Violence

by Timothy McDougall

  “I should have known! You used me all along, didn’t you?” She asked accusingly, staring down into her lap, fidgeting with the individual blister pack casings. “I knew when we made love that it was too easy.” Jeannie angrily continued, dragging the serrated edge of the ripped foil pack casings along the skin on her forearm as she spoke. “You had no guilt! You didn’t mention your wife! It wasn’t difficult for you!”

  “You should move away!” Anderson pleaded with her, having to watch helplessly as she kept on digging the foil edge into her forearm.

  “Why should I move away?” Jeannie asked with a shrug. “I’m finally happy. I decided I’m going to be happy now. Not tomorrow. Not in a year, but now. I’m responsible for my own happiness. I don’t need anybody… Did you like me even a little?”

  “More than that.” Anderson said, shooting glances around to see if anyone else was looking at them, or more particularly, Jeannie. He knew if he notified a guard about what she was doing they might make her go to the hospital. He didn’t know if that would help or hurt her. Everything was happening so fast and the clamor only added to the confusion.

  “I don’t believe you.” Jeannie defiantly challenged him, shaking her head ruefully. “I must have been a horrible person in some past life. Only a bad person can be this unlucky. I’ve always done what everybody told me to do. I’m tired of trying to pleas-s-s-e e-v-v-very-y-b-b-b-o-d-d-d-y.”

  She was really digging into her forearm now with the hard cardboard packaging and the foil pressed together, drawing significant blood.

  “Jeannie!” Anderson hissed but it was really a shout.

  “You think you can use me because I don’t talk right.” Jeannie continued, still rapidly raking her arm with the foil. “I talk like trash. I’m stupid. I don’t count? Well, I’m not some piece of meat! I deserve good things… I thought you cared about me… Why do I always have to be left behind? I’m not a bad person! There has to be redemption! I’m good! I’m good!”

  Jeannie shaken, stumbled out of the booth and raced away.

  Anderson stared after her. He sagged on his seat. Chained. Powerless.

  The mental health unit at Cook County Jail that Anderson was placed in had its positives and negatives. On the positive side it was protective custody, so Anderson had a cell to himself. It also had a view of South California Avenue. Negatively, he was on lockdown 23 hours a day. Moreover, he had been placed on “suicide watch”, again for his own “protection”, but really it was to squeeze him psychologically. This meant he was under nearly continual observation. By law, inmates have to be looked in on every 30 minutes. Suicide Watch meant Anderson was bothered at least 4 times an hour. Usually more.

  Anderson could hear the approaching footsteps of a jailhouse guard. He hoped they would spread out the frequency of their rounds since it was just past lights out. It had been only 5 minutes since he was last “checked.”

  The guard sauntered up and stopped in front of the bars of Anderson’s cell and gazed in silently at Anderson who was lying back on his bunk staring at the ceiling. It was a good long moment the guard stood there and Anderson felt increasingly annoyed. Hell! Anderson privately seethed, he was exposed enough in the virtually empty padded room where he had to wear a paper-thin gown and sleep on a bed without sheets because too many inmates had hung themselves with their linens over the years. Luckily, the ward was kept warm and temperatures were rising outside but now this virtual round-the-clock abuse coupled with the increasing volume of the haunting gospel-like music they were playing was tantamount to torture. Give it a fucking break! Even Anderson began to wonder, with enough sleep deprivation could he be brought to a breaking point where he would admit to anything as long as it stopped the torment?

  Anderson looked over at the guard who was normally an impassive bull of a man but right now had a weird, cryptic, pursed-lip look on his face.

  “You’ve become quite a media star.” The guard finally grumbled hoarsely.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Anderson answered bitterly. “Do me a favor, why don’t you turn that music off.”

  “Why don’t you?” The guard snapped in reply, gesturing with a nod to the window.

  Anderson, puzzled, got up and looked out his barred window, standing on his tiptoes to see through the 6-inch transom crack in the glazed, wire-meshed glass. What he saw amazed him.

