“January Knights”

by R. P. Repp

Prologue

Judge Harry Stromberg fidgeted with the gavel. While his mind worried about a 9:00

a.m. tee time the next Friday, his eyes scanned the courtroom and saw the potential mêlée of

reporters, protesters and the curious kind. He considered emptying the courtroom, but that was

something that he had never done … felt it was every citizen’s right to observe justice. “Lady

Foreperson; has the jury reached a verdict?”

Erin Eikhoff stood. She adjusted the glasses that made her appear more middle-aged

than she cared to, but more professional. Her blue-green eyes wandered from the judge to the

courtroom and finally rested on the accused: Charles S. Smith. There’s something sweet in his

eyes, she thought. With a flip of her bottled-blonde hair she said, “We have, your Honor.”

“Will the defendant please rise and face the jury?”

Charles Samuel Martin, a native of Elk Grove Village, stood. His black hair was boxed

in a military style — of which he was accustomed after serving six years in the Navy. His blue

eyes were warm, understanding … at least to Erin. She had watched him from the beginning of

the trial and, without ever a word passing between them, swore they had a special bond. His

mannerisms — hands always neatly folded on the table; acute awareness and interest of the
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witnesses; apparent shock at the evidential photos of the murder scenes — gave her the impetus

to persuade other jurors. And now, as he stared into her gray-green eyes, she melted.

Quentin Sinclair chewed the fingernails of his right hand. He was not a tall man, but he

was stocky, even though he’d lost twenty-five pounds over the past year and a half…mostly

from chewing fingernails instead of eating. When the trial began seventeen months ago, he had

already reached his verdict. He based the verdict on six months of pain and emptiness prior to

and since Martin’s capture. He had witnessed the mass gravesites firsthand; shallow holes filled

with twigs, rocks, dirt and leaves: holes no dog should have been buried in much less a person

… much less his wife and daughter. Guilty, he surmised.

The judge spoke to Erin, “On the first charge of five counts of murder in the first degree,

how do you find?”

Erin’s voice never wavered. “We, the jury, find the defendant, Charles S. Martin not

guilty.”

Murmurs invaded the courtroom. Harry slammed the gavel twice and the crowd

obediently quieted. However, he already knew the scene was going to be bad … very bad. “On

the second charge of three counts of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”

She answered without blinking, “Not guilty.”

Quentin dabbed the tears with his handkerchief as he scooted from the courtroom.

Outside, Connie Cermack of WBS stopped him before the escalator. “Dr. Sinclair, have they

finished with the verdicts?”

Quentin nearly knocked her over.

“Dr. Sinclair … what happened?” Connie trotted to keep up with the forty-two-year-old

Cook County Coroner.

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He stopped at the revolving door and shrugged his shoulders. Ordinarily, he wasn’t a

quiet man, but knew he would not be able to control the tears.

Connie paused, “I’m sorry,” she said, pausing to ensure that the microphone was off.

“Everyone knew Martin was guilty … I can’t believe ….”

A sudden rush imbued the foyer outside the courtroom. The crowd piled around them

and Quentin saw his chance for escape. He hustled through the revolving doors, down the

thirteen steps and to the curb, signaled a taxi, and was out of sight of the Cook County Federal

building before the masses hit the street. “Cook County Hospital, please,” he told the hack.

At the courthouse, Connie shoved her microphone into the crowd of reporters

surrounding Charles S. Martin. She had seen the gloom on the doctor’s face and, quite frankly,

tried to hide the disdain for Martin. Connie had followed the case from the beginning … had

been at the Busse Woods rec center when they unearthed the first bodies … had seen Quentin’s

face when the Police Chief led him from the scene, kept him from seeing the atrocities of his

wife and daughter. That had been nearly two years earlier and the story had remained front-page

news.

Martin interrupted his lawyer. “… can’t begin to tell you how happy I was to be

exonerated of all charges in the case. I feel very sympathetic to the friends and family of the

victims and hope that the police find the person or persons who did this heinous crime.”

“There’s the presiding juror,” one reporter shouted.

