Sean and Keisha visited bars in Edwards’s neighborhood and the northwest area where Edwards had worked. Finally, a bartender at a place called Murph’s Borderline Pub identified Henry Edwards, explaining that Edwards was a regular who largely kept to himself, but had little else to offer. They made several trips to the White Shutters Lounge in search of witnesses to Anderson’s abduction, but it was a neighborhood where residents kept to themselves and avoided involvement. They canvassed Mathias’s neighbors on Sunnyside hoping someone might have seen any activity the night he had been killed. A few of the neighbors had been shocked to learn that a pedophile lived among them; others expressed support for the killer of a child molester. Commander Dunbar dispatched patrol officers to go door-to-door in the entire Albany Park neighborhood trying to find a connection, but other than being our guy’s preferred dumping grounds, they found none.
Although I had made brief excursions into our killer’s state of mind, I couldn’t get past the images I’d seen that night in Beth’s bed. Living with the case files, crime scene photos, autopsy reports, forensics reports, and interviewing construction workers got us no closer to a suspect. I stared at autopsy photos of his victims’ empty chest cavities, where he had stuffed severed body parts from yet unidentified victims. I wrapped myself in the blue plastic tarps he had used as ritualistic shrouds, hoping their secrets would seep into my consciousness. Without donning evidence gloves, I sifted through construction debris and soil recovered from each crime scene, feeling what he felt as he scraped out shallow graves. I pored over the materials and revisited the crime scenes and the Anderson abduction site. And although I was starting to know him, it wasn’t enough to take us anywhere.
I tried to get Foster’s help, but for a time he was simply unavailable to me. I went to his apartment several nights—leaning on his doorbell without an answer. I knew better than to call him; he generally ignored his phone. He was probably consumed again by his futile search for a killer from twenty-five years ago.
Beth worked longer hours, continuing to be ill-tempered and critical when she finally made it home. I turned to working longer hours, too, just like her—the more I wasn’t home, the less chiding I had to endure. And, she wouldn’t stop prodding me to leave the department. She had asked me to think about it, and I did, readily dismissing the prospect but not telling her of my true intentions to remain in VCS. In any event, she had tacitly agreed that I remain a detective until we apprehended Chicago’s first serial killer since Gacy—the infamous Killer Clown.
By mid-April, I was exhausted. Sean suggested that Beth and I take a long weekend, saying I needed a change of scenery and a chance to clear my head. He also thought that it might help salvage the marriage. Beth jumped at the idea, not so much for my benefit, but she had come under ever increasing pressure at the firm and needed a break. Demand for billable hours, a lack of control over her workload, and a couple of losses at trial had started to take its toll. She hadn’t taken a real vacation in more than eighteen months. I assumed that she would tolerate my company in exchange for sleeping late, sunning poolside, and afternoon martinis.
She made the travel arrangements, sparing no expense for the trip now that she was making real money. We upgraded to first class and had a suite reserved at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach. She planned our arrival on a Thursday night with a return to Chicago Monday night.
As Beth checked us in at the front desk, I stood off in a corner out of Beth’s line of sight and checked my cell phone for messages. Sean had called several times, each time asking me to call him immediately upon arrival.
When I called, Sean was short and to the point: “We have a suspect in custody. He looks good for it, but he won’t talk.”
“He’s waiting for his lawyer?”
“No, Frank, he’s waiting for you.”
“Huh?”
“Claims he’ll tell the whole story, but only to Detective Francis Vincenti.”
CHAPTER 59
Detective Frank Vincenti
The next morning, Keisha picked me up at O’Hare and had a sandwich and bottle of water waiting for me in the car. “Sean’s idea?” I asked as I unwrapped the sandwich, still unwilling to give her credit for much of anything.
“Mine.”
Without taking her eyes off the road, she said, “Eat your lunch. You’re going to need it. I think you’re going to have a long day.” Before I could thank her, she sped onto I-294 with the siren blaring.
