APRIL 27TH, 1999 TUESDAY 03:07 AM
Along a one-mile stretch of road, Louisville Police sat, parked in the middle of each major intersection. The cruisers took up defensive positions half-in and half-out of the crosswalks, facing at forty-five-degree angles to the forward traffic flow. Atop each unit, overhead lights spun, warning well in advance those attempting to enter unknowingly. Heavy barricades were in place at either end; backlit placards, used mainly for directing construction zones, announced the closure of ‘Bardstown Road to all traffic.’
Unaccompanied, the black Ford Taurus accelerated southeast down the main thoroughfare which was unusually absent of activity, passing by each roadblock. As an approaching street neared, the driver braked somewhat harder than necessary. From the turn lane and left signal blinking, the vehicle crossed over the solid yellow line, quickly navigating the precise shorter, but steep sidestreet. Slowing, it swung into a vacant spot behind one of several offensively-colored brown Chevys marked ‘County Police.’ Alternating red and blue, a pair of rectangular lamps affixed to the passenger visor remained flashing.
The driver reached for his MagLite before stepping out into the rain. He stood just a hair over six feet two; he felt taller, knowing he might be the main focus of many for some time to come. His glossy black hair, slightly damp, protruded from a ball cap; tinges of sprouting grays blended, combed out of sight were barely noticeable; short sideburns were evenly kempt.
Outside the vehicle, he remained motionless for several minutes as if temporarily disconnected. Focusing, a meditation, his eyes turned inwards. The transfer of deep, controlled breathing went in and out of his upper body, visible through pursed lips. In – out – in – out – in, until one final breath. Reconnected, he departed. To be introduced, to make introductions.
The city lights filtered outward into the night, reflecting the light rain. Germantown was a graceful and well-bred community in the Highland District, boasting history and homes dating back to the Civil War. Reverent depictions in tarnished metal posed: Daniel Boone and John B Castleman were among those on horseback; others in gallant military dress stood at numerous points throughout the upscale neighborhood.
In years past, the one- and two-story mansions had been primarily Victorian in architecture. However, renovation projects continued to flourish, pushing encroachment to the limits while simultaneously, changing the familiarity facade with every new pricey addition of square footage or another level going up.
The trip would continue mostly uphill, as the sharp incline had already started well beyond. A walking trail connected the street with the elevated portion of the perimeter around a vast, wooded forest. Announcing the entrance, a weathered brown wooden sign read, ‘No Motorized Vehicles Beyond This Point’ in peeling white paint; similarly, a smaller placard below indicated ‘Cherokee Park.’ This narrow opening near the park’s edge was flanked on both sides by a short span of railroad ties and iron chains: a makeshift fence. Six inches in diameter, a cylindrical cement pylon jutted up from the ground between the barriers to keep out anything but pedestrians.
A heavier-set uniformed officer was posted at the entrance. Without a word, he calmly asserted his temporary assignment by holding up his hand and flipping on his flashlight. In a hoarse, baritone voice, he asked, “What can I help you with, sir?”
“D’Elia, Metro Division on our Jane Doe inside the park,” he announced, pulling his windbreaker aside and revealing the detective badge attached to his belt. Quickly, he was waved on through after presenting his Louisville Police ID. Moving carefully, he followed along the pathway, picking up on the breadcrumbs: several more uniformed officers posted, indicating the way forward. After a brief distance ahead, a similar but wider asphalt roadway roughly 200 yards from the entrance intersected the walking trail.
As he moved, every step forward, still climbing at times while flattening out at others, the luster from the city thinned before disappearing completely. It wasn’t until the darkness surrounded him that the twinkling of ornamental lights became evident. Frank had never seen this part of the Highlands before tonight, as he soon became aware of several larger structures rounding the last bend. He quickly determined that these custom homes were all set back from the main road, amongst the immense fir trees and enormous property lines.
Moving in closer, but still just outside the yellow perimeter tape stretched around a small plot of ground saturated with moisture. From fifteen yards, the brightly colored band read in bold black lettering: ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Violent at times, heavy winds snapped at the plastic ribbon while expelling raindrops like projectiles. He swore at the circumstances, the environment.
“Damn this shit,” he mumbled under his voice.
From behind, coarse, uneasy, a voice broke the silence. “Nice morning for a get together, huh, Frank?”
“Could be better,” Frank returned, not turning to face the undeclared visitor.
“Could be worse.”
“Could it?”
Silence for a moment. And then, “I guess it depends on how you look at it.”
“And how else would YOU look at – IT, Al?”
