Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Who don’t you know, Lieberman?” she asked, looking back at him.

  “Probably myself,” he said.

  “How’s Bess?” asked Maureen. “I thought a couple of times of calling her the last few years, but I didn’t want it to be awkward for her, you. Did you ever tell her?”

  Lieberman looked through the office window down the corridor. A black priest in his thirties stepped out of the elevator and looked around for the nursing station.

  “Nothing to tell her, Mo,” he said. “We never did anything.”

  “We thought about it,” she said. “Talked about it.”

  “It was a tough night,” he said.

  “The thought is the deed where I come from,” said Maureen. “Hard to believe that a few Hail Mary’s will … I’m lying. I haven’t been the Virgin Mary since I walked out on Bill and I can see that he hasn’t been either.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction Iris had gone.

  “My sins, however, have been pathetic,” she said. And then, suddenly, she stood up. “What am I talking about?”

  “Guilt,” said Lieberman. “I’ve got it too. I let Bill go to the place he was shot while I was at a baseball game with my grandchildren.”

  “That’s it?” she said. “That’s all you’ve got? You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  She was pacing the room now. Lieberman sat down again. Both knees were warning him.

  “You win,” said Lieberman. “You’re guiltier than I am.”

  “Thank you,” she said angrily.

  She stopped pacing and glared down at him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “What’s hurting you?” she asked.

  “Knees,” he said. “Arthritis.”

  “Mine’s in the shoulders,” Maureen said, sighing.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” said Lieberman, standing.

  “Got time for a cup of coffee first?” Maureen asked.

  “I’ll take the time,” he said.

  She moved into his arms and he gave her a reassuring hug. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hair billowed in his face. She smelled of long ago and Lieberman was tired.

  And then Maureen Hanrahan was crying.

  Lieberman got back to the station a little before eleven that night. Maureen and Iris were something like friends and had gone down to the hospital dining room to drink bitter coffee and eat something made of rubber from a machine. Dr. Deep had, once again, reassured Lieberman that Hanrahan’s chances were good indeed and Father Parker had promised to stay till at least morning when the hospital had a priest on duty.

  “Meaning,” said Lieberman, “if my partner dies, there’ll be someone to give him the last rites.”

  “Meaning just that,” said Parker.

  “Bill said you’re ‘Whiz’ Parker, that right?”

  “Right,” said Parker.

  “How’s the knee?” asked Lieberman.

  Father Parker’s left hand reflexively moved to his left knee.

  “Forever healing,” he said.

  It was a call from Hughes that had drawn Lieberman from the hospital. José Madera, Estralda’s brother, had been picked up returning to the house a few minutes after Hanrahan had been taken away in the ambulance. Officer Robert Shane, twenty-five years old, had been stationed at the crime scene and was waiting for the M.E. when Madera had come in and gone wild. If a massive Chicago Tribune photographer had not arrived and pulled Madera off, he might have killed the young cop. Now Madera was in the holding cell on Clark Street with his hands cuffed. Officer Shane had been treated for lacerations and a broken cheekbone and released.

  The station on Clark Street was lit up brighter than Wendy’s across the street. Wendy’s, too, was still open. Lieberman stopped for a guilty double burger and an iced tea. They were out of iced tea. He settled for a diet cola and ordered two more burgers and two colas to go.

  When he entered the station, Nestor Briggs was still on the job. Somewhere in the building a woman was sobbing. Lieberman carried his Wendy’s bag back into the squad room. There were no squads of any kind operating out of the room. Never had been. Hadn’t even been at the old station. The name dated back to the 1920s, even earlier, when squads were organized like army platoons to deal with insurrections, riots, gang wars, and labor unrest.

  Hughes was sitting at one of the desks in the room, which he never did. When he saw Lieberman he stood up. At the moment, the place was empty except for the two men.

  “How is Bill?” asked Hughes.

  Lieberman did not remember Hughes ever calling his partner anything but Hanrahan and even that with a touch of irritation.

  “Still holding on,” said Lieberman. “Want a burger?”

  “Sure,” said Hughes. “The hell with diet.”

