Justified

by C. M. Sutter

  Doug had provided us with Jane’s personnel file. Inside was her work application and a head shot of her when she was hired. We watched footage of somebody that looked like Jane walking across the screen.

  “Doug, do the employees wear street clothes or uniforms?”

  “Everyone wears the same red polo shirt with our company logo on the breast pocket.” He leaned over my shoulder as he talked. “Her lunch break is about to begin. From the gift shop to the kitchen and out this door would take another minute unless she stopped off at the ladies’ room first. Give it a few more minutes.”

  I stared at the screen, afraid to blink. I mentally willed her to come out the door, yet I knew if she did, her fate was sealed.

  “There! That’s Jane.”

  We saw the back of a slender girl in a red polo shirt. Her hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, was blond and reached the center of her back. She carried a brown paper bag in her right hand as she headed toward the row of trucks.

  “Damn it.” Doug pounded his fist on the table. “She knew better than to do something that reckless. We’ve had plenty of meetings about fraternization with employees and patrons, especially the truckers.”

  “She’s young and impressionable. Somehow, he made earlier contact with her. We’re going to need to see when he arrived and everything he’s done since he got here. Do these cameras zoom in?”

  “No, what you see is what you get.”

  “Okay, where are you going, Jane? Being in the shade like that doesn’t make picking out a burgundy truck easy, especially when all that’s facing us is a windshield and a gigantic front grille.”

  J.T. hit Pause and backed up the tape. “Look, she just waved. Can you make out anyone sitting in the trucks?”

  I groaned. “Why isn’t our job ever easy? I can’t see a face, but it looks like she’s headed to the fifth truck from the right.”

  We watched as the passenger door opened, and she climbed in.

  “They’re obviously eating lunch together. You said the employees only get a lunch break, right?”

  “That’s right, unless they need to use the bathroom. Jane’s break should end at twelve thirty.”

  “Where was she working today?”

  “She rotates between the gift shop and the kitchen. Today she had the gift shop.”

  “Are there cameras in there?” J.T. asked.

  “There’s one camera in the gift shop and one at the front counter where the cashier works.”

  I looked at the time stamp. Jane had twenty-five minutes left of her break. “I need coffee. I have a feeling we’re going to be here all night.”

  Doug stood. “I’ll get three.”

  J.T. thanked him, and we continued to stare at the screen.

  My head was propped between my open hands. “Wouldn’t it be nice if she just climbed out of that truck and came back inside?”

  “You know that isn’t going to happen, Jade.”

  I sighed. “If only we could see his face.”

  Doug returned with three coffees and the locksmith. “The man is here to cut the lock.”

  I paused the tape momentarily, and we followed Doug and the locksmith to the hallway. I gave a nod. “Go ahead.”

  With a large bolt cutter between his hands, the locksmith squeezed down on the padlock, and it snapped in half.

  J.T. smirked. “That made more sense than shooting it off. Thanks, man.” He pulled his sleeve over his hand and removed the lock, lifted the lever, and opened the door. Inside, as we had suspected, Jane’s coat hung on one hook and her purse on another.

  “Can you get us gloves and a large plastic bag, Doug? We’re going to have to secure these items.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Poor Doug,” I said as I watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped. “It’s almost like he’s a substitute dad to her.”

  We returned to the video room after we placed Jane’s coat and purse in the bag. I set the bag on the end of the table, and J.T. started the tape again. We were only a few minutes into it when the truck we were staring at pulled out of its parking spot.

  “J.T., he’s leaving! Pause the tape when his door is facing us.”

  J.T.’s index finger hovered over the pause button, and I rubbed my temples.

  I leaned in. “Get ready. Okay, now!”

  The tape stopped. We stared and squinted.

  “Can you read it?”

  “Of course not. Can you?”

  J.T. huffed. “No, but that tractor is burgundy, and the lettering is white. Good enough for me. I’d place bets that it’s Ray’s truck.”

  I turned in my chair and faced Doug. “He went left out of the lot. Is that the way back to the freeway?”

  “Sure is, Agent Monroe.”

  J.T. stood and stretched. “I’ll update Spelling. Why don’t you review the gift shop tape from when Jane started work this morning?”

  Doug stood in the doorway. “How about something to eat? It’ll perk you up.”

  “Yeah, a burger and fries sounds good, but can you set up the tape for the gift shop first?”

  “No problem.” Doug plopped down on the chair next to me, hit a few buttons on the computer, and pulled up the gift shop video. He turned toward J.T. “What can I get for you, Agent Harper?”

  “I’ll have the burger and fries too.”

  Chapter 21

  John was almost fifty miles north of where he had left the truck. He felt relaxed now that nobody knew what kind of vehicle he was driving. Hiding in plain sight came easy in that gray Buick LaCrosse, and it was a car he could get used to—luxurious and roomy for a man his size. With a full gas tank, he wouldn’t have to stop for hours. But then there was Jane.

  I should have gutted her and left her in the truck. Now I’m dragging her ass around with me, and I don’t trust her enough to leave her in the car by herself.

  John checked the time on the dash—10:55. He’d call it a night somewhere on the southern outskirts of Chicago. He had nearly two hours of driving time to come up with a plan for Jane, if he could hold out that long.

