Big Silence

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“Coffee, a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts, and talk,” said Hanrahan.

  Parker headed back to the little room with the one-way mirror and Hanrahan opened the door to the interrogation room where Lieberman was saying “… a one-way bus ticket to a destination of your choice. And you don’t come back.”

  Hanrahan closed the door and moved to the chair he had been sitting in. Mills didn’t even look at him.

  “Not interested,” said Mills.

  “Well,” said Lieberman. “Maybe we can persuade you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe we can, Clark,” said Hanrahan.

  Lieberman turned slowly to his partner. The big black man across the table stood up suddenly, his chair falling back against the wall.

  “Behind that mirror is a man who recognized you,” said Hanrahan. “He used to respect you. He’s watching to see how you handle this.”

  “Who?” said the huge man, leaning forward toward the detective.

  “I don’t feel like telling you right this minute,” said Hanrahan. “Not till you sit down, behave like a reasonably sane human being, and we come to some agreement.”

  “No.” Mills looked at the mirror.

  “Pick up the chair, Clark,” said Lieberman. “Sit in it. Do you know what happens now that we know who you are?”

  Mills looked down at Lieberman.

  “Pick up the chair and sit down,” said Lieberman.

  There was a long pause while the sound of voices from the squad room came through the door and into the small room. Two people out there were crying at the same time. It sounded like a contest to determine who could be more annoying.

  Sullenly, reluctantly, Clark Mills picked up the wooden chair, sat, and crossed his arms.

  “I’m sure,” said Lieberman, “my partner has already asked that your records be sent to us by e-mail or fax immediately.”

  Lieberman was less than sure, but he said it anyway. They could probably handle Mills without expense to the department, and it was doubtful even if they tried to get it that they could get much information that day.

  “That’s confidential,” said Mills. “I want a lawyer.”

  Hanrahan folded his hands on the table. Lieberman slipped his .45 into the right pocket of his trousers, out of sight of anyone who might be looking.

  “We will inform your college, Michigan State, about what you’ve turned into,” said Hanrahan. “Your coach. Your teammates. Probably they’ll publish a little article asking former fans and teammates to kick in twenty cents each to send you. A fund for a homeless bully, a former MSU All-American.”

  “You’re shittin’ me,” said Mills, not at all sure if Hanrahan were telling the truth. “Who’s behind that mirror?”

  “You have family, Clark?” asked Lieberman. “We’d better find out who they are and where they are and tell them what you’ve turned into. They may want to help. Then again, they might just be humiliated. They still might want to help. Your parents alive?”

  “Don’t know,” said Mills. “My mother was last time I knew.”

  “Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, high school coach and teachers, friends?” asked Hanrahan.

  Mills was sweating now and breathing deeply. Hanrahan was ready to stop him if he came over the table at the two detectives. Hanrahan wanted him to come over the table.

  “Want to tell us where you’re from?” asked Lieberman. “We can still stop the people back home from finding out what happened to their hero.”

  “Albany, Georgia,” Mills said with a sigh.

  “How’d you like a ticket back there?” asked Hanrahan.

  Mills was silent. He unfolded his arms, didn’t know what to do with his hands, and finally placed them nervously on his lap.

  “No,” said Mills. “You bastards think I got a family living in some shack with dirt floors. My father’s a professor of economics at Albany State College. My mother’s a lawyer. My sister manages a doctor’s office in Albany. My brother … There are no failures in my family but me. I’m not going back. But I’ll think about going somewhere if you stop those calls to Michigan State and you keep this away from my family.”

  Hanrahan and Lieberman looked at each other.

  “How about Dallas?” asked Lieberman. “Warmer there. Know someone there who could try you out on a job. Not much of a job, but …”

  “I’ll think about it,” Mills said, looking at the mirror again.

  “About Dallas or the job?” asked Hanrahan.

  “The job,” said Mills, defeated.

  “We’ll take you down to the Greyhound station and put you on a bus. We’ll even give you twenty-five bucks,” said Lieberman. “You don’t come back to Chicago. Never. I don’t care if you become governor of Texas, Georgia, and Arkansas combined.”

