by Dana Killion
“An internal affairs investigation into cops taking payoff money from the Gangster Disciples. A little money flowed into cops’ pockets, and in return, they looked the other way on the gang’s smaller drug deals. There was major turmoil in the force, but it never went public. The hubbub over Rendell ignoring the police board’s recommendations when he appointed Wachowski was enough of a distraction to keep things quiet long enough for the problem to be solved.”
“Solved?”
“More like illusion is reality until proven otherwise. CPD kept up the appearance of heavy handed discipline but in reality, they only threw a smoke screen on the problem.”
“And Janek was one of the supposedly dirty cops?”
“He was investigated and cleared of any wrongdoing, but as head of the unit, it knocked off the glow. No one was prosecuted. There wasn’t enough to indict, and since CPD didn’t want the public scandal, the situation went into the vault. But a couple of his guys did go off quietly. I don’t know if they were muscled out or just couldn’t handle the taint.”
So why was a guy with funky gang history heading up the highway shooting investigation?
3
“Why didn’t you call me last night?”
My sister, Lane, barked at me after I fumbled and answered the cell phone vibrating on my nightstand. Her nasal voice was demanding and urgent. Nothing new, but my head was too foggy to push back.
“What time is it?” I glanced around the bedroom. Dappled sunlight shimmied through the linen drapes, which fluttered in the soft breeze of the open window. Walter lay sprawled at the end of the bed, keeping watch, oblivious to my annoying sister.
“I had to hear from Erik that you were in a car accident,” she continued. “Really? You couldn’t have picked up the phone to let me know?”
She’d talked to Erik? Who had called whom? My mind churned in confusion as I shifted my body back into the deep pile of pillows and blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus and the room to stop spinning. My body groaned at me with each tiny movement and the details of yesterday’s accident flooded back into my mind.
“Sorry, Lane, I had a few other things going on,” I said, closing my eyes, trying to shut off my annoyance.
I didn’t have the energy to jab at her self-absorption with my typical gusto, but the fact that I had a comeback at all after a rough night was a good sign. Sensitive, self-aware, responsible—not part of Lane’s personality profile; those qualities were left to me, the younger sister. Growing up I needed enough for the two of us. Was it screwed-up birth order? The death of our mother when we were teens? The debate over nature versus nurture could keep a shrink employed for a long time, not that it would ultimately affect anything. The pattern of our relationship was well established.
Hard to believe we were products of the same parents. Lane was 5’10”, with a sturdy Midwestern body and wild hair the color of Tupelo honey—although that was enhanced by magic liquid in a squeeze bottle these days. I was delicately built and closer to 5’5”, but only if I stretched every vertebrae, with dark shoulder-length hair that obeyed when I brushed it. Lane got Mom, I got Dad, and the only physical thing we shared was our mother’s clear turquoise eyes.
“Well, I’m coming over. You shouldn’t be alone, and I don’t want to hear any of your stubbornness. Erik offered to stay with you last night, and you had to be your normal independent self and turn him away. All he wanted was to help you.”
I tuned out as she blathered on. Lane’s insecurities, Erik’s hurt feelings, their conspiracy against me—I wasn’t in the mood for any of it. Not today.
“Cai was here. I’m fine. You don’t need to come over. I’m running out to see the doctor later this morning. Rest and pain meds are all I need. I’ll call you if there’s anything you can do.” With that I hung up, shutting down the opportunity for rebuttal.
Walter’s low purr reassured me from the end of the bed as I reassessed my aches and pains. My body leaden and bruised, I rolled on my side and gingerly pushed myself upright, swinging my feet to the floor. The slightest movement of my head brought sharp stabs and dimmed my vision. There was one last dose of pain meds from the EMT and I greedily washed it down with water I’d left on the nightstand, then shuffled to the bathroom.
Wild, matted hair greeted me in the mirror I’d avoided last night. My skin was sallow, my eyes hollow, and the wad of gauze on my forehead was tinged brown around the edges. I lifted the corners of the tape and pulled back the cotton. Raw flesh, dried blood, skin swollen and mottled. Not pretty, but I was alive.