  A horn blasted next to the Buick, jarring John awake. He felt the rumble strips vibrate under the tires, and he jerked the wheel to his left. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock. A half hour had passed that he couldn’t account for. A highway sign came into focus on his right and showed the next exit was two miles ahead. He’d get off the highway, check out the area, and dispose of Jane. He needed to rent a cheap motel room and get a decent night’s sleep.

  Minutes later, he pulled off the highway and turned right at the stop sign. A small unincorporated town lay ahead. A green street sign illuminated from his headlights and caught his attention.

  Smith Lake Road, huh? I wonder what I’ll find back there.

  John turned in. A “Dead End” sign on a post stood fifty feet ahead.

  Looks like my luck is already improving.

  The road was narrow and riddled with potholes. The unkempt condition told him that wasn’t an often-traveled road. It suited him just fine, and he continued on. A half mile back, the road stopped, and a wooden barricade that had seen better days closed off the end. He clicked on his high beams to get a better look. Brush filled in the area that might have been a continuation of the road back in the day. He got out and approached the barricade. Soft ground gave way under his feet, and swamp grass stood behind that barrier.

  Looks like the ground sank back here. I must be close to the lake.

  John scanned the area. Dead silent and not a light to be seen.

  This is the perfect spot to dump her.

  He returned to the car, opened the door, and sat inside under the dome light. With the backpack unzipped, he pulled out various killing tools and placed them on the seat. The gun would be fast and clean, but he couldn’t take the chance of it being heard. Anyone that lived within two miles would hear the shot. The hatchet was best used during daylight hours. He liked to witness the devastation it created. He sighed with uncert
ainty. He couldn’t risk getting blood on his clothes when he was about to check into a motel. John pulled out the ice pick, and a slow grin crossed his face.

  Fast and clean, right to the temple. I’ll drag her behind the barricade and leave her to the animals. She’ll never be found.

  He stuffed the pick into his rear pocket, pointed end up, and then popped the trunk. He heard her muffled cries as he walked to the back of the car. The trunk light illuminated the fear written across her face. John smiled at her.

  “Have a nice ride, Jane? I bet it was pretty chilly back here, icy in fact. I have just the thing for that.” He reached to his back pocket, pulled out the ice pick, and jammed it in her right temple.

  Her body stiffened, then she fell limp.

  That was easy.

  John lifted her out of the trunk by her armpits and dragged her across the darkened dirt road. The ribbon of blood that trailed behind them was evident once he reached the beam of the headlights. With Jane tossed behind the barricade, John kicked dirt over the blood trail as he returned to the car. He slammed the trunk, climbed in behind the wheel, and drove away.

  Back on Interstate 57, John turned up the radio and cracked the window open a few inches to circulate fresh air through the car. He rubbed his tired left eye when an image of the semi, still parked on that desolate road just north of Thomasboro, sprang to mind. He punched the dash, cursed his stupidity, and then spun around in the grassy median. The letter, half written, remained in the driver’s side door pocket, and the Neko Te gloves still lay under the driver’s seat. In his rush to get out of the area, he had completely forgotten them, and they needed to be retrieved before the truck was discovered.

  Chapter 22

  It was eleven thirty, and J.T. and I had been reviewing the gift shop and diner surveillance tapes for hours. Our guy, still wearing Fred West’s yellow baseball cap, came in and out of the camera’s footage several times, always with his head lowered. The hat remained on his head while he was indoors, and we were sure that was a deliberate act. He knew where the cameras were located. My phone rang, and I looked at the screen but didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello, Agent Jade Monroe here.” I took a sip of my cold coffee and waited.

  “Agent Monroe, Captain Fox here from Effingham.”

  “Hello, sir. Any news? I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

  “Yes, the woman with the tattoo was identified. She goes by the name Brooklyn.”

  I nodded at J.T. “Hence the weird tattoo—the Brooklyn Bridge. I wonder if she was from New York. Who did you talk to?”

  “Another lady of the night that goes by Cherry. She said she only knew Brooklyn’s actual first name, which was Diane. She never asked what her last name was, but apparently she was a St. Louis transplant, not New York.”

  “Still, the picture of the tattoo and the name Diane could help identify her. You need to get that information on the news stations, especially the ones that air in St. Louis.”

  “Right, I’ll take care of that.”

  “Tell me Cherry saw our killer.”

  “She did, but it was nighttime, and he never got out of the truck. She couldn’t give us much since she only saw him from the shoulders up, from six feet away, and he had on a hat.”

  “That damn hat again. What about a conversation?”

  “That she had. She said he told them his name was John Pratt. That could be of value unless he made the name up on the fly. Apparently, she and Brooklyn teamed up together on a regular basis. The man said he couldn’t afford both of them.”

  I smirked into the phone as I wrote the name down. “He probably meant he couldn’t subdue both of them.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, he picked a number between one and ten. Brooklyn was the unfortunate winner. He said he wanted a companion for the entire night and agreed to pay four hundred dollars.”

  J.T. added, “Which I’m sure he didn’t even have, unless Ray’s wallet was full.”

