“God created man and gave man free will.” Rabbi Wass was ready for this one. “Men are free to act with compassion and goodness or with evil. God watches. If we destroy each other, He watches. If we honor Him and perform acts of contrition and decency, He watches. God takes the dead unto Himself, but He leaves us free to plot our own destinies.”
“I don’t see that anywhere in the Torah,” said Maish. “I read it twice, once last night. The Bible is not full of wisdom. It is full of contradiction, mistakes, and nonsense. And it is full of evil. Abraham and others pretend their wives are not their wives and turn them over as whores to protect their own lives. God gives commandments and then creates so many rituals that we can’t keep up with them. Offer flour, kill rams and sheep, spread blood on the altar and you’re forgiven for stealing if you pay back twenty percent extra. Don’t eat animals that have cloven hooves. In Leviticus, a hare is named as an animal that chews cud and has a cloven hoof. Aaron’s sons make the wrong kind of fire at the altar and God immediately burns them to death. Where was their chance to make offerings and atone? And He goes on and on about lepers? We don’t have any lepers.
“Cain kills Abel,” Maish went on, checking the scrawling words on his pad. “He’s forgiven. Jacob and his mother cheat Esau out of his inheritance simply because he is hairy. Isaac refuses Miriam because she isn’t pretty enough for a wife, but he has no trouble taking her to bed and having children.”
“We’ll discuss all that,” Rabbi Wass said, looking at the interested faces of the small group. It was clear that a number of them regarded Maish as slightly mad. A few knew something about what had happened to his son. Most did not want to know.
“God is evil,” said Maish. “That’s that. God is selfish. Sits there demanding we spend our lives thanking Him, praising Him, and what does He do for us? Persecution, the Holocaust, the murder of innocent people like my David.”
It was definitely the longest speech Bess had ever heard from her brother-in-law, and though he had a pad in his ample lap he had only referred to it once. Now he sat back, lips tight, waiting for the slightly flustered rabbi to respond so he could attack again.
Bess was at her brother-in-law’s side now. He didn’t seem to notice. Was he really going mad? He had been close to something like it when David had died. She was torn between trying to usher him out of the sanctuary and letting him speak. Maybe there was something cathartic in Maish’s coming tonight. Maybe he had to get it out. She touched his arm. He looked at her as if she weren’t there and turned back to Rabbi Wass.
“God’s ways are difficult to know,” Rabbi Wass admitted.
“Difficult?” responded Maish. “In Leviticus, He says to Moses that even those who commit a sin and don’t know it should repent and present a sacrifice. How do you repent if you don’t know you’ve committed a sin? Is God crazy? The answer is clear. God is crazy. Madness rules the universe.”
This was not what the small gathering had expected. From their faces, Rabbi Wass could see that the group was about divided between those who were riveted by this performance and others who were exasperated by the ravings of this fat man whose voice sounded as if it were about to break.
“If you —” Rabbi Wass began, and was cut off again by Maish.
“The plagues. God tells Moses to go to Pharaoh and tell him to let the Jews go or something terrible will happen. Pharaoh says okay, hunky dory, and then God — it says right there in Exodus — hardened the Pharaoh’s heart and Pharaoh changed his mind. Pharaoh keeps saying yes and God hardens his heart. What sense are we talking here? People are dying. Moses does what he’s told but unless he’s some kind of idiot, he’s got to be wondering what’s going on. What’s God doing here? Having fun? God is crazy.”
“There are many, including me,” Rabbi Wass tried, “who believe that much in the Bible is not so much simple fact as enigmatic lesson, mysterious ideas to be explored and discussed. The one solid irrefutable fact is that God tells us to be good to each other, Jew or Gentile.”
“And in return,” said Maish, “He goes around, at least during the Torah times, killing the enemies of the Jews and throwing them off of their land. You ask me, the Bible was written by a lot of different people who made it up as they went along, not knowing what it meant, not knowing if they were contradicting or talking nonsense. And mostly they talk nonsense. Were there no innocent people in the world but Noah and his family when God drowned everyone?”
