'DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep.'
'Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there.'
Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork's number.
'Answering machine.'
'Warrants,' I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane's place and to the killer's.
Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.
Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.
'Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third,' Herb said. 'You want to go there, or Diane's?'
'There. Let's move. I want eight men, full armor, now.'
The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn't even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped each other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.
I had four teams coming with me, plus me and Herb. Evanston PD was meeting us there with more men. Herb placed an obligatory call to the Feds, but called the local branch to stall for time -- it would take a while to get the message to Agents Dailey and Coursey, and by then it would all be over.
In the black and white, siren screaming, Dispatch filled us in on Chuck's record.
'He's thirty-seven years old. Eight arrests in the past nineteen years. Convictions for aggravated sexual assault and attempted murder. Last stretch ended in 1998. Since then he's been clean.'
'Not clean. Just careful.'
The team heading to Diane Kork's arrived first. She wasn't home, and her place showed no signs of disturbance.
I hoped we weren't too late.
Three miles from the target we killed lights and sirens. The houses here were one-story one-family dwellings, middle-class income. I was hyper-tuned to my environment, noticing many things at once; the streets were pitted with potholes, the dusk air smelled like leaves, my chest felt confined in the tight vest, Herb had sweat on his forehead.
This was it.
Benedict parked behind a row of squad cars, all waiting for his signal.
'Ready?' he asked me.
'It's your show.'
We got out of the car.
Suddenly, tearing down the street with much squealing of tires, a black Mustang convertible bypassed the police barricade and bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. It screeched to a stop on Charles Kork's front lawn, digging up four rolls of sod.
A man in a trench coat, holding what looked like a gallon jug of milk, leaped from the car and ran up to the porch.
I cleared leather with my .38 and limped in pursuit. Someone with a megaphone yelled, 'Freeze! Police!' At ten yards away I dropped into a Weaver stance and kept a bead on the figure.
'Freeze! Hands in the air!'
The man put his hands up, still clutching the jug.
'Turn around! Slowly!'
I felt my backup fill in behind me. There was a tense pause. Then the man slowly craned his neck around and stared at me.
'Kinda funny how history repeats itself, huh?'
Harry McGlade.
Chapter 39
WAKE UP, MY LOVE.'
He slaps his ex-wife across the face, watching the blood rush to her cheek. She whimpers, eyelids fluttering.
'It's Charles, honey. Wake up.'
Diane Kork opens her eyes and stares at the man standing above her. She tries to move but can't.
'Charles, what are you --'
He cuts her off with another cuff to the mouth.
'You talk too much, Diane. Always talking. Always criticizing. I don't want to hear it anymore. All I want to hear are your screams.'
He walks away. Diane lifts her head, looking at what restrains her. Twine. Her ankles and wrists are bound with twine. She's in her bra and panties, stretched out on a cement floor. Her hands and feet are tied to posts that have been driven through the concrete.
