Violence

by Timothy McDougall

  “We’re here outside the jail in Chicago…” A distinguished network news field veteran in a suit and tie stood in the early afternoon sunlight and spoke into a microphone in an area cleared for the media by police. He gestured to the throng behind him. “…where an enormous gathering of well-wishers anxiously anticipates the imminent appearance of alleged vigilante Noel Anderson after authorities suddenly dropped all charges without, at least at this time, revealing the reason for the surprise turn of events.”

  Crotty and Peterson were unperturbed, seated in their unmarked Crown Victoria parked not far down the street from the spectacle and the large white metal gate just south of 26th & California where Anderson would soon be set free. For them, it was a fait accompli that Anderson would “walk” right now but that didn’t mean, with new evidence, murder charges couldn’t be reinstituted even though their higher-ups were looking askance at their continued involvement in the case. Crotty tapped the top of the steering wheel as he waited. Peterson killed time by thumbing through the case file. Neither of them felt much like talking.

  Lyndsey, meanwhile, was in the same coffee shop across from Rave where Trax had sealed his fate with Derek. She was picking up a coffee order and staring slack-jawed in wide-eyed astonishment at a wall-mounted TV that was broadcasting the “Breaking News” scene where the crowd was “Awaiting the imminent release of accused vigilante Noel Anderson” outside of the Cook County Jail. She didn’t even take the time to put lids on the coffees and ended up spilling half of them as she trotted back to Rave to breathlessly tell Jeannie, “That guy you know is on TV again! They’re letting him go from prison!”

  Anderson, after going through the time-consuming process of being officially discharged, paused briefly to view the pandemonium that awaited him before pushing through the gate to a thunderous ovation from his “followers.” He was immediately cheered and surrounded by his devotees as he tried to edge his way into the street.

  Reporters joined the crush and shouted out questions:

  “Mr. Anderson, can you tell us what prompted the police to release you?”

  “Noel, how does it feel to be out?”

  “Is there anything you want to say?”

  Anderson just plodded into the crowd, searching the sea of faces, hoping to see Jeannie among them.

  More and more people surged at him. Many crying.

  A jaundiced young man with tears running down his cheeks pressed close, touching Anderson as if he were a holy relic. “I was just diagnosed with liver cancer. I have six months to live but I’m not afraid, thanks to you!”

  Anderson just gazed back at him, speechless.

  A middle-aged woman with her mentally retarded teenage son yelled out, “We love you! We love you!” This was as she tried to reach through the multitude and place her son’s hand on Anderson’s shoulder.

  There were more and more cheers as Anderson finally made it to the street.

  A woman holding a baby managed to step in front of Anderson, shouting with raw, ecstatic, heartfelt energy. “My husband was murdered but I’ve released my anger! You’ve made me live again!” She kissed Anderson’s hand and smiled.

  Anderson stared back at the angelic innocence of the pair, tears forming in his eyes.

  More and more people swarmed around him, singing, crying, dancing in a beatific blur that made Anderson swell with emotion.

  Al Ward waded forcefully through the crowd and managed to get a hold of Anderson’s arm.

  “We gotta talk!” Ward hollered over the clamor of the boisterous horde.

  “Stay away from me!” Anderson responded, wresting his arm from Ward’s grip.

  “You can’t walk away from this!” Ward bellowed, getting right in Anderson’s face as Anderson continued to work his way through the pulsating pack of supporters. “Do you know who was blowing holes in your alibi? It was Jack Trax, the boyfriend of that girl you’re seeing! The police found Jack Trax in an alley this morning, shot through the head! That’s why they had to let you go!”

  Anderson stopped in his tracks and stared intensely back at Ward, thoughts racing.

  “And Derek Lysander was let out of prison two days ago!” Ward bellowed, eyes locked on Anderson.

