“It was a man?”
“Yes.”
“The same one that blackmailed you?”
Isaac said, “Yes. Same voice as that comes later. A half hour later, the intercom buzzes. That’s the one that police use usually, the after hours one. You pull up and—but you know. You’re a detective. So I answer it. And this man enters. He looks around. And before I can ask what he wants, he grabs me by my coat and swings me around into the wall.”
“Describe the man.”
“Average height and weight. Brown hair. White. Nothing particularly memorable.”
“Go on.”
“So he pulls out a knife and says something like, ‘I know how to use this.’ I don’t know what to do, so I hold my hands up. Take whatever. I can’t figure why he’d come here. Then I thought he could be the mob. Wanted to deal with a body that came in. Then he says he knows I’m a drunk. He’s got evidence and if I don’t do what he says, he’ll get my license revoked. Make sure I can’t get a job anywhere. That’s when he tells me he wants me to fake your wife’s autopsy report. Said to write up so it looked like a heart attack. Said write it up as myocardial infarction for cause and natural for manner.”
“He used those words.”
“Yeah. He knew the terminology.”
“And then.”
“I said, ‘Prove it.’ And he holds the knife and reaches into my lab coat pocket. Finds a flask of whiskey there. He leaned in close and said, ‘I can smell it.’ So he tells me to do it. Says he’ll be back in thirty minutes to see the report I’ve written. So I did it.”
“Let me guess, you didn’t bother to tell anyone.”
Isaac shook his head. “I was scared I’d lose my job. And then all those other cases I worked. How many would be tossed out because I was exposed?”
“Don’t try to justify yourself.”
Isaac dropped his head. “You’re right.” He looked back up. Tears came down his cheeks. “You’re right.”
“Finish your story.”
“I wrote it up like he wanted. And in thirty minutes, he rang on the intercom again. I took the report to him. He looked it over. He told me it was good and to file it. If I filed a different one, he’d know and he’d end my career. Then he left.”
“So why tell me now?”
Isaac gestured to his laying in bed. “Like I said, I’m dying. What does it matter now what he’s got on me.”
Drexel took in a deep breath. “So that’s all you got? An average white guy shows up and forces you to do this?”
Isaac nodded once.
“The report was signed by Dr. Jonas, not you.”
“I forged it. I did it a lot. I was an idiot.”
Drexel pulled out his phone and flipped to an image of Victor. Based on the description, the captain seemed an unlikely suspect, but he showed the picture to Isaac. “Was that him?”
“No.”
Drexel flipped to an image of Kevin Blair. “That him?”
“No.”
Drexel put the phone back into his pocket. “Did you create or keep the true autopsy report?”
“I believed him. I didn’t want to risk it. But I kept a digital copy. A single one. That alderman that was killed by his wife a few years ago. He had it. He knew about me. Knew about my drinking problem. But I think it disappeared. I’m not sure.”
A computer that Hal “The Bull” Nye had disappeared during Drexel’s investigation of his murder. He looked at Isaac. “Did she suffer?” Drexel asked, even though he knew enough about violent death to know the answer. But he wanted someone to tell him anyway.
“The blow would’ve knocked her out. I doubt she regained consciousness.”
“Could she have been saved?”
“Perhaps. If someone had called for help.”
Drexel could not help but imagine his wife lying on the floor, unable to help herself but needing help. His help. His chin vibrated, clattering his teeth together. A combination of rage and sadness. He looked at Isaac. “She deserved better.” He turned and walked out.
Audrey was standing across from Ton, who had given up the lone chair in the hallway to her. Both looked at him and saw the tears and redness. Audrey, alarmed, stood up and entered her father’s room. Ton bit his bottom lip, nodded, and hugged his friend. They walked out of the hospital together, in silence.
Chapter 21
As Ton drove back into Illinois, Drexel called Daniela.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Can you get to the CCTV footage at the ME’s office the night of Zora’s death?”
