The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  Campello glanced over his shoulder and toward Lopez’s office. He was on the phone and the door was closed. “What does the boss have to say about it?”

  Silvio said, “He hasn’t. Yet. Some uniforms came in and told Polanski he was under arrest and a guy from IAD went into the office to talk with Lopez. The whole thing was over in minutes.”

  “He’s been on the phone ever since,” Silvio said.

  Campello said, “Something doesn’t feel right about this.”

  Tertwiller said, “Something didn’t feel right about him coming here in the first place, if you ask me.”

  “Listen, Frank,” Silvio said, “we’re going for a beer later. You want to come?”

  “Sure. Count me in.” He kept his eyes on Lopez’s office and when he saw him hang up the phone he said, “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  Silvio gave him a friendly slap on the back. “You do that, detective. Just remember, Jeep’s at five.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He did not wait for an invitation from Lopez. He went into the office and closed the door.

  “Not now, Frank,” Lopez said with his elbows on his desk, massaging his temples.

  “What happened?”

  “You heard, didn’t you?” He nodded toward the squad room. “I saw them pounce on you as soon as you came in.”

  “What happened, Julio?”

  Campello listened as the district commander recounted the events the others had described for him. Lopez seemed genuinely concerned for Polanski’s safety.

  “He’s already been booked and taken to the Cook County jail.” Lopez was slumping in his chair.

  “There’s got to be more than that, Julio. You’re leaving something out.”

  “Do you remember that coke bust that went down the other day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of it turned up missing that evening.” He focused on Campello. “They found it in the trunk of Polanski’s car.”

  “So what? It’s a setup and you know it, Julio. Polanski would rat his mother out to the League of Decency if he thought it would make his career. That doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.”

  “Correction. He is very much a criminal, now. The state’s attorney is filing charges.”

  “Julio, there’s more to this than—”

  “We ran his financials. He has over a hundred and fifty thousand sitting in the bank.” He ceased massaging his temples and looked directly at Campello. “Tell me, Frank. Where does a cop get that kind of money?”

  “Julio, Polanski didn’t put that money in the bank. He didn’t steal the drugs and he didn’t take down two good cops just so he could milk some drug dealers.” He gestured over his shoulder to the squad room behind him. “He turned on them. And he’s reaping the whirlwind for having done so. But he isn’t guilty of dealing drugs and you know it.”

  “The facts say he is. Polanski looks guilty. And that has greatly upset the state’s attorney who is resting his entire case against Dorchester and Caine on Polanski’s testimony. He’s out for blood, now, and he doesn’t care whose it is.”

  “The prosecutor isn’t stupid, Julio. He has to know Polanski is being railroaded.”

  “By everyone, Frank? If it was just the money and the missing drugs, that’d be one thing. But there are dealers lining up to testify that Polanski has been strong-arming them. How’s the state’s attorney supposed to ignore that? How’s she supposed to believe that there’s a conspiracy against Polanski that is so great, it encompasses the CPD and the criminal element of the city?” He folded his hands on his desk. His gaze intensified on Campello. “And there’s more, Frank. Longhorse is retracting his agreement to testify against Peter. But he’s willing to testify against Polanski, for a deal.”

  Campello had a sinking feeling. “Where’s Peter, Julio?”

  “He walked. The sweatshirt you found in Longhorse’s apartment and the computer? It all walked today. Vanished. We have no evidence, no testimony, no forensics, and no reason to hold Green.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Campello left by way of the building’s lobby. Most of the press had vacated except for a smattering of the diehards, primarily the print journalists who had more time to develop their stories and so remained to ferret out facts. Christy Lee was there, too. She saw Campello as soon as he descended the staircase and pounced on him like the proverbial tiger.

  “What happened to Polanski?”

  He kept moving and she followed him through the lobby door and into the parking lot. The wind remained strong and the day overcast.

  “My readers have a right to know what is happening with their police department, detective.”

  Campello stopped to look at her. “Well?” she asked, her eyes searching his from beneath a furrowed brow.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Covering a story. What else would I be doing here?”

  He pointed to the Castle. “I was in there only a few minutes. How did you get here so quick?”

  “What do you think, detective? That I just sit around all day waiting for a phone call? This is my beat. I have my sources too.”

  He sighed, hands on hips, studying her. “This is off the record.”

  “No.”

  “Have a nice day.” He started walking again.

  “OK, OK,” she said, tugging on his arm.

  He stopped again and glanced around the parking lot, over her shoulder. There were a few officers coming and going, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

  “How much do you know?” he asked.

  She told him and it was apparent she hadn’t gotten very far. She only knew what the Public Information officer was likely to have said. She did not know about the drugs, the money, or the growing list of illicit dealers who were lining up, willing to testify that Polanski was a crooked cop who had been shaking them down for years. She also did not know that Longhorse had retracted his testimony against Green and the little evidence they had against Peter had vanished, and that he had walked again, even as Longhorse remained behind bars. In short, she didn’t seem to know a whole lot.

