At 6:10 p.m., Sam arrived at the Department of Waste Management. He approached the receptionist, flashed his badge, and stated his business. She called a security guard, who escorted him through the lobby, and into a series of hallways. They came to a stop at a door marked: EMPLOYEES ONLY. The guard turned to Sam and said, “Straight through that door, and hang a right.”
Sam responded with a quick, “Thank you,” and entered yet another hallway.
A series of small offices lined the long corridor. Each office was empty except for the last one, where an obese man, his face shining with a permanent gloss of sweat, sat waiting for him. “Fi-nal-ly,” the man shouted. “I’ve been waitin’ on you for over an hour!”
Sam hoped to keep a low profile and was concerned about his tour guide’s big mouth. “Who told you to wait for me?” Sam asked.
The obese man grabbed a ring of keys off a large hook and waddled into the hallway.
“Upstairs call down and says to wait for a detective, and show ’im whatever the fuck he wants to see in the locker room.”
Sam followed the obese man through the door, leading to a flight of old metal stairs.
“I mean, shit, man, I’m supposed to be off at five. Got two fatass kids waitin’ on me. They like to see their old man every now and again,” the obese man said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs next to a nondescript green door. His pudgy fingers entered a code on a small keypad, and they entered the locker room.
Three rows of lockers were broken up by little wooden benches that ran straight down the center aisle. Behind the lockers was a white-tiled bathroom that contained four dirty shower stalls. The room smelled of body odor mixed with human feces.
“What’s your name?” Sam asked, not wanting to refer to him as the obese man.
“William, but everybody call me Digger. That’s D as in Digger as opposed to N as in . . . you know.”
“Any special reason they call you Digger, Digger?”
“Before I come work here, I use to dig graves at a place called Rosehill Cemetery. Ever hear of it?”
Sam stopped, and sighed. He wasn’t even thinking about Jenny, and now regretted asking Digger the origin of his nickname. “No,” Sam lied. “Never heard of it.”
Digger walked over to the first locker.
“Sweet place. Peaceful as shit. Me and my old lady gonna be buried there. Got my plots for free. Part of the deal if you stay for seven years. I hung on fifteen. Got two of ’em. Real fine placement, too.”
“Good for you,” Sam said, hoping that would end the conversation.
No such luck. Digger continued to rant and rave about the serene beauty of Rosehill as he pulled a master key from his ring and opened the first brown, metal locker.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam had seen about half the lockers, and heard all he ever needed to know about the colorful history of his wife and unborn daughter’s final resting place.
The locker search yielded nothing except for some hash in 110 and some Quaaludes in 112. Most were filled with work clothes, an occasional family photo, and gear.
Before his arrival, Sam had placed several calls to various supervisors, hoping they could provide the names of the men who worked with or personally owned the killing machine. Much to Sam’s dismay, nearly all the employees who worked above ground and below had access to various pipe cutters. Chicago Waste Management employed nearly 400 men alone. Add to that another350 who worked for the major gas company, and the list of possible suspects was substantial. That didn’t even include the multitude of private companies and freelancers who also had access to such equipment.
As Digger opened locker number 201, Sam began to regret not taking Gannon up on his offer of more manpower.
“Now there’s a piece of fine ass worth callin’ a piece of fine ass,” Digger shouted, staring into the locker.
Sam could not argue with Digger’s crude statement. She was gorgeous.
Stunning, Sam thought. He took a closer look at the eight-by-ten photo pasted to the inside door. She wore a nurse’s uniform, and the photo looked more like an ad ripped out of a magazine than a snapshot of some lucky fella’s wife.
“Whose locker is this?” Sam asked.
“Travis Taylor,” he said, and added, “And that definitely ain’t his lady.”
Sam lifted a soiled shirt off the bottom, exposing several books. “Why do you say that?” he asked, grabbing the top book.
“He’s a loner. Sorta strange, but friendly. Hell, I don’t think I ever said more than two words to him in the four years I been here. Bet my life he ain’t even seen a real girl naked, much less fucked a fine piece of ass like that.”
Sam knew pure luck would play a huge part in solving this case, and as he read the title to the first book, he knew it had just struck: RAPE. A WOMAN’S GUIDE TO PROTECTION. Sam dug into the locker and pulled the next book off the pile.
It read in big, black letters: HOLY BIBLE - KING JAMES VERSION, and right under that was a thick book entitled, THE INSPIRATIONAL WRITINGS OF C.S. LEWIS.