“You can turn off the strobe and siren, Keisha. The guy’s not going anywhere.”
“Commander Dunbar’s instructions.”
I didn’t show it, but I was bothered by Dunbar’s involvement at this early stage. The suspect had been in custody less than twenty-four hours and he wasn’t talking.
“What’s Dunbar up to?”
“Right now? Mostly managing the press—and pacing.”
I was anxious to know more, and I was sure Keisha was anxious to tell me more, but I still viewed her as an inexperienced and over-confident rookie, and I wasn’t about to give her a sense of importance by engaging her in discussion about the circumstances that led to me being summoned home. I resented her involvement in the case, especially the expanded role that Sean had permitted. I should be chasing down leads with Sean, not her.
As we approached the Belmont Avenue exit, she said, “You were right, you know.”
“About what?”
“About my name. My parents named me Keisha, not Kay. I should’ve ignored the teasing I got from the assholes in Property and refused to let them intimidate me.”
I gave her an appraising look. That earned her some respect, but I said nothing.
To avoid the press gathered in front of the station house, Keisha pulled around to the back of the building and made a sharp, fast turn into a fenced parking lot where the department’s surplus motor pool vehicles were stored. Sean was waiting for me at the rear entrance. “We need to talk before you go in. We picked this guy up based on an anonymous tip on The Bricklayer hotline.”
“So?”
“So Dunbar doesn’t like it. He hasn’t fully inserted himself into the investigation yet, but I sense he wants to. That this guy won’t talk to anyone but you has been a double-edged sword. It’s held Dunbar at bay, but he’s suspicious.”
I followed Sean down the narrow corridor that led to a string of interview rooms. Dunbar stood alone in front of the two-way mirror outside the room where our suspect sat, patiently waiting for my arrival. Dunbar simply nodded at me and grunted, “Let’s go. I haven’t told the chief about this guy refusing to talk to anyone but you. I can’t put him off much longer.”
I understood the nuance of his message. Looking at Dunbar, Sean said, “I’ll take the lead.”
I agreed. “Sean is better at this than I am. This guy will just have to accept that.”
Dunbar nodded. “Kelly, tell Frank what we know.” “Two days ago, just after we left for the day, the hotline received a call from a pay phone in the Loop. The caller refused to identify himself. He said that Joey Stella, a registered sex offender living on the West Side, was being stalked by The Bricklayer and then hung up. We informed Stella and that night we staked out his house. We picked this guy up in front of Stella’s house around midnight. He refused to give his name or say anything else all night. Then early yesterday morning he finally said something: ‘I’ll only talk to Detective Francis Vincenti.’ His name is Frederick ‘Ricky’ La Pointe.”
“Does he have a record?”
“Yeah. A sealed juvy file and a string of residential B&Es. Served three years of a five-year sentence in Danville; released fourteen months ago. He turned twenty-five last week.”
Dunbar interrupted, nodding his head toward the interrogation room, and without explanation added, “Don’t bother with the juvy file. Stay focused on what’s in front of us.”
I looked to Sean. “Any connection to Indiana or Wisconsin?”
Dunbar raised an eyebrow. We hadn’t told him o
f the possible interstate nature of the murders. We were already wary of FBI involvement. Because a forced abduction, which was part of The Bricklayer’s M.O., made it a federal matter, we weren’t anxious to let Dunbar know of the interstate implication.
“La Pointe claims he’s from Hobart, Indiana, but his driver’s license contains an address in Forest Park, just off the Ike near First Avenue. His van has Indiana plates. In his van we found a pile of blue tarps, surgical gloves, a set of bolt cutters, and bleach. He also—”
“No saw?”
“No.”
“Was the bleach oxygenated?”
“Yes, but when I asked him about the items in the van, he clammed up and insisted on talking only to you.”
“Look Frank, I do not like that he knew to ask for you,” Dunbar nervously interjected.
