The Underground Detective: A Novel of Chicago Streets

by Thomas Laird

  “I have to believe the person who murdered your wife made entry through the front door, by Frank Swanson, because all the other exits were locked and there was no sign of forced entry anywhere in your building.”

  “You think he was somewhere other than where he was supposed to be on the night Sharon got…killed?”

  “The guy got in somewhere, unless he’s a tenant, and we checked the occupants thoroughly and everyone is accounted for on the night in question. So unless this killer dropped onto your roof and somehow climbed down into your window, it’s hard to see where else he came in. And your windows don’t open, correct?”

  “They don’t, no.”

  Justin looks over to me. I can see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye, but I keep my gaze on O’Connor. The sandy-haired, handsome TV icon is unflappable. He’s calm and sure. He never averts his eyes from mine when I’m asking him a question.

  “Did you and your wife have a happy marriage?” I ask, suddenly.

  It takes big Bill slightly off guard.

  But the mouthpiece in brown, on his right, answers.

  “Do I sense an accusation lurking in there, Detective Mangan?”

  He’s the older of the two attorneys. He’s got a shaved topknot and he’s wearing thick glasses. He looks like a lawyer, I’m thinking. He’s got that bulldog presence about him.

  “We’re trying to eliminate possibilities, Counselor,” Justin adds.

  I look at my younger partner and I smile at him.

  “Like he said,” I say. “Did you have a happy marriage?”

  “It wasn’t all shits and grins, if that’s what you mean.”

  He’s trying to make me think he’s confiding in me because everything sounded rosy in media accounts of his relationship with Sharon. He wants me to think he’s being genuine, no bullshit, with me. Then I’ll believe whatever real bullshit he has stored up for me, later.

  “You have fights?” I ask.

  “Occasionally. Nothing drawn out. We never had any great number of battles. Typical marital stuff, I’d suppose you’d say.”

  “You never became physical in any of these quarrels?”

  “There is a faint odor here, Detective,” the attorney in navy blue pipes in.

  “I’m not accusing your client of anything, sir. I just want to know if there was any problem or problems from either side of the marriage.”

  The guy in blue backs off and sits back in his chair.

  “You ever have an affair, Mr. O’Connor?” I query.

  Bill simply smiles. He’s had tougher interviews with Barbara Walters and the babe on NBC, probably.

  “Never. Not once. I was faithful to Sharon.”

  I like the way he uses her name, to personalize her. He doesn’t just call her his “wife.” He calls her by name. Killers like to de-personalize their victims. They sometimes even refer to their vics as “it.” The hardcore murderers, the series killers, make very spooky interviews, and I’m not getting that kind of vibe from Bill O’Connor.

  “Did Sharon ever have an affair or affairs that you knew about?”

  He looks at me, but his smirk is gone. He flushes angrily.

  “None that I knew of.”

  Now he’s gone and done it. He lets his eyes dart away from me, and I know he’s lying.

  “Could she have had something romantic going and you weren’t aware of it?” Justin throws in.

  “I don’t think so,” he says softly.

  But his face is still flushed. And Justin has an arrogant grin on his dark, African face, and it further accentuates his bright white teeth. It almost looks like a snarl that he’s throwing big Bill’s way.

  “Did you have her watched?” Justin continues.

  “This is becoming outrageous,” the shyster in brown says as he gets to his feet.

  “Sit down, Ben,” O’Connor tells him. And Ben obeys.

  “We need to know if there was anyone with a real motive to kill your wife and with a real reason to do it in such a violent manner,” I tell O’Connor. “My partner is trying to ask if it’s possible that Sharon could’ve had a lover who might have been jealous of your relationship, that maybe someone might have been angry enough at your wife to kill her.”

  “I can’t imagine that to be true. We loved each other very much.”

