The Bricklayer of Albany Park

by Terry John Malik

  I didn’t answer right away. I wanted to examine the body, but Dunbar was a sly old fox and I couldn’t argue with his logic.

  “Yeah. Good enough.”

  Sean walked briskly back toward McArthur and me, removed his evidence gloves, and without breaking stride, said, “Always a pleasure to see you, Mac.”

  McArthur yelled back to him, “And the horse you rode in on, Kelly!” I ran to catch up with Sean. “So?”

  “Wrong side of the rib cage, and the body smells of rubbing alcohol, not bleach. We’ll let these clowns chase a copycat. We have better things to do.”

  As we pulled away, news vans started to arrive.

  CHAPTER 65

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I spent a second night at our apartment, again sleeping on the couch, but with a better night’s sleep than the night before. When I woke, my first thoughts were of the body found on the west side. As I showered and shaved, I recalled Captain McArthur’s sarcastic remark—“a helluva job you’re doing”—and thought that it wasn’t far from the truth.

  I filled a suitcase and a large duffle bag with most of my clothes and dumped everything else into two large garbage bags. I left behind the lonely nights, Beth’s harangues, and a bed I shared only with images of bloodied and mutilated bodies.

  I finally got a call back from my newly retained divorce lawyer. I told him that we couldn’t let stand the allegations in Beth’s motion for the restraining order. The allegations claimed that I “was mentally unstable and capable of violence.” It also asserted that Beth feared for her safety because I carried a firearm. It was more of Beth’s venom coming to the surface. I wanted the allegations and the corresponding findings in the TRO struck from the record.

  “Other than your clothes looking a little wrinkled, I’d say you’re handling this well,” Sean observed as he threw his jacket on his desk and came over to talk to me.

  “Yeah—good enough,” I replied without looking up from my computer monitor.

  “Had your breakfast yet?”

  “Just about to.”

  We headed to the row of vending machines. While I tried to decide which flavor granola bar would go best with an energy drink, Sean asked, “Now what?”

  “I have all my stuff in the trunk of my car. After work I’ll probably look for one of those cheap extended-stay hotels,” I said as I tore the wrapper off my breakfast.

  “You’re staying with me until you find something better.”

  I didn’t even try to resist. “Thank you, but I’ll stay only until I can find something more permanent.”

  “Nothing is permanent, my friend.”

  Although I had been to Sean’s apartment before, I never had reason to see his second bedroom. The door was always closed, and I never thought anything of it. He opened it now and flipped on the light. “You can stay in here.”

  The door opened to a room decorated for a child. I stood at the threshold not quite comprehending the décor or the furniture.

  He saw the puzzled look on my face. “Well, I guess I have some explaining to do.”

  Confused, I replied, “Yeah, I guess so!”

  “Drop your stuff, use the head, and I’ll explain over a Bushmills or two.”

  I knew that Sean had a son, but I assumed that he lived with his mother. I naively wondered who would give custody to a cop.

  After a couple of Bushmills and almost an hour of Sean doing all the talking, I learned that nine years earlier he had married a girl from a wealthy suburban family but divorced her four years ago when she failed to finish her third drug rehab program, after which she abandoned Sean and his son.

  “Usually, the wife gets custody, but because of her history of drug abuse, you got custody?”

  “Sort of.”

  Sean explained that his son lived with his in-laws during the week, but with him on the weekends. Staring into his empty glass, Sean said, “When she took James for three days to live with her and her supplier, well, that was the last straw. I wasn’t about to expose my son to the potential for abuse.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She and her supplier moved somewhere in southern California.”

  “And you get along with her parents?”

  “Oh yeah. They’ve always considered me to be another one of their sons. Besides, they’ve got a lot of guilt about their daughter and are determined that their grandson never have contact with her.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “River Forest. James is enrolled in a Catholic grade school there. He lives with his maternal grandparents in an affluent suburb that gives him opportunities I could never have afforded.”

  “James, huh? Not Jim?”

