Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  Meg hurried to the cupboard above the broom closet. She pulled on plastic gloves and picked up a small paper sack.

  Outside the door, she slipped in the shadows to the stairway, nice steep steps with a metal-edged tread. Birds twittered as the first hint of dawn added a rosy glow to the horizon. She started up the steps, moving fast.

  In the third-floor apartment, Madeleine hummed as she poured a cup of green tea and spread cream cheese on a bagel. Certainly Mike looked uneasy last night. Perhaps she’d send an anonymous letter too. That should be enough to keep Meg safe.

  The sound of shredding cloth brought her to her feet. Oh dear. Dandelion was a love, but she was ruining the sofa. Why didn’t she meow?

  Madeleine rushed to the front door, aware she’d forgotten to let Dandelion out. This was her safe time to roam, before the street was busy with traffic.

  Madeleine opened the door, cautioned, ‘‘You be careful now. Stay out of the street.’’

  The cat slipped out into the grayness of dawn. The door shut behind her.

  Meg froze on the steps, the hammer tight in one hand, a slender strip of wire in the other. The head of a nail protruded five inches from the wall to her left.

  Dandelion, amber eyes glowing, trotted toward the steps.

  Meg’s heart thudded. She flung the hammer toward the cat.

  Dandelion slipped sideways. Her tail puffed. She hissed, launched herself forward, claws extended.

  Meg recoiled. She flailed away, twisting, turning, trying to evade the cat, the sharp-edged steps forgotten. Her balance gone, she arched backward, scream rising. She plummeted down, her head smacking against the risers. She crashed onto the landing to lie in a bloodied crumpled heap.

  When the police arrived, they found the strip of wire still clutched in a plastic-gloved hand, the hammer on the upper landing, and the protruding nail.

  That night Detective Lieutenant Miguel Mendoza shook his head as he told his wife about his day. ‘‘. . . so go figure why this dame wanted to kill the old lady who lived upstairs. Maybe she played her music too loud. Guess we’ll never know.’’

  The Whole World Is Watching

  by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  ‘‘ ‘The whole world is watching.’ ’’ Bernie Pollak snorted and slammed his locker door. ‘‘You wanna know what they’re watching? They’re watching these long-hair commie pinkos tear our country apart. That’s what they’re watching!’’

  Officer Kevin Dougherty strapped on his gun belt, grabbed his hat, and followed his partner into the squad room. Bernie was a former marine who’d seen action in Korea. When he moved to Beverly, he’d bought a flagpole for his front lawn and raised Old Glory every morning.

  Captain Greer stood behind the lectern, scanning the front page of the Chicago Daily News. Tall, with a fringe of gray hair around his head, Greer was usually a man of few words and fewer expressions. He reminded Kevin of his late father, who’d been a cop too. Now Greer made a show of folding the paper and looked up. ‘‘Okay, men. You all know what happened last night, right?’’

  A few of the twenty-odd officers shook their heads. It was Monday, August 26, 1968.

  ‘‘Where you been? On Mars? Well, about five thousand of them—agitators—showed up in Lincoln Park yesterday afternoon. Festival of Life, they called it.’’ Kevin noted the slight curl of Greer’s lip. ‘‘When we wouldn’t allow ’em to bring in a flatbed truck, it got ugly. By curfew, half of ’em were still in the park, so we moved in again. They swarmed into Old Town. We went after them and arrested a bunch. But there were injuries all around. Civilians too.’’

  ‘‘Who was arrested?’’ an officer asked.

  Greer frowned. ‘‘Don’t know ’em all. But another wing of ’em was trying to surround us down at head-quarters. We cut them off and headed them back up to Grant Park. We got—what’s his name—Hayden.’’

  ‘‘Tom Hayden?’’ Kevin said.

  Greer gazed at Kevin. ‘‘That’s him.’’

  ‘‘He’s the leader of SDS,’’ Kevin whispered to Bernie.

  ‘‘Let’s get one thing straight.’’ Greer’s eyes locked on Kevin, as if he’d heard his telltale whisper. ‘‘No matter what they call themselves—Students for a Democratic Society, Yippies, MOBE—they are the enemy. They want to paralyze our city. Hizzoner made it clear that isn’t going to happen.’’

  Kevin kept his mouth shut.