  Peterson’s brow suddenly furrowed as he sat up uneasily in the passenger seat and gravely read to Crotty the latest report from Anderson’s case file. “Get a load of this. Anderson has been making sizable donations to the Innocence Ministries, an advocacy group that works on inmate appeals. He specifically assigned the bulk of his donation to the Derek Lysander defense fund.” Peterson flipped quickly to the next page of the report and scanned the information there. “One of these advocacy group attorneys got the appellate court to remand for a retrial on appeal… Lysander pled out in lieu of a new trial… He was released for time served. He walked out of Stateville…” Peterson looked up at Crotty. “…the day before yesterday.”

  Crotty’s face fell.

  Peterson was already dumbstruck trying to compute the possibilities and implications of what he had just learned.

  Crotty snapped his gaze down California Avenue where he saw Anderson and Ward hurriedly leaving the crowd.

  Ward helped Anderson push through the last of his well-wishers and shake the pursuing reporters as they jumped into Ward’s Chevy Caprice that was parked on 26th Street… and sped away.

  Ward was hauling ass as he moved the Caprice through some heavy knots of traffic.

  Anderson had quickly dialed a number on Ward’s cell phone (Anderson’s own cell phone battery had died sitting idle amongst his inventoried personal belongings that were taken after he was booked and processed) that frustratingly led to a recorded message. Anderson dialed a new number and waited.

  Lyndsey answered: “Hello, Rave, how can I help you?”

  “Let me talk to Jeannie!” Anderson demanded.

  “Who’s calling?” Lyndsey gaily asked, knowing it was Anderson, and covering the mouthpiece with her hand to tell Jeannie who was standing right next to her. “It’s him!”

  Jeannie waved the call off.

  “It’s Noel! She knows who I am!” Anderson yelled urgently into the phone.

  “She’s, uh…” Lyndsey stalled as Jeannie put her ear up to the receiver to listen in. “…with a customer right now.”

  “The man who murdered my wife is out of prison!” Anderson vehemently stormed into the phone. “And he probably knows who Jeannie is and where she is!”

  Jeannie heard every word of this but, while she was completely fearful now, she still wouldn’t talk.

  “Well, I’ll…” Lyndsey rolled her eyes, and turned the phone insistently to Jeannie who pushed it away. “…let her know you called.”

  Anderson was going nuts.

  “Listen! Just tell her to stay there!” Anderson yelled. “I’m coming over there right now!”

  Jeannie heard this. Anyone within twenty feet could hear it. Lyndsey even drew the receiver away from her head to save her eardrums.

  “Okay.” Lyndsey answered sweetly (what else was she going to say being put in the middle of this), and delicately hung up the phone.

  Jeannie just glared at her.

  Anderson just fixed his gaze forward, through the windshield of the Caprice, to the city streets that Ward was tearing up and tossing in the rear view… where Crotty and Peterson, shadowing them in the Crown Victoria, had the speeding pair in their sights.

  Lyndsey watched Jeannie hurry to her rusted Impala in the parking lot behind Rave.

  “Jeannie, I don’t know. I think you should stay.” Lyndsey pleaded, hands on her hip as she stood in the employee’s entrance.

  “No way.” Jeannie grunted obstinately, waving dismissively as she kicked up dust and gravel in her haste. “I’m getting out of here.”

  Jeannie fumbled momentarily with her car keys pulling them out of her purse and thought briefly about commencing one of her obsessive tapping rituals, but instantly decided against it and got in her car. She promptly sta
rted her Impala, waved and drove off.

  It was only 15 minutes after Jeannie had left Rave that Ward was slamming on the brakes and skidding the Caprice to a stop in front of the store.

  Anderson jumped out of the passenger side of the car and ran into the entrance.

  Ward quickly followed him.

  Inside, Anderson threw looks everywhere as he marched up to Lyndsey at the cash register.

  “Where’s Jeannie?” Anderson asked impatiently.

  “She left.” Lyndsey squeaked apologetically.

  “What?!!” Anderson exclaimed. “Do you know where she went?!!”

  “No.” Lyndsey answered feebly as Anderson made a mad dash to the back of the store, bursting through the rear exit to see for himself if Jeannie’s car was gone.

  Ward stepped over to the thoroughly jittery Lyndsey, pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and held Derek Lysander’s mug shot up in front of her.

