by Dana Killion
“You’re welcome, Ms. Kellner. I’m glad to see that there’s more to you than what I saw on the surface when you were a prosecutor. But that’s true of most situations, isn’t it? I suspect that the answer to solving the highway shootings lies in your willingness to look past the obvious, as well.” He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “I hope the Chicago Police Department is willing to do the same.”
Thoughts exploded in my head as I left Father Brogan and returned to my car. CPD’s rival gang theory was now even shakier. A text pinged through: Brynn sending locations for shootings one and two.
Looking up from my phone, I was surprised to see Mr. Baseball Hat still there, but now surrounded by a handful of teens all proudly wearing their gang colors of black and blue. Jamal, the young foosball player, was one of them. What were they doing engaged in conversation with a middle-aged white man who didn’t seem to belong to this neighborhood? Baseball Hat shot his cold, penetrating gaze right at me, and I could see the set of his jaw, the nose flattened across the bridge from some fight in his distant past. He seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn’t imagine why.
Mind your own damn business, his expression seemed to be saying. Or was I allowing my imagination to run off-leash? Yet, I caught myself questioning the group.
I broke the staring contest and headed to my car. Whatever was going on wasn’t my concern today.
Father Brogan’s statement hoping the Chicago Police Department was willing to question assumptions was still on my mind as I stashed my phone in the cup holder and started my drive north toward the office. The priest didn’t seem any more convinced by the current explanation for these shootings than I was. If warring gang factions were at the heart of these incidents, why hadn’t Father Brogan heard something?
Another text popped up, and I glanced down at the screen. Borkowski. I didn’t bother to read further. Whatever he wanted could wait.
Hold on. That was it. That’s why Baseball Hat looked familiar. He was the fourth guy at Gibsons with Borkowski, Ramirez, and Langston! Who the hell was this guy?
16
Coincidence? Not part of my belief system. Maybe it was my jaded lawyer eyes but seeing this guy twice in just a few days rattled me. Why was someone friendly with aldermen and major business leaders hanging with teenage boys in Englewood? What business could he have with them? Discomfort washed over me. My instincts, the little voices that tickled the pit of my stomach, had proven useful, even reliable, in the past. I had learned to trust them, even when I couldn’t define what they were telling me. Sooner or later, it would become clear.
Instead of continuing my drive, I pulled over to the curb and reread the text from Brynn. The first shooting had occurred fewer than ten blocks from where I was now and just a few blocks south of shooting number three. Why not? I put my car into gear, abandoning my plan to return to the office. I zigzagged south to 63rd Street, which crossed over the Dan Ryan, bisecting the neighborhood. I cruised the streets parallel to Wentworth to get a feel for the area before moving toward my destination. There seemed to be a large number of For Sale signs around.
As I neared the location, my own run-in with the highway shooter suddenly surged at me. The sharpness of the impact, the sound of the gun, the dead man’s blood, all rushed back, and I felt my chest tighten and blood pulse in my ears. I became over-conscious of the bruises still glowing yellow-green on my chest and forehead. Sweat was now beading on the back of my neck despite the air conditioning.
I pulled my car to the curb and parked, catching my breath and feeling my pulse slow. I looked up at the mid-sized building, locating the street number. The red brick building dominated this segment of the street. It was three stories tall with rows of caged windows lining each level. It must have housed a small manufacturing company at some point but appeared long vacant. Scanning the facade, I found the words Lambert Brush etched into the granite above the door—a marker of its original function as a paintbrush factory.
To the right of the door, a faded Temple Realty sign covered the window. A Sold sticker had recently been slapped on its face. Immediately adjacent on the south side sat a ramshackle auto body shop. It too sported a For Sale sign by the same realty company, with a Sold sticker over it. Highway traffic whooshed behind me as I surveyed the rest of the street. A few cars parked here and four blocks farther north, a city bus. There wasn’t a person in sight. This area wasn’t exactly on Chicago Magazine’s hot neighborhood list. What was up with all the real estate activity?