  “We named him after her dad. James Lehan, and no one calls Mr. Lehan anything but James.”

  “What does his grandfather do?”

  As Sean walked to the kitchen to get more ice, he replied, “He has his own business, mostly construction, some demolition work—that kind of thing.”

  When he returned with more ice and a refill of Bushmills he asked a favor: “Look, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, but I have to ask you: When James is here on weekends, can you find another place to bunk?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you’re good for this weekend. His grandparents are taking him sailing. Mr. Lehan owns a Hylas 63 and moors it in Racine Harbor, in Wisconsin.”

  “What the hell is a Hylast 63?”

  “It’s Hylas, no “t” at the end. A Hylas 63 is a big-ass sailboat that sleeps six. It has a price tag that would make your head spin. Some- times, I go up to Racine and spend a night on the boat alone to unwind. I can’t sail the damn thing—I just use it as a floating hotel room.”

  He turned one of the stools from the breakfast counter toward me and perched himself there. Looking down into his refilled glass of Irish, he asked, “Frank, your father’s house has been sitting empty since he died last winter. Have you considered moving in there?”

  CHAPTER 66

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  My daily routine returned to normal. Although my divorce lawyer was still arm wrestling with Beth’s lawyer over striking the allegations that I was mentally unstable and accusing me of being a danger to his client, he assured me that negotiating a favorable divorce decree would be easy since Beth’s income was a multiple of a detective’s pay and there were no children involved. The sooner it was over, the better.

  My father’s house was the last place I ever wanted to set foot in again, but Sean was right—it had been empty since Christmas. I had paid one of my father’s neighbor’s to check on it from time to time but never heard from her. As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to move out. That my father no longer lived there didn’t matter, the memories still did.

  I spent the second weekend as Sean’s temporary roommate at a suburban hotel. The hotel was Foster’s idea. When I was about to explain to Foster the situation about Sean and his son, Foster admitted that he had known about James and Sean’s dilemma for some time. In fact, he confided, he was the one who had tracked down Sean’s ex in California and had provided a full report to the family.

  “Candidly, Francis,” he told me, “I have been very concerned about Sean for some time. His ex discovered that she was being investigated and threatened to return and take James back to California with her. Sean may never have shown it, but he was going through hell. It’s a wonder he didn’t snap under the strain. He would do anything to protect James—anything.”

  I resented the fact that Sean had shared his secret with Foster and not with me. I was also displeased that Foster had never let on about what appears to be a growing relationship with Sean. There was really no reason for Sean and Foster to have left me in the dark, but no useful purpose would be served by questioning either of them about it. It was petty jealousy, nothing more. It was beneath me, but still it rankled.

  The following Monday morning, I arrived at the station’s lower level and found Dunbar s
itting at my desk drinking from a McDonald’s paper coffee cup. He turned to look at me when he heard me approach.

  “Where’s Kelly?” he asked.

  I looked at my watch and stumbled for words. “Maybe in another twenty minutes.”

  Dunbar glanced at his watch and looked as if he hadn’t realized what time it was. “There’s been a development.”

  “Another body?”

  He deflected my question. “Let’s wait for Kelly in the parking lot.”

  After Dunbar paced for ten minutes at the rear entrance, Sean pulled into the lot. Dunbar motioned him over to where we were standing. He grabbed the passenger door handle and quickly pulled the door open while Sean’s car was slowing to a stop.

  “Don’t bother parking, Kelly, we’re taking a ride. Frank, get in the back.”

  Confused, Sean asked, “Where are we going?”

  While Dunbar secured his seat belt, he explained, “We’re headed to the Town Hall Station to meet with Chief of Detectives Thomas.”

  Twenty minutes later, the three of us sat with Chief Thomas at a round table in his private conference room. “Ok, Eddie, it’s your show.”

  Dunbar pulled four folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket, handed one to each of us, and placed the last one directly in front of him on the table. His copy had handwritten notes.

