Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  He took one last look at Clarkson, knowing now that whoever he’d been chasing was as real as the brutal slash across the dead man’s neck. Then Chapa yanked the door open and hurried to get out.

  He didn’t get far.

  Waiting for him outside were eight police officers, some in uniform, some not. Four were pointing guns at him, one had a rifle. Another was yelling for Chapa to drop his weapon and get on the ground.

  Chapter 46

  Chapa, his hands still in cuffs, sat across from a wide mirror in a small, dimly lit room that smelled of perspiration and cheap cigarettes. The cup of coffee they’d insisted on giving him during four or five minutes of civility still sat in front of him, untouched, cold.

  The first hour of questioning was difficult on Chapa—the three plainclothes playing bad cop, worse cop, and dangerously unhinged cop made sure of that. But it wasn’t especially rewarding for them, either. Chapa made certain of that.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to cooperate. He did. But he’d dealt with this sort of treatment from the police in the past and learned that rewarding hostility only begged for more bad treatment.

  The worst of the three, a hateful bit of spit named Dixon, was itching to get his hands on him. Chapa knew that, and had managed something of a balancing act. Dancing just to the edge, then slowly stepping back.

  Everything changed when Tom Jackson walked in the room.

  “What the hell, Chapa?”

  “Hey Tom, thanks for stopping by,” Chapa said, then turned to the three would-be interrogators, his eyes on the one who’d led with his mean streak. “You guys can leave now, go to a restaurant, get a bite to eat. And you, Dixon, you’re free to go beat up the waitress, or whatever your kink might be. I’m ready to tell Detective Jackson the whole truth and nothing but.”

  Jackson shook his head, then nodded to the other three, who got the message but took their time leaving the room, anyway.

  “They’re just doing their jobs, Alex.”

  “I know, Tom, and I’m certainly capable of being an asshole sometimes.”

  “You think?”

  “But some members of the law enforcement community seem to enjoy doing their jobs on me a little too much.”

  Jackson dragged a chair across the tile floor until it squealed into place alongside the table.

  “So tell me, Alex, why did you murder Martin Clarkson?” Jackson asked with absolutely no conviction in his voice.

  “I’ll answer your questions, but first tell me this, who tipped the cops off to what had happened at that windmill?”

  “An anonymous call from a cell phone. We just ran the number and found it belonged to—”

  “Martin Clarkson.”

  Jackson nodded.

  “We figure someone found the body, the phone was with it, so they made a call, but didn’t want to get involved. Probably tossed the phone away after they used it. Happens that way sometimes.”

  Chapa smiled. It sounded plausible, a good story, but he had a better one.

  He asked for a fresh cup of coffee, then spent the next forty minutes putting as many pieces in place for Jackson as he could. All the while, Chapa was fleshing out the story he would write later that day for tomorrow’s paper.

  Chapa explained how he’d first seen Martin Clarkson at the council meeting, and how he was muscled out of the building. He filled Jackson in on how Clarkson had left the bureau under circumstances that could, at best, be called dubious.

  Jackson already knew all about that, but Clarkson’s theory about a series of murders was new to him.

  “That’s the sort of thing the FBI does really well,” Jackson said.

  “Usually, but one or two do slip by from time to time. Believe me, I know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Alex, you don’t have to remind me. I’m one of your loyal readers.”

  “You’re the one.”

  “But look, that area, right where Clarkson was found, can be pretty rough. There have been attacks there before, a couple of killings, too, had one last year. That quaint old windmill, which should’ve been ripped down years ago, sits in the middle of a big expanse of wilderness, and we get squatters there all the time.”

  “And one happened to walk up to a federal agent who was carrying a loaded weapon and cut his throat?”

  “A former agent.”

  “My point is still valid.”

  “Maybe it is, but at any given time there are bikers and ex-cons living in those woods. Bodies turn up in forest preserves every year. The rangers do their best to patrol them, and we get at least one call per week about some bad guys making trouble. But you can only do as much as you can do.”

  “Why did Clarkson want to meet me there?”

  “You’re asking me?” Jackson shrugged, then got himself a fresh cup. “Here’s how it went down, Alex—he wandered into some vagrant’s makeshift home, got jumped, got his neck sliced. It isn’t exactly the most sophisticated killing of the month in these parts, let alone something suggesting a grander scheme.”

  Chapa downed the last swig of flaccid coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in a small metal wastebasket.

  “There’s just one problem with your theory, Tom.”

  Jackson flashed a look of exasperation at Chapa.

  “What now?”

  “The wallet. The type of person you’re describing would’ve taken it.”

  Jackson didn’t look exasperated anymore, so Chapa continued.

  “But the only thing taken out of it was that photo of a woman.”

  “Clarkson may have fought the assailant for his wallet, and pulled that photo out as he was dying. You probably scared off his attacker.”

  “Who’s the woman in the picture?”

  “We believe it’s Clarkson’s wife. She died accidentally a few years ago.”

  “Really?” Chapa picked up a clean cup and poured himself some fresh coffee.

  “Drowned in a swimming pool. It happens.”

