The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Drexel drove through the Loop to the temporary station on Dearborn. Their old haunts at the Wentworth station were being renovated. He entered the front door, waved his badge to the front desk uni and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The door closed behind him with a thud, not disturbing Detective Naresh Mehta, who continued to snore with this head down on his desk.

  Drexel sat down at his desk and leaned back in the chair, wondering about the Bull’s last moments. Swimming against an artificial current with the whole of Chicago to look down on. What was the Bull allergic to? Most people Drexel knew who had food allergies studiously avoided having those foods in their own home. What had slipped by? What had he eaten or been exposed to? And who had burned an obscure-meaning phrase into the wood of a beautiful desk? And why?

  Chapter 3

  Drexel unlocked the bottom right drawer of his gray metal desk with its shiny stainless steel legs and pulled out the small digital frame he stored there and plugged it in. A picture of Zora and him in happier days some years ago: a vacation in New York. The frame cycled through the two of them smiling, turning to give each a quick kiss, laughing together, and picnicking at Memorial Park. He pulled out the glass encased 1996 Sammy Sosa signed baseball and put it on the desk beside the computer.

  He took the time to organize case 14009 on his computer and backed up the items to the network. Soon, the various forensic reports, both physical and financial, would be added to the designated folders. Drexel ran his notes through a small scanner and stored them in the folders as appropriate.

  He pulled out his phone to look at the time. Too early to go to the ME’s office, so Drexel Googled Hal Nye’s name. Given the Bull’s prominence in Chicago, a slew of results came back. Newscast clips, long profiles in magazines and newspapers, yearly reports from TG Enterprises stockholder meetings, and many mentionings of the Bull’s felony record. Drexel began scanning, pausing to read more in-depth those items that seemed pertinent to this case.

  Hal Nye was born in the spring sixty-two years ago. The son of a factory laborer and short order cook, Hal’s future seemed set to follow in his father’s footsteps. When he was seventeen, he first met trouble in the form of the law. Small enough it seemed but his first RAP sheet entry. Hal and a friend, Carter Xenakis, had vandalized a wall on an abandoned house in the Near West Side. They were caught in flagrante. The mild community service and small fine punishments failed to deter the two from a long series of increasingly serious criminal activity. Vandalism led to petty theft and to grand theft—stealing devices and electronics to fence. The court sentences were light each time. Drexel visualized passionate pleadings from the parents.

  Parental hopes and dreams were dashed with the murder of Gary Lucas, owner of a small home appliance store in Lawndale. The incident report stated that on April 14, 1972, the two young men broke in by the back door. Their attempts to be stealthy, however, failed. Gary, who lived above his store, investigated the odd sounds. Someone fired a gun, and Gary lay dead. Hal fingered Carter as the trigger man. A quick glance at the case notes suggested the duo would have gotten away with the murder had they not encroached on Vice Lord territory, who coughed up their names to avoid police raids. In 1974, Hal and Carter were sentenced to twenty years at Cook County Jail, both at the ripe young age of twenty-two.

  Like the Bull, Carter was born in Lawndale to working-class parents. His father worked at one of Chicago’s stock yards and his mother worked at a textile mill. Carter’s wife, Althea, had a daughter—the product of a conjugal visit—born in 1988. Carter was killed in 1989 by a fellow inmate, who shivved him with a sharpened toothbrush in the showers. Althea died in 1997 from lung cancer. No mention of what became of the daughter.

  Released in 1990, Hal founded TG Enterprises in 1991. Nothing much seemed to happen. He repped small-time boxers and wrestlers, which provided steady enough income. That all changed in 2002, when Hal helped secure a blockbuster film using Chicago as the setting, not just for setting shots but actually filming in the city itself. While the film never got off the ground, the Bull had managed to bring in some publicity and, more importantly, dollars. TG Enterprises was soon seen as the go-to company for entertainment in Chicago. Then the Bull signed Adam Stein, an outfielder with a bat. The ball began rolling. Hal was careful, however, and began diversifying his portfolio, taking on a broader range of clients and dropping attempts to attract studios to film in the city. However, he kept a strong Chicago focus, representing athletes for all of the city’s major sports teams and nabbing a number of Chicago-based actors, including A-list Shona Wright just before her roll as Jamie in the blockbuster Vengeance. Success parlayed into success, which meant money generated more money.

  Drexel’s phone buzzed. “Pierce.”

  “Detective, this is Daniela.”

  “Still working?”

  “Like you boss. I’m copying the video files to the network. I put a link in an email.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes. Take a look and you’ll see why.”

  “Okay.” He found the link in Daniela’s email and started running the videos. He sped up the playing and watched it at triple speed, slowing it down when people entered the frame. At 3:05 p.m., the Bull entered the residential lobby and went to the residential elevators. A few people came in and out. At 6:01 p.m., the video went to haze. Drexel looked at the elevator footage. At 6:04 p.m., that video stopped. At 6:11, the video on the eighty-eighth floor elevator lobby snowed over as well.

  Drexel called Daniela. “Um.”

