Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Chapter Nine

  MONDAY, JANUARY 21, 2013—6:30 A.M.

  Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Bertie Bigelow rolled out of bed, splashed some cold water on her face, and staggered into the kitchen. As she stood groggily, waiting for the kettle to boil, the phone rang.

  “Mrs. B?” The voice on the other end of the line was soft and hesitant.

  “Speak up. I can barely hear you,” she said. “Who is this?”

  “It’s LaShawn Thomas.” In a louder and somewhat injured tone, the young man continued. “You know. From school.”

  The kid should have begun this call with an apology, Bertie thought sourly.

  “I don’t have time to fool with you now, LaShawn. I drove all the way out to your house to see you. You should have talked to me then.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. B. Do you hate me?”

  “Of course not,” Bertie said quickly. “But I can’t say I’m happy. What on earth is going on? It must be important, or you wouldn’t be calling me so early in the morning.”

  “Damn right, it’s important.” LaShawn’s voice rose an octave. “I’m in jail. The police say I killed Judge Green. But it’s a lie, Mrs. B. I thought since your husband was a big-time lawyer and all, maybe you could help me.”

  For the past eighteen months, Bertie had nurtured this boy, helping him transform himself from sullen outcast into Dean’s List material. True, he’d disappointed her. But murder? It was just not possible. Or was it?

  “Be honest with me,” she said. “I know you were at the Jackson Towers that night. I saw you go inside.”

  “Of course I was there,” LaShawn said impatiently. “I was working. The Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic asked me to take a package over there, which I did. But that’s all I did. I sure didn’t kill nobody. I never shot a gun in my whole life!”

  “There’s got to be some mistake. Where are they holding you?”

  “I’m at the District Three lockup,” he said. “Grand Crossing. You know it?”

  Bertie’s stomach tightened. Of course she knew it. Last year two prisoners there had died from “unknown causes.”

  “I’m no lawyer, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m on my way. Sit tight, and don’t say a word to anyone until I get there.”

  Bertie punched Big Mac’s home number into her cell phone. They had not spoken since Angelique’s drunken meltdown on Friday night. It was entirely possible Mac would feel uncomfortable talking to her. However, this was a matter of life and death. If anyone was capable of getting her student out of that infamous holding facility, it was Mac.

  “I hate to bother you, but I don’t know where else to turn,” she told him. He listened quietly as she explained the situation.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the police station in half an hour.”

  Although the Grand Crossing lockup was only three miles from Bertie’s home, it might as well have been on another planet. The bustling neighborhood of stores, apartment buildings, and churches she remembered from her childhood days had become a vast urban desert. Block after block stood empty—no people, no businesses, no homes. On the side streets where the black middle-class folks of her parents’ generation had proudly staked their claim on the American Dream, gang violence ran rampant. The Conquering Lions, the Gangster Disciples, and the Vice Lords waged war on a nightly basis for control of these streets. In the past six months alone, nearly one hundred shootings had taken place in the two-square-mile area between 70th and 80th Streets and Cottage Grove and King Drive.

  By the time she pulled into the parking lot behind the bleak, windowless, white bunker that housed the District Three Police Station, Bertie Bigelow was in a foul mood. Big Mac was waiting for her in the lobby.

  “Wait here, Bertie,” he said. “I’ll talk to the cops and find out what’s going on.” After a brief conversation with the officer on duty, he was buzzed through a metal checkpoint and disappeared.

  Bertie took a seat in one of the black, plastic chairs positioned against the wall. As she waited for Mackenzie’s return, she watched a weary parade of humanity stream in and out of the police station. Victims lined up at the front desk to report crimes—houses broken into, cars stolen, dreams destroyed. In a separate line, friends, relatives, and lawyers of prisoners waited patiently to have their IDs checked by the beleaguered officer on duty.

  When Mac returned a few minutes later, his face was grim.

  “Did you get to see LaShawn?” she asked, struggling to keep up with the burly lawyer’s pace as they strode outside into the frigid January day.

