The Bricklayer of Albany Park

by Terry John Malik

  “It would be less expensive to live at home.”

  My attempt to deflect the questions with one- and two-word answers wasn’t working. “The expense doesn’t matter. My grandfather set aside money for a college fund. It was intended for my father, but Grandpa Angelo decided that my father had neither the aptitude nor the ambition for college. So Grandpa earmarked the college fund for his first-born male grandson. That’s me.”

  “Like you, your father was an only child?”

  Impatient, I sat back in my chair and pushed it about a foot away from the table. “Yeah.”

  “Did he remarry?”

  I looked up, starting to show my aggravation. “No.”

  “Who raised you then?”

  I wanted to blurt out, “None of your fucking business!” But I would never use that kind of language with Foster. “Aunt Anna, my mother’s unmarried sister. She moved into our basement apartment, and then suddenly one day in the spring of my freshman year of high school, she packed her bag, wished me luck, and, without explanation, returned to her brother’s farm in DeKalb.”

  “You never got along with your father, did you?”

  It was more a statement than a question. I didn’t respond. He must have taken my silence as an implicit “yes.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “When he’s sober? He does odd jobs for a local contractor and some auto repairs for a few extra bucks.”

  “I take it he is an alcoholic.”

  “He’s a drunk. He used to be a Chicago fireman, an engineer—that’s the guy who drives the fire truck. He showed up for duty once too often stinking of liquor, unable to drive his rig, and his buddies couldn’t cover for him anymore. He was canned. He got what he deserved.”

  Foster showed no reaction and sat silent for a moment.

  I finally summoned the courage to end the questioning. “Look, I’m flattered that you’re curious about me, but none of this is relevant to our sessions.”

  Foster snapped back, “First, you’re not flattered; you’re annoyed. Second, I am not curious; curiosity lacks discipline. And I will determine what is necessary to advance your education.” He placed his coffee cup down in front of him, slid it to the side, and asked, “What is your worst fear, Francis?”

  I exhaled in frustration. Suddenly, one of those Chicago March gusts of wind kicked-up and blew my half-empty coffee cup off the table. It bounced and tumbled along the patio bricks. I looked over at it, but made no effort to retrieve it.

  “Francis, what is your worst fear?”

  I lied. “I suppose the same as everyone else—dying.”

  Foster wasted no time. “And yet your left wrist bears a two-inch scar, from the looks of it, self-inflicted. Too ragged to be a razor, so probably done with a dull box cutter. And from the way it’s healed, I’d guess, it was done approximately four years ago.”

  So that’s what this was about. The son of a bitch! Why play a game of twenty questions with me? Rather than look away embarrassed, I glared at him. But before I could speak, images of my father screaming at me when he found me on the bathroom floor filled my head, and his taunting in the emergency room for my cowardice in “not finishing the job” echoed in my memory. Memories I tried so hard to forget. Foster had gone too far. In one motion, I stood and, with the back of my legs, pushed my chair behind me, toppling it over. The chair clanged against the paver bricks, turning heads of those near us.

  “That’s enough. We’re done!”

  Without waiting for Foster to respond, I walked away and lost myself in the stream of students hustling to class.

  CHAPTER 14

  Anthony

  I pulled into the alley, turned off the headlights, and dropped my speed to fifteen. Unlike the alley at Murph’s, this one was well lit and relatively clean. It was lined with one- and two-car garages that sat at the rear of twenty-five-foot-wide city lots. I headed for a garage in the middle of the block where I intended to spend some quality time with Mr. Henry. The garage where I stored the camper was original to the 1920s-style brick bungalow that sat on the front of the lot, but the garage bore scars of modernization. A previous owner had altered it, adding fluorescent lighting, an electric overhead door opener, a five-thousand-watt space heater, an exhaust fan, and a drain. The drain, likely added to permit the owner to wash his car indoors in the winter, was located in the center of the garage floor.

