Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

“Might one of them be willing to kill?”

  “One of them? If it meant protecting the matrix that they’ve built here in Oakton, their own mothers would not be safe.”

  Chapter 59

  Chapa’s story about the funeral functioned as a second obit for Jim Chakowski, and came as easily as anything he’d written in months. The other piece he wrote in the two hours after lunch, the story that would fill his column space in the next day’s paper, took quite a bit more thought and time.

  He’d decided to begin the process of reexamining the murder of Wade Marshall, the college student whose life was stolen from him alongside that lonely stretch of river in Fletcher Woods. Wade Marshall—he had a name. Chapa had looked it up in the original story, and then written it on a small lime green Post-it note that he then affixed to the edge of his monitor.

  It was easy to forget some discarded corpse, a lot harder to ignore a person whose name you knew. With that in mind, Chapa wrote the name Martin Clarkson on another note and put it next to the first. Then he went into some of the research Zach had done and found a few more names from Baltimore and Pittsburgh and paid those folks the same tribute.

  Maybe they weren’t all good people, no doubt a few were anything but. Still, had they all deserved to die? That thought triggered another, and Chapa wrote one more name—Kimberly Clarkson—and added it to the bottom edge of his crowded monitor screen. He had no reason to assume her death had been anything but an accident—except for one—Chapa did not like coincidences. A husband and wife each dying the way the Clarksons had, for example.

  He stopped and looked at the small paper squares ringing his monitor like florescent petals. There was still enough room for two additional notes, and Chapa was certain he’d missed at least that many more murders, but this would do for now. He had plenty of motivation.

  His story revisiting the murder of Wade Marshall raised many more questions than Chapa could hope to answer. And in a final stroke, Chapa added a sentence that he knew could make the difference one way or another.

  No matter what anyone may have thought about Wade Marshall’s death, or even if you were not concerned about it, even for an instant, if his murder was indeed part of a pattern, a pattern that continues today, then all of us have reason to be concerned.

  Chapa quickly revised the story, then sent it off to editorial. His phone rang twenty minutes later as he was planning his next few days in a way that would allow him to spend much of the time with Nikki.

  “Alex, you’re needed in Mr. Macklin’s office right now.”

  “What’s up, Matt?”

  “Just stop whatever you’re working on and come down here, will you?”

  Chapa agreed, then emailed copies of the day’s stories to his home computer before shutting down. Creating a backup of his work in that way was a precaution Chapa did not like having to take. And he knew it spoke to how badly his situation at the Record had deteriorated.

  Macklin’s office occupied the most visible space in the building, filling a prominent corner and extending half the entire length of an adjoining wall. It was strategically located in a place that made it nearly impossible to avoid, coming or going.

  Chapa opened the door and walked in, then looked at the three solemn faces staring back at him. Under different circumstances he might’ve gone for a cheap laugh and asked if someone had died, but of course someone had, and there was no room for humor anymore.

  Sullivan was seated along one side of Macklin’s SUV-sized desk. A sour-faced man whose wrinkles came naturally and extended beyond the rim of his glasses, was sitting off to the side of the room, as though he was there to observe.

  “You know Barth Morton, the Chicago Record’s counsel, don’t you Alex?” Carston’s voice didn’t fill the room, it merely trickled across his desk, its significance left somewhere behind, like distant thunder.

  Chapa nodded to the attorney, whom he did not know personally, but his greeting was not returned.

  “We seem to have a problem. Why don’t you sit down and we can talk about it.”

  Chapa looked at the chair Macklin was pointing to, the one directly in front of the desk. It appeared to be a few inches shorter than the others.

  “I’ll stand.”

  Macklin was not pleased, but he appeared to decide this wasn’t worth any further debate and turned his attention to some papers on his desk. He flipped through them, pulling out a few and separating them across his desk pad.

