by Rick Mofina
“I never offered him those things and he knew it.”
“Yet he told a Chicago TV station that you’d lied to him and he’d never forget it,” Hern said. “Do you think he could’ve taken Gage?”
“No. Oakley was always boastful. He’s just not that bright. Look, it should be in the story somewhere, or in your files, that Oakley was assessed and has the intelligence level of a child. So you can’t give him much weight.”
“Still, he shouldn’t be underestimated. We’re attempting to locate him.”
“Last I heard he was homeless in Toronto and kind of out of his mind from drugs and alcohol.”
“Fine, then there’s Faustino Carlos Avila,” Hern said, “a serial killer and a cartel executioner who murdered ten people from the Chicago area in the Arizona desert before fleeing. You covered his case in depth. Some say that your reporting helped police capture him in Buenos Aires, Argentina. You flew there but he was angry and refused to grant a jailhouse interview. Upon his extradition to the US for trial he told the Chicago Tribune that he would spend every day in prison figuring out a way to hurt you.”
“That was just talk,” Cal said. “Those who mean to hurt you don’t broadcast it.”
“Cartels do, Cal. You know that,” Lewin said. “That’s why Avila shouldn’t be dismissed as a possible suspect.”
“Faustino was also a drug addict given to braggadocio and making all kinds of fantastic statements—he thrived on that sort of thing.”
“Fair enough, but then we come to the case of Ezekiel Lyman Ezili,” Hern said, “a pedophile convicted of the horrific murder of a six-year-old boy. His case was complex and garnered some profile in Chicago. You broke a number of exclusive stories on it that led to his arrest and conviction. Ezili found Jesus in his prison cell, and in a letter written from prison to the Sun-Times, he claimed he was innocent, that he was set up, that you were the architect of his conviction. He alleged your reports about him in the Star-News were police-fed fiction and called on his supporters for a day of reckoning against his enemies.”
Cal stared at the monitor showing his stories on Ezili.
“Cal?” Hern said. “Do you see something in the Ezili case that stands out, given it involved a boy whose age is close to your son’s?”
Cal scratched his stubble and blinked thoughtfully as if remembering, then shook his head. “No. Ezili was cryptic and nothing came of those things he said.”
“But there were calls for an internal affairs investigation of the Chicago homicide detectives on the case.”
“Yeah, that went nowhere. You must’ve learned that,” Cal said.
“Still, Ezili called for action against you,” Lewin said.
“Yes, Ezili was a creep but the key thing with him was that he was murdered in prison—so, that ends that.”
“Well, we don’t think his threat should be dismissed.”
Cal grew thoughtful, said nothing, and Lewin let a few moments pass.
“Okay, there’s Henry Zutz,” Lewin said, “an ex-cop who became an insurance salesman. He deceived clients, usually older, wealthy businessmen in poor health, into changing their beneficiaries, ultimately to him. He’d do this by having a business lunch with them to update their policies and he’d secretly lace their meals with poison. Several clients died—but the last one survived and his wife, who’d never trusted Zutz, alerted police to investigate.”
“Yes, Zutz was smart, calculating and cold-blooded,” Cal said.
“Upon his arrest and conviction he proclaimed his innocence and vowed revenge, saying that he’d start by suing you and the Star-News.”
“Our legal people said his case was groundless and there’s no way he can follow through on any of his threats from prison. I think he spends most of his time in solitary.”
“True, but he made threats,” Lewin said. “Finally, there’s Dillford Lee Sikes, a white supremacist who murdered a nine-year-old boy in Rockland, Illinois. He was convicted but escaped from prison during a hospital transfer. He fled to Canada where he murdered a ten-year-old boy in Winnipeg, was arrested and escaped again.
“You went full tilt on his case, obtaining his US and Canadian prison records, and began calling his network of family and friends. It led to his arrest in Reno, Nevada, where he’d taken on a new identity, married a widow and started a new life. He vowed that his white supremacist friends would help him get back at you because, according to what he told USA TODAY, ‘I’d be a free man if it wasn’t for Cal Hudson of the Chicago Star-News. Someday he’ll pay for destroying everything I worked for.’”
“More jail cell boasting from a two-time child killer,” Cal said. “The guy’s locked up.”
“You can’t dismiss these cases as completely harmless, given that some of them involved boys similar in age to your son,” Hern said. “Especially now, in light of what’s happened.”
“I don’t dismiss them. Believe me, I don’t. You should know that I thought about all of these cases, racked my brains about the possibility that any one of them might somehow be connected to Gage’s disappearance,” Cal said. “They’re all violent, dangerous, sick, twisted people. But I’ve dealt with them all and I don’t believe they’re involved. I think it would be a waste of resources to pursue them.”
“What makes you think that?”