Martin smiled wanly and cascaded down the steps while his lawyer attempted to keep his

face in front of the cameras. It’s over, he sighed, and then climbed behind the wheel of his black

and silver Cutlass. Although the latest Cutlasses were out, he preferred his souped-up muscle

car that he had bought new in 1968 at age sixteen, with four on the floor and a 350 horsepower

V-8 engine. Ladies had melted over it twenty years ago and still did today.
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He jumped behind the wheel and ignited the engine. It had been in mothballs for the past

18 months while he had been awaiting this day at Joliet’s Stateville prison … home to Richard

Speck, John Wayne Gacy — though he never met either for he was lodged in the NRC —

Northern Reception Center. For keeping “The Betty” — as he called the Cutlass — in tiptop

shape, he owed his buddy Stan a great deal. Stan had stowed it in his body shop, starting the

engine weekly and performing preventative maintenance on a monthly scale. Yes, he would pay

Stan as soon as the lawsuit for false imprisonment was complete. His wan smile widened, and

as a woman passed him on the sidewalk, she saw the smile and reciprocated.

Yep … still got it!

Quentin crept into his office, hoping that no one would see him. Unfortunately,

Stephanie Syracuse — his assistant — was filing cases. She had, for the most part, taken over as

the Cook County Coroner since Quentin’s wife and daughter disappeared. It had been a tough

two years on him. Stephanie knew he had held the hope that they would return, and suspected

that even he wished she had run out on him. “Q,” she said, “I didn’t expect you today.”

He rubbed the two-day growth of whiskers. “Steph, can you get me the files on the

Manchester twins?”

“Sure … do you want to talk about it?”

“No; just get me the files.”

While she dug in one of six dozen cabinets, he slipped into his lab coat and entered his

office. He knew that it was still his because of the black lettering — weathered over the past 12

years — on the frosted glass. Once the door opened, the piles of files waited for him on his

desk. Behind the metal desk lay his wall of trophies; a panorama of eight-by-ten diplomas that

surrounded the varnished mahogany and glass case. Inside the case rested his pride and joy: a

tattered white flag of his Scottish ancestry. Ten years earlier, he had paid nearly $8,000 on a
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visit to Nova Scotia. The flag was adorned with a sideways red cross, a crescent moon in the

lower left quadrant and the logo of the Knights Templar in the upper left quadrant.

The office chair behind the desk needed an autopsy more than most of his patients.

Stuffing oozed from the faux pas leather seat, it listed a bit to the starboard side — especially

when he sat in it and the casters had flattened spots from grinding over cracked and missing

linoleum tiles. He grabbed a notepad and began scribbling. Each random thought received its

own line on the legal pad: Resignation letter; shovel; Pavulon; latex gloves; surgical mask;

plastic sheeting, flag … his pen paused before he dropped it. Ripping the sheet of paper from

the pad, he crumpled it and tossed it toward the circular file. Normally he would have screamed

“Two points,” but not today.

He paced from the desk to the doorway and back to the desk. He fidgeted, paused, and

then straightened the reference books on the table in the corner. Turning away, he suddenly

turned back, and then away again. His fingers ran through his graying brown hair, tousled it,

and then checked his reflection in the glass cabinets. The pacing began again while outside, the

spring evening beat the clock above the office doorway to quitting time.

Three quiet taps on the frosted glass announced Stephanie before she entered. “Q … I

was going to go have a drink before heading home. Wanna join me?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“You sure? I think you should get your mind off it. After all, it’s been nearly two years

and it’s over … finally, it’s over.”

He almost laughed. “It will never be over … never.”

Charles S. Martin rubbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon between both hands, dipping the

bottom deeper into the silver-plated bucket. The song “I’m Free” by The Who revolved in his
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head so many times that he finally broke out his scratchy LPs and tossed it on the turntable,

cranking the volume to a Spinal Tap 11. The picture window of the small bungalow vibrated

from booming woofers.

He set two wine glasses on the yellowed tablecloth, and then picked one of them up and

looked at the light above the table through the crystal. Noticing spots, he pulled the hem of his

white shirt out of his pants and rubbed it clean before setting it back on the table. Cloth napkins

followed the glasses, and he tried to remember whether it was knife and fork on them, or fork

and spoon, or knife and spoon…he could never keep it straight. After fudging about it for

several minutes, he shrugged his shoulders and left it at knife and fork on the napkins and the

spoon on the left side of where the plate would sit.

The doorbell clunked. Martin looked over his shoulder at the chimes on the wall and

decided it was time for new batteries, but not right that moment. He strutted across the small

living room to the oak door, peeked through the peephole, and then opened it.

“Erin,” he said, “so glad you could make it.”

Erin Eikhoff smiled. “How could I turn down such a perfect proposal?”

“Please come in. May I take your wrap?”

The April evening had been cool, but not cold enough for the mink stole draped around

her bare shoulders and skimpy black dress. Her smile broadened. “Thank you.”