A stretch of vacant land, overgrown and strewn with trash, ran for maybe forty yards along the north side of the building. Across the street, a chain-link fence bordered the expressway, leaving only a three-foot wide easement. I crossed over to the fence. As with the Garfield location, there was just enough room for a sniper to crouch and shoot through the couplings. Easy line of sight to the vehicles below and deserted enough that getting off a round wouldn’t be difficult.
Or had the sniper utilized the cover of the vacant building? I walked back, tested the locked front door, then stood on my toes along the crumbling sidewalk to peek through the window. The concrete was chipped away from neglect, and I was about an inch too short to see in clearly. I stepped to my left to gain more stable footing on a rock next to the foundation and stretched. It still wasn’t enough to see through the grime. Back on firm ground, I scanned the face of the building, looking for a secondary door or a lower window. Nothing. So I followed the edge of the building around to the north corner where I saw a rusted steel door. Bingo! It opened with a light push. Tentatively, I swung the door open and peered inside. Footprints made a path in the dust. Even in the dim light, I could tell they marked multiple individuals.
The room was large and completely open, with a ceiling that rose at least twelve feet. It was empty except for a few discarded machine parts scattered around. I followed the trail to a doorway, then into a hallway and up a set of stairs to the second floor. Sunshine didn’t make it this far into the building, and the air was stale but cool. It was easy to imagine all manner of nefarious activity occurring in the shadows. My eyes swept the corners and up to the top of the stairs for movement, and I stepped slowly to minimize the echo of my footsteps as I climbed. One traumatic encounter this week was more than enough. I followed the disturbed grime as it led me to windows on the west side of the building overlooking the Dan Ryan.
Beyond enough dust to give the entire city of Chicago asthma, the large room was empty. The same gang markings I had seen at the Garfield street L platform decorated the walls, as did a gallery of elaborate graffiti art. I walked to the area along the windows, where the foot traffic had been heaviest. Scanning the floor and the window sills, I saw black smudges dotting the window sash and that a window pane had been smashed out. Finger print powder mixed with the years of accumulated dirt. CPD had been here.
Broken glass crunched under my feet as I surveyed the roadway below. I tried to re-create the incident in my mind. Plotted out the position of the vehicle, the shooter. I imagined the incident as the shooter took aim. From this distance and given the highway speed, it was hard to imagine this as an accident. It would have taken skill and precision. Was the shooter lying in wait for a specific person? Or was the target random?
And the question remained, why?
The angle and the distance meant that the shooter was experienced. I pulled my phone out of my bag to snap a few photos when the clomp of feet on stairs stopped me. I had company. Cops back to review the scene? The shooter returning for an encore? My eyes bounced around the room looking for another exit, but I saw nothing. I wasn’t going to be able to avoid my visitors.
“Who are you?”
A young man had stopped at the top of the stairs and was shouting at me, apparently just as surprised to see me as I was him. Tossing his large backpack on the floor, he hiked up his pants and glowered at me like I’d invaded his private space. Uncertain of what I was dealing with, I stood silent, trying to get a read on the k
id. He was probably sixteen and about my height, but all muscle and sinew. Tattoos trailed down the right side of his neck, under the strap on his tank top, and along his bicep. His mahogany skin glistened with sweat as if he had just been running.
“Jam, we got us an audience,” he yelled over his shoulder as a second teen appeared in the door.
The tattooed kid sauntered over to me, obstructing my line of sight to his partner. My fingers gripped the phone tighter, ready to dial for help if needed. He tilted his head to the side, clocking the iPhone in my hand.
“I asked who you be?” He took another step closer, his eyes boring into mine.
“No one.” I shook my head. “I was just leaving.” Sweat dampened my neck, causing my shirt to cling to my back. I scanned the room once more, not knowing his intent. A quick exit was the best I could hope for. I started toward the doorway, now able to see the second boy. It was Jamal, the foosball player from Father Brogan’s community center, staring back at me in confusion, a can of spray paint in his hand.