  Mills nodded and said softly, “I gotta pick up a few things I’ve got stashed.”

  “Whoever takes you to the bus will stop with you,” said Hanrahan.

  “Want to go alone,” said Mills. “I … I got a cat I’ve got to do something with.”

  “Take him to Dallas,” said Lieberman.

  “Her,” said Mills.

  “Her,” Lieberman conceded.

  “I want to think about that and I’ve got some things to pick up. I can’t run. I don’t want my people to know about me. They think I’m a regional sales manager for Budweiser. Probably wonder why they haven’t heard from me in … I don’t know how many years.”

  A look between the two detectives and Hanrahan said, “Okay. But not overnight. We pick you up with whatever you’ve got in the park on Lunt and Sheridan. You have three hours. Find a bench near the street and wait. You’re not there, we find you and make those calls.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Mills. “I gotta know. Who’s behind that mirror?”

  The truth was that Lieberman was almost as curious as Mills. He looked at Hanrahan, who said, “Come in, Father.”

  No more than five seconds later Father Parker came into the small room. Mills looked up without immediate recognition though something in his eyes seemed to …

  “Whiz Parker,” said Mills.

  “Father Samuel Parker,” Hanrahan amended.

  “You recognized me?” said Mills, looking up at the priest.

  Parker nodded and said, “You were a pleasure to watch play.”

  “I didn’t think anyone would recognize me, not ever,” said Mills.

  “You a Catholic?” asked Parker.

  “I’m nothing. Family is Baptist, but mostly for show. Small college town. I don’t think my mother and father believe in God. Don’t know about my brother and sisters. They go to church.”

  “I saw your last game,” said Parker. “Michigan State, Illinois. Never saw a quarterback protected so well by one lineman.”

  Mills shook his head, remembering. “Wanted to impress the scouts.”

  “No,” said Parker. “That was the only way you knew how to play. You take care of yourself and trust these two policemen.”

  Mills nodded, sitting up a little straighter as Parker left the room.

  It was Lieberman’s turn to get up. He went out into the squad room in search of a uniform to take Mills back to his neighborhood. Father Parker was looking at the madness of the squad room, his hands in his pockets. Lieberman went to his desk where he found four messages. One was from Bess saying call immediately. One was from someone who called himself Aztec, one of the many names of Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol. Aztec had left a number. The third call was from his daughter, Lisa, who was at the house and wanted to talk to him soon. “Soon” was underlined. So she hadn’t left for Los Angeles yet. The last message wasn’t a phone call. It was from Captain Kearney telling him to come to his office as soon as he could.

  Lieberman called the uniform division assignment desk and asked Lieutenant Gibson if he had someone who could make a brief run. Gibson said, “Sure. We’re running slow this A.M. Four car accidents. Two bar fights with one in the hospital. The issue was Notre Dame footb
all. Pawn shop robbery. Four drug pickups. Slow. Bring your man down. How’s the Gornitz business coming?”

  “I’m getting back on that right now,” said Lieberman. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “We serve and protect,” said Gibson as he did at the end of every conversation with a fellow officer and had for more than twenty years.

  Lieberman ignored his messages for a while and went into the interrogation room where he told Hanrahan that everything was ready. A definitely defeated, slouch-shouldered Clark Mills came out and looked at Sam Parker.

  “I was good that day,” said Mills.

  “You were great that day, Clark,” said the priest. “If I had a photograph, I’d ask you to autograph it.”

  “That’s my desk,” said Lieberman, pointing to his desk near the window. “Go have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  Mills made his way slowly through the crowd and maze of desks and chairs and sat next to Lieberman’s desk.

  “Father Parker wants to go out for a cup of coffee and some talk,” said Hanrahan. “So do I.”

  “Enjoy,” Lieberman said.

  “What about Stashall?” asked Hanrahan.

  “I’ll go pay him a visit,” said Lieberman. “We’ll talk later.”

  His partner and the priest worked their way to the squad room door and out. Lieberman ushered Clark Mills down to the uniformed assignment room and turned him over to Gibson.