“Depends on if they archive it or not. I can have a look. Anything in particular?”
“No. Get everything. Any cameras they have.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and let his head fall back against the seat. He closed his eyes. The heat poured in through the front windshield. The sunlight was so bright that even with his eyes closed it was uncomfortable. He reached up and pulled down the visor. He tried to follow Zora’s advice to take deep breaths, to focus on those breaths. But he was not engineered for meditation or even the trappings of it. So he let his mind go into the confusion Isaac Dervish had unleashed. Even though Isaac had looked at the pictures of Victor and Kevin and said neither was the man who blackmailed him, the former ME and longtime drunk was sick and old. Perhaps he had a bad memory. It would not be the first time a witness got something dramatically incorrect. In the slaying of a pizza delivery man some years previous, Drexel interviewed an eyewitness who remembered the type of pistol used and the color of the killer’s bicycle with great accuracy but his description and remembrance of the killer himself was so inaccurate as to be useless. Worse. But if Isaac recalled accurately, then the man who blackmailed him was not Victor. Where did this leave Drexel? He knew the CCTV was now critical. Isaac’s testimony obliterated all other theories and lines of inquiry. The loose threads of motive Drexel had assigned to Victor for killing Zora—that she uncovered his corruption and would inform her husband—disappeared. The blackmailer’s motive was obscure, but his was not a random act. He had somehow discovered Isaac’s alcoholism, used it against him, and sought to thwart a potential investigation. The way to keep the machinery of the state from moving forward was to prevent it from starting. He rubbed his hand across his head. And in the chaos of his mind, Drexel recalled that Ton had wanted to grab a beer. “Hey, I thought you wanted to eat somewhere in Munster.”
Ton smiled. “Well, after the bombshell that old geezer dropped on you, I figured we’d head back. That place in Munster will be there for a while.”
Drexel nodded. “Let’s at least swing through someplace.”
“Next exit.”
Ton drove in silence the rest of the way back after getting a disappointing cheeseburger and fries, letting his friend be with his thoughts. By the time they arrived at Drexel’s apartment complex, the storm of thoughts in his head had not ended. As Ton brought the car to a stop along the street, Drexel reached into the back seat and grabbed the photos of Kevin, Victor, and Harrison.
“What’re you going to do with those?” asked Ton.
“Talk to Victor. Or Internal Affairs. They’ve got to hear about it.”
Ton nodded.
“And the other thing?”
“I don’t think Victor had anything to do with Zora. He’s just dirty based on this.”
“I didn’t quite mean that, but let me go along with it. So if you just had those pictures and what we’ve seen with Victor and Kevin—if the thought of him having killed Zora never crossed your mind—would you’ve reacted differently?”
Drexel twisted his chin and he took a deep breath. “I can’t say. Maybe. Fact is, I thought it.”
“Fair enough. What about this doctor? The one we saw the other day.”
“I need the footag
e I asked Daniela to get. See if it has any clue.”
“So you believe him?”
“Yeah, I do. I can’t imagine why he’d call me out now. He seems remorseful.”
Ton let a thin smile cross his face.
Drexel’s phone rang with the default ringtone. He realized with a few questions, Ton had helped bring order to Drexel’s thoughts. As he pulled the phone out, he said, “Thank you.”
Ton nodded once.
Drexel opened the door and answered the call. “Hello?”
“Detective Drexel Pierce. This is Brianna Whalen.”
Drexel grabbed the door handle as Ton began to pull away. The door started to open and Ton lurched to a stop. “Yes?”
“They’re here.”
Drexel slid into the passenger seat. “Who?”
“I don’t know, but they’re spray painting on an interior wall right now.”
“I’ll be right over.” He hung up and turned to Ton. “That apartment building across from the Congress Theater. Dodge’s crew is there now.”
***
Ton slid into a parking space a half-block north of the apartment building. Drexel said, “I can take care of this.”