As I stepped past the tattooed kid, his hand gripped my wrist, pulling me back.
“Lemme see yer phone,” the kid demanded, fingers digging into my flesh.
I turned to face him, and his eyes challenged me, but I didn’t budge. It was only a piece of hardware, I wasn’t going to be stupid, but handing the phone over just because he thought he was a tough guy would only make me look vulnerable. And who knew what ideas that would inspire. Jamal was now moving toward us, and I turned my head toward him, trying to read his face. Did he remember me from the center?
“Deon, back off. She’s cool,” Jamal said, encouraging his friend to release my arm.
“You know this bitch with the fine phone?” Deon raised his eyebrows but maintained his grip.
My eyes sought Jamal’s, hoping for an ally.
“She hangs with Father B,” he said. “Come on, we came here to tag. I don’t need no priest on my ass.” Jamal gave Deon’s shoulder a slight shove and cocked his head toward the far wall.
Deon smirked at me, then tossed my wrist to the side and walked away. I mouthed my thanks to Jamal and was out of the building before his friend had a change of mood.
As I exited through the heavy metal door, I saw a man, his back to me, crouched at the corner of the building near the sidewalk. He was setting up equipment of some kind, consulting his laptop periodically as he worked. A truck was parked on the street in front of my car. An enormous drill and core sampler were mounted on its large bed.
The technician stood and turned toward me, surprised by my arrival. He nodded then continued to punch into his computer. The large red logo of Delgado Engineering embellished the doors of the truck. Why was that name familiar? I hustled to my car, anxious to be back in its relative safety. As I slid into the Audi, I pulled out my phone and punched in the name. Two pages in, I found it. Delgado Engineering had employed the engineer who’d buried the toxic sludge reports for Rami Concrete.
Why were they testing here and what were they testing for? And if Rami was involved in redevelopment of this property, that meant its owner, Nelson Ramirez, was still in bed with Alderman Langston.
17
What was going on?
How many engineering companies in the Chicago metro area did soil testing? Dozens? More? Yet the one company mixed up with falsifying data was working across the street from the shooting. Seemed odd, but I couldn’t imagine how there could be a connection.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my desk and rubbed the back of my neck. Luckily the bruises on my forehead and chest were no longer painful. Digging around the fringes of the highway shootings, I couldn’t see anything but endless questions with no answers. The location of the second shooting had been just a hundred yards north of the first and he’d again chosen cover along the chain-link fence. Pushing myself upright, I scrolled through my email again, hoping for a response from Anonymous. I was again disappointed.
Damn, I needed a massage.
“Don’t you respond to texts anymore?” Borkowski stood in front of my desk, arms crossed like a parent chastising his teenage daughter for not making curfew.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to his message. “Call me” was all it said. I held up the screen and looked up at him, unable to resist the eye roll that accompanied it. “I was driving. What is it that you wanted to discuss? You didn’t exactly give me much context.” I kept my tone neutral, but only because I didn’t have the energy to get testy.
“You have an administrative contact at CPD, don’t you?”
“Hold on,” I said, distracted by a news flash that popped up on my phone screen. “Damn! Platt just announced his candidacy for mayor. I asked the man flat out if he wanted to run. Why didn’t I get a call?”
“What? You expected an engraved invitation?” he said, snorting and shaking his head. “Someone else’s turn for a favor. Don’t take it personally. You just haven’t accrued enough points in your special favors account yet. It’s give, give, get. Can’t expect him to put you on speed dial if you haven’t tossed a little love in his direction. Platt knows everything that happens in this city long before the rest of us do. He’s got an underground information network that rivals the NSA. How do you think that happens? It ain’t benevolence. Now, that source?”