  “Diet cola,” said Lieberman, handing Captain Hughes a sandwich and drink.

  They moved to Lieberman’s desk. Lieberman sat. Nights like this are the stuff cop dreams are made of. In the middle of a case, eating on the run, sharing thoughts on a case with the captain, half asleep, knowing you are dealing in life and death. Cops remember these nights, these moments, and it feels good, but not when your partner is shot. Then you’re just tired.

  “You talked to the mayor of Corpus Christi, Briggs says,” said Hughes, examining his already lukewarm-at-best burger. Lieberman didn’t examine his. He just ate.

  Lieberman told Hughes what he had learned.

  “We can keep holding Van Beeber on the Michigan warrant,” said Hughes around a glob of bread, burger, mayo, and lettuce. “But counsel says we’ve got a weak case. No weapon, no … and the attack on Hanrahan—if related—makes it even murkier unless we argue for a conspiracy. Problem with that is Van Beeber would have to be part of a conspiracy. No jury would buy it.”

  Lieberman grunted and kept eating.

  “Story of these killings in Corpus Christi, the money … hell,” said Hughes with a deep sigh. Once again he examined the sandwich.

  “Madera is in the lockup?” said Lieberman, throwing what was left of his sandwich in an already overfull wastebasket.

  “Lockup,” confirmed Hughes finishing his sandwich. “Don’t know where the mother is.”

  Lieberman got up.

  “I think I’ll bring him a sandwich,” he said.

  “Suit yourself, but he won’t talk. He raves. And he raves only in Spanish,” said Hughes. “You want some pressure? He was armed. No permit. No way of getting one. He’s only fifteen. Shouldn’t even be here. Should be in Juvenile, but he looks older and he has no ID. I’d say we have about another hour before we have to turn him over.”

  Lieberman picked up his Wendy’s bag.

  “Thanks, Captain,” he said.

  “You want me to come with you?” asked Hughes, looking at his watch.

  “I can do it,” said Lieberman. “You want to take off …”

  “Just for a few hours,” said Hughes. “Wife’s coming back from her mother’s. I said … before this … that I’d pick her up. I’ll be back in the morning. If anything breaks, call me at home.”

  Lieberman looked at the wall clock. Lieberman nodded. Hughes looked as if he had something else to say, changed his mind, and went out the squad room door.

  Before he went into the lockup in the next room, Lieberman checked the roster to see who was on duty. Nestor would know where they were. None of the names interested Lieberman as backup.

  The law said people in the lockup had to be watched round the clock, which normally was no problem since the lockup, a small mesh cell big enough for about four people with two wooden slab benches bolted to the wall, was in a space visible from the main desk, which was supposedly always manned or womaned. Supposedly. At night, the desk man often had to be called from the desk to help out with everything from cleaning up after a puking addict to trying to reassure a lost kid. The prisoners in the tank had to be watched not primarily because they might hurt someone but because they might hurt or even kill themselves an
d each other. It had happened. Almost always to people in on their first arrest.

  Nestor Briggs had his back to the lockup. Nestor was busy answering calls that came directly to the station. Nestor didn’t handle 911 calls. That went through downtown switch. Nestor was getting the calls from people who had time to check the yellow pages. Lieberman did a key-turning motion to show what he wanted. Nestor, still on the phone listening, nodded and handed over a ring with four keys. He also looked at the Wendy’s bag. Lieberman pulled out the burger. Nestor smiled. Lieberman handed him the sandwich and moved toward the lockup with the cola.

  There were four desks in the room with the lockup, all unoccupied. José Madera sat behind the mesh, hands in his lap, watching Lieberman approach. Madera wore a pair of faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and a stupid scowl.

  “Want a Coke?” asked Lieberman.

  Madera glared. Estralda Valdez’s real name might have been Madera or Vegas and this kid might have been her brother but their parents had gone fishing in different gene pools and God had laughed at them and given them José, a squat, flat-faced creature with very small eyes and a very thick head.

  Madera didn’t answer the question. Lieberman opened the door. José Madera did not move.

  “Come on,” said Lieberman.

  Madera blinked.