“These people are vermin but they’re all behind bars, or in Ezili’s case dead, or in Oakley’s case lost on the street. I just don’t think that they have the resources, or the desire, or the ability, or power, to get anyone willing to risk being arrested by stalking my family to the Chambers of Dread and taking Gage to get back at me. That’s a Hollywood scenario. I know they have no love for me, but their reality is a day-by-day struggle for survival in prison. Getting back at me is tough-guy talk to scare me, but it truly wouldn’t be a priority for them. I really think we’re getting distracted here.”
“We understand but can’t rule them out, Cal,” Lewin said. “We can’t leave any stone unturned. We’ve already made arrangements for agents to track each subject down and go into prisons and question each of these people. We’re going to investigate their contacts for the past six months—for any connection.”
Hern looked hard at him. “Why do we get the feeling that maybe you don’t want us looking into these people? Is there something going on that you’re not telling us?”
“No! If you have enough people, go ahead and look, absolutely. But I don’t think—” Suddenly tears filled his eyes. “In my gut, I think that it was some member of the public who was in the attraction with us, or someone associated with the carnival or fairgrounds, carnies or fair people. I—I...” Cal’s hands were shaking as he covered his face. “I’m sorry, I haven’t slept or eaten and I can’t stop thinking that I’ll never see Gage again.” He sobbed. “I can’t stop thinking that he’s dead and it’s our fault for not watching over him. I’m sorry.”
Lewin put her hand on Cal’s shoulder and kept it there as a few minutes passed and he regained his composure.
“We know this is hard,” Lewin said. “Everyone on this case is working flat-out to find Gage. We’re pursuing over a dozen possible angles of investigation. Just about every agent, cop, trooper and deputy is a parent. They take something like this to heart. We’ve got people coming in on their own time to help.”
“Thank you.” Cal nodded his appreciation just as a burst of activity in the hall drew his attention and that of the agents.
Malko and several other people were hustling a man toward the interview rooms. At one point, as the man passed by, he looked directly at Cal, who felt a sudden stab of unease.
He’d seen him before. Where? Then it clicked. He was among the people watching them during the news conference at the fairgrounds... Who was he?
Cal heard the faint clink of metal against metal.
That’s when he saw that the man’s wri
sts were in handcuffs.
41
Later that day Roy Simon Tate eyed FBI Agent Sue Marsh while massaging his wrists after she’d removed his handcuffs.
“Can we get you anything, Roy, a soft drink or coffee?” Malko asked.
Tate shook his head slowly.
Dressed in faded jeans that complemented his slim waist and a T-shirt that revealed his tattooed, muscular arms, he projected an air of power and quiet control. A few longer strands of his thick, combed-back hair fell against his temples. Dark, intelligent eyes that seemed as if they missed nothing shone from his weathered, craggy face. It bore a few days of stubble and a peppered goatee, accentuating his rugged features.
Malko took his time reviewing the file folder with Tate’s background. Age: forty-two; divorced father of a teenage daughter living with her mother in California; at age twenty he donated a kidney to save his brother’s life. Tate was a Deputy US Marshal with a stellar record of tracking down fugitives. He was currently assigned to the Witness Security Program. He’d served with the US military and saw action in Iraq and Afghanistan, where he was taken prisoner and tortured by rebel forces. He’d escaped by killing two guards with his bare hands.
As dangerous as a coiled cobra, Malko thought. Tate never resisted arrest when they’d boxed in his truck near his townhome, except to say, “What the fuck is this?”
Closing the folder, Malko indicated the camera in the upper corner of the room. “I expect you know how these things go, Roy?”
Tate said nothing.
“You’ve got to be asking yourself, why would the FBI arrest you, a decorated veteran, and an outstanding cop? Why would the FBI pat you down, search you, Mirandize you, put you in cuffs and haul you in here? What do they know, or what do they think they know?”
Tate remained silent.
“Now, you’ve waived your right to an attorney, which indicates you’re confident about your innocence.”
“I’ve done nothing unlawful.”
“That’s good, Roy. But from this point on, I hope you’ll see the wisdom in cooperating with us. You’ll want to weigh your answers carefully. The truth is a wise strategy.”
Tate stared at Malko.
“You’re familiar with the case of Gage Hudson?”
“It’s all over the news.”
“We’ve confirmed that the family is not in the witness program.”
Tate shrugged. “I can’t discuss any knowledge of people in the program.”
“We understand. We took care of that. We need to know about your relationship with the Hudsons.”
“I don’t have a relationship with the family.”
“You’re telling us you don’t know them at all?”
“I didn’t say that and you didn’t ask me that.”
“Do you know the Hudsons?”
“I met them once at a party, a Christmas party for law enforcement and Chicago press people. That’s it.”
“Once?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You were divorced at this time?”
“Yes.”
“Subsequent to that party, did you maintain contact with them?”
“No. I don’t know the family.”
Malko absorbed the answer, then flipped through pages of Tate’s file.
“Your divorce records indicate that your wife complained of psychological abuse. What’s that about?”
Tate’s gazed drifted to his hands and he took a long moment before responding.
