CAHOKIA

When Murder Doesnt Die

Excerpt


Cahokia Illinois got its name from Native Americans.

The name meant simply, truth, in the Cahokia language.

What a thing is --- The essence of itself.

A tiny Southern Illinois town of roughly 8,000 souls; todays Cahokia sits about an hour drive from bustling St. Louis, Missouri. A brisk mid-November dawn was breaking over the quiet community. But, while most of the townspeople slept, something very un-quiet was happening. Right near the corner of Whitaker and Dixon Streets, something was going on.

The modest A-frame house at 4240 Whitaker Place had sat on that corner lot for fifty years. Clara Persey, had been there forever as far as anyone knew. It used to be her, her husband Willie Persey, and a front yard full of stray cats and dogs. After Mr. Willie died several years back, it was just Miss Clara, a few cats and a dog or two, along with an occasional boarder now and again.

First, two of the towns four police cruisers pulled up, followed hastily by two Illinois State Troopers. The four vehicles swerved into what appeared to be designated spots. Uniformed officers jumped from the city vehicles, shotguns in hand, and headed toward the troopers.

Within seconds, two more cars from the county sheriffs office careened quickly but silently onto the scene. A pair of deputies got out and talked briefly with the other officers already there. Moments later they all spread out, moving in the direction of the house on Whitaker Place.

Finally, a midnight blue Chrysler sedan pulled in. The well groomed, intense looking man sitting in the front passenger seat put his index finger to the side of his head and pushed something into his ear.

Check -- Leader One Check on, he muttered into a thin tube running from his ear to his mouth.

Green Rover in position, Leader One.

Blue Rover set, sir.

Red Rover is in play, Lieutenant.

The man in the dark blue Chrysler was apparently in charge of whatever was underway on this chilly Cahokia morning.

Copy all units. Hold your positions on high alert Repeat, high alert, he responded.

Police Lieutenant Quinton Marks flipped the mouthpiece from his radio headset upward then turned to the driver and two other people in the back seat of his car.

Lets keep it wired tight on this one people, he said.

If this trip is anything its supposed to be, were liable to run into who-knows-what. So cover your butts and lets do this one by the numbers.

In an instant, Marks was out of the car, and as though connected by some psychic relay system, the other three joined him in-synch.

A neatly trimmed beard and slightly graying close cut hair made the detective look more like an investment banker than the edgy police department veteran that he was. Marks pulled a 9-millimeter pistol from under his overcoat as it flapped in the blustery autumn wind. Slipping the gun to his side, he strode toward the door of 4240 Whitaker Place.

Sergeant Michael Stanton, broad shouldered with a football players build, was Marks right-hand man. He was just to his lieutenants left and slightly ahead of him. Both men were flanked along a narrow sidewalk by Toni Hollaman and Danny Minnelli. Chicago PDs four-person Major Crimes Unit. The MCU.

Whackit! Whackit! Whackit!

Mike Stanton banged hard on a raggedy screen door, piercing the silence of early morning Cahokia.

This is the police! he yelled. Open up!

Nobody does a thing till I give word. Quinton Marks whispered into his headset.

Whack! Whack!

There was no response.

Marks gave a go-ahead nod to Mike Stanton.

Stanton readied himself to slam his size-13 workboot into the door.

Hold it! Marks shouted suddenly.
Look!

The doors knob jiggled and Marks and Stanton arched backward.

OPEN UP NOW! Danny Minnelli yelled.

NOW DAMMIT! bellowed Toni Hollaman, even louder.

Quickly, the door swung open!

All four detectives jumped back!

Then suddenly, they stopped.

Lowering their weapons slowly, they stared at each other. Then they stared at the person in the doorway.

Yes, may I help you? questioned the soft-spoken voice of an elderly woman standing there in her housecoat and slippers.

Who the hell are you?! Mike Stanton couldnt help but say right away.

Pull back Everybody stand down now. Marks muttered into his headset.

Miss Clara Persey! said the woman defiantly. And who the hell are you?! she fired back.

Maam are you the owner here? Quinton Marks questioned, easing back onto the porch.

Yes I am! she snipped.

My late husband and I have been on this property since 1947, thank you! Who are you people, and what are you doing banging at my door this time-a-the-morning?! she declared.

Mrs. Persey, my name is Lieutenant Quinton Marks, he said, flashing his MCU badge.

Im with the Chicago Police Department and these are my associates

Sleepily, Clara Persey began to notice all the other cops surrounding her house.

Maam, we were sent here with reason to believe that Marks tried to say.

Clara Perseys face went sullen and her head dropped.

I know why youre here, she said in a whisper.

Marks did a double-take and tried to look normal.

What? he said.

I knew youd show up sooner or later, she responded.

I just knew it.

Hunh?! growled Mike Stanton with a frown.

He hunched Danny Minnelli standing next to him.

Hell, I dont know. Toni Hollaman said, when both of them looked at her.

Then Clara Persey floored them all.

Its about the back yard, isnt it? she said.

What?!

Its about whats buried back there, isnt it?

Stanton, Minnelli and Hollaman stared at each other, floored!

Ah man, what the hell have we gotten into? Danny Minnelli said eerily.

Marks flipped down the headset one more time.

All units! he stammered nervously.

All units, hold your positions.

Repeat Hold your posts Were going in.