  “Three hours, Clark,” Lieberman reminded him.

  “Three hours,” the big man repeated. “I’ll be there.”

  Lieberman went back upstairs checking his watch. It wasn’t even eleven and he was starving. The memory of chopped liver in front of his partner suddenly came over him. It was almost worth the damage to his cholesterol count. Fortunately, there wasn’t enough time to fall off the wagon. He made his way back upstairs and knocked at Kearney’s office. Kearney called “come in,” and he did. Kearney sat at his small conference table along with Assistant State Attorney Eugene Carbin, who wore a frown and greeted Lieberman with a nearly disgusted shake of his head.

  “Have a seat, Abe,” Kearney said.

  Lieberman sat. Something was definitely about to happen. There was an open box on the desk. Next to the box was a rolled-up paper towel that looked as if it had come out of the box. Next to that was a piece of paper with printing on it.

  “Message was in the box. It’s for you,” said Carbin, looking at the piece of paper.

  Had the lawyer been white, Lieberman thought, his face would be bright red.

  “Box came to me,” said Kearney. “Delivery service. Already checked. Sender paid cash, dropped the package at the delivery office. Left enough money. No one saw or remembers seeing who left the package.”

  Lieberman sat silently as Kearney turned the sheet of paper toward Abe so he could read it.

  “I already touched it,” said Kearney. “It was addressed to me. Don’t touch it. We’ll check it for prints when we’re done.”

  Lieberman considered trying to read the note without his glasses. Carbin wore glasses. What the hell. He took his glasses from his pocket and read the note without touching it.

  TO DETECTIVE ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN: THIS IS A WARNING ABOUT WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. GORNITZ DOESN’T TESTIFY. TELL HIM WHAT YOU’VE GOT IN THE BOX. THERE’LL BE MORE LITTLE GIFTS TILL GORNITZ PROVES HE DOESN’T PLAN TO TALK. HE KNOWS HOW TO PROVE IT. THE BOY WALKS WHEN WE KNOW GORNITZ ISN’T GOING TO TALK.

  There was no signature.

  “What do you think it means?” asked Carbin, making it clear that he had his own ideas about what it meant.

  “For some reason,” Lieberman said, “I’ve been picked to tell Mickey Gornitz that if he doesn’t commit suicide, whoever has his son will kill the boy. Which leads me to the next conclusion which is that there’s something wrapped in that towel meant to convince me and Mickey that they mean what they say.”

  With that Kearney carefully peeled back the folds of the paper towel to reveal what Lieberman recognized as the neatly severed section of a finger.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Carbin.

  Lieberman took off his glasses and examined the finger joint without touching it. It was bloody at both ends, nearly white. The tip of the finger was missing. Lieberman looked closely and leaned back.

  “Middle joint,” he said. “No fingertip, no fingerprint. May not be from the boy. Looks a little puffy to be from a seventeen-year-old. Forensics can tell us.”

  “Why not send us one of the boy’s real fingers?” asked Carbin.

  “Don’t want to risk killing him,” Lieberman guessed, “or making him so sick that they’ll need a doctor, a hospital, to keep him alive.”

  “And?” Carbin asked, listening closely.

  “Seems like a dumb move by Stashall,” said Abe, looking at the note and finger joint. “He’s no Sam Giancanna, but he’s no fool. He probably figures that we’ll know it’s not the kid’s. Maybe he’s giving us a chance to convince Mickey. Maybe the next package will be a piece of the kid.”

  “The way you figure it?” Carbin asked Kearney.

  “Yeah,” said Kearney, sitting back.

  All three men were looking at the box, the note and the finger joint, hoping they’d give them an answer to what they should do next.

  “I wonder whose it is,” Carbin said, looking at the center slice of finger.

  “Forensics,” said Lieberman standing.

  “I want you to talk to Gornitz,” said Carbin.

  “You mean he wants to talk to me.”

  “Whatever,” said the weary attorney. “Nothing about this. Tell him we plan to find his son alive. Stall while we put pressure on Stashall.”

