Lake Redemption

By Jerry McGinley

Five years after his controversial resolution to the Michael Chadwick case in Miles To Go Before I Sleep, now retired detective Pat Donegal is back on the trail of a rogue’s gallery of kidnappers, murderers, and every assortment of thugs and criminals. Teaming with police department detective Shea Sommers and sheriff’s department deputy Hennie Duggan, Donegal battles his way through five fast-paced, hard-edged, closely related crime stories. No subject is off limits for author Jerry McGinley, whose terse style has been compared to Ernest Hemingway and Elmore Leonard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781581243062

Jerry McGinley

Jerry McGinley lives, teaches and writes in Wisconsin. His work includes A Goal for Joaquin, an audio novel published by The Fiction Works; a hard cover novel, Joaquin Strikes Back; and a collection of poetry titled "Waupaca County: 7 a.m."

Book preview

Donegal?

Prologue

(Five years before our story begins.)

Over the years Mike Chadwick and I had very few kind words to say to each other. He was a serial criminal, and I was the idiot who followed him relentlessly trying to find evidence to lock him away. Yeah, I’m the fat cop with the cigar and garlic breath that Chadwick talked about in some of his tape-recorded sessions from the mental hospital. I’m the one who wouldn’t give up trying to put him in jail for what he did. I guess I became somewhat obsessed with his case. Some days I listened to his tapes and thought he really was the most unlucky son of a bitch who ever walked the earth. Other days I thought he was the craziest. But most times I was sure he was a clever deviant who knew exactly what he was doing and talked his way out of going to prison. I promised myself that I’d see him punished before I died. It’s been a hard promise to keep.

After Chadwick was released from the state hospital for the criminally insane three years ago, I decided to follow every move he made. I knew he’d go back to his old ways. His kind always does. There’s no cure for what troubled him.

I was still working in Lake County, two hundred miles from his cabin in the north woods, so it was hard for me to watch him as closely as would’ve liked to. I wasn’t popular with my wife when I used my days off every week to drive up north to spy on this pervert, but I couldn’t let it go. I knew he’d gotten away with murder, and I knew he was going to do it again. I tried to get my boss to give me time to clear up the file, but he said he didn’t have the money or manpower. The Kelly Corona case was considered impossible to solve. Until new information came in, the sheriff’s department was simply closing the book—labeling it a COLD CASE.

Unfortunately, Chadwick disappeared just weeks after he was released. He was very good at making people vanish—even himself. I tried my damnedest to figure out where he went, but without time to develop leads, I had little chance of finding him. I was sure he left the state. I listened to his tapes. He talked about going to Louisiana if he was ever in a bind. If he did that, I figured I’d probably never find him. When he talked about his ghost-like fishing buddy Parker Riley, however, he mentioned Minnesota, Michigan or Canada. If he’d gone there, I figured he’d be close enough that I’d eventually track him down. I just hoped I’d find him before he killed again.

Every time some kid was reported missing or a woman was attacked, I was sure Chadwick did it. It didn’t matter where in the state the incident happened, I’d use my days off to go there and try to get involved in the investigation. I became such a pest to various police departments that I was frequently threatened with obstruction charges if I got in the way of the local departments. I refused to back down.

I should tell you about another complication that developed about a year after Chadwick got out of the hospital. My health, which was never very good, started to go all to hell in a hurry. When you weigh two hundred and sixty pounds and inhale six to eight Harvester cigars a day for twenty years, you’d have to be a damned idiot not to know you’re running on borrowed time. Well, my clock started winding down a couple years ago.

It started with a cough that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t sleep more three hours a night before I was up coughing, trying to get my breath. I couldn’t walk up half a flight a stairs without puffing so bad I had to stop to rest. Then I started dropping weight. My skin turned sort of yellow and waxy looking. It was no great shock when I finally went for a physical exam and found out one of my lungs was almost totally shot. The other one had issues too. My doctor didn’t play any games. He told me to straighten out any undone business as fast as possible. I imagine he was referring to family matters and financial considerations, but to me the most pressing business to take care of was Mike Chadwick. I was determined to put him away before I checked out. It was a hard decision to make when you’ve got a wife and two sons that you should be spending your last days with, but I’d been a cop too long. I couldn’t let this one go unsolved.

