by David Grace
“Anything?” she asked as he collapsed into the chair in front of her desk.
“‘TIP Line’ is short for ‘The Idiots Parade’,” Virgil said with a twisted smile, “or maybe ‘Too Incompetent to Procreate’. No, that’s wrong. Clearly, they’re multiplying like rabbits. ‘To Insure. . .’ what’s a word beginning with ‘P’ that means ‘wasting time’?” Janet gave him a bored stare. “And how was your day?” Virgil asked.
“We’ve narrowed the ‘Johnny Chains’ nickname town to three locals. We had four but three months ago Jon Richard Chain got himself killed running from patrol in a stolen Jeep. We’ve got an address on Russell “Chainsaw” St. John but the uniforms checked the place and he’s not home. It’s not clear if he’s still living there and he was just out someplace or if it’s a dead end. I asked the watch commander to send a car out later tonight. The other two are in the wind.”
“Russell St. John? Rusty?” Virgil said, laughing. “‘Rusty Chainsaw’? Jesus, it’s great dealing with mental giants, isn’t it? How are these people able to rob someone and find their way back home afterward without getting lost?”
“The clerk at the check cashing joint he robbed wasn’t laughing when St. John fractured his skull,” Janet said.
“He didn’t shoot him?”
“Hit him with a tire iron.”
“He’s not our guy,” Virgil said, sliding a little farther back in his chair.
“Maybe he didn’t have a gun.”
“Did the clerk testify?”
“He didn’t need to. They had the security tape, but yeah, he did.”
“You don’t have to worry about a witness showing up in court if he’s dead. A couple more whacks with the tire iron would have done the job. Or, St. John could’ve just slit the guy’s throat when he was down. He’s not our guy. He lacks the requisite mad-dog killer instinct to be one these animals.”
“He did six years for that hit. Maybe prison toughened him up.”
Virgil just shrugged. “My vote’s still to put him at the bottom of your list.”
Janet frowned then circled St. John’s name. “That still leaves us with John “Chainsaw” Sawtell – Home invasion robbery and carjacking, and Latwan “Chain Boy” Monroe, carjacking, rape, and murder, assuming that our guy is even on the short list. He could be one of the thirty-three out-of-towners or he might have never made it onto the list at all.”
“You go with what you got.” Virgil shrugged. “What else can we do?” Virgil scribbled the last two names in his notepad. “John Sawtell. . . . Sawtell. . . . Chainsaw. Seems a little thin doesn’t it? But I like the home-invasion part.” Virgil doodled a few dots and arrows on his pad. “Latwan Monroe? How do you get ‘Chain Boy’ out of that?”
“Maybe as a kid he liked to beat up people with a bicycle chain,” Janet said, throwing up her hands. “Who knows how these morons’ minds work.”
“Hmmm,” Virgil mumbled, randomly drawing stars and arrows around the names. “‘Chain Boy’ not ‘Johnny Chains’. You entered ‘chain’ and ‘chains’ into the computer right, and that’s why it spit him out?” Virgil hummed under his breath as if composing a song. “Why would Paulie Sturdevant call ‘Chain Boy’ ‘Johnny Chains’? Though maybe . . . .” Quinn stared off into space as if deep in thought. “Maybe,” he continued a moment later, “Latwan didn’t like the ‘Boy’ part. Maybe somebody hung the name on him and he hated it like ‘Bugsy’ Siegel and ‘Whitey’ Bulger hated their nicknames. Maybe Sturdevant called him ‘Johnny Chains’ instead of ‘Chain Boy’ because Chain Boy would have gotten Paulie a kick in the balls.”
“Maybe guessing about this stuff is a waste of time and maybe we should stick with what we know.” Janet glanced at the clock then pushed the file away. “Let’s get some dinner and tomorrow you take Latwan Monroe and I’ll take John Sawtell.”