CHAPTER 60
Detective Frank Vincenti
Before we entered the cramped interview room, I had La Pointe’s cuffs removed and had the guard supply him with a Coke. He stood when we entered. He was 5'9", slender build, seemed physically fit, and drank his Coke using his left hand. Sean asked most of the questions, but La Pointe looked only at me as he told his story and occasionally at the two-way mirror, as if he was addressing whoever stood on the other side. He knew virtually all of the details of the killings, but he never admitted that he killed any of the victims.
Finally, Sean asked, “What did you do with the hands?”
La Pointe hesitated and looked past us at the two-way mirror. For the first time he appeared to be searching for an answer. Ricky La Pointe’s hesitation and blank stare answered the question.
Sean told him that it was time for a break, but I knew we were done. Dunbar and Keisha were waiting for us as we left the interrogation room. Looking at me, he said, “Well?”
“Not our guy—just a small time thief, looking for a little attention. After the first five minutes of Sean’s questioning, I sensed he wasn’t capable of torture and mutilation. Hell, if you showed him the autopsy photos, he’d probably piss his pants. I loved it when Sean asked about the severed hands—Ricky wasn’t thinking fast enough to come up with a plausible explanation.”
“He knew a lot. Although he knew where Edwards was abducted, he couldn’t tell us what kind of car Anderson was driving. I agree with Frank, this guy is a petty thief, but he’s not a killer,” Sean added.
“But, he knew details we haven’t released to the press.” I looked back into the room through the two-way mirror. “You know, even though he’s not our guy, he fits the profile—”
Sean interrupted. “So, where did he come from and who made the call to the hotline and the press?”
“Couldn’t he have made the call?” Keisha asked. Although she asked a good question, none of us responded.
“Do we have a leak in the department?” Sean wondered aloud.
“Or in the M.E.’s office?”
Dunbar looked back over his shoulder down the long corridor that led to the lobby at the front entrance where the press was waiting to report that The Bricklayer was in custody. Finally, he looked back at us and said, “You’re right about him. I had a bad feeling about the situation from the outset. Keep him in custody for now. Let Keisha ask him some follow-ups. He might let his guard down.”
I shook my head, but before I could protest, Sean cut in. “Good idea. I’ll brief her before she goes in.”
Dunbar stared at me momentarily, making me feel uneasy. “Frank, let’s take a walk.”
Curious, I followed him to the rear door of the station house and to the middle of the motor pool lot. Dunbar leaned up against one of the SWAT wagons. “Frank, my instincts tell me we’ve been played. Every once in a while we’ll get some nut who turns himself in and confesses just to get attention, and yeah, we get copycats, too. But this guy knows too much—way too much. There may well be a leak somewhere.”
“OK, say there’s a leak. Why does this guy show up now?”
Dunbar shook his head. “I don’t know. He may just want to get his name in the papers or become a trending topic in social media.”
I was surprised that Dunbar knew anything about social media. “What do you tell the press?”
“Nothing for now.” He paused, and looking back toward the rear entrance asked, “You’re supposed to be on a four-day furlough, right?”
“Yeah, but Beth—”
“Stay on furlough, but instead of going back to Florida, spend some time with Foster. No need for you to tell Sean what you’re doing. Make up some bullshit excuse.”
“What do I tell Foster?”
“Anything you want, but get him talking about the case. Suggest dinner. He won’t go out, but he’ll fix you a nice meal, probably his pot roast. Tell him about La Pointe in a casual ‘Oh, by the way’ manner. Suggest a walk around the North Pond or up to the zoo.”
“Won’t he sense I have an agenda?”
“No, he’ll know that it’s my agenda. Can you do that without feeling you’re betraying him?”
“If he doesn’t like it, he’ll tell me and change the subject.”
Dunbar turned and started to walk away. He stopped suddenly, and looked back at me. “Frank, did you ever get around to asking him why he took an early retirement?”
