by Henry Perez
“I like her a lot, too.”
“Are you going to marry her?” This time Nikki’s smile held nothing but joy and mischief.
“That’s another discussion for another time.”
He put his hands on Nikki’s shoulders, directed her toward the stairs and told her to brush her teeth before climbing in bed. A few minutes later, after he’d checked and double-checked that the doors were locked, Chapa walked up to her room and tucked Nikki in.
“Tomorrow, will you tell me about one of the stories that you wrote?”
“Sure.” He pulled the comforter up to her shoulders and kissed her forehead.
“Erin told me you’ve won a lot of awards.”
Chapa reached down and flipped on a night-light without asking Nikki if she wanted him to.
“Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you need to shut off your agile little mind and get some sleep.”
She snuggled into her sheets and looked up at the ceiling.
“Those are cool,” Nikki said, pointing at the stars glowing above her.
“They’ve been there a long time.” Chapa was watching his daughter’s face.
“I don’t have anything like that at home, but I do have some glow-in-the-dark markers that I brought with me in my backpack, and—”
“Goodnight, Nik.” Chapa stood, then blew her a kiss.
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“You make me happy.”
He stood still for a moment, not able to respond, then leaned in, kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I love you.”
Chapter 36
A little more than a mile away from Chapa’s house, in a neighborhood whose best days came and went with the 60s, Gladys Washer was settling in for the night after a satisfying day.
She poured herself a cup of tea from the same pot her husband Elmer once used to make hot chocolate, and walked back to her living room. Measuring each step and every move so as to not spill on the carpet or herself, Gladys sat down in her favorite living room chair just in time to watch the last of her nighttime game shows.
Elmer would’ve liked most of the newer shows, especially the one with all the suitcases and the pretty young women. He never stopped liking pretty young women. Even as Elmer lay in the hospital, his life measured in hours, he still had enough energy to flirt with the nurses.
Gladys took a sip of tea, which proved a bit hotter than she’d expected, and looked at the empty chair across the room. Elmer would’ve been proud of her and all that she’d done to make sure the minorities and the trashy people weren’t allowed to drive their town into the gutter.
Oakton had changed so much since they bought their first home back in ’52, and all for the worse. In a way, Gladys was relieved that Elmer hadn’t lived to see some of what was going on in the world today.
She was determined to do all she could to make certain that decent standards were maintained. Elmer would’ve wanted her to do that. Over the past several years she had reported numerous violations by home and property owners. And she knew Oakton was a better place because of all she’d done. Maybe that reporter she’d spoken to would write a story about her. That would be nice. Most of what she read in the papers these days was so ugly.
If he did do a story about her, maybe one with a picture, Gladys planned on cutting it out of the paper, for that scrapbook she’d been wanting to start. She would include all the other clippings of her letters to the “Common Voice” section of the Chicago Record.
For a time, Gladys had the page almost all to herself. And then some other person started sending in smart letters about how it wasn’t a bad thing that criminals were dying violently in Oakton. But Gladys didn’t mind sharing the page with someone who felt the same as she did about her community.
The contestants were introducing themselves when the doorbell rang. It startled Gladys, and her first impulse was to ignore it, figuring it was probably some high school kid trying to sell raffle tickets, magazines, or who knows what other nonsense. Though it seemed kind of late for them to be out doing that, especially on a school night.
But what if it was someone checking to see if she was home? Would they try to break in if she didn’t answer the door? There had been some burglaries in the area over the past few months, maybe this was how they did it. Could this be how the burglars found out if a house was empty?
Gladys was wishing she still had some of Elmer’s guns in the house when the doorbell sounded again. Maybe it was an emergency of some sort, someone needed help. If that was the case, she’d agree to make a call for them, but she would not open the door.
She set down her tea, clutched her phone, and slowly walked to the window but did not draw back the curtains. Instead, Gladys slipped a peek through the narrow slit in between. No need to let them know an old woman lived here.
Gladys was surprised when she recognized the tall, distinguished older man standing outside her door. He must’ve seen some movement at the window, though she’d been very careful to not touch the curtains, because he smiled at her.
What was he doing at her house? And at this time of night? She had seen Dr. Bendix at some of the city meetings that she’d been to. He was a very important man in the community. But why was he here?
Perhaps it had something to do with that complaint she’d filed. He too was a concerned citizen, and maybe he’d come to thank her for her diligence.
I bet he’s noticed that house too. As well as all the others with chipped paint, cars on the lawn, or broken fences.
As she opened the door, Gladys wondered if the doctor was married. Widowed, probably, she decided. All alone now. No one should be alone in their final years. It’s just not healthy.
“Dr. Bendix,” Gladys opened the door, smiling. “What a pleasure and a surprise.”
He returned the smile, though Gladys thought it looked a bit forced, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The doctor looked tired and worried, and she’d never seen him look this way before. She was about to ask what he was doing there, when she saw the device he was holding.
