The Chicago Way mk-1

by Michael Harvey

  “You still talk to Grime?” Rodriguez said.

  “He’s there every time I turn out the light,” Pollard said. “How about you?”

  The detective dropped his gun and released Pollard.

  “Let’s go,” he said and walked away.

  Pollard sat back on the hood of the Pontiac. He was still there as I put the car into gear and drove into the night.

  “We don’t know it all yet,” Rodriguez said.

  “No shit, Detective. We don’t hardly know half of it. That’s what I thought we were trying to find out.”

  “Pull over here,” Rodriguez said.

  I pulled well off the road and shut off my headlights. The car ticked softly as we waited.

  “This looks like the only road out.” The detective’s voice felt tight, a current of uncertainty rolling just underneath.

  “Let him come by,” he continued, “then we pick up the tail again.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “He talked about ‘them.’ Who do you think he was talking about?”

  I thought I knew who Pollard was talking about. Rodriguez was smart. I figured he had an idea as well.

  “Whoever killed Nicole somehow got into the crime lab,” I said. “If it was Pollard, he had to have help. Had to.”

  “From inside the police department?”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “There are others,” Rodriguez said.

  Just then a set of headlights flickered behind us. Pollard slowed, gave us a wave as he cruised by.

  “Know what I’m thinking?” I said.

  “What?”

  “We need a new car.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?” I said.

  “We creep his house,” Rodriguez said.

  “For DNA?”

  “Fuck the DNA. He did it. We need to find out who else is inside his head.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Two hours later, we had traded my car for Rodriguez’s black SUV. Not as anonymous as a ’93 Olds, but then again, we weren’t working a tail anymore. Now we were simply breaking and entering.

  “You ready?” I said. Rodriguez nodded.

  We were sitting across from Portage Park, around the corner from Pollard’s house. His driveway was empty, lights off. Once Pollard was out, he usually stayed out. I figured we had a good hour or two to look around. The detective looked edgy.

  “Take your gun,” I said. “Leave the badge. We’ll go in through the back door. Shouldn’t take me more than thirty seconds. Once inside, we make sure the house is empty. Work each room together, back to front.”

  I gave Rodriguez a final look.

  “Crossing a line here, Detective.”

  “I know.”

  “I can do this alone,” I said.

  “Let’s go.”

  We moved along the side of the house and up to the back door. It was made of cheap wood with an even cheaper lock. Twenty seconds later we were in. Light filtered in from the street and cast shadows on a small and spotless kitchen. Rodriguez led the way, gun drawn, barrel up. The living room was also empty, no television, no couch. Just a single leather recliner in the middle of the room, facing the front windows, and a wooden chair beside it. I moved up to Rodriguez’s ear.

  “Not big on furnishings, is he?”

  The detective shrugged and pointed to a short hallway leading off the living room. Three doors fed off the hallway. Two were open, the rooms beyond were dark. The third door was closed, a thin strip of light showing from underneath. We stacked on either side of the door. I went through first, gun up, breathing evenly, moving left and scanning to my right. Rodriguez was behind me, moving right, providing an overlapping field of fire.

  Daniel Pollard was sitting up in a bed, shirt off, eyes open, two bullet holes in his chest. To his left was a night table. On it was an unfinished line of coke, a package of condoms, a bottle of whiskey, and some glasses. I could taste a whiff of cigarette smoke. Otherwise, the room looked empty. Rodriguez felt for a pulse.

  “Dead.”

  I nodded.

  “Let’s check the rest of the house.”

  Outside the bedroom, the flat hardly seemed lived in. I wondered what Pollard did with all the garbage he collected. I also wondered what we might find under the house. We returned to the bedroom. There was a basketball in one of the closets, and I thought about Jennifer Cole. Rodriguez sat down on the bed and looked at the corpse.

  “Goddamn,” he said.

  The detective wanted answers, had looked forward to them. I pulled out a DNA kit and swabbed blood off a leaking bullet hole.

  “Run this. Tell you some of what you need to know.”

  Rodriguez stuffed the sample into a jacket pocket.

  “What do you think happened?” he said.

  I looked down at the nightstand.

  “Looks like he had one party too many.”

  “Tried to take another girl,” Rodriguez said.

  “Maybe. She surprised him.”

  “That’s for sure. I have to call this in.”

  “How are you going to explain finding him?” I said.

  “Will be a lot easier if you’re not with me. Take a few minutes to look around. Then you have to split.”

  “Okay. But do me a favor. Tell your guys to keep it off the scanner. No press until tomorrow.”

  “Diane?” Rodriguez said.

  “I promised her an exclusive.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Rodriguez returned to the body. I took a look at the nightstand. The bottle was half-full, the shot glasses beside it still wet with whiskey. There were six cigarettes in the ashtray. Two of them were Lucky Strikes. The other four had filters, two with smudges of lipstick. I looked over at Rodriguez. He had pulled out a small camera and was beginning to snap photos. I slipped one of the smudged butts into a plastic bag and then into my pocket.