Virgil hesitated and then shrugged. “I don’t know about dinner. I was planning on doing a little work on Nicole’s case. It feels like I’m getting close.”
“You still have to eat.”
“I’ll grab a burger on the way back to the hotel.”
“That’s something else we’ve got to talk about. Support Services has come up with three furnished apartments for you to look at. You’re going to have to pick one and move out of the hotel in the next few days.”
“When am I going to have the time to do that?”
“I’ve got the list. We’ll look them over after dinner. They’re all fully furnished. You just need to pick the one you like best and check out of your hotel. All you’ve got are a couple of suitcases, right?”
“What about Nicole?” Virgil asked with a stubborn edge to his voice.
“You’ve been looking for her for nine years. Another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make any difference.”
“It might,” Virgil said in a voice that made him sound like a petulant child.
“I understand, but right now we have to deal with right now. That means dinner and finding you a new place to live. Tomorrow we need to check out those names. After that you can go back to your search, and I’ll help you in any way I can. Virgil, I’m sorry for everything that happened, really I am, but we can’t fix that tonight.”
“Stop feeling sorry for me. I don’t need people feeling sorry for me!” Virgil snapped, then held up his hands in apology. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Just. . . just stop acting like you’re responsible for what Helen did. That’s all on her and on me.”
“On you? She was crazy. How is that on you?”
“Maybe if I’d paid more attention to her, spent more time at home. . . . Maybe if I’d been better at dealing with her worries she wouldn’t have done what she did.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Who else is there to blame?”
“She. . . .” Janet began, then stopped.
“Sorry,” Virgil said, shaking his head and struggling out of his chair. “Waste of time and energy, worrying about the past. What’s done is done, right? All we can do is do what we’re doing. Damn, if somebody said that to me I’d laugh in his face. I really must be tired.” Janet stared as if her mind was a million miles away. “OK, let’s get some dinner and then look at those apartments. Maybe–”
Virgil stopped at the trill from his phone. All the screen said was “Wireless Caller.”
“Quinn.”
“Are you still looking for people who knew that Paulie Sturdevant?”
“What’ve you got?”
“He’s got a running buddy, somebody he was real tight with. I know where you can find him. He’s on parole so I figure you can squeeze him pretty good.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“He’s dealing. I can tell you where he packages the stuff. You catch him with the goods and he’ll tell you anything you want to know about Sturdevant.”
“How do you know all this?” Virgil asked.
“Let’s just say we were business associates and leave it at that. So, are you interested or not?”
“I’m interested.”
“I want a thousand.”
“A thousand dollars for the name of a guy who might not give me the time of day? I’ll give you a hundred for a name, address and description and four hundred more if he gives me useful information.”
“‘Useful information.’ What’s that mean?”
“Sturdevant’s running buddies and his address.”
The caller was silent for two seconds then countered with, “He gives you the name of at least one of Sturdevant’s buddies and his address and you give me five hundred more.”
“Hang on.” Virgil covered the phone and turned to Janet. “Do you have six hundred in the Snitch Fund?” She gave him a nod. “OK, one hundred for the name and address of this guy and five more if he gives me Sturdevant’s address and at least one of the guys he’s running with.”
“You got a pen?” the caller asked.
Virgil pulled out his note pad. “Ready.”
“Meet me in twenty minutes at 6355 Sergeant Street, between Army and Regular, the house at the back of the lot. Pull your car all the way to the end of the driveway and leave your lights off.”
“No good. Wait for me at. . . .” Virgil looked at Janet and covered the phone.
“Savage Park. Turnbull and Abbott,” she whispered.
“Savage Park. Turnbull and Abbott. I’m driving a black Dodge Charger. I’ll pull over and you get in the back.”
“No fucking way,” the caller laughed. “I can’t afford to be seen meeting any cops. You meet me at the house on Sergeant Street in twenty minutes with the money or no deal.” The line went dead.
Virgil tapped Google Maps and entered the address.
