The waif like girl knocked at my truck door.
I had been filling out my log book and catching up on my Facebook so I never saw her approach my side of the truck or else I would have waved her off, sparing both of us an uncomfortable situation…especially for me.
Another poor ass “Lot Lizard”…I thought.
But, I’m a big softie…and when I saw her small frame standing there in the cold, wrapped in a coat that was two sizes too big for her and that stupid ass red checkered Wisconsin Cheese milking hat, I almost laughed at how goofy she looked.
I reached into my stash ‘o cash and fingered out a twenty. I would give her the bill…admonish her for being out in the cold and working a truck stop as a “Lot Lizard” (trucker lingo for Hooker) and we would part our separate ways. Maybe she needed the money for an ill mother or child, or medicine or something…I just hoped it wasn’t for dope or a pimp.
Sadly…this scenario has played out several times during my career as a truck driver.
However, when I rolled down my window the small girl immediately stepped up onto the side of my truck, stuck a big gun in my ear with her right hand and grabbed my wrist with her left, forcing my hand with the twenty in it flat against the steering wheel.
I froze. Great, I was getting robbed! I knew better than to roll down my damn window!
I thought I heard her say something, but her voice was drowned out by the screeching of several tires, lots of headlights and the voices of many other people.
I was struck dumb…I had slipped into that small gray area between shitting my pants and pissing my pants.
It was a vapor lock situation for sure.
The small girl was a woman now. She had a hard look in her eyes.
The “Don’t fucking move” look.
The woman took her hand off my wrist and popped the passenger side door lock. I thought about turning my head when the door on that side opened, but I felt her push the gun just a little bit harder into my ear.
I decided not to look.
I felt the cab of the truck move a little, sensing someone getting into the seat next to me. From where I could move my eyes side to side I could see dozens of people and cars around my truck…and the people were pointing guns at me.
That’s when I decided to take the “shit my pants” route.
“Hello Trey” a man’s voice said from my right.
I still didn’t move. I shifted my eyes to try and see who was speaking to me but the son of a bitch slapped my face back to the front!
“We’ve been looking for you Mr. Clarke” the voice continued, in a kind of mournful tone.
“I should say, that “I’ve” been looking for you for almost 15 years now”
I started to ask”Why the hell for?”, then ask “Who are you?” and then say” If you slap me again I’ll beat the brakes off your ass!” and then ask “What have I done?” and then say “I haven’t done anything that I know of “…but the man’s voice stopped me from taking this direction.
“Mr. Clarke…I am Special Agent in Charge Tim Poague of the FBI. I am assigned to the Interstate Homicide Division.” He cleared his throat and continued “I don’t want you to say a thing until we get to our office here, then we can talk in private.”
And without saying anything else, he stepped from the truck, making a motion with his hand; ten well built and intense young men put me into the back of a car.
I looked at my truck as the car I was in started to back off, and saw that the little woman and one other man was inside my truck, throwing my stuff out of the doors while other people put the stuff in bags marked “Evidence”.
I was in a blur. I had no idea what was happening to me. I don’t remember much.
I sit here in this small cell now.
I have no belt…I have no shoe strings…I have nothing on but an orange jumpsuit and flip flops.
They gave me this paper I’m writing on now and a short pencil.
There is a man with one big eye looking through the small window of the big metal door that closes with a click and an echo.
Agent Poague told me to write down where I’ve been for the last week. I told him I couldn’t remember, I told him to look at my log books.
He looked at the small woman at the desk across from me, and next to him. I knew her as Agent Trejean now. She had on a FBI windbreaker now and did not look helpless anymore.
She just stared at me.
Agent Poague then told me that I was being charged with murder and rape!.
I just blinked…
”What?” my voice hoarse…
He then added “Stretching from 1991 to the present time, 1106 instances of murder and rape.”
I dreamily turned my head toward Agent Trejean as she turned a page from a file in front of her and added…without looking at me
“You are a being classified as a Serial Killer and rapist Mr. Clarke, for those several instances of murder and rape.”
I could barely hear my voice now. It sounded far away.
The small gray room seemed to be spinning in a slow, throbbing circle of hums.
Agent Poague then slid the paper and pencil across the desk toward me. He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Murder and Rape, Trey…” He stopped for a second and looked at his hands, then continued, “Write down what you’re thinking Trey, I’d be thrilled to know what’s in that fucked up head of yours”
I just blinked….
“What?” came out as a croak more than a voice.
So…here I sit….
Thinking of what to write about.
Nothing is coming to my supposed “fucked up “mind.
I am completely freaked out about all this.
There is no way in hell this can be happening.
It’s just….shit…I don’t know what it is…
Earlier I had nervously asked Agent Poague, who and what did I murder and rape specifically.
“For killing time and fucking off” he said with deep gravity.
They DO know…