January Moon

Praise for January Moon

"In January Moon, Maureen Gill swaggers through her debut novel with the impressive power, precision and dead-on aim of the last gun standing after the smoke clears. Her characters are finely drawn coordinates in a lethal landscape, tripping the dark fantastic through a plot with more twists than a dry martini. This powerful cocktail is served straight up, an incendiary shot of fire, darkness, and all that lurks in the shadows of man. Literati, take note: There's a new gun in town and she's taking no prisoners. With each page of January Moon, Gill secures her rightful position as an ascendant star."

Gina Gallo (Armed & Dangerous: Memoirs of a Chicago Policewoman)

"Maureen Gill’s debut novel, January Moon, is a masterpiece, a tour de force. Her prodigious research, poignant narrative, astonishingly fresh voice, and passion for her characters will have you laughing on one page and crying on the next. This gifted storyteller has spun a remarkable and totally unique story that culminates in a suspenseful, astonishing ending; it will leave you breathless and hungry for more great work from this exceptionally talented author. I was a Chicago Policeman for thirty years, a homicide detective for ten of them, and I can assure readers that this author has captured the essence of a real criminal investigation with amazingly accurate insight. The voices of her cops, feds, politicians, ME and other remarkable cast of characters ring so true with me that I could almost swear I was there, right in the thick of it, as each incredible element in her story unfolded before my astonished eyes. January Moon is an absolute must read."

Dennis Banahan (Threshold of Pain)

Maureen Gill

_________________

JANUARY MOON

A Novel

Published at Smashwords by Maureen Gill

Copyright 2010 Maureen Gill

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design Copyright 2010 by Digital Donna

(www.digitaldonna.com)

Original moon photograph courtesy of Cindy Newlin O’Connor

(www.bigshotsbycindy.com)

January Moon is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s fertile and unfettered imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, agencies, or locales is purely coincidental.

A FEW WORDS TO…

Alan and Shaun Gill: Thank you for being there – you know when, where and why and I will always be grateful and full of love for both of you. This book is for you.

Denny Banahan: Thank you for the technical advice, the use of your credentials, and your

stubborn insistence that January Moon would defy the odds.

My cousin Beth Zajczenko: Thank you for restoring some broken limbs on the old family tree; you are definitely one of its strongest and most beautiful branches.

Gail & Bob Ulloa and Carol & Paul Wilson: Thanks for being the world’s greatest neighbors and friends.

My old friends from the ’hood who still call me Micky: Thanks for thinking of me as an author long before I was one and so generously coming forward now to shower me with your love and support. Also thanks to St. Scholastica Academy, the cradle of my seminal feminism, and Loyola University Chicago: thanks for lessons in critical thinking and instilling in me a tradition of service (just don’t hold it against me that I was a late bloomer, OK?)

Special thanks also to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Illinois State Police and Chicago Police Department, as well as to all of the other men and women who work to keep the people of this great land safe. And to the Wonderful City of Chicago and the Great State of Illinois: you will always be in my heart and mind when I think of home.

&

A Special Note to Shadow: Remember me when you’re famous, OK Dude?

JANUARY MOON

The Prophesies

Reprinted with permission from The Self Study Guide to Divine Truth published by the American Jerusalem All Faith Church, Wyatt, IL © 2008

The following prophesies should be read and meditated upon only after you have prayerfully and thoughtfully studied the various sacred readings recommended by your personal Prayer Leader.

1. There will be blight and rot in the Field of Hope and the first sign will appear as traveling death before the year’s last solstice.

2. The dearest to the Truth Giver’s heart will wield the fatal sword and the final battle will commence after blood is shed in the Field of Hope.

3. The One who will be the Final Seed of Truth will be planted in the True Mother’s Womb under the light of the brightest January Moon.

PROLOGUE

December 15th

Mack Carter snatched the young girl from a Gas City truck stop a half mile off I-57 in Urbana, 140 miles south of Chicago. He was about to share one of life’s most intimate experiences with her and wouldn’t even know her name. Death’s quirky like that.

She wore an old fashioned high-necked black dress and matronly white apron under a raggedy-ass black wool coat with a fake fur collar and missing buttons. Her light brown hair was chopped short; it framed a delicate baby doll face devoid of color. There were many odd things about her that caught his eye but if her weird clothes and dead looking skin were what hooked him, then it was definitely her haunted eyes that reeled him in. The eyes were old, very old.

