I shut down my computer and slipped on my jacket. “Let’s go!”
As we walked to the station’s parking lot, Sean asked, “Are you up for this? I was surprised to see you this morning. You are entitled to a few furlough days for a death of a family member, you know.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t feel any differently today than I did last week or last month. ” It was pretty much the truth, except for Foster’s unsuccessful attempt to comfort me at the cemetery and his lecture at Annie’s.
The building was a large four-floor structure built in the 1920s. The landlord, a bald elderly shriveled-looking little man, met us at the ground-floor front entrance in a small alcove with plastic holiday garland hung over the interior doorway. As he led us up the three flights of worn wooden stairs, he explained that there were thirty-two one-room apartments in the building, eight to a floor, and a shared-bath for every four units. Edwards’s flat was on the top floor.
The fourth-floor lobby smelled of disinfectant and stale cigar smoke. Light from an old-fashioned sky light with several cracked panes filled the hallway. Cold air leaked from it into the lobby where some of the doors were decorated with cheap artificial Christmas wreaths. Others still displayed cardboard cutouts of Thanksgiving turkeys. With a master key in his hand, the landlord stepped toward the only door without any kind of decoration. Sean gently placed his hand on the landlord’s arm and said, “Please. Let me open it.” The landlord handed the key over to Sean who then unlocked the door, carefully swung it open, glanced inside, and then stepped out of the way. Sean looked back at me and said, “Let me know when I can come in.”
I stood in the doorway for a few moments and surveyed the room. It was no more than twenty by twenty-five with an unmade twin bed, a mahogany chest of drawers, an old blue vinyl LazyBoy recliner across from a small television sitting on a cheaply made pressed-board cabinet, a kitchen table with just one chair, and a kitchenette with relatively new appliances. It had a wooden floor, and in the middle Edwards had added an old dark green throw rug. The room was very cold. I looked for and found a radiator just to the right of the door. I placed my hand on it—no heat.
I sat on his unmade bed. I pictured Edwards going about his day in this small flat. I got up and looked in the refrigerator. I was surprised to see that he ate a balanced diet: milk, cheese, a partial head of lettuce, eggs, packaged lunchmeat, and the remnants of a case of Budweiser. His freezer was empty except for a package of frozen broccoli, a carton of chocolate ice cream and some frosted-over ice cube trays. The sink contained a dirty knife and fork, a small frying pan, a crumpled ball of aluminum foil, and a dinner plate crusted with egg yolk.
Next to the recliner was a stack of newspapers and under them, magazines. I moved the papers aside and took a quick look at the magazines. They were hardcore porn. Instinctively, I looked over to the television. I noticed wires leading from the back of the TV through a hole in the top of the cabinet. I walked to the cabinet and opened the doors. Inside was a small, inexpensive looking DVD player and next to it sat a pile of unmarked DVDs. I found the remote, turned on the TV and DVD player and slid in one of the discs. I saw just enough to recognize that the boys pictured were no more than ten years old and were engaged in sex acts with older men. Child porn.
I recalled Foster’s outrage about the abuse of “the most innocent among us.” His anger became my anger. I snapped it off as quickly as I could and threw the remote hard against the wall behind the TV, smashing it into a dozen small pieces—I had to dodge what remained of the remote as it careened back at me. If it had evidentiary value, I just ruined it. Without looking at Sean, I bolted out of the room, and as I crossed the threshold, I said, “Let’s get evidence techs here. We need to know a lot more about this guy and why our killer chose him.”
CHAPTER 37
Anthony
It didn’t take months or years for the apparition to return. This time, it was only a few weeks. This time, I knew it was coming—I felt it in my bones. Because the message that was to give meaning to Henry’s death had gone no farther than the dirt floor on Keeler, the apparition hadn’t been satisfied.
