by Dana Killion
As far as I knew, Coogin wasn’t directly involved in the investigation, but word got around on prominent cases.
“I hear we’re shakin’ up a few of the usual bangers. A couple of those toads are always on the short list.” Coogin leaned in close and lowered his voice a notch. “Got nothing, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“What’s Janek’s story? Do you have any history with him?”
I eyed Coogin’s friend as I spoke, looking for a flicker of interest. Nothing but a peeved stare.
“He’s solid. If anybody can nail this, he can.” Coogin’s eyes swung over to his colleague to make sure her attention wasn’t wandering before he turned back to me. “Shitty the way he got screwed over by that dog turd of a cop Dubicki though. Changes a man to have his partner stick the knife in and twist. And then to kick sand in his face, Dubicki parlays that mess into a job payin’ serious green. Let me tell you, I, for one, will be takin’ my sweet-ass time showin’ up at any calls to his job sites. No telling what kind of unfortunate accidents might happen, given the friends he’s burned over the years.”
With the advance team assembling, Coogin and his partner shifted over to their posts before I could ask the name of Dubicki’s employer. Dubicki wasn’t winning any person-of-the-year awards. If someone as mild-mannered as Coogin was fantasizing about a construction calamity, a few other officers would be itching to do worse if he’d crossed them. If I were Janek, I’d be praying for a crane to fall on my former partner’s head.
I held firm in my position along the front edge of the stage and watched tourists pose for photographs with Chicago’s landmark Picasso. Its Corten steel bulk also offered some of the only shade in the park. The heat bouncing off the concrete made the urban canyon feel like a sauna. I fished a water bottle out of my bag and took a swig, then dabbed a tissue at the back of my neck.
A flash of lights on the Dearborn Street side pulled my attention. Unmarked police cars and a cadre of black SUVs with dark tinted windows arrived. A swarm of cops and security types in dark suits descended. Showtime.
Mayor Rendell’s burly frame strode toward the podium, smiling and raising his hands in greeting to constituents as he walked, already moving into campaign posture. Superintendent Wachowki marched behind, looking as if he had swallowed dung. As the men and their minions moved into position, so did the press, jockeying for best advantage. A low chant began to grow somewhere in the background, but the sound bounced off the glass and steel of this manmade gorge and cloaked the direction. The words were unintelligible, but the angry tone was clear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Rendell began.
Flanking him on stage were Wachowski, my former boss Cook County State’s Attorney Denton Tierney, Detectives Janek and Wolman, and a handful of other cops I didn’t know. The men stood lined up like sentinels, their mere presence a silent oath of support. Platt hovered two steps back and to the right, his arms crossed casually; a slight hint of satisfaction played at his eyes, as if pleased with himself for making this happen.
On my side of the dais, cameras, phones, and the occasional pad of paper and pen were all poised for whatever came next. The plaza was now teeming with people who had gathered to hear the press conference or who had stopped, curious about the spectacle on their way to lunch.
The hum I had noticed moments ago was now muffled as the protestors were pushed to the back, becoming part of the expectant crowd of close to two hundred. Galvanized by social media, their hastily written placards read, “Wachowski, do your job”, “Who’s in charge here?”, “Rendell doesn’t care.”
The officers on the podium stood strong, their steely eyes alert, their bodies poised for anything that might occur. Detective Michael Hewitt’s gaze found me as he scanned the crowd. A brief smile flicked at the corner of his eyes, followed by confusion. I nodded a greeting, smiling as I remembered the compassion he had shown me during Friday’s accident. Damn, he looked good all suited up.
“As you are all aware,” Rendell continued, “Chicago has experienced some recent troubling situations on the Dan Ryan Expressway.”
“Yeah, dead people are troublesome!” a voice in the crowd shot back.
Rendell ignored the outburst. “I’m here to assure you that every resource the great city of Chicago has at its disposal is being utilized to find the individual responsible.”
“So you’re confirming there’s only one shooter?” my buddy with the wayward elbow shouted.
