Heggins made the mile drive to the park that sat at the southeast corner of Locust Street and Humboldt Boulevard. He drove onto the service road and observed an older white female wearing an open, brown, insulated nylon jacket over her navy blue jogging outfit. She had a chain leash in her right hand and was holding on to a large German shepherd.
“Good morning, Officer. I’m Sheila Wentworth.”
“Morning, ma’am. Probably not a pleasant way to start your morning,” Heggins said as he exited the squad. “Is that dog of yours friendly?”
“When I tell him to be,” she mused. “Prince, you be a good dog now. This police officer is our friend.” The shepherd gave his owner the “I understand” look. “The body is several blocks away toward the river, right along the path. Do you want to walk or follow me in your squad car?”
“I’ll follow you in case I need to get something once I’m there. That way I can direct additional units on my radio if I need to.”
The woman walked south along the path through the small park that abutted the west bank of the Milwaukee River, with Officer Heggins driving slowly behind her. Ahead of her, he noticed what looked like a white male lying on his back on the grass just off the path. He shifted the marked, white-and-black Dodge Charger into park, turned off the ignition, and got out. When he walked over to the body, Heggins saw a large-caliber gunshot wound in the center of the forehead and what appeared to be a hole in the victim’s black leather jacket. The grass and leaves under the head and chest were drenched in blood and the unmistakable scent of death was in the air, overpowering the usually intoxicating smells of fallen leaves of autumn. He could see that postmortem lividity had set in. The face and hands were ashen white.
“Looks like this guy won’t need an ambulance.” Heggins grabbed the radio microphone attached to his squad jacket collar. “Squad 5151, request several additional squads at my location, along with a sergeant. Advise responding squads to drive south along the bike path from the flagpole.”
“10-4.” Seconds later, the dispatcher came back over the police channel sending a sergeant and two marked squads to meet the officer at his location to assist.
All three squads acknowledged the assignment.
“My exact thoughts, Officer. I’ve been living in the Riverwest area my entire life and have witnessed my share of violence. Guess you get thick-skinned after a while. I remember walking a different dog back in September of 1975 when Auggie Maniaci was killed in the alley behind his house on the corner of Hadley and Humboldt by one of Frank Balistreri’s gunmen. Even saw the shooter run from the scene but couldn’t identify him. Guess the guy got whacked by some other gangster a couple years later. Live by the sword, die by the sword.”
“You’re right, ma’am. Let me get some information from you so I don’t take up your whole day.” Heggins took her statement.
“And no, Officer, I didn’t hear any gunshots last night. When I fall asleep, I’m asleep. My husband’s home. Maybe he heard something.”
“Thanks, ma’am. Tell you what. Detectives are probably going to want to talk to you again. Why don’t you go home and spend some time with your husband? I’ll send the detectives over to your house.”
“You’re funny. We’ve been married for forty years and you want me to go spend time WITH my husband? Maybe we’ll be snuggling on the couch when the detectives come. Oh, almost forgot to tell you. Bill and I walked by here last night with Prince at about six o’clock when it was still light, and no one was around. Good luck with the investigation, Officer. These things are always bad. Very sad about the young man. I’m sure somebody still cared about him, and now he’s gone.” Sheila walked away while Prince was already looking for the next object he could attach his nose to.
Heggins went to the trunk of his squad and pulled out a roll of yellow police tape. Although it wasn’t a high-traffic area for pedestrians, he wanted to be ready when the media came slithering up to the scene. No doubt they put two and two together that something was going on while monitoring the police radio and hearing his additional squad request.
After the experienced officer secured the scene with police tape, he looked around a little more. All the Miller beer empties were lying in the fire pit except one, which was in the grass less than ten feet from the casings. The can was visibly dented. To the right of the body, he saw something reflecting light in the grass, near a clump of bushes. As he stepped closer and knelt down to get a better look, he noticed it was a small, brass shell casing, probably a nine millimeter. Two feet away he saw another one, then a third. They were nearly obscured in the grass. The plot thickens. Looks like we had a little shootout going on. Must have been at least three people here, and one of them got away, he thought to himself as he stood back up.
