by M. K. Gilroy
“So are your Snowflakes gonna stomp somebody today Coach Butkus?”
I roll my eyes and answer, “Butkus was never a coach. You meant to call me Coach Ditka.”
“How could I have messed that up? So you all going to win?”
“With our niece playing, we always have a shot.”
“What are you going to do if she loses interest in sports and takes up something foreign to you like school work or music or boys?”
I look at her in horror and she laughs at me.
“No right-footed kid that can hit a left cross like she can will be allowed to quit,” I say. “If I have any say in it.”
“I’m sure you will.”
I look at my watch, hop up, gather trash, and put it in the receptacle. Klarissa loops an arm in mine and we exit JavaStar like best friends. We didn’t talk about anything important and we’re doing fine. Maybe Dad was at least partially right on not overanalyzing and overtalking everything. On this occasion he would be one hundred-percent right. Not everything needs to be talked through. We seem to like each other. Good. One less thing to worry about. If I kept a list of my unresolved issues in life, I would put a check mark next to this one.
Time to hit the soccer fields.
• • •
The tan rag top is down on my shiny black Miata. I run through the gears fast and hit the first lane of the Cross City Expressway at seventy. My world is in order and I’m at peace. I’m already unpacked and my laundry is done from my time in D.C. Klarissa is on-air tonight, my mom is going to an activity with the senior adults at the church, and Jimmy and Kaylen have a party at their house with the newlyweds from the church, so I am absolutely a free agent with nothing to do. I might go down to Grant Park for an outdoor concert. I don’t know who is playing and don’t care. I might window shop on the Magnificent Mile. I might go to the shooting range and work with my new Sig Sauer the FBI gave me. I might go to a movie or read a book. After five weeks of a strict regimen, it’s great having freedom to do anything or nothing I want.
I’m in a great mood even after I get stuck in the middle lane for a couple miles, sandwiched between two drivers intent on obeying the speed limit—and making sure everyone else does, too. My Snowflakes won. Tiffany scored two and Kendra scored one—but we actually had three other girls get a goal. I guess Tiffany’s dad did okay as assistant coach while I was gone.
I stopped downtown on the way home. Spent an hour at the Apple Store looking at the latest iPhone model. Just when the salesman—not sure all their employees are geniuses but they all seem bright—was ready to give up, I surprised him and myself by buying a new one. I jogged to the park and listened to a group called the Salient Scream for five minutes. There was nothing particularly salient and definitely nothing silent about them so I moved on. I didn’t know anyone but Austin Reynolds at Quantico. I feel a little lonely. As much as I complain about my family, they are about all I have.
I meandered to where my car was parked and headed home, thinking about an FBI agent who shall remain nameless who is probably in Maine by now.
I wandered around my little place with a t-shirt, tattered shorts, and no shoes. At nine Jaws came on WGN and I watched it for maybe the tenth time. Doesn’t take much to make me happy.
After watching a shark explode, I watched Klarissa do the news for five minutes on DVR and wondered what precinct got the Durham case. The article only quoted bigwigs like the mayor so that doesn’t tell me who is running the show.
14
I’VE DECIDED I should be more environmentally aware. I do recycle paper, glass, and most aluminum and metal—most of the time. I don’t pay attention to cardboard like I should. The only time I really notice plastic enough to separate it from the rest of the trash is when it is large enough to hold a gallon of liquid, like milk or distilled water for my steam iron.
Now that my ‘97 Miata is fixed up inside and out, I’ve decided to start taking public transportation to work. Go figure. But my new commitment makes me feel engaged and green. Don and I are assigned a car from motor pool each month, so why not? I have downloaded the mobile app that updates the exact location of any bus in the city. Technology is wonderful and scary. I just have to catch a bus outside my apartment complex, jump on the El, and grab another bus that delivers me to the front door of the Second Precinct. If things stay on schedule, I will save five minutes commute on my way to work. I haven’t figured the return trip yet.