After a quick visit with my doc, who thankfully kept Saturday morning office hours, and a stop at the pharmacy, I was home parked on the couch, flipping through the local news channels, stopping as a shot of the Garfield L station filled the screen. A young male reporter stood about thirty yards from yellow police tape strung from chain-link fence, retelling the highlights of the incident. His emphasis was correctly placed on the one fatality, now identified as Jackson Gunderson, fifty-two. After they cut to a clip obtained at the scene yesterday, Karl Janek’s face appeared as a reporter probed for additional details. I listened as Janek deflected questions about any connection between this and previous shooting incidents with “We’re still investigating. It’s too early make that assessment.”
Too early, my ass. I knew full well from my legal days how the PR machine worked: avoid, divert, give half answers until you knew things for certain, so you didn’t look stupid when some bozo with a Facebook page posted a video recording from his cell phone. Controlling the flow and timing of information was standard operating procedure for any investigation. I watched Janek’s body language. Listened to the tone of his voice. His word choices. The man was practiced, I had to give him that. He handled the weak-ass questioning from the reporter like a pro. Revealed nothing that he didn’t want broadcast.
Having been on Janek’s side of the media when I was a prosecutor, I’d had occasion to observe the laziness of what sufficed for journalism these days. It was easy to control the message when the average fifth graders could ask better questions than today’s reporters. Now that I was in the job, I found myself wanting to shout questions at this twit with the microphone, questions he should be asking instead of letting his subject get away with crappy non-answers.
My cell phone pinged on the coffee table, jarring me out of the media coverage. I flicked my eyes over to the phone out of habit, then forced myself to ignore the ringing. Voice mail could take it. Shifting deeper into the pillows heaped on the sofa, I pulled a cashmere throw around my shoulders and settled back. Not twenty seconds later, there came another ring. I pulled my arm out of the wrap and reached for the phone. Missed call from the condo’s front desk, and now Lane was calling. Shit. I picked up.
“I know you’re home, so tell this charming man here at the desk that it’s okay for me to come up.”
“I’m resting. Can we do this another time?”
I heard her mumble something to the doorman, then a male voice came on the line.
“Ms. Kellner, is it all right if I send up Miss Lane?”
“Fine.” It wasn’t, but the path of least resistance was all I had the energy for. Hopefully I could get away with a quick pop-in, just enough for Lane to feel that she had done something.
I was barely untangled from my makeshift bedding when Lane breezed in, her honey hair artfully tousled, her leopard-print blouse casually undone, and her Versace Woman fragrance ten paces ahead. She stopped next to the sofa and put her hands on her hips.
“Honey, you look like shit.” She shook her head as she looked me up and down. “They give you anything good?” She picked up the prescription bottle from the table, read the label, and nodded her approval before taking a seat next to me.
I rewrapped the throw closer to my neck to ward off the shivers that lingered despite the warm air, and grabbed a drink of water just to show her I was taking care of myself.
“See, I’ll be fine. No concussion. Nothing t
hat won’t heal. I’m hydrating.”
The words felt odd as I said them. Although Lane was three years older, caregiver was my role—the one I’d adopted after our mother’s death when I was fourteen. Our father had disappeared into depression and work, overwhelmed by his grief and unprepared to raise two teenage girls. Lane had immersed herself in party life, taking full advantage of the loose supervision to play with boys and pot on countless late nights. Meanwhile, I fretted over everything she did like a tiger mom, feeling responsible for every adolescent show of rebellion. It wasn’t a tradeoff I’d appreciated at the time, but most days I felt I’d gotten the better end of the deal. My life was a bit messy at the moment, but didn’t mirror the constant crises that Lane seemed to fall into.
I didn’t know how to handle her attempt at concern. As feeble as it was, I had to give her credit for the effort, even if it was just an illusion.