The big trucker watched and listened and filled a cheap Styrofoam coffee cup with a Gas City freebie. She hovered near the door, nervously watching the night, clutching an Illinois-Wisconsin map. Three creeps were talking her up, sniffing and snorting at her scent. Easy prey.

Mack pretended to study the edibility of a sausage and egg sandwich carelessly wrapped in greasy wax paper moldering under an overheated hot lamp. Next to the desiccating sandwich warmer sat a grungy machine spinning diseased looking hot dogs; Ferris Wheels for Wieners.

He stirred his coffee and moved closer to the door. Mack figured her for twelve or thirteen, fourteen tops. The creeps were much older and Mack knew their kind. He’d seen a million miles of predators litter the country from coast to coast: skin heads, bikers, perverts, drug dealers. Some moved in packs, others were loners; all different but so much the same.

Sure, one said, we’ll take ya’ to Wisconsin. We go there all the time.

She wanted to know when they could leave. Right fuckin’ now, he said.

The other predators agreed.

Sure. Right fuckin’ now.

Absolutely, right now, no problem.

Mack wouldn’t trust any one of them to take her around the block and bring her back again. Whatever she was running into was surely as bad as whatever the hell she was running from. Not a doubt about it.

He flung his coffee cup into the garbage and took four giant strides across the brightly tiled floor. C’mon, kid, I’m on my way north. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Mack grabbed her arm, spun her around, and quickly propelled her forward, right out the door.

She didn’t speak as he dragged her into the night but struggled to keep up with his long, quick strides. She obviously favored one leg, hopping every other step until she tripped herself up in the hem of her long coat and tumbled sideways but Mack kept her upright and moving. He steered her past cars and pumps, moving as fast as possible toward the giant rig he’d left blazing like the Mother Ship on the far side of the lot. Mack could easily have picked her up like a baby but wanted to keep one arm free; he was damn sorry it wasn’t clutching a tire iron.

As Mack expected, one of the creeps followed them out the door and was getting too damn close. Mack spun around and growled, Don’t even think about it you sonofabitch.

Fuck you, asshole!

Puffs of foul moist breath escaped between broken blackened teeth and snaked upward into the freezing December air. He was an ugly bastard with reptilian eyes, a nose too wide for his narrow face, and lousy skin. Thin catfish-like whiskers sprung sideways above his thin upper lip and crawled south toward a weak jaw line. Greasy hair was tied back in a pony tail and gelatinous beer belly flesh oozed from under a sweatshirt that had both sleeves ripped off. He was close enough for Mack to make out his hillbilly folk art. Both arms and hands were tattooed with snakes, skulls and obscenities, as well as American flags.

Well, Mack sneered, at least you’re a patriotic bastard.

Although the creep was out of shape he was easily thirty years younger and probably more agile and fast. Mack’s knees and hips were his liability; if he got knocked down he’d never get up. He pulled the girl closer, planting himself firmly on the ground. He was not about to underestimate the man’s ability to deliver a hillbilly ass whipping.

Man, I’m gonna’ kick your old fuckin’ ass.

You’d be making a big mistake if you’re stupid enough to try.

Mack had shoulders 2-ax handles wide and hands the size of small hams and it didn’t go unnoticed how easily he flung the girl around. The guy scanned the well-lit parking lot; a half dozen people were pumping gas and watching. He glared menacingly at each of them but no one avoided his hateful eyes. Mack wouldn’t go down easily and there’d be witnesses. He fondled the knife in his pocket, rethinking his position.

You’re a lucky old bastard tonight, he snarled. His pals walked out to join him but he waved them back and then followed them into the Gas City.

Mack waited until all three creeps were inside before he continued to his truck. It only took him a few long strides to reach the passenger side of his rig and he quickly, but very gently, lifted the girl into the cab. He struggled to cover her with a heavy wool blanket and his hand accidentally brushed her cheek; its heat shocked him.

Mother of God, sweetie, you’re burning up with fever.

Suddenly her whole body was convulsed with bone wracking chills and she grabbed Mack’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip. The heat in her hand and the burning fever in her eyes seared both his body and soul and he was riveted. She struggled to tell him something through her chattering teeth and Mack had a hard time understanding her. He thought she said Gram, no! Don’t ask me what happened, but couldn’t be sure. He figured she was out of her head with fever and speaking gibberish but he tried valiantly to calm her down.

