by Tracy Clark
Chapter 12
“I’m conducting an interview in here, Hallstrom,” Ben announced to the hall when he came back in. “Give me fifteen.” He locked the door behind him.
He strolled in with a small bag of potato chips and what smelled like a pastrami sandwich on rye. Winking slyly, he nudged his chair over to the window and sat down with his back to me, unraveling the plastic wrap around his sandwich. “Whatever you do with that file is between you and your higher power. And while you’re sitting there not reading it, be sure not to pay particular attention to the ME and ballistic reports.”
I pulled the file toward me. “You missed your calling. You should have taken to the stage.”
He turned to wink at me, his mouth full of deli meat. “Right? I certainly have the looks for it. I’m ruggedly handsome.”
My hand hovered over the file too long. Ben noticed. “Forget how?”
“I’m a little rusty. Are you going to tell me it’s just like riding a bike?”
“Hell no. What’s a bike got to do with anything?”
“This is Pop.”
“Which is why I get it, but, me to you, we’re beating every bush, we’re running this by the book, and we’re coming up cold. You won’t want to hear this, but the evidence fits a determination of an interrupted burglary, struggle, and accidental weapons discharge. Father Ray’s reaction might not jibe with the man you knew, but trauma makes people act differently than they normally would. Maybe there were people out there that didn’t care for him, but I can’t see a shopkeeper with questionable morals or a good ole boy contractor with an ego beef going off the rails like this, can you?”
I didn’t know. I couldn’t say. All I knew is I couldn’t stop, not until I had the truth, and I didn’t think Farraday or Ben had it, not yet, no matter what the evidence said. I placed my hand on the file folder.
“You don’t have to do this, if you’re not up to it,” Ben said. “There’s no dishonor.”
“I do have to,” I whispered. “Someone killed him. Someone killed Cesar Luna. And I’m going to prove it.”
Ben turned back to the window. “Then open the damn file.”
Speechless, I opened the damned file.
With the crime scene photos laid out in front of me, I again stared clinically into Cesar Luna’s dead eyes as I’d long ago learned to do. He was a crime victim. These were crime photos—stark, basic, lacking aesthetic value. They were an official record of violent crime for the express purpose of investigation, nothing more. I inhaled, detached, and started the clock on my fifteen.
Luna had bled out, a single bullet to the center of his chest. His face was badly bruised, his lip busted and swollen, and he had a deep, fresh scratch, approximately three inches in length, staggered across his right cheek. I remembered the injuries, the metallic scent of Luna’s blood.
“Luna was a Scorpion,” I said. “Pop’s parish is way off his turf. What was he doing there?”
Ben shrugged. “Nothing good. He’s got a sheet a mile long.”
I flipped the pages. “But for assault, gang activity, gun possession, not for robbing churches, and he hadn’t been picked up for anything in more than a year. Isn’t it a little strange to you that a hardcore banger would be shot dead in a church way off his home turf, alongside a priest he had no obvious connection to?”
“Maybe he’s passing by, sees the lights on, and figures he can score something.”
“But the lights weren’t on, except in the vestry. I had to turn them on myself. When I left Pop, he was locked in for the night. It was raining. Why venture outside again? Why enter the church and leave the lights out? He wouldn’t have done that. He promised me he’d stay put until I got back in the morning to meet the police.”
“Maybe he decided to go over there to pray.”
“That morning, for a moment I thought that, too. But Pop promised me he’d stay put.” I searched the report. “You told me the back door was jimmied. Pop wouldn’t have been able to see that from the rectory. So what drew him over? And you still haven’t found his keys.” I fingered through the pages. Pop’s photos were missing. “Where are his photos?”
Ben slid me a glance. “I pulled them.”
“What? Why?” My voice rose, indignant, aggrieved. “They’re part of the evidence.”
