The Bricklayer of Albany Park

by Terry John Malik

  “You think it’s a note from Tony?” Sean turned it over in his hand, then gave it to Keisha.

  “I really don’t know.”

  Keisha examined it, and held it up to the light. “It sure looks like the handwriting from the victims’ torsos and the spelling is similar to the note left on the pedophile blog. Was Tony dyslexic?”

  “I don’t remember. That’s not something you talk about when you’re a kid.”

  Sean turned to Keisha. “Run it over to Forensics and see what they come up with. Of course, we just added two more sets of fingerprints to it.”

  Sean studied my face. “I don’t like it, Frank. The note puts his visits to the neighborhood in a different light. I think we need to do a little homework on this guy. See what he’s been up to.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  Two days later, Sean called me at home right after the ten o’clock news. “Frank, stay put. Keisha and I are on our way.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes and no. We’ll be right there.”

  “But—”

  “Damn it, Frank, we’ll be right there!”

  A light drizzle had just begun when they walked through my front door. Sean headed for the kitchen and helped himself to a beer and then joined Keisha and me around my dining room table that was littered with case files and spiral notebooks.

  Sean got right to it. “First, the guys in Forensics say that the handwriting on the note is a close match to that scrawled on the bodies—not an exact match, but pretty damn close. And your friend must have wiped down the piece of paper because the only set of prints on the note were yours, Keisha’s, and mine.”

  “Sean, we don’t know that the note came from Tony! We don’t even know what it means.”

  “True, but listen to what Keisha dug up on Protettore and then do the math.”

  Keisha began her report, reading from a small notebook: “When he was fifteen, he and his family moved from here to Gary, Indiana, where his father worked in the steel mills until the plant closed five years later. Your friend had just transferred from a junior college to Ball State in Muncie when his father was laid off. His father took on several odd jobs, including painting houses to support the family, but Tony was left to fend for himself to pay tuition. He worked several jobs while at Ball State and relied heavily on student loans. He double majored in History and Physical Education, and, get this, he qualified for the NCAA wrestling championships when he was a senior.”

  “Yeah, I remember that he wrestled freshman year.”

  Keisha continued. “After graduation, he took a job in a Crown Point high school where he taught history and coached wrestling for four years before he was arrested for assaulting the parent of one of his wrestlers. The arrest record shows that he struck a parent when, after a wrestling meet, he saw the father slap the son in the school parking lot after the boy had lost his match. He got a year’s probation, but was fired by the school.”

  “I have already called to have his booking prints sent to us,” Sean explained.

  “Isn’t that rushing things a bit?”

  “Frank, he was working in Crown Point! Hell, Crown Point is only twenty-five miles from where the Indiana State Police found a John Doe wrapped in a blanket along the Calumet River—around the same time he was fired.”

  I didn’t even try to respond. I turned back to Keisha. “Go on.”

  “A year later Tony followed his parents to Racine, Wisconsin, where his father landed a job on the assembly line of J.I. Case. Tony took a job in the local park district, coaching wrestling and doing maintenance work at the rec center.”

  Looking over to Sean, I interrupted Keisha. “I suppose that you’re going to try to tie his job in Racine to the body in Kenosha County?”

  “It’s less than an hour’s drive away—”

  “Yeah, but your father-in-law docks his sail boat in Racine and sometimes you stay on his boat there for long weekends—neither of which makes you or your father-in-law suspects.” I looked back to Keisha. “Keep going.”

  “After two years he was fired for public intoxication and lewd behavior.” Keisha turned the page of her notebook and continued. “He got drunk and took a piss in front of the rec center. The incident was witnessed by families leaving a grade school basketball game.”

  Sean added, “Then he falls off the radar until he shows up and stops you on the street. We haven’t been able to run down a current address for him. We have no idea where he’s living.”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t find anything that might tell us where he might be—nothing.” Keisha flipped her notebook closed.

