The general surgeon who repaired and sutured together the femoral artery was Skip Russet, a graduate of Johns Hopkins who had done four years of surgical residency at Chicago’s busiest south side hospitals. Gunshots were a walk through for Dr. Russet; he had repaired literally thousands of them by the time he moved his small family out of the city, downstate, where they would have more of a chance at a decent life and small town habits and manners. The schools might not be as good as the parochial schools around the North Side of Chicago, but by the time they were in high school, too many of the kids were lost to drive-bys, drugs, and alcoholism and unwanted pregnancies anyway, so it was a good trade to come south.
He began life-saving procedures on Thaddeus by getting an anesthesiologist on-board in the operating room, staffed with his usual OR nurse and surgical techs. They switched on the music—the doc preferred REO Speedwagon—and began clamping, irrigating, suturing, testing, and closing. Then the orthopedic surgeon bellied up to the table for his turn. He was a massive ape of a man and had no difficulty wrestling arms and legs into the weird positions favored by orthopedists in the operating room. The high-velocity bullet had shattered the left thigh bone at the neck and a steel rod had to be inserted, plated, and screwed in place. The entire surgery took nearly four hours, but Thaddeus held up well, which the doctors later attributed, at least in part, to his youth and to his excellent aerobic conditioning. He would remain in the hospital a week and then be released in a wheelchair, with orders for physical therapy and home health care.
He awoke that first night just after seven. The morphine kept closing his eyes. As the room swam into focus he had to blink several times, trying to understand what he was seeing. Ilene Crayton? In his room? He turned away and the nurse explained what had happened. She explained the shooting incident. She explained the surgery. She explained how Doctor Crayton’s wife had insisted on being there when he woke up. He turned his head back. She smiled that incredible smile. She touched his hand. “Welcome back.”
“The city police are standing right outside your door,” the nurse reassured him. “They will be there 24/7 until your release. Orders of the District Attorney.”
He reached for Ilene’s hand, found he couldn’t move his own, and fell back into a deep sleep. He awoke at four a.m., leg throbbing, and they replenished the morphine drip. He then drifted away again. By the time he awoke she was gone. He wondered if he had been dreaming, so he asked the nurse. “No,” she stayed with you until midnight, then left.”
“Oh.”
“But she said she’d be back later today.”
“Oh.”
“It’s nice to have visitors when we’re not feeling well.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to try to sit up?”
“Yes. Do you have a mirror?”
“Oh my, we’re going to be fussy now?”
“Yes.”
* * *
There had been no witnesses and the police had no clues. There was a gun plus two gloves found at the scene. They had been turned over to the crime lab, but so far no reports were available. The AG didn’t put a hurry-up on this workup, so everyone was in the dark. DA Killen Erwin was on the ten o’clock news swearing that the IBI was in on the hunt for the shooter and he had no doubt that they would be found and charged and prosecuted for attempted murder. They would leave no stone unturned, he promised. Yes, the victim was a lawyer and yes, Thaddeus was defending a young woman accused of homicide. No apparent connection between the two shootings. Not so far, anyway.
22
Agents Pepper and Gio paid a call to Victor Harrow’s purple bus. It was just an after-thought; they didn’t expect to turn up much of anything, but Pepper insisted. They parked their Ford Interceptor out front, climbed the three steps, and banged inside, badges drawn and showing. “FBI,” they told the gum smacker at the front desk. “We need a desk and access to all of Mister Harrow’s records. We won’t be long.” The gum smacker buzzed Bruce Blongeir’s desk and he got the news.
Bruce Blongeir was 6’-7”, lean as a whippet and started three years at power forward on Eastern Illinois University’s varsity squad. The team went nowhere, but Bruce graduated in physical education with a minor in secondary ed and took the jayvee coaching job at Orbit High. A year later he was varsity coach, where in five seasons he proved himself less of a coach than he had been a player. All five seasons the team was below .500 and he was released from his contract. Thereafter he married Marleen Harrow, just back from two spins with the Army. Victor had made a wedding gift to his daughter and new son-in-law of what became known as Bruce’s Juices—a package store—which was instantly successful. Bruce immediately parlayed his new equity into the purchase of the Silver Dome Inn. After Victor’s murder Bruce had stepped into Victor’s shoes at Harrow and Sons Construction, upon the widow’s request. He knew next to nothing about construction or running crews or construction cost accounting or making multi-job payroll or meeting deadlines, but he was inquisitive and had an unusually sensitive nose for effective business practices. So far, following Victor’s death, the business was surviving. In fact, some days it was even thriving, though it had only been weeks so no one really had a clue yet what the end result would be. In return for taking over the reins at the construction company, Marleen had assumed Bruce’s management role at the restaurant and package store. Each night they went to bed and kissed each other before immediately falling into the deserved sleep of the over-extended. But each knew, and it was no secret to anyone in town, that if this distribution of duties in the family worked and the businesses survived, the couple stood a chance of becoming very wealthy very fast. When the FBI agents showed up and flashed around their embossed gold, Bruce was quick to respond to the page and met them at front before they could gain any more of a foothold inside the mobile office. He wanted no trouble; he had enough trouble already and meant to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
He extended his hand and walked boldly up to them. “Bruce Blongeir, acting manager. How can I help?”
