“I’ll head that way. Give me a few,” he said.
There were two others taken before Grayson, three if you included the girl. If they continued in order, there was time for him. If?
Pressing the switchhook he listened for a dial tone then phoned Katherine.
An alert, worried voice rattled, “Hello?”
“It’s not him,” he slurred.
“Bo?”
“Yes,” he said, shaking the cobwebs from his head. "There's another body but it's not Grayson."
“You’re certain?”
“I have it on good authority but I’ve yet to see for myself.”
“Let me know when you have.”
“I will.”
“Oh Bo,” Katherine said.
He waited.
“Who was it this time?”
“Can’t say yet, all I can say is it’s not Grayson.”
“Thank God for that.”
Bo heard the words claw at her throat scratching a gasp.
“How terrible of me – someone’s child has died and I’m glad. I’m glad because it means mine is still alive or at least I hope he is.”
“It's a natural reaction Katie. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Please find him Bo. You know I’m not a woman who begs. But I’m begging you - bring my baby home.”
Bo hung up and went to shower. He needed to think. With the water raining down, he recalled Grayson’s penchant for chess and other strategy games. He thought of how he intended on using his interest to design and make games for personal computers. He spoke of seeing a time when everyone would have their own computer, even handheld ones like in the science fiction stories.
“You can’t spend the whole day working. These machines, these computers,” he would say, “they need to fulfill more than business tasks, serious tasks. To be accepted they must be entertaining and social as well.” Fourteen.
On the drive to the lake, his thoughts turned to Katherine.
In 1967, the summer of love was spreading through the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. Far removed at Vanderbilt University, the warm vibes spilled over. While on campus visiting a friend, Bo noticed Katherine walking.
Dark red hair and golden tan in a bouncy bikini top, she tossed a Moonlighter Frisbee to herself. As she approached, Katherine smiled, tugged a tuft of red hair, bit her lip soft then giggled into a one-shouldered shrug. Her green eyes exploded in a flash of sunlight through the trees. Bo was enthralled.
Watching her cheeky walk in cutoff jeans shorts, he managed to find the hard side of a sycamore tree – and bounded to his butt. As if on cue, Katherine glanced back in time to witness the embarrassment. She stopped and laughed openly. Accepting partial responsibility, she walked back to help.
Bo dusted off his pride and asked her to lunch.
“Lunch’d be great,” she said, her hand falling against his chest, “but I’m working.” She frowned and shrugged a shoulder again.
Bo considered her attire. “Where ever do you work?”
Katherine smiled and giggled into a laugh. “Wanna see?”
“Sure.”
She led him to the football team’s practice field filled with a makeshift obstacle course and vendor tents.
“Here we are,” she pointed.
Bo saw a beer truck with several tables alongside. A few girls filled cups and handed them to people.
“You’re a bartender?”
“No not at all,” her face scrunched wrinkling her nose. “It’s just beer.” She found another shrug. “And sodas and lemonade.”
“Oh.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a marketing thing. We’re giving out free beverages to advertise the company’s brands.”
“Sort of the way a drug dealer works – free samples to get you hooked?”
Her smile burst into another laugh. “Sure I - uh - guess so if that’s the way you see it. Come on.”
They walked to the truck.
“Hey boss,” said one girl.
“Hey boss,” said another.
“Hello ladies,” Katherine replied.
“You’re the boss?”
“Well. Sure. Can't I be?”
“You do this regularly?”
“Kind of. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve done for money.”
Bo pulled back.
Katherine smiled and his mind eased. “Want a beer?” she asked, slipping into a tie-dyed t-shirt. “You are eighteen, aren’t you?” She brushed a hand through his hair. “From a distance this color makes you appear older.”
“Does it?”
“It does. I don’t mean it as a bad thing,” her head shook then nodded into another smile, “I like it.” She brushed it with her hand again. “It makes you stand out, distinguished, unique.”
Bo blushed.
Katherine leaned in close. He smelled her delicate perfume. “Go find us something to eat,” she whispered and pulled away. The emerald green of her eyes burst forth like lasers forever etching her name on his heart. “I’m starving,” she finished.
Bo trekked off without a clue of what she liked or disliked. He brought her samples of Buffalo chicken wings and she paid him with a smile. He brought more food and she gave more smiles. If he had not already enlisted, he would have spent each day finding ways to make her smile. When he brought her a butter pecan ice cream cone, she rewarded him with a bonus – a kiss on the cheek.
He spent the next month strategizing ways to “accidentally” bump into Katherine. His final week before basic, Bo heaped every free moment and every ounce of free love upon her. Before he shipped out, he professed his love for her. She promised to wait for his return.
And she did. It was he who failed her. He did not return. At least the Bo who walked into a tree catching her eye and doting over her every want or need did not. That Bo died in Southeast Asia. The man returned nothing of the boy who had gone. That Bo turned her smiles into tears.
A sad Bo arrived at the lake crime scene. He didn't want to be there again. It served no purpose in his thinking. Hunting the dead produced only that and nothing more. He did the once around and found Phillip more like John Henry than Harold. As he expected. The killer used acid on Phillip's face but not his torso and genitals. On the ride home, Bo swung past some of the map dots Gunner asked about.