OK, honey, don’t you fuss. No one’s gonna’ ask you anything.

She clutched his hand more tightly and stared into his worried eyes. He thought she said Listen to me, it won’t grow back. It’s gone, and assumed again that her delirium made her talk nonsense.

Mack carefully unwound her small fingers from their fierce grip and tucked her rail thin arm under the blanket. He struggled to belt her into the seat but the bulky wool blanket frustrated his efforts.

She continued to fuss and fidget and asked Are you listening to me?

Mack assured her he was listening as always.

I wasn’t bad, Gram, I wasn’t. I really wasn’t, she insisted.

Shhshh, shhshh, of course you weren’t bad. You’re a good kid, honey, a real good kid. You hang in there now and we’ll get you some help.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mack finally buckled her in. Then he bolted to the other side of the huge semi and hauled himself up and in with a speed and agility his bad hips and shot knees hadn’t been able to muster for a decade. Within minutes his rig was on I-57 heading north toward Chicago.

The girl quickly fell into a fitful, feverish sleep and Mack began to ponder the enormity of what he had just done.

I’ve lost my mind, he said to himself. Just what the hell am I gonna’ do with this kid?

He knew he had to call his wife immediately. Mack was good when something took balls but Marge was better when it required brains.

He grabbed his phone and speed dialed his home. The phone rang and rang and rang but Marge didn’t answer.

Mack couldn’t believe it; the clock on the dash read 2:01 in the morning and Marge wasn’t answering the phone.

Marge, why the hell aren’t you answering the phone?

He knew she slept lightly, phone beside her, when he was on the road so it made no damn sense she wasn’t answering the phone.

He called home several more times but the results were always the same: Marge didn’t answer.

Damnit Marge! Why the hell aren’t you answering the phone? Marge, I don’t need this now. Where the hell are you? Answer the damn phone!

Mack called home every ten to fifteen minutes for the next 125-plus miles. Finally, almost 2.5 hours after he hauled ass out of Urbana, Marge answered. She sounded groggy as hell.

Marge, where the hell you been?

She reminded him that she had a lousy head cold and when she started to explain that she belted down a double – OK maybe even a triple – shot of Nyquil Mack cut her off.

We got an emergency, he snapped and Marge was instantly wide awake. She listened with mounting anxiety as he explained why he had a young girl in his truck.

And she’s real sick, Marge. Maybe I should take her right to a hospital.

Marge’s first question stumped Mack right off the bat and she was absolutely incredulous he couldn’t answer it.

What the hell do you mean you don’t know her name? Did you ask her?

Mack explained he didn’t get that far. Marge told him to ask her, immediately.

But she’s sleeping quietly now. I think her fever broke.

For God’s sakes, Mack, wake her. We need to know something about her. Maybe she has relatives we can call.

Mack called out, Hey, kid, wake up, then more loudly, it’s time to wake up, honey, time to wake up.

He reached over and shook her but she didn’t move. Mack patted her gently on the face; her skin was cool, a sure sign he’d been right that her fever broke.

C’mon now, wake up. We got some questions to ask you, honey.

The kid was out like a light.

Hey you gotta’ wake up now, ya’ hear? Mack shook her more roughly. Sweetie, it’s time to wake up.

When she still failed to respond he reached up and turned on an overhead light and it was then that he knew.

Marge, Jesus Christ, Marge… I think the poor kid’s dead.

**

Mack was approaching US Route 30 when he placed the 911 call. By the time the first state trooper arrived he’d set flares behind his rig and puked twice. His stomach felt like he’d eaten crushed glass, his bowels were threatening to explode, and kettledrums were playing a savage beat between his ears.

It was also beginning to snow heavily but Mack didn’t notice.

He felt pretty damn stupid he didn’t even know her name.

PART ONE

Traveling Death

One

Del Carter was flat on his back, one arm under his head and the other under Jess. He was deep in thought, still unaware his dad was on I-57 with a dead girl in his truck.

He looked at the clock and winced; he hadn’t caught a wink all night. In a few hours he was expected to appear at a breakfast meeting with the Mayor of Chicago and some hotshots with the Chicago Convention and Tourism Bureau.

This shit with the Mayor, he thought, is getting old. Real old, real fast.