  “Pressure?” Lieberman repeated. “Stashall’s facing prison. Maybe worse. There are mob people out there who might think Jimmy Stashall would talk and go into witness protection. They might want him dead. It wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Fifteen in the last five years,” said Carbin. “All dead. All mob. All unsolved.”

  “I don’t see what he’s got to lose by trying to get to Mickey,” said Lieberman. “And I don’t see much we’ve got to pressure him with. Can I go now? I’ve got a family problem I’ve got to take care of.”

  Kearney nodded. Lieberman got up and left the room. He would check with forensics later when they had time to look at the items on Kearney’s desk. In the squad room, Lieberman moved his .45 from his pocket to the holster under his jacket. Then he headed for his desk. He would pay a visit to Johnny Stashall, go see Mickey Gornitz again, and do what he could to take care of those family problems.

  CHAPTER 6

  HUANG CHEN COUNTED THE fortune cookies to be sure each box contained the one hundred promised on the label. He had been buying them for the last year from a family of recent Korean immigrants. They charged little for the fortune cookies but shorted him on the allotted number frequently. Where was honor in this generation?

  People did not notice Huang Chen and that was what he wished. He was small., wore dark slacks and a slightly frayed but always clean and well-pressed matching jacket over one of his off-white shirts. He seldom spoke unless spoken to and was content to run his restaurant and barely exist.

  Huang Chen loved his daughter, though he never told her so.

  Huang Chen did not like the idea that Iris was determined to marry the big American policeman. Not only was he white, but Hanrahan carried a heavy burden of guilt and tragedy that Huang Chen could feel in his presence.

  Though he would never say so, he would far prefer that Iris marry Liao Woo, who was very rich and very old. He would take care of Iris. He would respect her. But this was America, and Huang Chen had learned long ago that the word of a father was of value only if his children agreed with him. It was a hollow respect.

  Liao Woo had hinted that if Huang Chen wished it, the American could be persuaded to cease his attention to Iris. Iris’s father had indicated politely that he did not favor this approach. Yet the more he saw of the br
ooding Hanrahan, the more he considered that it might be his duty to protect his daughter whatever the consequences.

  He finished counting. There were only ninety-seven cookies in the box.

  Jimmy Stashall wasn’t hiding. He could usually be found in his home in Northbrook or his office on Montrose. His office on Montrose, not far from the El, was four rooms including a modern, well-furnished reception area where various members of Stashall’s operation, covering a good part of the near North Side, could be found sitting, talking, smoking. Lieberman knew them all and they knew him. The room behind the reception area was that of Stashall’s secretary-receptionist. She was young, though not as young as she looked, clean-looking with little makeup and darkly pretty. She had her own desk and computer and chairs for those who were going in to see her boss, who also was her mother’s brother and, thus, her uncle. Jimmy’s office was old wood, antiques, bookcases, photographs, and real paintings on the wall of scenes of the Mediterranean. The entire office suite was modeled after Clark Gable’s in Boom Town, though Jimmy had forgotten most of the details of the movie, which he hadn’t seen for at least fifteen years before he had the office decorated.

  Jimmy Stashall’s more-or-less-honest job was running the J.S. Office and Factory Cleaning Service, a service that sent out crews at night to clean office buildings and factories that didn’t require a full-time staff. Both sides of his operation had employed Mickey Gornitz as bookkeeper and memory.

  Lieberman tried to focus on Stashall as he headed south toward Montrose on the Outer Drive. He’d probably only have one good shot at Stashall, who would have his lawyer call Carbin’s office and complain about police harassment.

  Before he had left the squad room, Lieberman had called home. Bess answered. He knew Lisa was probably home, but wouldn’t want to answer in case it was her ex-husband, Todd, or her current husband, Marvin.

  “Everyone in the world suddenly seems to have a loch en kopf, a hole in the head,” said Bess. “I was just going out the door when the phone rang. I’ve got to run. Shirley Ovitz is waiting outside for me.”

  Bess made it fast. She told him what Maish had done at the temple and urged Abe to go see his brother as soon as possible.