  The office décor had changed somewhat since Chapa was last there. The air was scented with a woodsy aroma that had greeted him at the door. Macklin had redecorated the place in a golf motif, complete with framed autographed magazine covers of Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, Vijay Singh, and a few others Chapa didn’t recognize.

  Mixed in were several pictures of Macklin at various courses around the world. A small brass plate at the bottom of each frame indicated which course it was and what year he’d been there. A photo of Macklin with Greg Norman, inscribed by the golfer, From one shark to another, was framed with one of the Australian’s used gloves.

  A small rug, meant to simulate a putting green, lay in a far corner. Chapa had noticed a putter leaning against the doorframe as he walked in. The name Mack was embossed on the handle.

  Macklin’s old man would never have gone for any of this shit.

  “Do you golf?” Macklin, no longer sifting through his notes, had apparently noticed Chapa taking in the surroundings.

  “Oh hell no,” Chapa responded and watched Sullivan sink in his chair just a little.

  Macklin silently stared at Chapa for an uncomfortable length of time before saying anything.

  “You were given an assignment.”

  “And I’ve been doing it.”

  “Not exactly. You were supposed to take Jim Chakowski’s beat, and no more.”

  “I’ve been doing my job.”

  “Not exactly.” Macklin leaned back in his leather throne, loosened his shoulders a bit, and Chapa sensed a different approach was coming. “Let’s have a talk among men, man to man, men to men. How about that?”

  “I know I’m up to it.”

  Macklin smiled, though his pale blue eyes did not join in the fun. Each strand of his thinning light brown hair looked like it had been carefully put in place that morning. He had his usual tan, even though it was October in the northern Midwest.

  “We are part of a vibrant, growing community. And that community is, in turn, vital to our own growth.”

  “This paper hasn’t grown in eleven years,” Chapa said, picking that number intentionally. That was how long it had been since Carston Macklin took over and began running his father’s greatest achievement into the ground.

  Macklin raised his palm toward Chapa.

  “Please, Alex, let me continue. It’s the community that pays our bills, and allows us to pay our employees. We, in turn, need to make sure that the community is happy with our work, and that we play a part in its continued success.”

  “That’s not a newspaper’s responsibility.”

  “That’s how it works around here.”

  “Okay, Carston, well how ’bout this, someone is carving up members of your community.”

  “You don’t know that, and these irresponsible claims you’re making aren’t of any value to anybody.”

  Chapa stepped forward and leaned on Macklin’s desk, a confirmed no-no for any staffer.

  “They’re not irresponsible, and if a single life is saved because the police go out and find who’s doing this, or folks around here are a little more cautious, then my story will have value.”

  “Look, Alex, will you have a seat, please?”

  “I’m good.”

  Macklin let out a heavy sigh. Chapa knew he was more than just accustomed to being in complete control—he needed to be.

  “I know you miss Jim, I do too.”

  “You didn’t give a damn about Jim Chakowski, you don’t give a damn about me, or Sully, or—” Chapa pointed at
the attorney. “Okay, that guy, maybe.”

  “Alex, you’re off your game. You were given a specific assignment.”

  “I’ve taken Jim’s beat, I can’t claim to be as good as he was at it—”

  “Not even close,” Macklin said, cutting him off.

  “Well maybe that’s what your dad said when he saw what you were doing to his newspaper.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Chapa saw the lawyer writing something down. Macklin remained a tidy package of tightly controlled anger tucked behind a desk that didn’t seem quite as big now.

  “Alex, are you trying to get yourself fired?”

  “I’m trying to do my job, something that you seem to keep getting in the way of. Maybe it’s because you’re not sure what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Here’s what I have been doing,” Macklin spread a dozen or more sheets of paper across his desk. It was clear that he’d regained his composure. Chapa felt like he’d lost some sort of temporary edge he might’ve had a moment ago. “I’ve been reading the stories and columns that you’ve written over the past five weeks, and I want to go over a few of them with you.”

  “We’re done here,” Chapa said and turned to leave.

