by Bill Granger
“I called you before. You weren’t home.”
It was cold. In their first apartment he slept with Rita’s body cupped in his, belly to back, under the cold comforter. Did she still have the comforter? Everything got lost eventually.
“Jack? It’s about the boy.” She always called Brian that. “The boy’s got into trouble again at school. They sent him home. I have to go down tomorrow to get him back in. Father McCauley says he was stealing.”
Jack Donovan waited, frozen in his own passivity, in the dark coldness of the apartment. Rita didn’t want him to speak except to scream, to say he couldn’t stand it or that he didn’t give a damn. He waited.
“I just wanted to let you know about the boy.”
“What do you want to do?” he said quietly.
“It wasn’t that much money. Maybe it wasn’t even the boy at all. They just blame things on him.”
“Then why send him to a Catholic school anyway?”
She laughed. But the laugh held no amusement. “Because we promised to raise him a good Catholic. Remember, Jack?”
He remembered that when they heard the children stir in sleep, he would uncouple himself from the warmth of Rita beneath the comforter and tread across the cold floors to the back bedroom and see his children in the dim half-light of the hallway. There would not be a sound beyond the window but that of the wind or of the El rumbling past.
She laughed again. “Don’t worry. That’s why I called you, Jack. I promised I’d call you about the kids. Because you wanted me to, so I’m calling you.”
Sometimes, not very often, Rita went down to the tavern on Ninety-fifth Street and got a little drunk and called him from the telephone booth. But he had not heard the operator break in, and he decided she was probably at home. Not that Rita drank often or called often. Just enough.
“All right, Rita,” he said.
“I’m going down to school tomorrow and take care of it, Jack, just like I always do.” St. Rita the Martyr. He waited.
“Oh, Jack, sometimes I just think the boy needs someone else.” St. Rita the Good. St. Rita the Mother of Us All. Holy Mother of God, pray for us.
He waited.
“Jack, what should I do?”
“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. Leave me alone, Rita.
“Well, I just wanted to let you know. Are you all right, Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it hot?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ll bet it’s cool there on the lake where you are.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound right, Jack.”
“I’m all right.”
It came to an end, finally, after another minute or an hour; he couldn’t be sure. When he heard silence, he replaced the receiver on the cradle. He stood for a moment in the coldness of the apartment and slowly began to remove his clothes. He carried them into the bathroom and carefully sorted them. Then he took a long shower, scrubbing his thin red hair with bar soap. He got out of the shower and looked at his narrow face and green eyes. He stared at his image for a long time.
When he went back to the living room, he prepared a giant vodka and tonic for himself. He sat down on his towel and turned on the television. He was not hungry; he would go out later and have a sandwich at the Seminary and a few drinks and look for a familiar face.
He awoke much later.
The television set was still on, but programming had ceased. There was a buzzing of white noise coming from the set. Why had he awakened?
The telephone was ringing.
The phone. He groped toward a lamp and turned it on. He was very cold. He shivered in the towel and went to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“This is Goldberg. I’m on felony review down at Area One.”
“Who?”
“Goldberg. Down at Area One.”
An assistant. Working night duty on review at Area One.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I thought I should call you.”
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
“Three.” He repeated the time, but it didn’t seem to mean anything.
“That Kirsten murder this morning.”
“Kirsten?”
“Kirsten. In the park. A woman, a tourist.”
“Yeah?”
“The cops just got someone.”
“Who?”
“A wino, some guy they found in the park—”
Jack Donovan was awake now and alert. “Bull. They can’t pull that crap on me.”
“Well, that’s who they got, and I figured you’d want to know.”
“Who picked this guy up?”
“Arresting officer is a motorcycle cop named Delancey.”
“What kind of crap is this?” He shook his head. “Who’s running the case right now out of homicide?”
“Lieutenant Schmidt.”
Yes, that was right. He had talked to Matt.
“This is bullshit, Goldberg. Did you talk to the cop?”
“Yeah. The creep’s name is Norman Frank. He’s a hillbilly, I think, but we didn’t get anything from him, he’s so damned drunk. Like I say, he looks like a bum.”
“And where’d they find him?”
“This three-wheeler cop named Delancey found him about one A.M. In the park. He had a lot of blood on his shirt when they brought him in, and he was bruised up a little. So we took his shirt and we’re gonna send it down to the lab. But it isn’t open right now. I had to ask the assistant super to get someone.”
“What did the guy say?”
Goldberg misunderstood. “He said something about overtime.”
“Not the superintendent. The suspect.”
“Norman Frank. He told Delancey he cut himself. That’s why there’s blood on his shirt.”
“Did he?”
“No. No cuts on him at all. Just some bruises. Fairly good bruises. And a little cut above his right eye.”
“So there was a cut.”
“No, Mr. Donovan. This was a little cut. And his shirt was soaked with blood.”
“What does it look like to you?”
There was a pause. Donovan realized that Goldberg was going to be very careful. Goldberg, being new in the state’s attorney’s office, was assigned to the dreary chore of felony review. He was one of the men who waited in the area offices and tried to evaluate arrests from the legal standpoint at the moment they took place. The program had been started with federal funds. Naturally the police detectives resented the young lawyers telling them the worth of their cases and arrests.