“After I returned from service, I had trouble coping. PTSD, they call it. I had nightmares, suicidal thoughts, bouts of rage.” Tate hesitated and looked at nothing. “I never hit her but she did take the brunt of my problem. I don’t blame her for leaving. I’d lost myself and it cost me my family.”
“Did you seek therapy?”
“I did. I was one of the lucky ones. I had good help and I worked at it and I recovered, accepting that I had been changed. I started over and focused on getting a life. Friends helped me get a position with the Marshals Service. But that was a long time ago. I put that all behind me.”
Malko nodded.
“We see that for a few years you moonlighted as a security consultant for the River Ridge Fairgrounds.”
“To cover child support payments and pay my divorce lawyer. Those things tend to be expensive.”
“Certainly,” Malko said. “But during that time you became familiar with all matters of security for the fairgrounds, especially during the River Ridge Summer Carnival.”
“That was the job.”
“You also became familiar with Ultra-Fun Amusement Corp’s policies, practices and the safety and security of their attractions when they were in town.”
“Also part of the job.”
“That would make you something of an expert on its vulnerabilities, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, it was my job to know.”
“Are you familiar with Sidney Griner and Alma McCain?”
“No.”
“They’re Ultra-Fun employees who operated the Chambers.”
Tate shook his head. “Names don’t ring any bells.”
“So you’ve had no association with them for your security role?”
Tate shook his head, saying nothing, and Malko let a long moment of silence pass before shifting the subject and resuming the interview.
“Is the name Beth Gibson familiar to you?” Malko asked.
“First time I’ve heard it.”
Malko nodded patiently, accepting Tate’s response while flipping through the file.
“Ever buy or use a disposable phone?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“That’s your answer?”
Tate said nothing.
“You know, Roy, this case has drawn a lot of attention and a lot of tips. Some have been implausible, while others give us concern. Nevertheless, we store all of them in databases. Now, you’ve established with us that you have no relationship with the family, yet a neighbor of the Hudsons, who is with the Neighborhood Watch program, took note of your license plate. She’d spotted your pickup truck in front of the Hudson home two weeks ago at two in the morning, then again down the street soon after Gage Hudson vanished.”
Malko consulted the notes in the folder.
“When asked about that, you told our people that you were part of an operation. We subsequently checked and have since been told that there was no operation on the date and time your vehicle was spotted. What do you make of that, Roy?”
Malko watched Tate carefully, the muscles in his jaw pulsing as he waited for an answer that never came.
“Why in the world would your vehicle be there, if you have no relationship with the family and they’re not in the program?”
Tate still said nothing.
“You’ve got a nice little townhome in Rogers Park—that’s a heck of a long way from River Ridge, don’t you think?”
Tate remained silent.
“Have you ever been to Oak Brook?”
“Maybe.”
“Ever been to the new mall they got there, the Oak Brook Victory Mall?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s such a long way from Rogers Park. Why drive all the way there?”
Tate shrugged.
“Was there something there you wanted to buy?”
Tate shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Could this be the reason?” Malko removed another folder, opened it and carefully placed several photos on the table—clear still frames captured from the mall’s security camera showing Tate with Faith Hudson. “From the video we’ve seen, you had quite a conversation with Gage Hudson’s mother, one that carried right out into the parking lot.”
Tate stared hard at the photos, his jaw thro
bbing.
“What’s this about? Why were you meeting Faith Hudson?”
Tate sat in silence.
“Roy, I’m disappointed that you would mislead us, a man of your position and caliber.”
Still, only silence across the table.
“One more thing,” Malko said. “We have a witness who places you at the news conference the Hudsons gave shortly after Gage vanished. You can see how we’d be concerned that, when considered with everything else, you just happen to be at the fairgrounds within hours of Gage’s disappearance. Yet you state you have no relationship with the family.”
Tate’s eyes went around the room as if the white cinder blocks were moving in closer and closer.
Suddenly a chair scraped as Malko stood, leaned on the table and thrust his face into Tate’s.
“You better give your head a shake and get your shit together, Roy, because while we have you here, we’re disemboweling your life and scouring the entrails for your link to Gage Hudson.”
42
Rogers Park, Illinois
More than fifteen miles north of where Roy Tate was being questioned, the FBI was backing a white panel van into the driveway of his townhome.
Bob Turley, manager of the Prairie Valley Breezes complex, slid on his bifocals while standing near the address rereading the papers FBI agent Jim Gerard had given him.
“You have the key?” Gerard asked.
“Yes, but I don’t understand. This is all so sudden and—” Turley was incredulous, staring at the words on the pages from the United States District Court for the federal warrant to search Tate’s residence. “And you know that Roy’s a law enforcement officer. There’s got to be a mistake.”
“No mistake, sir.” Gerard waved ahead to other agents arriving wearing raid jackets and windbreakers with FBI emblazoned on them. “We don’t want to force the door but we have authority and you wouldn’t want to be deemed as obstructing us.”
“Of course not.” Turley lowered the pages. “He uses our cleaning services. I have a key right here.”
