The Black Cage

by Jack Fredrickson

  ‘We haven’t autopsied her yet. I can tell you that, based on when her family says she disappeared, I assume she was killed the same time as the others.’

  ‘One fast, murderous spurt?’

  ‘And well before your Richie Fernandez was supposedly picked up, so he could be the killer.’ He managed a small laugh, but it was nervous. ‘Have you noticed that everyone in this case seems to be betting on a different horse? Deputy Glet has Kevin Wilcox, at least for the boys. Sheriff Lehman has, or had, Klaus Lanz. You’ve got Richie Fernandez.’

  ‘No. Lehman and McGarry have, or had, Fernandez. I just want to know what they did with him.’

  ‘Beyond probably just questioning him and letting him go?’ He shook his head before Rigg could protest. ‘Actually, I believe you’re right to investigate his disappearance.’

  ‘I think he was questioned too aggressively.’

  ‘Sheriff Lehman and Mr McGarry? What are you thinking they did?’

  Buried him on McGarry’s estate, beneath a mound of dirt and snow, Rigg wanted to say. It was the only scenario that explained why McGarry would play sick to stay home. He needed to guard the mound with a shotgun, to keep scooping snow on it to settle the dirt until spring brought grass to cover up the wounded earth. It must have seemed like a wise strategy, until Rigg showed up with soup.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Rigg said, evading.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, it can’t be made public yet,’ Feldott said. ‘It will destroy our credibility.’

  ‘When are you going to tell me about the DNA?’ Rigg said.

  ‘Let’s see what Tana Damm tells us,’ Feldott said.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rigg turned at the peeling, painted sign that showed a grinning horse and an even happier horseman, and drove up the rutted gravel alley behind the Walgreen’s drug store. The Happy Times Stables had once occupied all the land at the intersection just north of the Kennedy Expressway and east of the Des Plaines River, but real-estate values gone exponential had prompted the sale of the choicest part at the corner. Now, the stables were invisible from the road. He pulled into the clay parking lot and parked next to the only other vehicle there – a dusty green Ford 150 pickup truck.

  The wide, central door was closed against the cold. Nobody was riding that day. But the side door was unlocked. Rigg went in and stopped. And, for an instant, he could not breathe.

  A framed, full color newspaper page hung on the rough-planking wall inside. He knew the picture. He’d seen it a long time ago. And he’d seen a part of it for hundreds of horrible nights since … well, he didn’t know when it started, but it must have been at least a year.

  It was a page from an old issue of the Examiner Sunday Magazine, run when the paper still had a Sunday magazine. It showed a teenaged girl, in full horse-riding regalia, holding a silver trophy. But it wasn’t the girl or the trophy that stopped him now. It was the wrought iron door in the background. He was looking into a nightmare. His nightmare.

  The bars on the door were the bars of the black cage.

  He clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. He leaned closer. The photo had been published six months after Rigg joined the Examiner. He read everything in every issue of the paper in those rookie days. He’d read the article about the young equestrienne. He’d seen the picture.

  And, years later, those iron bars in that picture had emerged from his subconscious, to try to nudge him to a name in a file he’d once thought to write down, but never to think of again. A name only Aria could find. It hadn’t been Judith’s arms beckoning from beyond those iron bars. They’d been the arms of one of the murdered boys, begging him to see the wrought-iron door, begging him to see the Happy Times Stables. Begging him, perhaps, to see Peter Tanson, a kid, Rigg once noted, who knew something about horse rides.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Rigg said, and then he laughed at the relief of it.

  ‘What the hell?’ a man’s voice said. Rigg spun around. A man had come up to stand ten feet away.

  He was wearing worn Levis, a fleece-lined, dirty suede jacket and a black cowboy hat. He could have been the buckaroo pictured in the sign out front, except nothing about him looked happy.

  ‘I was just enjoying your article,’ Rigg said. He supposed he very much would, from that instant on.

  ‘What do you want?’ the unhappy cowboy asked.

  ‘I was hoping to see Peter Tanson about horse rides,’ Rigg said.