  Sean took a long drink of his beer, stood, and looked into the kitchen, “You know, Frank, it just occurred to me. You saw Tony in your neighborhood twice: once in front of the diner and once in your backyard. He could’ve been your squatter. Hell, when he stopped you on the street last winter, didn’t he tell you he was staying with a friend in the old neighborhood. Maybe you were that friend. Could be that he stayed in the basement until your father died and moved upstairs when—”

  “Pretty far fetched, Sean.” I got up from my chair, walked around to the other side of the table, and studied the maps with their red and green pushpins. Sean and Keisha said nothing.

  “Even if he was the squatter, that doesn’t make him a murderer. Just a tresspasser.”

  “Look at the geography and time frames. It adds up.”

  Sean was too quick to conclude that my old friend was our killer and was building a case against him without any tangible evidence to tie Tony to the murders and without any explanation of motive. Foster had taught me that when you focus on only one possible scenario, you start to discredit other viable evidence that doesn’t fit your theory of a case. Sean was falling into that trap.

  Keisha must have sensed the growing tension. “Guys, we don’t have any other leads, do we?”

  “Sean, is there anything new on Allison? You know, we have written him off as a nut job who made idle threats, but we’ve never seriously looked at him as a suspect in the killings. Did the uniforms ever locate him?”

  Sean replied with uncharacteristic sarcasm: “Hey, he’s from the south—Jackson, Mississippi—I think. Maybe he couldn’t handle Chicago winters and returned to Jackson.”

  I glared at him. He got the message. “Fine, Frank. I’ll have a couple of uniforms try again to locate Allison, but our main focus ought to be your buddy.”

  “Tony was never my ‘buddy’. His showing up now could be no more than a series of coincidences.”

  “Bullshit. I want to put out a BOLO on him first thing in the morning.”

  Still staring at my wall of maps and photos, I ran my finger over the photographs of each of the victims and took my time answering, finally saying, “No.”

  Sean snapped. “Holy shit, Frank, don’t you—”

  “Let me finish. First of all, I’m not convinced Tony’s our guy. I’m telling you, it just doesn’t feel right. You’ve trusted my instincts before, so hear me out.” I turned away from the victims’ photos, leaned against one of the dining room chairs, and gathered my thoughts.

  “So?” Keisha said.

  “So, no BOLO on Tony; not yet, anyway. I don’t want to alert him to the fact that we’re on to him. We’ll lose him if he’s our guy. He’s been in the neighborhood twice now. He’ll be back. I want to see what he’s up to. He may have a totally innocent reason for being back here. Maybe you’re right, Sean. Maybe he was staying in my father’s house. Maybe he had nowhere else to go.”

  “And I suppose that you’re going to simply engage him in conversation.”

  “Maybe.” Looking over at Keisha, I asked, “Can you handle some surveillance work?”

  Surprised that I had asked her for help, she jumped at the chance. “Sure.”

  Sean immediately understood. “OK, Frank, now that makes sense. Keisha can put a team together and discreetly hang around the neighborhood. If the
y spot Tony, they can follow him to where he’s living and then get a warrant.”

  I nodded. “One step at a time, Sean. One step at a time.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  There was no shortage of volunteers among Area North’s detectives to work the surveillance team headed by Keisha. Everyone wanted in on the apprehension of the killer called The Bricklayer. Sean and I screened the volunteers and settled on two veterans: Mike Johnson and Ricardo Alvarez. Johnson and Sean had been at the academy at the same time and came up through the ranks together. Sean assured me that Johnson could be trusted to follow instructions. I didn’t know Alvarez, but Sean had worked with him before I was assigned to VCS and assured me that he “has a good nose for trouble.” Both had a record of impressive collars, and already held a number of department commendations. Sean assured me they wouldn’t be inclined to showboat or try to draw attention to themselves by making a hasty arrest if it came to that.