  “You don’t know much.”

  “Then tell me.”

  He was incredulous. “Why? I’ve already broken my own rule by talking to you once. Why should I tell you anything?”

  “The people in this city have a—”

  “Stow it, Ms. Lee. We have a Public Information officer for that.”

  A gust of wind kicked up, ruffling her hair. “You may not believe this, detective, but I care what happens to Polanski. Even if you and the others don’t. I care what kind of a police department this city has.”

  He moved closer, crowding her. She did not back down.

  “They why do you magnify every failure and subdue every success?” he asked.

  “I—”

  “I’ll tell you why, Ms. Lee. Because our failures are news. And they’re news because they are rare.”

  He stood motionless, allowing his comments to sink in before turning suddenly and striding away.

  “I can help him!” Christy called.

  Campello stopped.

  “If you think the power of the press can be used against you, then you must know it can be used for you, too.”

  There were risks in talking to her. She was a reporter, after all. But Peter’s second release and Polanski’s frame-up told him he was facing insurmountable odds if he decided to go it alone. He had always trusted his fellow officers. Now, given recent developments, he was no longer sure who he could trust. He turned to face her.

  “I think Polanski is being framed.”

  She was flabbergasted.

  “Why?”

  “Off the record.”

  She acquiesced. “Off the record.”

  He moved closer to her and told her that two kilos of cocaine from a recent bust were missing from the evidence room and that they were found in Polanski’s car. He told her that money had been found in
his account and that testimony from some of the city’s more prominent drug dealers would be forthcoming. He told her about the list he had found on Rita’s computer and how it matched the one in Peter’s apartment, and how the officer there had been no more successful than he in finding the people on the list.

  He glanced around the lot again. Several uniforms and plain-clothes officers milled about the area, coming and going, but no one seemed to notice his conversation with the reporter. “I don’t care for guys like Polanski. I never have. But he didn’t do this. He’s coming before the IPRA and they will use this against him even though it has nothing to do with the ambush. Unless I’m wrong, he will be exonerated in the shooting, but then be held over for another hearing on the drug charges.” He nodded toward the building. “They want him out. It doesn’t matter if he goes to jail or gets fired. It’ll be enough if he isn’t there anymore.”

  “You think he’s innocent, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do too. I was hoping there was at least one decent cop in this town.”

  “There are plenty of decent cops, Ms. Lee. You’re talking to one of them. Do you want to work with me on this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you need to understand you can’t go running to your paper for cover when things begin to go south.”

  She pursed her lips. her face hardened. “I don’t need anyone to protect me, detective.”

  “Trina and Rita thought so, too.”

  Her jaw clenched. “I don’t need anyone to protect me.”

  “OK. Because unless I’m missing something here, there will be no one willing to do it.” He nodded again toward the building. “We aren’t just going against the department, Ms. Lee. We’re going up against a group that is powerful enough to kill us, then buy your newspaper while making your readers think it was a good idea. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Perfectly.” Her face was full of determination, and that meant she didn’t have a clue.

  CHAPTER 43

  Campello and Lee took the tan squad car to Polanski’s house. Even though he was the man of the hour and the target of the very media that had hailed him as a hero only days before, the house was quiet, with no gathering of news crews or camera trucks in sight.

  “Where is everyone?” Campello asked as they drove up and parked across the street from the house.

  “Most likely they’re collecting background information,” Christy said. “They’ll want to interview the department leaders, and then the dealers who are leveling charges, and then they’ll want to get a feel for how the two cops at the 31st feel about it. Then, when they have enough, they’ll be back like alligators on a wounded poodle.”

  “My, my, how the mighty have fallen,” Campello said, eyeing the house.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  They got out of the car and crossed the street to the house. A late-model Ford that had not been visible from the street was parked in the driveway.

  “He has company,” Campello said, reluctantly. “Maybe we should—”

  “It won’t get any better. There will be a team of reporters and news crews here by this time tomorrow night. If we’re going to get his side of the story, now is the time to do it. He’ll be holed up before long.”

  “He doesn’t have long. The hearing is tomorrow.”

  They walked to the front entrance and Christy rang the bell. The door swung open immediately.

  “Yes?” A tall patrician-looking man stood in the doorway. His blue blazer hung on his frame and an open-necked gray shirt exposed a prominent Adam’s apple. A thick thatch of gray hair hung over his forehead, overshadowing ocean-blue eyes.

  Campello showed the man his star. “I’m detective Frank Campello. I’m Andy’s partner.” He nodded toward Christy. “And he knows Christy,” he said, not wanting to identify her as a reporter.

  The man offered a hand to them. “David Stackhouse. I’m Andy’s pastor,” he said, stepping aside. “Glad you’re here. Andy needs all the friends he can find.”

  He led them into the living-room where Andy and Jenny Polanski sat. They seemed genuinely glad to see Campello and Christy.

  “I guess you’ve heard by now,” Polanski said.