“Not the weekend you planned, is it?” She inspected the edges of her gel manicure as she spoke.
“Another reminder that we don’t always get what we want.”
She looked up from her hands, her brows drawn. “Why did you send Erik away? What if you have a concussion and you black out or something? This isn’t the time to tough it out. Sometimes even you need to be cared for.”
Cared for? Yes. Controlled and manipulated back into a relationship because of poor timing? No. I didn’t want that security blanket. Whatever I had to face, I’d face alone. The price of that relationship was soul-killing.
“He’s really worried about you and still loves you, you know. Can’t you forgive him?”
I clenched the cashmere into a ball and closed my eyes, counting a few breaths before I responded. “When did you start teaming up with Erik on the win-back-Andrea campaign? You know he devastated me. I can’t believe you’re even questioning my decision, let alone operating as his advocate.”
I could hear my voice grow shrill and felt the tightness in my chest that clamped down and overpowered me every time I was forced to confront my pain. It had taken nearly three months just to get to a place where I was no longer crying myself to sleep. Or explaining away my bloodshot eyes as newly developed allergies. Yet here Lane was suggesting that I forgive and forget, oblivious to the ravages of his betrayal.
Erik was an icon to her, a symbol of the success and charisma she longed for but hadn’t achieved. She seemed unable to comprehend that I could give up living in his glow when she wanted it so badly for herself.
“He made a mistake, and he’s sorry. Can’t you accept that everyone makes mistakes, does something stupid now and then?” She looked at me through eyes gone flat. “Except for you. You’re always perfect.”
“That’s enough. I can’t have this conversation now. You need to leave,” I said, keeping my voice low and controlled. But my body trembled with anger.
“What are you afraid of? Turning out like Dad? That Erik will cheat again if you take him back, just like Mom did?”
“Yes!” I shouted, losing my patience. My head throbbed. “Our father is broken because he trusted a woman who didn’t deserve to be trusted. She’s dead and all he has is empty, hollow memories.”
“Haven’t you let go of that old childhood trauma yet? Dad chose his life. He could’ve said ‘screw her’ and moved on. I did. Why do you make her mistakes your problem? This is ancient history. Besides, Mom died in a car accident.”
“A car accident with her lover, as you well know,” I hissed. I stopped myself from letting loose all the hurtful things that were running through my mind, years of hurtful things that haunted us both. Instead, I let out a breath and tried to regain composure. “Lane that’s enough. I don’t want to hear anymore.” I pulled the blanket close, curling inward. “Not now. Please.”
“All right, but don’t forget that you’re benefiting from Erik’s vulnerability. Do you really think anyone else would have hired you as a journalist?”
“I need you to leave.” I couldn’t handle one more word. Lane grabbed her bag, flipped back her hair, and left in a huff, as tears stung my eyes.
4
I stepped off the elevator in front of the entrance to Link-Media late Monday morning, hot tea in hand, my pace still glacial. My morning had begun hours earlier with the necessary work of insurance claims, copies of the police report, car replacement, and other practicalities.
Although the visit to my physician on Saturday had given me post-accident peace of mind, my body still protested the trauma. The weekend had been one big haze of slug-like recoup, once I had pushed Lane out of my thoughts and out of my apartment. Moving from my bed to the shower to the couch, and once or twice to the door to accept delivery of tuna rolls and miso soup, had augmented my body’s healing.
Luckily, sleep had come easier last night as the pain had finally subsided. My bruises had peaked and I looked like shit naked, but that was the least of my problems. Shaking the image of the dead man was proving difficult.
Obsessed with the media coverage, I had spent the weekend glued to the TV and the news feed on my phone. CPD had confirmed the shooting death of one individual. Questions about the shootings had replayed on a loop in my mind as I followed the media focus on blood and body counts. CPD hadn’t confirmed the connection between Friday’s shooting and the two previous, but with three shootings along the same one-mile stretch of roadway, conclusions were easy to draw. Too bad the reason these deaths were occurring didn’t seem to be a relevant question.
