“What happened?” Jeannie asked bewildered as she sat back in the passenger seat of his car.
“Nothing… nothing.” Anderson answered, putting the key in the ignition. He thought to himself for a moment, then settled down, knowing it was useless to try to stop the show from being aired. “Thanks for coming.”
Jeannie smiled.
Anderson started the Mercedes and they drove away into the busy Chicago streets.
CHAPTER 28
An empty tequila bottle sat on the dresser in Jeannie’s apartment bedroom. Stripped off clothing was strewn about the floor leading to the bed where Jeannie was laying naked, her face buried in a pillow.
Anderson was next to her. He opened his eyes and looked over at her.
She was fast asleep and snoring.
He swung himself out of bed and got dressed.
Minutes later, Anderson pulled himself into a leather jacket that Jeannie had picked out for him, and stepped out of the apartment into the chilly night air, locking the door behind him.
Anderson descended the apartment building staircase outside. It was one of those foggy, warm nights in early spring where the last of the snows had only recently melted and the sidewalks were all damp as if it had just rained. Anderson was surprised you couldn’t even see the condensation in your exhaled breath and unzipped his jacket.
He exited the complex through the metal security gate and disappeared around a corner.
After a moment, a cluster of tall evergreen bushes shook across the small apartment complex courtyard and Jack Trax stepped out of their midst. He stared off after Anderson.
The amiable portly bartender extended his hairy arm and prepared to pour Anderson a shot of whiskey. “The usual?” The bartender asked only half-sure.
“Yeah, thanks.” Anderson nodded.
“You’ve been comin’ in a lot lately.” The bartender said as he filled the small shot glass to the rim. “Work near here?”
“Nah.” Anderson offered, throwing the shot back. “My girlfriend lives in the neighborhood. Been having trouble sleeping.”
“You or her?” The bartender inquired.
Anderson snickered, and answered, “Me.”
“I haven’t slept in thirty years. It’s overrated.” The bartender said as he held the spout of the whiskey bottle over Anderson’s empty shot glass and gestured questioningly.
Anderson laughed genially again, nodded the go ahead and the bartender refilled the glass.
Gabriel Lysander’s head was sitting back against the floor, his mouth gagged with a rolled-up bandana. His eyes were wide with terror as he stared up at the ski-masked man planted atop his chest.
The man in the ski-mask was dressed in a running suit. His clenched teeth were bared and visible through the mouth hole in the mask. He held a large butcher knife which he raised back in his gloved hand.
Gabriel’s scream was muffled by the gag, but his eyes were horror-filled and riveted as the ski-masked man brought down the knife viciously, again and again, into Gabriel’s hog-tied upper arms, torso and neck.
Blood spurted everywhere.
On the walls.
The ceiling.
Gabriel’s mouth filled with blood from the inside, bubbling over the bandana restraint. Gabriel choked and heaved, spewed a crimson mist.
Blood splattered across the mouth of the man in the ski mask.
A ghastly sucking noise emanated from Gabriel’s perforated chest as he expired at last and his body bled out on to the floor of the seedy, run-down room.
CHAPTER 29
Jeannie threw back the curtains and let the sunlight pour into the room. She crossed to the bed where Anderson just awakened and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Good morning.” She sweetly cooed as though she had said it to him a thousand times.
Anderson sat up, and took a sip of the coffee.
“Perfect.” He muttered.
She kissed him and traipsed off towards the kitchen to finish making breakfast.
He looked after her, thoughtfully. A loneliness hit him. He dismissed the notion as quickly as it surfaced.
He walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, locked it. He turned the water on at the sink full blast. He quickly kneeled down at the toilet and threw up. Another rough night.
The Roosevelt Transient Hotel sat in a squalid neighborhood pinched between the main train lines and a major expressway that fed into the south side of the city.
Gawkers and hotel occupants loitered about the area outside where a couple of detective sedans and several police cars were parked, their light bars pulsating. There was already a detective taking notes and doing some possible witness interviews.