  “Come on,” said Lieberman with a movement of his hand.

  Madera stood up. His hands were cuffed. His face was sullen. Lieberman held the door open and the boy came out. Lieberman pointed to a nearby folding chair. Madera sat. Lieberman handed him the Coke and sat in a chair he pulled over across from the boy.

  “Let’s talk,” said Lieberman.

  “No hablo English,” said Madera.

  “Bueno,” said Lieberman. “Entonces vamos a hablar in Español. Yo necesito a practicar.”

  “Not on me, bo,” said Madera. “Your Spanish sucks.”

  “I know,” said Lieberman. “You shoot the cop in your house?”

  “No.”

  Madera had finished his Coke. Now he was chewing on the ice.

  “Why should I believe you? You come home, find someone in your sister’s bedroom, and you pop him. Makes sense.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” said Madera. “You’ll see. My gun won’t match the bullets. I know about that stuff.”

  Madera didn’t look smart enough to be playing a game. There was only a single bullet fired and that had been taken away by the person who shot it.

  “Besides,” said Madera, “if I shot him, I’d tell you. I’d be a name, you know? You said it. I shot a guy I find in my house. Didn’t know it was a cop. But between you and me I tell ’em on the street I knew it was a cop.”

  “You’re telling this to a cop?” Lieberman reminded him.

  Madera shrugged. He had finished chewing up the ice. Now he was working on the cup, his teeth tearing off small pieces and letting them drop on the floor.

  “Who you shittin’?” said Madera. “I’m Juvie. What the most I get even murder one? Three years and out. Go get me a lawyer, bo.”

  “I knew your sister,” said Lieberman.

  “Bullshit,” said Madera, spitting a piece of the cup toward Lieberman.

  “She gave me information from time to time. I’m trying to find whoever killed her,” said Lieberman evenly.

  “Bullshit,” said Madera louder than before.

  “Where’s your other sister, Guadalupe?”

  “China, dead, who knows?”

  Madera was bouncing in his seat now, looking around as if the walls were closing in.

  “Where’s your mother?” asked Lieberman calmly.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “OK,” said Lieberman. “Back in the cage. But I’ve got some information for you. A fifteen-year-old can be indicted as an adult on a major felony in Illinois. My boss wants a fall guy. I want a fall guy. My partner’s the guy who went down. Judges and juries don’t like cop killers.”

  Madera was really looking trapped now. His head was bobbing, his eyes darting. He was bouncing and pulling his wrists apart. The cuffs chink-chanked. Lieberman wasn’t sure whether he was witnessing madness or drugs.

  “Frank,” said José Madera. “Some guy named Frank. She told Lupe Frank was comin’. She was goin’. I tole her I’d tear this Frank’s face off with my teeth.”

  José Madera showed his teeth to Lieberman. They were large, amber, and in lousy shape.

  “Lupe?” asked Lieberman. “Guadalupe, your other sister. She’s in Chicago?”

  Madera was rocking now. Small humming sounds were coming from his closed mouth. Nestor Briggs, still on the phone, looked over. Lieberman shook his head to show he could handle it.

  “I think you’d better go back in the lockup now,” Lieberman said getting up.

  Madera kept rocking.

  “José, levantase.”

  José Madera leaped from the chair at Lieberman. Lieberman was ready, but even then Madera almost bowled him over. Lieberman stepped to his right. His knees promised to get even later. Madera’s shoulder hit his leg. Lieberman backed away as the boy tumbled into the chair headfirst and sprawled on the floor. Lieberman’s gun was out now, pointed at the boy. Nestor Briggs was standing nearby, his own weapon drawn, waiting.

  José Madera turned with a wail. A gash had opened where he hit the chair. Blood masked his face. It would take stitching, a lot of stitching.

  “Shoot me,” said Madera starting up.

  Nestor Briggs started moving slowly to his right around the room.

  The blood had trickled into José’s mouth. His teeth were red. By the time José Madera was on his knees, Nestor Briggs had circled behind him.

  “Shoot me,” Madera screamed holding his cuffed hands over his head.