The unwatched ball is most likely to smack you in the face.
I never considered the shell game magic or gambling. It is a con, a trompe l’oeil, a deception of the eye in forced perspective. Its sole purpose to make you take your eye off the ball. My killing Harold had succeeded to that end.
Having lost all interest in missing boys, the police were doing a wonderful job of portraying the mark. Idiots.
I knew Walter would view it as a valuable opportunity to feed his obsession. Saturday was my first chance to check the camp storage since Walter's last kill. As I expected, the entire supply had spoiled. With limited space, we could not provide extensive rations. It was nothing like the space I had kept Harold.
The water tank sucked bone dry, it likely only lasted a couple of days. A waste of good meat I thought - then dismissed. They were cheap and easy enough to replace. I buried them with the rest of the garbage and worked on clearing the funk.
I felt Walter would be eager to replace the stock. I had hoped he was done but the last I saw of him I could see the need growing in his eyes. He wanted satisfaction and became irritable when denied. I would try to keep him to one, a quick snack to hold him over. Why was I not enough.
When he decided to join me late evening, he had other plans.
"I want five," he said.
"Walter, that's too many. It'll be noticed."
"With Wolf Lake, they won't even raise an eyebrow. In fact make it six."
"Six? We can't hold that many."
"There won't be a need to." He smiled and stroked my cheek.
I leaned close and gave him a long, tender kiss. "I'll do what I can.
No promises."
"No promises?"
"And if I don't already know, when do you want them?"
He smiled again. "I brought the van."
I sighed. "Can I take them from the city?"
"No." The word was sharp and hard. "The usual."
"Why does it make a difference where they come from?"
"It does and that's all that matters."
"Why are you being so contrary?" he asked.
His words scolded me.
"Is this Harold's doing?" he continued.
My head fell submissive. I felt less than. My eyes raised to meet his. I knew he had a power over me. "No," I said in a wounded tone.
He lifted my chin.
"I'll go," I said standing to leave.
Walter relaxed into a wide, overstuffed club chair.
I drove toward Hammond. Passing south of the city, I considered shopping locally. I thought and decided against the idea. "He would know," I said aloud. I did not know how but was certain Walter would know.
It was late so the younger, easier boys were home safe. I came across three older boys sitting on a piece of shit black Caprice Classic. All three were smoking and drinking Miller Ponies from paper bags. Mariachi rock music blasted on the car stereo. They looked as if they could be gang members. I waved a dead hand like an Indian's greeting as I pulled up.
I asked if they knew of anyone who may be interested in helping unload several semi-trucks. If I asked them directly, they could become offended and take my offer as an insult. I said the company was eager to find people and would pay handsomely. An under the table all cash job I said. I wanted it to be their idea.
When they first raised an interest, I played it down as beneath them and let them talk me into using them. They wanted to follow me in their car. I convinced them it was too far. They would use most of their gas. I promised to bring them right back. They discussed the offer.
One questioned the possibility of it being a fraud or something other than what I offered. The biggest one noted that any of the three could kick my ass. I agreed and added I would have to be a complete fool to anger the lot. I said they were welcomed to bring their beer along but cautioned against smoking with the air tanks.
As they climbed in the back, I wondered if they had discussed robbing me and taking the van. They appeared taken aback by the plexiglass partition blocking access to the front seats. I explained it away as being because of the cannisters. Inside, I locked the doors and hit the gas. The sleep agent filled the rear of the van in a under one second. One went for the door and fell short of reaching it. Beer bottles clinked soft against the floorboard.
Walter would have to make do with what I had. I headed for the camp.
The similarity between an unconscious person and a dead body always surprised me. It was as if I expected the soul had mass, had weight. After Walter got to them, most did weigh less but that was pure physics.
When I arrived, he questioned why there were only three. I explained the availability and timing. They were older than he preferred. I told him it was the best I could do on short notice and promised to shop better.
With another round of gas, the boys bedded down in the van for the night. Walter and I slipped away to the train for some much deserved rest.
One man's trash is another man's treasure trove of insight and information.
Gunner was on retainer and hungry for results. After getting a car and pager, his first stop seemed natural - the Sanitation Department.
He had an old Army friend; a District Manager who would spread the word. A rich bounty for two men, military types, likely hanging out in an abandoned house or building. They would concentrate the effort on the area between the rich hunting grounds of Chicago and their personal dumping grounds at Wolf Lake. It would put hundreds of unnoticed eyes on the street. Eyes that would recognize the difference between normal and not.
The Crew Supervisors would collect the tips and pass them along to the District Manager. Anything he thought credible he would provide to Gunner. Two hundred a week in advance for each supervisor and five for the manager. A fat bonus for everyone involved in locating the killers proved a hefty incentive.
He next visited area gangs. He wanted to know what weapons they had sold recently and who bought them. Regardless of the answers, questions, especially those kind, had costs. Gunner was burning through Bo’s money kicking empty rocks. His fifth uncovered a possible purchase. A party of one seeking military style automatic weapons but did not meet Bo's specs.
