Chapter 2 - The Gold Shield in the Lockbox
The screaming wails of emergency sirens cut through the freezing morning air within two minutes.
Two marked Chicago Police cruisers tore into the bus terminal bus lane, followed closely by an Advanced Life Support ambulance. Four paramedics leaped from the rear doors carrying a trauma stretcher, heated thermal blankets, and an intubation kit.
The lead paramedic, a veteran named Henderson, slid to his knees beside me.
“What do we have?” Henderson asked, immediately placing a pulse oximeter onto Chloe’s frostbitten index finger.
“Core body temperature is critical—she’s been exposed to sub-freezing temperatures for at least ninety minutes,” I stated clearly. “GCS is 8. Pupil asymmetry in the left eye indicative of an intracranial hematoma or severe subdural contusion. Significant blunt trauma to the zygomatic arch and mandible. Suspected fractured ribs on the left side.”
Henderson looked up at me in astonishment. “Are you a trauma surgeon?”
I held up my gold federal prosecutor’s shield, flashing the DOJ credentials under the flashing red strobes.
“Retired federal prosecutor,” I said. “The suspects are Marcus Sterling and Sylvia Sterling. The primary crime scene is 1442 Highland Crest Manor in Oakridge. They are currently attempting to destroy physical blood evidence with chemical agents.”
The two responding CPD patrol officers stepped forward, recognizing the weight of the gold shield.
“Counselor Vance,” the senior patrol sergeant said, touching the brim of his hat. “We’ve already secured the perimeter around the victim. What are your instructions?”
“Establish an immediate chain of custody on Chloe’s clothing and person,” I ordered. “She is to be transported directly to Northwestern Memorial Hospital’s Level 1 Trauma Center. I want a certified Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence Forensic Nurse Examiner (SANE) assigned to her room before the gurney touches the emergency department bay. Every hair, fiber, and drop of biological matter on her body must be swabbed and sealed under federal evidence protocols.”
“Consider it done, ma’am,” the sergeant replied, immediately getting on his radio to coordinate with the district watch commander.
The paramedics gently transferred Chloe onto the gurney, securing a cervical collar around her neck and wrapping her in an active-warming thermal cocoon. They started an IV line of warm saline and administered high-flow oxygen.
As they rolled her toward the ambulance, Chloe’s hand reached out from beneath the blankets. I caught her cold fingers, squeezing them tightly.
“I’m going with you, baby,” I whispered, kissing her bruised forehead. “You are safe now. The people who did this to you have no idea what’s coming.”
Behind the scratched plexiglass window of the terminal, the security guard was staring with his mouth open, holding his coffee cup suspended in mid-air.
I climbed into the back of the ambulance alongside Henderson. The rear doors slammed shut, the siren howled, and the emergency vehicle accelerated out of the bus terminal, tearing through the empty, snow-dusted city streets toward Northwestern Memorial.
As the ambulance sped through the morning shadows, my encrypted DOJ phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
I brought it to my ear.
“Mom?” The deep, steady voice on the other end belonged to my forty-year-old son, David Vance—Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI’s Chicago Field Office.
“David,” I said, my voice steady as steel. “Your sister was just assaulted by Marcus and his mother. They left her to die in the snow at the downtown terminal so Marcus could host Raymond Caldwell for Thanksgiving dinner with his mistress.”
There was a terrifying, dead silence on the line for three seconds.
When David spoke again, his voice was the cold, quiet tone of a seasoned federal agent preparing for war.
May you like
“I’m mobilizing the regional fugitive task force and the forensic evidence team right now,” David said. “Where are you?”
“En route to Northwestern Trauma with Chloe,” I replied. “Meet me at the hospital with Magistrate Hayes. We’re going to serve Marcus Sterling his Thanksgiving dinner on a federal platter.”
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