  There’s just enough of a twitch to suggest he’s lying to me again. I’m beginning to think Sharon had a fella. If it’s true, there are very good odds she had no idea how volcanic her lover was. The ME suggested that at least some of the sex wasn’t consensual, and the brutality of it didn’t look anything like “rough love.” The sodomy was something not even an animal would do to another animal. It was meant to torture, to be cruel, to hurt, and to punish.

  I’m again wondering if the man before me has that kind of sadism in him. It’s very difficult to gauge what people really have inside them.

  “If the killer knew your wife, then is it fair to say you were completely unaware of him?”

  “My wife never cheated on me, to my knowledge.”

  This time his eyes meet mine directly. He’s either summoning the focus to convince me, or he’s being honest. Hard call. The guy’s a fucking TV actor, after all.

  “I hope you understand that this unpleasantness was necessary, Mr. O’Connor. We really appreciate your time and your patience.”

  I stand up and so does Justin. Then the three of them rise and leave the interrogation room.

  “We’re nowhere,” I tell Justin.

  We’re seated at a booth at McDonald’s on Fullerton and Grand on the north side. We’ve been called for yet another domestic. This time a man’s daughter has stuck the old man with a screwdriver. The daughter is sixteen and claims her father was molesting her. The girl seems righteous, but we interviewed her brother and the mother, and they both told us it was about the daughter’s running around with the local Diablos, an Hispanic gang. The girl and all her family are Mexican-Americans. They speak very little English, but I find out that Justin Grant is fluent in Spanish.

  “I lived in Mexico for two summers while I was going to DePaul. Spanish was my minor.”

  “What was your major?” I ask him.

  He sips at his Coke. I’m drinking a Diet. We’ve finished our Big Macs, and we’re trying to digest all the animal fat.

  “Religious studies. I was going to be a priest. In fact I was headed to the seminary, and then I fell away from the Church.”

  “Can I ask why you fell away?”

  He gives me a toothsome grin.

  “I noticed women. I was a slow starter. In high school I played basketball, but I didn’t go out with girls. My moms thought I was gay.”

  The teeth remain on his face. I’m sure the ladies love his pearlies.

  “I’ll bet she’s relieved,” I remark.

  “You cannot imagine. Being black and gay is almost a death sentence, in my neighborhood.”

  “You seeing anyone currently?”

  “I’m seeing a few women, yes.”

  The grin fades, and I can see he doesn’t want to delve any further into his private life.

  “I’m in love with someone, and it’s headed straight to hell.”

  I try to look like I’m cracking wise, but I don’t think I’m being very convincing by the look Justin shoots back at me.

  “That serious?”

  “Yeah, that serious,” I tell my temporary partner.

  “I’m not ready to latch onto anyone just yet.”

  “You’re young. Go for it.”

  “I want to have a family, but not yet….You have kids?”

  “A daughter.”

  “Wife?”

  I hesitate, and I look down at my cup of Diet Coke.

  “Had one, once upon a time.”

  “I take it you’re no longer together and that your new love is another lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re getting to know each other,” he smiles radiantly once more.


  I drive up on a weekend in late September to see Kelly. I asked Lila to come along, but she’s down with the flu, now. Her recovery has been thrown yet another roadblock. She’s really ill, but she’s able to take care of herself, she claims, and since it’s some kind of virus, the only cure is a lot of sack time.

  The drive to DeKalb takes about an hour and a half, depending, as always, upon the traffic. It’s a Saturday, so the flow is pretty smooth. I arrive at her dorm around eleven A.M. She’s waiting for me at the entrance.

  It’s becoming more like fall, finally. The temperature will only hit 65, this afternoon, according to the weatherman on CBS. I watched the news before I left home. I let Sonny the border collie out in the backyard and gave him plenty of water and food. I expect to be home by early evening, so he should be fine by himself in that fenced-in yard until I get back. I don’t go on shift with Justin until 4:00 P.M. on Sunday.

  She looks thin, this time. I can’t tell how many pounds she dropped, but I know she’s thinner since I saw her last.