“If that boy’s a pro he must be coming out of retirement,” the gang member called Bang-Bang spoke in puffs of Marijuana smoke.
“What do you mean?”
“That boy was fat an’ old man. I don’t think he your guy.” He took a long drag and offered the fatty to Gunner.
“He wouldn’t be what I’m expecting.” Gunner took a short puff not wanting to offend Bang-Bang.
“Nah Gun'r. He some angry fuck wantin’ ta go postal on somebody. That all he is. A pro would come with a shoppin list, ya know – particulars – this white boy only wanted a gun.”
“Think you’re right. Not my guy.” Gunner took another drag and handed the joint back.
“There was another cat now that I think about it.”
“Yeah.”
“He had a shoppin' list - sniper rig, couple of compact autos and plenty of rounds.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Don’t know. Never saw the man. Didn’t even talk ta him.”
“How’s that?”
“I got a call from – an associate – he was trying to fill an order, quick turnaround. I didn't have nothing he wanted.”
Gunner blew his mouthful of smoke and dug the wad of bills from his pocket. “Who’s the associate?” He peeled another Franklin from the fold and handed it to Bang-Bang.
“You good people Gun'r,” he said. “A cat named D-Nut.”
Gunner’s head fell. “Tony Denuto? The Alonso family?”
“Yeah man that him.”
Gunner reached for the joint and inhaled a long deep breath. He lowered and shook his head dismayed. He blew out a stretched, “Fuuuck.” He turned to Bang-Bang. “Italians. Why’d it have to be Italians? I hate Italians, Bang-Bang. I hate ‘em.”
Bang-Bang stomped a foot, clapped and laughed at him. Gunner thanked him for the info. He moved on to his next area of interest, pawn shops with a particular interest in those known for having private stock of questionable items.
He made contact on his second attempt. An old friend owned the shop, half pawn, half security and surveillance. The owner said a tall fellow, around the age and disposition Gunner sought, had been in about a week earlier. Said he was from out of town and had dropped a fat wad on a laundry list of items, some of a lethal nature.
When Gunner asked about a vehicle, the man said he was in a ratty truck - the kind that'd be easy to pickup. While the owner wrote a list of the items purchased Gunner walked to the gas station next door. He returned with a News On Wheels ad book and tossed it on the counter.
"Flip through and let me know if you come across the truck," Gunner said. He slapped a pair of Franklins on the counter. "For the info and." He nodded. "The research."
"You always were first rate Baranski, even when you were CPD."
"Thanks." Gunner started for the door and stopped. "Happen to notice which direction he left?"
"Nah. But I'll keep an eye out and let you know if I see the truck."
"Or if he comes back."
"Right."
Gunner climbed in the rented four-door silver K-Car. Between not having eaten all day and the weed, he was hungry. There were two places within sight, the 24-1/2 Hour Diner and Tacos Tacos Tacos. He thought coffee would help clear his head but his stomach overruled in favor of greasy Mexican. It was tacos.
After getting his fill, he headed west to a rehab facility his Aunt managed. She let him stay when he needed to hide from people like the Alonsos. After
Bo saved his life again, Jake asked Sharon if he could stay and work on himself. She was always in favor of him doing so.
It was almost nine when he returned. The night guard let him in and told Jake his Aunt wanted to see him in her office. Jake found it odd since she typically left by six. He went straight there and knocked on her door.
"Come on in Jake."
Jake was still in full detective mode. The door sat mostly closed blocking her view. Entering, he remembered her office windows overlooked the courtyard. "Everything okay?"
"I'm glad you're back, I was about to give up on you."
"What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. I hope it’s nothing but I-I want you to check into something for me."
"Anything."
"There's these two men, they're older and they've been regulars here for at least five years now. They rent an apartment a couple blocks north of here and you always see them walking here or in the area."
"Okay."
"The last anyone remembers seeing them was Thursday's group."
"Have they disappeared like this before?"
"Not that I can recall. You might see one without the other if one was sick but nothing like this."
"You have an address?"
"Yes, Clint Joiner and Terrance Sawyer, I wrote it down," Sharon handed him a Post-It note. "You have the time?"
"I think I know them. A Laurel and Hardy pair?"
"That's them exactly."
"I'm in the middle of something but I can stop by their place and poke around."
"Must be a paying job."
Jake's head turned questioning the statement.
"I saw the car, a rental," she said.
"Oh. Yeah." Jake pulled the remainder of the cash from his pocket.
She appeared impressed by it then shot him a suspicious, "Did you rob a bank?" look.
"Do I owe you anything - for - everything?"
"That's not why I asked Jake," she scolded and considered the money again.
"Bo," he said showing her the money. "I'm working with Bo."
Sharon drew out a long, "Oh!" and punctuated it with a short, "Bo," and a nodding head.
"Yeah."
Her head continued to nod. "So that's why he was looking for you. Good for you Jake. I'm glad you two can put the past behind you. You know I like him."
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 16
