Incarnate

PROLOGUE

It was a take your breath away cold Nebraska winter, where, although January, 2002 had just begun, the residents were already weary of the brutal weather. If the roads weren't icy, they were snow-packed, and the early arriving winter season had quickly acclimated motorists to the bad conditions. Or culled the foolish who insisted on assaulting the streets in the same way as they did in fair weather.

The cars bustled along Dodge Street, the busiest roadway in Omaha, their exhausts sending curled white plumes high into the frigid air.

So many cars. So much noise. Where did they all come from? The thoughts of the boy were only momentary as he walked slowly through the small park dividing the two trailer courts. He refocused on the ground in front of him.

Jay Cubrich was happy. It was Saturday and there was no school. Not that he didn't like school. Miss Linda always had snacks for prizes on Fridays when they played Quizmo, his favorite game. Then there was recess and movies on Wednesday. Reading was OK, too, though he sure didn't like arithmetic. And they were going to take a trip to Nebraska City to see things there, like John Brown's Cave, or so Miss Linda kept telling them, when the weather got warmer.

But he didn't mind the cold, especially when he was doing the thing he liked the best. The thing he always did on Saturday.

Every Saturday morning his mother made sure he was dressed to meet the cold, as she said. But as soon as he was out the door, he unbuttoned his jacket at the top and stuffed his stocking cap into his pocket along with his gloves. The cold never bothered him that much.

The only thing that really bothered him was some of the kids at school. Not in his special class, but the smart kids who made fun of him and the others. He knew the names well. 'Tard and Mongo Maniac were the ones they used the most. He wasn't sure why they were mean to him; he never even talked to them. But, at least once a week he could expect the teasing.

Now it was Saturday, though, and he could forget anything that troubled him, because he got to do his favorite thing - collect pop cans. His mother had even bought him a special net bag that held a lot more than the grocery sack he used to use. And now that he was eighteen, she let him spend the whole morning checking the places he knew there would be cans: around the two trailer parks, where two of the ladies saved the cans for him, the businesses a block away, and then there was the park, where the big trash can sometimes held all kinds of them.

Jay was saving the can money because he wanted to be a detective and a crime buster like Kevin Costner in his favorite movie, The Untouchables. And two things a detective needed the most - could not do without - were file folders and a file cabinet. He already had bought the folders and started files on his teachers and his brother, Tom. And his mom had said he needed only a few dollars more to buy the cabinet. He could hardly wait. Never mind that his school had found a job for him at the nursing home laundry. He set his jaw, picked a can from the roadside and threw it with finality into the net bag. He would work in the laundry all right, but he'd show them. He already planned to make up files on at least a dozen more people, especially those who got him the laundry job.

They had held a winter softball game in the park, but Jay found only two cans amid many paper cups in the big trashcan. He wondered why, because in the summer the big can always held a lot of them. Maybe people hadn't been thirsty.

He walked toward the trailers to the east of the park, his boots making those crunching sounds in the snow he always liked to hear. Reminded him of squeaky doors in cartoons.

Jay saw it gleaming in the early morning sun. A long, tall can, one of those malt liquor cans. He laughed to himself, because for some reason those were his favorite to find, just because they were different, he guessed. He never turned in the malt liquor cans, because he collected them. He had maybe twenty or so that he kept under his bed in a cardboard box.

The can was close to a big semi that often parked next to the crushed rock road that circled the trailer park. He bent and picked up the can, then straightened and was about to throw it excitedly into his bag, when he noticed something on the ground to his left, which caused him to back away, place the can gently into the bag, and continue on his way.

Jay's mother shook her head and smiled faintly as she saw her son from the kitchen window, returning, naturally, without his cap and gloves. How did he do it, she wondered, when she got chilly just thinking about it? Must be in his father's genes, she figured, but then dismissed the thought of the man who had abandoned her for another woman when he'd heard she was pregnant with his child. She didn't allow her thoughts to go down that road very often anymore.

She saw Jay, as usual, put his gloves back on and cram the stocking cap crookedly onto his head before entering the trailer.

