And so he had given the cat, fully neutered, all shots given, several months’ supply of food, a litter box, and a big sack of Tidy Cat to Blanche Olesnanik across the street. Blanche was old, maybe eighty, bent over with arthritis. She had welcomed the cat when Wayne said he would come over every three days to feed it, change the food and the water and the litter and that he would pay for everything.
“I just want him to have a good home,” he had told her.
“Won’t you miss him?” Blanche had said.
He wouldn’t, but he said, with his trademark grin, “I’ll come and visit, remember.”
And that had been that. He had returned to Blanche’s every three days right on schedule except for the time that he had the flu and didn’t want to give it to her. Whenever he visited, Blanche had root beer and Toll House cookies and when he remembered he said something appropriate about the cat, which she had named “Winkie.”
On one of these visits it occurred to Wayne that he had never given the cat a name.
That was past. Blanche would probably have to take care of the cat on her own. He placed two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills in an envelope, addressed the envelope to Blanche, put a stamp on the envelope, and inserted a note in a perfect calligraphic script saying, “This is to take care of Winkie.”
Wayne was a realist.
He had put on a pair of clean jeans, a white shirt, and a colorful tie with guitars floating on it in a white cloud-filled sky.
Then Wayne had checked his father’s gun to be sure it was properly loaded before tucking it into the pocket of his Lakeview High School jacket.
Gun in pocket, letter to Blanche in hand, Wayne left the house locking it and headed down the street for Rosie’s four blocks away.
He was most assuredly very hungry.
13
BEFORE CHICAGO BECAME A city, law enforcement was informal with protection provided by soldiers at Fort Dearborn. In 1831, there were 350 settlers in Chicago. They voted for incorporation and elected their first Board of Trustees. The trustees had a log jailhouse built. There were, however, no provisions for law enforcement officers to be hired or appointed.
The town became a city in 1837. A high constable was elected and the common council appointed one constable from each of the city’s six wards. By 1855 the police force had grown to nine men.
Dr. Levi Boone, a candidate of the American Party, often called the Know-Nothing Party, was elected Chicago’s mayor in 1855 and with the city council established a police department with ninety men.
The first questioning of someone arrested for murder in the city took place at the end of 1855. It is said the suspect’s name was Homer William Croft, a paddleboat stoker who had steadfastly refused to admit that he had beaten a dock-worker to death with a block of wood. There had been no witnesses. But there were no rules for questioning a suspect. Croft was strong, stupid, and determined. He held out for almost two hours and emerged, according to the journal of one Simon Walsh, a clerk, with “his right eye purple swelled and looking like it was to burst and his shoulder held at a curious angle broke for certain. The man walked slow and pitiful and none would envy him his plight.”
Since the questioning and confession of Homer William Croft, there had been more than a million suspects questioned. Gradually the methods had changed. Detectives had gone from beating out confessions to cajoling, coaxing, and tricking.
Hanrahan’s rule number one was offer the suspect a cigarette. He kept a pack in his pocket though he had never smoked.
Paul Berg was seated in the room, which used to be called the interrogation room but now was the room with no name on the second floor about twenty steps down from the squad room.
It wasn’t dawn yet and Bill’s mind wasn’t fully focused on the frightened-looking creature seated across the room with Sean O’Neil across from him. All they needed was a chess-or checkerboard between them. Bill had somewhere else he wanted to get to, get to as quickly as he could, which meant that he would make a special effort to be careful in this interrogation, not to hurry, not to make a mistake.
He sat next to O’Neil across from Berg. The tape recorder lay on the table between them.
“We’re taping,” said Hanrahan. “Okay?”
Berg rubbed his mouth, folded his hands on the table in front of him, looked at the tape recorder, and shrugged.
Bill pulled the package of Winstons from his pocket, held them out to Berg, who took them and removed one cigarette, which Hanrahan lit.
“I’m going to turn it on now,” said Hanrahan, “and ask you again. This time answer the question.”
Hanrahan reached over and pressed the button on the machine.