  Keisha developed a strategy for surveillance and deployment. She would provide coverage at and around the station house and wherever I went on a call. Johnson would begin taking his meals at the Grand Grill, acting as if he was new to the neighborhood and trying to establish himself as a regular. He would also frequent the two neighborhood bars located within six blocks of my house. Alvarez would park several blocks away from the Grill and respond to sightings radioed to him by Keisha and Johnson. Keisha called me at home every night reporting on their progress—or the lack thereof. On the fourth day of surveillance, she didn’t wait to provide her report.

  It took four mornings for Tony to show up outside the Grill. He made an initial pass around eight-thirty a.m., walking quickly, presumably to determine if I was there having breakfast. When he saw I wasn’t, he entered and ordered a black coffee to go, keeping a watchful eye on the front door. As he walked out the door with his cup of coffee in hand, Johnson radioed Alvarez. A few minutes later, Alvarez spotted him walking leisurely west on Grand Avenue. Johnson caught up, and the two experienced cops alternated as tails to avoid detection.

  Grand Avenue between Newland and Harlem Avenue is a wide, busy street lined with large franchise stores, auto repair shops, several ethnic restaurants, and a few neighborhood mom-and-pop shops—remnants of a different era. As Tony proceeded west on Grand, he occasionally stopped to look into store windows, and, after a short pause at each window, simply moved on, in no particular hurry. He finally entered a bookstore just west of Harlem Avenue in a new strip mall, where he sat at a table next to the front window and spent time reading newspapers and drinking coffee. He reappeared around 11:00 a.m., when he walked to the corner, waited briefly at the bus stop, and boarded the CTA #43 bus headed north on Harlem.

  Johnson kept up with the bus while Alvarez purposely lagged behind. At the intersection of Harlem and Belmont, Tony exited the bus through the rear door, crossed the street, and stood on the north side of Belmont, joining a group of young people presumably waiting for the eastbound #77 Belmont bus.

  Johnson radioed Keisha. “He just got on the CTA at Belmont headed east. I think he’s heading toward the station house. Alvarez is moving ahead of me now and will tail the bus. I’ll fall back.”

  “Got it. In case that’s where he’s headed, I’ll go over to Campbell Avenue and Belmont. I’m pretty sure that’s the bus stop closest to the station.” Keisha watched several buses pass before she radioed Alvarez. “He hasn’t shown.”

  “His bus just passed you, and he didn’t get off.”

  “Ok. Stay with him. Is Johnson a safe distance behind you?”

  “He should be.” He checked his rearview mirror. “Shit! I don’t see him.”

  “Did he get caught at a light?”

  “Maybe, but he’s too good at this to let that happen. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stick with the bus.” Keisha shouted into her mic, “Johnson! Johnson! This is M’Bala. Come in. What’s your 20? Repeat. What’s your 20?”

  Silence.

  “Johnson. Do you read?”

  Silence.

  “I can’t raise Johnson.”

  “I still don’t see him.”

  “Stay with the bus. If Johnson is having trouble, he’ll catch up.”

  Five minutes later, Alvarez alerted Keisha. “Protettore got off at Clark and is on foot along with twenty or so young people headed north.”

  “Where the hell is he going?”

  “Maybe he’s going to the Cubs game,” Alvarez joked.

  Keisha didn’t treat it as a joke. “Damn it, we could lose him in those crowds! Johnson’s still not responding. Do you see him?”

  “Nope. Could be that his radio isn’t working.”

  “Forget it. Just stick with Protettore.” “10-4.”

  Keisha sped the short distance from Belmont and Campbell to Wrigley Field at Addison and Clark, where as she feared the place was already full of anxious fans. She parked in a no-parking zone and took to foot, making it easier to work through the throng of people standing shoulder to shoulder in long lines at the entry turnstiles. She took a position across the street on Addison in front of an auto repair shop in the middle of the block where she could observe both streets that intersected Addison—Clark on the west and Sheffield on the east. Finally, she spotted him.

