by Henry Perez
Ignoring the pain in his shoulders and back, he willed his body forward, and was trudging up the muddy bank a minute later. As soon as he found dry footing, Chapa stopped and took off his waterlogged leather jacket. He checked to make sure his wallet and keys were still there, then draped the coat over his right arm and began searching for the path to his car.
A group of children stopped playing four square as they stared, openmouthed, at the man who had emerged from the river and was now walking toward them. Chapa knew how he must have looked to the kids, and realized that he’d just given them a strange story to tell for the rest of their lives.
Chapa leaned down and picked up the red ball that was bouncing away from the children, tossed it back their way, and smiled. He could still feel their eyes on him as he started down a gravel path he assumed led back to where his car was parked.
He knew that if someone had been stalking him back there, upriver, they could still be around now. Though his clothes felt heavy, there was also no hesitation in his step. Chapa thought back to that day in Miami as he realized he’d have to cross the woods to reach the safety of his car.
Back in the forest now, and on the gravel portion of the same path he’d walked earlier, Chapa came to a dead stop when he heard what sounded like the crunching of gravel. Then the sound was gone, like it had never been there.
The sun was almost down, and soon its afterglow would be all that separated Chapa from darkness. It was getting difficult to see as he reached the paved section of his route. The forest, thick with blackness and strange undefined noises, wasn’t revealing anything now.
Then the crunching sound returned. Behind him this time. Chapa estimated that the gravel path lay twenty yards in his wake, and he wondered whether he could make it to his car before someone could reach him.
He turned to look back more times than he should have over the next several minutes, until the forest gave way and the parking lot appeared in the distance. Chapa’s car was the only one that was still there, which gave him an odd sense of security.
Maybe he’d been alone the whole time, with only the knowledge that a killer was indeed out there, and a troubling memory from his childhood haunting him, clouding his thoughts.
Chapa took off his shoes and socks and tossed them in the backseat along with his coat, then got in his car, locked the doors, and waited. His eyes fixed on the forest and the path, he didn’t see the man approaching his car from the rear, coming up fast along the driver’s side.
There was a sharp tapping on his window. Chapa sprung just a bit, then felt stupid when he saw the park ranger on the other side.
“It’s time for you to go, sir. Park’s closing,” the guy said, trying and failing to hide his amusement first over Chapa’s reaction, then his appearance.
Chapter 54
Chapa was no more than a mile or two from home, and doing his best to lean forward and avoid soaking both the backrest as well as the seat, when he realized he’d forgotten something.
He called Tom Jackson, hoping he would still be at the station.
“C’mon Chapa, I’m damn near out of here and on the way home to a decent meal. What do you want now? And what’s that noise, is it windy where you are?”
“No, I’m just driving with the window down and heater on.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m trying to dry off some. Listen, you need to go over that windmill and the area around it very carefully.”
“That’s brilliant, Alex. Don’t you watch all those forensics shows on TV? We’ve got our own version of that, and they’ve already scoured the place.”
“I don’t doubt that, Tom. But they weren’t looking for the right thing, may have ignored it even if it was obvious.”
Jackson was silent for a moment, and while Chapa hoped that meant the cop was taking notes, he sensed that wasn’t the case.
“Oh no, no, Alex, don’t say it.”
“There’s going to be a stick figure,” Chapa said, ignoring Jackson’s ongoing objections. “It could be carved into a corner of the windmill, inside or out, etched into the walkway around it, or hell, maybe spray painted on that possum or whatever it was that lives there.”
“It was a raccoon, and no one spray painted anything on it.”
“Well, I’m relieved for the animal’s sake, but you’ll need to go get a better look at the area.”
“We already discussed this, and I told you that—”
“Yes, I know, it’s dangerous there, lots of bad people and what-not. But I found one of those figures at another murder scene on the other side of the park.”
Sensing that he’d finally gotten Jackson’s attention, Chapa described the sign that he’d seen by the river. Jackson told Chapa that he remembered the murder, though it had not been his case, and promised to check out the crime scene photos tomorrow.
“And maybe I’ll take a drive there and check it out for myself.”
“Maybe? Really, Tom? That’s all I can get from you on this?”
“Fine, Chapa, goddamnit, I’ll go check out the sign. It’s probably some bullshit gang symbol, or a frat house thing, or just old-fashioned vandalism. But I’ll waste part of my day and drive there to check it out just for you. Because I obviously failed to get through to you earlier.”
Jackson was still droning on as Chapa turned into his driveway, some of the same spiel as before about how Fletcher Woods can be a dangerous area and any one of a thousand or more people could be responsible, and that it probably had nothing to do with any murder.
But Chapa wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were locked on the silhouetted figure of a man, hands on hips, shoulders broad and even, standing by his house.
“I gotta go, Tom. There’s a man in a suit in the middle of my driveway, and I have a feeling he’s been waiting for me to get home.”
