He picked up the landline on his desk and dialed the main number for the Gillette County Sheriff’s Department, which had jurisdiction over the case. According to the notes supplied, the officer in charge was Detective Lance Ringland.
The desk jockey on duty, a sweet woman with a lovely Texas twang, told Czarcik that Detective Ringland wouldn’t be in until the following morning. “But he’s an early riser,” she offered helpfully. “He usually arrives before seven.”
Czarcik glanced at the display on the bottom of his computer. It was just after nine. “Have him paged, please.”
In the pregnant pause that followed, Czarcik could tell the dispatcher’s first instinct would be to politely repeat her answer. But his direct tone made her reconsider. “I can try, sir. But you may have to wait till morning.”
“Do what you can.”
Another pause. If the dispatcher, a well-mannered Texan, was waiting for an acknowledgment of thanks, she would be waiting all night. She finally broke the stalemate. “All right. Please give me your number. If Detective Ringland fixes to call you tonight, he will. If not, you’ll just have to wait till tomorrow.” She spoke the last sentence with an edge.
Czarcik gave the woman his number and returned to his computer screen. Aside from the knot, and a probably unrelated child-abuse link between the victims, the only other similarity between the Dallas and Chicago cases was a conspicuous lack of evidence, other than what the killers wanted investigators to find.
Barely a minute later, Czarcik’s desk phone rang.
“Czarcik.”
Although thick with sleep, the voice on the other end was friendly and lucid, the voice of a man accustomed to being woken up in the dead of night. “Normally, I’d have my girl take a message, but you must have some urgent situation up there in Chicago.”
“Detective, aren’t you on Central time?” Czarcik asked.
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s barely past nine.”
“Are you aware of Ben Franklin’s famous saying?”
Czarcik was aware, and found it completely ludicrous. His best work was done postmidnight. Either way, he had no desire to play Founding Fathers Jeopardy.
“Detective Ringland, my name is Paul Czarcik. I’m with the Illinois Bureau of Judicial Enforcement.”
“That’s what my girl tells me. That’s all she tells me. Other than she’s got a rude caller on the phone who has no respect for my beauty sleep.”
Czarcik smiled to himself. He pictured Ringland, plain as day, sitting across from a suspect in an interrogation room. With some disarming wit and a little homespun charm, he could make a jaywalker admit to murder.
“Well, now that I’ve disturbed you, I was hoping you could help me.”
“Tell me what you need,” Detective Ringland said. Now all business.
Czarcik could hear whispers and quiet assurances on the other end of the line. He assumed that Ringland was telling his wife to go back to sleep. That everything was fine. Then some shuffling. The sounds of him getting into his bedside slippers and sneaking off into the hallway to take the call.
“Had a pretty brutal case out here the other day. Man and his wife. Tortured to death. Man’s head was cut off and has yet to be recovered.”
“Goddamn. That is brutal,” Ringland replied without the usual cynicism of a veteran detective.
“Crime scene was clean, and we don’t have many leads to go on. But IDA flagged a specific knot, a knot used in the murder. A similar one was used in one of your cases.”
“Judge Robertson’s case.”
“How did you know?”
“This isn’t Syria. Gillette County encompasses a few rural towns and some unincorporated spillover from the Dallas sprawl. How many murders do you think we see out here?”
“Then if you wouldn’t mind, Detective—”
“Lance.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Lance, what can you tell me about the judge’s case? I don’t mean this to sound insulting, but your boys didn’t put too much of the report into IDA.”
In reality, Czarcik didn’t care how it sounded, but he needed Ringland to be amenable.
“Well, like I said, we seldom deal with cases like this. Not like your backyard . . . least from what I see on the news. Plus, out here, we’re not always so fond of putting our information into a federal database.”
Czarcik let out an exasperated sigh. He had no love for governments—federal, state, or local. They were run by people. Mostly incompetent people. But what he hated even more were provincial yokels who assumed that the fed’s main purpose, its raison d’être, was to invade the privacy of ordinary Americans. If the paranoid set really knew the extent of the government’s surveillance activities, they would be far more terrified by its gross incompetence at every level.
“Then what can you tell me, Lance?”
“Well, our crime scene sounds like yours. Victim was tortured to death. Perp left no traces. No traces at all. And we even brought the boys from Dallas in to go over it.”
“And no suspects?”
Detective Ringland laughed. “Plenty of suspects.”
Czarcik sat up straight in his chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a tin of Skoal, squeezed off a thick pinch, and placed it between his bottom lip and gum. “How’s that?”
“Judge Robertson was a family court judge. Every child he took away from two parents and placed in a foster home . . . that’s two suspects for you right there. He also sent a lot of teenagers back to their homes. Runaways that had been picked up for petty crimes. Lot of them didn’t want to go back. Lot of them had good reasons not to want to. All of them, suspects.”
“So how are you handling it, then?” Czarcik asked, sucking hard on the dip. His empty stomach turned over. He should have stopped off for a bite to eat.
“The old-fashioned way. Working backwards. Talking to neighbors, people of interest. Following up on leads. Basically, things that don’t rely on a lot of fancy computers.” It was nothing more than a friendly little dig, but Czarcik wondered whether Ringland knew just how ignorant he sounded. “We’re going over his cases. Identifying folks with recent judgments against them. See if any of them were particularly angry about it.”
