I took my time walking to the site, lagging behind other workers as I tried to get the lay of the land. Although I knew the neighborhood, I now viewed the alleys, the narrow side streets lined with parked cars, and “one-way” signs with a strategic eye. Once at the site, I stopped between parked cars and sipped my coffee. I could see that the crews gained entry to the site off Kelso through a single gate. It appeared that the wide gate on Karlov was clearly for access by large trucks like the cement mixer that had first drawn my attention to the site. Even now, trucks were lined up again, waiting to deliver pre-fab steel window frames and doorways, roofing materials, cinder block, and what appeared to be decorative façade bricks. I could use the Kelso entrance when the time came, and use the Karlov gate as a backup if Kelso was blocked. Identifying two ways in and out of the dumpsite was always a part of my preparation.
Time for a closer look. I tossed the half-empty coffee cup under one of the parked cars, stuck my cap in my back pocket, and put on the hard hat, angling it forward to cover as much of my face as I could. As I approached the gate on Kelso, I was pleased with what I saw: no temporary floodlights, and the gate appeared to have been secured with a heavy duty, but otherwise common, lock—a duplicate of which I could buy at any discount home supply store. I stopped about twenty feet short of the gate to study the cinder block walls, making sure they would screen my placement of a body. Good enough.
As I walked back along Kelso, I spotted a short, middle-aged man wearing black pants, an old black cloth overcoat, and a black and white checked wool scarf. There was something about him that immediately didn’t sit well with me. As I drew closer, I could see in his eyes that he had something to hide. The eyes. It was always the eyes that revealed a man’s sins. I had seen the same look in other men—the same look on Henry’s face—it was a look that shielded dark secrets. He stood on the sidewalk at the corner, yelling and gesturing at someone down the block. I took a few more steps toward the corner and saw that the target of the man’s ire was two small boys trying to sneak through an opening in the chain link fence.
“You two again! I’ve told you kids a dozen times to stay away from this site. Now get the hell out of here! Is there something wrong with you that you don’t understand? I don’t want to see you around here again!”
I choked down the urge to lash out, to tell him in no uncertain words to leave the kids alone, that there’s nothing wrong with them. Just a mix of curiosity and innocent mischief.
The small man turned and started to walk toward the Kelso entrance and toward me. Wanting to take a measure of the man, I kept my head down, nodded slightly and, in a low voice, said, “Mornin’.” With a blank stare, the son of a bitch ignored me, walked quickly past, and approached two men in suits wearing white hard hats and holding what appeared to be rolled-up site plans and blueprints. I stopped, turned, and casually moved closer, trying to overhear their conversation.
“You guys are behind schedule. You’re not getting another damn penny until you catch up with the project schedule and get back on budget.”
The back-up alarm of a diesel dump truck, dropping its load of gravel, drowned out most of what they were saying, but I heard the older suit call the small man something-or-other Anders and, between the beeps of the truck’s alarm, I was able to overhear the younger suit explaining that the contract required regular installment payments.
“I don’t give a damn what it says. I’m getting heat so you get heat. Get it done!” He started to walk away, stopped abruptly, and turned back to the suits. “Oh, and one more thing. Check your fencing. I don’t want any more damn kids poking around the site.”
So, Mister Anders, you’re a first-class bully, huh? What else are you?
CHAPTER 40
Detective Frank Vincenti
“What took the M.E. so long to get this report done? And why didn’t you come sooner?”
Foster bellowed his greeting as we took off our coats and shoes, careful not to track in any snow. I knew the cold weather routine at Foster’s. We left our shoes on the large rough-hewn fiber mat at the front door and hung our coats on the hooks of an old oak coat rack that had stood guard in his hallway for as long as I had known the man. Instead of the usual odor of full-bodied cigar smoke, the faint aroma of fresh pine greeted us as we entered his combination living and dining room. As was his tradition, Foster’s sole Christmas decoration was a fresh Douglas fir tree wedged in the far corner of the living room and decorated with old fashion bubble lights and his Grandmother Galt’s antique ornaments. Wagner’s Siegfried played in the background.
Sean walked over to the tree and studied each ornament as if it were a work of art—which, in fact, they were. Foster had told me the story before; in fact, he told me the same story every Christmas. His deceased maternal grandmother, Violet Ann Galt, had made it a family tradition to collect handcrafted ornaments from all over Europe as the family traveled abroad. The Galt family had a lot of old world traditions and a lot of old money. Sean had seen the tree and its ornaments over the years, but it was his way of paying respect to Foster’s traditions.
Dressed for the chill of his basement apartment, Foster wore a wheat-colored Irish cable knit sweater and was hunched over the dining room table, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, with his yellow highlighter in hand. I had emailed the report to Foster to give him a chance to review it before we arrived. He had printed it and yellow Post-it notes already decorated the pages. I could see his yellow highlighting from across the room.
“Where the hell have you been, and why didn’t you get this to me sooner?”
I ignored both questions. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I had signed out right after I called him about the report and that I’d taken an unplanned furlough day. I just couldn’t get out of bed. Maybe my father’s death had taken a toll on me after all. Sean had covered for me both days and said nothing about it now. I changed the subject.
