The Apostles

by Y. Blak Moore

  Big Ant accepted the ring box as he stared at the dicks with a look that could have melted the diamond mounted in the white gold engagement ring.

  As the detectives tucked Solemn Shawn in the rear of the car, he called out, “Take that to Bezo and tell him to hold that down for me, A.”

  Bristling with anger, Big Ant nodded his head.

  THE INTERROGATION ROOM WAS BARE EXCEPT FOR A TEN-inch-wide steel bench that ran the length of the room—deluxe accommodations for the accused. One of the homicide and violent crimes detectives' most successful procedures for extracting statements from suspects was to leave them alone in a room like this for a few hours, and let them sweat it out. After a couple of hours had passed the detectives would enter the room and apply pressure to the suspect. They typically had seventy-two hours in which they could hold a man without charging him with anything, and they tended to use this tactic to their advantage. This simple formula had weakened hardened criminals, causing them to make incriminating statements and even confessions.

  Detectives Lonihan and Casey were letting Solemn Shawn sweat it out right now—or so they thought. They spent three hours doing miscellaneous things—eating lunch, doing paperwork, and joking around with the other detectives in the squad room.

  Detective Casey looked across her desk at her partner. Lonihan was reading about the Chicago Bulls' latest misadventure in the flesh market commonly referred to as the NBA draft. “Lonihan, let's go check and see if the teakettle is ready to whistle. He's been on the fire long enough.”

  Without looking up from the newspaper, disgustedly Lonihan said, “This fucking Jerry Krause is such a butt ass. This asshole is responsible for single-handedly dismantling the best team in the history of the Chicago Bulls. He allows the greatest players the game has ever seen to walk away. And who does he replace the six-time world champions with?”

  Casey took the bait. She knew that even if she didn't show the slightest bit of interest in professional sports, her partner would still somehow manage to make it the subject of conversation.

  “I don't know. Who did Krause replace them with?” she asked dryly.

  “With fuckin' babies! This fuckin' genius replaces world-class athletes with fuckin' drooling, whining babies! After every loss he talks about how we're in the rebuilding phase. It took less time to build Rome. This fucking guy drives me nuts. When is Reinsdorf gonna get rid of this stupid son of a bitch? I swear I could—”

  “Let's go dig into this guy,” Casey said, breaking into Lonihan's sports tirade as she stood. She grabbed her pad from the desktop and headed for the interrogation room.

  After folding up his newspaper, Lonihan struggled out of his chair and followed her. When they opened the door of the interrogation room, Solemn Shawn was sitting on the bench with his head against the wall. He appeared to be asleep.

  Lonihan walked over and kicked his foot. “Wake up!”

  “I'm awake,” Solemn Shawn announced. “And keep your damn feet off me.”

  The chunky Irish detective glared down at Solemn Shawn. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. I said keep your damn feet off me.”

  Instantly Lonihan's beefy cheeks reddened. He glanced over at his partner with a look of disbelief.

  Casey decided to cut him off at the pass. She didn't believe that Solemn Shawn had stewed long enough for any heavy tactics to work yet. She put her hand on the rolled-up sleeve on Lonihan's arm. “Why don't you grab us a few chairs,” she told him.

  Mumbling under his breath, Lonihan went to fetch two chairs. When he returned to the room he positioned the chairs a few feet in front of their suspect and eased his bulk into one.

  Casey took the other. She held out her hand to Solemn Shawn. “I'm Detective Casey and this is Detective Lonihan.”

  Solemn Shawn looked at her hand like it was covered in anthrax spores.

  She withdrew her hand and flipped open her notepad.

  “Why am I here?” Solemn Shawn queried.

  “Slow down, punk,” Lonihan snapped. “We're asking the fucking questions.”

  Casey silenced her partner by raising her hand. To Solemn Shawn, she said, “I see that you want to dispense with the amenities. That's cool. I like to get down to business. Do you know James Bingham?”

  “No.”

  “What about a guy named Bing?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Casey paused. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, careful not to crease her pants. “Want a smoke, Shawn?”

  “Don't smoke.”

  “How about a soda? A cold Pepsi or something?”