“Um – whew, I try not to,” he replied dryly.
Annoyed, Frank looked away. The entire area was an organized calamity of sight and sound. Strobes pulsated, recharged and chirped rapidly like untiring camera flashes at a celebrity movie premiere. Highly polished, the mirrored reflectors rotated underneath red and blue Lexan, lighting up the night sky and anything contained within it; individual streams of white light played about the area. Modulation tones accompanied by short dialogue from two-way radio chatter echoed throughout with instructions, directing the standard operating procedure in the face of a crime scene. Sharp voices reverberated, scattered indirectly about, much like an outdoor concert performance. . .minus the music.
“. . .shut it down and have another unit take position at every entrance!” could be vaguely heard, presumably, a supervisor from Metro Division. “Shut down every road into the park as well. Grinstead. Lexington. Baxter. And east and westbound exit ramps.”
This large and quiet suburb quickly had become a swarm, intense activity indicating an official police investigation was in full swing. The once peaceful and idle streets of Cherokee Park were now at the center of attention. Donned in dark slickers with reflective tape, patrol officers were visible as they canvassed residences for witnesses. Although the neighborhood was sizeable, these fewer custom homes, widely spread out inside the park eased the task somewhat.
Turning back again, he faced the scene before him, attempting to study the work of an opponent he hadn’t even begun to understand, much less identify. He switched on his flashlight, shining the high-intensity beam towards the figure lying, no make that the figure laid upon the ground. His gaze locked in. It was the one thing he hadn’t wanted to see: a body, probably young, female, most likely barely clothed – and recently passed. Possibly tortured and sacrificed, he finalized with a heavy air of assumption, alone in the night. Maybe this was random, he hoped.
Not a chance.
Not wanting to risk an absence of protocol, he struggled with a professional relationship between two professionals. “How long?” he asked still playing the light towards the rear of the house.
“District One came through on patrol at 11:15, so maybe two, three hours, three and a half, tops.”
“Al, we are way behind this guy – why are we shutting down access? He’s gone,” Frank posed, looking down at his watch.
The older detective pointed towards the two-story Tudor-style home. The structure was a solitary dwelling with several large vacant lots on either side. The exterior was a mixture of mostly brick and wood siding in contrasting earth tones. An accented window on the southeast side of the home revealed an older man seated at an oak dinette with a uniformed officer. Silvering temples and narrow-framed eyeglasses perched low added to his seemingly distraught character; nervous hands continually combed through his hair.
Much further back, even beyond the reach of the powerful beam, he strained, observing the void for details, for answers. However, it would be a while before the questions started, he was sure of that.
He stood, drawn in by an atmosphere of apocalypse, eyeing each exposed landmark, staring down its inconsequential occurrence. Looking towards the open space, the light beam fell upon a section of higher grassy areas to the north. Straining, he could see evidence of a trampling along a pathway he determined, that led towards the highway. Now oriented to his exact location, he began remembering specifics as they appeared on that cheap street guide he’d purchased long ago; a relation to his determination to better understand the city. Remaining silent about the discovery, he looked away again quickly, hopeful that no one had seen his internal investigation.
Detective Frank D’Elia painfully accepted that the whole area would be locked down until sufficient light allowed the necessary gathering and processing of evidence that hadn’t already drained away. “Never mind the fact the whole damn thing will be washed away in a few hours,” he thought to himself.
“He looks kind of familiar.”
“State Representative Dick Stahl. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet, in my opinion, anyway. He’s well known, ya know, done some volunteer work for the Police Athletic League. Also, he’s made some generous contributions to the FOP, so yeah, he’s managed to make a few friends along the way.” He added, emphasizing his own crusade, “We try ta keep an eye out for him.”
“Why?”
“That’s just how it is.”
“So, he called – it – in?” Frank asked, hesitating about the deceased’s gender.
“Ya’ know, denial only works if yer’ the one that’s dead.”
No return, only silence.
Al yielded, “Yeah, he called…it…in.”
“Anyone else see anything?” Frank asked, already aware of the answer.
The gray-haired detective motioned around with outstretched arms like a Baptist Minister anointing the sick, and healing the dying; his head shook from side to side in an apparent ‘No.’
“I was afraid of that,” Frank announced. He pointed away from the house, towards the north. “Is that that tunnel on 64?”
A slight nod was the response.
“Does it have access, like from outside the tunnel, you know like a utility room?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“That would be a perfect path to take, instead of coming right up here from in front,” Frank answered.
“It’d be a hella of a walk,” Allen