Ben stood, dragged his chair to the table and sat. His sharp gray eyes watched me closely. “If my father died the way Father Ray did, I’d hope to God you, or somebody, would have the decency to do the same for me. You found him. You saw. That’s enough. Everything else we’ve got is there. You have questions? Ask me, and I’ll answer them. Right now, though, you’re eating up your time. Being pissed off at me can come later.”
I stared at him. “I hate being handled.”
“Who knows that better than I do? But I guarantee you you’d hate those photos a lot more.”
I reached for the file again. Ben watched me read through the text-only portion of the ME’s report on Pop. I exhaled deeply. “He didn’t suffer.” Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much not knowing that had gnawed at me. I wanted to know, needed to know, that Pop had not languished in pain, that death was quick. Knowing for sure came as a great relief.
“One bullet to the right temple. Residue on his right hand, his clothes,” Ben said. “If you were in my spot, and you were two years ago, what would you come up with?”
“I don’t care what it says. There’s another explanation.”
“Now you’re refuting stone-cold forensic evidence? Come on, Cass.”
“I knew the man!”
“Nobody knows everything about everybody they know. Hell, the shit you don’t know about me would take the curl out of your hair.” The room fell silent. He was right, but I was also right. I knew the man. I was certain I’d known him well. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
His eyes met mine. “Yeah, everything.” Ballistic reports, interview statements, CSI reports—I raced through them all, jotting down notes, committing the rest to memory before closing the file, my heart racing, my mouth dry. It took a moment before I found my voice again. I cleared my dry throat, wishing I had water, fearing an ocean’s worth wouldn’t be enough. “Pop didn’t own a gun, obviously.”
Ben nodded. “We figured as much, but we can’t link the gun to Luna. It was unregistered, a cheap .25-caliber throwaway. Striations on both bullets match. Luna was shot close range, consistent with a struggle. Father Ray, well . . .”
“Pop was a pacifist,” I argued.
“Nobody’s a pacifist when they’re grappling for a gun and their life is at stake. And pacifism as a defense doesn’t fly when both their prints are on the gun.”
I shoved the file away from me. “Then we’re missing something.”
“Not if we’re talking physical evidence. Techs logged in a butt load of crap. But, again, we can’t link any of it to either Luna or Father Ray.” Ben slid the file toward him, opened it. “I mean look at the stuff people left behind—hand fans, a pack of gum, eyeglasses.” He thumbed his way down the list. “A paperback novel, a handful of beads, a candle in a bag, socks. Volunteers clean the place pretty often, so this stuff wasn’t hanging around long.” Ben slid the file back into the center of the table. “It was all over the place, under the pews, near the altar, behind it. Even found a couple of plug nickels in the donation box. Chances of narrowing down any of that to anybody are nil.”
I glanced at my watch, my time almost up. “Pop didn’t give Luna that beating.”
“No,” Ben said. “His knuckles were clean, and, well, he’s a priest. Except for the wound to his head, there wasn’t a mark on him. Besides, the ME determined Luna’s bruises were at least a few hours old. Also, there’s no trace of anyone else on the gun or on the bodies. Luna and Father Ray are in the church, however it happens. Luna’s shot. Father Ray’s shot. You can twist the kaleidoscope anyway you want, but the picture always comes out the same. We got nothing else to go on, not yet. T
he Scorpions aren’t talking. There were no witnesses, at least none that came forward. If we had another card to play, we’d play it.”
“Nobody talks to cops.”
Ben snorted. “Till they need one, then we’re everybody’s best pal. Cass, we can’t prove Heaton was being followed. Nobody who would talk to us admits to harboring any deep resentment toward the man. The three names you came up with show nothing promising, not really. His community work was ruining a lot of shady business in that neighborhood, but as far as we found out, all they wanted was for him to knock it off and move on to the next sap. And none of that had anything to do with Luna.”
“So you’re letting Farraday’s stupid burglary theory stand?”
“It’s the department’s theory. We’re still working it, but, the truth? Nothing’s popping. Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything.”
“And you’ve got other cases to work, not just this one.”
