Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Wants a Channel Four interview and to see Captain Kearney tomorrow morning at one.”

  “In the morning?” asked Hartz as if the requested hour were a confirmation of Shepard’s madness.

  “He’s out of his mind,” said Hartz, looking at Alton Brooks for support.

  Brooks blinked once.

  Lieberman wanted Kearney to take over, but Kearney had turned to watch the medics removing Andy Beeton and Olivia Shepard in body bags.

  “He may be out of his mind, but he’s not stupid,” said Lieberman. “He says the roof is rigged with explosives. He says he has an arsenal up there.”

  “He’s bluffing,” said Hartz.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lieberman.

  “Shepard doesn’t bluff,” added Alan Kearney. “If he says it’s rigged, it’s rigged.”

  “I’m not convinced,” said Hartz. “Kearney, what the fuck is he doing? What does he want with you?”

  Kearney watched the door of the ambulance close.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” bellowed Hartz. “I’ll tell you what he’s getting. Shit. That’s what he’s getting. I want him down and I don’t care how. Down and fast. The mayor’ll be getting up in an hour or two, and he’ll be on my ass about this. If Shepard isn’t down by then, I’ll be on your ass.”

  “He’s picked a good spot,” said Brooks, looking around the street. “High ground. What about doors to the roof?”

  “One door,” said Lieberman. “Steel. He’s got it blocked and locked. The stairway is narrow.”

  “Copter or blow open the door,” said Brooks.

  “And Bernie Shepard pulls the plug on the whole neighborhood,” said Kearney.

  “Look …” Hartz began, having no idea what he wanted anyone to look at. Brooks decided to save him.

  “I don’t think he’s got the roof wired. If he does, we can spot it from the copter and back away.”

  “And if he does have it rigged?” asked Kearney.

  “Then,” said Hartz, “we have a goddamn circus. Who the hell does he think he is—God?”

  Hartz was looking at Lieberman now, so Lieberman answered, “Something like that.”

  Hartz shook his head and checked his watch.

  “The hell with it. Brooks, get a copter up there.”

  “I’ll need light to look for wires. Sun’ll be up in an hour.”

  “May not have wires,” said Lieberman. “Could all be plastic explosives.”

  “You were up there,” said Hartz. “Did you see wires, anything that would prove any of this claim?”

  “I saw Shepard. That convinced me.”

  “All right. All right,” said Hartz holding up his hands as if he were calling for all present to be calm, which Lieberman found amusing since only Hartz seemed to be on the verge of losing control.

  “First light comes, you send someone up there in a copter. Take him out, gas him out. Get him before he talks to any television people. Before the mayor gets up. Why the hell does he want to talk to goddamn television?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kearney.

  “Okay. Why does he want to talk to you?”

  “Don’t know,” said Kearney.

  “I’ll take a look at that door,” said Brooks, moving into the lobby. Hartz started after him into the building, changed his mind, and took a few steps in the direction of his waiting car before he stopped, turned to Kearney and Lieberman, and pointed at them.

  “I want him down.”

  With that as an exit line, the chief of police went back to his car, being careful to walk as close to the protection of the building as possible.

  “You want a coffee, Captain?” Lieberman asked.

  Kearney shook his head no.

  “What’s the longest you ever stayed awake?” asked Lieberman.

  Kearney looked at him.

  “Two days, two nights on a stakeout,” he answered.

  “Lots of coffee.”

  “Lots of coffee. You don’t think Brooks will get him down?”

  “No,” said Lieberman. “You?”

  “No,” said Kearney. “Not Bernie Shepard. I’ll have the coffee, Sergeant.”

  In his fourth-floor apartment across the street from the Shoreham where he lived alone, Jason Belding, DDS, a portly, man in his early forties, stood fully dressed sipping his tea and looking out of his living room window.

  His lights were out and his television on with the first uninformative reports about what was taking place across the street. Gunfire, reports of a double murder, the possibility of a police officer being involved. That was it.

