The Riverview Murders

by Michael Raleigh

  The escaping figure was already at the first-floor landing when Whelan began pursuit and Whelan heard him yank open the glass door at street level. He took the stairs two at a time and made it out onto Lawrence in seconds, then got to the corner in time to glimpse someone slipping into a gangway half a block up Winthrop. The gangway ran between two dark brown apartment buildings. A tall young black man leaned against the doorway to the one on the left and watched as Whelan entered the narrow space between the buildings.

  Whelan ran through the small courtyard behind the building and then out to the alley. At the gate he stopped and watched for a moment. Nothing moved in any direction. He took several steps into the alley and then stopped.

  No, not this time, he told himself. I get into trouble in alleys.

  Back on the street, he stopped next to the young man, who watched him with a sardonic expression on his face.

  “Did he come out?”

  The man shrugged and looked away.

  “Just tell me if he came out.”

  The man gave him a quick look, then glanced up the street toward Lawrence. “Got nothin’ to do with me, man.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Don’t ask me. You the one chasin’ him.”

  “I was chasing shadows,” Whelan said, walking away.

  He decided to put off the calls till later and closed up the office. Time for a ride.

  In the car he punched the long-suffering buttons of his radio, looking for something soothing. As he pulled out into traffic on Lawrence, he realized that he didn’t need a description of his visitor anyway. He’d seen the cap, he’d seen the dark windbreaker, just as Michael Minogue had.

  He went up Clark and as he crossed Foster, the gaily colored neighborhood banners the city of Chicago had recently fallen in love with told him he had entered Andersonville. Once a dense pocket of Swedish settlers, now, like much of the North Side, the neighborhood bore a closer resemblance to a UN meeting. One was just as likely to run into Indians and Pakistanis, Koreans, and Latinos as Swedes. But if most of the Swedes had long since left Andersonville, they’d left their mark: restaurants, delicatessens, gift shops and a little museum. Surrounding the Swedish remnants were antiques stores and coffee-houses and restaurants from other parts of the planet.

  Like Chinatown or Argyle Street or Greektown on a good day, the whole neighborhood smelled of food. In a three-block strip, there was Swedish food, Chinese food, Turkish food, Greek food and Persian food. This early, however, it was the Swedes who were announcing their presence. Whelan could smell the fresh meat from a pair of Swedish markets, the big hot breakfasts from Ann Sather’s. Peering in the windows of butcher shops and diners, Whelan wanted to eat. The Swedes were not known for their culinary prowess, and this fact mystified him: if there was one unifying fact Whelan had uncovered in his tireless sampling of the city’s oddest, finest restaurants, it was that all God’s children could cook.

  Gerry Costello’s apartment proved to be just down the street from Svea, a crowded little eatery with paintings of Swedish scenes on the steamy windows. There was no bell to ring, so he pushed his way into the cramped hall with a high, narrow stairway that smelled of four generations of tenants and all their troubles. A pair of mailboxes set into the wall said that apartment 2A had a tenant named Shah and 2B was home to Costello.

  The banister was coming loose, so he put his hand on the cold plaster wall for balance and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Apartment 2A was awash with the sounds of small children and an outnumbered adult short on patience. A high thin male voice shouted threats and warnings, issued commands and probably muttered prayers in a language that could have been Urdu or Gujarati. The low murmur of a television was the only sound issuing from 2B. Whelan waited a moment, then knocked.

  He heard the sound of someone padding to the door in slippers, a long pause, then the voice from the phone.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Costello? My name is Paul Whelan. We spoke on the phone.

  The man inside the door hesitated for five or six seconds, then repeated his stance.

  “I told you I don’t talk to none of those people anymore. I haven’t seen nobody. What’re you bothering me for?”

  “Because you’re just about my last possible help.”

  “I can’t be no help. Just go ’way.”

  “Can we talk like this? I don’t have to come in. Here, let me slip my card under your door so you know I’m legitimate.”

  He slid the card in and waited. A moment later, he heard Gerald Costello snort. “So what’s this prove? You got a card, so what?”