It wasn’t my fault. The press gave only superficial coverage to the discovery of Henry’s body and made no mention of its condition. Instead, Chicago media continued to be preoccupied with the mounting number of gang-related murders in pockets of the city’s south and west sides. With each new shooting, the press gauged the number of murders against historic levels, month-by-month, year-by-year, as if it were some kind of contest to set a new record—deaths without meaning, deaths without a message. And the police . . . well, the police were just too damn stupid to appreciate the subtlety of my handiwork.
While the city prepared for Christmas, I prepared to kill again. I had no choice. I returned to scouting potential dumpsites, visiting neighborhood bars, and watching for my next target. I stayed true to my routine.
A few days before Christmas, I headed to O’Hare to take a look at a new construction project on the northeastern edge of the airport’s property where a back-up communications center was being built. Its construction was controversial, over budget, and behind schedule. And the project was already in the public eye. As a dumpsite for a mutilated body, it could immediately garner the kind of attention demanded by the apparition.
I had stopped at the corner of Montrose and Karlov, waiting for the traffic light to change when I spotted a cement mixer turning onto Karlov, white exhaust smoke billowing from its tailpipe. New construction in this neighborhood? Curious, instead of continuing west on Montrose, I took a quick right onto Karlov and spotted the cement mixer where it had taken its place in a line of trucks loaded with building materials waiting to enter a construction site. I drove slowly past the line of trucks, keeping my eyes on the street in front of me and throwing glances at the site that stretched from mid-block all the way south to the next intersection at Kelso. I turned right onto Kelso and circled the block. As I approached the entrance on Karlov for a second time, I tapped the brakes, paused momentarily, and spotted a partially complete walled structure where workers were unloading cinder blocks. It was worth a closer look.
I parked on a side street three blocks away, and walked back to the site, cutting through alleys and backyards. A stainless steel step-up van selling coffee from its side counter was parked on Karlov, just down the street from the work site. I zipped up my black fleece vest, pulled down my ball cap just above my eyes, and headed for the cover of the food truck.
“Lemme have a coffee, black,”
“I’m getting ready to shut down, pal. What’s left isn’t fresh.”
“Don’t matter. I’ll take whatever ya got, as long as it’s hot.” I didn’t look back at the counterman; instead, I studied the site across the street. It looked promising.
“Doesn’t your union have rules about working in the cold?”
“Huh?” I didn’t turn around.
“Your union. Shouldn’t it be out here shutting down the site? Seems to me you shouldn’t have to work when the temperature is in the teens.”
“Suppose so.”
The counterman poured a full cup and slid it across the counter toward me. Steam rose in delicate swirls, then disappeared. “And that emptied the pot, so it’s on the house.”
I nodded and blew on the coffee as if it were too hot to drink while slowly surveying the scene across the street. I was already familiar with the area—it was primarily residential with a mix of blue-collar workers, office staff, and latchkey kids. The kind of place people looked out for their next-door neighbor, but no one else.
An old three-story brown brick building sat mid-block; immediately to its south was the construction site. It appeared to be a school to which a gym or auditorium was being added. The main building looked like countless other aging Chicago schools: depression-era stonework, light brown bricks, tall windows. A sign naming the architects and the construction company stood in front of the building’s entrance. It blocked my v
iew of the full name of the school, but I could make out the words “High School” on the building just beyond the right edge of the sign. I glanced back to the line of trucks unloading construction material. That can’t be the only entrance to the site. Scanning the fence line I confirmed my hunch. There was a second entrance just off Kelso and, just beyond that, across the street, there was a large blacktop parking lot, presumably for the students and staff.
It had potential. It was closer than the O’Hare site, there was an area near the entrance off of Kelso where four cinder block walls had been constructed, and the Kelso entrance would allow quick access and the privacy I would require. I could dump the body at night and be assured the construction crew would find it the following morning.
A school—how could the press give short shrift to the discovery of a mutilated body left in a schoolyard? Dumping a body there would shock this peaceful neighborhood and provide the press a basis for the sensationalized headlines they always chased. The accompanying story would have to fully describe the condition of the body and finally, finally, spread the message. And it would be a message that would survive the passage of time as students would repeat the details of the murder, pointing to the very spot in the gym where I had left the mutilated corpse. My handiwork and message would become school legend. I liked that idea. I liked it a lot.