  The music Anderson was hearing was coming from a crowd of people, maybe a hundred or more, gathered on the street below. They were singing a hymn backed up by a boombox. Most held candles. Many held hands. Those that didn’t clapped and helped keep time.

  Some people held posters, what looked like signs of support but they were too hard for Anderson to read from this distance. At first, Anderson didn’t believe they were there for him, but then two women holding the ends of a large rectangular piece of white cloth moved under the light of a street lamp and he could clearly make out the message written upon it with spray-paint: “We Believe in Noel.”

  It was also too dark now for Anderson to see the news trucks that were parked in the shadows but he could see the various TV teams “going live” with on-the-scene reports.

  Anderson groped the tapered edge of his cell window to boost himself higher on his toes and get a better look at the crowd.

  The guard walked away.

  Anderson soon sagged, dropping back against his cell wall, tears welling in his eyes as the singing outside continued unabated into the warm spring night.

  CHAPTER 36

  Rave hadn’t been open long for the day when Derek walked in shortly after noon for the limited Sunday store hours that stretched until 5 o’clock. A vintage rock tune blared from the store’s speaker system. Derek wore a baseball cap pulled low to conceal his identity and had sunglasses on even though it was an overcast morning.

  Derek looked around the store as Lyndsey finished setting up her cash drawer at the register.

  “Help you find something?” Lyndsey chirped brightly in greeting.

  “Just lookin’ for somethin’, for my girlfriend.” Derek answered, almost snarling.

  “Let me know if you need any help.” Lyndsey offered as Derek moved away from her. She thought he was really creepy but then she had seen a lot of sketchy creeps. She shrugged the encounter off.

  Derek lingered at a rack, and gazed furtively over his sunglasses at Jeannie who was just arriving for work.

  Jeannie secured the back door where she entered after parking her car in the rear parking lot. She was wearing fingerless Gothic-style gauntlet gloves now that extended over her wrists and forearms, hiding any evidence of self-injury or the “cutting” that she had done.

  “Morning. Sorry.” Jeannie groaned as she clomped up behind Lyndsey and stuffed her handbag under the counter.

  Derek sneered secretively, ran his tongue over his yellowed teeth. He could almost taste Jeannie. He continued to follow her movements as she settled in to her work routine but suddenly Derek sensed he too was being watched.

  Derek caught a movement in his peripheral vision, and snapped his gaze outside where he saw this spindly, leather-clad punk-ass bitch of a dork gaping at him through the store window.

  It was Jack Trax.

  Derek locked on to the odd stranger with menacing purpose.

  Trax immediately averted his stare, loitered momentarily and walked off.

  Derek couldn’t figure out who this strange cat was who was watching him. He wondered if he was one of his former prison punks from the early days who recognized him and maybe wanted to go down memory lane. Whatever the motive, Derek was suspicious and was surely going to find out the reason for the dogging. Derek pulled his cap even lower and headed out of the store.

  “Couldn’t find anything?” Lyndsey apologized perkily as Derek left. “Awww, better luck next time.”

  Jeannie never gave Derek a look. She started helping another customer who had ambled into the store.

  Outside, Derek stood on the sidewalk scanning and finally locked on Tra
x who was across the street now. Derek took down his sunglasses for a better look at this person who still was unfamiliar to him.

  Trax, trying to act casual, glanced up to find Derek staring directly at him. A flash of fearful recognition passed over Trax’s face and he ducked quickly into a nearby coffee shop.

  It was only a couple of minutes later when a waitress deposited a coffee in front of Trax as he sat restlessly at a table in the corner of the coffee shop. The waitress moved away and Trax took a sip of the coffee, hoping by centering his attention on the table he could somehow will himself to be invisible. No such luck. He had company. He looked up to find Derek standing over him like a death shroud.

  “Do we know each other?” Derek asked darkly like the devil himself.

  “Hey, no, man.” Trax answered anxiously. “Just hangin’ out.”