  The cowboy offered up only confusion.

  ‘A kid who comes here?’ Rigg said, because he didn’t know anything about Tanson.

  ‘Don’t know the name, mister. I’m just watching the place, temporary. Best you beat it.’

  Wilcox’s notoriety would have shut the place down, at least for a time. Rigg took the man’s advice and beat it back to his car, but he whistled the short two miles to the home address he’d gotten from the Internet for a Peter Tanson, Senior.

  A woman in her mid-forties answered the door. ‘I know who you are,’ she said, after he introduced himself. ‘I thought you got fired.’

  ‘Then you can see how deeply I’m still committed to finding the killers of Peter, Junior’s classmates.’

  ‘I remember how disgusting your behavior was, taking liberties with the bereaved,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t always trust what you read in the papers,’ he said.

  Her face cracked with a frown. ‘Besides, only one was a classmate, and they weren’t really friends.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to your son about that,’ he said. ‘In your presence, of course.’

  ‘My son’s not home from school yet, and my husband is not home from work. You can come back at six tonight, for ten minutes and ten minutes only, Mr Rigg.’

  He thanked her and left.

  He found a Walmart, bought a multiple-meat sandwich that looked to have been made recently, and killed an hour eating it at one of the small scratched tables in the five-booth dining section. He got back to the Tanson place at six sharp.

  They sat in the living room. The kid’s father was a big fellow, six foot and at least 250 pounds, who leaned forward on his chair as if ready to pounce if Rigg stepped out of line. The boy looked to be sixteen, and was almost as big as his father. Mrs Tanson sat farthest away. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said.

  ‘Football?’ Rigg asked the kid.

  The kid nodded. ‘Right guard.’

  ‘I’m one of the reporters that has been following the investigation of your friends’ killings for the past fifteen months.’

  ‘I didn’t know the other two boys,’ Peter said. ‘Just Bobby. We were in the same homeroom.’

  ‘Do you know if Bobby ever went to the Happy Times Stables?’

  ‘I don’t work there anymore.’

  ‘You worked there?’ Rigg cursed the sloppy note he’d made about the boy, months earlier. The kid could have been questioned thoroughly then, for sure.

  The boy looked at his father. The father nodded.

  ‘Bobby would come around to the stables, sometimes by himself, sometimes with other kids. I was allowed to let kids work for an hour of riding.’

  ‘By Kevin Wilcox?’

  ‘He was the boss.’

  ‘He was always around?’

  ‘I hardly ever saw him. He stayed up in the office.’

  ‘Were the boys there the weekend they went missing?’

  The father moved closer to the edge of his chair. ‘Peter was sick that weekend.’

  ‘We made him quit right after, because it was so near where the boys were found,’ Mrs Tanson said.

  ‘Did Bobby Stemec ever bring the Henderson kids around to work for free rides?’ Rigg asked Peter.

  ‘Bobby brought kids around, but I didn’t pay attention to them so long as they did the work. I didn’t recognize the Hendersons from their pictures in the paper.’

  ‘It’s been ten minutes,’ the father said, standing up. ‘You will not give out our names.’

  ‘Under no ci
rcumstances. One last thing,’ Rigg said, still sitting, because it was the most important thing. ‘Has anyone from law enforcement ever come around to question you?’

  ‘Never,’ the father said.

  ‘What about your friends, anyone at school?’

  ‘Not for over a year,’ the boy said.

  ‘Time’s up,’ the boy’s father said.

  Rigg called Glet from the car. He didn’t answer, so Rigg talked to his voicemail. ‘I know something you’ll want to trade for.’

  Glet called back in a minute. ‘What?’

  ‘Wilcox confess yet?’

  ‘Soon, real soon.’

  ‘And his DNA matching to Bobby Stemec and Johnny Henderson?’

  ‘What do you want, Rigg?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re solid on Wilcox, Jerome. You don’t have his DNA on the boys.’

  ‘Horse shit.’

  ‘Quite apropos,’ Rigg said. ‘But I think you’re having a problem proving he did the boys.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about the DNA.’

