AHMM, April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "A few. My information has it that Tommasin died elsewhere and was transported to the overhang. Is that true?"

  "Yes."

  "Were there signs of his being tied up—to be carried, I mean?"

  "Oh, yes. Wrists and ankles."

  "Tied up after he died?"

  "Hmm ... yes. Although I don't want to complicate your picture of the man's state, but there were inconclusive signs that his wrists might have been bound earlier too."

  "Twice, you're saying, and once while he was still alive?"

  "I'm not saying, Mr. Carr. He might have worn a wristwatch that chafed."

  R. J. pondered briefly. “Did you check his blood alcohol level?"

  "As part of the autopsy, yes. It was zero."

  "Last meal?"

  "Around seven P.M., two or three hours before he died."

  "Rigor set in—when?"

  "After the body was laid out at the overhang, in the wee small hours, as they say."

  "Were there any weird things at all about the body, other than the chafing?"

  "Yes, although I don't see any connection to the cause of death, and finding that, quite frankly, was the purpose of the autopsy."

  "Are they secret?"

  "The autopsy report is public record. The sheriff preferred not to highlight ... certain facets."

  "And you?"

  The doctor looked at his watch for the fifth time in five minutes, then shrugged. “In layman's terms, there were slight signs of burning on the deceased's face and hands and in his nasal and upper bronchial region. Very slight. They had no bearing on the cause of death. I performed certain tests and discovered that the inflammation was from exposure to ammonia."

  "Ammonia?"

  "When you and Mrs. Carr leave the hospital, I suggest that you turn left and follow the highway to the next junction. On your right as you approach you'll see an open lot fairly covered over with large mobile tanks. This is farm country, and sometime in April or May most of the farmers in the area have one or more of those tanks on their property to nitrogenize the fields. They contain pressurized anhydrous ammonia, you see, that breaks down after it's been injected in the soil and leaves the nitrogen behind."

  "So the sheriff—"

  "He doesn't consult me, but I have no doubt that his men were out trying to find which of the local farms had anhydrous ammonia on hand that week. When the body was identified as from out of the area, the hypothesis became less tenable, so they went back to arresting speeders and drunks and arriving at scenes of domestic violence too late to do any good."

  Another glance at his watch inspired R. J. to ask quickly, “One more thing. Could some shock or emotional upset have instigated Tommasin's heart attack?"

  "Possibly, although that happens far less often that people think. As for deliberate instigation, I'm certain not. But the whole business is either so crazy or so calculated otherwise—or so lucky—that it's hard to posit one theory at the expense of another."

  * * * *

  R. J. continues

  On our drive home from Ottawa that afternoon Ginny and I talked our way around the affair to the point of hoarseness, but we really never got any farther than our first exchange.

  Me: So what do you think?

  Ginny: I think what was done wasn't crazy, R. J. It was lucky enough, certainly, their not being spotted from the road, even in the dead of night. But lucky or not, it wasn't insane, because it was calculated instead. It wasn't a prank. No one's leg was pulled, and too much effort was expended for there not to have been a more focused result than a few newspaper headlines. The location is completely wrong also. I wasn't sure before, but having seen it...

  Me: And the crank theory?

  Ginny: The candles and the Testament—again, having seen Council Overhang and the trail—the candles and the Testament simply aren't enough, considering the person Jay Tommasin was known to be. They're meant to affect the appearance, when taken along with the mystic aura of the locale, of there being something either transcendent or fanatical in the perpetrators’ aim, but it's all calculation. I'm sure of it. The true aim was to obscure what the true aim really was.

  Me: Right. To get rid of Tommasin's body.

  Ginny: Yes. Now you talk for a while.

  Me: Okay. Given that aim I'd say it's logical to assume that when Tommasin dropped dead, it was in a compromising place or circumstance among people who didn't want to go through the normal channels of reporting a death because they were up to no good.

  Ginny: I concur. And given the man's known character, the compromising place or circumstance ought to involve a bar. But it doesn't.

  Me: Right. The most amazing piece of real evidence we have—and I almost didn't ask—is the blood alcohol level.