Chapter 55
The last time Chapa saw Joseph Andrews they were witnessing a killer’s execution. That was a little over two weeks ago, and though Chapa was happy to see his longtime friend now, he was surprised to find Andrews waiting in his driveway, wearing a blue suit that looked just like the one he had on the last time he saw him.
Chapa got out of his car, shoes and socks in hand, dripping a trail of river water as he carried them up the driveway.
“New suit, Joe?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Looks right on you.”
Andrews was the only man Chapa had ever known who seemed more comfortable wearing business clothes than anything else. He’d been an FBI agent for nearly twenty years, a good friend for much longer. Though the two didn’t see each other very often because of their work schedules, Andrews’ family obligations, and geography.
“Is that a new look for you, Al?”
“It’s a long story.”
“The wet leaves and mud on those pants, all over that shirt, and in your hair are a nice touch, sort of completes the style.”
“When’s the last time you were at my house?”
Andrews shrugged. “Been a while, hasn’t it? I figured I’d stop by and say hi to Nikki.”
“Yeah, right.” Chapa smiled and keyed the lock on his front door. “You’re here to make sure I’m not getting my ass in the chopper over the Clarkson thing.”
“There’s that. The way you look and smell right now makes me think I got here just in time.”
Chapa told Andrews to make himself comfortable, not that he had to, while he ran upstairs to change. He took his river-soaked jacket with him, and tossed it into the bathtub along with everything else he’d been wearing, then did his best to get cleaned up. After dousing his hair in the sink and putting on some fresh clothes, he came back down ten minutes later feeling a bit better and hoping the layer of deodorant would hide the smell of the river.
He poured a couple of rum and Cokes and carried them into the living room.
“So where is Nikki?”
“Erin should be bringing her home any minute now,” Chapa
said, and pressed a small button on the side of the door, to keep the dead bolt from clicking shut.
He handed Andrews a drink and looked out through a living room window as a car drove past. Seeing that it wasn’t Erin, Chapa let himself fall into his couch, across from the plush upholstered chair Andrews had opted for. Both pieces of furniture were purchased the day after Carla sent movers to take away everything that had been there.
“All right, Al, what about Martin Clarkson?”
Chapa kicked a copy of Sports Illustrated off the coffee table that came with the couch, and put his feet up.
“I saw him two, or I suppose three times, including the time when he couldn’t see me.”
“What do you know about him?”
Chapa shrugged, then took a slow, soothing drink, letting the liquor wash down his throat, and waited for the burn which never came.
“Not enough rum. I may have given you my drink.”
Andrews smiled and knocked back all that was left in his glass.
“I know what you told me, what Martin Clarkson told me, and what the cops told me, which wasn’t much. Former FBI agent, half out of his gourd, packing heat while chasing a pattern killer who likes to draw but doesn’t have a great deal of artistic ability.”
Andrews pulled a tissue out of an inside pocket, folded it into a perfect square, then leaned forward and set his empty glass on the makeshift coaster.
“Did he tell you about his wife?”
“No, but I think I saw a picture of her.”
Chapa laid out the details of the crime scene, including the bloodstained photo in Clarkson’s hand.
“A lot of folks who knew him believe that her death is what set him off, what really sent him over.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t mean he was wrong,” Chapa said as he placed his damp, empty glass on the bare table.
“Wait, hold on, Al—are you saying that you believe him? You think Martin Clarkson was right.”
“I do now.”
Andrews buried his face in his hands, it disappeared behind long thick fingers.
“Is that a new watch, Joe?”
“What?”
“That watch you’re wearing, it’s not government issue, it’s cool.”
Andrews looked at the timepiece on his wrist like he’d never noticed it before. It was one of those with exposed gears and mechanisms as part of the design.
“No, it’s not new. Jenny gave it to me two years ago, on my fortieth birthday, and you’ve noticed it before.”
“Well, I probably thought it was cool then, too. I’m not a fickle man, Joe.”
Andrews shook his head as though he wanted to free something stuck inside.
“You do understand that a slew of very good, very capable investigators looked into Clarkson’s claims.”
“I don’t doubt that. But here’s the thing, clever killers have eluded the law before, and are doing so right now as we sit here.” He watched Andrews bristle just a little at that thought.
“There were even some at the Bureau who suspected Clarkson might be pursuing himself.”
“Sure, I considered that possibility too, Joe.” Chapa got up to get himself another drink, pointed to Andrews’ glass, but got waved off. “A killer like that, one who is able to change appearance, maybe even identity, and then integrate himself into a community could be especially difficult to track.”
“That’s all hypothetical, Al.”
“Okay, but what I found today by the river wasn’t,” Chapa said and left to pour himself another drink, this one without alcohol since Nikki would be home soon and he never wanted her to smell liquor on his breath. He was feeling pretty good about walking out of the room on a cliffhanger line like that one.
When he returned with a fresh glass in hand, Andrews was waiting for more. Chapa explained what led him to go back to the forest preserve. He told Andrews all that he’d learned about the murder down by the river, the sign, and his sense that someone was watching and screwing with him just before he fell in.