  The rain had stopped, leaving the windshield streaked with the blurred streaks of wiper blades long overdue for replacement. I squinted, eying the cars parked on garage aprons as I navigated around puddles and potholes. I watched for any activity, and gripped the steering wheel just a little tighter when I saw a neighbor, about thirty yards ahead on my right, lift the lid of a city-supplied refuse container. I tapped the brakes, but kept going as he dumped a couple of over-stuffed brown plastic bags into the container. I checked my side view mirror as I passed, but he never looked up, and soon disappeared behind the wooden gate to his yard.

  Farther down the alley, I spotted what looked like a flash of fluorescent light creating a rectangular white sheet on the alley’s pavement. I came to a stop ahead of the rectangle of light. At that moment, I heard the automatic garage door moan and close as the sheet of light slowly disappeared into the garage.

  I drove past the empty lot next to my garage and pressed the door opener clipped to the driver’s-side visor. The peeling and cracked wood paneled door haltingly responded to the signal and began its slow ascent. This time, I waited until it was fully opened before pulling in. The roof of the camper and the damn door frame bore reminders of the times I had been too anxious to spend time with a target.

  I brought the truck to a stop just inches short of the window that faced the backyard. I depressed the remote control device again and waited until the door clanked closed with a groan and a thud against cracked cement. I stared straight ahead at the two painted-over windowpanes and could see the glow of a dim light from a window in my basement apartment. Had I left a light on?

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was in no rush. I had rushed other times and made mistakes, mistakes that deprived me of the level of gratification I wanted. But they didn’t ruin the whole experience. I could still hear the screams and see the look of terror in their eyes. I had to settle for that.

  CHAPTER 15

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I found myself sitting in the dark, on the floor in a corner of my dorm room, clutching my legs pulled up tight to my chest. The pounding of a crushing headache and the sound of rain pelting my window woke me. My rain-soaked jeans, sweatshirt, socks, and underwear were strewn on the floor around me. My desk clock read 10:00 p.m.

  Confused, I struggled to recall what I had done after I ran from Foster and from the painful memories his questions had evoked. Nothing came to me. The sole image that lingered in my head was of a patio chair up-ended on the deep red-brown paver bricks of the Student Union courtyard. Exhausted, I pulled a blanket from my bed, curled up there on the floor, and had a fitful night’s sleep.

  For the rest of the week I skipped classes, stayed in my room and slept. The headaches continued, and I lost track of time. I had no appetite, but when I did get hungry, I ate from the vending machines in the first-floor lounge. My room was littered with discarded food wrappers and empty beer cans. I saw no reason to shower or shave. I spiraled into a deeper and deeper depression as I kept asking myself the same old questions. I had experienced episodes like this before, but this time it hit me with an increased intensity—it felt like a giant thumb pressing hard against my head and chest.

  One day—I can’t remember which—during my self-imposed isolation, I sat at my desk composing a handwritten note to whoever might find it. I read and re-read what I had written. I didn’t finish the note—it wouldn’t matter. Instead, I looked down at the mini-fridge that sat next to my desk. I flipped it over, exposing its bottom panel where, three years earlier, I had taped one of my father’s handguns
that I had taken with me when I moved out. I stared at the gun and pictured putting it into my mouth and pulling the trigger. I imagined the taste of the steel barrel and could almost smell the dried oil used to clean it. I paused and stepped back from it, and from the temptation. I sat on the edge of my bed. I ran my finger over the scar on my left wrist and recalled that night in the emergency room when I was too embarrassed to even look at the doctor and nurse who tended to the wound. My world had changed since the night I tried to escape using a box cutter. Foster had changed it.

  I needed to talk to someone. I was estranged from what little family remained, and I had made no friends. There was only Foster. Just Foster. Late on a Thursday night, I called him. “Can we—?”

  “Tomorrow at eight, as usual.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Anthony

  I can’t remember how long I sat in the truck, but when I finally felt composed, I grabbed my .38 from the cup holder, stuffed it in the muff pocket of my hoodie, and got out. Inhaling the familiar damp, musty odor of the old garage, I leaned against the truck’s door, pressing my forehead against the cool, wet window.