Hi Mom, guess what I got? A smile more open and genuine than of anyone else she knew, crossed his face, raised the bright red cheeks and caused the thick chapped lips to part. His smile always made her do the same.

A million dollars?

His smile became a playful sneer. Nooo. Then a laugh. He pulled the tall can from the bag. A look of pride crossed his face. See?

Great, Jay! Where did you find it?

He pointed a stubby finger out the kitchen window. By that big truck, on the ground. Just one, though.

She turned and looked at him intently at what he said next, for she had never known him to make up a story. But it was possible, probable, that he misinterpreted what he had seen.

Jay removed his coat, gloves, and hat and continued calmly, his eyes on the bacon and eggs his mother always fixed him on Saturdays. Saw a man, too. On the ground. Sleepin' I guess.

She glanced at the thermometer outside the window; it read twenty degrees.

Outside? On the ground? Where?

Jay sat down and took a bite of his toast. By the truck. He's sleepin'.

His gaze followed her to the door, where she quickly put on her coat. She looked worried. Maybe the tall can belonged to the man. Maybe he was in trouble. He stopped chewing the toast, and his stomach got tight like it always did when he thought he'd made a mistake.

Everything OK, Mom? Did I do something wrong?

She straightened the coat collar, not looking at him, seemingly in thought. No, honey, I'll be right back. Just finish your lunch. It's OK.

The big sedan moved quickly through the trailer park, guided by the flashing lights of the two cruisers already at the scene. It halted behind another Ford Crown Victoria of the same color, and Detective Carl Schilling stepped out, groaning as his big frame straightened in the frigid air. He took in the scene with a practiced eye.

A detective stooped over the body, while two officers kept a group of about a dozen curious people, probably residents of the trailer park, back behind the yellow tape. He shook his head and sighed as the news people went from person to person, thrusting microphones, trying to glean any crumb of information that might be used on the air. He was still mystified at how they sometimes arrived at a crime scene almost before the black and whites.

Another officer, pad in hand, was interviewing two people to the west of the cordoned-off area, just out of sight of the body. A thin woman, probably late thirties, was shaking her head as the officer continued to write. The other, a pudgy boy with Down Syndrome, looked back and forth between the officer and the woman, a worried expression on his face. He surmised they had discovered the body, and he would question them later. Looking past them, Schilling noticed a man seated on the bottom row of the small bleachers used for the softball games, and an officer standing next to him. The man suddenly leapt to his feet and began shouting at the officer, screaming unintelligibly and crying at the same time. He turned his back and began to wretch, but nothing came out. The officer put an arm around him and helped to seat him once again, at the same time talking into his shoulder mike, apparently calling for an ambulance. The officer had not handcuffed him, so Schilling figured he was either a relative or another witness.

Schilling walked to the other detective bent over the crumpled, face-down body. He noticed at once an inconsistency in the scene; the man's head was bloody and his western-style boots were caked with blood, but his clothing seemed clean.

Hey, John. What we got here?

Detective John Gruber met his gaze, nodded in acknowledgement and stood. Although he had not touched the body, he unconsciously rubbed his hands along the sides of his long coat as if wiping away some unseen residue of death.

Trucker. Apparent suicide. He pointed to the right arm, the hand of which was tucked between the frozen ground and the chest. Looks like a nine millimeter in his hand.

Gruber pointed to a spot about six feet away from the body. Single shell casing next to that tree branch.

Schilling took in the scene, then casually brushed his hand in the direction of the almost frenzied activity of the press. While a suicide was newsworthy, it usually did not warrant such attention. So why all the fuss from the news hounds?

Gruber took a step toward the semi. His mouth opened quickly, making a popping sort of sound. There's more. He swallowed hard as he nodded toward the sleeper section of the truck cab.

A woman. He exhaled heavily.

Schilling knew John Gruber as a detective who did not show much emotion at crime scenes, and they had been through some pretty ugly ones.

Yeah, John?

Gruber, eyes closed, rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, then pointed to the man at the bleachers. Name's Sal Caniglia. The woman being interviewed over there, banged on his door after she discovered the body. He calls the police, comes over to check the body, then, while he's waiting, notices the door to the sleeper partly open and takes a look inside...