He pulled the cell phone out of his uniformed shirt pocket and dialed the shift commander.
“District Five, Lieutenant Bernard.”
“Lieut, this is Heggins.”
“What you got, Wild Man?” buzzed the all-too-familiar voice of one of his favorite supervisors. You either loved or hated Lieutenant Charles Z. Bernard who, after thirty-eight years on the job and in his late sixties, was still ready to stand up against anyone in the department or on the street. That included captains and above in the hierarchy pecking order who thought they could intimidate him. His mold had been shelved years ago when police work became more of an occupation for sensitive types.
“I was sent at 8:10 a.m. to a man down in Gordon Park and was met by the caller. She directed me to a white male who looks to be in his early to mid-twenties. He was lying on his back in the grass, just off the path three blocks south of the flagpole, with a big-caliber hole in the middle of his forehead and one round to his left chest. He’s been here for hours, Boss, and is definitely DOA. I found five .40 caliber spent casings on the ground within fifteen feet of the body, along with three 9mm casings in the grass closer to the body. No gun anywhere. So either it grew wings or there was at least a third person here. Looks like they had a little party sometime late last night. There’s close to twenty empty beer cans by a fire pit the kids around here have been using for years. I bet someone got pissed off, and now we have homicide number eighty-five for the year. Sergeant Gomez and two uniformed squads are on the way to assist. This guy’s wearing a black leather jacket with stuff handwritten on the front, blue jeans, and Doc Marten Boots. Some sort of skinhead or anarchist offshoot. He’s got no ID on him, so I don’t have a name for you yet.”
“Roger that, Pat. I’ll call you back after I contact the Bureau.”
“Yes, sir” he responded and disconnected the call just as Sergeant Ruben Gomez pulled up in his white Ford Explorer.
“Should’a guessed it, Heggins. You had to call the sergeant again because a simple crime like this is too difficult for you to handle. What ya got?”
“Just a good thing you’re out here giving all of us ‘rooks’ direction, Sarge. White male in his twenties with a big hole in his head. Also took one to the left chest. Five .40 caliber casings here in the dirt by the fire pit and nearly a full case of empty beer cans. I should have it solved by the end of shift with arrest imminent. Just got off the phone with the Boss. He’s on the wire to the Bureau. I may need a little help from the Detective Bureau ‘suits,’ but other than that, it’s covered.”
“That’s the spirit, Pat. I’ll tell the other squads to start hitting the houses on Humboldt. Someone may have heard the shots. Do you want any other squads here?”
“I’m good for now, Sarge.” The theme song from Hawaii Five-0 started playing, and the officer answered his cell phone. “This is Heggins.”
“Two Bureau squads on the way, Pat.”
“Thanks, Lieut. Sergeant Gomez just arrived. The other responding squads will canvass for witnesses.”
“Good. Have him give me a jingle if you find out who the guy is.”
“You got it, boss,” he replied, clicking the End button on the phone and placing it back in his shirt pocket
.
“The high-priced help from homicide are on the way. Before you got here, I was checking this guy out. See the tats on his neck and right hand? Some sort of crossbones on the right side of his neck and an anarchist symbol on his hand. Never saw anything like that. What’s on the other side of his neck that the jacket is blocking? ‘Death by Bombing’ or something. Guess he’s an artist, too. See the bright red spray paint splatters on his pants and boots?”
“Yeah. Anarchist and skinhead. There’s a combination.” Sergeant Gomez looked at the tattoo written in navy blue on the victim’s neck. “I’m reading, ‘Death by Bombing,’ with a stick of dynamite blowing off next to it. Maybe he should’ve had a .40 caliber pistol with a bullet coming out of the barrel. That’d be more accurate. Just sayin’.”
“You’re a sick man, Sergeant.”
The Detective Bureau squads were on scene within twenty minutes. Officer Heggins briefed them as they busily copied notes down in their steno pads.
