Keisha had drawn her weapon. “Did you fire those shots?” I demanded. She shook her head as she looked down the alley where the stream of fans using the alley as a shortcut had stopped and gathered. They were looking back up the alley where the gunshots originated. The three of us waded through the crowd and came to a sudden halt. Fifty feet into the alley, Sean stood looking down at Tony lying on the ground, both highlighted by an overhanging streetlight. Keisha holstered her weapon. Alvarez came up behind us and said under his breath but loud enough for us to hear, “Que chingados?!”
I ran to Tony and knelt down on one knee next to him. I felt for a pulse—nothing. “Sean, he’s dead! What were you doing? I never used the distress word! What the hell were you thinking?”
“He went for a gun. Your innocent, little, harmless friend, Frank, was carrying a gun.”
I turned back to Tony. Clutched in his right hand was a .38 revolver. Numbed and confused, I stood with my back to Sean, and, without saying another word, walked away, and lost myself in the crowd.
PART FOUR
ABOUT MY JOURNAL
Thomas Aquinas Foster
The story of the killer, who the press infamously named The Bricklayer, ended as all true stories must—in death. But not the death I expected, nor its manner. During my many years of police work, I have recorded my observations and analysis of events and developments concerning serial killers whenever any new such individual is discovered. I have done so in the hope that my observations would some day help unlock the mystery of why some men mature to be morally grounded and contributing members of society, and some grow into homicidal monsters. It is the study and pursuit of these monsters that has dominated my adult life on and off the job. But my limited observations and sometimes flawed analysis serve as only small parts of unlocking the mystery. As I once told Francis in the early days of his personal education and journey into the dark side of men’s souls, too often you have to crawl into the cage with the monsters. Murderers aren’t to be studied, they’re to be experienced.
When the body of Henry Edwards was found at the Keeler Avenue demolition site shortly after Thanksgiving just past, I began this journal. The circumstances of the killer’s mutilation of Mr. Edwards and the staging of the crime scene was a portend of more torture and murders. In its original form, my journal was little more than a series of notes, some of which were in my own shorthand developed over the years as I learned to take notes at crime scenes and while interviewing witnesses. Some of the entries were more complex as I attempted to trace cause and effect. My journal in its original form often served as the basis for a more complete narrative, as is the case here.
As was my custom with cases in which my protégé, Detective Francis A. Vincenti, was involved, my notes included observations and analysis of Francis’s investigations, and, this time, his mental state, which had become increasingly fragile as Beth pulled him into a spiral of depression and despair. Francis had been blessed—or cursed— with certain gifts, or special talents, that allowed his imagination to experience the feelings, urges, and motivations of killers without the burden of emotional attachment. And because nothing good in life comes without a price, I discovered that as a child, Francis had paid a heavy price for those so-called gifts.
When I first began to observe Francis as a student during his sophomore year at Northeastern, I sensed there was something special about him, something extraordinary. I saw it in his eyes as I studied his reactions to the gruesome crime scene photos I forced students to view. His interest in my recounting of horrific murder scenarios was real, and his questions frighteningly insightful. As our one-on-one sessions progressed during his senior year, I realized three things about him: He’d had a troubled childhood that scarred him for life and caused him to always live on the edge of depression and suicide; the special talents he possessed for identifying with the minds of killers would make him an exceptional homicide detective and be helpful to me as I continued the twenty-year search for the killer of my Ellen; and he had the potential to become a tragic figure if I did not befriend him. And when he asked me whether it takes a monster to catch a monster that day on the admin building’s staircase, I was convinced he already knew the answer—as did I.
The investigation of Detectives Kelly and Vincenti into the murders of Henry Edwards, Monsignor Jack Anderson, George Mathias, and Luis Cervantes has already been well documented and, therefore, there is no need for me to repeat here the journal entries I made contemporaneously with those investigations.
Rather, I have produced this narrative, beginning with the shooting of Francis’s childhood friend, Tony Protettore, and documenting how that shooting plunged Francis into an episode of debilitating despair that overshadowed his pursuit of the killer the press had infamously dubbed “The Bricklayer.”
My Post-Shooting Summary
The morning after the shooting, an elderly homeless man, who simply gave his name as John, wondered into the 19th District station on Addison just three blocks east of Wrigley Field and claimed to have information about the shooting. He said that Tony had been his friend and had been living on the streets. Detectives Alvarez and M’Bala were called in to interview John, who identified Tony from a photo that Keisha carried with her. He took the detectives to Tony’s “home” among cardboard boxes, crates, and tents under the Red Line elevated tracks, no more than two hundred yards east of where Tony had died. A small community of homeless men used the shelter of the ‘L’s’ overpass as protection from the elements and used its proximity to the crowds around Wrigley Field to panhandle.
The Forensics Bureau technicians thoroughly processed Tony’s makeshift home. Between layers of discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags, the techs found news clippings about The Bricklayer, latex surgical gloves, an unopened package containing a blue tarp, and a pair of rusted bolt cutters—bits and pieces of essential features of the killer’s modus operandi.