  ‘‘All days off and furloughs have been suspended,’’ Greer went on. ‘‘You’ll be working overtime too. Maybe a double shift.’’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘‘I’m gonna read your assignments. Some of you will be deployed to Grant Park, some to Lincoln Park. And some of you to the Amphitheater and the convention.’’

  Bernie and Kevin pulled the evening shift at the Amphitheater, and were shown their gas masks, helmets, riot sticks, and tear gas canisters. Kevin hadn’t done riot control since the Academy, but Bernie had worked the riots after Martin Luther King’s death.

  ‘‘I’m gonna get some shut-eye,’’ Bernie said, shuffling out of the room after inspecting his gear. ‘‘I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night.’’

  ‘‘Mom wanted to talk to me. I guess I’ll head home.’’

  Bernie harrumphed. ‘‘Just remember, kid, there’s more to life than the Sears catalogue.’’

  Kevin smiled weakly. Bernie’d been saying that for years, and Kevin still didn’t know what it meant. But Bernie was the patrolman who broke in the rookies, and the rumor was he’d make sergeant soon. No need to tick him off.

  ‘‘Kev . . .’’ Bernie laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’re still a young kid, and I know you got—what— mixed feelings about this thing. But these . . . these agitators—they’re all liars. Wilkerson was there last night.’’ He yanked a thumb toward another officer. ‘‘He says they got this fake blood, you know? They holler over loudspeakers, rile up the crowd, then pour the stuff all over themselves and tell everyone they were hit on the head. Now they’re threatening to pour LSD into the water supply.’’ He faced Kevin straight on. ‘‘They’re bad news, Kev.’’

  Kevin hoisted his gear over his shoulder. ‘‘I thought they were here just to demonstrate against the war.’’

  ‘‘These people want to destroy what we have. What do you think all that flag burning is about?’’ Bernie shook his head. ‘‘Our boys are over there saving a country, and all these brats do is whine and complain and get high. They don’t know what war is. Not like us.’’

  Kevin drove down to Thirty-first and Halstead, part of a lace-curtain Irish neighborhood with a tavern on one corner and a church on the other. When he was little, Kevin thought the church’s bell tower was a castle, and he fought imaginary battles on the sidewalk in front with his friends. One day the priest came out and explained how it was God’s tower and should never be confused with a place of war. Kevin still felt a twinge when he passed by.

  His parents’ home, a two-story frame house with a covered porch, was showing its age. He opened the door. Inside the air was heavy with a mouthwatering aroma.

  ‘‘That you, sweetheart?’’ a woman’s voice called.

  ‘‘Is that pot roast?’’

  ‘‘It’s not ready yet.’’ He went down the hall, wondering if his mother would ever get rid of the faded wallpaper with little blue flowers. He walked into the kitchen. Between the sultry air outside and the heat from the oven, he felt like he was entering the mouth of hell. ‘‘It’s frigging hot in here.’’

  ‘‘The AC’s on.’’ She turned from the stove and pointed to a window unit that was coughing and straining and failing to cool. Kevin loosened his collar. His mother was tall, almost six feet. Her thick auburn hair, still long and free of gray, was swept back into a ponytail. Her eyes—as blue as an Irish summer sky, his father used to say in one of his rare good moods— looked him over. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘Great.’’ He gave her a kiss. ‘‘Why wouldn’t I be?’’

  ‘‘I’ve
been listening to the radio. It’s crazy what’s happening downtown.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you worry, Ma.’’ He flashed her a cheerful smile. ‘‘We got it under control.’’

  Her face was grave. ‘‘I love you, son, but don’t try to con me. I was a cop’s wife.’’ She waved him into a chair. ‘‘I’m worried about Maggie,’’ she said softly.

  Kevin straddled the chair backward. ‘‘What’s going on?’’

  ‘‘She hasn’t come out of her room for three days. Just keeps listening to all that whiny music. And the smell—haven’t you noticed that heavy sweet scent seeping under her door?’’

  Kevin shook his head.

  His mother exhaled noisily. ‘‘I think she’s using marijuana.’’

  Kevin nodded. ‘‘Okay. Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to her.’’

  As he climbed the stairs, strains of Surrealistic Pillow by the Airplane drifted into the hall. He knocked on his sister’s door, which was firmly shut.