“I’m not letting you go in there alone.” He got out of the car and opened the trunk. He took out a bat—an ash bat with a natural grain finish and the Rawlings R logo visible.
“I want to avoid violence if we can.”
Ton smiled. “Of course.”
They walked down the block and stopped at the entrance to the building. A brick set between the double-doors held them ajar. Drexel swung open the front door and pulled out his pistol. He kept it pointed at the floor but ready to raise and fire should he need to. He heard a pounding noise. Drexel guessed it was someone hitting a wall. “Police,” shouted Drexel.
The pounding stopped. Drexel stepped into the lobby. “If you have any weapons, put them down.”
“Fuck you. Get out of here.” The voice came down the stairwell.
Drexel looked over to it and then back into the darkness of the hallway leading away from the lobby. The lights had been busted—shards of glass still clung to the screwed in part of the light bulb. Only the dim light from the streetlights outside gave him any visibility.
“I said get the fuck out of here.”
Drexel walked toward the stairwell. “I’m the police. I’m not going anywhere. Best you come out. No weapons.”
The sound of running from the hallway. A war cry. Drexel saw Ton take a step forward and to the side and bring the bat up waist high in what the detective would have described as a casual swing. The bat connected. The man’s bloodthirsty call turned to a loud grunt mixed with the sound of the bat hitting flesh. His weapon—a steel pipe—dropped to the ground with a high-pitched ting. Then he fell to the floor with a dull thud.
“Steve?” The voice from above had lost its confidence.
“Is that Leonard or Harrison?”
“Fuck.”
Steve moaned. Drexel said, “Watch the stairs” and then went over to Steve. He handcuffed him. He pulled out his phone and called the dispatcher to send backup to the building. He hung up and walked over to the stairwell. “More of us are coming. If you’re smart—and I don’t know that you are—you’ll just surrender now.”
Silence. Drexel looked at Ton, who nodded. Drexel looked up the stairs as he took each step one by one, primed for Leonard or Harrison to appear. As he got to the top step, he heard someone running toward him. Drexel dared not shoot until he was certain he would hit the charging vandal, but he couldn’t see into the well of darkness. He took a step back as a man careened to a stop at the threshold.
Drexel raised his pistol. “Really?”
“You gonna shoot me?”
“If you give me a reason.”
“Turn around. Get out of here if you know what’s good for you.”
“Ain’t gonna happen. Leonard? Harrison?”
The man retreated into the darkness. Drexel heard running away from him. Tempted to race after him, he held himself in check. The accomplice might be expecting that. Drexel held his position for a few minutes, listening for any sound, but none came.
The downstairs door opened. Drexel turned. “Detective Drexel Pierce here.” He walked down the steps and in front of Ton. He did not want to see Ton shot in a mistake. A flashlight shined bright in his face. “Send someone to the back. They used the fire escape to flee.”
One of the cops said, “Do it.”
Drexel could not see who responded, but knew at least two were now headed to the back.
“This man behind me is not one of the perps.”
The cop asked to see Drexel’s identification and then Ton’s. Once both were confirmed, Drexel told Ton thanks and said he could leave. Ton nodded. Drexel then told the uniformed officer they were looking for Harrison Dodge and Leonard Falcone. Steve moaned again. Drexel walked over to him and sat him upright. “And this is Steve Zimmerman.” He smiled at the handcuffed man. “Oh Steve. You don’t know the shit you’re in.”
***
The uniformed officers took Steve Zimmerman to the District 14 station. Drexel rode with Sergeant Gene Stanton, who had arrived at the apartment building at Drexel’s call for backup.
As Gene drove them, they listened to the radio chatter about the search for Leonard and Harrison, both of whom managed to evade capture. “We’ll get them,” said Gene. “So what happened there?”
Drexel told him a friend of a friend had reported issues with vandalism, so Drexel gave his card to a tenant. He had also kept an eye on the place and learned the identities of the officers involved in the vandalism. “Did it to push the tenants out.”