It’s Monday morning, my first day back to work at CPD after an almost two-month medical leave of absence. I talked to Captain Zaworski on Friday and it’s official that Don Squires and I are still partners. I’m relieved. I’m comfortable with Don. I know his family. He’s one of my favorite people to fight with. I’m not sure he reciprocates my level of enjoyment for our nonstop repartee, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t give it back to me.
I hit the button to light up the screen on my new iPhone to see what time it is as my bus lurches forward from another stop. My bus is not on schedule and I’m going to miss the Express train on the Purple line. I’ve been feeling so good about my decision to go green since I watched an episode of Planet Earth while I was at Quantico, but now I’m not sure it’s going to live to see another day.
• • •
“Nice of you to join us, Conner,” Zaworski barks.
I’m five minutes late to our morning briefing. I’m definitely done with public transportation. At least once I get home tonight.
Last time I was with everyone in this conference room we were still looking for a serial killer. I was the one who found him. I had a nice stay in the hospital for my efforts. A “welcome back, we missed you, you’re our hero,” seems appropriate at the moment.
Ten of us surround the battleship gray table. A few notes are scribbled on the whiteboard on the wall. Before I can decipher Zaworski’s cuneiform he say, “Squires, hit the lights.”
Don is leaning back in his chair and stretches his arm to twist the dimmer knob counter-clockwise.
“I don’t have to tell you’se guys that the Durham murder is almost a week old,” Zaworski growls. “I hope I don’t have to tell you it looks like we’re doing nothing.”
“Sir, we’ve talked to almost thirty—”
“Save it, Konkade,” the captain interrupts. “I know we’ve talked to a lot of people. What I want to know is why we don’t have any ideas. We’re going to walk this through from the top.
“Let’s go, Randall,” he says to the new guy I haven’t met yet. I look around the room at familiar faces, including Antonio Martinez. We worked with him on the Cutter Shark case. He was partners with Bob Blackshear at the Third Precinct. Don has told me he transferred to the Second and would be partnering with the new guy, Randall. Don and Antonio have been working the case together from the first day. Randall arrived end of last week and is apparently a fast study since he’s running the slide show.
I’m relieved that musical chairs is over and I’m still with Squires. Relationships take me a while.
Martinez waves and blows me a kiss before the lights are all the way down. Some things haven’t changed.
Randall clicks the keyboard on an Apple computer that is connected to a projector. They call the tech guys at Apple geniuses. Maybe he’s a genius too. First image up is a close-up of a man with the left side of his head caved in. The photographer had the place lit up bright as a summer day at the Indiana Dunes, so no details are missing.
“Walk us through it, Jerome,” Zaworksi orders. “And save the weird science.”
Jerome is a tech nerd from the medical examiner’s office. He clears his throat nervously and takes Randall’s place behind the keyboard. He was the only one besides Matinez who smiled and waved when I made my entrance.
“Multiple blows with a blunt object,” he says. “We found a 20-ounce rip-claw one-piece hammer next to the bed. A pretty common style, but a little heavier than most. The wounds fit the shape and size of the hammer head. It’s made by Stanley.�
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“Thanks for letting us know that,” Zaworski growls. “Next.”
Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.
Randall clicks a button and the second image shows the right side of his head. No marks. The blood has been cleaned off. His lifeless right eye is wide open and staring blankly into the camera. The victim was a handsome man. Early forties? Late thirties?
“If he was conscious at the time of the attack, the first blow probably rendered him unconscious or semi-unconscious,” Jerome continues. “The position of the body suggests he was already in bed. Blood splatter and pooling tells us he wasn’t put there and didn’t fall there. The puddle of blood underneath his head suggests he never even turned his head. We can’t prove it be we suspect he was sleeping when he was attacked. The assailant seems to have gone into a frenzy. We think the victim was struck sixteen or seventeen times. The trauma marks start to blend together.”
Gross.