  “Okay, it proves nothing and you’re afraid to let me in, fine, we can just talk through the door and—”

  “I ain’t afraid of nobody.”

  The door swung open and Whelan found himself facing a pudgy man no more than five six, with a potbelly, a white crew cut, and dark eyes. A pair of high red points stood out on his cheeks and the brown eyes emitted hostility.

  “Come on in outta there. I don’t need these people to know my business.” The little man shot an irascible look in the direction of his neighbors and then surprised Whelan by grabbing hold of the sleeve of Whelan’s jacket.

  “Easy on the jacket.”

  “Come on if you’re comin’ in.” Gerry Costello slammed the door behind Whelan and then backed up a couple of steps. Whelan waited for an invitation to come farther into the apartment. He was standing in a small tidy kitchen. On one side was an old-fashioned sink, so clean he could have eaten out of it. A small table covered in yellow oilcloth had been pushed to the window so that Costello could watch Clark Street. On the other wall, Whelan saw a double row of hooks: the upper hook of each pair held a cap or hat, the lower hook a jacket or coat. Whelan saw a Cubs jacket and a baseball cap, a dark gray overcoat with a snap-brim cap, a corduroy coat with a heavy fur cap. No wonder he doesn’t invite me in, Whelan thought. He’s afraid I’ll make a mess.

  “Maybe we could talk at your table.”

  “No,” he snapped. “We’ll talk in the front room.” Without waiting for Whelan, Gerry Costello spun and waddled into his living room.

  He dropped himself into an armchair facing the television and shut off the set with a remote. Whelan took a seat on the sofa a few feet away. Costello watched him settle in and then sat for a moment, as though studying him. For just the tail end of a second Whelan had the eerie feeling that the little man could read minds. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Then Costello said, “Joe Colleran, you said you were looking for.”

  “Yes, although the nature of my investigation has changed a little since I talked to you. Right after we spoke, I talked to a Mrs. Lars Torgeson, who you knew as Betty Henke, and she told me that Joe Colleran died in an automobile accident about ten years ago. Now I’m just trying to get the particulars to give to his sister. I don’t have any good news to give her, so I’m hoping at least to be able to give her a clear picture of how he died and whatever else I can find out.”

  The little man watched him and said nothing for a while. Something had softened in his posture or expression but Whelan couldn’t have defined it. Then he nodded. “Betty Henke. She was a great gal. Wasn’t stuck-up or anything like some of ’em. I liked her. Too tall for me, though. I never liked ’em tall. Guy like you, you’re tall, you can go out with those big gals, but…” He shrugged. “Maggie was a nice girl, too. It was too bad about Joe. He was an okay guy. So what do you want from me, since you know Joe’s dead?”

  “You knew he was dead, then.”

  “Sure I did,” Costello said, with the air of a man discussing common knowledge. “Wouldn’t call it a car accident, though. He got hit by a car.”

  “He was a pedestrian?”

  “What else would you call it?”

  “I guess I assumed he was in a car himself. Do you remember the date?”

  “Nope. Long time ago. Like you said, maybe ten years. At least ten years. Maybe more like twelve.”r />
  “How did you find out?”

  “Saw it in the paper. Wasn’t much of a story, couple of lines. Didn’t say nothing about arrangements and I didn’t see no obituary, so I didn’t go to the wake. Woulda gone to the wake, you know.”

  “It would really help if you could pin down the year and maybe the time of year.”

  “Like I say, twelve years ago. That’s the best I can do.”

  “All right. You weren’t in touch with Joe Colleran, though.”

  “No. Didn’t even know he was back in town. Him and Mike Minogue, they run a saloon down south somewheres. But I wasn’t in touch with none of ’em. I kinda keep to myself. That’s the kinda guy I am. I don’t go out much except to go to a picture, go out to get a bite to eat. I wouldn’t even know half of these people if I saw ’em now.” He shrugged. “But I woulda gone to the wake.”

