“It’s in my report,” Wolfe said, still looking around the busy lobby.
“I don’t want to read it now. I want to hear it from your lips.”
Wolfe rolled his eyes. “When I got there the sniper was dead. I saw movement on the ramp going up to the next level. I went to check it out. Next thing I know I’m on a gurney in the back of an ambulance. You should have more information than me.” He turned away and continued to eye the undulating crowd.
“Your DNA was all over the place. You sure you don’t want to change your story?”
Wolfe turned back to Landers with calm eyes. “I don’t know why my DNA was all over the place. I told you what I remember. I’ll get back to you if I remember more.”
“How’d you hurt your hand?” Landers asked. Crowley peered over to see.
Wolfe folded his fist and studied it, the dark bruise on the outer edge of his clenched hand. “I don’t know.”
Twenty-Two
“Whispers crawled through the room like butterflies crossing a field.”
* * *
“I’m Aaron Wolfe, homicide detective, Chicago PD.” He looked from one end of the theater-like room to the other and up to the balcony. Nobody moved. There were more than five-hundred staring at the man who once represented hope in their world of monsters. Wolfe knew exactly why Commander Landers had volunteered him.
“I was asked to talk to you about murder in our city and what we’re doing about it.”
Landers stood in the left aisle, the back of the room. Before the door closed and the rectangle of light swallowed, Wolfe recognized him. He saw Crowley enter the right aisle. Both would take a seat on the back row.
Where’s Hutson? Wolfe thought.
The break-out sessions scheduled during Wolfe’s presentation were unattended. The CCLR members had one chance to hear the city’s top homicide detective speak. Although they had issues with the criminal justice system from investigation to incarceration, Wolfe was still a main event. The other speakers of interest included a law professor from Harvard, a retired judge from Texas, and a sociologist from Stanford University. Wolfe was closest to the real monsters.
The audience was made up of mostly females of all ages and few men. The males attending were primarily in their fifties and sixties. Everyone had dressed for a funeral. Wolfe assumed they saw the annual CCLR conference as a religious occasion. All had lost loved ones to heinous crimes. The system had failed them. They needed much more.
“The Chicago Police Department has a mission.”
Wolfe had labored over the right opening words for days. Now, looking into the bright lights, he thought the whole approach was stupid.
“We are empowered by you—the community.” I hate the word empowered.
“We are committed to protecting the lives, property, and the rights of all the people of Chicago.” This is so lame. Why am I doing this?
Wolfe scanned the audience. Are you people dead? Is life that bad for you that you cannot move on? Why are you here? Why feed the beast that is tearing you apart? The world is not fair. Bad things happen all the time. We will never stop it all. Get over it!
He took a long swallow of water from the pitifully small glass and returned it to the shelf under his notes. Looking back down at his scribbles he wished he had remained unconscious in the hospital bed long enough to give the stupid gig to Crowley. Next time I tell Landers to stuff it.
He moved his finger to the next paragraph and squinted into the lights. “The Bureau of Detectives is responsible for the investigation of crime and the apprehension of offenders.” I should say responsible for running around hell hunting the demons that haunt us all. “We handle felonies, some misdemeanors, missing persons, and unidentified deceased.” Yeah. There’s no one here representing those poor bastards, those who die alone and nobody gives a damn.
“We process all offenders.” And that includes the juvenile thugs, whores, basic drugies, and the losers who are in development for future crime waves. “Our department provides protective services for witnesses.” And we don’t do a good job. We wonder why people don’t come forward. Hell, I wouldn’t. “We investigate bomb and arson incidents.” And that’s another climbing stat in hell. “And our CSI unit processes forensic evidence.” Thank God for science bringing some form of objectivity to our subjective world.
Wolfe paused and eyed the quiet audience again. He could see the faces on the first two rows. Are you that interested in death and despair that you get here early enough for those seats? After another swallow of water, he cleared his throat. “Although the Detective Bureau does all these things, I do just one. I am a homicide investigator.