  He was walking east on the north side of Addison toward the outdoor beer garden at Sheffield. Keisha strained to keep him in sight among the crowd at Gate D waiting to take their seats along the right field foul line. Tony looked over his shoulder as he approached the beer stand just outside the gate. He casually ordered a beer and sat at one of the street-side tables. Either he was oblivious to the fact that he was being followed or was testing the surveillance team. Keisha watched and waited for his next move.

  Out of the corner of her eye she suddenly caught site of flashing blue strobes on an unmarked squad car speeding on Addison toward Sheffield. It stopped abruptly at the curb near the street-side table where Tony was sitting. The car’s door swung open. It was Johnson.

  “What the hell? What’s Johnson doing?”

  Tony appeared to panic. He knocked the beer off the table in the direction of the charging Johnson, darted to the other end of the bar, and jumped over the four-foot aluminum fencing. He ran north on Sheffield immediately behind the right field bleachers. Johnson hesitated, appearing to decide whether to go around the beer garden or through it. Buses unloading high school students blocking Sheffield made the decision for him. Johnson had trouble clearing the fence, stumbled and fell into the beer garden, upending a table and knocking over two middle-aged women. The women screamed and several men in the crowd converged on Johnson knocking him to the ground. He showed his Chicago PD star, and the crowd finally gave way. He rushed past the bar and out onto the plaza where he stopped and scanned the crowd, his head on a swivel, desperately searching for Tony.

  Tony had blended in with the large crowd on Sheffield. Mid-block, he stopped suddenly, looked behind him, worked his way through the press of fans, and crossed Sheffield. He headed for the rooftop bleacher buildings that lined the east side of Sheffield. For years, the four-story gray stone apartment buildings that lined the east side of Sheffield directly across from Wrigley had simply been convenient places to live if you wanted easy access to the Red Line of the ‘L’ to downtown or watch the Cubs from a lawn chair perched on the roofs, but in the early 1980s the owners abandoned their lawn chairs, erected bleachers on their roofs, and converted residential apartments into luxury party rooms. Tony slowly melted into the crowd streaming into these renovated vintage buildings.

  As soon as Keisha spotted Johnson jump the fence, she took off after Tony, bypassing the beer garden, slipping between two of the high school buses. She searched the crowd for any sign of him. All she could see was Johnson still fighting the push and pull of the crowd on its way to the turnstiles. Then she spotted Tony. He had slowed his pace, making his way toward one of the roof-top buildings. She caught up with him ju
st as he walked past the first apartment building, but she stayed ten yards behind using the crowd as cover. Tony suddenly turned into the main floor of one of the rooftop bleacher buildings. She followed him, but there was no sign of him in the lobby. She worked her way up the stairs, eyeing the corporate party rooms on the first two floors, ending up on the roof, where fans had already filled the seats. He wasn’t among them.

  Looking down at the street where Tony had entered the building, she spotted him—he was back on Sheffield. He shouldered his way through the throng, turned into an alley, and cut through a back yard. He was out of sight in a matter of seconds.

  CHAPTER 74

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  “Dammit, Sean! I thought you said Johnson could be trusted. What were your words? ‘Johnson won’t showboat’. For Chrissake, that’s exactly what he did. Now Tony knows we’re on to him. Thanks to Johnson’s foolhardy attempt to make the collar, Tony will go to ground and it may take months to track him down again.”

  I was fuming. I sat across from Sean in an interrogation room. A fluorescent light flickered overhead. We sat in silence. I glared at Sean as I waited for an explanation. He got up and started pacing, his hands plunged deep into his pockets.

  I finally lost my patience with him. “Well?”

  “We’ll still get Protettore, Frank. We’ll get him.”

  “You know damn well we need to ‘get him’ with evidence. The whole idea of the tail was to follow him to where, according to you, he was torturing and killing his victims. I’m going to ask Dunbar to put a letter of reprimand in Johnson’s file. That was blatant insubordination—”

  “He was following orders, Frank.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine.” Sean stopped pacing. “Look Frank, I gave him instructions that at the first chance he got, he was to apprehend Tony and bring him in for questioning.”

  “What the fuck, Sean?”