Matthew Wilkerson was one of fifteen people who worked the night shift at the Buffalo Grove police station, and the others were close to retirement. Casey had managed to build a hefty file on Wilkerson before she was attacked and it made for interesting reading—he barely graduated high school, barely passed the police entrance exams, and barely managed to hold onto his job. He’d injured his left shoulder in a routine traffic stop when he slipped and fell, and had been assigned to night desk duties for the past year.
I assumed he was the weakest link. He’d avoided Casey’s calls, dodged all face-to-face interaction with us, and sent his distraught fiancé to confront us. According to the police reports available online, we found that he’d only ever arrested five people in his five years on the force, and they were all over the age of sixty-five.
His pictures on social media looked soft—despite being in his mid-twenties, he still had childish chubby cheeks, soft skin, and a tubby waist. His hair was blonde, and it looked like he’d cut the style himself. From what we found in our research, Wilkerson was a man of routine. He clocked off at 9am every morning after the night shift, and traveled to his local Starbucks, before driving back to the Carpenter’s house, where he lived with his fiancé and her parents.
Confronting a cop was a risky play, but I was running out of options.
The police parking lot had five cars in it, and I watched as the day shift came in. The officers who arrived for the day shift were the strong type, older cops who approached their jobs with vigor, perhaps sometimes too much vigor. They appeared fit, well-groomed, and held themselves with pride. Wilkerson’s car was parked at the furthest corner of the lot, reserved for the youngest and most inexperienced officer. Behind the station was a golf course, which I was sure was handy for the more senior staffers, and tall bushes surrounded the parking lot. I parked on the street behind the shrubs. Breathing fog, I waited outside my truck in the cold morning air, rubbing my hands together to stay warm.
The entrance to the police station was fifty feet away from Wilkerson’s car, and the lot only had one camera pointed towards it. The video camera that covered the lot had a blind spot, that was obvious the second I saw it. The camera was tucked away at the back of the stairs, behind a police van. The van was tall enough to leave a small window of opportunity to conduct a conversation outside the view of surveillance. To get to his car, a fifteen-year old white Honda sedan, Wilkerson would have to pass the van. If there was nobody else in the parking lot, that would be my opportunity.
I planned to talk to Wilkerson, quietly, and if I even had an inkling that he had some involvement with the attack on Casey, then I would break him. But plans aren’t my strong suit, especially when emotions are involved.
Waiting behind the bushes, I kept an eye on the back door to the station. As soon as I saw Wilkerson step out of the back door to the small police station, the rage bubbled inside me. My fists gripped together, my jaw clenched, and my vision focused. I checked the parking lot for anyone else, stepped through the bushes, and waited near the van.
Wilkerson stepped around the back corner of the van, only a foot away from me, car keys in hand, and then froze. He was a short man, the top of his head barely reached my shoulders.
“Ah.” His mouth hung open. “Can I help you?”
I couldn’t help it. The rage became too much. I slammed him against the van with my right arm, and used my left arm to hold onto his wrist, preventing him from reaching for his gun.
“You’re assaulting a police officer.” He mumbled as my forearm pressed onto his throat. He was struggling to speak. “You’re under… arrest.”
“You think I care about that?” I snarled. “Where were you last night?”
“I was…” He huffed. I could smell the fear on him. “I was on desk duty here.”
“All night?”
“Who are you?” he questioned. He tried to move his hand towards his weapon, but I held his wrist tight and pressed it against the van. I was much stronger, taller, and heavier than him, not that he provided much resistance. He tried to push against my hand, but it was no more than a slight shove.
“If you call for help, I’ll break every bone in your body,” I growled. “Were you here all night?”
“I’ve only just finished the shift.” He drew a deep breath, and looked to his right, but there was nobody to save him. “You can check the videos or reports. I was here from five o’clock last night, and I’ve only just finished my double-shift. Don’t kill me. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
I held my glare on him, but it was clear he was telling the truth. Then I smelled it. It was urine. I looked down. The kid had wet himself.
“Man.” I let go of his collar. “Really? You’re a cop.”
“I’m on desk duty.” He pleaded. “I don’t do the streets.”
I stepped back from him. “Come on, kid. Do better than that.”
“I’m going to report you.” He whispered, looking at the ground. “You’re going to prison for this.”
“You report our interaction, and then I report