“Homicide is when a person kills another. Most of the time, the action violates criminal laws. Some of the time, the action does not—like justified self-defense. I investigate all. It is up to the courts to determine if a law has been violated. They determine guilt or innocence, and then they impose punishment.”
The rectangles of light reappeared at the end of the aisles. Wolfe watched more people enter. “In 2014 the Chicago Police Department handled over 57,000 criminal complaints. That number includes robbery, aggravated assault and battery, theft, burglary, shooting and stabbing incidents, and murder.”
From the depths of the audience a voice called out, “Talk about murder!”
“In 1991 we had 928 murders in Chicago, and then there was a steady decline. By 1999 that number had dropped to 650. By 2011 it dropped to 450 murders a year. Although the population has continued to increase and the numbers are going down, we have more to do. The experts tell us education and jobs are the long term solutions. In the short term we must increase police on the streets and raise public awareness, living defensively.”
The same voice yelled out, “We know people are being killed.”
Wolfe squinted into the lights trying to see the one speaking. It was impossible. “When I talk about public awareness, I am talking about what each of us can do to protect ourselves and our families. There are motives for murder—money, narcotics, sex, anger. For a murder to occur there must be an opportunity. If the motives are known and the opportunities are removed, we have a better chance to not become a victim.”
A hand shot up on the front row. “Can you illustrate what you just said?”
“If I drive an expensive car and park in an unknown neighborhood at night, I provide an opportunity to someone looking for money. If they are desperate for drugs, I can fill their need. They will kill me for money so they can get their fix. By not parking my car there, I remove the opportunity for a heinous act.
“90% of the killings are by men. 87% are by people with long arrest records. Although 60% of the killings in our city are gang related (drugs, territories, control, retaliation, money), that leaves 40% that are not.”
Another hand shot up. “How many of the 450 killers do you catch?”
Wolfe patted his notes. He actually preferred going off script. He knew his audience was full of desperate, emotional, and broken people that despised the legal system. If he was going to help any of them, he had to choose his words and aim them to what was real.
“We make an arrest in more than 90% of the homicides we handle.”
“How many of those are charged and convicted?”
“Most are charged, and most charged are convicted.”
“And some get out of jail early.”
“That is true on both accounts. We do not arrest and convict on all cases. Some cases need more investigation. Some are held in abeyance until new evidence becomes available.”
“In abeyance means cold case. Isn’t that right, Detective Wolfe? It means you failed. A killer is still out there. Justice did not prevail. Society is not safe.”
Wolfe looked down at his notes but did not see them. “That’s right.”
The heckler persisted. “When we don’t do our jobs, we get fired. What happens to you? Do you get fired? Are you punished for letting down society?”
“Ye
s, we get fired,” Wolfe said as whispers crawled through the room like butterflies crossing a field. “I’m not sure how this helps anyone,” Wolfe said. “Maybe some of you need someone to blame. I suppose you wouldn’t be here today if you were satisfied with the outcome of your case, the terrible experience that stole your loved one and changed your life.
“I get it. I’m fine with that. Blame people like me if it helps. But if you are seeking more, seeking something that will heal, I suggest you avoid the hopeless trap of blaming the people in this with you, the people working every day for you and people like you. We get a lot right. We will always strive to do better.
“Some think they could do my job better than me.” Wolfe smiled, and then his face hardened as he leaned into the microphone and leveled his eyes on the audience. “I’m here to tell you no one in this room could do my job better than me.” His words dripped from his lips like fresh blood from a butcher knife.
“After you walk a thousand miles on a thousand dark roads, and after you look in the eyes of a thousand victims and put a thousand monsters behind bars, maybe then.”
The room went silent. Wolfe straightened at the podium. Where are you people now—where are your heads? Are you hearing anything I’m saying? Do you get it—life sucks? No. It’s something else you despise. What is it? It’s gotta be the courts. Go there.
“Maybe it’s the courtroom that lets us down. Maybe that’s where change needs to happen to make things better, to right the wrongs.”
