No Show of Remorse

by David J. Walker

  “So he’s thinking all right.”

  “I’d say so. Seems quite happy, too. He’s in good condition for being beaten as badly as he was, but he’s not out of the woods yet. We’ll be running more tests tomorrow and…” He looked at his watch. “Why don’t I just take you to him?”

  We walked side-by-side up a wide curving stairway. “So,” I said, “this place is what? Like a nursing home?”

  “We’re licensed as a hospital. Unique, really. Equipped to handle a maximum of thirty patients; but we’ve got, or can quickly get hold of, most everything any metropolitan medical facility can offer.”

  On the second floor we turned right and went from the lushly carpeted landing into a hallway where our heels clicked on a floor that looked like oak, but was probably some synthetic.

  We passed a couple of closed doors and I asked, “These are patient rooms?”

  “Exactly. Six on this floor; three of them occupied right now. We keep the doors closed, whether the rooms are occupied or not. Our clients—we call them clients—value their privacy.”

  “Is there a nursing station somewhere?”

  “In a sort of alcove at the far end of the hall.” He pointed. “Actually, staff all come and go through an entrance at that end. Visitors generally come this way. Feel free to look around a bit, but right now … here’s his room.” He stopped at a closed door, then turned to face me. “I want you to feel assured that, whatever else happens, your friend is getting the finest medical care available.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but not certain what he meant. “Let’s go in.”

  Tyne knocked on the door and pushed it open a crack. “You have a visitor,” he called. Then to me, “I have to go now. I’m sure you can find your own way out.”

  “Thanks.” I went inside and Tyne pulled the door closed behind me.

  It looked like another one of way too many hospital rooms I’d spent time in, with its highly polished floor and pastel painted walls. The TV set high up on the wall was turned off; soft sunlight filtered in through gauzy drapes drawn across the large window. The bed was surrounded by stainless-steel IV hangers and other poles, and a mile or so of plastic tubes and lines hooking Yogi up to various machines with little read-out screens and blinking lights.

  There was just the one bed, but there were three visitors’ chairs—and there were visitors sitting in two of them.

  CHAPTER

  22

  BOTH VISITORS WERE MEN, and both rose from their chairs as I entered. I could have turned around right then and left in a hurry. I stayed, though, because Yogi was there. He was asleep in the bed, flat on his back and breathing in soft, peaceful snores, his mouth wide open. He didn’t seem to be expecting anyone.

  One of the men was Theodosian, the detective who’d made me think Yogi was dead, and he and his friend obviously were expecting someone—me. “Got delayed at the fortress gate,” I said. “Have I inconvenienced anyone?”

  It was Theodosian who answered. “Not today,” he said, “at least not yet. We—”

  “Forget it,” the other man interrupted. He had the same intense look and the same wire-rimmed glasses he’d worn a few days ago, when I told him he couldn’t use his cell phone in the underground train station. “No need to apologize.”

  “Good,” I said, “because I didn’t.”

  “Anyway,” Theodosian said, “we need to talk.” He nodded toward the man to his left. “This is Detective … uh … Smith. State of Illinois Corrupt Official Practices Task Force. Called ICOP.”

  “Delighted,” I said, but neither of us made a move to shake hands. “Never heard the name ‘Uh Smith’ before. Is that Uh hyphen Smith? Or—”

  “We’re here on business,” he said.

  “Right. ICOP business. You dream that up yourself, Detective Uh-Smith?

  He sat down and crossed one leg over the other, but he was red in the face and not as relaxed as he pretended. “You talk to this guy, will ya, Theo?” he said. “I don’t have time to waste on assholes.”

  “Have a seat, Foley,” Theodosian said.

  I stayed standing. “I have the same time management problem as your partner here,” I said. “Besides, you lied to me.”

  “You jumped to the conclusion that he was dead.” He nodded in Yogi’s direction. “I didn’t correct you.”

  “Like I say, you lied to me.”