  “I’m going to take another look in the living room,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  I walked down the hall, sat in the recliner, and looked out over Warner Street. A row of houses made of cheap red brick. Identically poor. Identically depressing.

  I kicked the recliner back and let my hand trail to the ground. A piece of carpet, the “588-2300 Empire” stuff, crumbled underneath my fingers. I got to my hands and knees and flicked on a small flashlight. It was a burn mark, probably from a cigar. I used my vast experience with burn marks to figure this out. That and the fact that the brown butt was still there, less than a foot away. I scooped it up and into another plastic bag. Put it in my pocket beside the cigarette butt and figured it was well past time to get out of Dodge. I had committed at least five or six felonies that evening, only half of which Rodriguez actually knew about.

  “Okay, Detective. I’m gone.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  Rodriguez came out of the bedroom. He had a shoe box in his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Letters. Up on a closet shelf. Just sitting there.”

  The letters were stacked neatly. Identical in appearance. I took a look at the top envelope. The preprinted return address read “Lockbox 711, Menard, Illinois.”

  “Grime,” I said.

  Rodriguez nodded.

  “Advice on how to pick victims. When and where. How to tie the best knots. What to do with bodies. Shit, here is a primer on DNA from 1998. Grime tells Pollard to start using condoms.”

  “How do you think he got the letters out?” I said.

  “How did he get his semen out? Who the fuck knows? But this is gonna be a major-league shitstorm.”

  “Better run Pollard’s DNA. Quick.”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  “Know what else?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d take a look under this house if I were you.”

  Rodriguez dropped his eyes to the floor, then back at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.�
�

  I slipped out the back door and down the street. I walked three blocks and hailed a cab. The first cruiser flew up behind us a couple of blocks later. My cabbie pulled to the side and grumbled.

  “Fucking cops. Always in a hurry for nothing.”

  I grunted in assent, closed my eyes, and let the world fall away, if only until I got home.

  CHAPTER 53

  Walk along Chicago’s lakefront, past the North Avenue Bridge and then across a couple of baseball fields. In a hollow just south of the Lincoln Park Zoo you will find a small lagoon, a walking path, and a shade of trees. I got there at a little after three in the afternoon, staked out a comfortable bench, and pulled out Elaine’s street file one more time. I had scrawled Pollard’s name across the top. Below it were five more names. All of them dead. John Gibbons was first; followed by a second cop, Tony Salvucci; the ER nurse Carol Gleason; an EMT named Joe Jeffries; and Gibbons’ immediate boss, Dave Belmont. I was running through it a couple more times when my cell phone buzzed. It was Masters.

  “You know the file you sent over to me?”

  “Hello to you, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah. You know that file?”

  I circled Carol Gleason’s name.

  “The one from Phoenix?”

  “Yeah, Gleason. Is that going to cause me problems?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I ran the tests you wanted.”

  “Against the Gibbons shooting?”

  “And Salvucci.”

  “Right.”

  “The ballistics are a match,” Masters said. “Same gun, nine millimeter, that killed Gibbons was used on Salvucci two years earlier and the Phoenix woman two years before that.”

  “There’s one more you’re going to need to run.”

  “Already did it. Same nine was used on the EMT, Joe Jeffries, in 2000."

  “In San Francisco?”

  “Yeah. What else you got in that old file?”

  “Just Dave Belmont,” I said. “He died of a heart attack.”

  “I might check the autopsy on that one,” Masters said. “So, tell me you know the whereabouts of our gun?”

  “I think I do.”

  “And would it be attached to the hand of our shooter?”

  “I might need a little time on that.”

  Silence. Then Masters’ voice came back over the line.

  “Let me ask you this. You think there might be anyone else in danger here?”

  I watched as a black Town Car pulled to the curb and Bennett Davis stepped out. Alone.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You got a week. After that, I bring you in and start squeezing. And I do mean squeezing. You got me, Kelly?”

  “Yeah. Remember what I said. Keep a lid on this until I come in.”

  “Have you heard anything from me yet?”

  “No.”

  “All right then. Get the fuck moving on whatever it is you do.”

  Masters hung up just as Bennett Davis approached, hand extended.

  “Michael. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

  I shook Bennett’s hand. He sat down beside me.

  “How are you doing?” he said.

  “Fine, Bennett. How about you?”

  “Been better, Michael. Been better. The Nicole thing.”

  “Doesn’t really go away, does it?”

  Bennett shrugged as the weight of so much grief settled about his shoulders.

  “Not really. There is something, however, I need to talk to you about.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Here’s the thing. I think I might have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” I said.

  “Vince Rodriguez worked a homicide two nights ago. A man named Daniel Pollard. Shot twice in the chest. Ballistics came back this morning. The gun they used was the same one that killed Gibbons. A nine.”

  I took a beat and then responded.

  “And you want what from me?”

  Bennett rubbed his chin and ran his tongue over his lower lip, like he was thirsty but not sure for what.

  “I know you’re working that case, Michael. I think you might know where I could find the gun.”

  “You think so?”

  “Whoever killed this guy Pollard also killed Gibbons. We can prove that now.”

  “I know all about your case, Bennett. In fact, I was there when Rodriguez found Daniel Pollard’s body.”

