Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  Vivian walks back in her office. Jerome takes a seat next to Moe.

  “Hiya, Moe.” As always, his presence brings with it a strong whiff of nicotine.

  “Hey, Jerome. How’s it going?”

  “Good. I was reading your article. Good stuff. You put yourself in that story. Hunter S. Thompson fan?”

  “You got me,” she says.

  He’s gaunt, in his late thirties, bald spot at the back of his head. His tenor rings around the room like a bell. “You dropped that pinch of first person in the right spot. My hat’s off to you.”

  “Thanks. Good work on that story about those rooftop wind turbines in Pilsen.”

  Jerome nods back. “A guy in permitting tipped me. The story wrote itself.” He’s humble like that. He’s a talented writer. Not full of flourishes and melodrama, but workmanlike and honest.

  Vivian clears her throat and props her chin on her fist. “You’ve both earned the right to be staff writer. The catch is I can only afford one right now. Whoever gets the job will have some management and editorial responsibilities. Nothing major. Wrangling a couple freelancers so I can focus more of my energies on sales.”

  Moe hates the idea of editorial work. She wants to write and be left alone. She certainly doesn’t want to deal with the revolving door of self-righteous twenty-two-year-olds that produce much of the filler Text Block requires.

  Vivian shifts in her chair. “Jerome, you don’t live in the city. You take the train from Hinsdale, right?”

  “My fiancé grew up there.” Moe and Vivian have heard the explanation before. Moe smirks slyly for Vivian’s benefit.

  Vivian turns to Moe. “You’re born and raised here, a woman of color and gay to boot. It gives you a diverse perspective. I’m not saying better. I’m saying diversity is part of the project of Text Block.” Swiveling back to Jerome: “No offense, but there are a million straight white men journalists.”

  “True fact. I get it,” he says.

  “Ultimately, Jerome, you’ve got a hell of a knack for making complicated, bureaucratic malfeasance comprehensible. You don’t dumb it down. You clarify. What’re you working on?”

  His voice rings. “It’s all over the news: the country is divided. Urban blue areas and rural red areas. Right? But why? What does that mean for Chicago? What does it mean for a divided Illinois? What does it mean for the future of democracy? There’s research from Loyola that suggests psychological underpinnings for this national self-sorting. My idea is to interview research participants, bring these issues to the fore, and explore policy remedies. I see this as an ongoing series that could run through the next election. It would involve discussions around specific policy as seen from opposing perspectives. For instance, gerrymandering. But not as sound bites—as reasonable people making informed decisions from radically different circumstances. My connections at the elections board are willing to share sociological data to help bolster the story. Also, my publisher has been encouraging. There could be a book down the road.” He spreads his hands as if to say, The ball is in your court.

  “Interesting,” Vivian says. “Might get national traction.” Vivian gets a faraway look, seeing a future in which she’s recognized as an internet-era news maven, a world where Text Block is the new Huffington Post but with a focus on news about historically marginalized people.

  Moe is ready to concede defeat.

  Vivian comes back to reality. “Moe, what do you have for me?”

  Moe barely knows what to say. “Nothing really. My idea is to juxtapose the attention the attack of a white woman in the North Loop is getting with the lack of coverage of similar crimes in predominantly black and brown neighborhoods. I have here”—she waves the paper Vivian gave her—“three similar attacks that took place in the past month within miles of the site of this morning’s murder. Violent crimes against women are underreported. When they are reported, most often the victim is white, young, pretty and well-to-do. Under the current immigration umbrella, women with precarious citizenship are unlikely to report crimes. In black communities, there’s little trust for the police, I’d argue for good reason. I see this series as a critique of corporate so-called journalism. I don’t want to reveal my source, but I have a highly placed detective who’s willing to work with me.” Moe doesn’t notice how loud she’s gotten until she stops talking. She’s worked her body to the edge of her seat.

  Vivian looks thoughtful but doesn’t speak. Moe flops back in her chair. Her pitch was thin compared to Jerome’s.