CHAPTER 38
Detective Frank Vincenti
It had taken more than ten days since Edwards’s body had been found for the M.E. to send us a final written autopsy report. He emailed it to us on the morning after our visit to Edwards’s apartment with a note to let us know that the M.E. staff had been overwhelmed by the five bodies that had hit their tables over the past ten days. Gang-related shootings didn’t slow down because of bad weather or the Christmas season. I had no reason to doubt him. He assured us that the autopsy was completed the day after the body was delivered to the Cook County Morgue, only the paperwork had been delayed.
As was our custom, Sean and I read it separately, and we each made our own set of notes and lists of questions. Regardless of how long or short the report, we always waited an hour or so to confer after we concluded our separate reviews to ensure that we had developed independent analyses; that way, we avoided feeding into each other’s observations and conclusions. We advanced the process by disagreeing, not agreeing.
After an intense hour, I looked over to him. “Coffee?”
“Yep.” He nodded.
A string of frigid days gripped the city. Even for Chicago, it was unusually cold for mid-December, and there was still a layer of snow on the ground, although the main thoroughfares and sidewalks were clear and dry. I put on my scuffed and worn black leather waist-length jacket that I bought while still in college, wrapped my wool scarf around my neck, and pulled my Bears stocking cap down over my ears. “I’m good to go.”
Sean had his cell phone pressed to his ear while he put on his sport coat. I could tell it was a personal call, so I took a few steps toward the stairway. I waited only a few minutes, and as he pulled on his overcoat and navy wool ball cap, he said, “Sorry. I had to take that—it was Mom.”
We headed out to the closest good cup of coffee—a Dunkin’ Donuts shop three blocks away. As we walked against the cold gusts blowing off the lake, Sean broached the topic of Christmas dinner. It was the last thing on my mind. I was completely preoccupied with some of the more disturbing details of the autopsy report.
“Mom called to say that she wants you and Beth to come for dinner Christmas Day.”
I looked over at him, puzzled. I was both pleased that his mother had thought of me, but annoyed knowing, as he did, that Beth would likely decline. Again. “Tell her thanks,” was all I was able to muster.
“Maybe you can convince Beth to come this time.”
“What? You think that Beth would suddenly become sympathetic because my father died? That has nothing to do with it.” I snapped back in a tone harsher than I intended.
“I know better, but Mom doesn’t, and you should know by now that she never gives up.”
“I’ll bring it up with Beth, but she’s probably already made reservations at the Four Seasons for Christmas brunch.”
As Sean swung open the door to Dunkin’ Donuts, he warned me, “Well, don’t be surprised if you get a call from Mom.”
Apparently, the subzero temps had won out over the need for caffeine. The line for coffee usually snaked through a roped queue around the front of the shop this time of day. But today there were only three other customers in the shop. They appeared to be students, each with a laptop open; parkas piled high in the corner of their booth.
Motioning to the counter, Sean said, “I got it. Get us a table.”
I chose a small table in a corner far out of earshot of the other customers, grabbed a napkin, and wiped the table clean. Before I could get my jacket off, Sean put our two large coffees on the table. He removed his ball cap and overcoat, tossing both of them on the bench seat opposite me, and sat down.
“Well?” asked Sean.
“This guy worries me.”
“He has a working knowledge of forensics.”
“You mean his use of oxygenated bleach?”
Blowing on his coffee to cool it, Sean nodded. “Yeah, he knew to purge the body of trace evidence. Regular bleach would have left something behind.”
I lifted the plastic lid off my cup. “The post-mortem mutilation had a very specific purpose. The mutilation was motivated by this guy’s conflicted aggressive emotional state of mind.”
Sean hesitated, but then asked, “Are you in his head yet?”
“No,” I replied, irritated with the question. No sense telling him about the hooded image I’d seen.