“If he had been awake and conscious, he would have tried to turn away and shield the blows with his arms. This side of his face is unmarked. No bruising on his arms.”
“That guy is a sound sleeper,” Martinez says with a whistle.
“Toxicology reports put him at .23 blood level content,” Jerome adds. “Pretty amazing he was able to put on his pajamas and find his way to bed. Heck, the alcohol content in his blood was high enough to kill him without help from the Stanley.”
“We got it, he was asleep or drunk,” Zaworski says. “Next.”
The third image shows him from head to toe with the covers pulled back. His pajamas consisted of a pair of black boxers and a V-neck t-shirt half-soaked in blood. His head is adjusted so he is looking straight up, with both sides of his face visible. What’s that guy’s name in the Batman movie? Harry Two-Face? Harvey? Our victim makes Harry or Harvey look like a model.
After Jerome finishes describing the body, Randall takes over the narration and describes images of Durham’s apartment. Nice place. Scratch that. Real nice place. He had an interior decorator, no doubt. Kind of a blend between contemporary and traditional. The living room was all contemporary including the artwork—can’t tell from a projection image but I’m guessing those aren’t prints. His study had an old world European look to it. Dark woods. Leather. Framed antique maps. A big free-standing globe. I’d bet Don lunch it opened up and there were bottles of whiskey inside it. Every other room was a cross between the two extremes of the living room and study.
Randall finishes explaining that the condo has only one entrance door and it does not appear to have been tampered with. There is a manned security desk in the front lobby 24/7. The guy in an elaborate maroon uniform with lots of gold braids has to press a code for you to use the elevators if you are a guest. He calls up to the owner and gets the thumbs up or thumbs down to usher the person into the elevator and key them up.
“Is there a back entrance?” I ask.
“We’ll get there,” Randall says. “And by the way, nice to meet you Detective Conner.”
“Plenty of time for introductions and sing-along later,” Zaworski says with a scowl. “Conner, you need to get in here early and get caught up so we don’t waste our time on remedial work. This case should not be dragging. Do we have anything or anybody to look at, Randall? Squires? Martinez? Anybody?”
Zaworski has only two moods and both are usually bad. But he’s on his A game today.
“Only thing we got that puts someone at his apartment the day of the murder is one of his homeys came over to pick him up for lunch mid-afternoon,” says Martinez. He looks at his notes. “Adam Spencer.”
I don’t think Durham had homeys. And I’m guessing Adam Spencer is rich like Durham.
“He went up to the 25th floor about one o’clock,” Randall continues. “Durham and Spencer were back in the lobby about fifteen minutes later. Spencer’s car was parked out front. A Mercedes. The CL 65 AMG model. A very expensive car.”
“Only if $220-thousand is expensive,” Don adds.
Martinez looks at him like Don just told him he is married to a space alien and is moving to Pluto next month.
“No way, amigo,” Antonio says.
“Ladies, keep on task,” says Zaworski. “You can do your shopping together later.”
“They took it to over to Vines on Clark next to Wrigley,” Randall continues. “They ate burgers and drank wine for a couple hours.”
“Burgers and wine? What is this city coming to?” Zaworski asks.
That’s actually funny. We make eye contact and as a group decide not to laugh.
“Credit card records and the day manager verify the story. Spencer dropped him off back home at three o’clock,” Martinez adds.
I think Randall assumes he will be spokesman of the two and Martinez hasn’t agreed yet. He gives Antonio a dirty look. Don is spokesman for the two of us by unanimous vote. He gives a better talk than I do.
“Durham went upstairs alone,” Randall says, jumping back in. Martinez is going to have to get quicker.
“That seemed like a big deal to the security dude,” Martinez interjects. “Apparently Durham has a revolving door of ladies who visit him.”
“The life of the idle rich,” Randall says with a wink.
Zaworski glares at him and Randall looks back down at the laptop.
“Why don’t we like this Spencer Adam guy?” Zaworski asks.