  Trax took another sip of the coffee, and nervously brought out a cigarette, but remembered the long-standing indoor no smoking ordinances. Hands shaking piteously, he tucked the cigarette behind his ear. Oh how Trax wished Derek would just walk away!

  “You know who I am?” Derek asked menacingly, his voice lowing like a fierce horned beast about to strike.

  “No!” Trax answered. Too quickly.

  Derek grabbed a chair, spun it around and straddled it, sitting down opposite Trax, staring at him with unwavering ferocity.

  “Well, yes, I saw you on TV.” Trax admitted, quaking. “You’re the one who murdered that guy’s wife.”

  Derek eyed him with a laser-like look that scorched the core of Trax’s soul.

  “Wasn’t no murder.” Derek growled. “Otherwise how could I be here talking to you? I was screwed by the system. They let me out because they admitted the error of their ways.”

  “Hey, cool.” Trax reacted casually to Derek’s explanation, trying desperately to act non-judgmental. “Look, man, don’t get on me, I’m helping you.”

  “Helping me?” Derek asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  “Yeah.” Trax fumbled for a way to clarify his claim. “That guy, you know, Noel Anderson, he said he was with my girlfriend the night your brother was killed, but I saw him leave her place in the middle of the night. I told the police that.”

  Derek’s mind quietly raced to catch up with all that Trax was revealing to him. You could almost see the mental tumblers clicking into place as Derek digested the information.

  Trax took a slurping sip of coffee, growing in confidence that he had appeased Derek.

  “You told the police that?” Derek carefully confirmed.

  “Yeah.” Trax shrugged casually like it was no big deal. “See, I’m helping you.”

  Derek, eyes gleaming, nodded thoughtfully and smiled. An evil smile.

  CHAPTER 37

  Anderson was looking out his cell window at the supportive crowd that continued to protest and grow in the street below in the mid-morning haze. There must have been several hundred people now almost choking California Avenue and a number of police were currently on hand to maintain order. The number of news trucks had also increased to about half a dozen.

  One of the guards who worked the day shift moved up to the bars of Anderson’s cell.

  “Someone to see you, an Al Ward.” The guard informed Anderson.

  Al Ward waited anxiously against a wall in the visitation area. As usual it was a teeming mass of humanity that was packed into the all too confining space. It took Ward several hours just to get inside and get his name on the list. Fortunately it was the weekend and there were two sets of visiting hours. This was the first part of the Sunday inmate visitation schedule that stretched from 8 AM to 1:30 PM before there would be a two hour break for lunch and then the next set of visiting hours began that would continue until 8:30 PM in the evening. Ward didn’t fancy hanging around for that extended a period, but he was going to wait as long as it took to talk to Anderson.

  A female correctional officer moved up to Ward. “Mr. Ward…” she called out, notifying him with complete indifference, “…the inmate you wished to see, he’s not taking any visitors.”

  “Did they tell him who it was?” Ward asked reflexively, taken aback.

  “I imagine they passed along the information. They usually do.” The officer answered vacantly, shuffling back to her position at the check-in area.

  Ward, to put it mildly, was miffed.

  CHAPTER 38

  Father Canova had a million things on his mind.

  Detective Crotty had one thing on his.

  “I’m not going to insult your intelligence and ask you if he admitted it, but I do want to ask your opinion as to his mental state.” Crotty continued his pestering of Cannova who tried to maintain his patience as he stood with his arms folded across his chest opposite Crotty inside the church’s main office.

  Crotty had been there for ten minutes already. First, he tried to see if Sister Beatrice had any “information” or “opinions” regarding Anderson or had “talked to him.” Sister Beatrice, who was still busily attending to church office matters behind the pair, assured Crotty that Anderson seemed like a “very nice man” and that he “attends services here” at Our Lady of Sorrows. But that was all the “information” she had.

  That brought Crotty to Cannova who simply confirmed Sister Beatrice’s sentiments. Cannova, while he had no prior dealings with law enforcement before this, knew clearly enough that the detective, no matter how he phrased the questions, had only one intention and that was for Cannova to give him some indication that Anderson had somehow revealed to the priest that he had committed the murders of Ruben Roney and Gabriel Lysander.