  “Oh, I’ve seen him alright.” Mackenzie turned to face her. “We need to talk. Can you follow me back to Hyde Park? Maybe we can get some breakfast. This place depresses me.”

  Once they’d settled into a corner booth at Salonica Diner, a cozy, low-budget hangout near the University of Chicago, Mackenzie spoke.

  “Look Bertie, about what happened Friday night. I just want to say how sorry I am.”

  “No need to apologize,” Bertie said. “These things happen. Is Angelique alright?”

  Mac shrugged. “I suppose. She’s been flying off the handle like that a lot lately. Drinking too much. Making scenes.”

  “Have you talked to her, Mac?”

  “I’ve tried,” Mac said. “Of course I’ve tried. She says I work too much. Says I don’t pay attention to her, treat her like furniture.”

  Bertie sighed. “Have you thought about going to see a marriage counselor?”

  Big Mac reached across the table and patted Bertie gently on the arm.

  “Don’t try to solve my problems for me, okay? This is something I’ve got to handle on my own.”

  Bertie blushed and looked down. “The last thing I’d want to do is get in your business.”

  After an awkward pause, the lawyer cleared his throat.

  “Well. On to Mr. LaShawn Thomas then.” He blew on his coffee, then took a sip. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for you to get mixed up in this thing, Bertie. After all, the judge was a friend of yours.”

  Bertie grimaced. “I don’t know if friend is really the right word. LaShawn is my student, David. I know him. He’s bright, and he’s talented. I just can’t believe he’d do anything like this. What did he tell you?”

  “He does admit knowing Judge Green. And get this—he says it’s not the first time he’s dropped by the judge’s apartment late at night. The way he tells it, he and the judge were friends.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what he says. I would more likely use the term acquaintances, but, in any case, it seems he and Green had some connection.” Big Mac leaned forward. “And this is where it gets really crazy. LaShawn says he’s been supplying the old man with weekly doses of a male hormone supplement called Testemaxx.”

  “Testemaxx?” Bertie raised an eyebrow. No wonder Theophilous was such a horny old bastard.

  “Yeah,” Mac said, blushing slightly. “LaShawn says the stuff comes in an inhaler. It’s stronger than Viagra, plus it takes effect immediately.”

  “How in the world would LaShawn get hold of something like that?”

  “He says he was delivering the stuff for the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic,” Mac said.

  “When Dr. Taylor opened that clinic three years ago, my husband helped him get his paperwork together,” Bertie said. “As I remember, there was some controversy involved.”

  Big Mac laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. It was an all-out war. The Chicago Tribune called Taylor an ‘ignorant witchdoctor,’ and the county sheriff tried to shut him down. Your late husband had to file an antidiscrimination suit just to get the clinic licensed.”

  “Having been through such an ordeal, it’s hard to imagine Dr. Taylor would want to be associated with anything even remotely out of the ordinary.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Mac said. “How stable is this kid? I heard about what he did at the Christmas concert. Is there any chance LaSha
wn could be making this up?”

  “It’s hard to say, given his behavior. Obviously, he’s got a serious grudge against Alderman Clark. But he’s not a killer, Mac. He’s just not the type.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mac said. “No offense, but you can be a bit of a Pollyanna when it comes to assessing people.”

  “Guilty as charged, Counselor,” Bertie said. “I suppose I would look even more foolish if I told you I knew LaShawn was at the Jackson Towers New Year’s Eve but didn’t tell the cops about it.”

  Mac put down his fork and gave Bertie a stern look.

  “You would look very foolish, indeed. Don’t tell me you’ve been withholding evidence.”

  “I didn’t exactly withhold evidence,” Bertie said carefully. “I just didn’t volunteer anything. That’s different.”

  “What in the world’s gotten into you, Bertie? What makes you so sure this boy is innocent?”