Although Czarcik was convinced this was an exercise in futility, he figured he’d let Ringland spin his wheels a bit longer. “Would you mind if I joined you?” Czarcik asked. “Sounds like you could use another hand.”
“It ain’t a myth that we’re known for our hospitality down here,” Detective Ringland replied eagerly. “In fact, if you foot the bill for your trip, I might be able to wrangle you up a free place to stay. Lot of our motels don’t fill up anymore, and folks are usually willing to do the local PD a favor.”
“I’d be very grateful, Lance. I’ll take a flight out tomorrow morning.”
Detective Ringland laughed again.
“Mr. . . . Czarcik, is it?” He pronounced the name “ZAR-ick.”
“‘Tsar-sick.’ That’s right.”
“This hunch of yours. The reason you’re coming down here. It’s all because of a knot?”
“That’s right. A knot used to tie a dead chicken around the neck of my victim was identical to the knots used to restrain Judge Robertson.”
Detective Ringland thought for a moment. “Must be a pretty unique knot.”
“No, not really.”
Silence.
“Anyway, let us know when you arrive,” Detective Ringland finally replied. “Very least, give you a chance to taste some real barbeque.”
EIGHT
Even at 4:13 a.m. there were signs of life at the Walter Mondale Rest Area.
A central location just outside Rochester, Minnesota, made it one of the country’s busiest truck stops. The big rigs from the East Coast could reach the destination in one day’s time, provided the traffic played along and the driver ignored the federal hours-of-service regulations. From the Pacific it was tougher. But with enough co
ffee and speed, an ambitious driver could run the route in a single stretch, as long as safety was of no concern.
In the parking lot, eighteen-wheelers were lined up like fallen obelisks, their sleeping pharaohs tucked safely in their cabins. They were silent now, although at any moment they could shake off the night with a mechanical growl.
Daniel Langdon was among them. His Lexus was one of only a few cars in the lot that didn’t require a commercial driver’s license. He wasn’t worried about standing out, even in a Lexus. Truck stops were strange places, and short of strolling around the grounds brandishing a decapitated head, a person was unlikely to attract much attention.
Besides, Daniel had already disposed of the last piece of Luis Fernandez’s cranium in the restroom’s garbage can.
He sat behind the wheel, shrouded in complete darkness. The engine was off, the dashboard black. He was used to stalking his quarries in broad daylight, but for some reason, he felt unnaturally exposed, even though he was far more inconspicuous than usual.
His keys were in the ignition. He could fire up the engine at a moment’s notice.
In the row of trucks right in front of him, three eighteen-wheelers to his left, was a rig with Minnesota plates—LMF393, randomly generated by the Minnesota Department of Public Safety.
Daniel had his man.
Somewhere in the cab of LMF393, Edgar Barnes slept peacefully. But down in Kansas City, pretty much a straight shot down I-35, Carlee Ames could hardly sleep at all. In fact, since the accident, more than two or three hours of uninterrupted slumber was a godsend. As a quadriplegic, whose breathing was aided by a ventilator, she usually conked out in her state-of-the-art wheelchair. Her bed was more comfortable. But Carlee being Carlee, she always felt guilty asking her frail, aging mother to maneuver her onto the mattress. So she would just nod off while watching The Bachelor, dreaming about suitors who never came and waking fitfully from nightmares that never ended.
Daniel had read about Carlee Ames in Reader’s Digest, of all places. He was at the dentist’s, waiting to have a crown replaced, and it was the only periodical available. He was so engrossed in the story that the hygienist had to call his name three times before he looked up, eyes red with tears. “Mr. Langdon, are you all right?” she had asked him. He wiped his eyes and mumbled something about allergies before following her into the examination room.
He’d always known there would be a reason to remember the story. That reason was now. It was the kind of thing that should never happen but does happen far too often.
Edgar Barnes had been navigating his truck down a two-lane highway. He had just dropped off a load of discount furniture at the flea market on County Road 11. He had been awake for more than thirty-six hours, reeling from Dexedrine that he chased with a pint of Wild Turkey to take the edge off. His blood alcohol level was 0.2. Almost three times the legal limit. Or so he was told.
Carlee was coming from the opposite direction, driving her beloved Pontiac Firebird that she had bought used with the money she made that summer working at Falcon’s Frozen Custard. She was twenty years old. Her blood alcohol level was 0.0.
Then the laws of physics intervened. Specifically the one that states that no two objects can occupy the same space simultaneously.
It was Barnes’s third DUI in as many years. He spent thirty days in jail and had to pay Carlee just under $10,000, an amount that covered exactly six months of payments on her ventilator. Following his release, he was arrested two more times for driving while intoxicated. Because nobody else was injured as a result, he received no prison time.
According to the article, Edgar Barnes had never once visited Carlee. He had never inquired about her condition. Never apologized. At the sentencing, he only responded with a meager affirmation that he understood the charges. When the judge asked whether he wanted to make a statement, he declined.