  ‘You overlooked something last time, big time,’ Rigg said, ‘but you’ll have to trade for it.’

  ‘Trade what?’

  ‘Trade for that phone call I asked you to make.’

  Glet sighed. ‘Whatcha got?’

  ‘Happy Times Stables,’ Rigg said.

  ‘The former employer of our murder suspect and gun peddler. I’m ahead of you on that one, pal.’

  ‘Do you have witnesses who’ll testify that kids, including Bobby Stemec, worked there for free rides? I just talked to one who said Bobby brought other kids around.’

  ‘What’s this kid’s name?’

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t say, but you can find him and probably others by interviewing Bobby’s homeroom classmates. How the hell did you miss this last time?’

  ‘I didn’t know we had. Lehman coordinated all that. I was responsible for sightings. But I’ll make sure your classmates angle gets chased.’

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  ‘I got other things working at this minute.’

  ‘What’s so big you couldn’t show up at the Tana Damm discovery site?’

  Glet dodged. ‘Your witness puts boys inside the stable with Wilcox?’

  ‘No. He just puts Bobby inside. But there’s no doubt Wilcox was there. He ran the stables. Interview the classmates, Jerome.’

  ‘Lehman was a damned fool. You won’t put this in the paper yet?’

  ‘Only if you do me that favor I already asked you for,’ Rigg said. ‘What do you think about McGarry taking off?’

  ‘Taking a vacation from the heat, or maybe not. Him and Lehman, they’re both crooked.’

  ‘Did he tell you there were problems with the DNA recovered from the boys, or was it Feldott?’ It was a shot in the dark.

  Glet laughed, loud.

  It wasn’t the response Rigg expected. ‘You’re not worried?’ he asked.

  ‘Here’s what you need to know for now: McGarry’s a moron.’

  ‘He’s not that something you’re chasing that’s more important than the boys and the girls?’

  ‘Off the record on this for now, Milo?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rigg said.

  ‘I’m chasing enough fireworks to set the whole county ablaze.’

  ‘We have a deal, Jerome. My tip about Bobby’s classmates in return for that phone call I’ve been asking you to make.’

  ‘Get your pencil sharp, Milo; hell’s going to pay,’ Glet said. ‘But I’ll make your call.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Milo?’

  He held the cell phone up to see the time. It was five-fifteen, before dawn, a usual time for Carlotta to call. But he’d been sound asleep, and his first thought was relief. There’d been no cage. He knew about the bars now, and the arms behind them – arms that had never been Judith’s.

  ‘What is it, Carlotta?’

  ‘I got another yellow card. In a blank envelope, no postage, like the last one. But, Milo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This one is different. And I think there’s someone down by the cross street, watching the house.’

  ‘Right now?’ He rolled on to his knees and stood up.

  ‘I think so, yes. I heard the mail slot, found the envelope. I looked outside, saw somebody walking away fast.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I think at the corner. The darkest corner, opposite the street lamp and in the shadows of the big bushes. I lost sight of him there. He’s small.’

  ‘Someone out walking a dog?’ he said.

  ‘There was no dog.’

  He said he’d be there in thirty minutes.

  It was still dark by the time Milo got to Carlotta’s neighborhood. He parked two blocks away and came up the sidewalk, watching the houses on both sides of the street. No one lurked behind any bushes. It was cold, barely twenty degrees. It was not a time for anyone to linger.

  He crossed into Carlotta’s cul-de-sac. There were a dozen cars and three panel vans parked along the street. Someone could have been hiding inside any one of them, slouched low. He was sure that was what had happened the last time, when the pictures of him leaving Carlotta’s were taken.

  He saw no one.

  Like always, she opened the door before he got to the house. Like always, he stepped into suffocating heat. Like always, she was dressed in thick fleece pants and at least two sweatshirts to ward off a chill that would never go away. And, like always, her face was drawn tight by the grief that had hollowed out her life. They had that in common, that hollowing. He supposed it was why he always came when she called.