His smile melted her. His teeth contrasted with his black hair and dark complexion. He

was not a tall man…average in height at six foot; yet, it was his pecks and biceps that caught her

eye. She loved a man with muscles, and Charles wasn’t a weight lifter, but any woman could

see his physique through the baggiest of clothes.

“Let’s say that we skip the formalities, Erin.”

She smiled. “That sounds good.”

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“Great; come on in the living room and have a seat while I check on dinner.”

Erin smoothed out her skirt before sitting on the couch. “Nice place.”

“Thanks; it’s hard to believe that I’ve been gone for so long. You’ll have to excuse the

spiders in the corners.”

She laughed.

“You have a nice laugh…sensual, light.”

“Thanks.”

His face hovered inches from hers. “Quit thanking me.”

She batted her eyelashes. At forty-two, Erin dreamed about tall, dark strangers. She

read Harlequin Romances at a pace of three per week. Actually, she didn’t read them, she lived

them. Every plot became her lifeline for those two or three days, and everyone she met seemed

to be a part of the story. Her head did an automated flip, and her blonde hair furled.

“I…I don’t know why I came here tonight.”

“I do,” Martin said. “You wanted to see if you were right or not.”

A perplexed look creased her face. “What do you mean?”

“You know; did you let a guilty man go free?” He was so close now that his lips

caressed hers when he spoke.

“I…” Her lips reciprocated, and she tasted the Listerine he had used before she arrived.

“…don’t think…” She gazed into his eyes. “…I did.”

Martin curled his right index finger under her chin and pulled her closer. Their lips

meshed. His tongue darted into her mouth quickly, quietly. “I knew you were right for me the

moment I saw you in the jury box. I was just afraid that I’d never get to meet you.”
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Quentin lurked outside Charles Martin’s house. Wearing his dark trench coat, he

blended with the evergreens in front of the picture window. The curtains were only half drawn,

and he watched as they slowly kissed, and when they did, shivers ran through his body. He

checked his pockets and found all the necessary accoutrements for the night: Latex gloves, a

syringe of Pavulon; a roll of duct tape; a lank of rope; a small Bible.

Martin ushered Erin into the dining room and popped the bottle of champagne. After

pouring a half goblet each, he raised his glass into the air, and Quentin heard the inaudible

“clink” of the crystal.

Memories forced him to forget why he had come. A scene returned where he had toasted

his wife, Amanda, after she returned from giving birth to Jade. It was one of the happiest

moments in his life. She laid beside them in the new bassinet that his sister had bought for the

occasion, sleeping most of the time while they ate, drank and toasted the new life…the new hope

of their family.

Rage replaced happiness. Amanda’s sardonic, decomposed face. Jade’s bruised and

taped wrists. He blotted the tears with his coat sleeve while he watched.

“Come here,” Martin said, pulling her lightly onto the couch.

Erin blushed. “I don’t know why I came….”

“Because you want the truth.”

“Yes…yes, I do.”

He wisped the hair from around her eyes and drew her lips to his. He bit her lower lip.

“Ow! Not so hard!” The back of her hand rubbed the lip, and when she looked, there

was a drop of blood on it.

“You wanted the truth.”

“I think…I think I should go.”

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He twisted her wrist. “You’ll go when I say.”

She struggled. “Charles, you’re hurting me!”

He smiled, but it took on a maniacal look. “You wanted the truth!”

“Not any more,” she said. “Now I want to go.”

His smile burst into laughter. “That’s not going to happen.”

Quentin watched the escalation. Reaching into his pocket one more time, he withdrew

the Amanda’s panty hose that he had cut and pulled it over his face. He tiptoed in front of the

picture window and onto the front porch. His right hand shook when he reached for the

doorknob, jiggling it not to see if it was locked, but because of the electricity that pulsed through

him. The door creaked. Shouts emanated from the living room. He sniffed twice, noting the

fragrance of the rose bouquet on the dining room table and the pork roast burning in the oven.

One patent leather shoe stepped from concrete to carpeting. He noted the Welcome mat … a

smirk pursed his lips. Voices spiraled in front of him:

“You’re hurting me!”

The action was surreal. Quentin continued one step at a time. His hands fumbled with

the items in his pockets until he pulled one latex glove from each pocket. With surgical

precision, they snapped onto his hands. Man and woman grappled. Bodies tumbled from the

couch to the carpeting, upending the glass coffee table. Half-filled Goblets stained the short,

beige tweed. Delicate material ripped and Quentin could neither see nor feel Martin’s forced

entry. Martin’s right hand rose into the air and then plummeted out of sight, reverberating a

second later of knuckle against cheekbone, and then the silent female moan, another plea,

another rising fist, another resounding blow.