A Crown Victoria was directed to a parking place by a uniformed officer and skidded to a stop just short of a morgue van that was backing up to the entrance. Detectives Wayne Crotty and Gene Peterson got out of the Crown Victoria and entered the hotel.
The third floor room was active with investigators. It had already been secured as a crime scene. The last photos were being taken of Gabriel Lysander’s tied-up and bloodied naked dead body. A couple of evidence techs were dusting for prints.
Crotty and Peterson showed their identification to a cop keeping a record of crime scene visitors at the door.
Peterson reflexively drew his arm up to his face and Crotty put his aftershave soaked handkerchief up to his nose as they entered the blood-splattered, stench-filled room.
“Nice, huh?” Jerome Davis, the supervising detective commented as he greeted them. He was already there long enough to acclimate to the smell.
“Thanks for the call.” Crotty said as he held out his identification.
“No problem.” Davis told him. “Saw you put a notification number on this guy’s file.” Davis continued, indicating Gabriel. “Why the special interest?”
“He was involved in a messy homicide a few years ago with his brother who’s still doing time for the murder downstate.” Crotty informed Davis as he scanned the room. “Another guy who was involved in the murder has already shown up dead. The husband of their victim might be on a crusade.”
“This ‘husband’ some gangbanger or ex-con?” Davis presumed.
“Naw.” Peterson chimed in. “Regular guy.”
“Seriously?” Davis asked, intrigued.
Crotty nodded and shrugged.
“Whoever did it left the door wide open. Another tenant walked by this morning and saw the body.” Davis continued, scrutinizing a memo pad. “Time of death looks like it was between midnight and 3 a.m. last night.”
Davis stepped further into the room to get near Lysander’s lacerated body. Crotty and Peterson followed his path, careful not to contaminate the scene or step in any of the fluids already secreted by Gabriel’s corpse.
“Whoever did it…” Davis indicated, using his pen to point to Gabriel’s head. “…cut off this Lysander’s penis and genitals, and shoved them in his mouth. Also rammed a lamp rod up his ass.”
Davis angled around, squatted and directed their attention to the rod and the insertion point on Gabriel’s derriere.
“We got about thirty stab wounds to the upper body.” Davis went on. “There’s also a ton of prints around. It’s an SRO but my understanding is this Lysander lived here awhile, several months anyway. And we have a good impression on the perpetrator’s shoes.”
Crotty and Peterson stared meditatively at the bloody sneaker prints visible about the tiled floor.
“If you ask me…” Davis offered. “…I’d say it was a homosexual killing. See elevated violence all the time with those kinds of murders. Probably some guy he pissed off when he was in the can. No pun intended. Whoever did this obviously really hates this guy. They didn’t even take the money.” Davis remarked, finishing his initial appraisal and gesturing across the room.
Money? What money? Crotty and Peterson exchanged a look. They turned to gaze over at the spot in the room Davis indicated where a thin, bookish-looking e
vidence technician was currently very busy hunched over a dresser dusting for prints.
At this same moment, the bookish tech called out to Davis, “Jerry?”
Davis stepped to the dresser. Crotty and Peterson followed him over.
The studious-looking tech picked up a pair of disposable polystyrene tweezers and used the ends to move aside some large denomination bills, 20s and 50s, from a stack of currency on top of the dresser. The studious-looking tech then extracted a business card from the bottom of the money pile.
Davis took the tweezers, inspected the card and then handed it to Crotty. “Mean anything to you?” Davis asked.
Crotty scanned the card with keen interest. It was from the “Heart O’Mine Motel”, and it had Anderson’s room number - “26” - written on it.
“Like I said, it looks personal. That’s my take.” Davis offered again. “You guys might know different. I’ll copy you on everything, but let me know if you think you can clear it.”
Crotty squinted his eyes calculatingly at the business card and presented it to Peterson.
Peterson read it. A momentary silence. Then he gave his partner a surprised look.