Jess was curled up beside him, one arm arched gracefully over his bare chest. He kissed the top of her head; her hair smelled like lavender. With Jess at his side nothing else really mattered. Screw the job, the Mayor, and even the blizzard slamming into Chicago.

All things have their season, he thought, and I just need to figure how to hurry out of this miserable one so that we can begin another.

Give me, kind Heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation; title and profit I resign; the post of honor shall be mine…

Where the hell does this shit come from? It amazed him what his mind retained.

He ran his fingers through Jess’s soft hair. If anyone told him a year earlier he’d fall in love with any woman at first sight he would have said they were crazy. Love at first sight? No way. But Jess Farrell had proven him wrong.

She blew him away the minute he saw her and an hour later he knew she was The One. It just took a little bit of time for Jess to see it too. She was suspicious and asked how he knew it was true love.

When I see something here, he pointed to his heart, and here, he pointed to his eyes, and also here too, he pointed to his brain, then I know it’s true.

We’ll see, she said.

Then one day Jess saw it as clearly as Del and that’s when her fears surfaced and in a panic she slammed the door to her heart and tried to run away.

Running away, he said after he chased her down and made her listen, is not an option.

It’s always an option.

I don’t have to be a cop.

Of course you do. Cops don’t choose to be cops, not like dentists and teachers and others. Cops are born cops.

That, coming from a woman as brilliant as you, is preposterous.

I come from a police family, she retorted. I know. It’s in the blood.

So, why are you a history professor and not a police officer?

Because every now and then one of us escapes…

No doubt about it, the woman he loved could be a wee bit daft.

Hmmm…, she purred and snuggled closer, you awake? Her body was warm and soft and always so desirable.

Yep.

How come? She raised her head and glanced at the clock. It was 4:00 AM. You OK?

Never better. Go back to sleep.

So, why are you awake?

Just thinking.

About us?

Always.

Like what? Tell me. She played with one of his nipples and he groaned with pleasure.

Tell you what?

What you were thinking. Tell me.

You want me to tell you again, for the millionth time, how I knew the minute I laid eyes on you that you were the one, is that it?

Yep. I like that story. It’s my favorite bedtime story, she laughed softly and snuggled closer.

Professor Jessica Farrell, you’re spoiled rotten, you know that? It was fine with him; he wanted to spoil the hell out of her.

Yep. Works for me. So, tell me.

OK, I was thinking about the day I first laid eyes on you. You were walking Wolf. July 1st, 1300 hours. Greenleaf Beach.

And you stalked me, she teased.

Yes, and with great skill I might add.

Wolf knew you were behind us. He was watching you.

Yeah, and I kept my eyes on him too. He’s a very intimidating animal.

But it was love at first sight, right?

True. I never saw a more beautiful dog.

Not funny. She pulled a hair out of his chest.

Ouch! Damnit! That hurt!

Be serious, she chided. You loved me at first sight, right?

Absolutely. But then you told me to go to hell, remember?

I did not! she rose up indignantly.

Shhh… yes you did. You were still in love with that other guy, Jerry Lewis. He knew his name but got a kick out of refusing to say it.

Jerry Levinson, she said reproachfully, and I wasn’t in love with him.

Whatever. What’s-His-Name.

You’re jealous, aren’t you? She was pleased.

Of course. I’ll kill anyone who even looks at you.

Del gently stroked her hair as she lowered her head onto his chest.

Jess reached up and lovingly stroked his stubble; she traced the outline of his handsome features, starting with his brows and eyes and lightly brushing over his strong cheek bones. Her small, feather light fingers hovered around his nose and danced across his lips. He opened his mouth slightly and she played with his perfect white teeth and teasing tongue and then her fingers moved along, toying with the deeply embedded cleft in his dramatic chin and chiseled jaw line.

Her touch was hypnotic and he soaked up the love. Del’s large, powerful hand cupped hers. He kissed it tenderly and then gently nibbled and sucked her delicate fingers.

I lied, he whispered.

What? She raised her head and pulled her hand away but he pulled it back and kissed it again. Yeah, I lied. I didn’t tell you everything I was thinking.

Should I be alarmed?

He lowered his arm and held her tightly. No, babe. Not at all.

So then tell me the truth. She shifted herself around so that she faced him and rested her chin on his chest.