Quentin stopped at the dining room table. His gloved left hand tossed the bouquet onto

the table and lifted the Lalique vase into the air. Arms flailed only a few feet away. He watched
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the war through the glass coffee table — a distorted view that added to the surrealism. The vase

switched hands. The right fist rose into the air. Blood trickled from the knuckles … fresh blood

… red, deep red … dripping liquid onto the beige tweed while hiding the abrasions caused by

knuckles meeting cheekbones.

Patent leather shoes squeaked. Sinclair lifted the ornate vase into the air. Male shoulders

rose above the coffee table, followed by that bloody fist. The vase began its descent. The fist

froze in its zenith, hovering, hanging, menacing, dripping blood, and then started downward.

Quentin heard only his quickened breath. Surrealism surrounded Quentin as his gloved left hand

shot forward and grabbed the fist just before the Lalique vase exploded on the back of Charles S.

Martin’s head.

Blood skewed Erin’s view; things that reminded her of high school science class germs

floated before her. She heard the crash of glass against skull, watched the splinters zing in

different directions, and then felt the weight of useless male flesh upon her. She struggled to

push him off her. “Help me!”

Reality ebbed into Quentin’s brain. He reached down, grabbed Martin’s hair, and

yanked hard left, tossing him into the upended coffee table. His hands shook again. The shake

squeaked up his forearm and into his shoulders. His breath quickened for a minute, and then

slowed to normal. The shaking followed his breath and surrealism vanished.

“Are you okay?”

“I … I … my face … hurts.”

He knelt beside her. “You may have a broken cheekbone, but other than that, you’ll be

fine. Let’s get you cleaned up and …. Can you drive?”

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“I … I think so.” The ground shot up at her when she stood. The tattered black dress

revealed the black brassiere as much as it did cleavage. Her body wavered, and then she slumped

slightly into Quentin’s grasp.

“Rest on the couch while I attend to him.” Quentin grabbed Martin beneath the

shoulders and yanked him into an easy chair. The roll of duct tape appeared from his pocket and

he quickly taped Martin’s left arm to the wooden armrest, then his right arm to the appropriate

side, and followed by taping his feet together.

Erin winced at the sound of the duct tape. “What are you going to do to him?”

Quentin glanced over his right shoulder. “It’s better that you not know.”

“How … I’m so sorry … I mean, if only ….”

“Maybe it’s better this way.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” She showed no fear.

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, you’re wearing nylons….”

Quentin smirked. “Pantyhose, actually.” He pulled it off his head, leaving his hair

standing in a million different directions

“You…? But you’re a doctor. How can you …?”

He dropped the roll of duct tape back in his pocket. “As I said before, Ms. Eikhoff, it’s

better that you don’t know. As it was with his crimes, this way there are no witnesses.”

She shook her head. “If it hadn’t been for me ….”

“Don’t talk like that. You were only one of twelve on that jury…”

“But I’m the one that held out until they all changed their votes. In the beginning, it was

eleven to one to convict.” Tears welled in her right eye as the swelling hid her entire left eye.

He held out his right gloved hand. “Come; let’s get you cleaned up.”
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She staggered toward the bathroom with Quentin helping her. After flicking on the light,

he instinctively opened the medicine cabinet. Rifling though it, he removed gauze pads, surgical

tape, peroxide and cotton swabs. He poured peroxide on a cotton ball and dabbed at the cut

beneath her left eye. “This is going to sting…”

“Ow!” Her head lurched to the side. “You’re supposed to say that before, not after!”

“Sorry.” He continued to pat the wound. “If I had a needle and thread I could take care

of it, but if I were you, I’d see an EMT at the clinic. You need at least 2 stitches…might get

away with a butterfly bandage, but the stitches are more of a sure thing. We’ll get you a bag of

ice. Keep it on the swelling until you see the EMT.” He paused and said, almost as an

afterthought, “And make sure you ask for the ‘Morning After’ pill.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

The latex glove pushed a strand of her hair that was stuck to the gauze pad. “As I said

before, it’s better that you don’t know.”

Five minutes later Erin stumbled out the front door. She glanced over her shoulder once,

waved, and gave Quentin a half of a smile. He waited until her Buick pulled away from the

curve and then closed the door. Turning about-face in perfect military style, he shuffled to the

chair that held Martin captive.

Quentin pulled the pantyhose over his head and then slapped Martin’s face with three

fingers, but he did not move. The doctor left him again, entering the kitchen. Rummaging

through the cabinets, he found a small tumbler, filled it with tap water, and then returned. He

tossed the water into the captive’s face.