Gruber shook his head, and for a moment, Schilling saw utter fatigue, frustration, and sadness in his face all at one time. You'll have to see for yourself.

Schilling turned and approached the truck, at the same time opening the sterile package containing the rubber gloves he routinely carried. He noticed a blood smear on the windshield, and stepped up to look into the driver's compartment, not opening the door.

The windows were partly frosted, but through a clear portion he was able to make out two articles of clothing - pants and a shirt - on the floor. They both appeared covered with blood. The seat was bloody as well and clear of anything but one single item - a piece of paper, blood-smudged with fingerprints. The paper appeared to have been torn from a spiral notebook. The words were large and - it struck him immediately - the writing somehow frantic, the letters bold and hastily formed, seemingly, in some desperate desire for release.

Only seven words, the last this man would ever convey:

OH GOOD JESUS! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Schilling stepped down from the cab and walked around to the sleeper compartment door, which was open only an inch or so. He opened it fully and instinctively took a step backward, his first thought being that he was glad no other person could see inside.

Although the compartment was dimly lit, he could clearly make out that not a square inch of the interior had remained unaffected. The once tan walls were now pinkish, with even the small skylight tinted red.

A slight retching in his stomach, as professionalism momentarily gave way to emotion.

Schilling's mind flashed to the autopsies he'd witnessed - that was his first impression of the body in the cab - where surgical procedures and the search for answers were balanced with human dignity. But this…this abominable scene, this mindless destruction before him mocked all that was decent or rational or merciful.

A blood-covered machete leaned against one corner, still now, its horrid work finished, leaving not one part of the body undisturbed.

His only prayer was that the woman had died quickly.

He returned the door to its original, slightly open position as he heard Gruber approaching. Schilling managed to push the emotions away and to let the logic of calm reasoning return. But still the question remained; how could one human being do this to another?

He shook his head, then got to work.

Schilling sipped his coffee, tossed the report on his desk and sat back in his chair.

The trucker, Donald Jenkins, aside from many job-related moving violations, had not been in trouble with the law. People who knew him, to a person, described him as likeable and harmless, and while he did drink, it was seldom to excess.

Jenkins met the woman, Elizabeth Foye, at a bar in Kansas City on Friday night, the night before the bodies were found. Apparently they had not known each other before that night. The bartender reported they'd had a few drinks and had left the bar around midnight, but were not drunk, and that both appeared in good spirits when they'd left. There was no indication the woman left with Jenkins against her will.

A trucker friend of Jenkins stated that Foye had decided to come to Omaha with Jenkins, and that he saw them drive off in the truck around one o'clock in the morning.

That was the last time either was seen alive.

Schilling shook his head, sighed, and sipped his coffee. A man with no history of violence, kills a woman he has only just met, dismembers the body in a rage he cannot imagine, then kills himself. Thankfully, the autopsy showed that she had died quickly from an initial knife wound. No drugs, but their alcohol levels were both above the legal limit, and there were two partly empty liquor bottles in the sleeper.

No apparent history of violence. Murdering a woman he barely knew. The savage treatment of the body. Changing his bloody clothing, only to kill himself. Yes, a person's behavior sometimes turned strange, irrational, deadly. But the overall profile of this case had an unusual feel about it.

Finally the note, its words running over and over in his mind, bothered him. Forensics determined it was Jenkins' handwriting, and the bloody prints were his as well. But the note itself - "OH GOOD JESUS! WHAT HAVE I DONE?" - puzzled him. Frowning, he absently tapped the empty coffee mug against the desk pad.

Was it a confession? Or a question?

Chapter 1

December, 1981.

Elaine Rankin laid the paperback book on the small table next to her chair and was not surprised that she remembered nothing of what she had just read. But, it had served its purpose, which was mainly to pass the time in the hospital room, and, of course, to quell the emotions as much as that was possible. She looked at her twelve-year-old son lying still in the bed, his head bandaged and the tubes running into the nose and arm. The book had diminished somewhat, the ache of reality for a time, but now it returned full force as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and resumed reciting the reasons why her mother's-guilt was justified over the foolish mistake of the son.