HANRAHAN: We’re taping this conversation with Paul Berg on Wednesday morning, six-twelve, May third. Mr. Berg?
BERG: Yeah, okay.
HANRAHAN: Your name is Paul Seymour Berg. You are twenty years old. Right?
BERG: Yeah, right.
O’NEIL: Did you shoot—
HANRAHAN: Do you want a lawyer?
BERG: No, not now. I want to talk.
O’NEIL: Did you shoot Daniel Rostinski and George Grosse in the living room of the house you live in yesterday?
BERG: Yes.
HANRAHAN: Why?
BERG: We had an argument. A fight.
O’NEIL: About what?
BERG: I don’t know. What music we should put on the CD, something. I got mad. We fought.
HANRAHAN: They hit you? You hit them?
BERG: Yeah.
HANRAHAN: There were no marks on their knuckles and no bruises on their bodies. There are no marks on you or your knuckles.
BERG: Whatever. Maybe we didn’t hit each other. We get … got mad at each other a lot.
HANRAHAN: They were both sitting.
BERG: I guess.
HANRAHAN: So you were just arguing and decided to shoot them where they sat?
BERG: I lost my temper. I lose my temper a lot. Always did.
O’NEIL: Why didn’t you throw the gun away?
BERG: I don’t know. Thought maybe I’d shoot myself or go down shooting it with you guys.
HANRAHAN: How many shots did you fire?
BERG: Don’t remember.
O’NEIL: Neighbor across the street says three shots. One in each of your buddies and a third one about ten seconds later.
HANRAHAN: We found the third bullet in the wall. Why did you fire a third time? Why did you wait ten seconds? Why did you miss by fifteen feet?
BERG: I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t know.
O’NEIL: We’ve got you for six assaults, three counts of rape, and the murder of an old woman.
BERG: I’m not talking about any of that. For that I want a lawyer.
HANRAHAN: You didn’t use a gun in any of those assaults or the murder of the old woman. Where did you get the gun?
BERG: From the shop.
O’NEIL: Your father’s burger place?
BERG: Yeah, he keeps it there by the register. We’ve been robbed three times.
HANRAHAN: How long have you had the gun? Your father says it was by the register when he came in yesterday morning. BERG: I got it in the morning. Early.
HANRAHAN: Why?
O’NEIL: You already planned to kill your buddies.
BERG: Maybe.
HANRAHAN: So you had an argument with your friends, pulled out the gun when your grandmother walked in …
BERG: She walked in after I shot them.
HANRAHAN: Your grandmother walks in, starts screaming, and you run. That the way it happened?
BERG: That’s the way.
O’NEIL: Your father and grandmother want to talk to you.
BERG: I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to see them. I don’t have to, right?
HANRAHAN: No, but …
BERG: Now I want a lawyer.
Hanrahan reached over and pushed a button. The tape recorder stopped humming, and O’Neil asked, “You know a cop named M
orton?”
“Detective O’Neil, the man asked for a lawyer,” Bill said.
“Black cop?” said O’Neil.
“No,” said Berg, looking puzzled.
“Sean,” Hanrahan warned.
“Never saw him yesterday?” asked O’Neil.
“I don’t know any cop named Morton,” Berg said. “I confessed. You got the fuckin’ tape. I’m not talking anymore.”
“Just sit here,” Bill said to Berg. “You want a cup of coffee, something?”
“Coke,” Berg said, running fingers through his hair, his head bent.
The two detectives left the room, closed the door, and stood facing Captain Kearney, whose eyes were on Berg through the one-way mirror. An assistant state’s attorney named Sandra Whitney stood next to him, her lips pursed in thought. She was short, thin, athletic-looking, and not very happy.
“Full of holes,” she said.
Kearney nodded.
“He planned the whole thing,” said O’Neil. “Maybe to keep them quiet about the rapes, the murder of the old woman.”
“Took the gun from the shop, went with them to his own home, shot them in the living room where people could hear it. What was the plan? How was he going to get the bodies out?” asked Whitney.