“Yes, I have someone. Why?” I responded cautiously, wondering where he was going with this and irritated that my impatience was being thrown back at me. From day one, I had found Borkowski arrogant and of the opinion that a couple of journalism awards entitled him to kiss-my-ass status. Now that I had seen him chummy with insiders, suspicious had been added to the attribute list. What was that backstory?
“I need someone inside. Can you give me a name?”
“Excuse me? You want me to hand over a relationship I’ve cultivated since I was first hired as an ASA just because you ask? Why would I risk exposing my source for you? Call the Office of News Affairs.”
He shifted his weight to the other foot and huffed. “I thought you were dying to be involved in the highway shooting story? I’ve got some information I need to confirm and can’t wait for some PR wonk. I’d go to my own source, but he unfortunately had a heart attack last week, so I’m S.O.L. Now do you have a name for me or not?”
I contemplated his request. What did he have? There had to be some way to use this situation. I got to my feet, matching his posture.
“I’m not giving up my contact,” I said. A pinched expression crossed his face, and he turned to leave. “But what I will do is check it out for you.” He stopped at the door, his face crunched as if he’d just gotten a whiff of midsummer garbage. “Tell me what you’ve got. I’ll run it by my guy and let you know if it’s legit.”
He clenched and released his fist as he stared at the floor, evaluating the barrel I had him over. Tough call. His pride or his story. He lifted his head.
“I hear that the first victim, Velasquez, had a history. Used to go by King Angel. Was hooked up with the Latin Kings about ten years ago,” he said, each word delivered like he was swallowing a nail. “See if CPD will confirm. Might be an old grudge or score being settled that goes to motive.”
A decade-old grievance? Would that explain the other victims? I nodded as Borkowski slunk back to his office, pleased to have an official reason to ask questions, then fished around in my bag for a business card I had tucked into an inside pocket. Might as well go right to the source. I dialed Michael Hewitt, smiling as I heard his voice come on the line.
“I’ve been wanting to call you,” he said. “But I couldn’t come up with a legitimate reason.”
“Do you need one?”
The silence was rich with nervous energy. We were both feeling awkward, skirting around our mutual attraction. As a prosecutor, cops were definitely off-limits in the romantic department, not that I’d been in the market. As a journalist, the rules were blurry, but no cop was ready to defend pillow talk with a reporter, at least not to the public.
�
�I’m glad your friend didn’t show up,” he said, his voice soft. “I know I’m supposed to play it cool, but I enjoyed spending time with you.”
“I did as well. First time I’ve enjoyed being stood up.” I wanted to say more, to ask if I could see him again, to…Stop. I already had one work entanglement; I didn’t need another. “Actually, I’m calling for professional reasons. We hear that the victim in the first highway shooting, Angel Velasquez, was a former member of the Latin Kings. Went by the handle King Angel. Can you confirm that?”
“I think I like how the conversation started better.” He laughed. “Where’d you get that information?”
“Can you confirm, Detective Hewitt?” I wasn’t about to fess up to doing Borkowski’s bidding.
“What I can confirm is that Mr. Velasquez had a prior association with the Latin Kings as a teenager.” His voice was crisp, all business now. Too bad. The soft voice was far sexier. “We believe his association with the group ended years ago.”
“Was he targeted because of this association?”
“There is no reason to believe that he was known to the shooter or specifically targeted.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“No, but you can reference the official press release that went out about two minutes ago.” He laughed. “Since we’re in work mode, how is your story going? The puzzle piece? You seemed concerned by the email you got while we were at MK.”
“I see your detective instincts were at work even on a night off.” It sounded like he was fishing for information.
“Sorry, habit. It’s not something I can control. Just how my brain works after all these years. I’ve been told that I cross over into interrogation mode occasionally, but since we’re sharing…” he said.
“I’ve received some of the same constructive criticism myself.” I laughed. “Actually, I was intrigued by the email more so than concerned,” I said, deciding to open that door a crack. “I’m playing a little cat-and-mouse with a source, and right now he has all the cheese.”