Sean let it go. “His methods were crude and brutal.”
“I don’t know what to make of that—he chose this victim for a reason. Did he want to punish or torture him and then changed his mind? Is the mutilation a part of the message that he’s sending us? It can’t be a message to his victim since the mutilation occurred after his victim could no longer feel pain.”
Sean used a napkin to blot spilled coffee off of the right sleeve of his sport coat. “The mutilation here seems to have a control element to it, though. Maybe he had intended something more but was interrupted. There’s a lot here, Frank. If you’re right that this guy is just getting started, we don’t have a lot of time to speculate.” Then he glanced over at me with a quizzical look. “Time to talk to Foster again?”
I didn’t answer. I was still conflicted over my reaction to Foster’s unexpected show of emotion at the cemetery. I turned my head to the street and looked out the window, watching a few flakes of new snow blow and swirl. Another two inches had been forecast, but it wasn’t supposed to start this early. Without looking back at Sean, I sighed. “Yeah. Let’s talk to Foster.”
As we left the shop, someone called to me from across the street. Although I didn’t recognize him, he obviously recognized me. It was my only friend from the old neighborhood, Tony Protettore. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since our sophomore year in high school when his family moved away. Sean headed back to the station as Tony and I talked briefly. He told me that he had never realized his dream of becoming a Chicago cop, but had become a high school teacher and wrestling coach and was now “between assignments” as he phrased it. He said he’d been the director of the Racine County Park District wrestling program, but had just returned to Chicago and was staying at a friend’s place in the old neighborhood. Sensing I was anxious to go, he handed me a scrap of paper with a phone number and asked me to call him when I had more time to talk. As we parted, I recalled how twenty years earlier he had looked after me on the school playground.
Sean wasn’t too far ahead of me, so I jogged to catch up. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Just someone—and something—I thought I’d left behind in the old neighborhood.”
At the corner, we waited for the light to change. I looked down at the
piece of paper Tony had handed me, then wadded it up, and tossed it into a city trash bin. I didn’t give it another thought.
CHAPTER 39
Anthony
Heavy cloud cover blocked the morning sun on yet another bitterly cold day. More snow had fallen overnight, leaving a fresh coat on the lawns and sidewalks still undisturbed by foot traffic. The snow gave the raw ground of the site a look of purity that would soon be trampled into gray mud to match the morning’s slate gray sky.
The truck’s heater blew intermittent blasts of hot air, shutting down every ten minutes or so like it had a mind of its own. I circled the block at the Karlov site, scouting the area again, watching the comings and goings and getting a feel for the construction crew’s routine. After two trips around the block, I parked down the street in a spot that still had an hour on the meter. I pulled my hood over my ball cap, slipped on my black fleece vest, and jammed a pair of Atlas work gloves into one of the vest’s pockets before heading toward a mom and pop diner a few blocks north on Pulaski. It was packed with blue-collar guys, most dressed in winter gear for outside work. Carpenters, bricklayers, and material men filling up on greasy hash browns and runny eggs before heading to the school. I wasn’t there for breakfast, though. I was there for information, to learn what I could from listening to and watching the men who spent the day in the cold, grinding out a living at a school construction site I intended to make famous.
I opened the steamed-up glass door and slid past three bulky guys on their way out. I didn’t bother removing my cap or hood. I found a small, unoccupied booth in the back corner, slid across a cracked vinyl seat, and pretended to be interested in the menu. After my order came, I ate slowly and studied the faces of the workers. Dressed as I was, I would blend right in once I got to the site. I paid the bill at the front of the restaurant, and asked for a large coffee in a to-go cup as the other workers had done, and then walked back to the booth I had just occupied and tossed down a tip that was neither too generous nor too little. As I headed toward the front door, I spotted a battered and scuffed yellow hard hat sitting on a chair where, a few minutes earlier, one of the workers had eaten alone. I snatched it up as if it was mine and hurried out the door.
The Bricklayer of Albany Park Page 10