“FBI. We are interested in learning more about Harrow and Sons.”
“Do you have a search warrant?”
“No, and we need one. Unless you’ll cooperate.”
“Why would I cooperate? No one likes the FBI nosing around their office.”
“We think you might. We think Victor Harrow might have been making payoffs to certain officials in the State of Illinois.”
“I don’t see how that benefits me,” Bruce said good-naturedly. He wasn’t trying to make a scene or create any certain outcome, he was just being cautious.
“It could benefit you like this. If payoffs were made, you might be in a position to get that money back. With our help.”
“How much we talking about?” Bruce was suddenly curious. He had been totally unaware of any payoffs ever.
“Possibly millions.”
“You mean you might help me get back millions of dollars? Cash?”
Pepper smiled, which she rarely did when dealing with the public. “Cash.”
“C’mon back to my desk. Let’s talk some more where we’re comfortable.”
They arranged themselves around Bruce’s desk. Coffees and colas were ordered and received. Bruce had become an instant concerned host.
Pepper went first. “We need two desks and access to your accounting data online. That’s for me. For your information my master’s is in forensic accounting and what I plan to do won’t take more than one afternoon. Next we need all bank records. Gio—Mister Henrici—gets those. He’s going to perform a bank deposit analysis for openers. That will give us an idea of the income/outgo picture of the business according to what the banks say. As for me, I can tell you I will be looking at the general ledger primarily. What the IRS calls LUQs—large, unexplained, questionable transactions. As I turn these up I might have to bother you for more info. I’m sorry if that happens; we’re not here to disturb you or injure your work flow.”
“We can
make that happen right now. What’s my part?”
Gio smiled. “Just turn over passwords and records. We’ll do the rest.”
“Can I ask something?”
“Shoot.”
“You don’t think these payoffs might be tied to why he was killed?”
Pepper looked at Gio who looked away. Bruce had his first whiff of something more going on than what had been said. “Possibilities are hard to estimate at this juncture,” Pepper said as vaguely as she could make it without appearing deceptive. “What do you think?”
“Here’s what I think. Ermeline Ransom has worked for me two years. I never have thought she killed my father-in-law. It just doesn’t fit who she is.”
“Which is?”
“She’s a good, moral person with a kid to raise. That’s all she’s trying to do. And I’ve seen Victor try to hustle her down at the Dome before. She wouldn’t give him the time of day. For her to somehow come out to the trailer with him and then wind up getting engraved with a knife, that doesn’t fit either. The whole thing stinks. And now the Attorney General has stepped in. From what I hear they’re after the death penalty. I can’t say it enough. The whole thing stinks.”
“Have you told this to anyone else?”
“I’ve told Thaddeus Murfee. He knows where I stand. I mean I told him I couldn’t offer cash help or anything like that, but anything else, let me know. Anything more wouldn’t look right. This is a small town. Things get around.”
Two hours later Pepper had her LUQs: One journal entry read “Walker 150K/Harrow 450K.” Another read “Walker 90K/Harrow225K.” There must have been ten of them. And that was just for the last year. There were many years before, years when Victor had obtained and worked State contracts. Pepper cleared her throat. She was sitting at the bookkeeper’s desk, next to Bruce. Bruce looked up. “Bingo.” she said. “He made no effort to hide anything. Come over here, please. Let me show you what I’m talking about.”
Two hours later Bruce had his answer. He was more certain now than ever before that Ermeline Ransom hadn’t murdered Victor Harrow. The way Bruce saw it, Victor had gone and gotten himself killed when he quit playing ball with the Governor and the mob. Pepper showed him how this worked. Over the last six months of his life there were no payments from Harrow and Sons to the Governor out of the general ledger. Nothing, although there had been at least a dozen receipts of State funds, payments on construction jobs. Victor Harrow, after years of cooperating and paying off Chicago, had suddenly stopped. For six months he had let them cool their jets. For six months he had let them stew or led them on, Pepper wasn’t sure exactly how he handled it. But one thing she was sure of: the payments had been turned off. Cold. She had it now and she was sure, which made Bruce sure: Victor Harrow met his end because he quit the payoff franchise Chicago had him playing. Pepper didn’t know who or why or the whens of what happened, but she was certain she was on the right track. She made Bruce swear that what they discussed that afternoon was absolutely confidential and not to be repeated to anyone, not even to Marleen or Victor’s widow. Bruce understood and agreed. He wasn’t about to do anything to drive away his new friends. He could see a huge pot of money somewhere out at the end of this and he had become a convert. He wanted that money and he was willing to go after whomever had it. One thing sports had taught Bruce, was this. When you’re losing, you have nothing to fear because it’s already been taken from you. When you’re losing, that’s the time to get reckless, to go all in, because it can’t get any worse. Losing is losing and winning is winning. He had lost enough on the hardwood. He was determined not to lose it out here, on construction sites and inside courtrooms, where he knew he had to win. This wasn’t about pennants on the wall or trophies in a glass case. This was about one, final item: money in the bank. And he intended to drag back as much as he possibly could. He owed that much to Victor and his family. Hell, he owed that much to himself, now he was family, and an important part of it.
