by P. G. Abeles
The fact that the victim was a teacher also told the lieutenant something. In Chicago’s “pay to play” culture of patronage and corruption, the unions were all-powerful, and the most powerful union was the teachers’.
In Chicago’s ruined school system, the teachers union called all the shots. Most of the schools only went half a day; the teachers were too expensive for the city to be able to afford an ordinary afternoon school closing. As parents and city administrators and the school board fought over books and basketballs—too many things in too short supply—no one mentioned the union wages that crippled the system from the start.
Union negotiators had essentially secured Chicago public school teachers a sinecure for life, including a lifetime pension that sometimes ended up paying a teacher a salary in retirement for more years than he or she had worked. Many, if not most, of the teachers hated the system, which promoted union loyalty above teaching ability or commitment to the students. But the teachers were themselves powerless against the corrupt bosses. The union system rewarded its own: essentially guaranteeing some of the least-credentialed, least-accomplished teachers in the nation the highest salaries. But in a one party town like Chicago, no one was willing to take on the union.
Many rationalized their decision to remain mute, hesitant to criticize. If the union had perhaps overbalanced, they reasoned—in consideration of teachers’ long history of being under-appreciated and underpaid—the pendulum swinging in the opposite direction for a time was no more than delayed justice.
Whatever the principles involved, in actual practice the combination of high wages, guaranteed employment and generous pensions, meant the teaching jobs were sought after —and in Chicago’s pervasively corrupt system—shared out among the favored few like sugarplums. It was almost impossible to get inside the system without doing favors for somebody.
The victim was lying face down on the floor. A burgundy circle of viscous fluid surrounded his head like a halo. The man’s long dreadlocks had been undisturbed by the explosion that took off his face. In addition to the single gunshot to the head—from the back, Harrison noted without surprise—the young tech lifted the sheet from the body and pointed to the left side of the victim’s back— a single gunshot wound to the heart.
“Insurance?” said the tech with a ghoulish smile.
“Looks like,” Harrison replied.
Harrison ticked off a mental checklist of what he already knew: no sign of forced entry, no struggle, no prints. The techs had been all over the apartment, were still there trying to find something. The place was wiped clean—too clean for an amateur—not even the decedent’s fingerprints were on anything. And, of course, nobody had heard a thing. Maybe it would turn out some cash and some credit cards were missing. But if they were used, Harrison was willing to bet, it would be by some homeless guys living under an underpass—celebrating the sudden turn their luck had taken with the acquisition of some rotgut wine and a couple of packs of smokes.
Stuff was dumped out of drawers, scattered around the apartment in order to make the case for a burglary gone awry, but the gunshot wound to the back of the head told the story. This was not an unpremeditated crime of robbery, not a crime of passion. This was an execution-style hit on someone who knew too much about something—or at least somebody thought he did. Somebody was cleaning up.
When Harrison’s father had been a cop, the police had solved nearly 90% of their cases. As gang and drug violence became more prevalent in the intervening years, the solve rate had declined, but what most people whose knowledge of crime solving was based on hour-long TV dramas didn’t realize, was that it was still around 70% in most major metropolitan areas. What that should mean to the average perp looking to take out a girlfriend was that you get caught a lot more often than you get away with it.
Most murders were pretty uncomplicated. When you considered it logically, deciding to kill someone was an enormous commitment. For regular people, there were actually very few people who had sufficient personal interest in their life— one way or the other—to justify the enormous risk of killing them. Most people simply weren’t important enough for lots of people to want them dead, a fact which narrowed the potential universe of suspects considerably.
First to be suspected was the victim’s family. Next, were the victim’s co-workers or people with whom he had business dealings. Now, of course, this could raise the number of suspects dramatically, depending on your profession. A drug dealer, for obvious reasons, was more at risk from his “workplace” associates than a computer programmer, for example. Last was the person’s social group. Virtually all murders—something approaching 85%—were committed by someone the victim knew.
Crime scenes told a story to experienced cops. Scenes of great violence were most likely between people who knew each other well; too well, as it turned out, for one of them. Stabbing was a “personal” way to kill someone. The impulse to get close enough to cut someone, to make them bleed—was an impulse of passion, of anger. A gunshot wound to the back of the head told the opposite story—the killer was dispassionate, all business—there was no inclination to make the victim suffer or seek a confrontation, only to make sure the job was done. In most cases, it was because the murder was a business arrangement, occasionally it was powerful evidence that the murderer was afraid of the victim.
Real robberies had a different feel to them than staged robberies—where it was more likely the victim’s stuff would be trashed—again mostly because it was acting as a cover for a crime of passion. Real burglars were methodical, professional; the last thing they wanted was an interaction with a human or animal that might complicate things. Burglars didn’t spend a lot of time emptying drawers and piling stuff on the floor—dead-giveaways to the returning homeowner that they’d been there. The longer it took for a burglary to be detected, the better. So they kept it clean, they kept it quiet.
“Lieutenant?” A young uniform called him over. “Victim’s name was Antwone Green. Wallet is missing. Some jewelry seems to be missing from a box in the bedroom, presents taken from under the tree. The uniform gestured to a garishly decorated feather tree in the corner of the apartment. “Neighbor next door knew the vic well—said he was like a son to her—wanted to wait for you, sir. She’s over here... Mrs. Dendra Jones, sir.”