It was about this same time that I heard about a new disappearance. It was in the southwestern part of the state. A young woman went out running one morning like she did every morning, and she didn’t come back. There wasn’t a clue what happened. Local police tried all the routine procedures, but nothing turned up. The FBI was called in because the locals decided to treat it as a kidnapping. The feds put on a good show and pushed a lot of people around, but they couldn’t find a clue either. I knew it was Chadwick. Had to be.

At that point I was working a desk job for the department. The sheriff gave me a gravy job so that I could hopefully finish the last two years I needed to get in my thirty years and a full pension. I think we both knew I’d never make it, but I appreciated the gesture.

Well, as they say in the movies, it’s time to cut to the chase. Literally, in this case. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t have a whole lot of time to sit here giving all the details of my life. Within months of the first disappearance, two more runners vanished. Now it was a pattern, and not even the FBI could deny they probably had a serial killer loose in the midlands. Of course, I knew who they should be looking for, but nobody took me very seriously. I took a disability leave of absence from my job and decided to work full time finding Chadwick. I got no support in this decision.

One federal agent told me, Be a good boy, Donegal. Help us solve this case by staying out of our way. It’s not our fault you blew an investigation years ago. Trust me, it’s not your phantom schoolteacher we’re looking for. We have our own leads. Leave it to the pros!

After that I decided to do it on my own. I tried every angle to figure out where Chadwick had gone. I tried half a dozen states and Canada. Nobody had any records of a car registration, tax receipt, nothing. I tried the name Chadwick, Riley, Craig, everything I could think of but couldn’t make one connection. Then I got a break. It was a report I read in the paper. A young woman in northern Wisconsin reported that she was out running on a country road when a truck approached and tried to hit her. She managed to avoid getting hit and ran across a field toward a farmhouse. The driver started across the field but then turned back and disappeared down the road. She said it was a small yellow pickup truck. That was the link I needed. I remembered when Chadwick was released from the mental hospital he bought a yellow Datsun truck. Now I knew it was him. Of course, I still couldn’t convince the people working the case, so I decided to find him myself.

I grabbed my emergency oxygen tank and headed north to talk to the woman. At first, my looks frightened her, and she wouldn’t let me into her house, especially since I had turned in my badge when I went on leave. But after I told her about Chadwick and informed her about his yellow Datsun truck, she reluctantly agreed to talk. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much more information than was printed in the paper. She couldn’t tell the make of the truck, and she couldn’t remember even noticing the license number. Still, her coming forward had brought the truck out into public.

Within a week two more runners reported having seen the yellow truck. One had almost been struck several months earlier, and the other saw it parked along a side road a day or two after reading the article. That meant Chadwick was still on the prowl. I had to move fast, but moving at all was a major challenge. I couldn’t even get in or out of my car without being totally zapped of strength. My sand was running out, but I knew I was close.

I talked to both women who’d reported seeing the yellow truck, but neither could provide much help. Then one night I was home trying to sleep when the phone rang. It was the woman who’d seen the truck parked on the side road. She said she remembered something about the license plate. She wasn’t sure, but it might’ve been a blue Michigan plate, and the first three numbers could have been CTA. She explained that she didn’t think of it until she saw her little girl practicing making letters. Her daughter had been copying words out of a coloring book and mistakenly spelled cat—cta. When the mother saw it, she suddenly pictured the letters on the license. She wasn’t positive, of course, and the FBI showed no interest in her story, so she called me. With the information she gave me, I figured I could trace down the vehicle.

I did. I found a helpful computer puncher at the Michigan department of motor vehicles who tried the letters CTA and found a hundred and seventy-three vehicles. Eighteen were pickup trucks. One was a 1989 Datsun registered to Karl A. Corona. That cruel, arrogant bastard. Who would have guessed he’d use Kelly’s name? My resolve to live long enough to put him away grew stronger.

The address on the registration was a little town in the Upper Peninsula. Once in upper Michigan, I had no trouble finding Chadwick. I stopped at a bait shop in the town listed on the truck registration. I described who I was looking for and was given directions to the hermit’s shack. It was located on a small lake about eight miles from town. Evidently, Chadwick had earned a reputation, even though he’d moved here to dissolve from view. Of course, I’ve always believed that Chadwick secretly wanted people to know who he was and what he’d done.