  “Yep.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Naresh raised his head from his desk and gestured to Drexel to lower his volume. Drexel nodded and waved. Naresh put his head back down.

  “Maybe a jammer, but nothing I can confirm.”

  “Is it easy to do that?”

  “Maybe. I think we need to take a look at their system.”

  “Do that.”

  “You got it boss.” Daniela hung up.

  So the Bull entered the building at 3:05. Assuming someone tampered with the video feed, Drexel was leaning more to homicide. The phrase. The videos. A dead body. It just smelled wrong.

  * * *

  The uni outside Kara Brandt’s hotel room called at 5:30 a.m. to let Drexel know she was ready to talk. After using the restroom to splash some water on his face and straighten his tie, he grabbed a cup of coffee with four sugars before driving back to Trump Tower.

  The officer, Matt Bergenson, and Kara were waiting in the hotel when Drexel arrived. Sitting in an off-white, leather chair, she was disheveled and her eyes were still bloodshot. Drexel nodded to Matt, who wandered a few steps away. Outside the hotel staff were doing busy work, the room was empty. The darkness of a Chicago January morning loomed outside the glass walls.

  Drexel sat in the couch next to the chair for a moment studying Kara and then pulled out his notepad. Kara had changed from earlier that morning and was dressed as twenty-year olds were wont to dress, though she clearly had more money than most. The loose, solid black blouse began as a turtleneck and stopped midthigh as a pair of shorts, under which she wore solid black leggings. He noticed her ear-length hair was dyed a deep burgundy. Earrings of green and deep blue gemstones and platinum arched from her lobes to the top of her ear. She had hastily wiped off her makeup, bits of mascara at the edges of her eyes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Kara nodded and looked down at the floor.

  “We’ll keep this brief.”

  “Is he really gone?” She looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s shocking.” Drexel crossed his legs and rested the notepad on his knee.

  She looked down at the floor, holding an already used tissue in her hands. “What happened? Who did this?”

  “That’s what we want to find out.” Drexel raised his hand, trying to assure her. �
��We’re not sure yet if foul play was involved.”

  “So he wasn’t killed?”

  “We can’t say for certain. Yet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s possible that he died of an allergic reaction.”

  “What?”

  “Was Mr. Nye—”

  Kara looked straight at Drexel. “The Bull.”

  “Yes, the Bull.”

  “He always wanted to be called that. Always.” Kara dropped her forehead into her hand, shaking her head. When she looked up, her eyes were red.

  “How did he come by the nickname?”

  “Got it years ago. In prison. Early on, he had to fight to prove himself. Lots of fights. He said sometimes he came out on the winning side. Most of the time on the losing. For a while. Then he learned how to fight, really. He earned their respect, and they said he fought like a bull in a china shop. That’s how he got that silly nickname.”

  Drexel smiled. “I never knew.”

  She looked out the lobby’s window. “Not sure it’s worth knowing.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit and he decided to bring the topic back to more immediate concerns. “Was Mr. Nye allergic to anything?”

  “Peanuts. Bad allergy to peanuts and some other nuts. He carried around one of those pens.”

  “Epi pen.”

  “Yes.” Kara rubbed the edge of her nose. “If it was an allergic reaction, why’re you even considering foul play. That’s what you say, right?”

  “It’s one of the phrases. Some surrounding evidence seems a bit, well, suspicious. Given the Bull’s prominence in the community, we’re being cautious.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Did you notice anything on the Bull’s desk? A phrase somebody burned into the top of it?”

  “No. But I don’t go in there very often. That’s his office.” She took a tissue and blew her nose.

  “So you went out with some friends last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were those friends?”

  “Samantha and Trina.”

  “Last names?”

  “Oh, Feldman and Rodriquez.”

  “Thank you. Can I get their phone numbers and addresses?” Drexel ripped a page out of his notepad, closed it, and set the paper on top, passing it and the pen over to Kara. From a black bag with the leather quilted in diamonds and two large gold Cs serving as the clasp, she pulled out an iPhone. Using it as a reference, she wrote on the notepaper and handed everything back to Drexel. Her neat, elegant cursive was easy to read. Samantha’s and Trina’s names were underlined, followed by the phone numbers, emails, and addresses for each. “Thank you. When is the last time you saw Mr...the Bull?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I can’t believe it. I saw him and he was…he was the Bull. I can’t even remember—really remember what the last words were I said to him. How sad is that?” She looked up and several tears were following the edge of her nose. “It was around two or so. We usually had lunch together, and yesterday we did.”

  “I see. When did you last speak to him?”

  “We talked around five.”

  “May I ask what that conversation was about?”

  “Usual stuff. I’m working late. Don’t forget it’s my girl’s night out. What time will you be home? That kind of thing.”

  “When did you leave the apartment?”

  “I left at two. I did some shopping. Didn’t end up buying anything, but I went to a few stores. Met the girls at Virtuoso.”

  “Nearby?”

  “Very. Just a few blocks down. I walked it.”

  “Had the Bull been upset or different or anything lately?”