Crotty didn’t have to say to Peterson: “Told you so.”
CHAPTER 30
Anderson stopped at a traffic light in his Mercedes. It was mid-day and sunny. He looked about vaguely, but as he scanned his gaze became trancelike.
He suddenly saw:
A mother stepping into a toy store leaving her two young children to linger outside engrossed in the window displays. A filthy hunched over man grabbed the children, dragged them into a beat-up car and drove off…
As Anderson followed the departing car with his eyes he unexpectedly espied a youthful schoolgirl attempting to cross the street only to be dragged into an alley by two men…
At the same time, at a bank next to the alley, a robber ran out, his face covered by a stocking. The robber sprayed passersby with indiscriminate gunfire before jumping into the back of a waiting van that sped off…
Anderson was horrified at the unchecked acts of violence. He tried to blink away his tortured vision. Honking made him turn and look through the passenger side window where he saw… a car drift past containing Karen and Tristan. Karen looked at him and smiled from her place behind the wheel. Tristan waved excitedly from the front seat. They continued on, disappearing from his view.
Anderson was spooked, frozen. A car honked long and hard behind him.
It was back to reality. Anderson looked about and now saw… the mother hauling her skipping children into the toy store… the schoolgirl meeting a classmate… the bank guard nodding politely to customers… but Karen and Tristan were gone.
The traffic light was green.
Another hard honk from behind prompted Anderson onward.
The Roundhouse (or F House) at Stateville Prison was unusually noisy this spring day in mid-April. Every cell with a TV had its two inmate occupants glued to the screen. This was the day Derek’s prison interview with Noel Anderson was airing.
The guards in the center gun tower were especially vigilant, casting wary gazes in every direction.
A lieutenant of the guards was buzzed on to Derek’s gallery floor and held a short conference with another guard next to a holding cage. Whatever the lieutenant told the other guard was met with surprise and some satisfaction. Together they marched down to Derek’s cell where the door was electronically opened upon their arrival.
Derek, seated on his lower bunk, was annoyed at the intrusion but paid them scant notice. He was too busy watching himself on TV getting his feet washed by Anderson.
“You! Out!” The lieutenant summoned Derek’s cellmate out on to the gallery walkway. He was a pimply, mostly toothless kid who was watching the Byron Burke Show along with Derek from his upper bunk.
“What the fuck!” Derek spewed sidelong at the guards, irritated there could be a shakedown at his shining moment of stardom.
“Shut up!” The lieutenant snapped.
Derek’s cellmate reluctantly climbed down and exited the cell. He wanted to watch the Burke Show, too.
The lieutenant gave the signal to the control tower and Derek’s cell door was rolled shut as the other guard marched the pimply toothless kid off.
Byron Burke could be seen now on the TV screen in Derek’s cell calling Jeannie on to the stage. “…Jeannie, come on out!” The audience applauded wildly, the “ooohhs” and “aaahhhs” recorded earlier audible between the catcalls that erupted from the tiers of cells all around the F House:
“Nice bit ‘a pussy there!”
“Get me some of that!”
“Shake it, baby!” These were among the more discernible shouts.
Derek was eating up the attention. He beamed from ear to ear.
“Hey, superstar?” The lieutenant hissed at Derek, putting his face close to the bars of Derek’s cell.
“Fuck you want?” Derek fumed. “I’m watching this!”
“…Jeannie works at a vintage record and clothing store here in Chicago. She and Noel have been dating for some time. Let’s welcome her to the show!” Burke’s voice boomed on the TV as Jeannie, dressed in her jeans and white blouse, smiled at the audience, crossed the stage and sat down next to Anderson.
“Got some news for you.” The lieutenant stage-whispered to Derek with mock confidentiality. “Your brother was murdered last night.”
The grin disappeared from Derek’s face and he suddenly stared straight ahead, unblinking.