  “Wow,” Jerome says. “That settles it. Moe deserves the staff position.”

  Moe’s wants to object but she has no words.

  “Jerome,” Vivian says, “I’ll give you what help I can, time off for travel and research. Your pitch is an important story. I’ll publish parts of it as a continuing exploration. How’s an elevated title like senior contributing writer strike you? I don’t want to bog you down too much. Books are long projects. I can afford a slight increase in scale along with the title.”

  “Good,” Jerome says. He stands and shakes Moe’s hand. “Go get ’em. If I can help, let me know.” Jerome has a big stupid grin on his face. He leaves so fast Moe can’t reply.

  Viv wears an identical smile. “Congratulations executive feature writer. Has a nice ring don’t you think?” Vivian leans back in her chair, tucks her hands behind her head, clearly satisfied she orchestrated a good outcome.

  Moe was steamrolled. The fix was in. She’s no longer a freelance stone-thrower. She’s part of the establishment. She has to manage young journalists, a subgroup who are deeply offended by being managed. She’ll have to be supportive. Being supportive is not her skill set. I’ve been conned. The game they ran must be called The Napping Canadian or some vague title like all of those historical cons.

  Her internal rant is going off the rails. She errs on the side of a pat reply. “Thanks for the opportunity. It means a lot.” Her forehead feels hot.

  Vivian won’t stop grinning.

  Varying Degrees of Rapport

  It’s been a long day already, but Whistler feels responsible for the dead woman’s remains and refuses to leave until the body is transported to the morgue. Thanks to his hunch, and Chapman’s hustle, the body has a name: Anna Beth Harpole. That should make Ruther happy.

  Once her body has pulled away, Whistler hits up Hoss for a ride. In the car, he keeps his head down, his mind conjuring the shadowy impression of the monster that murdered a woman visiting his city. The mental exercise depresses him.

  At a stoplight, he watches people heading home. So many people. So oblivious. It’s hard to believe only this morning he’d survived his car ride with Inspector Ruther. The squad car drives on.

  He considers the box of personal effects he’d gathered and the portrait they paint of Anna Beth’s life. He’s interrupted by a vision of her mottled throat and blue lips hidden by the slow zip of a body bag. He dreads calling the next of kin, hopes Ruther will take that task from him.

  Hoss leaves Whistler alone with his thoughts. The patrolman is in his late thirties, similar build to Whistler but taller. They drive in silence most of the trip. Finally Hoss says, “Detective, you’re from around here, right?”

  “Little Village.” Whistler welcomes the interruption.

  “I’m from Lawndale. I would have gone to Little Village Lawndale High School, but we moved to Sugar Grove. You hear of Sugar Grove?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Close to Aurora. I never heard of it till we moved there. Dad was okay with me going through the Chicago Public Schools. But his daughters, that was harder for him. Too many girls getting into gangs. This guy who owned the corner shop, he gave me free squeeze pops every summer. An eleven-year-old girl on the next block shot him dead when he was sweeping out front. Lupe, my baby sister, had been friends with this girl, been to her house to play. They watched Pixar DVDs and ate cupcakes with Monster’s Inc. characters. Can you believe it? Sugar Grove was safe with nice parks
and good schools. My uncle had a job set up for my dad. Best thing for us kids.”

  “I get it,” Whistler says. “When I was coming up it felt like a full-time job to stay out of trouble.”

  Hoss pulls into the station and rolls along until he finds an empty spot. “Look at you now: Detective Diaz.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” Whistler stops himself from saying “Hoss.” “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Oh yeah. Ruther’s a dick. Willy Ramirez.” They knock fists and Whistler slips out of the car. He takes the file box of personal effects and walks across the lot.

  Inside, Wendell isn’t at the desk. That suits Whistler fine. He remembers his oversized shirt and alien tie. He retucks with one hand, maneuvers the box, tucks with the opposite hand. He pushes the knot of his tie up, not too tight. When he feels put together, he takes the stairs.