  Ginny: Like the dog that failed to bark in the night. I confess to being confused about the ammonia, though. Or ... I don't know how to interpret it.

  Me: Then don't. Ammonia's still a fairly common household chemical. You don't have to go to a farm in the spring to find some.

  Ginny: True. You realize, though, that the absence of alcohol indicates almost certainly that whatever company he kept, either near Chicago or near Starved Rock, he failed to return home from Naperville the night prior to his death. The fact that he ate, however—

  Me: Or was fed.

  Ginny: A chilling thought. Why do you suppose anyone would abduct and hold against his will a fat old restaurant reviewer?

  Me: Because he was a fat old ex-crime reporter.

  * * * *

  Late the following afternoon I had a small stroke of luck, but other things happened in the meantime. After we got home from Ottawa, for instance, we looked up the four restaurants on the list Ginny copied from Tommasin's computer and discovered that one of them was in downtown Naperville. This plus the evidence of the cab driver, plus the absence of alcohol in Tommasin's system when he died made downtown Naperville a fairly interesting place to us in spite of Marybeth Reineke's inability to trace him there.

  After dinner that night, for a second instance, I paid a return call on Tommasin's condo with a ream of paper and a list of detailed instructions and managed to print off the text of “Life of Crime: A Reporter's Notebook” without too many false steps.

  The next morning I was on the phone early talking to Larry Duvall.

  "I see you're wasting no time,” was his greeting.

  "We can hope, anyway. Marybeth told me Tommasin was a crime reporter for twenty years. Can you fill that in a little?"

  "Ask me a hard one. From the late sixties to the late eighties, I'd guess. After that he hung on a while being a general nuisance. He liked the crime beat and cozying up to cops, but what he really liked was acing out those same cops on a crime story, which made him as popular with the force as he was with everyone else, naturally. He got a big scoop every once in a while as a result. He had his own network of stool pigeons and hangers on, I remember that much. So what's this leading up to? Something juicy, I hope."

  "I'd say we're about a third of the way there, but don't print anything or you'll blow my cover. I'd like a favor. Get me copies of Tommasin's biggest bylines of the eighties and anything else you come across that seems to contribute to ... I don't know. Any overriding interests he had in certain criminals or patterns of crime. I'll swing by around two to pick the stuff up."

  "Around two? I'll do what I can. I only have about five other duties here besides being your runner."

  "Make it three, then."

  "What a pal you are."

  * * * *

  Parking by the old Star-Bulletin building was always impossible, so I pulled in a lot a few blocks away and hoofed it. Even though I was early, Larry was waiting for me with a large envelope in hand just inside the public entrance, and when he saw me he pointed and said, “Let's talk for a minute outside."

  It was middling hot in the suburbs, but there near the Lake the air was cool and as fresh as vehicular gridlock allowed. I let him lead me down to the lower staging
s by the river before I asked, “What's up?"

  He watched an approaching tour boat for a few seconds before replying, “You are. Marybeth made the mistake of identifying you to one of her friends on the Trib after you left the Billy Goat the other day. I didn't hear about it till a couple of hours ago, and as much as I'd like to wring her neck—” He illustrated with gestures. “—that's not my job. It ups the ante though, as far as what you're doing is concerned. The bright boys and girls who decided to hire you are now running hot and cold because we're going to look damned foolish bringing you in unless you crack the mystery."

  "And soon too. I get the picture."

  "There's more. If we're beat into print, they're interpreting the agreement as a hundred percent conditional, so you won't get paid anything.” A shrug. “If you feel like walking, of course...” Larry waited, but since I didn't know what to say, I didn't say it. “Anyway, I'll make sure your expenses are covered regardless."

  I waited again, then said, “Did you get the stuff I wanted?"

  "Some. Jay's big interests in the eighties were Latino gangs and crack cocaine—how it came in and took over. He actually wrote a series that led to some arrests and convictions of a few mid-league players. It's all here."