“You’ve given us a lot to consider,” said Rabbi Wass, “maybe the cornerstone of our discussions. Your question is not ‘Does God exist?’ but ‘Is God good or evil or both and how can we understand and live with his capriciousness?’ ”
“David is dead,” Maish said, standing, the frayed sheets of his yellow pad flapping. “My grandchild is dead before leaving his mother’s womb. My aunts, uncles, cousins died in concentration camps. I want nothing to do with your meshugena God. If he wants to burn me like the sons of Aaron, here I’m standing. I’ve blasphemed. I live. God plays sick jokes.”
With this Maish eased his way past Bess and went slowly up the aisle of the sanctuary and out the door. Bess exchanged a quick look with Rabbi Wass who was trying his best not to look flustered by the attack. Then Bess got up and followed Maish. It was going to be a very, very, long day and night.
Until now they had never hit a convenience store before dark. It was Antoine’s idea. He had paced back and forth in their small room rubbing the top of his shaved brown head thinking out loud.
“They expect us at night, right?” he said.
Irwin Saviello shrugged. It was true. Antoine had turned off the television set so he had no choice but to listen or pretend to listen.
“Okay,” said Antoine. “We been hitting places in the same area, this side of Ridge, right?”
“Right,” said Irwin.
“So, some time they’re gonna start laying for us, maybe cruising by, getting lucky,” said Antoine.
Irwin said nothing. Antoine needed nothing said to keep pacing and talking.
“Why don’t we just go to Milwaukee?” asked Irwin. “Where they don’t know us?”
“So, we hit someplace further north like,” Antoine said, ignoring the big man. “Maybe right on Howard Street, other side of Western, and we do it before it gets dark.”
“Okay,” said Irwin.
“And then we start hitting places on the South Side,” said Antoine. “Or maybe if we have enough, we drive to St. Louis, stay with my brother and work there.”
“Okay,” Irwin repeated.
If he got all he wanted to eat and could watch television, then it didn’t matter to Irwin where they went, Milwaukee, St. Louis, the South Side. If he could also get the chance to hit some people hard, watch their noses or cheek bones break, or cut them open with his knuckles and then take the money from the register and a big bag of sweet things and some sandwiches, that would be fine. He had no other ambitions. He knew Antoine spent most of what they made on drugs, but there was always enough for what Irwin wanted and needed and he needed someone like Antoine to tell him what to do. It didn’t matter to Irwin that Antoine was black. Irwin didn’t have a prejudiced cell in his body. People were people. Except the Pakistanis and Indians who often owned or ran the convenience stores they hit. He didn’t know why, but Irwin hated Indians and Pakistanis. He didn’t like the way they talked, the way they drove, the looks they gave him as if he was something to get away from. He liked hitting them.
And so they had risen and cruised the neighborhood up and down Howard Street. The places too close to the lake were not prime targets. They were at the edge of the Jungle, black people with no money, a lot of fear and hate walked the streets, and the 7-Eleven clerks probably had shotguns strapped under the counter aiming at each customer as they paid. They drove farther out and spotted a place near California, a small place, not one of the chains, a good four or five blocks beyond Western.
Irwin sat in the car while Antoine went in and bought a
pack of Kools and a Hershey’s with almonds. He gave the candy bar to Irwin when he came out and started the car.
“Perfect,” Antoine said with a smile backing out.
Antoine was looking jumpy. He was in a hurry to spend some of their money on drugs. That was okay with Irwin. Later they would go back to the convenience store.
“Indian?” asked Irwin.
“I think so,” Antoine said, trying to drive and open his pack of cigarettes. “Mighta been some kinda Spic. Little mustache. You know?”
Irwin nodded and ate his candy bar. He was content.
CHAPTER 5
“NO CRIME,” HE REPEATED in the interrogation room, his huge arms folded.