Fox Sports was televising the Cubs game the night of the shooting, and one of its many mobile camera crews rushed to the scene in the alley as word of the shooting spread through the crowd. The Chicago Fox News affiliate almost immediately reported that The Bricklayer had been shot and killed. On-camera interviews with witnesses in the crowded alley added to the confusion of the night. Six witnesses told Fox they, too, thought Tony had a gun and that the police officer had fired in self defense; two other witnesses claimed Tony was shot in the back.
Sean was put on administrative leave pending an Internal Affairs investigation of the shooting. I made no effort to communicate with him. Whether the shooting was justified or not, Sean’s sudden rush toward Tony and subsequent pursuit had been neither explained nor justified to my satisfaction. I would talk to him again if and when Internal Affairs cleared him and restored him to active duty.
As for me, in the hours and days following the shooting of Prottetore, I tended to the more immediate issue of Francis’s fragile condition and his troubled mind.
Early Morning - Tuesday, May 26
I had been out late Memorial Day when Sean shot and killed Francis’s childhood friend. I had heard the news on my car radio: The Bricklayer had been killed. I arrived home around 2:00 a.m., and found Francis sitting on the stairs leading down to my front door. I was tired and had not counted on a visitor at that hour, but I greeted him anyway. “Francis,” I said, “I am glad to see you.”
He said nothing as I held the door open for him. Obvioiusly disoriented and agitated, he stood in my hallway, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. He looked past me into the apartment, looked back to the street, and finally asked, “Are you alone?”
“Of course.”
He stepped past me in my small hallway and stood silent momentarily. Without looking back to me, and in a barely audible voice, he said, “I’m not really sure why I came here.”
I closed the door and replied, “Because you are safe here.”
We sat together in my living room in silence, his hands trembling. He scanne
d the room with furtive glances, and after a few minutes, stood suddenly and began to pace, going to the front door several times and securing the lock for the second and third time. Finally, he began to talk, mostly in a frenetic manner, hardly giving me the opportunity to ask any questions. He spoke of his suspicion that Beth had reverted to cocaine use, his indifference to the death of his father, and the horror of the Carlton murders—all of which I had heard before. When he paused, I started to question him about Tony and the shooting. He didn’t remember the shooting; indeed, he could not recall the events of the past several days. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was seeing Tony standing across the street from the Grand Grill, staring at him.
His rambling stream of disjointed thoughts continued until 5:00 a.m. when, exhausted, he simply nodded off in mid-sentence and fell asleep where he sat. Forty minutes later, he woke screaming. I gave him some of my insomnia medication, and as he fell back to sleep on my couch, he muttered indiscernible words and phrases—none of it made sense.
Francis was still asleep several hours later when my cell phone vibrated. The caller ID displayed ‘Dunbar, E.’ From the outset, Eddie was irritated and a little more abrupt with me than usual, not that it was unwarranted considering the circumstances of the past twenty-four hours.
“Tommy, we’ve got a problem. Frank didn’t remain at the scene of last night’s shooting—he just walked away. I’ve left half a dozen messages on his cell instructing him to appear this morning at the Internal Affairs offices for a post-incident debriefing, but he failed to show. The IA guys are pissed, and he’s still not answering his phone. Keisha went to his house, but he wasn’t there. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Yes. He’s here with me. Francis showed up here around 2:00 a.m. and has been here the whole time.”
There was a momentary silence before Eddie reacted. “You should have called and talked to me about it.”
“We are talking about it now. I recommend that you either grant him a leave or put him on the medical roll. I do not care what you call it or how you do it, but in his current condition he is not fit for duty.”
Angrily, Eddie shot back: “Tommy, you know the requirements of the department directives covering post-incident procedures when an officer discharges his weapon. He’s breached protocol.”
“I know the procedures, Eddie, but IA has plenty of witnesses from the crowd to interview, and they still have to process Sean, Alvarez, and M’Bala before they need to interview Francis. I’ve talked to Keisha. She told me about the arrangements you made for the meet at Wrigley. IA should be asking Sean why he rushed Tony before Francis gave the ‘go’ signal.”
“Wait, where the hell was Frank between the time of the shooting and when he showed at your place?”
“He can’t remember. Actually, he has no recollection of the past several days.”
“You’re telling me he has amnesia?”
“I’m telling you what I have observed since he arrived. He needs time to straighten out whatever is going on in his head. He’s not himself.”
Eddie took some time answering. “If he wants a leave or to be placed on the medical roll, he has to submit a written request.”
“It is not a question of what Francis wants; it’s what he needs. He may be suffering from PTSD. Temporary amnesia is a typical symptom.”
Eddie went silent. I said nothing.
Finally, Eddie regained his focus. “He needs to be evaluated.”