Wolfe pulled the mic from the stand and left the podium. “Do you think you can be more just than the judge who invested a lifetime on the bench? Do you think the jury of your peers is the problem? Do they let us down? Maybe we could weigh the evidence better? Maybe some believe we could do a better job searching for truth and protecting rights of the innocent?”
No one is moving. I can’t read their faces. Am I wasting my time? Am I trying to help those unwilling to be helped? Wolfe walked to the side of the podium and rested an arm. I should have stayed with my notes. Winging it is not working. He glanced over and saw the bold print, “KILLING IS A CRIME AGAINST US ALL.”
“The killing of a human being is a crime committed against us all,” Wolfe said. “Finding and convicting the monsters responsible is the common goal of good people. Yes, the process is flawed. It is flawed because we are a nation governed by the rule of law, not a nation ruled by the arbitrary decisions of individuals. It is flawed because our first commitment is to the innocent. To insure we protect the innocent, some of the monsters get away.”
Wolfe watched an obese man on the front row struggle to get to his feet. Oh God. Here we go again, he thought. Be patient. Don’t show anger. With a hand holding his coat over his belly, the man raised the other and waited to be recognized. “Yes. A question,” Wolfe said.
The man lowered his hand and his smile vanished. “No question here, an obvious observation. Your justice system failed everyone in this room, Detective Aaron Wolfe. I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say to you that we don’t need a lecture from you. We need, no, we demand justice.” Wolfe studied him. The man looked familiar.
Oh God. That guy has no idea who he’s talking to, Landers thought as he squirmed in his seat on the back row. Come on Wolfe. You’ve been doing a good job holding your temper. Granted you’ve gone off script a few times and thrown out some unnecessary challenges. Do not lose it now. You are representing the CPD. News media’s all over the place. I don’t need you on the front page of the Tribune lambasting victims of crime.
“Do I know you?” Wolfe asked from the side of the podium.
The obese man flashed an insincere smile. “I think you’re trying to forget me. I am Paul Timberman.” On the last word Timberman pulled a revolver from his coat and began shooting.
The cries and screams rose above the popping in the front of the grand auditorium. Like children’s firecrackers going off in the street, the shooting launched people from their seats. They broke to the aisles and became a part of a coagulated morass of human flesh, gasping wails in black satin. Landers and Crowley struggled to get to Wolfe, but they were blocked behind the human tidal wave. Their urgent efforts were muted. Then side exits broke open and the sun poured in. Streams of people flowed out to the white snow.
“He’s reloading!” The frantic words rose above the chaos. Landers climbed bodies to reach the center of the auditorium. He pulled his gun. Crowley ran into the lobby and up the stairs. The balcony would be his only opportunity to help.
More shots poured from Timberman’s gun. Then there was one more. It was louder and carefully aimed. Then another came from the stage curtains.
Only a few saw Timberman flop to the floor. No one saw him tremble in his own blood and his eyes roll into his head. And no one saw under the cloud of burnt gunpowder, the .22 caliber Smith & Wesson spinning on the floor.
Crowley reached the edge of the balcony—he had to get down. Landers reached the center of the back row—he had to get to the stage. On his way, he thought he saw Margaret Sorensen’s head poking out the stage curtains.
Landers had counted fourteen.
Twenty-Three
The gun smoke settled above heads. The long flat cloud reached across the theater, poison fingers seemed to search for more. Like hurdles at a track meet Landers jumped rows of empty seats moving toward the stage with his gun up and eyes hunting. The screaming and pushing masses stampeded the exits desperate to escape the surrealistic world closing in on them. Death floated in the air and triggered painful memories for the masses.
Crowley hung from the balcony railing, his only chance to get to the stage through the mob. He dangled five feet above calling for help, but nobody cared. He took his chances and let go. Swallowed by the swarm his fall was broken. The few climbed out from under him and continued their march out of the meeting hall. Crowley pushed his way upstream. When he got to the front and the blood and Landers leaning on the stage behind the podium, Crowley asked, “Is he hit? Is Wolfe okay . . . ?”