  “Cherry left and began talking to other truckers. She returned later and said she needed to speak to Brooklyn, but the man wouldn’t let her. He told her to get lost. She never saw either of them again.”

  “Did she confirm he was in a burgundy truck with Ray’s Transport written on the side?”

  “She only remembered the truck being a dark color, but she did say the lettering was white and the words Ray’s Transport was written across the door.”

  “Okay, thank you, Captain Fox. I’ll check out that name and see if any John Pratt is in the system. Keep us posted on Brooklyn’s actual identity. You may get lucky. If she’s ever been arrested, her prints are on file. Ask the forensics lab to run them for you. It might be the easiest way to get an ID.” I said goodbye and clicked off my phone. I sighed deeply then winced.

  J.T. yawned. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s weird. I get these strange stomach pains every so often.” I massaged my side as I spoke. “Anyway, you look beat. Did Doug leave?”

  “Yeah, a half hour ago. The night shift supervisor, Cal Henry, is here. If we need anything, we’re supposed to talk to him.”

  “Jane’s car probably doesn’t have anything usable on it, but I think the sheriff’s department should pick it up and take it to their evidence garage for safekeeping. Same goes for her purse and coat. Cal can make us copies of the tapes too.”

  “I’ll make the call to the sheriff’s department. Why don’t you look for a hotel nearby? We’ll talk to Spelling in the morning and see what the plan is.”

  We waited for Champaign County sheriff’s deputies to arrive then explained the situation to them. Jane’s car was towed to their evidence garage so they could give it a thorough going through. We asked them to send the report along with Jane’s cataloged belongings to the FBI’s crime lab. I wrote down the address on the back of my card and handed it to the deputy. Jane’s name, description, and age were entered into the missing persons database, and I shut down the computer. A decent looking hotel I had found online was only two miles away. We said good night to Cal, then I tucked the thumb drive of the surveillance tapes into my pocket, and we left.

  As J.T. drove to the hotel, I sent a text to Spelling to see if a John Pratt was on any wanted list or had open warrants. I wasn’t confident the name was real, but we still had to be sure. I hit the Send button then scrolled to Amber’s name. With a few taps of the keys, I sent her an update text since I hadn’t had time to call her earlier. A phone call or a brief text every night was my norm, and I knew that at that hour, she’d be sound asleep. She’d likely read the message in the morning over a cup of coffee.

  J.T. and I checked into the hotel and parted ways at our rooms. A beer or a glass of wine would have been nice, but I knew I’d be up early to start another day of searching for the killer. I said good night and closed the door at my back.

  Chapter 23

  He finally arrived at the exit where he had left the truck several hours earlier. Once again, at the stop sign, he turned left and followed the road for about a mile. The red and blue flashing lights a hundred yards ahead through the tree cover caught his attention.

  Son of a bitch, a cop found the semi.

  He had to come up with something fast. John killed the headlights and passed by unnoticed. With the car parked farther up the road, he slinked out quietly and backtracked on foot. His vantage point, behind a wide oak tree, provided him with the information he needed. The officer, there alone, pounded on the truck door, obviously thinking someone was sleeping inside.

  John crept closer until he was within ten feet of the man. Gravel kicked up when the officer spun around at the sound behind him.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sir, this is my truck. I pulled over because I felt sick. Flu symptoms, you know? I was in the woods barfing my guts out. What seems to be the problem?”

  “There’s a BOLO out for this truck. I need to see some form of ID.”

  “Sure, not a problem.” John approached the offi
cer until they were face-to-face. He reached back as if to pull out a wallet but grabbed the wooden handle of his skinning knife instead. A split second was all it took. The look of surprise on the officer’s face caused John to laugh. He watched the grisly scene unfold in front of him while the officer tried to hold his neck together as blood pumped out with each frantic gasp for air.

  John shoved the officer backward, and he fell to the ground. Within a minute, he had bled out and lay motionless, his eyes open and his hands still grasping his throat. John climbed the truck steps and unlocked the door. Inside, he pulled the letter from the door pocket and the pair of Neko Te gloves from beneath the seat. Seconds later, he crossed the road and disappeared into the darkness.

  By two thirty in the morning, John’s head finally hit the pillow, and he drifted off to sleep in the comfort of a modest motel room where Interstate 80 met up with 57, south of Chicago.

  Chapter 24

  The ringing in my head finally stirred me awake. It wasn’t part of a dream after all. I slapped at the nightstand until I felt the cool, rectangular shape of my phone then picked it up and held it inches from my face. Without my reading glasses on, and being forced awake after what seemed like five minutes of sleep, my vision was more than blurred. It looked as though J.T. was calling.

  I answered with a cracked, dry voice. “I hope you have a good reason for waking me up.”

  He chuckled into the phone. “You sound like I feel, but we have to go. Spelling just called, and they found the semi about a half hour north of here, along with a dead patrol officer lying next to it. He also said he checked out that name, John Pratt, and nothing came up in the system.”

  I perked up quickly and tossed back the blankets. “Damn it. Okay, I have to hit the shower. I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes.” I clicked off, rolled my body out of bed, and felt my way to the bathroom.