  Jason watched the police hugging the building, watched the ambulance pull away, watched his neighbors’ faces in their windows; watched the first television news truck pull up at the end of the street where the police stopped it.

  Jason Belding had a perfect view. He considered calling in and canceling his morning appointments, but he quickly abandoned the idea. It wasn’t the loss of money. That was no problem. People were counting on him. He had a successful pedodontics practice with offices both downtown in Chicago and in the Laurel Plaza Office Center in Wilmette, and he had never missed a day of work in his life.

  The doorbell rang.

  Jason was not surprised. It was early, but the Traneks or Hurlbets would be up and frightened. They would, when they thought it was a reasonable hour, knock at his door, ask him, as the only professional in the building, what was going on. They would seek his advice and comfort and Dr. Jason Belding, who had spent the last twelve years of his life tricking children into opening their reluctant mouths, would reassure them.

  Belding walked across the recently cleaned white carpet and opened the door. The man in front of him was big. Jason considered slamming the door, but the man was holding his wallet open and showing a large silver badge.

  “Police,” said Hanrahan.

  “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  Hanrahan stepped past the dentist and into the apartment. Jason Belding had to balance and juggle to keep from spilling his tea.

  “You can go on vacation for a few days,” said Hanrahan looking around and moving to the window.

  The place was too neat and tidy to suit him, but it would do.

  “I don’t …,” Belding began.

  “Under City Ordinance 234 the city of Chicago Police Department is commandeering your apartment for the duration of this emergency.”

  Hanrahan stepped back in front of the confused Belding.

  “You will be compensated for your inconvenience. Lives are at stake and your cooperation will be appreciated. You will be sent a letter of thanks from the mayor. Just pack a couple of things and call us tomorrow.”

  Belding reached over to the still-open door to close it, but a pair of uniformed police carrying equipment and a large bag from Wendy’s brushed past him.

  “I’m a dentist,” Belding called to Hanrahan, who stood looking out the window.

  “That’s okay,” said Hanrahan as the police began to set up equipment. “I had all mine pulled two years ago. Harris, when you get that set up, will you help the good doctor pack his things?”

  The first light of sun shimmered far out on Lake Michigan. Lieberman stood watching from his car parked at the end of the street a block north of Fargo. It was early, but Bess was probably up and he had no idea when he’d get another chance to call. He pulled out his cellular phone and dialed home. If she didn’t answer on the second ring, he would hang up and try again later.

  Bess answered before the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” he said. “Don’t I sound all right?”

  “You could be pretending. Wait, I’m not awake. What time is it?”

  “Almost five,” he said. “I got a call. You remember Bernie Shepard?”

  “Bernie …”

  “We went to his wedding four, five
years ago.”

  “I remember.”

  “He shot his wife and another cop.”

  “I appreciate your waking me up to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lieberman said, “but I don’t know when I’ll be home. Shepard’s got himself barricaded on his apartment roof.”

  Somewhere in the distance from the south, toward downtown, Lieberman thought he heard a humming sound.

  “Thank God he’s not Jewish,” sighed Bess.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m still waking up. Did you make coffee? No, the kids. It’s just if he were Jewish, the newspapers, the … You know what I mean.”

  “I know,” said Lieberman.

  The humming was definite now and coming closer.

  “Will I see you for dinner?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’ve got a building committee meeting tonight. We’ll have to eat early.”

  Bess had recently been elected president of Temple Mir Shavot, a position Abraham Lieberman had adroitly avoided. With the temple about to move into the newly renovated facility that had recently been the Fourth Federal Bank of Skokie on Dempster Street, Bess was almost always at a meeting.

  “If I can be home, I’ll be home. If I can be home early, I’ll be home early.”

  He had seldom talked to Bess about his work, but he had an urge, almost a need, to tell her about his dream, about Frankie Kraylaw.