  I took the envelope he held out and tucked it under my arm, then led the way back up to street level, doing a little elemental thinking as we climbed the stone steps. “Let's go at it this way,” I told him when we got to the top. “We have no written agreement and they're prepared to break the verbal one. Tell them I consider it broken, and when I find out what happened my story goes to the highest bidder. That's for them. For you, tell them I said privately that since you and I are friends I'm still giving you first crack—you personally. But not for five thousand."

  We shook hands and I hurried off to ransom back my car.

  * * * *

  If Tommasin were reviewing a restaurant, how would he go about it? That was the question I mulled on my drive out to Naperville. The old town center had been rehabbed and gentrified into a district of entertainment, dining, boutique shopping, and crawl-and-stall traffic, and by the time I was on my feet in front of the theater, I'd decided this much—that five P.M. was far too early to review a restaurant, meaning that Tommasin had either seen a show first or killed time in a bar, if restaurant reviewing had been his aim.

  I took a stroll heading north in the direction of the Haven Grill, and when I got there I read the dinner menu in the display case by the door. It featured steaks, chicken, and seafood with a French emphasis, at sticker prices the homey name of the place didn't begin to suggest. After a glance inside I strolled on to the next corner, turned west in the direction of the alley, and when I got to the alley turned again, where fifty feet ahead of me was my stroke of luck.

  A man about forty years of age was seated on an old kitchen chair with his chin settled on his chest, dozing in the late afternoon heat. He was short and burly with thick legs and a long trunk. His dark hair was trimmed in a buzz cut, and his clothes were faded and ill fitting, although I noticed that later. He came awake suddenly as I stood there by the street, and when he looked my way he let out a yowl, shot up from the chair, and started off in a gimpy-legged scurry, hellbent for the other end of the alley.

  "Hey!” I shouted. “I'm not—"

  He'd only gone about twenty yards when he looked back with terror in his eyes, and that sank him. His floppy shoes got tangled up and he pitched forward hard onto the pavement.

  "Ow! Ow-ow-ow!"

  I ran up and knelt, and he hid his eyes and sobbed, afraid—or so I guessed—of my birthmarked face. Meanwhile a UPS delivery truck had geared up at the far end of the alley, and after watching it advance I stood and waved to make sure it stopped.

  "Is he hurt?” the driver shouted down at me.

  "Some,” I answered. “He's mainly scared."

  The driver got out, a cocky young guy with a cigarette behind his ear, and walked over to the man who had fallen. “Tommy! Hey! Get up! You're not foolin’ anyone!"

  "Dat man!” Tommy howled.

  "He's right here—no uglier than you are. C'mon. Get out of my way, or I'll run you over like a rat!” The driver winked at me and together we helped Tommy to his feet. “Tommy lives here,” the driver said, spreading his arms to indicate the alley generally.

  "Ever since my brudder died,” Tommy said in a lisp. “I dunno."

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I'm gone,” said the driver.

  Tommy and I stood back to let the truck pass, and while he was watching it, I took a good look at his ventilator shoes before asking, “Those shoes are a little big for you, aren't they?"

  "Yeah. Dey tripped me."

  "Where'd you find them? I had a friend who lost a pair like those someplace around here, and he's giving a big reward to get them back."

  "How much?” Tommy said. “'Cause I onie got dese here."

  "A hundred dollars,” I said. “But I have to know where you found them first."

  Tommy looked left, then right, then started down the alley in a slower version of his gimpy-legged run. When I caught up he was standing opposite another building set well back from the alley, beyond which I could see two busboys smoking cigarettes beside a garbage dumpster. A sign over a doorway read, HAVEN GRILL. NO DELIVERIES AFTER 4:00 P.M.

  "In dere,” Tommy said, directing me with his eyes to the dumpster. “I ... dey don't care if I take leftovers, I guess."

  "Uh-huh. Where do you sleep?"

  "Back dere, where I was sittin'. I got a bed in da back room, me an’ da cat. I sweep up."

  After learning that his last name was Honig, I made Tommy come with me to a shoe store I'd noticed earlier, and while we were there the Star-Bulletin popped for a pair of premium walkers in his size, plus some socks. He wore the walkers out, which let me use the box to carry the old ventilator shoes. After that a hundred dollars cash changed hands, all I had on me, and I went back to the car and drove home. I wanted to think a little before dining at the Haven Grill.