  “At the time I thought you might have stomped a guy half your size through the cracks in the concrete on Lower Wacker Drive. Now I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “I’m on temporary assignment to ICOP. Have a seat and see why we’re here.”

  I sat. Theodosian angled his chair to face me, while Uh-Smith pulled a little black notebook out of his shirt pocket and studied the pages. Yogi snored on.

  “So,” Theodosian started, “we have a—”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Doctor Tyne. He knew you were in here?”

  “He didn’t like it, of course. Not at all. But … well, when we found out your friend Breaker Hanafan had—”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “You’ve had dealings in the past.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “Fine. Anyway, somehow Hanafan got the patient tranferred here, so we spoke to Doctor Tyne … about possible visitors.”

  “And he told you I’d be here today. So much for confidentiality.”

  “Inverness Clinic has an excellent reputation,” Theodosian said. “Of course, it has to meet about a zillion state licensing requirements, you know, so…” He nodded toward Uh-Smith, who gave a little chuckle. “Anyway,” Theodosian went on, “we thought a chat might be useful, for us and for you.”

  I was planning to stay until Yogi woke up on his own, anyway, so I sat there.

  “First,” Theodosian said, “this is off the record. None of it goes beyond this room. Okay?” He waited, but I didn’t answer. “Do we have your word on that?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jesus.” Uh-Smith shook his head. “Do you practice being an—”

  “I guess your partner forgot he doesn’t have time to talk to me,” I said, keeping my eyes on Theodosian. “Anyway, giving my word is what got me into this in the first place. I don’t take it lightly.”

  “Put it this way, then,” Theodosian said. “We’d like you to keep this to yourself.”

  “Fine. I understand your preference. Go ahead.”

  “I think you and I share a common interest.” He said. “You want your law license back, and—”

  “And you want to help,” I said. “That’s nice.”

  “I couldn’t care less.” He let my sarcasm go. “What I care about is what went down that night at Lonnie Bright’s place.”

  “You were there,” I said. “As I recall, there’s even a report signed by you.”

  “Call like that comes in, ‘Shots fired … police officer down,’ everyone responds. I was a sergeant. My job turned out to be keeping cops out of there. Calm them down and send them on their way. Keep guys from fucking tripping all over each other and contaminating the scene.” He seemed to be reliving the incident as he spoke. “Three or four cops shot; at least one dead. It was a goddamn nightmare. Guys running around, looking for someone to— Well, let’s just say … emotions were running high.”

  “Tell me about it. I wasn’t even in the picture for several days,” I said, “and emotions were still, as you say, ‘running high.’” I paused. “So you’re saying it’s still an open case, and you’re working it with an undercover state dick. What is it you want from me?”

  “What I really want is to know what your client Marlon Shades had to say.”

  “I just told you, when I give my word, I don’t—”

  “Right. I know.” He leaned forward. “But … let’s say your guy said something that could have gotten himself in trouble. Otherwise, you’d have advised him to talk. But maybe he didn’t know anything helpful to the Lonnnie Bright case. You could at least reveal that. Besides,
the client’s dead, for chrissake.”

  “First,” I said, “it’s a lose-lose situation. If I say he didn’t know anything helpful, everyone thinks I’m lying. If I refuse to say that, everyone thinks he did know something, and I get pushed even harder. Second, saying what my client didn’t say is revealing the contents of the conversation—or close enough for me, anyway.” I shrugged. “So there you have it.”

  “Actually,” Theodosian said, “that’s what I thought you’d say. So—”

  “Wait a minute,” Uh-Smith finally couldn’t stand keeping his mouth shut. “Three people are fucking dead and we got a citizen here who can help sort things out. But no. This one’s Mr. Tough Guy, and he’s got his fucking word to live up to. Is that it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s it. About all I do have in my trade is my word.”

  “Maybe.” He stared at me. “Or maybe you’re just one more faggoty freak who hates cops.”