“The payments leave your local bank here and go to the Cayman Islands,” Pepper told Bruce. “I’ll have to order the Grand Cayman records and trace out where the funds surface in the U.S. again. This just means Victor was washing the money before he paid off. Unless I miss my guess, the funds went to the Grand Caymans then to a federal bank in Chicago, where a withdrawal slip allowed the Governor’s people to make the pickup. It was all banking and it was all above-board. Victor has even filed his FBARs, so his foreign accounts are all reported and legal. He was doing nothing wrong, except partnering with the wrong guys. Eventually it got him killed. I’m 99% sure of it. He quit paying off and they made an example out of him. Happens every day in America. Go on home now, get some rest, we’ll call after we have the foreign bank account records. You’ll be kept in the loop by me personally.”
But Bruce had a question. One that had started rolling around in his mind after she first announced finding the LUQs, which was this, “What do I do about this? I mean, do I send the Governor a demand letter from my lawyer and ask for the money back? Is that even safe to do? Will you be protecting me?”
“We’ve discussed that. We have other operative facts I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. But once those facts become public knowledge you’ll know exactly what you should do.”
“Does it involve suing the State?”
Pepper and Gio both smiled. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing you could do,” she said. “Let us talk that over.”
23
She had stayed with him until midnight that first time. The next day she came by in the morning, with a Starbuck’s, and returned in the evening. They talked and watched CNN. Then she read to him. She read his favorite stories by Michael Chabon. By the third night he was feeling better and the staff had him up and around. He was blowing in the spirometer and avoiding pneumonia. He was still wearing the anti-clot pneumatic hosiery and avoiding blood clots. He was standing with the help of crutches; they were very insistent about this and ignored him when he said how much it hurt. It was all part of his recovery, they assured him.
She brought a Scrabble board and they played until ten o’clock, when he drifted off to sleep. He thought she kissed him goodbye on the cheek, but later decided he must have been dreaming. Ilene Crayton was not his only visitor; but she was the visitor he most enjoyed. Christine dropped by on the third day with documents to sign. There were also one or two fires to put out, nothing big, and he handled those with his cell phone. The pain was starting to relent but it still hurt immensely when they forced him to get up and move around and put weight on the leg. That part of the recovery came much sooner than he would have liked, but it was according to the doctor’s orders and so he complied.
Police were still stationed outside his door. Killen Erwin dropped by twice that week, one time smuggling in a six pack, and Thaddeus had several swallows before Killen took the can back and finished it off himself. “Doctor’s orders,” Killen said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He belched. “Ain’t it great you have friends like me to drop by and harass you?”
“Seriously, what about the cops outside? Do I really need those?”
“Probably only while you’re in here. Then you’re going to want to carry a concealed weapon after that. Until we locate the perps and put them away.”
“Do you think there’s more than one?”
“There’s always more than one. That AR-15 was clean, it was a professional job, probably someone out of Chicago.”
“But why? What’s the interest in me?”
“Something to do with Vic Harrow, I’m almost positive. I’ve got some feelers out with the feds. I’ll see what I can run down. We’ll talk again in the next day or two.”
“Thanks for the soldiers outside. It was pretty frightening but also reassuring. You’re my buddy.”
“You bet. I hear Ilene’s been dropping by.”
“She told you?”
“That’s a class act, Thaddeus my boy.”
“Wow, I guess.�
�
“Well you take care. Later.”
“Thanks again.”
He went home on the fifth day. Ilene helped him from the exterior door of the hospital to the Range Rover she had pulled under the portico. With the nurse’s help he got the injured leg up and in, though he had to move the passenger seat back and recline it, to fit. His length made it difficult and flexibility in the leg was still nearly impossible and very painful. They had thought he would need a wheelchair, but his recovery was so fast that they released him with crutches only. He would need a cane after four weeks and might need the use of a cane for long time. She slowly drove him the four blocks home and helped him inside. She made lunch and got him propped up in the recliner she had made him buy. Lunch was chicken noddle soup and grilled cheese with a sweet pickle. He drank down a Diet Coke and finished off with a handful of Cheetos. He was suddenly starving and realized how much he had missed regular food. She tidied up the kitchen and wiped her hands. “So,” she said. “All good.”
“I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Yes, you can.”
“How?”
“By giving me a quick tender kiss before I have to run home. The kids are in school but I want to check in with their sitter. I’ll be back in time for supper. Anything you’d like me to pick up?”
“Hey, I’m still back on the quick tender kiss. C ’mere.”
She knelt beside the monstrous recliner and he leaned up and put his arms around her shoulders. He kissed her cheek and she turned her mouth to his. They kissed and he was almost shocked at how good it felt. He released her but she stayed close by. She pecked him on the cheek and then was gone. “Back around five,” she said. “Cheerio.”
“Cheerio.”
He slept the rest of the afternoon.
The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1) Page 17