  “Did you see this man around here at any time in the last day or so?” Ward grimly inquired as Anderson returned.

  Lyndsey scrutinized the photo but it didn’t take her long to realize it was the same creepy guy she saw with the baseball cap.

  “I think he was here yesterday morning.” Lyndsey answered meekly, scratching behind her ear nervously.

  Anderson dashed out of the store with Ward. They piled back into the Caprice where Ward took his place behind the wheel and Anderson speed-dialed Jeannie again from Ward’s cell phone.

  “We have to check her apartment! It’s not far from here. Go straight…“ Anderson urgently directed Ward who gunned the engine and sped them away as Anderson listened to Jeannie’s cell phone ring again, dreading the result that it would once more go unanswered.

  Da da da da ding twing twing twing… da da da da ding twing twing twing…

  Jeannie groaned with irritation as the standard default ringtone on her cell phone jingled on and on inside her handbag. She reached angrily into her small, drawstring bag, retrieved the phone and shut it off. She didn’t care anymore about anything. She was the aggrieved party here and nothing Anderson could say would make her sit still to listen to more lies. Yes, she was nervous about what he said, but it was still more of a relief to be putting distance between herself and Rave. And Anderson.

  Jeannie turned up the car radio volume full blast on a rock tune and kept driving, singing along with the song with fake enthusiasm.

  Suddenly, behind her, in the rear-seat compartment, the entire backrest cushion moved ever so slightly… then it shifted some more… and it wasn’t long before a tattooed hand soon appeared curling about the top of the upholstery.

  Jeannie just continued driving and singing, completely unaware of the menace behind her.

  Seconds later, the backrest completely toppled and Derek rolled out from his hiding place like a birthing alien. He smiled, firmed up his grip on his Browning automatic pistol and sat up.

  Jeannie immediately caught sight of Derek in the rear-view mirror. She started to scream but Derek quickly covered her mouth, and stuck the nozzle of the gun against her temple.

  “Shut the fuck up and pull the fuck over!” He hissed.

  “Jeannie!.. Jeannie!” Anderson called out as he looked for her in every room of her apartment.

  Anderson checked Our Lady of Sorrows.

  “She’s not here.” Father Canova told him.

  Cannova was quickly apprised of the situation regarding Derek’s recent release, his likely sighting at Jeannie’s workplace, and the very real danger of Jeannie meeting foul play at Derek’s hands.

  “What can I do to help?” Cannova asked.

  “Call me if you see her or hear from her. If she shows up here, make her stay. Don’t let her out of your sight.” Anderson instructed Cannova as he climbed back into the Caprice where Ward patiently waited and quickly drove them away to the next search point.

  Anderson searched:

  …every diner…

  …dive…

  …and restaurant that he and Jeannie ate at or explored. Jeannie was nowhere to be found.

  The Chicago police have a multitude of auto pound locations. They’re open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It’s big business. Vehicles that were towed in connection with the commission of a crime or held for evidentiary purposes are deposited at one of two places. Either the pound on the far South Side of the City. Or the lot on the distant West Side. Anderson’s car was at the latter location.

  First, Anderson had to pay for the towing and storage charges at a separate site, in cash, because, according to the City of Chicago, “it is not a defense that a criminal court dismissed the case” and further “in an impoundment case” the penalties are civil in nature (i.e. concern cash, not incarceration) therefore “the burden (of proof) the City must meet is lower.” Anderson waived his right to an administrative hearing and just paid the charges. It took several hours altogether just to “locate his paperwork” and make payment.

  Evening was pressing down when he finally got to his car some ten miles from downtown. Anderson tore off the orange notice of impoundment sticker from his car window and opened the door of his Mercedes.

  Ward put his Caprice in park, let it idle, and got out to stand next to Anderson.

  “There’s always a chance she’s on the run and doesn’t want to see you.” Ward offered Anderson as a possibility concerning Jeanie’s whereabouts (but Ward knew that was probably not the situation here).