  “Bess, you remember …”

  “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  Lieberman looked up.

  “A helicopter.”

  Bernie Shepard sat, his back against the sleeping bag, his rifle on his lap, his eyes closed. The dog looked up toward the lake.

  “I hear it,” said Shepard without opening his eyes.

  Slowly, crouching low, Shepard turned and leveled his rifle toward the rising sun, propping it on the top of his concrete-block barrier. The helicopter moved toward him slowly as Shepard turned on his radio and adjusted it till he could hear a voice from the helicopter saying, “No sign of him. Looks as if he’s behind some concrete blocks under the water tower. No sign of any explosives, but they could be behind the blocks. We’re moving in for a good look and a clean shot. When we’ve got him pinned down, we’ll move in and launch the gas. If we can get close enough, I’ll put it behind those blocks.”

  Shepard raised his rifle, looked through the sight, and fired. The shot smashed through the window of the copter. Almost immediately return fire shot out of the open door of the copter.

  “Fire from the roof,” came the voice from the helicopter. “Am returning fire and moving …”

  Before the pilot could finish, Shepard fired again.

  “Can’t get any closer,” came the voice on the radio. “We’re launching now.”

  A gas grenade soared out of the open door of the helicopter, hit the roof a few yards from the concrete barricade, and rolled forward. Shepard fired again as the copter rose suddenly.

  As it rose, Shepard leaped over the barricade, grabbed the grenade and threw it over the side of the building.

  Inside the apartment of Jason Belding, DDS, Chief of Police Hartz, Alton Brooks, and Alan Kearney stood at the window, watching the helicopter and listening to the radio Brooks held in his hand.

  “Son of a … We’re getting out of here before he gets lucky and hits us.”

  “If he wanted to hit them, he would have hit them,” said Kearney.

  Brooks turned to the chief.

  “I can tell them to make another run.”

  “And maybe lose two men and a million-dollar helicopter,” sighed Hartz. “Turn that off.”

  Brooks switched off the radio.

  “We knew he had a radio,” said Hartz, turning from the window. “Radio silence …”

  “He could hear the copter two miles away,” said Brooks. “The man’s not deaf.”

  Hartz’s face was red. He turned, punched one of Dr. Jason Belding’s best tables with his fist, and looked at Kearney as if he were somehow responsible for the situation.

  “I’ve got to see the mayor in less than an hour and give him a report on this. Kearney, this operation is yours. Get him off that damned roof.”

  Hartz motioned to Brooks to join him and moved across the room. They almost collided with Lieberman as they went out and closed the door.

  Through the window, Kearney watched as Hartz and Brooks carefully made their way to the side of the building and disappeared toward the back.

  “Everybody cleared out of the building yet?” Kearney said, turning to Lieberman.

  “They’re running a double check now. Want some food?”

  “Coffee.”

  Lieberman went into the kitchen. Coffee was brewing. He found cups on a shelf, poured two, and went back into the living room, handing one to Kearney, who took it with a nod of thanks.

  “Traffic’s diverted off Sheridan both ways to Clark. We’re issuing warnings to the media suggesting that if anyone can see the tower, Shepard can see them and probably reach them with that rifle.”

  “What can he see from up there, Sergeant?”

  “A hell of a lot, Captain. A hell of a lot.”

  “He can shut down half of East Rogers Park,” said Kearney.

  “There are those who might think that a humanitarian act.”

  Kearney drank his coffee and continued to look out the window.

  “I’ve heard about your sense of humor, Lieberman,” he said. “This isn’t the time for it.”

  “It comes unbidden,” said Lieberman. “Genetic. Part of the burden of my people. Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You know what he’s going to tell Channel Four?”

  “I think so.”

  “And?”

  “If we don’t get him down soon, it’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.”