Landers stood quiet and still as Crowley stepped over the body on the theater floor and grabbed his arm. Then Crowley saw the blood on the stage. His boss turned to him with a blank stare. “Call this in. The guy on the floor is dead. Wolfe went back stage or was taken back stage. I don’t know which. Wait here for Hutson. The guy’s always late or missing. I gotta find Wolfe.”
“Backup and ambulances are on the way,” Crowley said.
“Wolfe’s been hit,” Landers said as he leaped onto the stage with his gun out. “I’ve got a blood trail.” He disappeared behind the curtains.
Hotel security had already manned the exits and moved people into a secured lobby now converted into a holding area. Surrounded by red-velvet rope lines and locked doors, each CCLR member would be vetted by the CPD. Crowley checked the dead man’s pulse as routine. The man had a single gunshot wound between the eyes. Wolfe only needed one. It was a .45 caliber.
“What happened?” The words came from behind Crowley.
Crowley spun around and saw the size, the build, and the hair. “Wolfe! You’re okay.” The man stepped into the light. “Hutson,” Crowley barked. “Damn, I thought you were Wolfe. You guys look too much alike. I guess I was hoping . . . never mind. Where have you been? All hell has broken out.”
“Sorry. The place is crazy,” Hutson said. “I was late for Wolfe’s speech, and then got stuck in the crowd. What’d I miss? Where’s Wolfe? Where’s the commander?”
Crowley pushed the .22 caliber revolver away from the deceased. He got up from his knees and into Hutson’s face. “Do you ever know what’s going on, Joseph?” Crowley’s eyes scanned the diminishing crowd and balcony for anyone watching them. There was no one.
“Sorry Ben. I’m not even supposed to be driving. I’m supposed to be home in bed.”
Crowley noticed Hutson’s hands. “What happen? I don’t remember those bruises.”
Hutson pulled each coat cuff over his hands and turned away. “It�
��s from the Sorensen case. The doctors said bruises can show up days later.”
“Right—you were knocked out and spent a day in a closet.” Crowley sighed. “You’re here now, so I need help. Stay with the body. This guy emptied his gun two times on Wolfe. The blood on the stage means Wolfe got hit.” It would be damn near impossible to dodge a dozen bullets from this short distance.
“Most hit the podium. I counted nine,” Hutson said pointing a penlight. “Not a very tight pattern. The guy was clearly not trained with a gun.”
“Thank you, Sherlock. Look, I gotta go. Wolfe and Landers are back stage—God knows what’s happening. I remember taking a look at the hotel schematics after agreeing to speak at this convention. There’s a network of halls, dressing rooms, and stairs that go up two levels and down one, access to the basement under the hotel. There’s gotta be a half-dozen exits and a hundred places to hide. Get SWAT here. I don’t know what I’m gonna run into. Wolfe is hurt and Landers is looking for him.”
Hutson pulled out his cell. “Go.”
“Landers is ahead of me by three minutes. You’re in charge of this crime scene, Hutson.” Crowley disappeared behind the curtains.
Back stage the blood trail crossed the musicians’ room and led into a dimly lit hallway. Crowley looked in each door window and checked the knobs: the conductor’s quarters, company manager’s office, instrument storage room, and dressing areas. The blood drops lead him down the hall. He reached the iron stairwell in the schematic. It was open and gothic. He saw blood on the steps going down. Wolfe had gone to the basement. Landers probably followed.
When Crowley reached the cold darkness under the hotel, a hollow explosion rang out, a single gunshot. He moved toward the sound running his hand along the wall. He found the circuit box, but the fuses were gone. The smell of gunpowder got stronger. The wet sticky substance on the floor had to be blood. Crowley had decided early not to use his flashlight. As backup to Landers, he thought it best he kept his presence stealth as long as possible—that way he would not walk into the trap set for Wolfe or Landers. He listened and inched his way forward in the dark underbelly of the hotel ready to shoot.
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