“Well, there is blood. Lots of it. And if the blood can match with this Kirsten woman… oh, they didn’t find a weapon.”
“This really sounds like crap, Goldberg. A wino. Is Schmidt there?”
“No. They called him at home, but the regular guys on night homicide are handling it.”
“Get me Schmidt’s number.”
“Well, they called him twenty minutes ago and he said he was coming down, so I figure he must be on his way.”
“Goldberg. Tell the super you talked to me. Who’s on tonight?”
“Hills.”
“Tell Hills you talked to me and that we’d appreciate it if he could get someone in the lab. I’m coming down. Don’t let anyone charge anyone until I get there.”
“They haven’t made a move. Delancey wanted to, but the homicide guys said they wanted to check out the area where he found this Norman Frank guy.”
“Good. I’m coming right now.”
“Sorry I had to wake you up.”
“It’s all right. These fucking motorcycle cops. Sitting on those motorcycles fucks their brains up.”
“It seemed important enough to wake you.”
“It’s important,” said Donovan. “More important is not to let us get our collective tit caught in the wringer.”
“Yeah. Us and the cops.”
“Fuck the cops. Main
ly us.”
Donovan replaced the receiver gently and stood in the kitchen scratching his head. He felt a little sick, and it was hard to think. The kitchen clock said three thirty A.M. Beyond the coolness of the dark apartment, the hot black night waited in stillness.
Donovan opened the refrigerator and took out a can of Old Style. He popped the top and went to the window and squinted out at the quiet street, illuminated by a dull orange glow from the high-intensity, anticrime lamps. There was no breeze.
2
Jack Donovan entered the small room with green-painted walls. There were two wooden desks butted against each other on one wall; above the desks was a calendar from the Federation of Police. A small electric clock next to the calendar said it was four thirty-two A.M.
Matthew Schmidt was leaning against a green filing cabinet next to a window; the window was dirty. From below the window came the familiar grunt of a bus pulling away from the curb down State Street.
“Where’s Goldberg?” asked Jack Donovan, nodding to Schmidt.
“Down the hall. Taking a leak. I got here myself about fifteen minutes ago. Unfortunately the arresting officer has already talked to the kid from Chicago Today because I just got a call from downstairs about it. The Daily News has sent a man over.” Schmidt, despite the hour, was dressed and shaved and looked awake. He wore a blue suit, one of several that he owned.
“Where did they find him?” Donovan asked.
“He was sleeping it off under a clump of bushes right where Columbus Drive butts into Monroe Street. He was wearing a white shirt. Soaked with blood. Some of the blood was stained on the skin of his forearms and chest. Unfortunately they couldn’t rouse anyone for the lab until seven A.M. so I suppose we’ll have to wait. In the meantime we’re holding him on a disorderly.”
Donovan continued to stare at his shoes. He wondered when he had shined them last. “Who is he?”
“A wino. Name of Norman Frank. A shitkicker.”
“Where’s his flop?”
“He wouldn’t say. Or couldn’t at the time.”
“Oh.”
“Delancey,” said Lieutenant Schmidt. “Delancey is the motorcycle cop who found him. The guy had no papers. There was an empty bottle of muskie next to him.”
“Anything on the knife or whatever?”
“Nothing.”
“Delancey made the call to homicide?”
“Yes. Relatively quickly. He brought Frank in first. He said he tried to question him. He said he tried to find out where the guy flopped. But Delancey’s persuasion was not sufficient. Or our wino was too drunk.”
“So now Delancey has called the paper boys to protect his collar.”
Schmidt shrugged. He couldn’t blame Delancey for his ambition, but he had no wish to antagonize Jack Donovan either. For a lawyer Donovan wasn’t a bad sort; he had once been a cop. Schmidt stared at the record on his desk. No one spoke when Maurice Goldberg entered the little room.
“Hi, Mr. Donovan,” said Goldberg. He smiled.
Everyone waited. Finally Goldberg began his recitation. Donovan finally held up his hand. “Well, what do you think, Goldberg?”
Goldberg blushed. He was flattered by Donovan’s deference.
“I don’t know. I think we have to wait until we get a lab report on the blood.”
“And the trousers?”
“No.” Goldberg looked startled. “I don’t—”
Donovan turned to Schmidt. “One of these guys looked at the trousers…?”
“I don’t know,” said Schmidt.
“Christ.” Donovan turned away from Schmidt. He had no wish to embarrass him by staring at him. “Tell someone to get the trousers. And shorts if he’s wearing any.”
“I’m not sure—” began Goldberg.
“Matt,” said Jack Donovan.
But the old lieutenant was already on the phone. “Hello? Hello? Is this Holloway? This is Matt Schmidt up in homicide. Your lockup boy—Norman Frank?—get him a pair of pants to wear and take his for the lab. And the underpants. Right. Right. Label them and send them down.”
Jack Donovan did not say anything more. Matt Schmidt was a good enough man. It had not been his fault.
Donovan finally said: “I don’t think we should do anything until we can interview him and until we get the lab report. Will you talk to him, Matt?”