  “No thanks.”

  Detective Lonihan couldn't take it anymore. He pointed his fat, pink finger in Solemn Shawn's face. “Listen here, punk! My partner is trying to be nice to you and you're acting like a real jerk wad! Out there on the streets you might be a big man, but not in here, asshole!”

  With a chilling smile on his face, Solemn Shawn removed his Gucci eyeglasses. “I don't mind the news, cop, but you can keep the weather,” he said as he wiped Lonihan's spittle from his face.

  Lonihan's face screwed into a beet-red mask. “You arrogant, little shit bird! You think this is a fucking game! I've put punks like you away for the rest of their natural lives!”

  Casey had seen and heard enough. She grabbed Lonihan's arm and pulled him from the chair and whisked him out the room. She slammed the door behind them, cognizant all the while of Solemn Shawn's laughter in the background.

  “You're letting this guy make you lose your fucking cool, Lonihan! If you lose your fucking head, you lose your fucking edge! What are you thinking? This guy is smart. Too fucking smart. He made you look like a green shield in there, Detective. Is any of this getting through your thick Irish skull?”

  Some of the red had begun to drain from Lonihan's fleshy cheeks, but he was still huffing and puffing. “You heard that fucking jerk-off in there, Casey. Who does he think he is?”

  “The leader of the largest, most organized street gang in Chicago,” Casey stated matter-of-factly. “And you're in there trying to heavy-hand him like he's some sixteen-year-old triggerman in a drive-by. A Big Mac and a slap aren't going to get this guy talking. We've got to use his arrogance against him. This is not the type of guy that we can tune up to get him to make a statement or incriminate himself. If anything that'll make him shut down.”

  Lonihan didn't totally agree. “I'm telling you, Casey. This guy is a smart ass and we've got to treat him accordingly. You know how these guys are. I'm not gonna tiptoe around this guy. Fuck him. We're trying to put together a case. A case that the captain has a strong interest in getting squared away.”

  The two homicide detectives were so busy arguing that they didn't notice Detectives Hargrove and Thensen enter the violent crime division. The two GCU detectives stood and watched them argue for a few moments before Grove interrupted them.

  “You two should get married,” Grove quipped, causing Lonihan and Casey to become aware of their presence.

  “We don't have time for you guys right now,” Lonihan snapped.

  “You see this, Bull? Look at how we get treated. We bring them their prime suspect and now they don't have time for us. Well, I just had a small convo with the captain and he said that we could have a crack at our illustrious friend in there if you couldn't get anywhere with him. And judging from your little lovers' quarrel, you guys aren't getting anywhere, so we'll give it a go-round. Any objections?”

  Lonihan had to stifle a curse. The last time Captain Hartibrig had chewed him out about not wanting to accept help from the GCU was still in the back of his mind. Not wanting to see the look of satisfaction on Grove's face, Lonihan looked down at his shoes.

  Casey pointed to the interrogation room. Behind Grove's and Bull's backs she shook her head at her partner. She would never understand how Lonihan had made detective. In her opinion, he was totally inept. She could never get away with half the things he did.

  “C'
mon, Bull, let's show these homicide dicks how to do this,” Grove said confidently as he marched to the interrogation room.

  The gang crimes detectives trooped into the room. Grove grabbed Lonihan's former chair and turned it backward before sitting in it. Bull chose to stand. He leaned against the closest wall with a bored look on his face.

  There was no change in Solemn Shawn's expression.

  Cheerily, Grove asked, “What's up, A? What's cracking, A?”

  Not taking the bait, Solemn Shawn remained silent.

  “Hey, motherfucka. I'm talking to you.”

  “I hear you,” Solemn Shawn said.

  “Well, next time I ask you a fucking question you better answer, nigga. I ain't a stupid, fat Irish pig. I know who the fuck you are and what you and your Assholes are capable of doing, A.”

  Impatiently, Solemn Shawn glanced at his Kenneth Cole wristwatch.

  Grove had to smile. To his partner he said, “You see this motherfucker, Bull? He up in here acting like we inconveniencing his punk ass.”