  “Would you like an early lunch?” I ask her after I give her a peck on her left cheek.

  “Sure,” she says, and she gets into my car and we drive toward town.

  “What’s going on with Michael?”

  “Nothing,” she replies.

  There’s no avoidance in her tone. But there’s no invitation to continue my line of questioning, either. I’ve already vowed not to interrogate my daughter in the few hours we have together today.

  We’re sitting inside a campus favorite called Patsy’s. They serve lousy pizza but passable sandwiches, Kelly has informed me on the way over.

  “How are you?” I ask because I can’t think of where else to begin.

  “You can see,” she says, and she lowers her eyes.

  We ordered our food at the entrance, and they bring it out to the tables. It’s dimly lit in here. Kelly says Patsy’s is a big date place on campus.

  The tables are heavy and wooden, and if you were to rub your hands across the surface you’d acquire a bunch of splinters. It’s artsy fartsy folksy in here, I suppose you’d say.

  “Are you purging, Honey?”

  I’ve never called her Honey before, and she jerks her head up at me.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “I know you don’t like to talk about it, but you can understand why I’m asking, no?”

  “I know you worry about me, Daddy. It’s okay.”

  “You going to let me in on it?”

  She looks at me sadly. Then the tears filter slowly down her cheeks.

  “I don’t know if I like it here.”

  “Is this because of Mike?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t know if I picked the right place to come to school.”

  “You can always transfer. You didn’t take a blood oath to come here, Kelly.”

  She smiles briefly, and her tears cease.

  “I wouldn’t want you to bail out just because you weren’t getting along with your boyfriend, Honey. There must be ten thousand guys on this campus.”

  Her face goes solemn again. This is the countenance that reminds me of her mother, Mary.

  “I just feel lonely, here. People seem so…detached, I guess.”

  “You think you’ve given anybody but Mike a fair shot, around here?”

  She grins sheepishly.

  “I guess not.”

  “Tell you what. Give it ‘til the semester. Christmas. If you still feel the way you do, we’ll sign you up somewhere else. Sound fair?”

  “I think so.”

  “You want to come home on weekends, remember you haven’t been exiled to this place.”

  She grins again.

  “Maybe it might help to see Sr. Catherine again.”

  “I talk to her on the phone at least twice a week, Dad. And I haven’t been purging. I’ve been running three miles every morning, but I haven’t been eating very much.”

  “One last question and I’ll shut up.”

  “And I haven’t been drinking or doing anything recreational, either. You never stop being a cop, do you.”

  24

  I’m sitting with Detective Justin Grant at Fatso’s Bar on Cermak Road. Justin doesn’t drink at all, and I’m on my usual diet pop. We take our lunch break here because it’s a popular bar and grill, the food is medium expensive and it’s very good.

  Fatso, the owner, is really Pete Fordacci, and Pete weighs about 120 pounds and goes six foot one. Hence “Fatso.”

  We sit in a booth. We both ordered the tenderloins “as big as your head.”

  “Which head?” I ask the waitress. She’s young and a bit pudgy, but very nice, and she even laughs at the same joke/question I ask her every time I order the pork tenderloin. I leave her a fifteen percent tip, so she puts up with me.

  She trots off to put in the order after bringing Justin an iced tea and me my Diet Coke.

  “That stuff’s going to kill you,” Justin pronounces, pointing at my drink.

  “So will that limey drink you’re drinking.”

  “Tea is a natural diuretic,” my partner informs me.

  A guy walks up to our booth. He’s someone I’ve never seen in the flesh before, but I’ve seen his picture in all the papers. His name is Fast Tony Vronski, and he rules the 23rd Ward, the fattest property on the southside, and he’s one of Hizzoner’s most powerful ward bosses. He is second in command to the mayor, in clout. Fast Tony is also a big shot in Democratic politics, and the Democrats own Chicago and Cook County and most of northern Illinois, where most of the state’s population resides.