“Right now, somebody’s out there tossing homeless guys, and if we don’t shut that down quick, somebody’s going to get seriously dead.”
“And Farraday?” I asked.
Ben scowled. “Probably already halfway through his victory lap, crowing about how he closed this one in record time. He’s all about the clearance rate. Look, I promised you I’d work this hard, and I will, I am. Heaton was a good man. If there’s an opening in the evidence, I’ll dig on it.”
Our eyes held.
“I know you will. Thanks.” I rose, pushed my chair in. Ben did the same.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’m going to help you. I’m going to talk to Cesar Luna’s family. If they know something they’re not saying, I’m going to find out what it is. Luna didn’t just pick that church out of thin air. He was there for a reason. Then I’m going to talk to Hector Perez.”
Ben grinned. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you got through all the interview statements.”
“Guess I wasn’t as rusty as I thought.” According to the file, Hector Perez was a fellow Scorpion who’d copped to being with Cesar Luna hours before he ended up in the church.
“I doubt Perez will talk to you either. He only copped to seeing Luna after we threatened to violate his probation and send him back inside. You don’t have that kind of pull. He claims Luna left him nursing a Negra Modelo at some hangout of theirs. Other than that, he doesn’t know where Cesar was headed when he left, and he didn’t ask. He also said he didn’t know what Cesar was into or up to. In short, he don’t know nothing from nothing. All of it’s a crock of shit. Bangers like to jerk cop chains just for the hell of it. Makes ’em feel all manly. You going over there on your own might not be too smart. Perez hates cops, and he hates outsiders. You used to be one, you’re still the other.”
I slipped my pad and pen into a pocket. “I’ve got this.”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind about that. Just do me a favor and don’t go empty-handed.”
I zipped my jacket. “I won’t. Thanks for the look, partner.”
Ben moved around the table, and pulled me into a bear hug. “Anything you need. Just be careful. You don’t have me on your six anymore.”
I leaned into the hug, my face buried in his shirtfront, determined not to break down into an ugly cry.
“But thank me again,” he said, “and I’ll mop the floor with your lanky ass.”
I sighed, no threat of tears now. “I just love these Hallmark moments, don’t you?”
He let me go with a playful shove. “Get out of here, wiseass.” He unlocked the door, opened it. “Word of advice? Farraday may be a prick, but he’s like a scent hound when he sniffs out a chance to get his name in the papers. He’s done everything but circle this case three times and piss on it, so you might want to tread a little light and pray he doesn’t smell you coming. I’m too pretty to go away for murdering the son of a bitch.”
“I’m not worried about Farraday, but how sharp is his new partner?”
Ben shrugged. “He runs through them like I run through socks, but the new guy seems decent enough. His name’s Weber. Time will tell if he and Farraday gel. We got bets going around they won’t. Weber doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t miss much either.” He grinned. “Who’s that sound like to you?” I just looked at him. “Hey, remember when you told Lieutenant Evans to go fuck himself? He’d transferred in all new and shiny and tried to make his bones by dressing you down in the middle of the squad because you were the only woman under him?” Ben slapped his knee. “The guy nearly choked on his breath mint. We thought we were going to have to call EMS.” Ben wiped away a tear, sighed. “Those were good times, weren’t they? You got a seven-day rip for that, but it was worth it just for the memories alone.”
I walked out of the room smiling. “You’re seriously twisted, you know that?”
“But you love me anyway,” Ben called after me. “And if I weren’t already in a committed relationship with Buster, it’d be you and me, kid!” Buster was Ben’s fifty-pound English bulldog, a slobbering, lumbering fire hydrant with legs and an appetite to rival that of a T. rex.
“For the hundredth time, he’s a dog!” I yelled back.
“Don’t cheapen it!” Ben said. “We have something special, Buster and me.”
“Seriously twisted,” I answered as I turned the corner and headed for the elevator. I was practically home free, in and out without running into Farraday, when the elevator doors slid open, and we came face-to-face.