  Campello agreed. “I think the whole city’s heard. If not, they will soon.”

  Polanski groaned. His tie was undone and his shirt rumpled. His eyes were red-rimmed and his hand trembled as he fidgeted with the coffee cup in front of him. It was the first time Campello had seen the man in distress. All of the assaults, verbal or otherwise, the petty vandalism, and the shunning he had endured had not seemingly affected him. Even after the gun battle he seemed even keeled, unperturbed. But now he was under the kind of fire that he wasn’t equipped to handle and it was clear he was out of his element.

  “Mind if we sit?” Christy asked.

  Polanski shook his head and the two sat in chairs across the table from his own. The man who answered the door took a seat also.

  “Can I get you anything?” Jenny asked. “Coffee? Do you want coffee?”

  Campello shook his head and Christy held up a hand. “No thanks,” she said.

  “For what it’s worth,” Campello said, “we think you were set up.”

  A faint smile of nervous tension crossed Polanski’s face. “It’s worth a lot. I can handle the heat that comes from doing the right thing. But this thing,” he massaged his neck with one hand, “I can’t fight this.”

  “Tell us what you know, detective,” Christy said. “Tell us what you know and maybe you won’t have to fight this alone.”

  Polanski shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Ms. Lee.”

  “Of course it does. Your career depends on getting to the—”

  “I’m going to resign.”

  Campello shot a glance at Stackhouse. The pastor’s expression made clear he had not counseled Polanski to quit.

  “That’s it, then?” Campello asked.

  “I said, ‘That’s it, then?’”

  “What would you have me do, Frank? I have no one in the department that I can trust. I—”

  “You can trust me.”

  “And me,” Christy said.

  Polanski’s laughter was humorless. “How do I combat the testimony of people who are exposing themselves to charges in order to come after me? Who approached them? Who has that kind of clout?”

  “Some of the people you’ve irritated have that kind of power,” Campello said. “People on both sides of the badge. And unless I miss my guess, they’re working together.”

  “Detective,” the pastor said to Campello, “what can we do? Where do we go from here?”

  Campello gestured to Christy. “We are going to put our heads together and come up with some answers. I think that between the two of us, we can shed some light on who is doing this and why.”

  “I’m pretty good at my job, detective,” Christy said, first to Polanski, and then with a smile to his wife. “I think I can do what detective Campello cannot do and vice versa.”

  “Your part, Andy,” Campello said, “is to hang in there long enough to give us a chance. If you resign, you’re admitting to something you didn’t do.”

  “And if I don’t, I’m exposing my family to a lifetime of pain.”

  Jenny squeezed his hand.

  “You don’t understand, Frank,” Polanski said. “The harassment doesn’t stop at the office. It follows me home. Jenny is receiving threatening phone calls, our house has been vandalized… our cars. I can fight something I can see, but I can’t see these people. And now… now I know there are too many of them.”

  “They’re also afraid,” Christy said. “That’s why they attack from the sidelines. You exposed some corruption that should have been exposed a long time ago. And I can help you finish it.”

  “No offense, Ms. Lee, but exactly how are you going to fight a combination of organized crime, corrupt politicians and corrupt cops?”

  “With the pr
ess. They’re afraid of the light.”

  “So what do you say?” Campello asked.

  Polanski looked at his wife. She squeezed his hand and he rose to begin pacing the room. All eyes were on him.

  “This is going to get a lot darker before it gets better,” he said.

  “Undoubtedly,” Campello agreed.

  Polanski’s eyes met his wife’s. She nodded.

  “OK,” he said. “We can hold on a bit longer.”

  Campello and Christy left the house, promising Polanski they would do their best. As they approached the car, Dave Stackhouse came out of the house and called to them. They stopped, allowing the minister to catch up.

  “I appreciate anything you can do, detective.”

  Campello shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  Stackhouse shook his head. “You’re going to do a lot more than that. You could restore Andy’s purpose in life.”

  Campello grinned and held out a hand. “Whoa, Father. You think too much of me. I’m not that good. But I do think he’s been railroaded and—”

  The pastor was shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean.” He looked back at the house and then crossed his arms. “How much do the two of you know about Andy?”

  Christy shrugged. “I know he took a chance when he ratted on those two cops. It was a gutsy thing to do.”

  “Do you agree with her, detective?”

  Campello shook his head. “No, I don’t, Father. I think it was a stupid and self-serving thing to do.”

  The priest grinned. “I think so too, though not in the way that you mean. You see, Andy’s father was a police officer too.”

  Campello glanced at Christy. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

  “And his father was fired from the department for much the same reason as Andy might be if this thing isn’t resolved.”

  “He was framed?” Campello asked.

  Stackhouse shook his head. “No, but he was caught with some heroin in the trunk of his squad car and he was selling it out of that car. He lost his job and did time in prison. Andy was a young man at the time, just a teenager, and it affected him. He never reconciled to his father, even after the man was released from prison on medical grounds. When his father died, Andy left business and joined the police department.”