  “Sure, and federal agents—sorry, former federal agents—get themselves murdered in park windmills. That happens, too.”

  “Yes, Alex, apparently it does.”

  Chapa finished off another cup, and walked over to the door.

  “Don’t worry, Tom, I won’t be leaving town or anything.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jackson said as he opened the door for Chapa.

  They walked down a crowded hall to Processing.

  “Alex, do me a solid here. Promise me you’ll go light on this pattern killing thing. At least until we’ve got more info one way or another.”

  Chapa couldn’t make him that promise, even if he’d wanted to. But that’s not the reason he didn’t respond right away. A form attached to a clipboard caught Chapa’s eye.

  “What is this?” he asked a clerk behind the counter. The old guy looked like he might’ve been there when they erected the building eighty-five years ago. His name tag identified him as Larry.

  “It’s a death notice.”

  Apparently Gladys Washer would not be serving as the local watchdog anymore, she’d moved to that gated community in the sky. She’d been found early that same morning by a neighbor who came by for a regular visit, looked through a window when there was no answer at the door, and saw Gladys lying on the floor of her living room.

  “Cause of death?”

  Larry seemed bothered, but something told Chapa that was just his normal state.

  “It says heart attack, you see that,” Larry said, poking at the paper with a tobacco-stained finger. “Heart attack. What the hell is it to you?”

  He yanked the clipboard out of Chapa’s hand and disappeared through an office door.

  “Alex, really, keep this all in check,” Jackson was still asking for a favor.

  Tom was a hell of a good cop, a better man, and Chapa liked him. The look on his face was so sincere that Chapa had to turn away.

  “I’ll see you around, Tom,” he said and left the station.

  Chapter 47
/>   Leah Carelli misinterpreted the reason for Chapa’s phone call, exactly as he’d feared she would.

  “You didn’t use to move this fast, Alex. Maybe if you had, way back when, we might’ve—”

  “Leah, you know how much I like talking to you—”

  “Do you? Are we going to have that lunch we talked about?”

  “Absolutely, but first I need your help.”

  He was driving toward Gladys Washer’s house, though that was not his true destination.

  “Oh, I can help you, all right. You sound tense.”

  “Do I? I don’t feel tense. No more than usual, anyway. I need an address.”

  “Really? What time are you picking me up?”

  Chapa tightened his grip on the wheel and exhaled. Leah’s cute and flirty way was starting to become annoying, and just a little creepy.

  “Not your address, Leah, the one Gladys Washer was there complaining about a couple of days ago.”

  Silence.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I really need that address. I thought I remembered it being on Grove Stree—”

  “You called me for info?”

  Chapa rifled through his options, searching for the best one. It didn’t take long.

  “Yes, and I will be grateful.”

  “How grateful?”

  He could almost hear the naughty smile on her face.

  “Leah, please.”

  It sounded like she was walking, at least that’s what Chapa wanted to believe was causing the soft panting on the other end. A moment later he heard the sound of paper rustling.

  “I have what you want, right here, Alex.”

  He decided to play along.

  “I bet you do,” Chapa said in what he hoped was his best lounge lizard voice. “Are you going to…give it to me?”

  “Oh, I’ll give it to you.”

  And she did. But then Leah had a question of her own.

  “Alex, why did you dump me?”

  “What?”

  He remembered the end of their relationship being more of a drift than a split. Anyhow, this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have—now or anytime soon.

  Chapa signed off, and five minutes later he pulled up in front of the house on Elm Grove Street, still uncertain why he was there or what he was hoping to find, and sensing that little good could come from what he was about to do.

  Chapter 48

  On the sidewalk across from where he was parked, Chapa saw a series of children’s chalk drawings and scribbling, most having to do with Halloween. When he turned back toward 414 Elm Grove, the last address Gladys Washer had complained about, he felt certain he was looking at the house those same kids probably thought was haunted.

  Every older suburban neighborhood has one. The street Chapa grew up on certainly did. And he remembered the Wallace house with its thick bushes in front, vines creeping up the stone front, and the rarely seen but eternally angry people inside. He recalled the time the neighborhood punk stomped all over the Wallace’s flower garden, then blamed it on him, explaining, “You know, he’s one of those Spanish people.”

  That seemed to be proof enough for Mrs. Wallace, who immediately grabbed Chapa by the arm and dragged him to his house. But she left five minutes later and just ahead of a torrent of angry profanity the likes of which Chapa had never previously heard come out of his mother’s mouth.

  This neighborhood’s haunted house had no bushes or vines, and not much paint. Much of what there was, white mostly, had flaked off, exposing patches of bare and rotting wood. Fistfuls of grass and weeds had punched their way through the narrow walk that led to the front door. It didn’t take much work to figure out why this property had gotten Gladys Washer’s attention.

  Chapa saw no car in the driveway as he walked down the street toward that side of the house. At the far stretch of the uneven concrete, Chapa saw a garage that appeared to be leaning just a bit. The yard was fenced on three sides, though it was unclear whether any of the fencing belonged to this property, or if each of the neighbors had put it up for their protection.