  “Humph,” was Bull's reply.

  To Solemn Shawn, Grove said, “I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Big-time Gang Leader, but do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Shoot,” Solemn Shawn said simply.

  “We know that Bing was a Governor. We know that Apostles and Governors don't get along. The question is, why did you kill him?”

  “I didn't. Didn't know any Bing. Never heard of him. Had no reason to kill someone that I didn't even know.”

  “You hear this shit, Bull?”

  “I heard,” Bull answered.

  “Well, Bull. Riddle me this. If this asshole didn't kill Bing, then why were his fingerprints found at the scene?”

  Grove looked into Solemn Shawn's face, hoping that his announcement would have had some effect on him—it didn't. “So tell me, why were your prints found at the scene of a homicide investigation of a person that you didn't know and didn't kill?”

  “I don't know. Why don't you tell me?” Solemn Shawn said sarcastically.

  Nodding his head in approval, Grove said, “You're pretty good. It almost sounds as if you really don't know. Nice act. ‘Cept for that one mistake, you could have gotten clean away with this one. It was good work too. No shell casings. No witnesses. If you wouldn't have been drinking, you probably would have never gotten sloppy. Tell me though. Why'd you do it? I mean, this guy Bing wasn't a heavyweight. He was a young dude. For you to personally off this dude, he musta really done something. It doesn't even sound like business. It feels personal. What'd he do? Fuck one of your hoodrats? C'mon, you can tell me.”

  Still Solemn Shawn maintained his silence.

  Grove decided to turn the heat up a little. “I'm tired of this bullshit. You know what? I hate you motherfucking, gangbanging-ass niggas! You bitches ain't nothing but parasites! You sick motherfuckers get y'all hooks into these kids and promise them the fuckin' world, but all you deliver is a fuckin' body bag! Tough guys! I been fighting you bitches all my damn life!”

  With cold fires burning behind the lenses of his designer glasses, Solemn Shawn said, “I smell that.”

  “You smell what?” Grove asked.

  “I smell fear on you,” Solemn Shawn said. “I've always been able to smell it. I don't smell it on your partner, but it's all over you. You reek of it. You talk about fucking over these kids. The same motherfucker that puts packs on these young'uns. Sending them to the joint just so you can fill your quota. Yeah, you scared. That's why you became a cop. So you wouldn't have to be scared no more. You joined the biggest gang. You motherfuckers are the real parasites, using your fear to sell wholesale fear to the masses. Making a living pretending that you're serving and protecting while you're really living out your sick fantasies of having control and power.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Grove scoffed. “You niggas ain't nothing but pussies. That's why y'all stick together. You punks don't go nowhere unless y'all deep and got heat.”

  “Sounds familiar, don't it,” Solemn Shawn commented. “I read about dudes like you in psychology books. Cats with inferiority complexes. In order not to feel inferior they overcompensate. I've known little punks like you all my life. Bully motherfuckers that's really bitches.”

  Grove guffawed. He turned to his partner. “Do you hear this motherfucka? I don't believe this shit. This motherfucka is trying to psychoanalyze me. He got to be losing his fucking mind.” To Solemn Shawn, he said, “That psychobabble bullshit may work on those uneducated assholes that you run with, but I don't know who the fuck you think you dealing with. I ain't one of those fucking schmucks you got killing and dying for you. If you so fucking smart—”

  The door to the interrogation room was flung open and a short, balding white man carrying a black briefcase burst into the room. Detectives Casey and Lonihan were on his heels.

  “Let's go, Shawn,” the small man commanded.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Grove queried, jerking his thumb at the small man.

  “Benjamin Stein, and Mr. Terson is my client. I have been informed by the homicide detectives that my client has not been charged with any crime, therefore I am invoking his Miranda rights and this interview stops now. If you want to talk to Mr. Terson about this matter again, I suggest that you get an arrest warrant.”

  Grove was stupefied. To Casey and Lonihan, he said, “You just gonna let this motherfucka walk ‘cause some fancy-pants mouthpiece comes in here talking slick? I don't believe this shit.”