On the TV screen, Jeannie threw her arms around Anderson and kissed him which prompted more applause from the studio audience. “Awwww. Didn’t expect this, did you, Noel?” Burke fawned as Anderson turned bright red which everyone mistook for blushing.
“Just thought you’d like to know.” The lieutenant added contemptuously to Derek before heading off down the gallery.
Derek’s mind raced. He looked hard at the TV screen where Anderson was still being hugged by Jeannie. Derek had heard that Ruben Roney had died, the information coming to him soon after the discovery of Roney’s asphyxiated body in the car. That piece of news didn’t particularly come as a shock and wasn’t met with anguish. This, however, was cataclysmic. This was his brother. And it couldn’t be a random murder. Derek more than wondered if Anderson was responsible. Did Anderson actually kill Roney and Gabriel?
“Jeannie, how do you feel?” Burke asked, seen now on the TV screen standing right in front of Jeannie.
“Fine. Really excited.” Jeannie squealed.
“That’s great.” Burke said. “Now, you work at a vintage record and clothing store. Is that where you met?”
“No, we met through our church…” Jeannie answered.
The lieutenant had almost reached the end of the gallery when he heard Derek’s tortured, howling lament keen through the clamor of the Roundhouse. The lieutenant glanced back in the direction of Derek’s cell and smirked.
* * *
Anderson drove into the interior courtyard of the Heart O’Mine Motel and immediately took notice of the police squad car and detective’s Crown Victoria parked askew in the area right at the foot of the staircase leading to his second-story room.
A uniformed policeman stood guard outside the door to his room.
Anderson swung his Mercedes into a parking spot, shut the engine off, got out, and climbed the stairs.
Gene Peterson sealed an evidence bag containing a pair of tennis shoes collected from Anderson’s motel room floor.
“I don’t think these are the shoes…” Peterson commented to Crotty who was standing in the doorway. “…but they should provide a good match. They’re pretty worn.” Peterson looked past Crotty. “Ah, here comes the man of the hour.”
Crotty turned to see Anderson as he reached the top of the staircase outside his room.
There were some long looks all around before Anderson broke the silence.
“What’s this all about?” Anderson asked with a peeved edge to his
voice.
“You don’t know?” Crotty sneered, holding out a warrant.
“I wouldn’t be waiting for an answer if I did.” Anderson told him, taking hold of the warrant and scrutinizing it.
“You ran a stop sign.” Crotty facetiously taunted him.
“Then is this all legal?” Anderson evenly inquired, handing back the warrant.
“Gabriel Lysander was murdered.” Crotty informed him, hating to have to play the game.
“God no.” Anderson responded, wincing with apparent genuineness.
“Like you give a shit.” Peterson chimed in, not buying Anderson’s reaction at all.
“Believe it or not, I’m saddened.” Anderson sighed.
“Where were you last night?” Crotty wanted to know, not believing Anderson’s sorrowful response either.
“I was at my girlfriend’s place.” Anderson answered.
“All night?” Peterson asked, gazing skeptically at Anderson.
“Yeah.” Anderson stared right back at him.
Crotty took a business card out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It was from the Heart O’Mine Motel. “We also found one of these in Gabriel Lysander’s hotel room.”
“Yes.” Anderson answered straightforwardly. “So?”
“That’s where he was murdered.” Crotty declared, holding the card out triumphantly, fully expecting Anderson to show some kind of guilty reaction.
But Anderson just looked evenly and unemotionally back at him.
“It had your room number here on it.” Crotty said, gesturing to the “26” on Anderson’s room door.
“I was working with him.” Anderson explained. “Trying to get him back on his feet. Help him spiritually. I gave him some money.”
“You gave Gabriel Lysander money?” Peterson asked, incredulous.
“Yes.” Anderson answered, moving into his room past them and retrieving a folder out of a closet. Anderson opened the folder in front of them, sorted through some envelopes, eventually producing a bank statement. “These are the cancelled checks.” Anderson said as he fanned the checks out in front of them.
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