“Superintendent Wachowski and his fine team are pursuing every lead they have. We are working night and day,” Rendell continued, unwilling to yield control to the crowd. “Gang violence will not define Chicago.”
“Tell that to the victims’ families!” another voice called out.
Wachowski pulled his barrel chest up a little higher into his five-foot, nine-inch frame, giving us a power pose. His dark eyes hammered into the back of Rendell’s head, but whatever he might have wanted to say or do was irrelevant. This wasn’t his show, and he knew his place in the pecking order.
Signs began to sway and low voices of discontent murmured through the plaza as the protestors grew even more annoyed. A few of the video guys had swung their attention away from the officials and onto the crowd. Shots of angry people were more interesting than this drivel. Did Rendell stage this just to issue hollow platitudes? This crowd wasn’t going to sit quietly by while he doled out meaningless answers.
As Rendell droned on with empty words and promises no one was confident he could keep, I watched the men assembled on the platform, all stone faced and probably resentful of being called away from real work for this dog-and-pony show. A dozen questions about the shootings filled my mind as we waited for something of substance to be presented.
I also watched Tierney for a hint that there would actually be some type of announcement, but as usual, he wasn’t showing his hand. I’d always joked that he washed his face with Botox, but every now and then, an extra steeliness to his eyes gave him away. Although a skilled politician who used his tools to his best advantage, he resented the hell out of being part of seedy used-car sales pitches, and this stank of nothing but distraction. He was probably drinking Maalox by the gallon these days. I had been hesitant to use our relationship to get information so far, but I knew the time would come when I would need to play that hand.
Enough of this. “Superintendent Wachowski,” I shouted. “Can you comment on the possibility that we are dealing with a sniper intent on killing innocent victims and not random gang violence?”
Wachowski jerked his head hard in my direction, looking for the source. “Andrea Kellner, Link-Media.” I raised my phone, set to video record mode, even higher to catch his response.
As the possibility rumbled through the crowd, Janek glowered at me from the podium. Tierney looked at me as well, puzzlement in his eyes. I held my ground, ready to push back if I needed to.
With the crowd now agitated, it was going to be difficult for Rendell to pretend the question wasn’t on the table. Would he keep Wachowski on his leash?
“CPD is investigating. Any additional information will be shared as it’s available,” Rendell replied, lobbing back more drivel and pushing the volume of chatter around me a few notches higher.
“Can the police superintendent answer the question?” I volleyed back, hoping to engage Wachowski.
The crowd picked up the thread, and someone yelled, “Answer the question!” Another, “Who’s killing our citizens?” and “Why can’t you catch him?”
The simmering frustration was palpable. Working the politician’s playbook, Rendell pulled out his most reassuring smile and raised his hands to shush the throng, trying to diffuse the tension. The crowd wasn’t buying it. As he struggled for control, Superintendent Wachowski stepped forward and took the microphone. Rendell shot him a look that said, “Fix this!”
“As we’ve indicated repeatedly, CPD’s investigation has determined these shootings are a result of recent
gang territory disputes that have unfortunately placed new pressure on the Englewood community.” Wachowski swung his eyes to me and continued. “To suggest anything else is both unproductive and foolish. My men are exploring all avenues, and we have every confidence that the perpetrator will be apprehended.”
Wachowski stepped back, and Rendell delivered a pandering wave before being whisked away. End of conversation. The mob, however, wasn’t willing to let it go. The volume rose, a unified voice fed up with empty rhetoric. And I didn’t blame them. This “press conference” had been a waste of everyone’s time. Probably something Platt had fabricated, convincing the Mayor’s Office it was better than saying nothing.
As Rendell left the stage, the protestors at the back began to push forward after him, dissatisfied with the outcome. Reporters and tourists were herded right along with them, wedged between the dissenters trying to get at the mayor, with the camera crews not getting out of the way fast enough.