I was thinking about how you hate me being a cop and I really meant it when I said I’d probably be happier doing something else.

But you love what you do.

Not any more. Something’s changed.

Jess studied him. You’re serious, aren’t you?

Yes. Very.

But hey, sweetheart, it’s turned out you’re very, very good at what you do. The whole city thinks you’re a hero now. The Mayor loves you.

I only want to be your hero; I only want you to love me. Screw everyone else.

That’s sweet, thank you.

She lowered her head back onto his chest. Whatever you want to do, honey, it’s OK with me.

In a few minutes her breathing changed and Del knew she’d fallen back asleep. Unfortunately, as long as his mind was on hyperdrive he couldn’t sleep.

Images of the career he wanted to abandon played on continuous loop: graduation from the Police Academy, the early years in Narcotics, being detailed to the U.S. Department of Justice’s DEA Task Force, promotion to sergeant, reassignment back to Narcotics as a Supervisor, then lieutenant rank before thirty. Then the chance to transfer to Violent Crimes, something he suspected he’d be damn good at, something proven right.

A helluva career, no regrets, and then all of a sudden it unraveled. What the hell happened?

It was a warm spring day when he was picked by the Mayor and Superintendent of Police, Jim Reardon, to head a Special Task Force to solve a string of murders terrorizing the city. The media nicknamed the murderer the United Nations Killer because his victims were foreigners and tourists.

It took the task force eleven months to catch the United Nations Killer and when they did Del became an instant celebrity. Handsome, well educated, and articulate, the Chicago media dubbed him the city’s Renaissance Man.

Mayor Carney knew a public relations goldmine when he saw it and quickly jumped on the bandwagon, declaring Lt. F. Delano Carter the perfect example of a modern police professional. Carney made him the cornerstone of a massive public relations campaign to restore Chicago’s image, an image trashed by the serial killer, an overall increase in crime, and a decade-long series of police scandals and federal investigations.

The Renaissance Man campaign was a huge embarrassment to Del. He detested the name and clenched his teeth just thinking about it. He and Jess knew there wasn’t any outpouring of civic adoration when her father and his partner took bullets that crippled and killed twenty years earlier. Frank Farrell was put into a wheelchair and his partner, Jimmy Pappas, was put into the ground.

Del was also acutely aware of the hundreds of other cops and firemen wounded or killed in the line of duty and he certainly knew he didn’t apprehend the United Nations Killer by himself.

I’m not the Lone Ranger, he said, stressing there were hundreds of other cops who worked hard, maybe even harder, to apprehend the bastard.

Del told Carney and Reardon, No way, get some other patsy, but they made it perfectly clear that wasn’t an option: as long as Del was a Chicago cop they owned his handsome ass.

Del said it was the publicity, the idiotic Renaissance Man campaign bullshit, that really got to him, turned his stomach and made him want out, but the truth was deeper, darker, and more dreadful.

It came in the name of Dale Bradley Mommsen. Mommsen was a cancer that ate Del’s soul. Before Mommsen, Del only dealt with the ordinary scumbags who routinely keep cops busy in Narcotics and Violent Crimes; scum killing scum and there was a certain dark justice to it. Sure, there was collateral damage but shit happens.

But nothing Del had ever seen in ordinary police work prepared him for Mommsen. Del remembered – in graphic detail – every one of Mommsen’s crime scenes and it didn’t matter if Del’s eyes were open or closed, if he was awake or asleep, Mommsen lived in Del’s head, devoured his sense of worth, and scared him shitless.

Mommsen owned Del’s head more than Carney and Reardon owned his ass.

I should have taken the shot, he thought.

Should have taken the fucking shot.

Instead, Del operated by the book, and now Dale Bradley Mommsen was housed in Tamms, the state’s notorious maximum security prison.

Del knew it was only a matter of time. No prison could hold the man.

I should have taken the shot.

**

OK, so if you don’t want to be a Chicago cop, what do you want to be?

It was typical of Jess that she could fall asleep and wake up ready to continue her last conversation as if it never ended.

I don’t know. Maybe I could become an alpaca farmer.

What?

Or is that rancher? Alpaca rancher?

You’re crazy, she said with mock indignation.

Shhh…. He laughed and gently pushed her head back onto his chest.

She played with his chest hair and nibbled his nipples and he loved it. She emitted a sultry tigress growl and began to caress the length of his torso, further and further downward. Her touch was erotic as hell.