Even before the highway shootings started, Chicago’s gang violence issues had become common enough to warrant national attention, with some even labeling Chicago the country’s newest Murder Capital. Gang tensions were woven into the fabric of many Chicago neighborhoods, particularly on the south and near west sides. Conflict ebbed and flowed between the Gangster Disciples, the Vice Lords, the Black P Stones, or any of the nearly six hundred factions in the city. Some controlled an area as small as one city block; others had thousands of members spread across many neighborhoods.
And as gang numbers swelled, there was only so much territory to go around. Rivalries increased in the shift, as did shootings. Tension between the increasingly demanding public, tired of hearing weekend victim counts, and the police, seemingly unable to quell the violence, was running high.
But unlike most shootings in the city, the first two victims appeared to be random, with no reported gang affiliations. With the shootings staged mid-day on a major highway between Indiana and Chicago, the pattern had changed, and the city was feeling vulnerable. And dead bodies splashed across the evening news were hardly a stellar ad campaign for the city’s significant tourism industry. If confirmed, shooting number three would move the public, and the Mayor’s Office, into outright panic.
The idea that gang rivalry or initiation rites had been the impetus for these shootings hadn’t even been questioned. But having been on the scene, literally in the middle of the action, seeing the distance and the angles, the logistics of the shooting had nagged at me over the last twenty-four hours. This wasn’t a stray bullet or drive-by shooting—the types of killings that typically found their way into the news. I wondered if this was a territory feud related to changes in drug trafficking. Perhaps a new gang had moved into the area. The sad reality was that the public had simply come to accept surface-level explanations for violence in the Englewood neighborhood.
“Whoa, wasn’t one accident enough?”
Art Borkowski had passed the elevator, engrossed in a document, just as I stepped through into the hallway. His stack of manila folders and paper tumbled to the floor, skittering across the tile as he stopped short.
“Sorry, Art.” I stooped to assist, annoyed with myself for apologizing.
“I don’t need your help.”
He bent down and yanked the documents out of my hand, as if I’d just gotten a glimpse of his porn stash.
“You know, Art, IT can get you an iPad.” I nodded at his stack.
He glowered at me, did a once-over of
my battered face, and said nothing. He began scooping up pages even faster.
Buddy, you work for a digital media company. Erik had brought him into the organization because of his stellar reputation as an investigative journalist. The all-digital news concept was still in transition—hell, the entire industry was struggling with print vs. digital, free vs. subscription, particularly at the local level. Link-Media’s board of directors had needed some assurances, that historic operational methods weren’t being totally abandoned, by way of classic newspaper talent on staff. Snagging Borkowski away from the Tribune had been a major coup for Erik, and he refused to hear anything other than how Art Borkowski was a journalistic god who’d won five Lisagor Awards for excellence in reporting. My caution that his transition and ego might get in the way had been dismissed as quickly as it had been offered.
Borkowski lumbered down the hall, muttering, something probably unkind. His disdain for the way I’d secured this job was a constant presence. I followed him through the frosted glass doors toward my office in the timber-beamed loft space, nodding hello as I wound my way past the handful of co-workers buzzing around their desks, my heels clicking on the polished concrete. Heads turned and confused looks were shot my way as the staff noticed my bruises. The sound was barely noticeable over the white noise of CNN and Al Jazeera streaming from the five televisions hanging from the ceiling. I dropped my bag on my desk, set down my tea, and winced as I twisted into the chair. Some of my body parts were still relearning how to bend, and it would easily be another week before my skin was no longer blotched with eggplant patches. I lifted my cup to my mouth and wondered how often I’d need to explain my battered face.
The glass box office I was housed in suddenly felt like a terrarium, rather than the hip workspace Erik intended, and I was the chameleon on display. What color is she today? I grabbed my phone and returned a couple follow-up calls from my insurance company and the Audi dealership, then opened my email, hoping to head off any emergencies before the questions about my banged up face slowed me down.