“Sure. I’ll get Terry Flynn or Margolies with me. Or both of them.”
Donovan turned back to Goldberg. “I want to tell you why I don’t like any of this.” He paused. “We got a wino, first of all. Generally winos do not rape or kill young women. It isn’t their style.” Donovan looked at Schmidt, but the old, lined face was impassive. “They don’t have the energy, for one thing. But now we apparently have a wino found with a bloody shirt. If the lab reports that the stains on the shirt match blood from, from”—he glanced at the report on the desk—“from Maj Kirsten, we merely have confirmation of an unusual coincidence.”
He went to the door of the little room and looked out. The fluorescent lights in the corridor buzzed coolly. “Is there semen on his trousers?” Donovan continued. “Or his shorts? That would be a second confirmation of circumstantial evidence, but it would probably be enough. But what I am trying to tell you is that I don’t like this goddamn suspect one bit. I’ve never heard of a wino involved in a random daylight rape-murder and—”
Goldberg interrupted: “But the blood. It was there.”
“Maybe he stole the shirt. Maybe he stuck a chicken. Maybe he cut another wino.”
“And he was found less than a mile from the murder scene,” continued Goldberg. “Do that many bums sleep in Grant Park?”
“Who knows where bums sleep?” said Donovan. “God. On a hot night.”
“I see,” said Goldberg.
Schmidt did not say anything. He took out a toothpick from his shirt pocket and began to pick between his molars. Despite his crisp appearance he felt very tired.
No one spoke for a few minutes. It was as though each of them was intent on absorbing the stillness of the summer night and the empty corridor and the buzzing of the overhead lights. Schmidt looked at the calendar. When he had thought he was going to die from cancer, he had put a calendar in his bedroom and stared at it and tried to calculate the days he would be alive.
Donovan sat down suddenly in an empty chair. “Don’t do a thing, Goldberg. Not until you get the reports from the lab on both the semen, if any, and the bloodstains—and until Matt here has talked to this guy, Frank. I mean nothing.” He waited for Goldberg to speak, but Goldberg was studying the end of Matt Schmidt’s toothpick. It bobbed and weaved in his mouth.
“There’s not a lot we can do about Delancey calling the papers now,” said Donovan. “But Matt can duck them. That’s up to him and the rest. But don’t you do anything. When the day man comes on felony review, tell him you’re handling this case for me. I might as well stay up and get something to eat. I got to go to Twenty-sixth and California. I expect I will hear from you before court time. Then we can figure out what to do.”
Schmidt spat out the toothpick and missed the wastebasket. He bent down and picked up the sliver of wood and placed it in the basket. “I’ll make sure on the lab, Donovan. We should have it by nine. I’ll let Mr. Norman Frank sleep it off until eight in the morning. Do you want Goldberg there?”
“I’d prefer it. But whatever you want to do, Matt.”
Schmidt nodded. He appreciated the courtesy from the state’s attorney’s office. “I’ll have him there.”
“Don’t let Delancey near Frank again, Matt. That could screw it if this guy is for real.”
“I know, I’ll tell him we’ll give him the credit but to keep his yap shut.”
“Good.”
After another silence Goldberg said, “Is there anything else?”
“Don’t call Bud Halligan, whatever you do. Until we have something more.”
They agreed that would be best.
The killer awoke.
He knew he was awake, but he did not open his eyes. He lay very quietly, listening to his own breath. It was slow and regular. Other times, when he woke up, he could hear his heart beating very fast, and he was afraid then that he would have a heart attack. A bank of pain would spread across his chest beneath the breastbone, extending under his arms and around his back.
But there was no pain this morning.
He kept his eyes closed so that he could see the blond woman again. At first she was walking across the grass. Her breasts swayed beneath the white blouse. Then he became confused again: he thought she wore nylon stockings, but her legs were bare.
The slut had even spread her legs, inviting him into her.
Slut.
Now he could hear his heart. It was beating loudly and rapidly. He was remembering. The girl had worn her first pair of nylon stockings at the age of fourteen when she was going to a party. He only found out about it afterward. When he saw the stockings hanging in her room.
Why did he remember that?
He tried to call up the image of the blond woman again, as she was, walking across the grass, but the other image, the later one, the one of the face covered with blood, blocked his memory.
He listened to the old woman snoring.
She had not made a sound when he stabbed her, but she had opened her eyes wide, as though surprised. Then her blood stained his shirt. He had not believed that would happen. He had not really believed any of it would happen. She had not worn nylon stockings. Why did he think she had?
He heard the clock ticking next to the bed. He listened to the ticks and then to the beat of his heart. The blood pounded in him. There. The pain again.
It began to spread slowly across his chest. Now he knew he would not sleep.
He opened his eyes and waited.
It was shortly after nine in the morning when Jack Donovan pushed through the massive door at the entrance of the Criminal Courts building. The two black security men waved him through while other security men patted down the steady stream of visitors and lawyers and criminals and relatives of criminals and victims and jurors and all the others who came to the old stone court building every morning.
Jack Donovan noticed none of these things; they were too familiar. Lost in this own thoughts, he ran up the stairs to the second-floor offices of the state’s attorney’s criminal division.