  “As a teacher, you get a gut feeling about kids,” Bertie said. “A certain look in their eye when they’ve cheated on a test. The way they stand when they really want to sing the solo but are too shy to step forward. Call it women’s intuition, if you like. But I know LaShawn would never kill anyone.” Bertie buttered her blueberry pancakes and covered them with a generous river of maple syrup. She knew she’d have to pay for this indulgence at the gym later on, but this morning seemed to call for unusual measures. “So many of my students walk in the door with the deck stacked against them. I know it sounds corny, but I believe they deserve a chance. Truth is, I’m an inveterate optimist.”

  “And I am an ex-prosecutor. We’re talking about Theophilus A. Green, the first African American ever to join the Illinois Supreme Court. It seems unlikely LaShawn even knew this guy.”

  “Then why was he in the judge’s apartment? Are you telling me that out of all the apartments in Jackson Towers, LaShawn just happened to pick Theophilous’s place?”

  “The judge was an elderly man who lived alone. He would have been an easy target. According to the police report, the apartment had been ransacked. The judge’s credit cards, laptop, and cell phone are missing. Worst of all, the police found the murder weapon in a dumpster behind Jackson Towers. The kid’s prints are on it. They’re smudged, and they’re not the only prints, but they’re there.”

  “LaShawn could be telling the truth about those testosterone supplements. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to talk about this, but maybe I should.” Steadying herself with a deep breath, Bertie gave the lawyer a blow-by-blow account of her visit to the judge’s apartment.

  “Good thing I didn’t know about this,” Mac said. “I’d have gone over there and shot the old bastard myself. You alright?”

  “I’m dealing with it.”

  “It tears me up to think about someone treating you that way.” Impulsively, Mac reached across the table and squeezed Bertie’s hand. “If there’s anything I can do to help—anything at all—just ask.”

  Bertie nodded. As Mac’s hand continued to rest gently over her own, Bertie became intensely aware of its warm and comforting presence. How long had it been since a man had touched her like that? Steady, girl, Bertie told herself. Taking a deep breath, she withdrew her hand and placed it carefully in her lap.

  “Both you and Angelique have already done so much for me,” she said. “Please tell her how much I appreciate her letting let me drag you down here. I wouldn’t have done it if they’d put LaShawn in a different holding facility. But prisoners have died in the Grand Crossing lockup, Mac.”

  “It’s okay. Angie was already on her way out when you called. Said she was going to meet some friends for brunch.” Turning his face away from Bertie, Mac stopped talking and stared bleakly through the plate-glass window at the cars passing on 57th Street.

  After a moment, the burly lawyer cleared his throat.

  “Look here. Normally, no one cares what happens to the guys in the lockup, but Detective Kulicki owes me a ton of favors. I’ll ask him to keep an eye on LaShawn tonight.”

  “Then what?”

  “He’ll have a bond hearing sometime tomorrow. If I can convince the judge that LaShawn is not likely to leave the state, he’ll be allowed out on bond until his trial. But don’t mount up that white horse just yet.” Mackenzie leaned forward and looked Bertie in the eye. “I’ve had a lot of experience with these kinds of cases. Your student is lying to you. It is entirely possible LaShawn Thomas is nothing but a cold-blooded murderer.”

  Chapter Ten

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 2013—6:30 A.M.

  When Bertie woke up and looked out her window the next morning, she groaned out loud. Eight inches of snow had fallen during the night. As she contemplated the day ahead, she suppressed the urge to pull the covers up over her head and hide. Snow or no snow, she absolutely had to get to work on time. The last thing in the world she needed was to be late for her nine o’clock appointment with Chancellor Grant.

  The fact that he was having her come in on his first day back from Christmas vacation struck her as ominous, to say the least. If Delroy were here, he would have taken her in his arms and told her not to worry. While the two of them shared a cozy breakfast, he’d have reminded her how difficult it is to fire a faculty member with tenure. Then he’d have gone outside and shoveled off the sidewalk, spread a protective layer of salt crystals on the front steps, and excavated both their cars. If Delroy were here . . . But he wasn’t. Rapid and lethal as an avalanche, memories of her dead husband engulfed her. Tears stung her eyes and splashed down her cheeks onto the bedspread. If only Delroy were here . . .