Harrison stepped out of the apartment to where an elderly woman with an enormous scoliosis hump hovered in front of the hallway door. She looked like a question mark.
“Mrs. Jones?” inquired Harrison politely, extending his hand, “I’m Lieutenant Harrison.” He could see the elderly woman had been crying.
“Antwone was the nicest boy,” she said, a sob catching in her throat.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harrison, respectfully. He noticed there was an intelligent glint in Mrs. Jones’ eyes.
“I just can’t believe this has happened. He used to buy my cat food, you know. A special brand. You can’t buy it at the grocery. Organic. My cat has diabetes...like everybody else around here,” she said, waving her hand impatiently to include some of the elderly African American residents gathered in the hallway. “The store’s too far for me to walk. He used to go all the way out there in his car to get it for me. Did you know cats get diabetes, Lieutenant Harrison?”
“No, ma’am I did not,” Harrison replied courteously.
“Well, now you know,” she said, nodding her head.
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a pause.
Harrison leaned toward the elderly woman, his voice low: “Did you notice anything unusual, Mrs. Jones? Any reason someone might want to hurt your…ah…. Mr. Green?”
Dendra Jones cocked her head to one side. “Well, sure I can,” she said, as Harrison and the plainclothes taking notes straightened with surprise.
“It was that crazy young fella Antwone was always mooning after that was causing problems for people,” she paused. “People at the church,” she said knowingly. Dendra Jones could see that Harrison was disconce
rted.
“I didn’t tell the other one when he asked,” she said gesturing to the detective inside the apartment. “And may be I’d be better off not telling you now. I’m sure that’s the sensible thing. But the sensible thing ain’t always the right thing. He was a lovely boy, you know,” she said, and she started to cry softly.
Harrison knew he needed to press her. “Mrs. Jones, please, I need to understand who you think might have done this,” he said.
Dendra Jones turned her tortured spine to look Harrison in the eye.
“He was a sweet boy, you understand?” she said, as if challenging him to disagree. “Always taking care of people, doing his best. Kind. That was Antwone Green.” She paused for a moment, as if wondering how much she wanted to say. She looked at Harrison levelly. She considered him a moment appraisingly, then she spoke. “Didn’t like girls, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, with studied seriousness.
She nodded, pleased that he hadn’t interrupted.
“Liked boys…funny like that from the time he was just a little guy—always getting into his mother’s things. Didn’t choose nothing, you understand? It was just the way the good Lord made him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harrison replied deferentially, nodding his head.
Dendra Jones had something on her mind.
“Gay—they call them gay! When I was growing up—well, gay meant something different—happy, fun, joyful,” she laughed without mirth—a great sadness in her eyes.
“What was so gay about it? Looking for men to have sex with in public toilets? There wasn’t nothing gay about his life—you understand me?” Again, she looked Harrison directly in the eye, challenging him to disagree or demur.
“He should have gone someplace—someplace where they would accept him—maybe he could have been with someone—had a real relationship. You know, a partnership—like Oprah and that nice Gayle. Been happy. But his whole life was being choirmaster of that church, so he kept it under cover. But you could see it was eating at him just the same.” She shook her head sadly. “Antwone was never himself, you see. Then he lost his head over that young man—some runaway he found at the bus station. Before you knew it, he got him a job, got him cleaned up and had him singing with the choir.” She paused, considering:
“Oh, Antwone was crazy about him.” She closed her eyes as if remembering. “Handsome is as handsome does, they say—but I’d be lyin’ if I told you different. He was a mighty good-looking boy.” She sniffed dismissively. “But that one. He was just no good. He had his sights set on an altogether bigger fish. Took up with somebody he shouldn’t have.” She looked at Harrison meaningfully. “Somebody that can’t have any talk.” She paused, considering. “And now, most likely, they’re both dead.”
Harrison exchanged glances with the plainclothes. He noted with approval that the man was taking detailed notes.
“Mrs. Jones—Do you know the name of the young man?” Harrison asked quietly.
“Kevin. That’s all. If he told me the last, I don’t remember it. Didn’t have no reason to. Good looking,” she replied, “but trouble, just like I said. Everybody ’round here knows him. Disappeared about a month ago, supposedly on a fancy vacation in the Caribbean.” Her waggling eyebrows expressed the full measure of her skepticism of this scenario.
“And you have reason to believe that’s not true?” Harrison asked pointedly.
She harrumphed. “Only the sense the Good Lord saw fit to give me after 86 years, I guess. A 22 year-old boy who ain’t got two cents to rub together starts making a fuss about being in love with an older man. A married man. A connected man. A man with a lot of hard friends that have big plans about how he’s going to help them get ahead.” She paused, her voice full of cynicism. “And all of a sudden with no goodbyes to anyone, he’s gone for a long vacation on some island?” she questioned. “Who’s paying for that?”
She paused, as if considering: “Who around here has money like that?” She shook her head, looking like a wise old owl.