O’Neil shrugged.
“Probably planned to claim it was a home invasion,” said O’Neil.
“No, Detective,” she said. “He’s probably going to be told by a lawyer that you coerced the confession because you were trying to cover for a fellow officer.”
“A …,” O’Neil began.
“Hugh Morton. You suggested it to him. In addition to which, he can read, watch television. And he’ll have a lawyer who certainly does. Berg raped Morton’s wife. And you practically handed him an out.”
“No, wait …,” O’Neil began.
“Gun from his father’s shop,” said Kearney. “Confession.”
“The business about waiting ten seconds to shoot the third time opens doors I don’t want opened,” she said.
“Maybe he’s going for insanity,” said O’Neil. “He’s got the murder of the old lady, the attacks, rapes.”
“Maybe,” said Kearney. “But he kept the damn gun. Why?”
“He’s stupid,” said O’Neil.
“No, he’s not,” said Hanrahan.
“Then what the hell is he?” said O’Neil.
“Maybe innocent,” said Hanrahan.
The alter cockers, not yet finished with their first coffee and bagel with a schmear and a few slices of Nova or smoked whitefish, were evenly divided on the issue of the morning.
Their voices were raised when Abe walked in and while a few of them noted his coming they were too deeply into the debate to pause.
Lieberman made his way to his booth. The counter wasn’t full but there were customers. Rose Shlovsky was reading the Sun-Times, adjusting her glasses. She lived right around the corner. She worked downtown on Michigan Avenue. She would drive to the El and take it to work when she finished. She had done the same thing five days a week for the past six years except for the two weeks each year when she went on a cruise and the time she had Asian flu. She looked over her newspaper and nodded at Abe. Then she looked over her shoulder at the alter cockers and let out her long-suffering sigh as Herschel Rosen raised his voice.
A cab driver named Latif something sat next to Rose Shlovsky. Lieberman couldn’t remember his last name at the moment, something without vowels; he was talking to Maish, who leaned toward him and nodded.
A couple sat at one of the booths. A trio of Devon Avenue salesmen sat at another, talking quietly.
Over his shoulder through the opening to the kitchen Lieberman could see Terrell, the cook. Terrell was dropping a couple of bagels in the toaster. Their eyes met. Terrell wiped his brow with his sleeve and nodded. Their conspiracy was under way.
“The master detective is back,” said Bloomberg at the alter cockers’ table. “Maybe this mystery he can unravel.”
“What mystery?” Rosen said with disdain. “The woman’s pregnant. Her husband claims he’s impotent.”
“Sterile,” Howie Chen corrected.
“Whatever,” said Rosen with a sigh of exasperation. “Says he knew it for more than a year. Doctor told him when he went in for a routine prostate. Didn’t tell his wife. Kept shtuping …”
“Rosen,” Bloomberg said. “People are listening. A lady is listening.”
“Rose has heard it all,” said Rosen. “Right, Rosie?”
Rose didn’t answer.
“Who’re you talking about?” asked Maish.
“Larry Zolner, Larry and Evie,” said Rosen.
“Evie’s pregnant?” asked Maish.
The salesmen in the booth stopped talking. Larry Zolner owned the hardware store two blocks down a few doors off of California. They all knew him.
“Larry Zolner’s sterile?” asked one of the salesmen.
“I got to repeat everything,” Rosen said. “Sterile. Yes.”
“And he had a prostate problem?” asked another of the salesmen.
“Didn’t I just say,” said Rosen.
“How do you know all this?” said the first salesman.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a sigh, looking at the other alter cockers. They all nodded to confirm Rosen’s tale.
“She says it was him,” said Bloomberg. “Couldn’t be anyone else. She says she is a faithful wife.”
“Spontaneous regeneration,” said Chen.
“Immaculate conception,” said Abe.
“Someone’s lying,” said Bloomberg.
“I can take them both down to the station and beat the truth out of them,” Abe suggested as Maish brought him a cup of coffee.