Any thoughts about receiving recognition for her community work, or whatever fleeting fantasy she may have had about the good-looking doctor on her doorstep, vanished the way dreams often do. But now those thoughts were quickly being replaced by something else.
She recognized the device as a stun gun, like the ones she’d seen in her favorite cop reality shows, and wondered why Dr. Bendix would have one. Had the neighborhood gotten that bad?
“Why do you have that?”
He didn’t answer, which left Gladys even more confused. Maybe he’d mistaken her for someone else. But who? And why?
Gladys was still trying to figure it all out as she watched the expression on the doctor’s face shift in a way that terrified her, an instant before he pressed the stun gun to her chest and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 37
After making breakfast for Nikki, Chapa dropped her off at Erin’s house and drove to the Record. Along the way he gave serious thought to calling in sick, something he’d done no more than a half dozen times over the past ten years.
It wasn’t right that Erin was using her vacation time to care for his daughter while he wasted these precious days. Chapa knew in his gut that a year from now he would not be working for the Chicago Record. And all the good soldiering in the world wouldn’t be enough to change that.
Zach jumped out of his chair when he saw Chapa walk into the newsroom.
“Not much info on any killings in Cleveland, but there might be something to the murders in Pittsburgh and Baltimore that you told me to look into.”
Knowing Wormley had to be lurking somewhere nearby, Chapa tilted his head in the direction of his office. They shuffled over to it, slipped inside, and Chapa closed the door behind them.
“What do you mean there might be something to it?”
“There wa
s a spike in the numbers during those years that were listed on the page, mostly criminals killing criminals.”
Chapa sat down behind his desk, flipped the switch on the lamp, and started writing down some notes as Zach spoke.
“Gang war?”
“Probably. That’s what the papers reported, for the most part.”
“For the most part?”
“Yeah, there was a cop in Pittsburgh, I found a couple of stories where he was quoted. He had a different opinion.”
“His name?”
“Conyers, but you won’t be able to talk to him. He was killed, banger style, a few years ago.”
Chapa stopped writing.
“Cops don’t just get themselves killed.”
“Well, there was some suggestion that this one was dirty.”
The door swung open and Sullivan walked in.
“Alex, you’re supposed to be—”
“Yeah, I know, interviewing an important member of the community.”
Sullivan raised his palms toward Chapa as if to suggest there was no problem between them. Chapa had another opinion.
“Look, Matt, I am very good at my job and part of that means making sure I’m where I need to be when I need to be there.”
“Alex, I certainly in no way meant—”
“I’m talking now,” Chapa interrupted, raising his voice just enough. “If you have anything to say to me you come to my office and say it, or pick up the phone and call me yourself. You don’t ask Maya to do it, and especially not when I’m on my own time.”
The quiet that followed had a physical presence, much bigger than any of the men in the room. After an uncomfortable stretch that seemed longer than it actually was, Sullivan silently nodded and left the office.
“Hardcore,” Zach said after they’d watched Sullivan walk back to his own office and close the door.
“I had to get rid of him.”
“I hate to have to tell you this, but he might get rid of you.” Zach had a crooked grin on his face.
“That’s pretty much a given,” Chapa said as he closed his door. “I need you to find out everything you can on a man named Martin Clarkson.”
“Is he a bad guy?”
“Well, I have a feeling he just happened to be in those towns during those times.”
Chapa slipped Zach’s notes into his satchel, double-checked the battery power on his tape recorder and headed out of the office.
“Also, see if there’s anything on a killer who leaves drawings or carvings of stick figures at murder scenes.”
Zach’s face contorted until his expression was equal parts confusion, bewilderment, and concern.
“You’re serious?”
“Couldn’t be more serious. And now I’m off to do some hard-hitting journalistic work.”
“You are, really?” Zach said, following him.
“Maybe by Wormley’s standards.”
Chapa didn’t have to look back toward Wormley’s desk to know he’d gotten a reaction. He could feel at least one set of angry eyes tailing him all the way out of the newsroom.
Chapter 38
Charles Stoop, age forty-seven—a “young forty-seven,” as he’d boasted to Chapa—seemed to have two facial expressions in his arsenal. There was the full-on smile, like someone seeing a long lost friend or favorite uncle for the first time in years, and the look of compassionate concern, which came complete with a furrowed brow, but stopped just short of suggesting worry.
His dark hair looked like it had been colored that way to cover much of the gray, though Stoop wasn’t trying to fool anyone by making it all the same shade. He was starting to give ground in the battle of the hairline, and trying to compensate by combing it straight down over his forehead. He was also losing the fight against middle-age sag, though not as much as most men his age.
“You know, I’m something of a journalist myself,” Stoop said with a smile, his teeth whiter than white.
“Are you really?” Chapa was busy with his notes, counting up the number of useable answers and trying to determine whether he had enough to build a sandcastle of a story.
“That’s right. I’m a columnist for Lawn Times. It’s a trade publication that all the big commercial landscapers subscribe to.”