“Here, I picked up a toasted onion bagel with cream cheese for you from Jake’s.”
Without looking up, Foster shot back, “No time for that.” His brusque reply was out of character. I figured his tone was a form of reprimand for not coming to see him sooner. He looked up, saw that Sean was with me, and nodded toward my partner. “Detective Kelly, as always, you’re welcome here. I trust your father is well?”
Over the past few months, Sean and Foster had developed a friendship of sorts. I’d told Sean that Foster was struggling with his father’s mental deterioration as the first signs of Alzheimer’s took hold. It was difficult for Foster to see his father, a widely respected jurist and legal scholar, unable to recall his own name. Sean had reached out when his own father’s faculties begin to wane, and now they occasionally met for lunch.
“The bagel was Sean’s idea,” I interjected.
“No time to eat right now. It’s been three weeks since this guy’s last kill. I am certain he is out there hunting even now.”
“Or he has already killed again,” I added.
Sean pulled up a dining room chair next to Foster and looked down at Foster’s marked-up copy of the report. “No, Frank,” he said in a low voice, “I think Foster here will tell you that if he had killed again, we would know it.”
Foster looked up from the report and stared at Sean, obviously impressed with the observation. “Detective Kelly is right. This guy wants the world to sit up and take notice. I imagine you have some questions though, Sean. About the mutiliation.”
“I’ve seen a lot over the years, but nothing like this. What do you make of the severing of the genitals—what’s the sexual connection?”
“I told Francis that your killer may have internalized a homosexual rape—or at least that’s my theory. May or may not be a direct sexual connection to the mutilation. There are several other psychological basis for mutilation of this nature: destruction of the victim’s identity, abhorrence for the victim, or disregard for the victim’s value as a human being.”
“Or a c
ombination of motives?”
“Absolutely. Although this guy is well organized and focused, he shows flashes of emotional confusion. But he isn’t confused about his mission. Figure out his mission and you can predict his next move.”
“And if we can predict his next move, we can be there,” I added.
As Sean was looking over Foster’s shoulder to see what he had highlighted, I looked at the two of them and thought back to the funeral and our drinks at Annie’s. I wasn’t sure what bothered me more—Foster’s dismissal of Beth’s ultimatum or his whispered New Testament verse. What did he expect of me? Just then, I heard the faint and familiar ding of my cell phone. I returned to the entryway, retrieved the phone from my coat pocket, and opened my email.
As I walked back toward the dining room table, I announced, “I have more for us to look at. I just received an email from Forensics. I haven’t opened the attachment yet, but the attached PDF is titled “Preliminary Report—”
Before I could finish, Foster was up out of his chair and walking toward his laptop and printer. “Forward the email to me. I’ll print the report.”
“Three copies.” Sean added.
Foster grumbled. “Yes, three copies, plus one for my journal.”
CHAPTER 41
Anthony
If my instincts were right—and my instincts about guys like Anders were always right—I could skip hanging out in neighborhood bars, searching for my next target. I had seldom stumbled across a target so easily. I usually spent weeks going from bar to bar, sizing up men like Henry, watching for the telltale signs of a coward who took pleasure in exploiting small children. Based on my brief encounter, Anders seemed to be that kind of man, but I had to be sure that he was the right man to carry the message. After all, it was all about the message.
Confident Anders would monitor the work at the Karlov site on a daily basis, I returned there the next day and parked among the workers’ pickups in the school’s parking lot across from the Kelso entrance. Slouching low in the front seat, I adjusted my side view mirror on a right angle, allowing an indirect view of the entrance, and waited. Around three o’clock, Anders returned and was once again barking orders to the crews. When he was finished, he got into an older model black Ford Crown Victoria and pulled away in a hurry. “OK, Mr. Anders, let’s see where you’re going.”
I followed the Crown Vic for about twenty minutes east on Montrose, staying well behind, but keeping a keen eye on the black sedan. Anders took a right on Broadway and headed south. Five minutes later, he turned right on Hutchinson and then took a quick left up the alley.
“What are you up to, little man?” I stopped the pickup at the mouth of the alley just in time to see the Crown Vic pull into a small parking lot no more than fifty yards into the alley. I drove around the block looking for a convenient and discreet place to park, and spotted a grocery store lot at the end of the block. Speeding up, I headed for it. Rather than parking in the main lot, I drove around to the rear of the store, where the lot emptied into the alley, seemingly out of range of security cameras. I shut off the engine and hurriedly pulled on a wool knit stocking cap, zipped my fleece vest, and tugged on winter gloves. Trying to get a feel for the neighborhood, I walked back north along Broadway. The street was lined with specialty shops, clothing boutiques, chic restaurants, and bars, all expensive places to shop and eat, and all colorfully decorated for the Christmas holiday. I sensed I was out of place here, and based on my initial read of Anders, it didn’t seem to be his kind of neighborhood, either. Did I misjudge this guy?
As I approached Hutchinson, I tried to figure out which building was adjacent to the parking lot where Anders had parked. Finally, I just guessed it was either the restaurant a couple of storefronts from the corner or what appeared to be a bar next to it. There was a sign on the restaurant door: “Closed for Remodeling.” That left the bar as the logical destination for Anders.