  “I got no problem with most cops,” I said, “homophobic or not. But my eyes have been open a long, long time. My dad was a cop and he was straight, right up to the end, and then a few bad cops fucked him over and took him down with them.” I leaned in then, and poked a finger at his face. “So don’t talk to me about—”

  “Take it easy,” Theodosian said, “both of you.” He looked at his watch, and then at me. “Here’s the deal. You aren’t gonna tell us what your punk said. Fine. But you’re stirring up a lotta shit right now. You got some people worried, and I wanna know who it is. What I want is for you to share with me anything you’re learning—new stuff, not covered by the goddamn lawyer-client privilege—but anything that’ll help me find out what really did happen, and close out this fucking case.”

  “And I get what? A certificate of good citizenship?”

  “You get my testimony. I tell everyone how I understand your ethical position. I even say I respect your sticking to it—if I can say that without throwing up. I tell how you went out of your way to help the authorities this time. What I do is, I tell the supreme court that you oughta get your license back.”

  “And in the meantime,” I said, “are you gonna tell me what you learn?”

  “Why—” He stopped. “It’s a police investigation. You know the drill.”

  “Of course,” I said, remembering that my interest was supposed to be in my petition. “I just mean anything that’ll help me get my license.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “We got a deal,” I said, thinking it wasn’t much of one. “Someone sure doesn’t want me to go ahead with my petition for reinstatement.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “Well, I filed it and figured no one would pay much attention. Then one day I pick up my mail and there’s a letter … an anonymous letter. A threat. There was a spider taped to the paper, with its legs pulled off. The letter said that’s what would happen to me if I didn’t drop my petition.”

  Uh-Smith leaned forward. “You save this letter?”

  “Why would I? It was a cowardly, chicken shit note, for chrissake. Or would it have scared you?”

  “Jesus.” His face was red again. “What kind of—”

  “Forget it,” Theodosian interrupted. “What else has happened?”

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I closed the door behind them. I’d moved on to tell them about the guy with the camera and the green Crown Vic. “Two white guys. Could have been you two.”

  “Could’ve been,” Theodosian said, “but wasn’t.”

  “After that it’s Uh-Smith, here, tailing me in the train station.”

  Theodosian seemed surprised, but said nothing, and I went on to tell them about my broken toilet and the shit smeared on my front door; about the masked goon attacking me in the park and trying to make me eat my petition. I told them about pouring beer into Richie Kilgallon’s drink. I told them Breaker Hanafan didn’t know anything about any of it, but was helping Yogi as a payback to me for a debt long overdue.

  There was more I didn’t tell them—including about Stefanie Randle hearing Maura Flanagan tell Stefanie’s boss not to file objections to the petition, and about my conversation with Jimmie Coletta. Stefanie and Jimmy were topics I wasn’t ready to discuss with them yet.

  Still, we were pretty close to even … because they left without telling me one damn thing.

  CHAPTER

  23

  I CLOSED THE DOOR behind them and hadn’t even crossed back to Yogi’s bed before a wide-bodied, no-nonsense nurse came backside first into the room, pulling a cart with a white cloth draped over whatever was on it, and asked—not unpleasantly—whether I didn’t think my friends and I had spent enough time with the patient already.

  “They’re not my friends.” My refrain for the day. “Besides, I haven’t even talked to Yogi. He’s been asleep the whole time.”

  “Yogi?”

  “Mr. Doherty’s nickname.”

  She asked me to wait in the corridor and I did. Fifteen minutes later she came out, smiling and shaking her head as though Yogi had said something funny, and warned me not to tire Mr. Doherty out, and I went back through the door.

  “Hey, big mon.” Yogi’s voice was weak and hoarse, but not bad for a guy with a tube running into his nose and down his throat. The head of the bed was raised so that he was sitting up. “How you doin’?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “But what about you? You in any pain?”

  “Not so bad, uh-uh.” He reached under the sheet and came out with a little push button device. “I get feelin’ bad, mon, I just hit this here and the dope flow in an’ the pain be gone.”