A short time later, one of the squads contacted Heggins. They told him they talked to four residents who heard five to ten shots at about three o’clock in the morning. “Two of them said they had called the police.” As he was noting this in his memo book, a medical examiner investigator he knew pulled up. Now the real work would begin. He was always impressed when the ME investigators or the ME himself came to a crime scene. They were so thorough. As much as he tried to obtain the most information he could, they always asked him questions he didn’t have answers to. Damn brainiacs.
Inside a small, dingy apartment in Milwaukee’s Riverwest area, Spike created a text message on the cell phone using his tattooed fingers.
We left the ‘bomb’ and set the other one off at the cemetery. Too bad the pig didn’t die. Will continue with the plan as discussed. Now it’s ur turn to do the same. That explosive I cooked up worked like a charm. Use the ones I left and how I told you to do it. Btw, I put Squirt on ice in a park last night. Dude started talkin stupid and had to be taken out. Madman and I will tcb here. Also shot at his friend Elroy after he capped a couple at me and split. Not sure if I hit him or not.
Later, holmes
He hit the send button. Within minutes, he received the response he had looked forward to.
Set to go in the next day or two. Still workin on a couple details. I’ll get back to u mañana. Chi-town’s gonna lite up when all this shit goes down, dude. Let’s hope they find Elroys body in a ditch.
“Fan-freakin’-tastic,” he said aloud. He quickly thought about the guy who got away. That could bring them problems. Hope the jerk died. He rolled over in bed and began caressing the woman who was sound asleep beside him. He wasn’t totally attracted to the large nose ring and two-inch ear gauges that expanded her ear lobes, but he could overlook those because of her excellent body. Her numerous body tattoos excited him even more, especially the large “tramp stamp” he knew was proudly displayed at the base of her back. As he gently continued down her body, she slowly rolled over. He began kissing her neck, and it was game on. She responded, and they had a twenty-minute interlude of fantastic sex.
“Yeah, baby, you sure know how to make a guy feel important. Wow, you are great in the sack.”
“You know it, stud.”
Spike got up from the bed and lit a reefer. “As long as we’re high on life, we might as well continue the mood.” He took a long hit off the marijuana cigarette, then handed it to her as she sat up in bed, the dirty, beige sheets falling off from around her.
“Now you’re talkin’, baby,” she said as she inhaled two long puffs from the hand-rolled joint, savored the flavor, and slowly exhaled the smoke. “What’s on for today, Spike?”
“Just hangin’. Nothin’ planned. Met up with a couple guys last night and shot the breeze for a while. You work tonight at the bar, don’t ya?”
“Yeah, I start at six and close up. When I get home, I expect the same treatment you just gave me. A girl can get used to that.”
“Count on it.” He took the final puffs from the joint and snuffed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand by the bed. “You hungry? I’ll see what we have in the fridge.”
“Just some munchies and a Miller Lite, if we got it.”
“Anything for the princess.” He went into the kitchen and returned a couple minutes later with a cold beer and a bag of kettle popcorn.
“Now that’ll work. Thanks.”
Chapter 8
OFF DUTY GET TOGETHER
The digital clock in his car displayed 6:22 p.m. as Tomczyk pulled into the common driveway of the Juneau Village Tower apartment complex on Milwaukee’s Lower East Side, a couple blocks north of downtown. He walked into the lobby just as Anne came off the elevator.
“Five minutes early, Detective. I’m rather impressed. And you dress up well. Blue jeans and polo shirts during the day, suit after six.”
“Just don’t let my bosses know. They don’t believe I own a watch or a suit,” a broad smile coming over his face as he stroked the left lapel of his navy blue Vino Cabela athletic-cut suit. Tomczyk couldn’t help notice how radiant Anne looked in her soft, green cashmere sweater, navy blue pants, and waist-length black leather jacket. Her brown hair glistened as the curls bounced gently off her shoulders. “You look fantastic, Anne. I didn’t think you could improve on your usual beauty, but I stand corrected.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she responded as Tomczyk opened the glass door and escorted her to his midnight black car parked in the ten-minute parking area. “Ford Mustang, and a convertible to boot. Now you’re talking.”