  Bennett Davis peeled back his lips and pushed out a smile. If I hadn’t known it already, I did now. My friend was dirty. The only question left for me: Was he also dangerous?

  “Maybe we should go back downtown and get on the record,” Bennett suggested.

  “Maybe. But hear me out first.”

  I pulled a plastic bag from my pocket. Inside it was the cigar butt I had taken from under Pollard’s recliner.

  “You see this? It’s a Macanudo.”

  I gestured to the row of cigars stacked inside the assistant DA’s overcoat.

  “Your brand, Bennett. Yesterday I took a piece of this down to Gentech. Ever hear of them?”

  Bennett shook his head.

  “I hadn’t either. Rachel Swenson recommended them. A private DNA lab out of Joliet. Can work fast if they have to. They isolated saliva and are certain they can get a DNA profile. Takes three days to get back preliminary results. I’m guessing it comes back to you.”

  Bennett Davis got up to go. I kept talking.

  “Go on, Bennett. But you’re going to hear the rest. Either here or in a press conference.”

  He stopped.

  “Pollard was your mistake,” I said. “The first and biggest one you ever made.”

  Davis sat down again, pulled out one of his cigars, and rolled it between his fingers. Otherwise, he just listened.

  “You didn’t appear in any of the press because you were just too green. But you worked the Grime case. Donovan remembers you.”

  I pulled out the photo of Grime’s prosecution team.

  “That’s you in the background. How old were you? Twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Fucking prodigy. None of us ever knew.”

  “I hated that goddamn photo,” Davis said. “Only one taken of all of us, you know.”

  “You cut the deal with Pollard. I had to plow through five boxes’ worth of paperwork, but I found it. You gave Pollard the immunity deal for his testimony.”

  “He was key to the case,” Davis said. “Closest thing we had to an eyewitness.”

  “What you didn’t realize was, your eyewitness was actually Grime’s accomplice.”

  Davis looked up and opened his mouth but I kept going.

  “Don’t bother, Bennett. Not here, anyway. The cigar will put you inside Pollard’s house. But there’s more.”

  I pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “These are records from the Department of Corrections.”

  I put them on the bench, but Davis ignored them.

  “Probably didn’t seem like a lot, but the visits add up over the years. Twenty-three separate contacts with Grime on death row. Haven’t talked to him yet. Once we do, he’ll give you up.”

  Bennett Davis smiled. A grin of the damned.

  “When did Grime first blackmail you?” I said.

  Davis struck a match. Let the sulphur burn off and then drew the flame up into his cigar. The smoke came out thick, smooth, and cool, casting a veil, if only for a moment, between us. Then the smoke was gone and Bennett Davis came clean.

  “Fuck it, Kelly. You’re just too goddamn good. No, I take that back. You’re not good. Just lucky. Sure, Grime contacted me. It was a year after he was convicted. Had one hell of a time with it. Taunted me. Told me I was a stupid punk. Gave immunity to a serial killer. ‘How would that play in Peoria?’ Grime would always say, and laugh like a motherfucker. Pollard was his protй
gй. His surrogate animal on the street. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

  “When was the first time?”

  “Remington was first. At least the first that I knew of.”

  “And you fixed it?”

  Davis looked past me and nodded.

  “Damn straight I fixed it. Shut up everyone who needed to be shut up. Some of them I bought. The rest I just bluffed.”

  “Like Gibbons?”

  “He knew nothing. After that it became easier. Most of the victims were hookers. At least at first. Not exactly high-priority stuff. Later on, as long as Pollard used a condom, didn’t leave any DNA behind, I was safe.”

  I thought about Nicole and her cold files. I thought about how much she cared for her friend Bennett. I found myself hoping she never knew the truth about him, even as the knife slid across her throat.

  “The years go by,” Davis continued. “Just becomes part of your life. Of course I’d heard rumors about the street file on Remington. Maybe there was some lost evidence out there. Some DNA. If so, it was the thing that could link Pollard to Grime.”

  “And you to Pollard.”

  “Eventually, yeah. After I talked to you at the lockup, I figured Gibbons was looking for the street file. Or might have already found it.”

  I thought about Gibbons’ landlady looking to make a buck. One hundred thousand volts, busting open her heart at the seams.

  “So you sent Pollard to see the landlady,” I said.

  “Again, beyond my control. Pollard was simply supposed to see if she had the file and grab it.”

  “And that brings us to Nicole,” I said. “You talked to her at the Drake. She told you about Elaine Remington’s shirt.”

  “I couldn’t let her get a look at that evidence.”

  “I know, Bennett. At first I thought you might have sent Pollard, but then I thought again. There was no other key card used that night, which meant Nicole herself let the killer into the lab. Had to be someone she knew. Had to be someone she trusted. Had to be you, Bennett.”

  A well-manicured woman came close by walking her bichon frise. She gave us both a proper Gold Coast smile and moved past. Davis dropped the cigar between his legs.

  “It could have been different with us,” he said. “But that was her decision. Long time ago. This thing here. I had no choice. None at all.”