Chapa was still trying to figure out why he was doing a feel-good piece on a guy whose apparent claim to fame was that he could, “sell anything to anybody,” a boast he’d already made three times during the first ten minutes of the interview.
“I’ll tell you what I like about Oakton. Here everybody works together. The various businesses and agencies help each other out. We don’t fight or compete with one another.”
“Isn’t competition a good thing?”
“Not for business, it’s not. I don’t need to be protected from competition—I can sell anything to anybody. But this is just a good environment for everyone.”
Chapa now understood why he was here. Stoop and Carston Macklin were cronies. Macklin golfed and went out for cocktails with people like Stoop, and they both belonged to any number of social clubs and organizations. Anything that might help the Record box out its competitors. Not exactly high-integrity American journalism. But then again, the concept of an independent press had died long before Carston Macklin took over the paper his father founded.
“And everyone has their role to play. Me, I handle the landscaping. It’s Willie Blair who scouts out potential deals as well as anyone. If you need to make sure all the insurance forms are filed you go to Clay Hunter. Gotta have a security system, that’s Frank Gemmer’s thing. Greg Vinsky makes sure all the i’s are dotted, and Wick is there to handle any legal issues.”
“And Vanny Mars?”
“Vanny is a whole lot of everything. She makes sure the accounting is right, and then there’s Teddy Bruce who handles the PR for all the area business groups.”
Chapa had wondered why Stoop wanted to meet him downtown, in a city hall conference room and not at his business office. Now Chapa knew. Stoop’s business office was at City Hall.
“Look at how this city has changed for the better since we’ve weeded out those people who simply refused to get with the program.”
“Some might call that corruption.”
“Let them call it what they like. Those are disgruntled people, air takers who don’t know how to thrive in a vibrant, changing business community.”
Stoop reached across the table, took hold of Chapa’s tape recorder and slid it closer to his side, as though he wanted to make certain his words were recorded clearly.
“They’ve got their petty accusations. We’ve got before-and-after pictures,” Stoop said, then pushed the recorder back across the table. It swooshed against the laminate top and came to a stop by Chapa’s hand.
“It’s like a cozy little network,” Chapa said, doing his best to make his assertion sound neutral.
“That’s right. We communicate with one another, and that’s a key. I’m all about communication, I tell everyone that.”
“How ’bout George Forsythe? How does he fit into the mix?”
“Yeah, George is a fixture around here,” Stoop said and grinned. “Get it, fixture? He’s an electrician.”
“I got it.”
“That’s the sort of thing I’d put in one of my columns, you know.”
“Um hmm,” Chapa said, tucking his tape recorder away and closing his notebook.
“We should write something together sometime, you know, collaborate. You’re a pretty good writer too.”
“Speaking of good writers, did you know Jim Chakowski?”
Stoop put on his best solemn face.
“I didn’t know him as well as some of the other folks who’ve been around here longer did. But he seemed like a good man.”
“He was.” Chapa started for the door.
“Hey, I’m serious about that collaboration. I’ll give Carston a call and talk to him about it.”
Chapa did his best to suppress a laugh.
“I’m sure you will.”
Chapter 39
It had been years since Chapa had spent this much time at the office. There were a number of reasons for that. None of them were good.
In the early days of his career Chapa enjoyed simply being a reporter, got a charge out of calling himself one. He was proud to be part of a great tradition of newspaper writers who played an indispensable role in the lives of Americans.
His job, as he saw it, was to tell the truth in print, even the hard truths. Especially the hard truths. He bonded with colleagues and peers, who enjoyed each other’s company more than anyone else’s because they understood one another.
But many of those writers were gone now, some for years. They had retired or left for a more stable line of work. Others had been forced into writing bullshit stories that wallowed in nonsense or bordered on tabloid.
A few more had died. Heart attacks seemed the most common deadly weapon, an exploding house less so. It wasn’t until this moment, as Chapa sat in his office thinking about how the last members of a dying species must feel, that he understood for the first time how comforting it had been to have an old school reporter like Chakowski nearby.
There were a few others like him still kicking around at the Record, like Jerry Rossiter in sports, Lisa McCleary in international news, and Lloyd Nomer in business, but not many. And Chapa knew, just as they did, that management was already looking for a cheaper, less independent option for filling its pages with words.
Zach had done some good work in researching as much as he could. He would’ve made a good reporter twenty years ago, when good reporting still mattered. But Zach didn’t know how to connect the disparate dots. That was Chapa’s specialty.
Oakton and some of its surrounding communities had seen a jump in the murder rate. Most of the killings involved gangbangers and street thugs, so no one much cared.
Gang wars were bad for business and worse for tourism. It was the sort of news which guaranteed that young women from Naperville, Wheaton, or Geneva, clad in doll-sized outfits, would not party and spend money in your town on Friday nights. There was always pressure to downplay those kinds of stories, or define the violence as gang-on-gang crime.