Mr. Edgar Barnes had gone on with his life, unrepentant, while his collateral damage took her meals through a straw.
And now he would pay.
In the glove compartment of Daniel’s Lexus was a syringe filled with 50 mg of succinylcholine. Fast acting and effective. Edgar would be completely incapacitated as Daniel went to work. From his research, Daniel figured he would need about fifteen minutes to cut through the neck, locate the spinal cord, and sever it cleanly. He would then place an anonymous call to the rest stop security office and report that a trucker was ill and had passed out in the front seat of his rig. Otherwise, there was the slim chance that if Barnes wasn’t discovered for a few days, he might die of dehydration or blood loss. And Daniel didn’t want him to die. He wanted him to live. To live and to suffer. Paralyzed. For the rest of his natural life.
As Daniel was finalizing the plan to gain access to Edgar’s cab, he heard a sharp knock on his window.
He jerked in his seat, wrenching his shoulder. He had been so focused on the truck parked diagonally from him that he wasn’t paying attention to his immediate surroundings.
The face at his window wore too much makeup. Badly applied. But beneath it was the face of an angel. Just like Carlee Ames. This face was separated from his own by only a thin pane of glass.
Another knock. Gentler, but persistent. She wasn’t going away.
Daniel wished his Lexus had manual windows so he could operate in the dark. He sighed and turned the ignition one click. The dashboard lit up. The radio crackled to life with the familiar chords of Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid.” He slammed his hand on the On-Off knob before any lyrics could be heard.
He regained his composure after a few seconds and located the window controls on the armrest. Daniel pressed the button, and the glass descended into the door with a soft whir.
“Can I help you?”
Without the distortion caused by the glass, Daniel could see how young she really was. He was terrible at judging age, but knew she shouldn’t be alone at a truck stop this time of night.
“Are you lost, sweetheart?” he asked. He spoke as if addressing a young child and immediately realized how ridiculous he sounded.
The girl batted her lashes and ran her tongue across her front teeth. Vixen mode. “Lonely, mister?”
Daniel closed his eyes and breathed loudly from his nose, more depressed than annoyed. “No, thank you. I’m just resting here after a long trip.”
“I can give you a good deal,” she offered, hopeful.
Part of him wanted her gone. He didn’t need this shit right now, but he felt guilty abandoning her. He motioned to the empty seat next to him. “Please, come in.”
He leaned over and unlocked the passenger-side door. She disappeared into the darkness in front of the car before reappearing in the seat next to him. She offered him her hand, grinning. “Cheri.”
Daniel shook it, surprised by how tiny it was. “Pleased to meet you, Cheri.”
Inside the car, with their faces illuminated only by the dashboard’s glowing light, she was in her element. She reached out and put her hand on his leg. “There’s a motel about a mile from here. They rent rooms by the hour.”
Daniel shifted away from her. “Sorry, but I . . . I need to stay here.”
Cheri nodded. She understood. “OK, well, how about a blow job for fifty bucks?” It was a fair price, and when he didn’t respond enthusiastically, she tried a different tack. “Please, mister. I need to eat.”
“Oh . . .” Daniel reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. As he withdrew a twenty, the headlights of LMF393 came on. He handed the bill to Cheri, never taking his eyes off the rig.
Cheri took the twenty and suddenly began to cry. Daniel glanced over. His first instinct was to comfort her, but the truck was preparing to leave, and he needed to maintain his focus. “It’s . . . it’s not for food,” she admitted.
The last thing Daniel wanted was to engage her, but then he thought of Carlee. How could he expend so much time and energy avenging one girl he knew virtually nothing about while turning away another so obviously in need of help?
Carlee was an abstraction. Just a name in a story he had stumbled upon by sheer coincidence. Here, next to him, was a vulnerable child.
The truck’s engine roared to life. Edgar Barnes was preparing to move out.
The one thing Daniel could not do was bring Cheri with him, even if he ultimately delivered her to the proper authorities. What was the technical term? Accessory to murder? Although he was fairly certain the charge would never stick, especially when his whole story had been told, he couldn’t burden her with the inevitable fallout. She would need to mount a defense to prove she had met him for the first time in the parking lot. And what happened if an ambitious DA wanted to make headlines? Daniel didn’t want to leave that in the hands of some public defender.
“I owe my pimp two hundred bucks,” she said. “If I don’t have it by tomorrow . . . he won’t be happy.”
Her ensuing silence allowed Daniel time to imagine the details.
If he had been a professional hitman, he probably could have pivoted on a dime. Left Barnes for later and knocked off the pimp. After all, some scumbag who trafficked young girls was just as deserving of justice as some piece-of-shit drunk driver. But Daniel didn’t just pluck his victims out of a hat. He waited, patiently at first, until he read about a case that, for whatever reason, spoke to him. Or rattled him to the core.
Plus, his hits took time. A lot of time. Something that he didn’t have much of.
In front of him, he could hear the gears of LMF393. The air brakes hissed. Barnes was pulling out. Thinking about his next delivery. His next meal. Women. Whatever long-haul truckers thought about to pass the time. But he wasn’t thinking about Carlee Ames. Of this, Daniel was certain.
Rain Will Come Page 6