  They sat next to each other at the dining-room table and he put on fresh latex gloves. She handed him a Ziploc bag.

  ‘It’s blank, of course,’ he said, of the yellow card inside.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘Someone used you to get me here, and hung around to make sure I came.’

  ‘To take pictures?’

  ‘Most likely,’ he said.

  ‘They did their damage last time. What’s left to lose?’

  ‘Credibility, in case I discover something.’ He reached for the Ziploc bag that held the blank envelope.

  She put her hand on his wrist. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘They might be getting closer to solving the case,’ he said, but that wasn’t the whole of it.

  ‘That Deputy Glet?’ She pressed down harder on his wrist. ‘I’ve seen him on TV, but all he says is that Wilcox will be arrested for the murders.’

  He pulled his hand away. ‘He’s got new leads, Carlotta.’

  ‘On the boys?’ she said.

  ‘Of course, for the boys,’ he said, trying to not snap at the woman. He was in a hurry, now; he wanted no more talk. He wanted to get outside, out from the stifling heat of her house, away from the heat of her desperation. But, mostly, he wanted to get outside for another look to see if someone might be waiting.

  ‘That deputy keeps saying he’s investigating other things. But those things might distract.’

  He stood up. ‘The cops should have interviewed every damned one of the boys’ classmates. Your boys went horseback riding, I think. The cops should have discovered that. They should have learned about Wilcox.’ Sweat from the heat was dripping into his eyes. He wiped it away. ‘I should have learned it, too.’

  She followed him to the door.

  ‘We must be careful, Carlotta,’ he said.

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘Careful that we don’t become a distraction again. Careful they don’t focus on us.’ He stepped out into the cold and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Outside, in the growing light of the dawn, he saw no one lurking. But, as he headed down the sidewalk, the devil took his hand. He stopped, raised his middle finger, and took a slow turn in all four directions before continuing on to his car.

  He went back to his apartment for a shower and coffee. On his way to the Pink, he call
ed Glet’s cell phone to remind him of the phone call the deputy had promised to make. But he got Glet’s voicemail, so he reminded that instead.

  He called the Dead House for an update on Tana Damm.

  ‘My God, her neck’s a mess, hacked,’ Corky Feldott said. ‘The bastard was no surgeon. Chunks of flesh are missing.’

  Rigg thought again of Aria’s musing that the killer might be a woman, and Carlotta’s description of the person watching her house being of slight build. ‘How much strength was needed to cut her head off?’

  ‘Not that much, if the killer was patient. We’re pretty sure it was a saw, but dull.’

  ‘Could a woman have done it?’

  ‘Mr Rigg, you’re not suggesting a woman …?’ He let the question dangle.

  ‘I’m trying to keep an open mind. Any hope for recovering foreign DNA?’

  ‘The body was so frozen …’

  ‘You’re sure about the freckles?’

  ‘A tiny cluster behind the knee, as I told you before,’ Feldott said.

  ‘That’s the last of the body marks listed on the yellow card. Let’s hope that means Tana Damm is the last of our victims.’

  ‘Let’s hope,’ Feldott said.

  ‘And killed within the same brief time as the others?’

  ‘So I presume.’

  ‘Why stop at four girls?’ Rigg asked. ‘Why kill in a short spurt and then quit? Why write down body marks, as if on a shopping list? And why include Anthony Henderson’s birthmark on that list? To tip us that it’s the same killer?’

  ‘I can’t fathom this,’ Feldott said, clicking Rigg away.

  Rigg held up the Ziploc bag for Aria to see through her glass wall. She was on the phone, but gestured for him to come into her office.

  ‘Of course, Luther,’ she was saying. ‘Of course.’ She hung up.

  ‘Luther loves me?’

  ‘He wants to make sure you lay off McGarry.’

  ‘McGarry’s potentially a big story if he links to Lehman and Richie Fernandez. That can draw readers.’

  ‘He’s got a big balloon payment coming due.’ She arched her eyebrows almost comically, nudging.

  A thought began to grow in his mind. ‘We’ve talked about Donovan having other investors …’ he said slowly.