  “Approximately ten days ago, someone posted a note on the message board of a blog that serves as an anonymous Internet hotline for pedophiles trying to get help. It took more than a week for the blog administrator to figure out the message was intended for us—actually, intended for Frank.”

  The room went silent, the only noise coming from the vibration of Dunbar’s cell phone, which he chose to ignore.

  “The message has been reproduced on the sheet of paper I just handed you. As you can see, it is barely decipherable.”

  cpd vincenti. I’m the rael 1. look in despalesn rievr— near the palens froget beth. hiem.4

  Finally, Sean spoke, “If this is from The Bricklayer—and I think it is—then he’s dyslexic.”

  The chief looked up, and after eying me, he looked over at Sean. “I’m listening.”

  “One of my younger brothers is dyslexic. I used to help him with his homework—this is what his written homework assignments looked like before I helped rewrite them.”

  “That makes sense,” I added. “Some psychiatric studies have found that dyslexics have a tendency to be aggressive and violent.” I had my suspicions about the note—it seemed too easy. The killer may have purposely adopted a dyslexic style to mislead us, but I didn’t voice my concern.

  The chief nodded. “OK, assuming that’s true, what does it mean?” Sean studied the typed message, his brow furrowing slightly. “Well, the easy part is that he knows Frank is on the case. And, he’s trying to prove that he is The Bricklayer.”

  “Signing it with the same message that appears on each torso confirms it’s our guy,” I added. “We never released that detail.”

  The chief ’s leather seat creaked as he leaned forward. “And the rest?”

  Still staring at the message, Sean answered, “He’s telling us there are more bodies and where they are. He’s presenting his bona fides.”

  “OK, but where are the bodies?”

  I recalled reports that Gacy and Dahmer had dumped bodies in the Des Plaines River. Sounding out the misspellings, I was quick to answer. “The Des Plaines River.”

  “Near the airport,” Sean explained. “I think that’s the meaning of the second use of the word, ‘palens.’”

  Dunbar didn’t react. Instead he said, “That he posted it on a pedophile help blog, confirms Frank’s suspicion that a childhood sexual assault provides the motivation for his killings.”

  Addressing Dunbar, the chief said, “I still don’t like that he’s trying for the second time to communicate with Detective Vincenti.” Looking at me, he asked, “Detective, is there something we should know?”

  Knowing that Dunbar hadn’t told him of Foster’s ploy, I shook my head. “No.”

  Dunbar tried to wrap it up. “Chief, there are two things to do: First, let’s get help from the Cook County Sheriff ’s office to coordinate a search of the Des Plaines River—”

  I interrupted. “He wants the bodies found. They won’t need to drag the river. They should be able to find them buried on a river bank virtually in plain view.”

  Dunbar continued, “Second, Vincenti needs to review his case files to see if he’s run across this guy before. I want Sean to help him.”

  Then the chief asked the question the rest of us had been avoiding. “What’s the reference ‘froget beth’?”

  “Beth is my wife’s name.”

  The room went silent again. Finally, the chief spat out, “Now how the fuck does he know that?”

  He ran his hand over his thinning hair. After a few moments of silence, he looked over to Sean and me. “Detectives, you’re dismissed. I want a few minutes alone with Commander Dunbar.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  When we returned to the station house, we entered through the rear door and followed Dunbar down the narrow corridor lined with three interview rooms. He stopped in front of the first room on the right, checked to be sure that it was empty, and motioned us in. He pulled up a chair with his back to the two-way mirror. Pointing to the two chairs opposite him, he said, “Detectives, take a seat.”

  He paused, rubbing his brow. “Frank, the chief is concerned that The Bricklayer is sending you messages directly. I don’t like it, either.”

  “But really, the first time was Foster.”

  That got Sean’s attention; he immediately jerked his head in my direction.

  Dunbar tried to downplay it. “Sean, you’re in good company. I haven’t told the chief about that yet, either.”

  Turning to Sean, I explained, “Foster was behind La Pointe—he was a plant. It’s a long story, one that I am not particularly happy with. And in case you’re wondering, neither the commander nor I knew about it ahead of time.”