  Frankie Kraylaw looked up at the television set at the end of the counter of the Speed King Donut Shop. He had been stopping at the Speed King on Devon for the past few months. Before that he had gone to the Mister Donut on Broadway, but Frankie and one of the other regulars, a bread truck driver named Bratkovic, had exchanged words. Frankie, teeth gleaming, little-boy smile on his face, hair over his eye, had sidled up to Bratkovic, a quiet corner smoker who liked to read the paper in peace before he made his rounds.

  “Notice you in here every morning,” Frankie had said.

  Bratkovic had grunted.

  “You know,” Frankie had said, looking around at the four other predawn customers, who ignored him. “Christ died for your sins.”

  “Who asked him?” Bratkovic had answered.

  “No one had to …”

  But Bratkovic had cut him off with a call to the black woman in uniform serving coffee and sinkers.

  “Elyse,” he said, ignoring Frankie. “Move this guy and keep him away from me, or you’ll be makin’ a 911.”

  Elyse had sighed deeply, looking at her other early morning regulars for sympathy. Three ignored her or pretended to. Two others gave little smiles of sympathy.

  “It’s not that easy to deny the Lord,” said Frankie.

  Bratkovic looked up from his newspaper at Frankie, who was now about a foot from his face.

  “Get out of my face.”

  Bratkovic had shoved Frankie as Elyse leaned over the counter saying, “Now, listen, young …”

  But the push ended the peace and promise of salvation.

  Frankie stood up, grabbed the glass sugar dispenser, and swung it at Bratkovic’s face. Elyse’s hand had reached over in time to keep the dispenser from hitting the bread truck driver in the face. But it had caught him in the ear.

  Customers were backing out of their booths and off the stools. Coffee spilled. Bratkovic’s ear was bleeding, and since the top of the sugar dispenser had come off, the blood was mixed with white glistening flecks.

  It took two customers and Elyse to pull Bratkovic off Frankie, who wouldn’t
stop smiling.

  “No fuckin’ safe place to have a cup of coffee,” Bratkovic screamed. “You crazy sons of bitches are coming out of the toilets.”

  Frankie, his nose now bloody, just smiled as he wished he had something sharp and heavy he could plunge into the eye of the blasphemer, lying on his belly.

  That was two months ago. He had now become a regular at the Speed King Donut Shop and had selected another regular, an old woman who always wore a black hat, who looked as if she might be in great need of salvation.

  He was considering approaching her when the man on the television began talking about a policeman on a roof who had killed his wife and someone else.

  All thoughts of the salvation of old women in black hats fled.

  The man on the television speculated, said early reports were that the policeman had found his wife in bed with another man.

  “Then,” said Frankie softly to himself, “he was but the arm of the Lord and will be taken unto his breast.”

  “Huh?” asked the man behind the counter.

  “More coffee,” said Frankie.

  The family, yes, he thought. The family is the only salvation for civilization. The husband must hold the family together. It is God’s way. Always was. His own father had held his family together with a strong hand and a mighty heart.

  Frankie Kraylaw loved his wife, loved his little boy, loved the Lord and the memory of his own mother and father. But the Lord knew best and the Lord had told Abraham to get rid of his wives and sacrifice his son, Isaac.

  “If you do not put your faith in the Lord and let him guide your thoughts and your hand, that is an abomination.”

  “You talking to yourself or me?” asked the counterman, who was beginning to think that this kid with the goofy smile was losing him some of the early morning regulars.

  “Sorry,” said Frankie, getting up.

  “Don’t act so nuts,” the counterman said, leaning over. “My advice. You can control it, control it. If not, keep it home or take it someplace else.”

  “I understand,” said Frankie, looking over at the old woman in the black hat.

  He did not want to lose her. God had put her salvation in his hands. The man with the mint breath behind the counter should have his eyes plucked out, for he had no use for them. He was blind to the truth and the ways of the Lord.

  Frankie smiled and walked to the door of the doughnut shop, and the counterman dreaded the thought that the kid with the goofy smile would probably be back the next day.