Martin sputtered. “What the …?”

“Shut up!”

“You can’t do this!” Martin struggled against the duct tape.

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“Watch me.” Quentin withdrew the syringe from his coat pocket. After removing the

cap, he flicked his finger against the plastic tube twice.

The captive struggled. “What’s that for?”

“To make you empathize with my wife and daughter. They were still alive when you

buried them…did you know that?”

“I don’t even know who the fuck you are.”

Quentin removed the mask.

Martin giggled. “You…that figures. What are you going to do to me?”

Quentin sighed. “It will be merciful compared to what you did to my wife and

daughter.”

Martin smirked. “Your wife squealed with delight.”

A large right palm smashed into Martin’s mouth. His lip split as fingers squashed the lip

against his front teeth. Blood dripped from the lip and pooled in his mouth from the gums …

and still he sneered. “Certainly you can do better than that?”

“Sorry,” Quentin said. “Unlike you, I’m not a violent man.” He pressed the plunger and

a fine line of liquid squirted from the needle. A pair of surgical scissors appeared from his coat

pocket and he began cutting through the cuff of Martin’s shirt. He continued to fight, but the

duct tape held him secure to the chair as the scissors passed his forearm. Two fingers slapped

beneath the struggling biceps until the vein bulged into the size of a cocktail wiener.

Martin grappled with the duct tape and the chair. A second later, he saw the needle

pierce his vein. A drop of blood oozed from the antecubital fossa as Quentin pressed the

plunger. A warm sting traveled up his arm. Martin’s blue eyes rolled upward. He

hyperventilated.

“Relax … “
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“What … are … you ….”

“You’re losing your autonomic reflexes. Speech is difficult. Struggling is almost

impossible, though your mind may be fighting it. In a few minutes, you’ll be a complete

vegetable, except that you’ll be able to smell, feel, hear, see and think and, thanks to diluting the

Pavulon, you’ll be able to breathe.”

Unable to hold his head erect, it slumped to the side. Quentin lifted it with two fingers,

and when he removed them, Martin’s neck popped as his chin thumped against his chest. Spit

drooled from his agape lips. His ears perked as the duct tape ripped the hair out of his forearms.

His mind raced. I can escape now.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Quentin said.

Quentin’s words leisurely echoed in his brain. The ceiling lights became a kaleidoscope.

He wanted to laugh, but only drool dripped down from the corner of his mouth. Although

Quentin carried him, he floated through the living room. The kaleidoscope became more

intense, though he felt no pain.

The front door opened. He knew it was the front door because the lock always clanked

twice. A rush of cool air surrounded him and the full moon brought created hallucinations.

Light glinted off leaves, branches, and houses. His heart raced and his breath tried to catch up to

it. He floated down the front sidewalk and around the side of the house. The garage brought an

instant of total darkness before the trunk of the Cutlass opened. He heard a thud, which he

presumed was his body being dropped inside, landing on his back. Stars flickered, and then the

trunk closed, completing the darkness.

His mind wandered as the Cutlass turned onto a gravel road, bouncing him around the

trunk like a pinball. A warm wetness soaked the crotch of his designer jeans, but he cared

nothing about it. He focused on the tiny holes in the lid of the trunk where he caught glimpses
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of streetlights. More bumps, more wetness … bladder and bowel control was nonexistent. He

felt every curve, every bump, and every reduction in speed until the Cutlass made a sharp left

turn and stopped. The driver’s side door opened and then slammed shut. Footsteps crunched a

mixture of gravel and leaves. Thoughts prepared to slug whoever opened the trunk, but he could

not form a fist.

Quentin grabbed Martin’s tattered white shirt collar and yanked him out of the trunk. He

felt his toes skimming the gravel, then grass, and then soft earth until his body limply thudded

beside a mound of dirt. In spite of the cool April evening, sweat dripped athwart from his

cheeks, across his lips, and finally to the ground. A small mud puddle grew as the sound of

spade against earth resounded in his ears.

Seconds twisted through his brain into minutes. Shifting dirt overwhelmed the spring

insects. Sweat continued dripping … drop, drop, drop. He felt his body moving. His stomach

churned as his body plummeted. Earthen walls surrounded him. A shovel jabbed at his body

until he looked into the moonlight. Miles above him, he watched the man in the pantyhose mask

and imagined a smile beneath the mesh. Then the earth shifted again. Clods of dirt pummeled

his pants, then his shirt, growing heavier until he tasted it.