  ‘‘It’s me, Mags. Kev.’’

  ‘‘Hey. Come on in.’’

  He opened the door. The window air conditioner rumbled, providing a noisy underbeat to the music, but it was still August hot inside the room. Kevin wiped a hand across his brow. Her shades were drawn, and the only light streamed out from a tiny desk lamp. Long shadows played across posters taped on the wall: the Beatles in Sgt. Pepper uniforms, Jim Morrison and the Doors, and a yellow and black sunflower with WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.

  Maggie sprawled on her bed reading the Chicago Seed. What was she doing with that underground garbage? The dicks read it down at the station. Said they got good intelligence from it. But his sister? He wanted to snatch it away.

  ‘‘What’s happening?’’ he asked, managing to control himself.

  Maggie looked up. She had the same blue eyes and features as her mother, but her hair was brown, not auburn, and it reached halfway down her back. Today it was held back by a red paisley bandana. She was wearing jeans and a puffy white peasant blouse. She held up the newspaper. ‘‘You want to know, read this.’’

  She slid off her bed and struck a match over a skinny black stick on the windowsill. A wisp of smoke twirled up from the stick. Within a few seconds, a sickly sweet odor floated through the air.

  The music ended. The arm of the record player clicked, swung back, and a new LP dropped on the turntable. As Maggie flounced back on the bed, another smell, more potent than the incense, swam toward him. Kevin covered his nose. ‘‘What is that awful smell?’’

  ‘‘Patchouli oil.’’

  ‘‘Pa—who oil?’’

  ‘‘Pa-chu-lee. It’s a Hindu thing. Supposed to balance the emotions and calm you when you’re upset.’’

  Kevin took the opening. ‘‘Mom’s worried about you.’’

  ‘‘She ought to be worried. The country is falling apart.’’

  Bernie had said the same thing, he recalled. But for different reasons. ‘‘How do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Idiots are running things. And anytime someone makes sense, they get assassinated.’’

  ‘‘Does that mean you should just stay in your room and listen to music?’’

  ‘‘You’d rather see me in the streets?’’

  ‘‘Is that where you want to be?’’

  ‘‘Maybe.’’ Then, ‘‘You remember my friend Jimmy?’’

  ‘‘The guy you were dating . . .’’

  She nodded. ‘‘He was going to work for Bobby.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Bobby Kennedy. They asked him to be the youth coordinator for Bobby’s campaign. He was going to drop out of college for a semester. I was too. It would have been amazing. But now . . .’’ She shrugged.

  ‘‘Hey . . .’’ Kevin tried to think of a way to reach her. ‘‘Don’t give up. What would Dad say?’’

  ‘‘He’d understand. He might have been a cop, but he hated what was happening. Especially to Michael.’’

  Kevin winced. Two years ago their older brother, Michael, had been drafted. Twenty-fifth Infantry. Third Brigade. Pleiku. A year ago they got word he was MIA. Their father died three months after that, ostensibly from a stroke. His mother still wasn’t the same.

  ‘‘Dad would have told you that Michael died doing his job,’’ he said slowly.

  ‘‘Launching an unprovoked, unlawful invasion into a quiet little country was Michael’s job?’’

  ‘‘That sounds like something you read in that—in that.’’ Kevin pointed a finger at the Seed.

  Maggie’s face lit with anger. ‘‘Kevin, what rock have you been hiding under? First Martin Luther King, then Bobby. And now we’re trying to annihilate an entire culture because of some outdated concept of geopolitical power. This country is screwed up!’’

  Kevin felt himself get hot. ‘‘Damn it, Mags. It’s not that complicated. We’re over there trying to save the country, not destroy it. It’s only these—these agitators who are trying to convince you it’s wrong.’’

  ‘‘These ‘agitators,’ as you call them, are the sanest people around.’’

  ‘‘Throwing rocks, nominating pigs for president?’’

  ‘‘That’s just to get attention. It got yours.’’ Maggie glared. ‘‘Did you know Father Connor came out against the war?’’

  Kevin was taken aback.

  She nodded. ‘‘He said it’s become the single greatest threat to our country. And that any American who acquiesces to it, actively or passively, ought to be ashamed before God.’’

  Kevin ran his tongue around his lips. ‘‘He’s just a priest,’’ he said finally.