  This section of Oakton was, as a whole, more beaten down than most. But even here, in this mixed neighborhood populated by day laborers, service workers, and third shifters, this property was way behind the curve. The closer he got to the house, the worse it looked, and Chapa wondered which of the paint chips, if broken off, would bring the whole thing tumbling down.

  Chapa had hoped to get a look at the home owners, though that would’ve been unlikely on a weekday afternoon. He couldn’t shake the thought that Gladys Washer’s death seemed a bit too sudden and unusual, especially in light of all that had been happening these past few days.

  Chapa tried to carry himself like a man with a purpose as he walked across the patchy lawn spotted with dead leaves, some dry, others rotting. Arcing around toward the side of the house, still not sure what he was looking for, Chapa glanced through an opening in a set of frayed and faded curtains. Though the area beyond was dark, he caught a glimpse inside at what appeared to be a folding table and a chair near the center of the room. He leaned in closer and saw that the large room was otherwise empty.

  There were some papers on the table, a notebook, perhaps, and Chapa was about to step forward to get a better look when he heard the crunching of leaves underfoot. He turned to find a large man wearing work clothes, gripping a crowbar and moving swiftly in his direction.

  The guy’s hairline was all but gone, but he was compensating by growing what was left down to his crooked shoulders. His nose was bent, and it may have been broken at least once in each direction. There was something wrong with his left eye, but Chapa was sure he could still see well enough to take his head off with a swing of that crowbar.

  Chapa knew right then that running wasn’t going to get him very far, maybe to the tall wood fence that stretched down the length of the backyard, no farther. If he fought, he was going to end up badly injured, or worse. And if this guy called the cops, Chapa was going to jail, this time for a reason.

  So Chapa decided to try something he was very good at—talking his way out of a shitty situation of his own making.

  “Are you the home owner, sir?” his voice steady, neutral, but authoritative, no hint of the churning in his stomach.

  “And what the fuck would it be to you?” The guy spoke with one of those Midwestern white trash accents that are often laced with a hint of the rural South. He was still advancing, shortening the distance between Chapa and that crowbar.

  “I’m from the city. There have been a few complaints regarding the upkeep of this house. I’m required to let you know that.”

  “And so you have. Good day now.”

  He was wearing what had once been a blue jean jacket, but the sleeves were crudely cut off, turning it into a vest. He had no shirt on underneath, revealing a narrow but muscular midsection. This guy looked like he could’ve emerged from a prison yard yesterday.

  “Look buddy, I’m not some hard-ass from downtown who’s here to bust your balls,” Chapa lowered his voice, the way a stranger sitting on the barstool next to you does as he cozies up. “But if I can’t go back to the office and tell them I had a serious and productive conversation with someone who lives here, they’ll send some prick next time.”

  “And that would be bad.”

  “Hell yeah it would. They’d probably send Wormley down here, and he’s a real piece of work.”

  “I don’t want no Wormley poking around my yard.” The crowbar was now down at his side.

  “You’re damn straight you don’t.”

  The guy looked down and shook his head. Without taking his eyes off him, Chapa slowly started wandering toward the back of the house, but stopped when he saw the man tighten his grip on the crowbar.

  “Look, um, what’s your name?”

  “Cal.”

  “Just get the house painted in the next few months, Cal. Nothing too fancy, just slap some whitewash on here and there.”
/>
  Cal nodded.

  “Do enough so that we don’t get anymore complaints about the place. You know, these old women who complain all the time have nothing better to do than drive around town looking for ways to—”

  “Stick their noses in other people’s shit,” Cal said, completing Chapa’s sentence, though not exactly as he would have. “Yeah, okay, it’ll get cleaned up and painted some.”

  Cal tilted his head to the side just enough, as if to ask, So now what? Over time Chapa had developed a sense of when it was time to go—and that time was now.

  Chapa thanked Cal, then walked past him and started for his car, anticipating an attack at any instant. When it didn’t come, Chapa stopped in the middle of the yard and turned back toward the house.

  “By the way, Cal, are you the owner?”

  Cal was holding the crowbar like a barbell, one hand on each end, down by his waist. He lowered his head the way a bull does before charging, then slowly moved it from side to side, indicating No.

  Chapa knew better than to ask the owner’s name. He walked the rest of the way to his car without hesitation, knowing the guy was still standing there in the yard with a weapon in his grip and the wheels beginning to turn in his head.

  Before getting into his car, Chapa looked back toward the house as a sliver of sunlight pierced a cloud, illuminating a figure standing at the edge of an upstairs window. He appeared to be holding a rifle.

  Chapter 49

  As far as Chapa could determine, the letter Jim Chakowski had sent his brother wasn’t giving up any more of its secrets. It wasn’t even a letter, really, more like a collection of notes, the sort of disjointed thoughts that some people mindlessly scribble on a desk pad.

  Some of the names on it were now familiar to Chapa, and maybe he understood the significance of the dates and places. But so what? There wasn’t enough to put anything together.

  Could be Chakowski was on to the stick figure killings. Or he may have been coming at it from another direction. And if he was in contact with Martin Clarkson, perhaps even working with him, why wasn’t his name anywhere on the paper or in Chakowski’s notes or files?