  Whelan wondered whether Costello knew about Michael Minogue but said nothing. He took the photo out of Mrs. O’Mara’s weathered envelope and handed it across to Costello. The old man’s face drew together in a frown and he shot a suspicious glance at Whelan, but he took the photo in trembling, tobacco-stained fingers and stared at it, turning it slightly to one side to catch the light. He squinted at it and then looked around the room.

  “I need my glasses.” He spotted them on top of the television and got up to retrieve them. “They’re just reading glasses,” he said over his shoulder. “I can see fine from far away.” When he’d put the glasses on, he sank back into the chair and studied the photo for a long while, occasionally nodding almost imperceptibly. For perhaps five minutes, he said nothing. Then he lowered the picture, took off his glasses, and looked at Whelan.

  “This takes me back. You know how long ago this was?”

  “Nineteen forty or thereabouts, I guess. Maybe 1941.”

  He squinted at the picture and shook his head. “No. ’40, ’cause Herb Gaynor’s in the picture and he joined the navy the summer before the war broke out.” He pointed to the tall angular figure of Gaynor. “Summer of ’41, he was already overseas. Lot of guys joined up early, ’cause everybody knew we’d be gettin’ into the war. If not with the Japs, then with Hitler. Herb Gaynor was stationed on Midway when the big fight came. You know about Midway?”

  “Sure.”

  “Turning point in the Pacific, that was. Anyway, this picture was 1940.”

  “There was some trouble around that time, wasn’t there? Involving a couple of these guys. A robbery, I heard.”

  Gerry Costello gave an angry little jerk of his head. “That’s got nothing to do with me. Don’t ask me nothing about that.”

  “I didn’t say you were involved.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I wasn’t.”

  “And you haven’t seen any of these people in a long time.”

  “No.”

  “And I know some of them are gone now. Ray Dudek is dead.”

  “He got killed at Riverview. Somebody knifed ’im for his wallet.” He looked at the photo again. “Lotta these guys are dead. Tommy Friesl died in the war. Tommy Moran, too. I know Landis is still alive, but—”

  “I’ve talked to Herb Gaynor and Fritz Pollard. And I know that Casey Pollard is dead.”

  Costello snorted and glared at Whelan for a moment. “The hell he is. I seen him on the street not two months ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Damn sure. I looked ’im right in the eye and he pretended he didn’t recognize me. But he knew me. He was a punk when we were kids, just a punk. I had to slap him around a couple times.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “Up here on Clark and Wilson. I’m waitin’ for a bus and I see him, he’s panhandling right there, big as life. Soon as he sees me, he goes up Clark Street in the other direction with that little jerky walk of his.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “To watch your back. He’s got no guts, never had any guts. Always yellow, he was. But he’s crazy, that one.” Costello made the little circling motion with one finger next to his head, and Whelan wondered what Costello would think if he knew how his old acquaintances viewed him.

  “Crazy how?”

  “Crazy, that’s all. You find him, you just look in his eyes. You’ll see.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Gerry Costello wrinkled his nose. “What the hell kinda question is that?”

  “It could tell me something.”

  “This was summer, it was hot. He was wearin’ a T-shirt and some kinda pants. Looked like the bum he was.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Nah. Like I said…”

  Whelan got up to leave. “Well, thanks for your time, and give me a call if you think of anything that might help.”

  “Okay. Now you see? I ain’t afraid.”

  “I can see that.”

  The little man fixed him with the dark eyes. “I served my country in the Big War, mister. I saw combat, I was wounded. I was a POW. I’m not afraid of anything.” He punctuated this with a little nod and showed Whelan to the door.

  “Well, thanks again,” Whelan said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Gerry Costello said, and sealed the hatch on his little world.

  Out on Clark, he could smell Swedish meatballs cooking somewhere up the street, but today he was getting a home-cooked lunch. He got into his car and pulled out into traffic, thinking about what Gerry Costello had given him. Among other things, it was now a little more important for Whelan to talk with Michael Minogue’s nephew.