Chris had taken his bicycle out riding three mornings ago, but she did not know that he and his friends planned to go to the vacant lot and set up a jump ramp for the bikes. He had put on his safety helmet at home, but had taken it off later. One of the boys he was with told paramedics that Chris removed the helmet to cool down on the unusually mild December day, had ridden around the lot without it, then made a jump, apparently forgetting that he hadn't put it back on. He approached the jump a second time, the bike picking up speed, until he was on the jump board. The thin board suddenly gave way, the bike flipped, and Chris had struck his head on a rock.

If only she had reminded him about wearing the helmet, maybe he wouldn't have taken it off. Maybe if she had checked on what they were doing…

Just stop, she told herself. She wiped another tear away. What's done is done. At first she had prayed that he would get out of this all right. As time passed, though, and the doctors continued to be non-committal about the prognosis, she prayed he would just live, would just come back to them.

She heard someone enter the room and turned slightly to see a cup of coffee extended toward her. She took the cup, sadly glancing up at her husband.

Boyde Rankin sat down next to her, bent forward, placed his hands between his knees and slowly rubbed them together.

As Elaine sipped the coffee, she looked down at his hands, and a dim smile crossed her face. She remembered that the hands had been the first thing she'd noticed about her second husband. She had met him three years after her first husband, Steve Jansen - Chris' father - had died in an auto accident. Attending a rally supporting the incumbent mayor of Omaha - one of those balloons and confetti, stand up and cheer affairs - the tall man in front of her had reached around and pushed the white imitation-straw hat more firmly onto his head. She'd noticed the clear skin and long slender fingers of the hand, almost feminine and in contrast to the large body. After the speech and the final cheering subsided and it was time to leave, he had turned to smile at her, almost as if he'd known she was there all along. He was dressed in a neatly-fitting suit, and though tall, he was trim and muscular in a quiet sort of way. He wasn't especially handsome, but the casual voice and the steel gray eyes reflected strength and confidence, two things she herself had been trying to regain since her husband's death. He'd made some comment about being certain the mayor would be re-elected, and she had nodded politely and smiled as they walked out together into the cool evening. When they reached her car, he had asked her out, and she'd accepted. It had all been so sudden and so effortless, that she'd almost called and canceled the date when she got home, so surprised she'd been at her impetuosity. After all, she had not been out with a man since her husband's death. In fact, the election rally was one of the few times she'd even left the house for a social event since then. And now she had accepted a date from someone she'd known for about fifteen minutes. She felt both reassured and at the same time intimidated by his confidence, and was angry with herself for accepting. Had she acquiesced to his will? Or was she really interested?

In the end, she had simply gone out with him, finding him to be considerate, with a serious demeanor, but also possessing a sense of humor, which surfaced from time to time. In fact, his lighter side attracted her the most of all of his traits, for she had always believed that life without humor wasn't much of a life.

She learned that Boyde Rankin was a captain in the Air Force, stationed at Offutt Air Base, which was just south of Omaha. He'd been stationed at Offutt for two years now, and beyond a cursory description of working in engineering, he had been rather tight-lipped about what he did.

They dated for a year, at which time he had proposed. Elaine didn't accept right away, but had talked with Chris to gauge his feelings about having a stepfather. Chris, then nine, had not appeared surprised or bothered by the prospect. Still he did not seem especially happy about it either. As she watched him go up to bed, the thought occurred to her that she felt about the same way as her son. While she liked Boyde's company and felt comfortable and secure with him, there wasn't the intimacy as with her first husband, the urgency or passion. She rationalized that perhaps urgency and passion subsided as time went on, was part of maturity. She knew, though, deep within that Steve had been the love of her life, and that no other man could replace him.

But she now was concerned with security for her son and herself. Even though Boyde, at times, appeared uncomfortable around him for whatever reason, he at least made an effort to talk with Chris, and he always treated him kindly. So, she had compromised; she cared for Boyde, though not certain she loved him, and felt, overall, he would be