  “We don't like it any more than you,” Casey said apologetically, “but it's not our call. The captain says to cut him loose.”

  Grove hopped up and kicked his chair over. “This is bullshit!”

  “C'mon, Shawn, let's go,” Stein repeated.

  A light came on in Grove's head. “Hold on there. He ain't going nowhere. He is under arrest.”

  “What are you talking about?” Stein asked. “My client hasn't been charged with any crime.”

  With a sly grin on his face, triumphantly Grove countered, “Yes, he has. Illegal gambling. Your client was picked up at a street dice game.”

  “Is that true, Shawn?” Stein asked.

  “Yeah, but I wasn't gambling. I was eating some chicken.”

  “Tell it to the judge,” Grove grunted, as he pulled his handcuffs from the pouch on his belt.

  As his client was being cuffed, Stein said, “This is a misdemeanor, Detective. I expect to see my client free in a maximum of eight hours. If I don't hear from him by then, I'll be back with a court order for his release and a restraining order for you two. Shawn, don't answer any of their questions. Kick your heels up for a few hours. When you get out you make sure you give me a call. I'll post your bond at the front desk before I leave so they can't shit you about waiting on an I-bond.”

  Ben Stein headed for the door, while Bull and Grove prepared to take Solemn Shawn to the lockup.

  Shawn Terson stared at the pictures on the walls of Captain Bellows's office. The framed photographs were accompanied by a short shelf that housed several bowling and softball trophies of different shapes and sizes. Alongside the trophy shelf were awards, plaques, and certificates.

  With a small smile, Shawn realized that this small collection of personal accolades summed up the captain's existence. If the captain was lucky, maybe one or two more trophies would find their way onto the shelf. Maybe a plaque or two more might adorn the wall, but that was all he had to look forward to—and that wasn't enough for Shawn.

  Shawn felt a warm feeling of happiness as he allowed himself his second smile in as many minutes. Today he was leaving. Leaving the place that had been his home for almost four years. He had big plans. He didn't feel bad about his stay. He had been inspired inside of these walls. At the age of eighteen he was already the head of a criminal organization. It was like being the CEO of a company.

  Though an outside observer couldn't tell, Solemn Shawn was secretly looking forward to the money and power his
position afforded him. He hadn't planned on becoming a leader, but it had happened and he was going to roll with it. It felt good being the alpha wolf.

  The office door opened and Captain Bellows entered. There was no ceremony surrounding his entrance, he just appeared and took his seat behind the desk.

  Before today, Solemn Shawn had never noticed how small and weak he looked. Bellows always seemed so big and powerful in the past, especially when he was threatening the boys he was charged with keeping in line.

  Captain Bellows locked eyes with Solemn Shawn, then looked away. His eyes wandered to the window, which was frosted and barred. He sighed. “Mr. Terson, what did you learn during your stay here?”

  Solemn Shawn's mind whirred through the useful information, legal and otherwise, stored in his memory banks, but to Bellows he said, “I don't know.”

  Captain Bellows sighed again. “I didn't think you would admit that you learned anything worthwhile. I've watched you since the day you walked through the door. I took a peek at your school grades. I could see that they were about average. Too average. That's when I noticed the pattern. You only did enough to get by, never enough to stand out. I always knew there was something about you, so I had one of your instructors slip you an IQ test. Something that you couldn't purposely manipulate. Your score confirmed my suspicions. Do you want to know what you scored?”

  “I don't care,” Solemn Shawn said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Borderline genius,” Captain Bellows continued. “Test scared me. It made me take a good look at your file. I looked at your case. The judge stuck it to you. You should have gotten off with a slap on the wrist for extenuating circumstances. You shouldn't have had to grow up in here. As smart as you are you had a real chance, but all they did was create a monster. A monster that I have to return to the world.

  “Yeah, I called you a monster. I know what you've started. I know some of the things that you've been responsible for doing behind these walls, but try as I might, I couldn't catch you. You were too smart for me. I took the same IQ test as you. My score said I had average intelligence. I took it over and over again. Same score: average intelligence. Funny thing, not being as smart as a boy. The only comfort I drew from that is that I'm not a monster.”