  Walter Meehan lived far to the north in a redbrick bungalow on a serene block so completely taken over by trees that it seemed to have been built beneath a canopy. One side was lined with sycamores and dark-leaved maples and on the other was Indian Boundary Park, so called because it marked an early dividing line, between settlers and native people, that hadn’t lasted long.

  Walter’s house sat in the shade of a catalpa tree, and several of the long seedpods—“Indian cigars,” Whelan had called them in his youth—had dropped onto the front porch. Whelan parked across the street, on the park side. The last time he’d seen the park, it had been overrun with what seemed like ten thousand day campers. Now just a handful of smaller children played in the park, and old people watched them from benches and occasionally called out to them.

  Walter Meehan was waiting for Whelan at the top of the stairs, hands in his pockets and a calm smile on his face. As always, his cheeks were red and his thick gray hair defied combs and brushes. He looked like any other short, chubby retired gentleman, and Whelan wondered if any of the neighbors realized that their quiet neighbor had been a brilliant detective. In his days on the police force, Walter Meehan had been adviser, mentor and sounding post to half the detectives in the city, no matter which area office they worked out of. Whelan had gotten to know Walter during Meehan’s last two years on the job, and the two had become friends. When he first set up his office, Whelan had gone to Walter on several occasions for advice.

  Walter looked from Whelan to the Olds across the street and laugh lines appeared at the corners of his eyes.

  “Nice car,” Walter said in his slow, careful way. “I didn’t like your old one. It had hubcaps.”

  “Nice seeing you, too, Walter,” Whelan said, and came up the stairs with his hand outstretched.

  Up close, he could see that Walter hadn’t aged much in the three or four years since they’d last seen each other. If anything, he looked healthier, his skin slightly tanned.

  “Been out in the sun, Walter? Let me guess—you’ve taken up golf.”

  Walter Meehan snorted. “You know what Mark Twain called golf?”

  “‘A good walk spoiled.’”

  Walter nodded. “My wife told me she’d leave me if I ever took up golf. I think she was serious. I work in my garden with my beloved tomatoes and onions. Well, come in, come in. The neighbors will think you’re a salesman if I keep you out on the stairs.”

&nb
sp; With that and a wave of his arm, Walter Meehan led Whelan into the little redbrick bungalow.

  Whelan inhaled the thick perfumed smell of the flowers in the window boxes and followed Meehan inside, where the flower smells were immediately scattered by the aroma from the back of the house.

  “Oh, I can tell good things are happening out in that kitchen.”

  Walter patted his hard little belly. “She has left a permanent mark on me, Paul.”

  “This is for her,” Whelan said, handing Walter a bottle of wine.

  “Give it to her yourself.”

  “Hello, Lily,” he called out.

  Meehan shook his head. “She’s out back picking tomatoes for our lunch. Do you still grow tomatoes?”

  “I’ve given up for a while. I had a few problems with my garden. Bugs, neighborhood kids, and worst of all, a rabbit.”

  “A rabbit in Uptown? It’s a world of wonder, isn’t it?”

  “I saw one in a prairie just outside Cabrini-Green. I think they can live anywhere, they just pretend to be fragile.”

  “How about a beer?”

  “A beer would be fine.”

  Walter nodded and padded out to the kitchen for a beer. While he was gone, Whelan wandered around the house. It was a house of partitions, of peaceful coexistence perfected over fifty years of marriage: the living room was Lily’s, with perfect furniture and tasteful draperies and cut-glass bowls and polished silver. The dining room was oak and darker colors and one wall showed the initial compromises: a four-tiered shelving unit given over to Walter Meehan’s greatest passion in life, the collecting of toy soldiers. Whelan studied the little armies in their unlikely uniforms and bizarre headgear, waves of little lead men in scarlet or forest green or sky blue, with banners and obsolete weapons. Three of the shelves were crammed with figures, but the top shelf held just five, medieval knights on horseback, the warhorses decked in gaudy tournament colors as though about to enter a jousting field.

  “You like my knights?” Walter asked. Whelan turned and received a bottle of Samuel Smith pale ale and a glass.

  “They’re great. I thought you had more.”