Using the directions given me by the bait shop owner, I easily found Chadwick’s shack, and there’s not another word to describe the place. It was obviously just one room, no bigger than twelve feet by fifteen. It was covered with faded tar paper which was peeling off in several areas. There was one, two foot square window on each side. The roof was made of tin with careless strips of tar smeared along the seams and across the top. The rusty yellow Datsun was parked near the front door.

I pulled in behind the Datsun and started blowing the horn. I wanted him to come out to me. I knew I’d be unable to survive a physical confrontation, so I sat in the car with my Glock 9mm in my lap. If he came out shooting, which I didn’t think he would, I was ready to return the fire.

After a few minutes the door opened a crack, and I heard him say, What do ya want? Whatever you’re selling I don’t want any, so go away. He paused but the door remained open.

Chadwick, it’s Pat Donegal. I want to talk to you. Come out here. I was hoping that the surprise of hearing a familiar voice would bring him out. I knew his arrogance would prevent him from being too cautious. I was right. He slowly emerged from the dark structure.

He looked much older than when I’d seen him a couple years earlier. His matted hair was gray, almost white, and hung to his shoulders. He had several weeks’ growth of gray whiskers. He looked like he was sixty even though he was only in his mid-forties. He was wearing a torn and faded flannel shirt and a baggy pear of overalls. He looked like a hermit.

As he approached the car, his eyes squinted to narrow slits. He approached without caution. I eased the pistol into my coat pocket and opened the car door. The exertion of climbing out of the seat was a challenge. He looked surprised when he saw me.

Is that really you, Donegal? He had a strange smile. What happened to all your fat? We got another Irish potato famine I didn’t hear about? He laughed at his own joke.

Don’t worry about me, Chadwick. I think we’d better talk about you and what you’ve been up to the last few months. The strain of talking and climbing out of the car forced a wheezing sound from my lungs.

You don’t sound good, Pat, he smirked. You sure you should be this far from home? What if you pass out or something? Here in the boonies, I don’t know if anybody would try to help you.

I’ll make it; I don’t need any help from you. The words came out in a slow breathy gasp. I’ve come up here to take you back. I promised myself I’d see you put away before I died. Now that I’m this close, I know I’ll see it through.

I liked you better when you were fat, Donegal. You were funny then. We were standing no more than six or seven feet apart. Of course, what you just said is pretty funny too. You can barely walk. How do you plan to take me anywhere? Besides, you had your chance. I served my time.

New game now, Chadwick. You were pretty careless this time. Left too many clues. Let too many people see your truck. Even let them get your license number.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never leave this place except to fish or buy supplies. He sounded defensive.

Then how’d I find you if your truck wasn’t spotted near a crime scene back in Wisconsin? I was leaning against the car, and my voice was getting stronger.

I haven’t been to Wisconsin in two years. Got no interest in going back there.

Give it up, Mike. I know all about your new game: drive the back roads looking for joggers, then when you see a woman running alone, you smack into her and knock her into the ditch, and then you either drag her or force into your truck. Not nearly as sneaky as you were in the old days. I paused to catch my breath and to see his response. He just stared at me. Nothing to say, Chadwick. That’s not like you.

I don’t have to talk to you. You’ve got no jurisdiction up here. The old cockiness was back in his voice. You got a warrant? Hell, I don’t have to say shit to you. You screwed up the last investigation; you’ll screw this one up too. Come back when you’ve got some real cops with you. See how much evidence you’ll find then.

What, you gonna burn the truck like you burned your car after killing Kelly? I let the words sink in. No, it’s different this time. This time the trial is going to be right here. Just you and me. No psychiatrists, no lawyers, no jury. Just the two of us.

Don’t make me laugh. You’re a do-gooder, Donegal. You play by the rules. That’s why you’re a loser. He turned and started to walk away. I knew I had to stop him before he made it to the shack. I pulled my gun and fired a shot into the door in front of him. He stopped and turned to face me.

We’re not done talking yet. I’m going to give you a chance to tell me all the details. If you cooperate, I’ll take you back to Wisconsin to stand trial. If you don’t cooperate, we’ll end it right here.

He walked back toward me, letting me know that he was willing to call my bluff. So you telling me you’re going to shoot me in cold blood, Donegal? You, a cop? I don’t buy that. He forced a little laugh. You’re still just a big bag of wind even when you can barely breathe.

Not a cop anymore, I said. "Besides, what are they going to do send me to jail? I wouldn’t last