“No. I always figured that if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.”
CHAPTER 61
Anthony
The apparition had been satisfied—for now. Mathias had been the ideal target, and the press had not only given a complete report of the mutilation, but had also disclosed he was a convicted child molester. Although there was still no mention of the dedication to my friend that I had scrawled on his chest and on the chests of my other targets, the press coverage was starting to report that the motive for the killings was related to sexual abuse.
For more than three months, I had no haunting memories or flashes of unwanted scenes of my friend’s childhood pain. I had returned to sleeping in my basement apartment, although I had left the broken television where it fell, now covered with one of my tarps. I wanted to maintain my truce with the apparition, but I knew all too well that I couldn’t control it. It controlled me, pulling strings like a puppet master.
And then I heard reports that The Bricklayer was in custody. I walked over to a sports bar not far from the basement apartment and watched the news as reporters dissected and analyzed Ricky La Pointe’s psyche and his supposed motives. It was beyond belief! I had to do something to dispel the idea that this little nobody was capable of the planning necessary to carry out my kills. My head pounded, and I feared the headaches and nightmares would return unless I could be sure that the right message was being delivered and received. Neither La Point nor anyone else was worthy to deliver the message. I was worthy—no one else. As I finished off my second beer and picked at my late dinner, I noticed that the girl at the next booth was conducting some kind of Internet research. I smiled, paid my bill, and headed down the block to a Starbucks.
As I walked into the coffeehouse, I was glad to see a long line as it would gave me the opportunity to watch the customers working on their laptops or talking on their phones. After I ordered my coffee, I spotted what I was looking for: A teenage girl had spilled her coffee and was on her way to get some napkins to clean the mess, leaving her cell phone unattended on the corner of the table. Walking briskly past the table, I inconspiculously grabbed the cell phone, slipped it into my pocket, and continued out of the shop. I walked to the street corner and ducked into the alley. I checked the phone; it was still connected to Starbucks’ Wi-Fi. I quickly found the website I was looking for and spent a few minutes typing. Satisfied, I turned off the phone, wiped it clean, and tossed it in a recycling bin. Pleased with my ingenuity, I took my time walking home.
CHAPTER 62
Detective Frank Vincenti
It wasn’t pot roast. Foster grilled a pair of thick veal chops on the apartment building’s gas grill in the backyard. I sat on an old wooden bench opposite the grill d
rinking a beer from one of Foster’s fancy pilsner glasses. He always insisted that his guests drink beer from a glass, never from the bottle. He called it a “house rule.” I didn’t see the difference. The beer tasted the same.
As he stood at the grill, white smoke leaking out of its sides, he told me about his mother’s reluctance to eat veal because of the cruel methods by which male calves are raised and force-fed to produce the tender white meat. He claimed it didn’t bother him, and explained that he had seen so much of the brutality man inflicts on his fellow man that he could hardly care what happened to baby cows. He served the chops with grilled asparagus, a potato au gratin dish he claimed was his own concoction, and a Napa Valley cabernet. We made small talk over dinner. I was certain that he knew why I was there, but I said nothing of it.
“Neither of us needs dessert,” he declared as he got up from the table and headed for his cigar humidor. He offered me a glass of Croft Ruby port. I declined. He poured himself a generous amount in a small spirits glass. He sat back down at the dining room table, and after lighting his cigar, turned his chair toward me and asked, “Am I correct to presume that Eddie Dunbar sent you on this little errand?”
My smile was all the answer he needed.
“He suggested we take a walk.”
“A walk?” Foster burst out laughing, not a chuckle or a chortle, but a deep-throated hearty laugh. “Eddie always thought he could soften me up and solicit advice by taking little walks around the North Pond or sitting in front of the gorilla exhibit at the zoo. I played along with him; it made him feel clever. I don’t think we need to take a walk; you’re clever enough.”
The Bricklayer of Albany Park Page 17