God, that feels wonderful.

Del closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed her love as well as the sex. You can heal me, he thought. Definitely, woman, you can heal me.

His respiration and heart rate changed and his abdomen jumped reflexively as her fingers brushed over him. Jess raised herself on top of him and he nibbled her lips and teased her with his tongue. He kissed her neck and licked a small heart-shaped mole under her chin. She teased him with her breasts and he sucked as she moaned with pleasure. They were immediately ready for each other.

I love morning sex, he whispered as his tongue danced in her ear and sent shivers down her spine.

Her voice was husky now. Beats the hell out of Cheerios, she whispered.

Del was adjusting her lovely rump on top of his pulsing groin when the room exploded with the terrifying roar of hovering helicopters and the heart pounding music of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

Jesus H! Del yelled as Jess cried Good God! and rolled off him.

It took a second for them to realize the hellacious noise came from Del’s cell phone and not an Air Cav assault coming through the roof. The phone vibrated across the nightstand and crashed to the floor. Wolf tore into the bedroom barking ferociously; his raised fur formed a one inch ridge that went from the scruff of his neck to his tail. They usually called it Wolf’s Mohawk.

What the shit! Del groped frantically to retrieve the phone as it proceeded to disappear under the bed. Wolf lunged to retrieve it but Jess held him back; he would have eaten it.

Goddamnit! Del’s mind flashed back to a memory of his partner Santucci screwing with the phone. Tooch loved to screw with anything electronic, especially if it belonged to Del. Del swore to God he was going to seriously screw with something belonging to Tooch, like maybe his goddamn shiny new car.

Del moved the bed and grabbed the phone.

Good Jesus, I’m gonna’ kill that bast…

He froze in midsentence when he saw the caller’s phone number. Calls that come in the middle of the night are never good, and that’s especially true when they come from parents.

Yeah, talk to me! What’s wrong?

Marge was trying hard to fight hysteria and losing the battle.

"Ma! Slow down, slow down. I can’t understand a damn thing you’re saying."

Marge started over but Del still didn’t understand her.

"Ma, listen to me: honest to God, you gotta’ slow down. Take a deep breath."

At first Del thought his mother said his dad died, found in his truck on I-57. Naturally, he was unbelievably relieved to learn he’d misunderstood.

OK, so it obviously isn’t cool that someone else died in the old man’s truck, but it’s a damn sight better than dad himself, right?

Ma, again, I’m telling you, you gotta’ take a deep breath and slow down. You’re confusing the living hell out of me.

Del walked his naked butt into the kitchen, picked up a red plastic beverage carafe, and poured cold coffee into a black mug that ominously warned Life’s a Bitch, Then You Die. Jess, wearing her favorite schlumpy robe, followed. Del put the mug in the microwave and Jess poured herself a glass of orange juice. Concern marred her beautiful face.

OK, Ma, let’s start from the beginning. Does Dad know this guy, the guy who died?

Jess looked shocked and mouthed, someone died?

Del nodded yes. He cradled the phone under his chin and whispered, Yeah, and in my dad’s truck, can you believe it?

Marge kept calling the dead person a hitchhiker which Del thought odd because his father never picked up strangers.

Where did he pick this guy up?

Marge wasn’t sure but corrected him. "Not a guy, Del, I said a girl."

A girl?

That’s right, your father said she’s definitely a young girl. Maybe twelve, thirteen…

A twelve or thirteen year old girl? Holy shit. Is that what you said?

His mother said yes: that was exactly what she said.

How the hell did dad end up with a dead girl in his truck? A dead minor girl in his truck?

Marge explained the state police were holding Mack in Mattson and within minutes Del was dressed and flying out the door.

Jess, I’ll call you as soon as I can, I promise. Keep your cell phone on, OK? He kissed her quickly and was gone.

The coffee mug stayed in the microwave.

Two

Urbana police responded to an emergency call from a hysterical female about blood in the ladies washroom over at the Gas City near I-57.

Blood is everywhere! she yelled, All over the place!

Cops found a pair of blood soaked underpants and two bloodied bath towels and the washroom floor, toilet and sink were smeared with bloody hand prints. They also retrieved a pink backpack with clean underwear and knee socks, a tube of Neosporin, a mirror and tweezers, and a box of straws – but no ID.

