stepped on the accelerator and made my turn onto the highway. A right to some small measure of privacy. Because even the possibility that the remains belonged to his murdered mother was enough to make a grown man cry.
Chapter 6
Ed Statler was an insomniac.
The sign posted in the front door of Statler’s Fill-Up announced that business hours were from 6:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. and that absolutely no personal checks would be accepted. In fact, the store was generally open for business from predawn until past midnight, and if Ed knew you—and you’d never stiffed him—he’d take your check. Or, in a pinch, extend you credit. Between customers, Ed would sit at the counter looking out his big plate-glass window, watching the traffic on the highway.
It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m., but the lights were on inside the convenience store and the sign in the heavy glass door was turned so that it read Open. I was confident that inside the store, the coffee would already be brewed and the doughnuts that Ed made every morning to sell to his customers would be hot out of the fryer.
Outside, there weren’t any vehicles in the lot except Ed’s. Which wasn’t unusual at almost any hour of the day, except for Wednesdays. A chain of convenience stores had opened up and down 146, their uniformity and predictability luring all but the locals away from eccentric little places like Statler’s. But I suspected that, for the past several years, running the place was more hobby—or perhaps habit—for Ed. Talk in town was that his wife’s stock-market investments had guaranteed the couple a comfortable retirement. In any event, Ed seemed content with the business he had, even if that meant going for hours without seeing a customer.
The gas pumps at Statler’s offered diesel, premium and a ten-percent ethanol blend that—according to a corn cob–shaped sticker near the credit-card slot—supported the local farm economy. I pulled under the aluminum canopy that sheltered the pumps, turned off my engine, slid a city of Maryville credit card into the usual slot and watched the numbers on the pump flip as I poured gasoline into the less-than-fuel-efficient SUV. As usual, I felt a twinge of gratitude that I wasn’t out of pocket for the fuel. After that, I headed for the store to make a purchase with my own money.
I intended to begin my investigation of the remains up near Camp Cadiz with a bit of gossip. And Ed Statler was just the man to provide it. Ed always bragged that most days, if asked, he could tell you where half the town was based on who’d stopped in or driven by. Add to that the fact that Ed was an easy man to talk to and, like many such men, was also a good listener. And the fact that for the last thirty years, Ed had sold homemade ham and beans and corn bread at lunchtime every Wednesday.
Ham and beans had always been a particular favorite in small-town southern Illinois, and Ed’s missus did a particularly good job with that old favorite. So anytime after about ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, a sizable segment of the local population drove up the highway to Statler’s. Those who couldn’t spare the time or preferred not to eat elbow-to-elbow with other customers at one of the long, oilcloth draped folding tables at the back of the store carried away warm, heavy foam containers.
Beyond the opportunity to eat good food, Statler’s on Wednesdays was a regular social event. Even folks who just stopped long enough to pick up food greeted neighbors and gossiped with friends. And Ed listened. But unlike a good part of Maryville’s population, Ed only passed that information on to a select group. Fortunately, Chad and I—even before we’d become cops—were among Ed’s chosen.
It was too early for the rush. Too early, in fact, for Ed’s missus to drive over to deliver the big iron pots and battered baking pans that would fill the convenience store with a smoky smell of ham overlaid with a sweet, toasty whiff of corn. And although Mrs. Statler was probably in the midst of frenzied food preparation at their home near the center of town, Ed was sitting at the counter with Maryville’s weekly newspaper spread out in front of him.
Ed lifted his head and a broad smile split his dark face when he saw me come in. For as long as I could remember, he’d favored Hawaiian-print shirts—he said they made him