“More likely, he’s wearing a pair of concrete shoes in Lake Superior than swanning around sipping umbrella drinks in the tropics, if you ask me.”
A black and white cat with a black patch over its right eye walked down the hallway and started winding its tail between the elderly woman’s legs. She passed a trembling hand over her eyes, obviously exhausted.
“Mrs. Jones—would you prefer to sit?” Harrison asked solicitously.
She brushed aside his concern with a weary attempt at a smile.
“Don’t make no never mind to me—this spine pains me something terrible, one way or t’other,” she replied.
The plainclothes brought her a chair. Harrison continued
“And the victim…” he quickly consulted his notes.
“….ahhhhh Mr. Green. He suspected somebody at the church?”
Dendra Jones shook her head in disgust.
“That boy,” she replied, her voice pregnant with motherly aggravation. “He didn’t suspect nobody. Never did.”
She paused thoughtfully. “But he would have figured it out, I expect—same as me…given time.” She thought for a moment as if struck by an idea.
“And he wasn’t the quiet type when there was trouble, neither.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Harrison said with a smile.
Dendra Jones laughed, remembering.
“No, sir, Antwone Green was not quiet. Antwone Green was brave like a lion. Always stood up to the bullies. If anyone did a bad thing—well, he’d have his say around it.” She shook her head sadly.
“Antwone loved him; that Kevin, he was a bad boy— but Antwone loved him just the same.”
Harrison waited politely as Mrs. Jones dried her eyes with a rumpled tissue. “Mrs. Jones, I need you to come down to the station with me and make a statement. Will you do that?” Dendra Jones shook her head, tiredly.
“No, sir. This has been a long day and I’m an old woman with a friend to mourn.” Her eyes were filled with a deep sadness.
Harrison persisted. The statement was important.
“You could come with me right now, which I would prefer…”
Mrs. Jones smiled and shook her head, ‘no.’
“…or I could send a car for you tomorrow, if that would be better.”
He hated to delay, but it was late and the elderly woman was nearly fainting with fatigue.
Dendra Jones nodded her head slowly.
“That would be best,” she said simply.
May I have Sergeant Timmons see you to your apartment?”
“Well, I would take that very kindly,” she answered almost coquettishly. The sergeant escorted her to her apartment next door, the cat keeping stately pace beside them.
Harrison turned to the plainclothes. “Fisher—please get all Mrs. Jones’ information and have her sign a preliminary statement. Make arrangements for her to come down to the station tomorrow. Let’s make sure she’s comfortable, okay?”
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
“Have you guys been interviewing the other tenants? Anybody else coming up with this line?”
“No, sir, not that I’ve heard, sir, but I’ll get right on it.”
“Good. Oh, and Fisher? While you’re at it, see if anybody’s seen any of The Minister’s ahh…security team around here lately.”
Fisher looked at him knowingly, but his voice was carefully expressionless. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
Chapter Eleven
Chicago, Illinois
TO HARRISON, AND MANY OTHERS IN THE CHICAGO POLICE Department, The Minister’s private security force, known as the “Guard,” were goons plain and simple, never mind their choir boy expressions and buttoned up uniform of coat and tie. These guys were tough, repeat offenders schooled on the mean streets. They had very little in common with the conventional muscle-bound, overfed, and slow-witted men who usually found jobs as ‘security’ to the rich and famous. Harrison had had reason to run in
to them on more than one occasion. What worried him, when it didn’t infuriate him, was that The Minister’s “bodyguards” were allowed to carry concealed weapons anywhere they wanted. Sure, any celebrity might have a bodyguard or two—but The Minister basically operated a private army who made it their business to be as intimidating as hell. Nobody else would ever get away with it. Of course, it hadn’t started out like that.
Initially, they had refused to carry weapons. Calling themselves the Guard of Jehovah, they claimed to believe they were protected by their righteousness. Less well publicized, but perhaps equally useful, was the judo and military training they received at Elijah Farms–a 5,000-acre training facility and commune the Guard operated in southwest Georgia. Regardless, their role was controversial–even among African Americans. It was true that most of the guards were recruited from prisons and detention centers. However, in a very real sense, the Ministry had demonstrated its ability to reform men on whom the criminal justice system had given up. Clearly, too, the Guard had repeatedly succeeded where conventional police forces had failed, and failed miserably.
The Guard’s 24/7 strategy of remaining on-site in the projects where they were deployed allowed them to clean up areas that had been hopelessly drug-infested for years—sometimes in a matter of weeks. More than that, their policy of not using weapons in the residential projects caught their adversaries off-guard. If they found people within the complex selling drugs, they evicted them. They went through basements, laundry rooms, hallways, and stairways and cleared them of loiterers or suspected bad actors. People in the projects were more likely to perceive them as the “good guys” rather than just another armed band. They practiced abstinence, famously refraining from alcohol, tobacco, or drugs. In the early mornings, they appeared in the central courtyard and did calisthenics in unison. Later, in the afternoons, they jogged through the projects, chanting. Lastly, they had provided the community with powerful male role models of civility and respect (addressing the project’s inhabitants as ma’am or sir –or if younger—brother and sister), initiative, and in a very real sense, power.