  Whoa, girl. Keep it together. This is no time for a meltdown. Willing herself out of bed, Bertie tugged on her winter coat, pulled a pair of no-nonsense galoshes over her shoes, grabbed her snow shovel, and stepped out into the bright winter morning.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,” Colleen O’Fallon shouted, cheerfully flinging shovelfuls of snow into a large pile alongside the curb. Colleen and her twin sister, Pat, were retired schoolteachers who had moved to Chicago from Ireland in the 1970s. As far as Bertie could tell, the two women had lived in the house next door ever since. Both sisters were thin with translucent skin, halos of white hair, and watery blue eyes that did not miss a trick.

  “Who’s that, Collie?” Pat O’Fallon, dressed in a vintage, beige overcoat with a matching scarf and green wool cap, peeked out from behind the tail fins of their 1978 Oldsmobile, snow shovel in hand. “Is that Bertie?”

  “The very same, Pat. Who else would ya be expectin’?”

  Ignoring her sister, Pat said, “Grand little snowfall we’re havin’, eh, Bertie?”

  “Lovely,” Bertie agreed with an ironic smile. From the moment she and Delroy had moved into the neighborhood, the O’Fallon sisters, who had no children of their own, had watched their comings and goings with the same lively interest with which other people watched the soaps on daytime TV.

  “We were thinking ya’d never make it out here,” Pat continued, chopping vigorously at a stubborn patch of ice. “After all, you’ve probably got other things on your mind.”

  “Sure she does,” Colleen added. “What with the police stoppin’ by and all.”

  “Especially with the police stoppin’ by,” Pat said. “Not to mention all the other visitors comin’ and goin’ at all hours. Quite naturally. You’ve been havin’ developments. Isn’t that right, Bertie?”

  With the focused intention of two hungry sparrows, the O’Fallon sisters cocked their heads inquiringly. Bertie sighed. While she cleared what felt like a ton of snow from the top of her car to a pile alongside the curb, Bertie told the two women about Judge Green’s death and Detective Kulicki’s subsequent visits.

  “I told you Bertie knew that judge, now didn’t I, Pat?” Colleen stuck a shovel triumphantly atop the snow pile she’d created and poked her sister in the ribs.

  “You did no such thing,” Pat retorted. “That’s just your style, now isn’t it? Always tryin’ to grab the glory. I was the
one who saw his picture in the paper, not you. ’Twas me that said the man looked like Bertie’s type. I was the one.”

  Inwardly, Bertie groaned. She did not have the time or inclination to ask the two white women exactly what they meant about the judge being her “type.” Presumably, it meant that, like Bertie, he was a light-skinned African American. When it came to matters of race these days, nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. Pleased to have avoided at least one misstep on the mine-strewn battlefield of race relations, Bertie retired indoors and got dressed for work.

  She walked into the sprawling Metro College complex two hours later. Thanks to an influx of federal funds in the 1990s, the college had a shiny glass building that contained the auditorium, a state-of-the-art computer lab, and the administrative offices. Most of the actual teaching, however, went on in the same ramshackle structure that had housed the school since the 1950s. After checking her email messages, Bertie dropped into the faculty lounge for a cup of coffee. The dingy, windowless room was packed with teachers and buzzing with gossip.

  “I’m assuming you’ve all read about our Golden Boy,” Maria Francione said. A forty-something redhead known for her quick wit and fiery temper, Francione was the school’s drama teacher. “Listen to this,” she said, picking up a copy of the paper and adjusting her reading glasses. “LaShawn Thomas, a twenty-year-old student at Metro Community College, has been arrested in connection with the murder of Judge Theophilus Green. Although he continues to maintain his innocence, Thomas has admitted that he was in the judge’s apartment on the night of the murder. ‘Judge Green was my friend,’ Thomas stated.”