  He passes through the squad room. A few older guys are slumped over desks, talking on phones, hunting and pecking a key at a time on old, chunky computer keyboards. One guy in light slacks and a red polo shirt smiles all of his teeth at Whistler. Whistler gives him a crisp nod. He knocks on Ruther’s doorframe.

  “Tell me you solved this son of a bitch.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  Ruther’s mustache droops. “I guess that was too much to hope for. But I can’t help it. I’m an optimist. Ask any of these sad motherfuckers and they’ll tell you ‘Inspector Ruther keeps it on the sunny side.’ I’m known for it.”

  “Yes sir,” Whistler’s too exhausted for banter. He drops into a chair in front of the cluttered desk. He looks around. The office is big, with a wall of windows at Ruther’s back, the view completely blocked by a line of file cabinets.

  Ruther stares. “Did I invite you to take a seat?”

  “No. Sorry. I …”

  “I … I … I. I’m fucking with you. You’re welcome to take a load off. My door is always open. Not really. Sometimes it’s closed, and don’t fucking bother me if it’s closed. But I want to hear what you’ve got. First, speaking of sad motherfuckers …”

  Willy Ramirez was right: Ruther is a dick.

  Ruther yells, “Suzuki, get your ass in here.”

  “Right away,” someone replies.

  Ruther settles heavily into his leather throne. “That Channel 13 bitch didn’t waste any time stirring this shit right up, did she?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The mayor is not happy. I’ve been on the phone all day with the chief of Ds. The mayor has apparently used strong language to underscore how seriously he wants this wrapped up. Though the mayor uses strong language to invite his mother to fucking Sunday brunch.”

  A short man in his fifties, with floppy salt and pepper hair, shuffles into the room. It’s the smiley cop with the red polo shirt.

  Ruther says, “Suzuki, this is Diaz. You two are partners, my two ethnics working together. It’s like the fucking United Nations all of a sudden. I’m a regular Boutros Boutros-Ghali.”

  “You’re the boss,” says Suzuki. “That’s what I was telling my wife just the other day.” He glances Whistler’s way. “Good to meet ya.” He’s got a heavy North Side accent. Whistler shifts around to shake his hand, starts to move the box so Suzuki can sit. Suzuki ignores Whistler and keeps his hands in the pockets of his baggy pants. Suzuki says to Ruther, “I’m pretty excited about this weather.” Whistler leaves the carton where it sits.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Ruther asks, playing along.

  “The first warm snap means it’s bush trimming season. You know how I love a trimmed bush.” He slaps Whistler’s shoulder. “If you know what I mean?”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Whistler says.

  “Everyone knows,” Ruther says. “It’s not at all subtle.” Ruther is amused. “Enough pretending you have a sex life, Suzuki. We know you wear the kimono in the family. Diaz, tell us about our dead girl.”

  Whistler pulls the digital pad onto his lap and taps the screen.

  “Based on an initial examination Ted says the attack happened after five thirty this morning. The victim was strangled. No signs of sexual assault. Ezekiel is certain the attack took place where the victim was found. Ted concurred. She had no ID, no phone or purse. But Ted found a magnetic keycard, and she smelled a bit like chlorine. So I sent one of the patrolmen over with the keycard to check the Echelon. Sure enough, she was in town for a conference. Her name was Anna Beth Harpole. An itinerary of events shows she was part of a panel discussion yesterday and was scheduled to check out tomorrow morning. I’m going to confirm her return flight, but her baggage tag shows she flew out of San Francisco. The head of security was helpful and asked that we keep the name of the hotel out of the press. He provided copies of pertinent security feeds. We have her in the elevator before five this morning, entering the gym and pool area alone and leaving again almost an hour later. No one else entered or exited. No one was following her. Elevator again. In the lobby after six. Talking to the doorman and walking across the motor court. That narrows the time of the attack to after six. That’s good because the one you called Chief—”

  “Officer Harris,” Ruther says.

  “Yes. Officer Harris. Reggie, correct?”

  Ruther nods.

