CHAPTER 6

 

Trooper Dale MacKenzie pressed his foot further on the accelerator, nudging the Chrysler past the eighty mile-per-hour mark. He rolled up the window, the siren too loud for the police radio with the window down. It was past noon and traffic on Interstate 80, though not heavy by metropolitan standards, was heavy enough to warrant extra caution.

The feminine voice of the dispatcher asked for any unit in the vicinity to respond to the report of an injured child along the westbound section of the interstate east of De Soto, near the rest stop. The dispatcher said the report was phoned in by an anonymous caller from a phone booth there.

MacKenzie heard the “Be on the Lookout” advisory, or BOLO, two hours before over the radio. The broadcast announced missing/presumed kidnapped Tiffany Meade, a white female, aged seven, last seen wearing a brown corduroy skirt and plaid scarf. The suspect was described as a white male, approximately forty years old, over six-foot, large build, last seen wearing a green army jacket. The suspect vehicle was described as an older, full-sized, American-manufactured station wagon, white or cream in color.

The dispatcher’s voice cautioned that the suspect was considered armed and dangerous, and presumably still in possession of a handgun used in the commission of the offenses of murder and kidnapping. There was no known direction of flight.

Trooper MacKenzie had over fifteen years of service, and was experienced enough to know the seriousness of the bulletin. He was also the father of two little girls. He spent the past two hours searching the highway for the suspect vehicle.

So when the report of the injured child came in, MacKenzie dropped the Styrofoam cup of coffee he’d purchased at the minimart and headed for his car at a trot. The two incidents were too rare to be unconnected, and even if they weren’t, MacKenzie wasn’t going to take the chance.

He cut a quick U-turn in the truck-stop parking lot and headed for the onramp, switching on the lights and siren. MacKenzie’s 1986 Ford LTD Crown Victoria purred, and he was on the interstate in less than a minute.

MacKenzie was less than ten minutes from the reported locale of the injured child, making him the closest unit by far. He blurted his call sign into the radio’s mike, signifying he was en route. He barely heard the dispatcher’s acknowledgment over the roar of his engine and the shriek of the siren.

MacKenzie’s heart raced as he passed first one motorist, then another. He grabbed the mike again and asked the location of his nearest cover unit. Through the static came the voice of another trooper, giving his position as north of Winterset on Highway 169, with an ETA of twenty minutes. MacKenzie clicked the mike button in response, not surprised. Unlike city cops, highway patrolmen and rural deputies were accustomed to having their back-up a long way off, often in another part of the county entirely.

MacKenzie saw the outline of the rest area in the distance and began pumping his brake in quick bursts to control his deceleration. He saw a lone eighteen-wheeler parked in the rest area’s lot, its engine running. He grabbed the mike from its dashboard mount a final time, telling dispatch he was on-scene. The cruiser skidded to a halt.

He scanned the vicinity of the semi-truck for its driver. MacKenzie ran over to the truck’s cab and jumped up on the step, peering into the cab. There was no one inside.

The trooper went around the far side of the rig and headed towards the small brick building which housed the public restrooms. The rest area consisted of the restroom building and a series of picnic tables in a grass courtyard nearby. At the edge of the grass he found the truck’s driver.

He approached a tall, heavy-set man in a blue nylon windbreaker and cowboy boots. The driver was bent over, his hands on his knees. He appeared to be out of breath, taking in thick gulps of air, which he let out in wheezing rasps. MacKenzie approached him, crinkling his nose at the smell of fresh vomit.

“What happened? Where’s the injured kid?” He could see a puddle of puke at the driver’s feet, some of which had splashed onto his trousers and cowboy boots. The truck-driver didn’t respond to the trooper’s questions.

“Talk to me; I need some answers.” MacKenzie put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. The driver looked up, his eyes wide.

MacKenzie asked again, “What happened? Are you alright?”

The driver finally nodded, spittle dripping from his chin. He wiped his mouth and stood up.

“Did you call in a report of an injured child?” The truck-driver nodded again, and MacKenzie realized the man was experiencing dry heaves and couldn’t speak.

“OK, take it easy,” he said soothingly. “You’re going to be alright. Where’s the kid? I need to know where the kid is.”

Tears began to form in the big trucker’s eyes, and a sob escaped his lips between dry heaves.

MacKenzie was losing patience. “Damn it, you called in an injured kid. Where’s the kid?”

In answer, the truck-driver turned and pointed to a clump of elm trees framing the picnic area. MacKenzie followed the man’s fingers.

Hanging from one of the tree’s branches was a little girl. She was upside down and her throat had been cut, a thick pool of blood staining the brown grass and autumn leaves below her. She was hung by her ankles, and what looked like a fishing gaff was threaded through each Achilles tendon, the connecting chain draped over one of the elm’s thick branches. Her lifeless eyes were open and staring directly at Iowa State Trooper Dale MacKenzie.

Trooper MacKenzie felt his own stomach lurch, and he grabbed at the portable transceiver on his belt. He began to speak, working to suppress the tremor in his voice and the shaking of his hands as he keyed the mike. He almost gagged, but caught himself. He tried, several times, to look away from the staring eyes of the dead child. Even when he closed his eyelids he could feel her eyes burning into him.