“Travel time shows as seventeen minutes,” Virgil said, turning toward the door.
“I’m coming. I’ll call for backup on the way.”
Fourteen minutes later Virgil turned off the lights and coasted to the curb two houses down from the driveway leading to 6355. The house was on a flag lot, diagonally behind 6353 and set back fifty yards from the street.
“There are lights on,” he said looking at the yellow glow from the downstairs windows.
“Our backup got re-directed to a shooing on 18th. It’s going to be ten or fifteen minutes before they can break another unit loose.”
“Fine. You hold down the fort while I go meet this guy.” Virgil popped the release on his seatbelt.
“We’re both staying right here until our backup arrives.”
Virgil opened the door and stepped out. Janet fumbled with her belt and caught up with him at the sidewalk.
“Stop right there,” she half-whispered.
“No time. We need that name.”
“Stop! That’s an order.”
“What are you going to do, fire me?” Virgil took half a step forward, then turned around. “If I’m not back by the time the uniforms get here, lead them to the house.”
“Virgil!”
“What’s he going to do? Shoot me if I don’t give him the hundred bucks?” Janet looked like she wanted to hit him. Quinn paused for a moment then he leaned over and gave her a hug. “Relax, mom, I’ve done crap like this a few times before.” He turned back toward the house.
For a second Janet watched him pace down the long driveway then she muttered, “Shit!” and ran after him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The house was a two-and-a-half story colonial, as square as a sugar cube, with a pitched roof and weathered siding. Unlike the abandoned structure between it and the street, number 6355 glowed with dim light. A thin stream of music leaked through the front door. Virgil was about to knock when he spotted a scrap of paper wedged into the seam above the lock: “Come in – In kitchen at the back.”
The door opened with a scrape and a squeak, and the music, vaguely country, grew louder.
“Virgil, wait!” Janet called to him out of the dark.
“You were supposed to wait for backup,” Virgil whispered.
“Right now, I’m your backup.” Janet pushed past him through the small foyer and into a turn-of-the century living room, empty except for a sixty-watt floor lamp in the far corner. To the right a set of sagging stairs led to a darkened second floor. Faint voices filtered through closed sliding doors that sealed off the living room from the formal dining room beyond.
As they advanced Virgil realized that the voices were from some radio talk show. Virgil paused as the phrase “wetback socialists” leaked into the room. What’s that smell? he thought. Janet pressed her ear to the door then slid the panel open a crack and peeked inside.
“Jesus,” she muttered and pulled the doors back. “It’s a damn meth lab.”
The walls on both sides had been ripped out and the room extended to fill the entire width of the house. A forest of laboratory equipment and drums of chemicals covered the floor space left and right with a clear aisle in the center leading to the back of the house. The music was louder now and Virgil spotted a cheap CD player against the far wall. The talk-show voices were coming from behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen beyond.
“So much for your informer,” Janet whispered. “This is all a set-up so that we’ll bust the guy running the lab.” She took a careful look around then turned back to Virgil. “The owner probably ripped him off and this is payback.”
Virgil stood there rooted to the floor and tried to think. All of this felt wrong. Janet’s eyes made one last circuit of the room then she turned back to Quinn.
“My guess is that the place is empty, but we’d better clear it anyway.” Raising her weapon she trotted to the kitchen door and shoved it open an inch. She looked back at Virgil and shook her head. “It’s empty,” she said and began to push it back.
“NO!” Virgil shouted an instant before the door slapped against the stop. Janet began to turn toward him. An instant later, there was a dull BOOM and her body was suddenly outlined by a ball of flame, hurling her back into the center of the room. A fraction of a second after that Virgil found himself lying face-up on the floor near the sliding doors. A river of smoke raced over him two feet above his head.