  * * * *

  Ginny again

  A hike across the verdant bluffs and beside the shaded riverbank of Starved Rock Park is one thing. A tramp from one isolated residence to another—and another!—along Route 71 to the east of the park is quite a different matter, especially on a sweltering afternoon under a relentless sun. The tramp was my own suggestion, I admit; the ninety-three humid degrees coming mid June instead of mid July or August was not. Whereas the Naperville end of the investigation had come to an impasse, the necessity to make haste remained, and therefore I soldiered along the highway verge regardless of less than perfect weather.

  The progress of the case to that point had been marked. It had been broached to R. J. on Monday. Tuesday had seen our initial excursion to the park. On Wednesday he had made his first and highly revelatory trip to Naperville, and on Thursday evening he had returned there with the aim of penetrating to the secret, if any, hidden behind the front of the Haven Grill. Owing to previous commitments I hadn't accompanied him on either Naperville trip, but when he arrived home at nine o'clock Thursday night I was waiting with a sense of anticipation.

  After settling next to me on the sofa he began, “Here goes. I walked into the place alone at twenty to seven and got the private booth of my choice with no trouble since the dining room was practically empty. Curiosity made me scout the bar on a trip to the men's room, and when I saw lots of activity there, I wondered if it might really be an old-style drinks and dining club in spite of the fancy menu. Wrong—or probably, since my waiter was a suave older guy who knew the food offerings and knew what he was doing, plus the food was first rate—"

  "What did you have?"

  "Smoked salmon tart appetizer—"

  "Grr."

  "—and a grilled duck entree that wasn't on the menu. Both deserve to be reviewed. I wasn't really there for the food, though, so I chatted up the waiter the whole time about the absence of patrons versus th
e crowded bar, and got him talking about the place generally, looking for any kind of opening. Nothing.

  "The dessert cart was pretty predictable so I passed, but when he brought the check I played my desperation hand and said that I was so impressed by the dinner I'd had that I'd like to tell the owner if he was there. Nope. Manager?” R. J. sighed. “The manager was a bean counter type and his office told me nothing. The chef, then? So I saw the chef and gushed about the duck and tried to get an idea of the layout of the nonpublic areas where Tommasin might have been held. Other than the manager's office there was a small meeting room. I had a beer at the bar before I left, and if I spotted anything relevant it was there because back in a corner booth I saw a man and a woman who didn't fit in talking very seriously and quietly to one of the waiters. Not mine. The man was dressed like a day laborer who'd come straight from the job digging ditches, and the woman wore cutoff shorts and a tank top and was constantly looking around, sort of like she was afraid. Things changed hands, I'm not sure what, then the couple got up to leave, only they went out through the back, which I didn't feel like risking, not on their heels, and by the time I'd skirted around to the alley they were gone."

  "They might not have had any connection to Jay Tommasin anyway."

  "Probably didn't. They owed the waiter money, or he's the woman's ex-husband, or—who knows? The point is, I didn't get to follow them, and they were the only moderately fishy thing I came across, so we're at a dead end, sort of. Did you go through that manuscript?"

  "Yes. And the packet Larry gave you.” It was my turn to sigh. “If your evening turned up nothing, my three hours of study turned up its virtual equivalent—everything. And you, at least, got a gourmet dinner."

  "One of my few perks. Explain everything."

  I leaned against him and drew my legs up on the sofa before saying, “Larry may have told you that Latino gangs and crack cocaine were Jay Tommasin's big interests, but I didn't find them so particularly, especially not in his memoir. He wrote about mob assassinations, two famous rape-abduction cases, that horrible young woman who hired killers to murder her parents back in the seventies and got caught immediately afterward. He wrote about you, R. J. Carr, you and Anton Wojtusik and the Austin District corruption trial—and he barely mentions the El Norte gang or cocaine in that chapter, so he wasn't particularly interested in his pet topics then.