick figure. The wood was old and darkened by time. It appeared that this structure, like the area surrounding it, didn’t merit much attention from park keepers.
As he squatted to get a look under a six-foot-long stretch of a railing, Chapa wondered how Clarkson would’ve gone about this. He probably had it down to a science, and knew exactly where to look. Maybe he had already found something here, and this crime scene was the reason Clarkson had wanted to meet him by the windmill.
Then why not just ask Chapa to meet here? Too remote. Chapa glanced over at the large bridge and wondered how far of a walk it would be from the windmill. Five minutes, maybe, depending on the sort of trail that connected the two areas. Though it was difficult to say with any certainty, especially after the disorienting experience of winding through the path from his car to this place.
Movement. Something large. A quick wave of shadow just inside the woods.
Chapa stood quickly and scanned the trees, doing his best to look through them and into the brush beyond. But he saw no more sign of movement, nothing other than October leaves waving their last goodbyes.
Could be what he’d seen out of the corner of his eye was actually farther away, up along the path. A jogger, perhaps. He walked down the other curve and away from the small bridge, then stopped and turned back to look at it.
Was that the sort of place where a killer would leave his mark? He had no idea.
There was no pavement or path along the river where the body had been found. Nowhere to scratch a figure like the one Chapa thought he had seen in the alley photo.
Chapa kept looking toward the trees as he walked along the water’s edge in the direction of the larger bridge. He considered the possibility the killer might have sliced a stickman into the bark of an old maple. But there were so many of them, and it was probably safe to assume he wanted his signature to be found. Not easily, perhaps, but not too well hidden, either.
A patch of white gravel led the way to the bridge, which was wider and not quite as well-maintained as it appeared from a distance. Its silver aluminum sides knifed through the air like long sabers, and reached across the river. The deck was made of a series of oak slats that creaked underfoot as Chapa walked to the middle.
He stared down into the Fox River, which in his youth had been too polluted to fish or swim, evidenced by the way it had once looked and smelled on steamy summer days. The kids would make up stories about monsters rising up from the foul water, taking to land and attacking anyone in their path.
But years of highly funded clean-up projects made that largely a thing of the past. Even now that the river was suitable for fishing, its swift waters were dark and deep
, and Chapa remembered a friend once telling him about how the riverbank fell off after just a yard or so, with no footing beneath.
He looked upriver and toward the muddy area where the body was found. An ideal place for a murder, assuming you could find someone gullible enough to meet you here. Chapa felt his chest tighten a bit. Had Clarkson been his killer’s only target? Had the cops arrived at that windmill just in time to keep Chapa from becoming the next victim?
It was time to go. He took one final panoramic look across the area. A small bridge, a narrow riverbank, the woods, the river. No picnic tables or benches, this wasn’t that sort of place.
A sign on the bridge read NO DIVING. There was another one down along the river, apparently for anyone too smart to dive in the river, but dumb enough to go wading in it.
Chapa left the bridge and walked back to where he estimated the body had been found. The seasons had come and gone three times over, taking with them any residual evidence that a crime had been committed here. If the killer had left his mark anywhere on the six-inch-tall grass or along the shifting riverbank, it was long gone.
He started back toward the path, frustrated about having learned nothing new in the past half hour. Something caught his eye as he came up on the small rectangular sign he’d seen from the bridge. This one was different—it did not read NO DIVING.
The elements had chewed away at the metal, leaving its edges uneven and discolored. The sign leaned toward the river about three feet off the ground and read NO SWIMMING. There was nothing unusual about that. But when Chapa drew in and got a better look at the rest of it he felt something primal claw at his spine as his senses jolted into full alert.
Squatting to get a better look at the remnants of paint, Chapa discerned that the sign had originally shown a simple black figure of a diver going headfirst into the water, which was represented by a series of wide, squat U’s, the way a child draws the ocean. There was a small red X covering the diver, making sure no one got the wrong idea.