Protestors yelled after Rendell, their voices full of anger and distrust. Bodies jostled, pushing tighter into the wedge formed by the stage and the nearby Picasso, as the cops tried to hold back the swarm. I maneuvered another step to the right as the horde of bodies pushed all around me. A sharp elbow to my back slammed me forward and my shins into the steel frame of the stage. Screams rang out somewhere behind me, as did the crash of what I guessed was an expensive camera hitting the ground. Pinned between the platform and the crush of bodies, I clung tightly to the phone still in my hand, and tried to pull myself up to the stage as shoulders and elbows and hands pummeled my back.
As I struggled to free my foot pinned below, hands reached under my arms and pulled me up, releasing me from the tangle of bodies and metal. I fell into a solid chest. Enveloped in the warmth and security of strong arms, I inhaled the lightest whiff of sandalwood and looked up into Michael Hewitt’s concerned eyes.
I smiled, overtaken by this small bit of comfort in the midst of the mess. “Rescuing damsels in distress again?”
“There are worse parts of the job.” He grinned. “Let’s get you out of here before this gets ugly.”
His arm around my shoulders, Michael led me across the platform above the chaos and behind the police line, escorting me over to Dearborn where the officers had formed a human fence between the horde and the mayor. Janek’s ramrod straight frame greeted me at the curb. His eyes were icy, filled with the desire to ream me out, I imagined. You’ve got more to worry about than tough questions.
“That’s some job change you’ve made,” Michael said, removing his arm from my shoulder. “You okay from here?”
I nodded. “Thanks. Go ahead and get back to more important things,” I said, glancing at the protestors.
He grinned and eased back into the police line as Rendell’s SUV drove off, leaving me with the aftereffects of the adrenaline rush. With Rendell off-site, the protestors would probably disperse or move across the street to City Hall, hoping to shake up a few aldermen. I tapped the screen of my phone and replayed the video. Hopefully it was more than just pictures of feet and muffled voices.
A hand on my arm pulled me away from the screen, and I stared into Denton Tierney’s dead blue eyes.
9
“What the fuck was that question all about, Andrea? Do you know something, or are you just trying to create a story?” Tierney snapped.
Leave it to Tierney to be the one guy with a spine.
“Come on Denton, you don’t believe that this is just a bunch of gangbangers going at each other. The victims took direct hits.”
“Don’t play semantics with me. And don’t play cop.” Tierney clenched his jaw and glared at me. “If CPD says some twerp with gun is shooting from an overpass, just to prove he has the balls for the life, then that’s what’s happening. Unless you have proof to the contrary, I’d keep my mouth shut about anything else.”
He walked away, leaving me staring at the back of his head, before I could frame a rebuttal. I snagged a cafe table in the plaza as the crowd thinned out, and contemplated what I’d just witnessed and what to do about it.
Too bad the political side of Tierney’s personality was more dominant than his bulldog side. Our days of old-fashioned heart-to-heart conversation were probably over. Total honesty didn’t fit in with our new roles and he wasn’t about to admit to any doubt about CPD’s current stance on the shootings. From his point of view, the press was something to use. And I knew the game. Still, I wondered where his instincts were leading him on these shootings. It was obvious that public discussion of a possible sniper rattled him, but it had to be one of the theories, even if it didn’t sit well with the mayor’s agenda.
Jacqui’s revelation about the drug trafficking at the Garfield L station ran through my mind as I took another swig of water. If the station were a hub of drug activity, then stray bullets weren’t out of the question. But the shots were too clean and direct. A sniper trying to put notches on his belt to prove he had the cojones wasn’t magical thinking, but why these people? Somehow the idea that drug activity tied the shooting together didn’t feel like a slam dunk, and I didn’t know why my gut was whispering caution.
And what about Janek? Even if he hadn’t taken bribes, he could be blinded to other possible causes of this violence because of his past. Revisiting the accident scene might help quell my discomfort. I left a message for Platt asking to reschedule, put in a call to Brynn to update her on my plans, then walked over to catch the Red Line at Washington and Dearborn.