  Anderson flicked an annoyed glance in Ward’s direction, not needing nor wanting this kind of hollow reassurance.

  “But if he’s got her…” Ward continued. “She could be dead… or…”

  “Or what?” Anderson asked straightaway.

  “Maybe he’s thought this through…” Ward speculated as he took a deep breath and stared pensively at the last vestiges of light on the horizon. “…and if he has…” Ward tossed in a quick qualifier, “…there are still no guarantees, vengeful people aren’t always rational… but if he can keep himself from killing her right off-”

  “Just say it.” Anderson cut him short. “Or what?”

  “She’s an ace in the hole for him.” Ward stated matter-of-factly. “Of course, his first priority is killing you, but he might use her to draw you out. You gave his brother money. He might try to hold you up, keep her for ransom.”

  Anderson was instantly thrown but liked this scenario. It made some sense and it gave him hope.

  Ward saw this rise in Anderson’s expectations.

  “But if that happens…” Ward added in the spirit of full disclosure, making certain he gave Anderson the entire scope of his assessment. “…you can be sure that after he has the money, he’s going to kill you both.”

  “Would you call the police?” Anderson asked.

  “They’re already here.” Ward answered, furtively gesturing, directing Anderson’s attention across the lot where Crotty and Peterson were sitting watching them in their parked Crown Victoria.

  “They’ve been following us all day.” Ward went on. “The police will probably get her killed, save you some money, maybe get Lysander.”

  Anderson had his answer. He got in his Mercedes and started it. Put the window down.

  “They’re not going to leave you alone.” Ward warned him. “Let me help you.”

  “I appreciate it…” Anderson thanked him. “…but this is for me to do.”

  Ward furtively took a wadded up duffel bag out from under his windbreaker and carefully revealed to Anderson a Sig Sauer automatic pistol that was inside the bag, along with an extra box of ammo. He held the items out for Anderson to take. Ward knew that the police had confiscated Anderson’s registered handgun citing it as possible evidence when they went through his motel room and belongings. He also knew it would be some time, if ever (seized personal possessions do tend to disappear or get destroyed), before Anderson could present his property voucher and get his own gun back.

  “Do it right.” Ward softly entrea
ted.

  Anderson stared at the contents of the duffel bag, but didn’t take them.

  Ward leaned over Anderson’s car window, closed up the duffel bag with the gun and ammo inside and stealthily flipped the bag on the front seat next to Anderson.

  Anderson quickly put the car in gear and drove off.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Fucking rain.”

  The leaves on the trees did their usual virtual overnight explosion onto the scene due to the sustained heat of the last few days. This, coupled with a powerful spring thunderstorm, the latest in a string, was giving the City its annual bath and renewal.

  Detective Peterson didn’t care much for rain (it always chilled him) or its restorative powers and that was why he cursed it. On a practical level it made it more difficult for him to keep an eye on Anderson’s motel room from where he sat in the Crown Victoria with Crotty at the far end of the Heart O’Mine motel courtyard parking lot. The fact that it was nighttime didn’t help either. The light was still on in Anderson’s room, that much was known.

  Crotty, like Peterson wasn’t a rain lover, and was growing annoyed as well. They had straight up gone to Anderson’s motel room door and asked Anderson, just as Ward had done at the auto pound, to let them help him with the search for Jeannie. Crotty and Peterson knew Jeannie was likely in trouble because they had sent another team of detectives to Rave to interview Lyndsey after Anderson and Ward left there. Lyndsey was very forthcoming about everything that happened that day between Jeannie and Anderson, and also identified Derek once again from a mug shot photo (as she had done for Ward) telling the detectives “yeah, that looks like the same guy who was here” regarding Derek’s recent appearance at the store. Even after letting Anderson know about all that, and even after they informed him they too tried to get in touch with Jeannie by phone to no avail, Anderson still told Crotty and Peterson he didn’t know what they were talking about. Needless to say, Crotty and Peterson were fuming when they had to march back to their car and they were determined to stick to Anderson like wet underwear. Which at this point in the evening was nearly true.