“I have arranged for that. Dr. Micah Feldman of the Stone Psychiatric Institute at Northwestern has agreed, as a favor to me, to stop by this afternoon and talk to him.”
“Tommy, he should be seen by a department shrink.”
“Yes, but not right now. I want to know what’s going on in that talented, but troubled head of his before I put his career at risk.”
Eddie came back at me with increased agitation. “That’s not your decision to make!”
“Really? Excuse me, but Francis has no one else to turn to. He never really had family. Beth has filed for divorce and had him removed from his home, and he feels betrayed by Sean. No, Commander, Francis stays here where I can keep on eye on him and determine an appropriate course of treatment. He needs family right now, and I am all the family he has.” This time I did not wait for a response. “Eddie, you have an officer down and you don’t even know it!”
Eddie let out a long, loud sigh. “You’ve got twenty-four hours. Keep me advised.”
Noon - Tuesday, May 26
Micah Feldman M.D., had been a good friend to my parents and me for many years. I often shared a meal with him in a private dining room at the Standard Club on South Plymouth where, as a psychiatrist, he provided me with valuable insights during those times when I was compiling psychological profiles and could not make sense of psychiatric research materials. I now turned to him once again for assistance.
He arrived around noon and spent two hours alone with Francis. As we sat in my small living room drinking coffee from my grandmother’s fine china, he shared his concern over Francis’s condition. “Tommy, he needs to be admitted as an inpatient.”
“Not now. It will ruin his career.”
“He has no recollection of the past three days and only bits and pieces of the past two weeks. He refuses to eat. He’s sullen. He’s anxious. His hands tremble, he was cleverly evasive when answering my questions about his childhood, and he tried to distract me by talking about his wife’s history of substance abuse.”
I shifted in my chair. “Look, Micah, I’ve seen plenty of homicide detectives lose it temporarily. Over the past six months, I have watched Francis struggle with one stressful situation after another, the death of his father, a painful divorce, the horror of a serial killer who mutilates his victims, and now he has witnessed the killing of his childhood friend.”
“I assume he is the lead detective on this Bricklayer matter?”
“Yes, but I am convinced that case is closed. I’m certain now that his friend, Tony, was the serial killer Francis has been pursuing since November. Perhaps the realization that his childhood friend was a psychopathic killer was part of the shock he’s experiencing.”
“And you think that when he is able to cope with that realization, he’ll regain his memory? Playing psychiatrist again, Tommy?”
“Look, the press has been reporting only half of the savagery of the torture and killings, and those horrific images are stuck in Francis’s head day and night. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen to some very good cops. Given time, he will come out of it.”
Micah stared into his coffee. “It’s a lot more than this Bricklayer business, Tommy. Your amateur diagnosis of PTSD was a good guess, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
“What is it then?”
Micah shook his head. “Certainly he is suffering from depression and has been for some time, and based on what you’ve told me about him and the time I spent with him, this isn’t the first time Francis has experienced memory loss. I need to know more about him.”
I had known for years that Francis experienced periods of time for which he could not account. He had spoken to me about it on several occasions. I thought it was simply his way of blocking the horror of the murders he was called on to solve, or the result of too much Bushmills.
“Isn’t amnesia a symptom of PTSD?”
“Certainly it’s a symptom of PTSD, but it may be more than that. I need to spend more time with him. I wish you’d reconsider and let me admit him as an inpatient.”
“First of all, he’d never agree to it. Besides, I know a heck of a lot about that boy; it would take you months to get him to tell you what I already know. Let me have a few days with him here. If he is not better by the weekend, I’ll check him into Northwestern myself.”
Micah paused and leaned forward in his chair. “Then I want to come back tomorrow morning and have another session with him.”
“That’s very generous of you, but—”
“No �
��buts’. I’ll clear my morning schedule and be here first thing.”
He placed his coffee cup and saucer on the side table, reached for his medical bag, and as he opened it, said, “I administered a strong sedative that should help him sleep for several hours.” He retrieved three pill bottles and intructions written on a piece of paper from his script pad. “I anticipated his condition, and I have brought some medication—don’t worry it is all properly signed out from the hospital pharmacy. Two of the meds will help him relax and sleep, and the third will begin to address the depression, although it will take a few days to be effective.”
Micah rose from the leather couch, walked around the room, and, pretending to be looking at my collection of nineteenth century law reporters, casually remarked, “Tommy are you telling me the whole story?”
“What do you mean?”
Micah turned and faced me. “I take it he wasn’t really close to this Tony fellow—hadn’t seen him in years. It would be unusual that the death of such a distant friend should trigger these symptoms.”
“It’s more than just Tony’s death, Micah. For God’s sake, he saw his partner shoot and kill a man who he believed to be innocent. He probably blames himself for the murders of Anderson, Mathias, and Cervantes after not taking Protettore seriously last December when he tried to get help from him. Seems to me that’s more than a simple shock brought on by just the death.”
The Bricklayer of Albany Park Page 24