They quickly theorized a baby might have been born in the john and other reasonable possibilities included a miscarriage or botched abortion. The theories gained credence when security cameras confirmed the last female to use the john was a young girl who left the premises under unusual circumstances.

Ms. Waynelle Penney, the Gas City night employee who placed the 911 call, described a white female, twelve to fourteen, fifteen tops, who was forcefully dragged from the premises.

When Ms. Penney admitted the kid didn’t scream, ask for help, or fight the big trucker who snatched her, the cops figured she probably knew the guy.

Waynelle thought the girl was Amish because she wore an old-fashioned black dress. She conceded, however, she didn’t see her wearing the traditional white cap most Amish women wore. Waynelle explained she was something of an expert on the Amish because she had a cousin who lived near Arcola and there’s lots of them there.

The cop taking her statement said he didn’t know much about the Amish but never heard of no Amish kid having a baby in a gas station john.

Waynelle weighed his comment carefully. I never looked at it that way, she admitted.

According to Ms. Penney, the kid was in the john about two hours and then bought chocolate milk and Ding Dongs. Waynelle overheard her trying to hitch a ride to Wisconsin with three local guys who were bad news when all of a sudden this big trucker guy just kinda’ come right outta’ nowhere. She clarified nowhere as being over in the area near the Wiener Ferris Wheel and said and then damn if he don’t grab her little fanny and haul her outta’ here.

Urbana was expecting a major winter storm blowing down from up north so police were at full court press to find a baby, if in fact there was one. Snow was already falling as they searched the dumpsters, garbage cans, and empty boxes behind the premises and a canine team was brought in to search a grassy knoll behind the gas station.

A state trooper pulled into the Gas City for his usual coffee and a piss and saw local cops up to their necks in something big. He called his district’s headquarters to see what he could learn to help the local cops and that’s how Urbana police learned a Jane Doe was found in a truck more than a hundred miles north, near Matteson, way up in Cook County just south of Chicago.

Obviously, state and local police needed to know if Jane was the same kid who left the bloody mess in the john. Urbana police downloaded security pictures from multiple video cameras covering the Gas City premises and sent them to the state police; they expected an answer shortly.

**

Three Illinois State Police cars responded to Mack’s call and troopers found him understandably agitated but fully cooperative. He was sober, coherent and articulate and his CDL, registration and title, as well as insurance and truck log were in order. They let Mack cool his heels in the rear of one of their cars while they inspected his truck.

Jane Doe was found in the passenger seat of the truck, secured in place by a seat belt and sitting upright in a small puddle of her own blood. A blanket was tucked around her. One of her coat pockets contained a few coins, a $5 bill, and a dirty Ace bandage, the type used to wrap a sprained ankle or wrist. The other held a 200-count bottle of Ibuprofen; only four pills remained. Just as in Urbana, the troopers further north found no ID.

An initial inspection of the truck and body failed to show evidence of a shooting or stabbing and Ms. Doe didn’t appear to have died from strangulation. There was no evidence of blood on Mack, his clothes, or anywhere in the truck other than the immediate space where the body was found. Troopers found no weapons, drugs, or anything other than what was legitimately on Mack’s manifest or what personally belonged to him.

The weather was worsening so dispatch instructed troopers to take Mack to the nearest municipal police department which happened to be over in Matteson, rather than to district headquarters in Des Plaines, which was a good poke down the road.

Anyway, Wiley’s already there, the dispatcher said, we’ll call and tell him you’re coming in.

The troopers wondered why Wiley was in Matteson and one of them might have asked if Mack didn’t interrupt. Mack asked if he could call his wife to tell her where they were taking him and they agreed.

**

Fred Wiley was a tough talking, chain smoking, ’Nam-era ex-Marine who’d been with the Illinois State Police almost four decades. He could have pensioned out ten years earlier but hoped to die on the job because the idea of retirement was one of the few things that terrified him. His ruggedly handsome leathery face, square jaw, steel blue eyes, old fashioned crew cut and whiskey voice made him look like a stereotypical grunt-eating, fire spitting by-the-book USMC Drill Instructor which is exactly the image he wanted to project.

Wiley was killing time, waiting for the troopers to bring Mack Carter into Matteson, when he decided to ride his partner about his ridiculously pompous name.

"What are you, a pope or something? What the hell kind of name is Aloysius