  “No. He seemed like his normal self.” Kara rubbed the corner of her eye.

  “Any big business items or activities?”

  “He never told me much about that. I’m not even sure I could really describe what he did.”

  “You didn’t know what he did?”

  “No, I mean, I know what he does. But only vaguely, not the details. We never talked the details.” She stared toward a wall but her focus was not on it but in the empty space between.

  “Okay.” Drexel paused. “Now a couple of questions that may be a bit upsetting, but, well, I have to ask.” Kara looked at him and nodded. “Everything okay between you two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then she glanced away. She said at a lower volume, “As sure as you can be, I guess.”

  “Financial difficulties?”

  “Most definitely not. But don’t you know that already?”

  “Doesn’t hurt to ask. Sometimes we’re surprised.” He looked at her, trying to read her. She acted in every way as one would expect her to act. “Who else has access to the penthouse?”

  “The facilities people. Us. Stacy. No one beyond that. I don’t think.”

  “Thank you. Like I said, we’ll need to talk some more, but we’ve done enough for now. Again, I am sorry for your loss. I would like to have the officer escort you through the apartment to see if any items are missing.” At his mention, Matt stepped closer. “Also, you can take any personal effects you need. He’ll be watching, but don’t view that as anything other than normal. We have to make sure all evidence is preserved. You understand, of course?”

  “Of course...and thank you.”

  “Also, one last thing. He’ll need to take your fingerprints. We need them to identify any known or unknown prints in the condo. Is that okay?”

  Kara nodded.

  He stood up and shook her hand. “Remember, we’ll have more to discuss.” Drexel watched Kara and Matt walk from the hotel lobby to the residential lobby and turn to the elevators, where both disappeared out of sight. He stood there awhile, replaying the conversation in his head. She was both vulnerable and strong, intelligent and emotional. And a beauty. Drexel shook his head.

  Chapter 4

  Drexel drove to the ME’s office in Little Italy, though Mayor Richard Daley’s University of Illinois construction efforts in the sixties ravaged any sense of an Italian community. Built in the eighties, the ME office showed its age like a once handsome man entering his silver years growing ever more ugly.

  He walked into the examination room carrying two cups of coffee. Noelle was looking at her computer monitor. The Bull lay on his back on a steel table under bright white lights, covered from the neck down in a white sheet. A tray of scalpels, saws, and other tools were on a table to the Bull’s right. Drexel walked up to the table and stared at the face of his victim. He looked across the room at the other tables, many of whom had sheets covering their faces. Some were homicides, some suicides, and some natural or accidental deaths. They would all be examined and classified. A few would remain unidentified and lost to history.

  Noelle stepped up next to him and took the coffee he offered her. “So all the x-rays are done. I’m ready for the examination, starting with the external.” All business as usual.

  She set a clipboard down with standard forms on the table beside the Bull and then pulled out a voice recorder, which she laid near his head. She then began the slow, methodical process of examining the head, neck, chest, arms, and so on, often swinging down a more intense light and magnifying glass, talking to the recorder the entire time. They had known each other for close to ten years, and he understood her process, which annoyed some of his fellow detectives. Slow. Deliberate. Unwilling to be definitive if the evidence did not bear it out—more like a philosopher eternally skeptical of each statement and its meaning, its purpose, and its effect. Drexel thought many detectives did not like her less for that than the fact she did not talk to them; she talked to the recorder.

  A
fter Noelle finished examining the body, she pulled off her gloves, rubbed her eyes and paused the recorder. “Everything looks completely normal and inline with anaphylaxis.” She sighed. “Unfortunately and not surprisingly, it’s unspecific. I’ll cut in and probably find more of what I expect, but I’m not going to be able to be one-hundred percent sure. You just can’t. I’ll test to see if he had any allergen-specific antibodies. We know he’s allergic to nuts, so we have something there. That’ll take a few days, even with this being a priority.”

  “So you’re telling me there’s no point in sticking around for the cutting.”

  Noelle shook her head. “If I find something unexpected, I’ll let you know. But don’t expect anything different.”

  “Thanks doc.” Drexel turned and walked out of the autopsy room to the sound of Noelle’s voice as she resumed her task.

  * * *

  Drexel sat in the car for a few minutes before starting it up, contemplating his next steps. Just turning 9:15 a.m. The early morning light was brilliant and a few cirrus clouds graced the eastern half of the sky. The beauty of the sky, despite its unlikely warmth, held in its core a true winter, a Midwest winter. He knew they would pay for this kindness of temperature and sky and sun.

  As Drexel saw it, he had two options. He could let Noelle finish her report, slide it into the case file, and let it wrap up as a natural death—albeit accidental. Somehow the Bull had been exposed to nuts, and the epi pen had not been enough to prevent or stall the allergic reaction. That was the clean—the easy option. He could even ignore the messed up video footage. Probably the option Chicago PD wanted. Another case put down. No whodunit. No high-profile homicide to track and solve and use as a tally of success or failure. It was the safe option, and it would sail up the chain of command with ease.

  If it were not for the burned writing on the desk.