  He was going to charge. No doubt about it. And if he did, Lieberman knew he couldn’t fire. He couldn’t shoot a cuffed fifteen-year-old and not do time.

  “José,” he said with a bored look and put his gun back in the holster. “You know what a putz is?” The phone on Nestor Briggs’s desk began to ring. Madera hesitated. “A putz?” Lieberman repeated, shaking his head at the boy’s stupidity. “That’s what you are. Standing there like a … a … putz. I don’t know. There may be no hope for you. Get back in the cage. I got to take a leak.”

  The phone kept ringing.

  Before José Madera could make up his mind about what to do, Nestor Briggs reached up behind him, grabbed the chain on the cuffs, and pulled backward. Madera fell on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Lieberman stepped forward and grabbed Madera’s legs. Briggs took his arms and they dragged him quickly into the cage, locking it.

  The phone kept ringing.

  “Too old for this,” said Briggs, panting.

  “You did good, Nestor,” said Lieberman, refusing to listen to his knees, which were insisting on an immediate conference.

  “Glad to do it,” said Nestor. “I’ll call for help and get him over to Edgewater for stitches. We could use one of those sleeping darts they use on rhinos for guys like this, you know that?”

  Nestor shambled over to the ringing phone. Lieberman took a last look through the mesh at José Madera, who had sat up on the floor. He was spitting out the blood that dripped into his mouth.

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman. “I owe you one.”

  “One,” said Nestor, moving back toward the main desk. “You owe me so damn many, you’d be paying my bills till pension day.”

  Nestor answered the phone.

  “I’ll get you something to hold on your head,” said Lieberman.

  “I like the taste,” said Madera.

  “Where’s your mother?” asked Lieberman. “I’ll bring her.”

  “She’s gone,” said Madera angrily. “Lupe took her away. I don’t know where. They left me out there. And you know what? I don’t give a shit.”

  “When it stops hurting, we can talk again,” said Lieberman.

  “Can you take this?” Nestor called holding up the phone. />
  “This don’t hurt,” said Madera, spitting blood.

  “I didn’t mean your head, son,” said Nestor.

  Lieberman moved toward Nestor, who was holding the phone out. Lieberman thought he heard an animal sob from the cage behind him, but he didn’t turn. People were crying on him tonight. It was a night for crying.

  “Call’s for Hanrahan,” said Nestor, hand over the speaker. “Doorman at the Valdez apartment.”

  Lieberman took the phone and said, “Hello.”

  “You the guy works with Hanrahan?”

  “I’m the guy,” said Lieberman.

  “My name’s Billy Tarton, the night doorman at—”

  “I know,” said Lieberman rubbing his eyes. It was past midnight and the day had been long.

  “Hanrahan said I should call him if Nikki Morales came back,” said Tarton. “She’s back, but I don’t think for long. She told me to get her a cab in fifteen minutes. She’s going on vacation.”

  “Don’t get the cab,” said Lieberman. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  12

  SHE WAS STANDING IN front of the building, two suitcases at her side, looking down Sheridan Road for her taxi. Lieberman slowed down and pulled into the driveway, making the circle around the fountain and pulling up in front of the door. Behind the doors Billy Tarton saw Lieberman and pointed at the woman.

  The woman glanced at Lieberman, who got out of his car, opened his trunk, moved to the woman’s side, and picked up her suitcases.

  “You a cab?” she said, looking at his car as he dropped the suitcases in and closed the trunk. Her voice was soft with too much effort. She sounded like a woman to whom the softness and accent weren’t natural, but she tried hard to make them fit.

  “Cab’s not coming,” said Lieberman, moving around to the passenger seat and opening the door.

  “This is … I’m calling a cop,” she said.

  “I’m a cop,” said Lieberman, still holding the door open politely.

  “You stole my bags,” she protested. “I can sue you, the police department, and the city of Chicago.”

  “Young lady,” Lieberman said wearily, “my partner’s been shot. My daughter’s on the verge of divorce, and about fifteen minutes ago a very crazy young man tried to drive his head through my stomach. The threat of a lawsuit signifies a return to the normal world. Miss Morales, please get in the car.”