  Looking back at Dunbar, Sean asked, “Did Foster send this blog message?”

  I leaned back in my chair. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Dunbar looked at me with a smirk. “I called him as soon as the message hit my desk. He denied sending it. He didn’t seem surprised by it though. In fact, he correctly guessed what it said. Frank, has a killer ever tried to communicate with you before?”

  “No, but the press has used my name in its coverage.”

  Dunbar replied sharply, “Yeah, Sean’s and mine, too, but The Bricklayer addressed the message to you, and not either of us. Besides, the chief is right—how does he know your wife’s name?”

  I didn’t answer. Dunbar paused, checked his watch, and fidgeted with his tie.

  “Look, Frank, the chief wanted to put you on administrative leave.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  Dunbar frowned. “Of course it is. I talked him out of it. I convinced him that the more The Bricklayer communicates with you, the more we’ll learn about him.”

  I didn’t push it, but I voiced my objections. “We don’t need the Sheriff ’s Office to help with the search—”

  “Commander, I have a pretty good idea where to look,” Sean said. He’s telling us to look in the Des Plaines River near the planes, near O’Hare. Frank and I could take half-dozen uniforms and start the search in Schiller Woods. The Des Plaines River runs through it and it’s a stone’s throw from O’Hare.”

  “I do not want you two wasting your time looking for bodies. Let the sheriff ’s office help. I’ll make M’Bala the liaison with their office. I want you looking at old cases for connections to Frank.” Dunbar looked at me. “I want to know why he’s chosen to communicate with you, and why he’s now implicated Beth.”

  Sean reluctantly agreed.

  “Oh, and by the way, I got a call from the M.E.’s office yesterday. Why didn’t you guys tell me ab
out the M.E. tech named Allison?”

  I looked up, surprised. I hadn’t heard that name since after the Anderson murder. “That’s old news. There’s nothing to tell. He’s just some whack-job who claimed he knew Monsignor Anderson. He overreacted to the killing, that’s all.”

  “That’s all? I learned yesterday for the first time that he threatened you guys.”

  I shook my head and replied, “Commander, you know that shit happens all the time. Nothing ever comes of it.”

  Sean interrupted. “Allison made a couple of calls to us at the station and left incoherent messages. We had patrol officers try to pick him up, but he seems to have moved or something. Frank got a threatening call—we weren’t sure if it was from Allison—but like Frank said, we get those all the time.”

  Dunbar nodded. “OK, but be alert. The M.E. said he got a threatening call from him, too.”

  Dunbar removed his suit coat, and, looking at Sean, said, “Kelly, will you excuse us? I need a few moments alone with Frank.”

  After a minute or so of silent pacing, he stopped on the other side of the table directly across from me, placed both palms on the table, and leaned in.

  “How deep into this guy’s head are you?”

  He and I seldom discussed those so-called special talents that years ago Foster had claimed Dunbar and I shared, but the fact that the blog message was addressed to me and that he was sending a secondary message about Beth apparently unnerved Dunbar, as it did me.

  “Deep enough to understand your admonition about entering Dante’s ‘City of Woe.’”

  “That was Foster’s admonition, not mine. I merely repeated it. Cut the crap. How far?”

  “I first saw images of the Edwards and Anderson murders in January, but the images were fragmented.” I didn’t tell Dunbar that the images came to me during bad sex with Beth. Of course, I was never sure if images like those made the sex bad or bad sex evoked the images.

  “At the time, I speculated he was able to control his rage while he selected his victim and dumpsite but he unleashed it savagely when he was alone with the victim—extraordinary characteristics for a run-of-the-mill psychopath or sociopath. I tried to piece together Edwards’s and Anderson’s murders by looking for attributes they shared, but got nowhere. Obviously, the removal of the genitals confirms the sexual element, and the fact that our guy sodomized his victims with a wooden object suggests that the killer had been sodomized.”