“That would work,” said Bloomberg.
“I wash my hands of you all,” said Rosen, raising his hands. “Where’s the Irish? He knows about immaculate conception.”
“Late,” said Lieberman. “Busy.”
Terrell put a plate on the counter behind Maish, who turned, picked it up, looked at it, looked at Terrell, shook his head, and carried the plate to his brother.
“Corned beef and sausage omelet?” Maish said.
“Celebration of my return,” said Abe, reaching for the ketchup.
“Your arteries wait in gleeful anticipation,” said Maish. “I promised Bess.”
“Exceptions are necessary if rules are to have meaning,” said Abe, reaching for the salt.
Maish took the salt from him before he could pour it.
“What’s your cholesterol, Abraham?”
“Within the bounds of reason,” Abe said, cutting into the omelet. “What’s yours?”
“Ich veis,” said Maish. “Who knows? I’m not the one with the worried wife.”
“Yetta is worried,” Lieberman corrected. “But not about your cholesterol.”
“Yeah,” said Maish, looking at a Korean travel agent named Roland Park who worked across the street. Park was in a hurry. He was always in a hurry. Park always looked worried. He was quite willing to tell you why. The travel agency business was going the way of the rabbit ear antenna and the Cabbage Patch doll. The Internet had forced Roland Park back to school to work on computer programming. He had no place to go, but he was in a hurry.
Park sat at the counter and looked at Maish, who moved to take his order.
The alter cockers argued. Abe ate and drank his coffee. He checked his watch, and then punched in a number on his cell phone as Bloomberg raised his voice to say, “I have to listen to such nonsense?”
Bill knocked at the door of the apartment on Spaulding fifteen minutes from the T&L deli where he was supposed to meet Abe.
No answer. He knocked louder. There was a button for a buzzer. Bill Hanrahan saw it and decided not to use it. He pounded on the door.
The door opened. In front of him, wearing a blue linen robe with a darker blue sash, stood Jon Li, lean, late twenties, clean-shaven, smiling.
“Come in,” he said,
stepping out of the way.
“You know who I am,” Hanrahan said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” said Li. “I have been expecting you.”
The room into which he was ushered was big, light with early-morning sun and sparsely but neatly furnished with minimalist monotone chairs made of something that looked to Hanrahan like linen. There was no sofa, no television. On the wall was a single photo about the size of a newspaper page. The photo was of a Chinese man about fifty with a knowing smile.
“That is Li Hongzhi,” Jon Li said, seeing Hanrahan’s glance at the photograph. “Please sit.”
“No thanks.”
Li nodded and stood facing his guest, hands folded in front of him. Bill was about half a foot taller than Li. The detective felt the tiny throbbing in his forehead that meant either a headache or the loss of control. In the past, before he had gone sober, he had quelled its demands with scotch. Now he relied on self-control, which occasionally worked.
“You don’t call me again. You don’t call my wife again,” Hanrahan said, taking a step forward to invade Li’s space.
Li did not back away.
“She is my cousin,” Li said.
“She is my wife,” said Hanrahan.
“Do you know anything about Falun Gong, Falun Dafa?”
“A Chinese cult,” said Hanrahan. “Iris told me. Banned by the Chinese government.”
“Not a cult,” said Li with a tolerant nod of his head. “Not a religion. A certain knowledge discovered by Li Hongzhi not ten years ago. Master Hongzhi now lives in the United States, in New York. I have seen him.”
“I don’t give a shit,” said Hanrahan, feeling the tension in his palms, the tightening of his fists.
“The Great Law of the Dharma Wheel,” said Li in the same monotone in which he had been speaking. “The wheel is a miniature of the cosmos that Master Hongzhi can install telekinetically in the abdomen of those who follow him. The wheel rotates in alternating directions.”
Li moved his right hand slowly in a circle in front of his stomach in one direction and then reversed the movement.
“The wheel throws off bad karma. We can feel the wheel turning in our bellies.”
“I told you, I don’t—”
Last Dark Place Page 15