  I’d taken the flourescent tubes out of the overhead fixture so no light would leak into the alley or be seen by my neighbors from their back porches. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I would work from the glow of the rusted Coleman kerosene camping lantern I kept for nights like this. It produced a dim yellow light that provided all the illumination I needed.

  Listening to the comforting hum of the dented chest freezer that stood in the front corner of the garage, I moved around to the rear of the camper with the lantern in hand, reviewing my mental checklist with every step—the tarp was in place, bottles of bleach and plenty of towels were under the fold-away cot, and the wood-handled filet knife was cleaned and hanging on a hook above the camper’s storage bin.

  The solitude of the moment was interrupted by a scratch and rattle that seemed to come from the far corner of the garage. The teenagers next door? There it was again. No, not outside. It definitely came from inside the garage. I closed my eyes, listening for any hint of the source of the interruption. Damn, what is that? What’s back there? I pictured the wall and floor on that side of the garage. Unlike the yard tools hanging on the driver’s side, the far wall was bare, and although I couldn’t picture it, I seemed to recall some debris on the floor near the door. Had to be some damn field mice—they always invaded the garage this time of year seeking its warmth. I was right—a gray mouse scampered past me, headed for the warmth of the underside of the freezer. The noise stopped. I didn’t give it another thought. I had important work to do. I removed blue surgical gloves from my hoodie’s pocket, patiently stretched the gloves over my knuckles, and pulled them up my wrists, tugging them tightly into place.

  “No rush. No rush. Under control. Be patient. Stick to the plan.”

  I placed the lantern on the floor, out of the way of the camper’s door. I removed the camper door key from my pants pocket, inserted it into the lock, and turned it slowly. It jammed. I tried again. It jammed again. What the fuck? I withdrew the key and examined it. I inserted it again, this time wiggling it as it slid into the lock. Success. I lifted the handle and the camper door burst open as Henry launched his full weight toward me. I fell backward as my body slammed against the garage door. He kept coming, ramming his shoulder against my chest until my head smacked hard onto the cold concrete floor.

  CHAPTER 17

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I didn’t see Foster when I got in line for our coffee. But by the time the barista called, “Frank—venti, double cup, tall no-foam latte,” he had walked in and claimed a table near the window. As I handed him his coffee, he looked up and said, “Good morning, Francis.”

  That was new—he had never said good morning before. Usually, he dove right into the discussion, positing theories, describing scenarios, and grilling me on my observations and deductions. Caught off guard, all I could say in return was a weak, “Hi.”

  For several minutes, we sat in silence with the whistling wind filling the coffee shop each time the door opened. The scene beyond the window confirmed my earlier suspicion that the so-called harbingers of spring that the city had enjoyed weren’t harbingers at all, just pranks on the unsuspecting and uninitiated. Foster and I watched with shared subdued amusement as students unaccustomed to Chicago weather struggled against the strong, cold winds off the lake that were now accompanied by rain alternating with sleet.

  I assumed his greeting was meant to put me at ease. It didn’t. If he expected an apology, he was going to be disappointed. I did my best to control my emotions. My appearance—unshaven with dark bags under my eyes—may have given him concern, but he said nothing of it. I waited. I didn’t care what we talked about. I just needed to be engaged.

  “Francis, define the term, ‘spree killer’.”

  Finally. Pleased that I didn’t need to explain my appearance or rehash last week’s questions and answers, I explained, “A spree killer is one who kills two or more persons in short succession at multiple locations. Some criminologists have coined a new phrase—‘rampage killers’.”

  “An example please.”

  “Mark Barton, the Atlanta day trader. In July 1999 he shot and killed nine employees and wounded thirteen at two brokerage firms on the same day. Police later discovered that he had used a common carpenter’s hammer to bludgeon his wife and two children to death.”