He tried to shout “Janet!” but it came out as a wounded croak. Coughing, he rolled onto his hands and knees and struggled to crawl toward her. The flood of smoke thickened, dropping closer to the floor. Virgil tried to hold his breath and he managed to crawl a couple of feet deeper into the gloom. Finally, Janet’s body appeared out of the fog, flat on her back, her eyes open, a chrome table leg protruding from the center of her chest. Virgil grasped her hand and pulled, but her unblinking face held its surprised expression as if molded from rubber and wax.
A new wall of smoke bore down on him like an upside down wave, and Virgil felt the heat from the flames that had engulfed the kitchen and were now flaring through the opening where the swinging door had once hung. His throat burning, Virgil twisted and crawled back toward the front door. A torrent of smoke raced past him and, blinded, all he could do was follow the flow. Time seemed to skip and skitter like a broken film and his world was reduced to the feel of the ancient oak floor beneath him and the toxic breeze ruffling his hair as it escaped the house through the open front door.
He remembered coughs and random sounds and tastes, heat behind him, muffled flashes of light, fractured images, hands grasping his shoulders, lights, bumps, sirens, voices, the smell of burnt plastic, shouts and alarms, and his own voice rasping, “Janet! Janet!” before everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Virgil felt as if he had been drugged then abandoned to stagger alone through a pitch-black night. He recalled brief visions here and there – people talking to him, their voices fading in and out, darkness pierced by sudden flares of light, vague pains and random movements, bouts of unconsciousness interrupted by rasping pain, conversations he seemed to participate in only to wonder some indefinite time later if they had really occurred or had been just a dream.
Twenty-four hours after being drowned in an ocean of smoke Virgil Quinn staggered awake in a white bed in a white room, wide-eyed and gasping for breath. His lungs felt as if he had been sunburned from the inside out. There was a window to his left but it was as flat and dark as if painted black. The clock on the wall showed 10:17. Had it only been a couple of hours since . . . Janet!
Virgil looked around wildly for a call button, but was seized by a racking cough that set his chest on fire. Somewhere in the distance he heard a woman’s voice call, “Doctor! He’s awake.”
Virgil hunched forward and concentrated on breathing. The air made a hollow rasp as it went in and out. Finally, the fire in his chest began to fade and, as he fell back against the angled mattress, he saw an Asian man hurry into the room. Virgil slowly turned his head and the man gave him an uneasy smile.
“Detective Quinn, I’m Dr. Cheng. How do you feel?”
“I’m–” Virgil began, but the words died in his throat before they made it past his lips. Ignoring the searing pain he
hacked and tried again. “My lungs hurt. How bad is . . . .” Another cough doubled him over in pain.
“Sorry,” Cheng said, putting on his stethoscope. “I shouldn’t have asked you to talk.” He eased Quinn gently back against the bedding and listened to his chest. About twenty seconds later he pulled the tube away and straightened up. “How about if I talk and you listen. The good news is that you’ve only got a couple of small, superficial burns. After the initial explosion you were exposed to more smoke than fire. Your lungs are functioning pretty well, all things considered. Oxygenation is at about 90%. The discomfort you’re feeling is related to the smoke and chemicals you inhaled. Apparently the building was some kind of a drug lab and we can only guess what toxins were in the air you breathed. I’m hopeful that your lungs will heal and that the pain you’re feeling will recede over the next few days. Barring any unforeseen complications, I think you should make a full recovery.”
Cheng paused, and before he could descend into a litany of medical mumbo-jumbo Quinn rasped, “How long?”
“Until you’re fully recovered? That’s difficult to say. Again, barring any complications I would hope for normal functioning in two or three weeks.”
“No,” Virgil said in a whispery voice, “How long since–”
“Since your injury?” Cheng interrupted. “You were brought here last night so a little over twenty-four hours. The first units on the scene found you on the front steps. Luckily, you had managed to crawl entirely out of the structure which undoubtedly saved your life. Do you remember doing that?” Quinn shook his head then cautiously took a shallow breath.
“Janet?” he asked, though he already knew.