“I’m a retro guy, and the new Mustangs remind me of the ’60s model my old man used to have back in the day. Besides, I made the command decision that it might be a little brisk to pick you up on my Road King.”
“And a great decision it was.”
He opened the passenger door, and Anne slid into the seat. As Tomczyk got into the driver’s side, he turned the ignition, and the 5.0 liter V8 engine roared to life. “If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right. This car rocks, so I have to be careful.”
“Still has the new car smell. It must have recently been taken off the car lot.”
“My F-150 has miles on it. So I took the plunge and bought me a ‘fair-weather vehicle.’ The truck will come out when the snow and cold return to the Midwest in a month.”
Tomczyk drove along the city streets as they made conversation. He pulled into the parking lot at the iconic Steakhouse on State Street. As they approached the front door, a middle-aged security guard dressed in his brown uniform approached. “Yo’ Ski. How’s my favorite vanilla brotha’ doing tonight? You still tryin’ to keep the lid on this city?”
“Always trying, Ty. I’m fantastic. How about you?” They shook hands and hugged each other.
The restaurant was ranked as one of the best in the city, but was located in a neighborhood wallowing in a fair amount of blight. Several housing projects and vacant houses were within eyeshot of the well-known establishment.
“Luckier than a man should be, my friend. Feels like you stopped lifting, Ski. Your arms are getting a little soft.” His mouth opened to a wide grin, showing yellow-stained teeth.
“Too much overtime lately, so I haven’t hit the gym much.” He and Ty always exchanged friendly jabs when they saw each other. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Anne. Anne, this is Tyrone. Just don’t get too close to him. Thinks he’s some sort of AARP card-carrying playa’ and will try to hit on you.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He took her right hand in a warm embrace and placed his left hand over it. “You’re with one of Milwaukee’s best sons, but if he doesn’t treat you right, you come and talk to Tyrone. I’ll square him up right.”
“It’s a plan, Ty. An honor to meet you also.”
“That’s a great lookin’ suit, by the way. Looks just like the one I donated two weeks ago. Well, time to get back on the J.O.B. Good to see you, Ski, and to meet you, Anne.�
�� He winked at both of them and slowly walked over to another arriving car.
They walked to the front door, and Tomczyk opened it. “This place will definitely take you back in time—like about forty years.” The bar was nearly full, but they were able to find two empty stools at the far end.
A short and stocky, sixty-something bartender came over and asked for their order. His pressed, long-sleeved white shirt and Rush Limbaugh tie fit in well with the décor.
“Excuse me, sir. I thought we kicked you out of here two weeks ago, along with that gang of thugs you were with. I told you to never come back here,” the man stated with a stone-cold face.
Anne glanced over at Tomczyk.
“Decided I’m addicted to these crummy steaks, so I thought I’d come back.”
“You still drinking that Nancy-boy rum and cranberry juice, with a lime, or have you started drinking brandy and a beer like a man? Ma’am, what can I get you? Sorry for you having won ‘the loser-date-of-the-night contest.’”
“I’m surprised a man of your advanced age can still remember that much. Yes, that’s my drink. And the lady would like a white zinfandel—if you stock any wine costing more than two dollars a bottle.”
“I turn sixty-five next week, but still young enough to show you what for. You weightlifters may be strong, but you can’t think fast enough, and I’d wallop you.” He extended his hand. “Damn good to see you again, Ski. It’s been a while. How ya doing?”
“Doing great, Whitey. Anne, this is Whitey Anderson, bartender extraordinaire at the Steakhouse.”
“Fantastic to meet you, Whitey … I think,” she smiled. “I wasn’t too sure at first.”
“Only ’cause I love him, Anne.” A serious look came over his leathery face as he looked over at Tomczyk. “I heard the terrible news about Lurch. Our prayers are with him. You let us know when we can send a complete steak dinner or two for him at the hospital. It’s pure entertainment to watch a man shovel so much food down his throat.”
Circle of Terror Page 7