  Foster raised an eyebrow. I detected a slight grimace. He took a long, deliberate swallow of coffee. Looking past me, he said, “Your mother was a victim of a car accident—Barton’s wife, a victim of her husband’s rage. Mothers and wives shouldn’t have to die that way.” He studied his coffee cup and swirled what remained of his Columbian blend around the bottom of the cup. “But, yes, the Barton killings are a good example.”

  A group of giggling girls pulled open the shop’s heavy glass door; a blast of cold air filled the coffee shop again. Foster sat silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and then turned his attention back to me.

  “Prepare a memorandum for me, no longer than two pages, single-spaced, explaining the manner in which you—or your ‘subject’— would go on a rampage committing spree murders, starting in your dorm, with the final victim here in Starbucks. Create a profile of your subject. Identify your victims, not by name, but by characteristics or backgrounds. Call me when you have concluded the assignment.”

  He pushed his chair back away from the table and took a long last swallow of his coffee. Without looking at me, he swung his scarf around his neck and pulled on his leather gloves. He donned his houndstooth hat as he left the shop and casually strolled away, unfazed by the weather, and with no mention of our previous meeting.

  CHAPTER 18

  Anthony

  With a knee to my chest and a hand at my throat, the son of a bitch had me pinned. He must’ve found the filet knife in the camper. His hands were free, and the tape on his mouth was gone. Even though he was still drunk and disoriented, Henry had apparently decided he wasn’t going to go quietly. In an exaggerated movement, he raised the knife above his head, and plunged it down with a sudden, almost theatrical thrust. I twisted away at the last second, and he lost his balance and drove the blade into the garage floor instead. The tip snapped, flying up to nick him in the cheek while the knife bounced up against the garage door, clanged against the floor, and skidded across the pavement, landing under the truck and out of reach. Letting loose a torrent of curses, he kept me pinned with his body weight, pummeling me until my eyes started to lose focus. Then, with a primeval growl, he clamped his hands around my throat and squeezed.

  Struggling to remain conscious, I tried to reach the gun in my pocket, but it was no use. I rolled to the right and left, trying to slip out of Henry’s grip, but fear and adrenaline had transformed him into a killer. I tried in vain to throw punches in Henry’s direction, but my fists failed to find their marks. I flailed and kicked an
d arched my back, but Henry tightened his grip. Finally, I was able to free one leg, and after several failed attempts, rammed my knee fast and hard into his groin. With a guttural moan and a stream of obscenities, he shifted his weight, but still didn’t release my throat. Stars danced in a narrowing field of vision as my fingers groped for anything within reach. Anything I could use as a weapon—anything! Finally, my fingers closed around what felt like a chunk of a brick. I grabbed it and, in one quick and furious motion, swung it at Henry’s head. He screamed as blood spurted from an ugly gash just above his left eye. Stunned, he reared back, blinking and loosening his grip. Searching through the darkness and the pain for the source of the blow, he turned toward the corner of the garage. This time the brick slammed into his left temple with such force and velocity that he surely never heard the crunch of his own skull shattering.

  CHAPTER 19

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I welcomed the diversion Foster’s spree killer assignment provided. Three days later I called him to arrange another session. He was waiting for me at an outside table as spring teased the city yet again, and as he saw me approach the table, he pointed to the line for ordering coffee. I started to hand him the memo, but he just continued to point to the line.

  “Coffee first, Francis.”

  I laid the memo facedown in front of him and got in line. When I returned, the memo was exactly where I had placed it, still face down. As he took a couple of drinks from his cup, he eyed my memo with a raised eyebrow. He flipped the piece of paper over and started to read. He frowned in places, grimaced once, and nodded as he finished. Then he slid it back across the table.

  “Your first victim is your dorm’s maintenance superintendent—then you move to the manager of the drug store that you pass on the way here. But your motivation for each kill represents nothing more than a shallow textbook analysis. It shows no feel for motivation. In fact, it shows no feeling whatsoever. Your inability to articulate a credible motive has rendered meaningless the sacrifice of your victims’ lives.”