Abe and Bill had found the man known as Clarence Millthorpe very easily. They knew he had some cellar or vacant apartment where he could hide, but they hadn’t had to take the time to search. They had found the big man right on the hood of a pickup truck eating a couple of pieces of bread with something between them.
“Look up at that window” had been the man’s first words as he pointed toward a window in the apartment behind him. “Big guy, wears one of those baseball caps with DIESEL or some such shit written on it, red beard, tough. Afraid to come down here and tell me to get off his truck.”
Abe and Bill had pulled right next to the truck blocking one lane of traffic on Lunt. They had gotten out slowly, ready for trouble. Hanrahan was not only ready. He almost prayed for it.
“We would like to talk to you,” said Lieberman. “Could you get down off that hood?”
Millthorpe slid off the hood still eating and said, “Talk to me about what?”
“Last night you threatened a woman, called her names, scared her,” said Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged, stuffed what was left of his sandwich in his mouth, and wiped his hands on his scruffy trousers.
“You gonna take me in? Give me something to eat?” Millthorpe asked. “You take me in, you gotta feed me somethin’.”
“Let’s go,” said Lieberman as Hanrahan stepped very close to the big man, definitely invading his space. Millthorpe had inched past him and into the backseat of Abe’s car. He couldn’t have been more cooperative.
“I remember you,” Millthorpe had said. “Name’s … Jew name … Liebowitz … no, Lieberman.”
Lieberman driving hadn’t answered and when Millthorpe, with a pleased look on his face, turned to Hanrahan, who sat next to him, the policeman didn’t even look at him.
Now they sat in the small interrogation room, Millthorpe on one side, the two policemen on the other. On one wall was the traditional one-way mirror. The mirror was scratched and stained. Behind it was a tiny room, barely big enough for three people standing. Whoever was in that room could see and hear everything that went on. Abe knew it. Bill knew it, and ninety-nine percent of the witnesses, victims, and suspects questioned in the room knew they might well be watched and listened to by people beyond the mirror. Millthorpe had glanced at the …? once, shook his head, and turned in real or feigned boredom back to the two policemen.
“No crime,” he repeated. “Like all the other times. I didn’t threaten, didn’t throw anything at the lady. Threw a can down the street. Picked it up later and put it where I’d found it. Said a lot of bad words. That I rightly admit, but not at the lady. At the world. Not been treated kindly by the world, gentlemen, not been treated kindly at all. So, if you’re gonna arrest me, get me a public defender. If you’re gonna turn me over for another psycho-this or psycho-that evaluation, let’s get to it. If not, take me back home. Either way, I’m hungry.”
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan.
Someone screamed in the squad room behind the closed door. None of the three men knew if the scream had come from a male or female voice. Millthorpe looked at the door for about ten seconds, lost in some thought or memory, and then turned back.
“Where’s home?” asked Hanrahan again.
“Where you found me.”
“The hood of a red pickup truck on Lunt?” asked Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged and said, “Round abouts there.”
“This is the seventh time you’ve been brought in for questioning,” said Lieberman, looking at the file open in front of him.
“I think it’s eight,” Millthorpe said with satisfaction.
“Right,” Lieberman amended. “This makes eight.”
“What’s your real name?” asked Lieberman.
“Clarence Millthorpe. We gonna do all this again? If we are, I’d like something to eat. I told you. No candy bar and coffee or a Pepsi or some such shit. A bowl of chili, a burger.”
At that point the door to the room opened and a young uniformed officer who was, basically, running errands and answering phones for a month or two of penance came in. He was stocky, Hispanic, perfectly groomed, and obviously nervous about intruding on an interrogation.
“Yes?” said Abe.
“Sorry,” said the young officer whose name was James Guttierez. “But Detective Hanrahan is needed out here.”
Hanrahan shrugged and Lieberman nodded.
“Maybe with the big man gone,” said Millthorpe with a smile, “someone might misbehave and tear this little Jew into tiny pieces.”
Hanrahan didn’t pause. He wasn’t worried about his partner.