A fifteen-minute train ride and Chicago was an entirely different landscape. As we rolled along, I watched the familiarity of the Loop give way to Chinatown and then US Cellular Field, home of the Chicago White Sox. Its historic predecessor, Comiskey Park, site of four World Series, had been torn down in 1991 and rebuilt on the south side of 35th Street before being renamed following the obnoxious trend that turned buildings into ad space. From the elevated tracks, I watched this, the last of the tourist destinations on the train line, give way to the decidedly non-touristy South Side. Loop high-rises became shoddy low-rise industrial structures or multi-family homes that had seen better days.
I exited the train at Garfield, the open platform a stretch of concrete, pillars, and system maps. The occasional whiff of stale urine or ripe trash wafted past me as I looked around, standard fare for public transportation. This wasn’t what I’d imagined after hearing it called “the Pharmacy.” People were simply going about their business of trying to get to work or to the grocery store, just like any other stop on the CTA system.
The station sat in the rumble of the highway, smack dab between the north and southbound lanes of the Dan Ryan Expressway; auto traffic whizzed past on the outer edge of the tracks. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Dirty needles littering the platform? Small plastic baggies with white powder residue on the floor of the shelter, having been discarded after a few snorts? Maybe some strung-out guy in a dirty sweat shirt offering me a hit? I was embarrassed by my own stereotyping. But if the cops were on to this, then the drug activity was real. Maybe it was simply too early in the day for shop to be open.
I walked the length of the platform, taking note of any graffiti on the support pillars. Tagging was often a marking of territory, a “Joe was here” type of symbolism. This was a language where colors and marks had subtle, sometimes subliminal meanings. As with any successful, growing business, competition was at the core. Which gangs were claiming this terrain? I pulled out my iPhone and shot some photos of the ubiquitous six-pointed star of the Gangster Disciples.
Scanning the expanse, and the strategically placed security cameras on the roof above, it seemed an unlikely spot for a guy with a gun to go unnoticed in the middle of the day. Moving toward the southern end, I looked for evidence of police investigation. Seeing nothing else that piqued my curiosity, I took the escalator up to the small station. With the tracks below at highway level, street access was on the overpass. There was only one way in or out of this particular station, u
nless you jumped both the tracks and four lanes of heavily trafficked freeway. Not exactly an easy getaway.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a spot next to a “Building a New Chicago” sign that hung from a tall chain-link fence, intended to make it hard for some suicidal fool to take a header, and surveyed my surroundings. I was standing on a bridge over the highway. It was easy to visualize a gunman targeting a vehicle below by putting the barrel through the mesh, but not without being on display. Garfield was one of the few cross streets that traversed the expressway, and traffic would have been steady mid-afternoon.
As I stood contemplating the logistics of the shooting, I was conscious of the looks of curiosity I was getting from people on the sidewalk as they passed. I was a petite white woman in a go-see-the-mayor suit who obviously didn’t belong in this neighborhood.
I walked east toward the intersection, my eyes following the fencing until I reached the corner of Wentworth and Garfield. About forty feet south yellow police tape flapped in the wind where it had been strung from yet more fencing. Miles of the stuff lined the highway. Someone must have a lucrative city contract. I crossed the street and walked toward the remnants. Wentworth Avenue was mainly a frontage road at this stretch, although further north it was the main artery through Chinatown. Empty lots and scrub trees framed the east side, and a weed-infested strip of dirt and shrubs barricaded the expressway on the west.
I skirted the curb, avoiding broken Rolling Rock bottles and empty Romanoff pints, my eyes watching for signs of prior police activity and the occasional oncoming car. Trampled plant material and yellow tape seemed the only signs. Had the police found any shell casings? I took some pictures of the area, then looked down at the suede Chloé sandals I’d chosen this morning and shrugged. What’s a little muck when there’s a story at stake? I stepped over the flattened brush to the fence.
Looking through the linked couplings and around the rushing traffic on the expressway below, there was little indication of last Friday’s tragedy. The shoulder was clear of auto debris, but the skid marks and paint scrapings on the concrete bulwark told me I was in the right place. Images of the dead man flooded back and I felt my breathing quicken. Grabbing the fence, I closed my eyes, pushing back the emotion and summoning my analytical mind.