  “Can I join you gents for a minute?” Tony asks me. He doesn’t look directly at Justin.

  He motions for me to scoot over, so I do before I think about what I’m allowing to happen. Maybe it’s the good manners my mom taught me, but I probably should’ve told him to get the fuck out of my face.

  He sits down, anyway.

  Now he looks over at Justin.

  “Do you mind if I have a moment alone with Detective Mangan?” he asks Grant.

  “He’s my partner. He isn’t going anywhere,” I tell Vronski. I’m looking him directly in his brown eyes.

  The Polish population of Chicago was said to be larger than that of Warsaw, Poland, at one time. I don’t know if it’s accurate, but it’s a nice fable even if it’s bullshit.

  “I’ll be happy to—“

  “Sit down, Justin. Please. I insist,” I tell him, and I motion for him to remain.

  Grant sits back down.

  “All right,” Vronski smiles. “We’ll play your rules, Mangan.”

  “Detective Mangan,” I correct him.

  “You aren’t much for the amenities, are you,” Fast Tony grins.

  “Is there something you wanted, Alderman?” I go on.

  We have only the half hour for lunch here, and Laughing Boy is throwing us off the trough, and I’m becoming unhappy. I know he’s a fixer and a wheeler and a dealer, but I didn’t think I’d ever see him darkening the table where I ate.

  “I just wanted to see how your investigation on those dead girls was going.”

  “It isn’t going. We have only the one guy as a blue ribbon candidate, but his daddy is in Springfield. I take it you know him?”

  Tony grins widely.

  “Oh, you think I’m here to lean on you. Is that it, Mangan?”

  I forgo correcting him again. He wouldn’t get it, anyway.

  “What is it you want? I’m not in your ward, so I can’t vote for you.”

  “I’m not here for your vote. I’m here to see if justice is being done or if you’re just going through the motions with this thing.”

  “I don’t do things for effect, Alderman.”

  Justin is smiling slightly, but he puts his hand over his lower face to hide his amusement.

  “You think I’m some clown you can blow off, Mangan?”

  “Look, either get to it, or we have to eat and go back to work.”

  He looks at me,
and then he tries to soften his gaze. He’s going to become my doting uncle, now. I can feel it coming.

  “Ray Toliver is one of the finest men in this state. In this country. I don’t give a shit if you think you know me. I’m telling you. If that kid drags his father down, the State of Illinois is the party that loses. Not the Democrats or the fucking Republicans, those fucking hillbillies from south of I-80. The whole goddamn state loses if Ray goes under with his crazy goddamned son. Do you follow?”

  “I’m a little confused. Do you want us to nail his kid, or do you want us to pretend he never existed? What is it you want? Why don’t you cut the fucking dance and just say it?”

  “I would never intrude on a police investigation. Never. I want justice done, without Raymond Toliver going down the shithole with his piece of shit son.”

  The way he glares at me, I understand how this prick rose to power. He makes Machiavelli look like a friendly statesman.

  “We don’t have anything on the burner regarding Toliver Senior. In fact, I rather liked the man when I met him.”

  Justin is hiding behind his right hand again.

  The girl arrives with our lunch.

  “You know which way shit flows, don’t you son?”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be my dad?” I ask him.

  His face sours.

  “You think you’re fucking untouchable because you’re a Homicide? Is that it?”

  “No, no. I know what you’re capable of.”

  “And you got these big balls. Right? War hero. Big Army Ranger. Yeah, I read the papers, too. You think your buddies in the media can save you, once the crap storm starts?”

  “Are you threatening me, Alderman?”

  He stops abruptly. Suddenly his express loses steam. He tries to come on as my best friend again.

  “You thinking about a higher pay grade, Detective Mangan?”

  “Oh, I’d love it.”

  “They tell me you’re on the fast track. I know your Captain very well.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, really. And he knows the facts of fucking life.”

  “He does?”