“Adam Spencer,” Randall corrects, eliciting a glare from Zaworki and a smile from Martinez.
“He flew to Hawaii with his wife not long after he left,” Martinez says.
“Time of death is fixed?” Zaworski asks.
“After ten. Before midnight.” Jerome says.
“Anyone else check in at the front door to see him?” Blackshear asks.
“Nope,” Martinez answers sharply. “We didn’t think to check, Bob,” he says sarcastically.
“No offense intended, Tony.”
“Sonaba como a mÍ mi amigo.”
“Can it, you two,” Zaworski snarls. “So who killed him? The Stanley Hammer fairy?”
That’s actually pretty funny if you ask me. But no one is laughing. The boss is a bear today. Is it because I’m back?
“We spent the weekend following back up on family members and calling his main contacts again,” Don answers. “We don’t have a specific suspect identified but I think we’ve finally got a clear enough picture of his life to draw the circle of interest around a fairly small group.”
“Why has it taken so long to get to this point?” Zaworski asks.
“I think I can explain,” Don says.
“Let’s hear it,” Zaworski growls.
“When Randall said ‘the life of the idle rich’ he wasn’t kidding,” Don continues. “Durham is thirty-eight years old and never worked a day in his life. He’s a caricature of a trust fund baby.”
“I don’t know what ‘caricature’ means so save the big words,” Zaworski snaps without looking up from a paper he’s reading.
Unruffled, Don says, “He and some pals from high school and college run around and party like they are still twenty-one-year-old frat boys. There’s at least five of them that never work and another four or five that work but still manage to keep up with an unreal social schedule. A few are married but they all prefer to date hot young ladies—and apparently going out and meeting them is too much trouble, so they use a very exclusive and discreet dating service to set up their girls.”
“What’s it called?” Zaworski asks.
“Doesn’t have a name. Like I said, it’s discreet.”
“Something can be discreet and have a name,” Zaworski growls.
Even the unflappable Don backs off.
“Prostitutes?” Zaworski asks.
“More or less,” Don responds cautiously. “But impossible to prove. The owner has built a pretty slick and careful operation. No website, no business card, no brochures. All her business is word-of-mouth. Her name is Barbara Ferguson. She’s been looked at
and leaned on hard by Vice through the years. But she has never been charged with a crime. She charges a monthly ‘matchmaker’ fee that is for female companionship only. If anything else happens, it is between her clients and the girls she matches them with. Randall talked to Conroy over in Vice and this Barbara Ferguson has apparently insulated herself from criminal activity and has an expensive lawyer on retainer to guard her little black book. But Randall discovered something real interesting from Conroy.”
He stops and nods at Randall to take over. Randall hesitates and clears his throat.
“Our body is getting cold,” Zaworski snaps. “You gonna tell us what you got or do we have to play twenty questions?”
Zaworski has always been gruff, though he and I actually started getting along during my last case. Something is eating at him. Got to be the heat from above.
“Sorry,” Randall says quickly. “What Conroy told me is that City Finance has her dead to rights on tax evasion. They think they have a case against her that could result in a serious prison sentence and some enormous fines. Conroy hooked me up with the Director of Revenue at City Hall. He’s working with the IRS, County, and State agencies. I explained what we have going with Director Stevens. He wasn’t sure they could help us but he agreed to make a call. I was barely out of his office when he called me back and told me to get back upstairs. Whoever he called—it was the mayor, though we’re not supposed to repeat that—told him to say they would offer us whatever we need to leverage her to help us clear the Durham murder.”
“If we’re not supposed to say it, don’t say it,” Zaworski says. “So what do we have to offer her?”
“Full immunity from prosecution if she helps us find the killer. She does have to pay back taxes but the fines will be waived.”
“We got that in writing?”
“I’m supposed to call back this morning and if I give them this”—he hands Zaworski a sheet of paper—“with your John Hancock on it, they will have Legal draft a contract to present her. If she signs and cooperates fully, we are off to the races.”