Gene shook his head. “Assholes like this give us all a bad name.”
Drexel did not disagree. While the police often felt, as a group, that they were alone against the world, that the populace at large loathed them leading to an under-siege mentality, they felt a particular sting when the inevitable corrupt ones were exposed. They were a stain, and many did not understand that police cover ups often resulted from shame and a desire to protect. Not that that mattered—or should matter—to the citizens.
“Do you want to talk to him?” asked Gene.
Drexel rubbed his chin and debated what interviewing Steve would accomplish. He could find out more details about Kevin and Victor. But he decided he wanted to because he was curious. “Yeah, I’d like to. Presuming it doesn’t mess up the investigation.”
“I think a Homicide detective can handle that.”
Gene pulled into the parking lot for the police cruisers and pulled up to the gas pump off to the right side. Gene put the car in park, turned off the ignition, and pulled the keys out. “Entrance is over there.” He pointed to the left side of the building.
“Thanks,” said Drexel.
“Anytime.”
They both stepped out of the car and parted ways. Drexel heard Gene pop loose the gas cap as he walked to the entrance. The station was a two-story, nondescript building that looked like it was built in the 70s: red brick column wedges interrupted tan wood siding. Small windows cut across the building at the top of each floor. The entrance Drexel entered was at the back of the building and used only by police officers. The back door was locked, so he rang the buzzer next to the aluminum-framed, glass door. Over the years, the shine of the frame along the edge had been rubbed away. Down the illuminated hall, a head poked out of an opening. The man, his hair a thick set of dark curls, waved and gave a thumbs up before disappearing. He re-appeared turning a corner into the hallway. He smiled and nodded as he walked up. He pressed a buzzer, and the door clicked open, which he helped to push. “Hello. I’m assuming you’re the detective Gene brought in, but I need to see some ID.”
Drexel nodded. As he pulled out his badge, he looked at the officer’s name tag: Mali
k. “Sure thing, Malik.” He held up his badge.
Malik scrutinized it, nodded, and stepped back, letting Drexel in. “They put Dodge in four.” He pointed down the hallway and thumbed right. “Everybody says he’s not said a thing.” Malik followed Drexel down the hallway until passing a short hallway that turned left and led to the watch duty officer’s desk.
“Thank you,” said Drexel as he continued on. He turned right at the end of the hallway and entered a squad room. Cubicles with short gray walls between them filled the space. Many of the computer screens on the desks displayed the Chicago Police symbol. He saw a number of plainclothes officers talking on the phone, tapping at their keyboards, shifting through paperwork. He saw a number of interview rooms across the way. Black numbers adhered to the doors a couple of inches below small windows. Number four was diagonal from where Drexel stood, so he weaved his way through the aisles and peeked inside through the window. Steven was sitting without handcuffs in a plastic chair. His head was down.
Drexel turned back to the squad room. A plainclothes officer sat with his back to him. Drexel walked up to the cube, making noise to alert the officer, who spun around and smiled at him. “Howdy,” she said. “I’m Detective Roberts. Casey Roberts. How can I help?”
Drexel introduced himself and gave a quick explanation of his being called to the apartment blocks and discovering Dodge and his cronies.
“I appreciate you getting him,” said Casey. “We can handle from here though. Write up your statement and send it along.”
“I was hoping to chat with him.”
Casey tilted her head and twisted her lips. “Why?”
“Can’t help myself. I’m curious like any detective.”
She smiled, but it was a smile that she understood the desire but would not grant the request. “Well, I can’t allow that.” She grabbed a blue ink pen from the top of a notebook on her desk. She rolled it between her thumb and finger in her right hand. “Besides, we sat him down, and he asked for his rep. So no one’s talking to him until the rep arrives.” She looked at the digital watch on her wrist. “And he’s still twenty, thirty minutes out.” She smiled again.
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 17