  She spread her hands. ‘‘Maybe you should have gone into the army instead of the police. What good is a deferment if you don’t understand why you got it?’’

  ‘‘I’m the oldest son. The primary support of the family.’’

  ‘‘Well, then, start supporting us.’’

  He stared at his sister. ‘‘Dad would be ashamed of you, Maggie.’’

  ‘‘How do you know? Mother came out against the war.’’

  ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

  ‘‘You should have seen her talking to Father Connor after church last week. Why don’t you ask her how she feels?’’

  ‘‘I don’t need to. I already know.’’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘‘You’re wrong. It’s different now, Kevin. You’re gonna have to choose.’’

  He averted his eyes and gazed at an old photo on the windowsill. Himself, Mike, and Maggie. He remembered when it was taken. He and Mike were eleven and twelve, Maggie seven. Mike had been wearing mismatched argyle socks. He was scared his father would notice, and he begged Kevin not to tell. Kevin never did. It was their secret forever.

  Monday night Mayor Daley formally opened the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Marchers set up a picket line near the Amphitheater, and thirty demonstrators were arrested. But there was no violence, and it was a relatively quiet shift. Kevin didn’t touch his riot gear.

  It was a different story at Lincoln Park, he learned the next morning, as he and Bernie huddled with other cops in the precinct’s parking lot.

  ‘‘They beat the crap out of us,’’ Wilkerson said. ‘‘See this?’’ He pointed to a shiner around his left eye. ‘‘But don’t worry.’’ He nodded at the sympathetic noises from the men. ‘‘I gave it back.’’ He went on to describe how hundreds of protestors had barricaded themselves inside the park after the eleven o’clock curfew. Patrol cars were pelted by rocks. Demonstrators tried to set cars on fire. When that didn’t work, they lobbed baseballs embedded with nails. The police moved in with tear gas, the crowd spilled into Old Town, and there were hundreds of injuries and arrests. Wilkerson said the mayor was calling in the guard.

  ‘‘What did I tell you?’’ Bernie punched Kevin’s shoulder. ‘‘No respect. For anything.’’ When Kevin didn’t answer, Bernie spat on the asphalt. ‘‘Well, I’m ready for some breakfast.’’

  T
hey drove to a place in the Loop that served breakfast all day and headed to an empty booth, still wearing their uniforms. Two men at a nearby table traded glances. Kevin slouched in his seat.

  One of the men cleared his throat. ‘‘Look . . .’’ He folded the newspaper and showed it to his companion. Even from a distance, Kevin could see photos of police bashing in heads. ‘‘Listen to this,’’ the man recited in a voice loud enough to carry over to them. ‘‘ ‘The savage beatings of protestors were unprecedented. And widespread. Police attacked without reason, even targeting reporters and photographers. For example, one reporter saw a young man shouting at a policeman, ‘‘Hey, I work for the Associated Press.’’ The police officer responded, ‘‘Is that right, creep?’’ and proceeded to crack the reporter’s skull with his nightstick.’ ’’

  Bernie drummed his fingers on the table and pretended not to hear. When their food came, Kevin pushed his eggs around the plate. ‘‘My parish priest came out against the war,’’ he said.

  Bernie chewed his bacon. ‘‘I’m sure the father is a sincere man. But has he ever seen any action?’’

  ‘‘Not in Nam.’’

  ‘‘What about Lincoln Park? Has he ever dealt with these—these demonstrators?’’ Bernie lowered his voice when he spoke the word, as if it was profane.

  Kevin shrugged.

  ‘‘Well, then.’’ Bernie dipped his head, as if he’d made a significant point.

  I’ll call your shiner and raise you an MIA? How could you compare Vietnam to Lincoln Park? ‘‘Maybe they have a point,’’ Kevin said wearily.

  ‘‘What point comes out of violence?’’

  ‘‘Couldn’t they say the same about us?’’

  ‘‘We’re soldiers, son.’’ Bernie scowled. ‘‘We have a job to do. You can bet if I was on the front line . . .’’ He threw a glance at the two men at the next table, then looked back at Kevin. ‘‘Hey, are you sure you’re up for this?’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘You seem, well, I dunno.’’ He gazed at him. ‘‘I got this feeling.’’