“The thing with the sign, there are a lot of possible explanations for that. You don’t even know when it was vandalized. Could’ve been a year before the murder, could’ve been last week.”
Chapa heard a car pull into the driveway, Andrews tilted his head toward the front door.
“I pushed that little button on the door that leaves it unlocked, so Erin can let herself in. For some reason she likes doing that.”
“Then like I was saying, Al, the sign might not mean anything. Hell, maybe Clarkson was crazy enough to do that himself.”
“Why would he?”
“To make you think he was right. It doesn’t hurt to have one of the area’s leading investigative reporters on your side.”
“One of the area’s leading reporters?”
“You know what I’m saying, Al.”
A series of car doors opened and shut, then the sound of laughing children bounced around the front lawn.
“As for your sense that someone was watching you, that, just like a lot of the other dark shit, was probably all in your head.”
Chapa thought about it for a moment. Everything Andrews was saying could very easily be true. But he wasn’t ready to give in to that.
“No, Joe, it wasn’t all in my head. And way too many pieces are starting to fit together.”
Andrews leaned forward in his chair, like a shrink with a troublesome patient or a priest confronting a fallen parishioner.
“You do understand that when it comes to chasing something like this, your job is a lot easier than mine.”
“I’m sure it is,” Chapa said, then knocked back the rest of his drink as Andrews was standing up and straightening his suit coat.
“You win either way, Al. If there is a serial killer moving through the Chicago suburbs, leaving corpses and crude drawings in his wake, that’s a good story.”
“No, that’s a great story, and one that people need to know.”
“And if there isn’t a killer out there, but a former FBI agent lost his life chasing what he believed to be one, that’s a great story too.”
“True. But, Joe—”
“What?”
“There is a serial killer operating in Oakton.”
Andrews let out a long sigh as Erin came through the door. They had never met, though she had been the topic of many of Chapa’s conversations with Andrews.
He introduced them to one another.
“From everything Al has told me, you sound like a wonderful, sensible person, which makes me wonder why you’re dating him.”
Erin feigned a serious expression, then said, “Out of pity.”
Nikki and Mike came rushing through the front door.
“We’re going to go play in my room until supper is ready,” Nikki said, her voice trailing away as she and Mike ran up the stairs.
But Chapa stopped Nikki before she made it to the top and told her to come back down and say hi to their guest.
“You were only this tall the last time I saw you,” Andrews said, holding his palm up to about Nikki’s shoulder.
She smiled politely, but Chapa wondered if she actually remembered him.
“What are you going to be for Halloween?” Andrews asked.
“A princess,” Nikki answered.
Mike jumped in. “I’m going to be a pirate.”
After a few rounds of adult-child small talk, Nikki and Mike were headed back up the stairs.
“Erin picked out the costumes,” Chapa said and put his arm around her. “Took Nikki shopping at one of those seasonal Halloween stores.”
Erin withdrew a little.
“You smell…different, Alex. Did you get ready for dinner by slathering on a bottle of aftershave?”
“Actually, it’s deodorant, scented,” Chapa said and smiled. “And dinner, hadn’t thought about that.”
“Erin, here’s hoping that you can straighten this guy out, get some sense into him.”
“Not an easy task,” s
he replied without missing a beat.
“No, it isn’t. But Al isn’t a bad person, not really.”
“I’d been wondering.”
“He’s not. And that is why if you give me a couple of days’ heads-up, I’ll be there for the intervention.”
Chapa had heard enough. “Hey guys, I’m right here.”
They ordered pizzas and ate them together in the dining room. Andrews finally took off his suit coat, but Chapa was certain that had more to do with not getting food on it than making himself comfortable.
As they sat and talked for a couple of hours after dinner, Andrews and Chapa took turns telling war stories, and Erin seemed to enjoy every minute.
“I’m taking notes, you know, for future reference,” she said after Andrews was done recounting the time during their college days when the two of them sneaked up onto the roof of a prominent Chicago museum, drank beer until they passed out, then woke the next day and had to figure out how to get down without getting caught.
Nikki stayed up for another half hour after Erin and Mike left, then said goodnight to Andrews, and Chapa went up and tucked her in. When he came back downstairs, Andrews had his suit coat on.
“Stick around a while, Joe.”
“I wish I could, but it’s been a long one.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got Jim Chakowski’s funeral to go to tomorrow.”
“What about Erin?”
“She’s not going. Nikki will be over at her house.”
“What I meant was are you going to marry her? Are you going to let her make a decent man out of you?”
Chapa started cleaning up, well aware of how that uncharacteristic behavior let his perceptive friend know he wasn’t comfortable with this conversation.
“I don’t know. I’m still too concerned about getting lost down the rabbit hole again.”
“Erin is not Carla.”
“Not even close.”
“Carla was just plain wrong in too many ways to count.”
“And Erin is right in a lot of ways.”