  “Father, these are not questions that overstep any boundaries.” Crotty went on with increasing frustration. “I have Mr. Anderson’s best interests at heart, too, but I also have to think about the safety of the general public. Maybe he’s insane, seeing things, believing he’s possessed by God or the devil. You have to be a pretty good judge of that. I mean, it’s part of your job to get to know your parishioners.”

  “I wouldn’t be a good judge at all.” Cannova responded bluntly. “There are so many personalities I deal with on an everyday basis. I’ve tried to answer your questions as best I can, but my job is to run a church, so if you’ll excuse me.” And with that, Cannova began to walk away.

  “Father?” Crotty called after him, making Cannova stop, but it was clear to Crotty that it was useless to question the priest any further. “Forget it.” Crotty quickly gestured, moodily dismissing Cannova from any further harassment.

  Cannova smiled tightly and disappeared through a doorway.

  Crotty thrummed his fingers on the office countertop as he thought to himself, looking about everywhere for clues. For inspiration. Anything.

  A man walked in the front door of the office from the parking lot with an armload of clothing.

  “Where do I drop these off?” The man asked Sister Beatrice.

  “Right there.” Sister Beatrice answered him, pointing to a trio of labeled bins in a corner, more particularly to the one that was marked “clothing.”

  The man stepped over and started to deposit his donation.

  Crotty started to leave when something brought him to a dead stop. He looked at the bins: one for “clothing”, one for “books, etc.”, and one for “shoes!”

  Crotty had his cell phone cradled against his ear as he eagerly scanned a pile of donation forms on the counter in the church office. “I think I found an angle on where Anderson may have gotten the shoes he used in the Gabriel Lysander murder!” Crotty spewed the news excitedly into the phone. “The church takes in clothes and shoes from the public and they keep records for a lot of the charitable donors. We can narrow down the dates and look for a possible match, call up some of these donors and see if we can get some shoe samples and establish a link to the crime scene-”

  “Hold your horses!” Peterson interrupted, obviously not sharing Crotty’s enthusiasm at all for the find. “You know and I know that’s not a piece of ev
idence that’s going to get a grand jury to hand down an indictment.”

  “Who cares about a grand jury?” Crotty continued. “We already got an indictment! This is another piece of the puzzle for the prosecution to challenge Anderson with. It would look awfully fishy if-”

  “No, we need evidence for a grand jury again!” Peterson exclaimed from the other end of the line, stopping his partner once more in mid-sentence. “Anderson’s alibi for the night Gabriel Lysander was killed just got a hundred percent stronger because I got Bernard Johnson laying over here on the West Side in between a couple of dumpsters.”

  “’Bernard Johnson’?” Crotty responded, irritated. “Who the hell is that?”

  “That’s the legal name of Jack Trax.” Peterson answered.

  “He’s dead?” Crotty asked.

  “Or a very good imitation.” Peterson replied grimly.

  Peterson was standing in an alley amidst a phalanx of police cars and a cordon of cops. Peterson had to step back because a morgue transport van was angling in near some waste bins. That’s where the lifeless body of Jack Trax was laying in the narrow space dividing two large trash receptacles, the back of Trax’s head a bloody mess of exposed brain tissue from the effects of a close-range gunshot wound.

  “Looks like it happened some time yesterday afternoon.” Peterson added gloomily. “A sanitation crew reported it this morning. You know we can’t hold Anderson now.”

  CHAPTER 39

  There were now over a thousand people and nearly a dozen news vans outside the Cook County Jail awaiting Anderson’s discharge from custody. Rains had dampened the area but not the spirit of supporters who remained upbeat and vocal. There were reporters of nearly every ilk, from tabloid journalists to high-profile correspondents for worldwide cable news providers. News cycles were three days max in modern times. Anderson, though, was quickly becoming a living room fixture with many Americans.