  “He had patrolmen canvas the area, knock on doors, and look for security cameras in the area. No witnesses. No reports of strangers hanging around. Nothing at the scene other than the victim.”

  “Who called in the body?”

  “An old woman named Greta Hovarth who walks her wiener dog through the tunnel every morning to do his business in the park. Reggie took her statement.”

  “Did he tell you he was named after Reggie Jackson?” Suzuki asks.

  “It didn’t come up,” Whistler says. “Mrs. Hovarth walked past the spot where the body was found and didn’t notice a thing. She thinks it was six twenty. Came back about fifteen minutes later, sees the shoes, finds our victim. Goes home to call the police like a good citizen. If she was paying attention, that means our victim was killed in that fifteen-minute window. Which fits with Ted’s time of death.”

  “What else?” Ruther asks.

  “The exterior video at the Echelon shows the bottom half of a white panel van passing after Anna Beth crosses. So far, that’s all we have.”

  “That’s exactly what the mayor won’t want to hear.” Ruther is serious.

  Suzuki asks, “When can we expect the ME’s report? Toxicology? Rape kit? Stomach contents? What are next steps? This is your case, am I right, Boss?”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Whistler loosens his tie, rests his arm over the box of personal effects. “Like I said, Ted says no signs of sex. Ezekiel and I secured the victim’s room. It’s being dusted for prints. It’s a hotel room, so it’ll be covered in latent partials. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Nothing to indicate anyone was in the room except Anna Beth. We found her phone and a laptop she left charging next to the bed. It was sent to Tech. They’ll pull recent e-mails, texts, calendars, etcetera. Ted expects the ME report in a few days.”

  “A few days. Bullshit. I’ll call over and rattle his cage. You’ll have that report in the morning. I’d stake my life on it,” Ruther says.

  “Full autopsy is required for homicides. Ezekiel said that adds days,” Whistler says.

  “They always say it takes days. The mayor wants it yesterday. They’ll get it done.”

  Suzuki chimes in unhelpfully, “You want me to fly to San Fran to interview her lovers, coworkers, friends, neighbors, family, more lovers? Shit, could take weeks to run down leads.”

  “Shut up, Suzuki,” Ruther says. “Diaz. What’s your gut tell you?”

  “It was violent. My first guess was she knew the assailant. Jealousy, revenge, that kind of thing. But the odds are low given she flew in for a couple days alone. It’s starting to look like a crime of opportunity. The rage involved, this guy may be volatile, dangerous, mentally deranged. Likely has a record of assault or domestic batte
ry. Doesn’t look like it was sexual, and that bothers me. There was no robbery, no sex. That makes the motive to strangle this girl. More accurately crush her throat. She was left between dumpsters like a sack of trash. Suzuki is right. Once we get the data off her devices, we’ll run down any leads back home, see what her life looked like. Did she have a boyfriend? An ex? A stalker? Workplace affair? Any connections with Chicago? Maybe she travels here regularly? She was at a hotel conference; might have met someone in the bar, hooked up. I’ll pull video from the bar. Unless forensics comes back with something from the room or the ME finds something unexpected, all we have is a potentially missing ponytail holder, perhaps stolen earrings, and a panel van we can’t identify and was likely not involved.”

  “Shit,” Ruther says. “What about the dumpsters?”

  “Ezekiel coordinated with Officer Harris and had a few patrolmen crawl in every dumpster for a two block radius. They found nothing. I’ve got this box of stuff: a purse, a workbag, some clothes and toiletries. Her luggage. But as of now, not much to go on.”

  “Shit,” Ruther says again. “Okay.” He combs his mustache to compose himself. “Suzuki, you take Diaz to conference room two. Start getting things set up. Diaz, when you get the phone dump, make the notifications. Do as much as you can over the phone. Once you know exactly where she lived and worked, I’ll make calls through official channels to get any potential records. Let’s talk in the morning. I know it’s Saturday, but I’ll be in by eight. Now get the hell out of here while I try to put lipstick on this pig.” Ruther reaches for the phone. “Oh, and Diaz?”