When Hanrahan had followed Guttierez out and closed the door, Lieberman wearily said, “Look under the table. Big surprise.”
Millthorpe cocked his head again, hesitated, pushed his chair back about a foot, and looked under the table where Lieberman was holding an army .45 in his hand.
“You even talk that kind of garbage again,” said Lieberman, “and the cleaning crew will be picking up big pieces of chopped Millthorpe. They’ll put the parts in a Hefty bag and throw it in the incinerator and no one will ever even ask about you.”
Millthorpe sat back, folded his arms, and tried to decide if the skinny little old fart of a detective was telling the truth.
“You’re shittin’,” he said.
“No,” said Lieberman. “I’m tired. I’ve got a family to take care of, responsibilities. There is no way I would allow myself to be murdered when I have a gun in my hand and you have nothing but a big mouth.”
“You got a point,” said Millthorpe.
“Good,” said Abe. “We can start again with that point of agreement.”
Outside the interrogation room Hanrahan found himself facing a black man in his thirties. The man was handsome, athletic looking, close-cropped hair and wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a heavy denim jacket.
“Father Parker?” said Hanrahan, holding out his hand.
Guttierez had fled for a ringing phone and a shout from one of the detectives across the squad room.
“I know that’s not a question about my identity,” said the priest. “I’ll assume it’s a sign that you didn’t expect to see me here.”
Sam “Whiz” Parker had been a star running back at the University of Illinois and could, unlike Bill Hanrahan who had bad knees, have been drafted within the third round when he graduated. Instead, he had received the calling and now was in charge of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in Edgewater whose parishioners were primarily Vietnamese, Korean, and poor whites. St. Bart’s was well within the province of the Clark Street station in which they were now standing.
“Can I get you …?” Hanrahan began.
“Nothing,” said Father Parker. “I heard about what happened in Ohio.”
“Yeah,” Hanrahan said, looking around the squad room.
“Thought you might like to go out for coffee or something and talk about it.”
“I don’t know,” said Hanrahan.
“We both remember last time,” said Parker.
“Vividly.” Hanrahan rubbed the back of his left hand with the palm of his right. “It won’t happen again.”
Actually, Hanrahan had suffered major losses of faith in his job: his sobriety, his family, and his religion. He had gone to St. Bart’s d
uring an investigation and met “Whiz” Parker, who knew instantly who Bill was. Bill Hanrahan had been one of his football heroes. Together the priest and the cop had begun to work things out, to put Hanrahan’s life back together. It was gradual, no push to rejoin the Mother Church, but he was headed well back in that direction. At least he had been until he saw the woman with her head blown off in a Dayton motel.
“A coffee,” Hanrahan agreed. “Maybe a burger. After we finish with the guy we’re working on.”
“Clark Mills,” said the priest.
“What?”
“The uniformed officer took me into the little room with the one-way mirror. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never been behind one. Strange feeling. Like the confessional.”
“You said …”
“Clark Mills,” said Parker. “Left Michigan State his third year to go into the NFL draft. Great lineman. All-Big Ten. Came out about five years before I graduated, between you and me. As I recall, he was injured in some kind of car crash before he even signed with the Packers, who drafted him second round.”
“You sure that’s Mills?”
“I’m sure,” said Parker. “What’s he done, if I can ask?”
“You can ask,” Hanrahan said. “Maybe you can even help if you want to.”
“If I can,” said Parker. “Mills was a great player.”
“Now he’s homeless and harassing people over on Lunt.”
“Mills?” Parker looked at the interrogation room door. “He’s the one who’s been doing that? I’ve heard about him. Has he hurt anyone?”
“Not yet,” said Hanrahan, “but it’s just a question of how long if we don’t do something, and he doesn’t show any sign of cooperating. He scared the hell out of a woman last night. She’s more than just shaken up.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go back in the room with the one-way mirror and come in the interrogation room if I call.”
“That’s it?”
“That’ll do,” said Hanrahan.
“Then coffee and talk,” Parker reminded him.
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