Sam quickly leafed through the books, looking for anything that might be hidden between the pages, but found nothing. He glanced back up to the strange photo of that perfect woman. Her eyes are haunting, he thought. Mesmerizing.
“What’s this shit all about, anyway?” Digger asked.
Sam carefully searched the locker and found street clothes, an old pair of tennis shoes, and two plastic water bottles.
Sam didn’t want to tip his hand too strongly to Digger, who was clearly a certified loudmouth, and calmly asked, “When does Mr. Taylor’s shift end?”
Digger dug into his pocket, pulled out his tablet, and unfolded it. He called out for the weekly schedule, which popped up a second later. “Let’s see here . . . Taylor, Travis. Here we go. He pullin’ a double. Off at one in the morning.”
Sam set the books back exactly as he found them and arranged the locker to look as though it had not been disturbed. He closed the metal door, turned to Digger, and asked the million-dollar question. “What’s Mr. Taylor’s job description?”
“Sewer rat,” Digger quickly replied.
“What’s that mean, exactly?”
“He a lifer in the sewers. Cuts pipe.”
Sam felt the blood surge as his heartbeat sped up.
Digger glanced down at the schedule. “He just went on break for an hour. Never stays down there. Always goes and grabs a bite someplace. Always right back at seven.” Digger moved over to the next locker and inserted his master key.
“That’s okay, Digger. I’ve seen enough for today,” Sam said, his throat suddenly dry.
Digger pulled out the key, and turned to Sam. “That boy in some kind of trouble?”
Sam lied. “Probably not.”
“He retarded,” Digger said almost protectively.
“Physically?” Sam asked.
“No, mentally. He slow. His mind don’t think too fast. Old Travis is harmless as a fly.”
Sam had heard that line before. Most serial killers didn’t look, or for that matter, act, like raving lunatics. They were usually described in exactly that manner: harmless.
Sam wanted something substantial lined up before issuing an arrest warrant. Maybe a week of surveillance, maybe even two.
A quick arrest of a possible suspect in The Revenger case would be a media orgy. The possibility someone in the Department or working within the criminal justice system was an accomplice weighed heavily on him. The more of the investigation he handled on his own, the better.
“I’m going to need Mr. Taylor’s home address and phone number,” Sam said.
Digger clipped the keyring to his belt loop. “We all finished in here?”
“For now, yes.”
Digger motioned for Sam to follow him back up to his office.
[][][]
“You going straight home, Digger?” Sam asked.
Digger flopped down at his desk and looked up Travis Taylor’s home address. “Yeah, and don’t sweat it,” Digger said, copying the address onto a piece of scratch paper.
“Don’t sweat what?” Sam asked.
Digger handed him the piece of paper. “I ain’t gonna say shit about nothin’ to nobody. The Digger don’t pry into the lives of the fools around him.”
“You got a photo of Travis I could take a look at?” Sam asked and glanced down at Travis’ address: 863 North Caldwell Drive.
Sam knew the street well. A mother suffering from postpartum depression had stabbed her two older children to death and strangled her newborn baby boy on that street years ago. Sam had been an officer for less than three months and was the first uniform on the scene. He found the woman lying in an empty bathtub, her wrists slit with a dull kitchen knife. Her name was Mary Stevens, and she was twenty-nine years old. Her husband, Jack Stevens, took his own life four days later. Jack was twenty-eight years old.
Digger instructed his AI assistant for Sam’s photo request. “He sure does look like a fuckin’ sewer rat, don’t he?”
Digger spun the monitor, and Sam approached the desk for a closer look. The photo resembled a bad mug shot. Travis’ face was covered in dirt, and his glasses fit lopsided on his head; a sad grin was etched on his boyish face. Travis looked vaguely familiar, and Sam racked his mind trying to think where he had seen the small, round face before.
“Only a mother could love a face like that,” Digger blurted out.
Sam continued to study the face and became convinced this was not his first sighting. His thoughts went back to his bag lady, and the various people standing in the photos with her. Maybe that’s where he had seen his face, but he wasn’t sure.
If Travis Taylor was The Revenger, what was his connection to the bag lady, if any connection existed at all?
Sam turned away from the screen and looked down at the little piece of scratch paper: 863 North Caldwell Drive. He glanced at his watch: 6:30 p.m.
“Tell me I can get outta here, detective?” Digger asked, spinning the monitor back.
“I’ll walk out with you,” Sam said, and made up his mind that a trip to 863 North Caldwell Drive was in order.