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have none at all. Farraday’s face went predatory as he slowly stepped out of the box and I stepped in, trying my best to ignore him. Just as the doors began to close, he grabbed them on both sides, holding them open, pissing off the three burly uniform cops in the elevator with me, who let out exasperated groans of irritation.
“What the hell are you doing here, Raines? Because I’m real sure I made myself perfectly clear the last time we met.”
I fixed languid, unimpressed eyes on him. “I was mugged. I came to report it.”
Farraday grit his teeth. “This is homicide, and you damn well know it.”
“Then I was murdered and came to report it.”
A cop snickered behind me. Farraday shot him a warning look. The snickering stopped.
“I told you I didn’t want you nosing around. The case is off-limits to you. This building’s off-limits to you.”
“Oh, now you’re claiming ownership of the entire police station? I didn’t realize you’d risen so high, Detective Farraday. Congratulations. I’m curious, though. How many asses did you have to kiss to get crowned ‘king of cops’?”
His chest heaved, his face got all splotchy. “One wrong move, Raines, just one . . .”
I cut him off. “Blah, blah, blah. Save the tough-guy act for someone who doesn’t know who and what you are.”
Farraday’s eyes went to lizard-like slits, but if he had a comeback, he stifled it.
“Now let go of the door. You’re keeping these fine policemen from their duties. And you’re starting to make me physically ill.”
Farraday leaned in, menacingly. “You’re going to want to be real careful where you step from here on out.”
I smiled. “I’m always careful, Detective. I’m careful on the street, on rooftops, and even in cop elevators like this one.”
Moments passed without him making a move, then finally he drew his hands away, and the doors slowly began to close. My last look at Farraday was of him standing there, his chest heaving. He looked like he wanted to strangle me with his bare hands. The feeling was mutual. The elevator descended, and I stood there in the cramped box, eyes forward, mindful of the large cops crowded in around me. I’d just hassled one of their own, their brother in blue, and when you hassled one, you hassled them all. That’s how it went. How would they take it? Would I now have to endure death by a thousand parking tickets? I waited, marking every second of our slow descent. One of the cops broke the silence.
“His daddy’s n
ot going to like that one bit.”
Silence.
“His daddy can go screw himself,” said another.
More silence.
“Six ways from Sunday,” muttered the third.
The grin on my face stayed with me all the way down to the ground floor, through the lobby, and out to my car.
Chapter 13
The Chicago Skyway loomed over South Chicago, forming its western border. On the east, murky Lake Michigan served that purpose. The snaky Calumet River ran through it, reeking of sulfur and fish rot, a stink strong enough to water the eye and burn the throat as it blew through the neighborhood’s cracked streets like a miasma of toxic pestilence.
Once an industrious steel mill community, South Chicago’s silos were now reduced to hulking art-like installations towering over the flat landscape. The working-class Poles, Irish, and Italians who’d worked the factories and mills had fled farther south and west when the jobs dried up. Mexicans, blacks, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans and those too poor to pull up stakes and run, now tried to eke out a living at mom-and-pop mercados, sagging storefront health clinics, discount mattress emporiums, and payday loan places.
The report said Luna lived with his family at Eighty-Fifth and Muskegon. Father, deceased. His mother’s name was Irma. There was no foot traffic on the street when I pulled up in front of the Luna’s narrow clapboard house. Light blue paint had chipped away from the old façade, but the front stoop had been swept clean, the grass had been cut, and there were white lace curtains hanging from the front windows and colorful flower boxes outside, which told me the place was well cared for.
I scanned the houses of Luna’s neighbors as wary eyes peeked at me from behind drawn curtains. In neighborhoods where bad things happened and no one in authority seemed to care about them, neighbors found it necessary to look out for one another. A stranger at one person’s door was immediately a concern for everyone within eyeball range. You could almost imagine the conversations taking place on telephones all up and down the street. Who was that at the Lunas’? The police? Child Protective Services? The IRS? Could she be from INS? What did she want? Who was she looking for?