  “Who did this, Yogi?”

  “Who gimme the button? Doctor Bob, mon, he—”

  “No. Who beat you up?”

  “Oh, I don’ know, big mon. I don’ be smokin’ the shit so much like before, mon, since I doin’ the yoga thing. But, you know, sometimes I still hit the bong. Like last night … Thursday, Friday, whatever … I be floatin’ along down there where they fixin’ Lower Wacker an’ wham! wham! wham! … an’ I wake up in the County, missin’ a kidney.”

  “What?” I’d never even asked what his injuries were. “They took out a kidney?”

  “Jus’ one outta two. Doctor Bob, he say they more worried about my brain waves, but everything seem okay. He say—”

  “You know it’s my fault this happened, don’t you?”

  “Don’ know nothin’ like that. But, hey, I be fine now. Layin’ around waitin’ for nurses to come give me a bath an’ stuff. Not bad, hey?” He grinned and started to laugh, but that made him cough and he couldn’t stop coughing and his shoulders hunched up and the pain was obvious in his face.

  I just stood there until he stopped. “Have you been pressing the button for your pain medication?”

  “I do the yoga thing, mon.” He was short of breath. “Try to pay attention. Feel inside the pain.”

  “So, you should just suffer, because—”

  “Plus the dope make me sleep all the time.”

  “Well, you were sleeping when I got here this morning, anyway. So what’s the difference?”

  “Not sleepin’, big mon. Pretend sleepin’. Hear everything.” He grinned again, which brought on more coughing, and more pain.

  “Please,” I said, once he’d settled down. “Don’t laugh.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “You help the fuzzies, big mon, like they say?”

  “Maybe.”

  “They lookin’ to catch someone from what? Couple years ago? That be way over, mon. Why not catch today’s bad guys?”

  “Five years ago. Cops killed a drug dealer and his girlfriend in a shootout at his place. But three cops were shot, too. One died; one can’t walk. They think there was another shooter involved, and they want the missing shooter. They wanna know what happened.”

  “Sometimes people find out what happened from long time ago, they find out they don’ wanna know.”

  I st
ared at him. “They … they don’t think that way.”

  “They say you help them, they help you get your license back.” He reached for his water glass. “What license that?” When he swallowed, he winced in pain.

  “Hit the damn button, Yogi.”

  “I hit it when you leavin’,” he said. “So what license?”

  “Law license.”

  His eyes widened. “Hey, mon. You a lawyer?” He seemed disappointed.

  “I was. They took away my license.”

  “Shoulda made you happy, mon.”

  “What have you got against lawyers?”

  “Got nothin’ against nobody, big mon. You wanna help the fuzzies ’cause you wanna be a lawyer again … that’s cool, mon. Each gotta do his own.”

  “I don’t really want to help them, and I’m not sure I really want to be a lawyer again.”

  “But you gonna do both.” He grinned, and I thought he was going to laugh, but he stopped himself. “An’ peoples say I the one tink funny.”

  “If I help the cops, it might also help me find out who attacked you.”

  He seemed more amazed than ever. “For why you wanna do that, mon?”

  “Because first I’m gonna tear his ass off, and then I’m gonna have him tossed in jail. That’s why. I told you. It’s my fault this happened to you.”

  “This here happen ’cause I be smokin’ outta my brain, mon. Didn’t see the fuzzies comin’ up.”

  “What? You mean it was cops who did this?”

  “Maybe just one, I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m on the ground and I hear the radio thing and he answer it.”

  “Would you recognize his voice again?”

  “Prob’bly. But, hey, mon, I been beat up before. Fuzzies, dopies, whatev—”

  “Did you know you had my business card in your pocket?”

  “Nope. Where I get that?”

  “Exactly. I didn’t give it to you. And there was writing on the back of it. It said, ‘Use your head, asshole, or there’s more to come.’”

  “You tinkin’ someone tellin’ me not to help you?”