Trying to be inconspicuous, I crossed the street, stood in front of a row of newspaper vending machines at the corner, looked past the newspaper racks, and observed the comings and goings at the bar. It had an unusual appearance, not at all like the neighborhood bars I had scouted. Vertical wood plank siding painted a light shade of gray had been added to the surface of the front exterior wall. The bar’s large bay window was painted over with a deep purple tint and framed by oversized white shutters. In large white script letters across the window’s purple background were the words, “White Shutters Lounge.” The door was also painted the same shade of purple, with tall, narrow white shutters on either side. On the door hung a large Christmas wreath decorated in white and gold with multi-colored ribbon.
As I watched customers come and go, a pattern began to emerge. They were mostly well-dressed young and middle-aged men; these were not the blue-collar working stiffs I’d found at other bars. Some left carrying white bags, presumably carryout sandwiches or burgers. I was tempted to go in and order a sandwich to go, hoping that while I waited, I would be in a better position to observe Anders. But clearly the White Shutters was a high-end bar and grill—I would look out of place. It was too big of a risk.
Instead, I walked to the mouth of the alley. The Crown Vic was still there. Two other cars, both dark BMWs, were also parked in the small lot that led to the rear entrance of the bar. Just then, two well-dressed young men exited the rear entrance of the bar. The shorter of the two wore a brown leather jacket, and his hair seemed to be unnaturally blonde. The other wore a navy double-breasted overcoat and a fashionable fedora. They stood just outside the door talking. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, but judging from the tone of their voices and their gesturing, they were arguing. The argument ended apparently without resolution as they headed to their cars. Just before they got into their cars, the taller of the two yelled over to the blond-haired man, who then hung his head, looked up at the other, and nodded in agreement. Both walked around to the front of the cars, exchanged what seemed to be friendlier words, and then embraced.
The embrace lasted a little too long for my liking. “There’s something wrong here,” I whispered to myself. I was trying to make sense of it when the two men kissed—a long passionate kiss on the lips. “Goddammit! It’s a gay bar. Anders is a fag!”
I was suddenly blinded with rage. Gay men fuck small boys! Those liberal intellectuals on TV who claimed otherwise were either idiots or queers covering for their own disgusting impulses. I had been right about Anders—he did have something to hide. Standing motionless, I struggled to control myself while my mind was flooded with images of new ways to inflict pain on this “chester.”
I returned to the camper and sat staring at nothing in particular as the windows frosted up. Anders was definitely the guy. Now, only the questions of “how and when” remained.
CHAPTER 42
Detective Frank Vincenti
When we left Foster’s apartment, we were both too tired to think clearly enough to piece together what we had gleaned from the reports. But Sean was anxious to sketch out his own rough profile of the killer. He suggested we start early in the morning, and when he saw me hesitate, he offered to pick me up at the apartment.
As I got into Sean’s car the next morning, he skipped his customary small talk and jumped right in. “OK, let’s go through it again.”
“You want to go over it now? It can’t wait until we get to the station house and have our morning coffee?”
“No,” Sean said with some irritation. “Yesterday, Foster was coming up with theories, some of which I didn’t understand. So I want to make sure I have all the pieces straight in my head, even if we have to go over them a dozen times.”
Sean was a great detective. I still had a lot to learn from him, especially his interrogation techniques. It had been his idea to withhold from the press the details of the mutilation and the message scrawled in blood on Henry’s chest. Usually he was very good at putting the pieces of the puzzle together, but he hadn’t been trained in the “F
oster method” of autopsy and forensic report analysis. It was an acquired taste.
I started the summary. “Cause of death: blunt force trauma. Superficial bruises on either side of his neck, and slight damage to brain tissue not related to the blunt force trauma, suggesting brain ischemia. Also a lack of any significant petechia in the eyes. The M.E. says that adds up to Edwards being rendered temporarily unconscious, probably by a chokehold and, based on his stomach contents and his blood alcohol level, he was probably snatched or attacked at a restaurant or a bar. Our guy needed privacy for the kill and mutilation, so Edwards was probably transported to another location. Clearly there was a struggle, but there’s no way of knowing if it occurred during the abduction or at the kill site.”
“You’re concluding that there was a struggle because the first blow to his head was not the kill blow?”
“Yeah, the first and second blows were on the left side of the head, but the rest were on the right and delivered postmortem. That suggests he was left-handed. The abrasions on Edwards’s back plus the laceration on his cheek also suggest a struggle; the laceration was clearly made with a particularly sharp blade, we just don’t know what kind.”
“And all of the head blows were inflicted with a brick?” Sean asked.
“Right. According to Forensics’ analysis of the reddish-brown particles they removed from Edwards’s skull and brain tissue, the brick is known as a ‘Chicago Common Brick,’ manufactured in the early 1900s. It’s easily identifiable by its high organic clay content. That particular clay was a by-product from the construction of the Illinois-Michigan Canal, and that type of brick was most commonly used to build Chicago bungalows.”
The Bricklayer of Albany Park Page 11