  “The hell we are!” Macklin was out of his chair. “You’re going to sit the fuck down and go through these stories with me!”

  “No, Carston, you’re wrong about that. Watch.” Chapa looked over at Sullivan, who appeared to have developed a sudden fascination with his own shoes. “Matt, I’ve got a whole shitload of vacation time, yes?”

  Sullivan looked up, and seemed relieved that he’d been asked a nuts-and-bolts question, one that did not require an opinion.

  “That’s right, Alex. I can never get you to take any, so—”

  “In fact, I’m technically on vacation right now.”

  “Well, technically yes, but—”

  “Then like I said, we’re done here.”

  Chapa turned and left. He stopped by his office for a few of his things, and was already on the phone with Erin when Maya handed him the mail on his way out of the building.

  Chapter 60

  Chapa flipped through his as well as Chakowski’s mail on the way to Erin’s, found nothing of value, and tossed it all in the glove compartment. He was leaning into his car, and cleaning the interior, having finally gotten the driver’s seat reasonably dry, and making room for Mike’s car seat when Nikki hugged him from behind.

  “Are we really going to a special park, Daddy?”

  “Well, it’s special to me.”

  Chapa had never known the place’s actual name. As long as he could remember, it was referred to as “Rocket Park,” thanks to the thirty-foot slide that served as its centerpiece.

  “Is the slide really shaped like a rocket?” Mike asked as they pulled out of the driveway.

  “Yes, it is. And you have to climb up through the rocket to get to the top and slide down. When I was a little boy it was my favorite place to go, and I would ask my mom to take me there almost every weekend, even in winter.”

  Nikki leaned forward as far as her seat belt would allow, until her face was almost between the front bucket seats.

  “And did grandma take you every time you asked?”

  Chapa laughed. “Oh no, not even close. Your grandmother worked a lot.”

  After a brief pause, Nikki said, “Just like you do, Daddy.”

  He knew she’d meant it as a compliment, but the words stung, anyhow. This moment, this afternoon, driving Nikki, Erin, and Mike to a park, this was how the entire week was supposed to be.

  There had been a chill in Erin’s voice when Chapa called to tell her he was picking them all up. Maybe it was there last night, too. Some of what Andrews had said about priorities was gnawing at Chapa now.

  But he was starting to sort through some things on his way to Erin’s. Andrews might’ve been right. Maybe Chapa did need to kick his priorities around a bit. He wondered if that was happening already.

  After all, if he lost his job he’d find another. There were all sorts of opportunities for unemployed journalists. Weren’t there?

  If his stories didn’t run in the next day’s Record he might be the only one who would notice, anyhow. And if a killer was operating in the Chicago suburbs the cops would eventually catch him, or he’d move on and become someone else’s problem.

  At the moment, Chapa’s biggest concern was finding a park that he hadn’t been to since Nikki was five. He wound down curved residential streets that crisscrossed and doubled back until finally stumbling across it on the fourth try.

  As soon as he’d found a parking spot and switched the ignition off, the kids barreled out of the backseat. Chapa smiled as he watched Erin chase after them.

  “C’mon, Daddy.”

  Nikki had beaten everyone to the rocket slide, but was now waiting for her dad to get there. Built during the height of the space race, the slide had been restored a number of times over the past several decades. The park wasn’t as popular as it once had been, but the slide still served as a reminder of a time when kids still dreamed of becoming astronauts and blasting off into the unknown.

  They climbed up steps that angled toward a platform near the tip. While Mike and Erin watched from below, Chapa and Nikki rushed to the double slide, sat down, and let go, full speed to the bottom.

  “Let’s do that again!” Nikki was racing back around to the steps. Mike had decided that the swings were more his speed, and as he and Erin headed in that direction, Chapa trailed his daughter around the rocket and back up again.

  This time they paused at the top, sat on the edge of the metal platform, and let their legs rest on the red slide.

  “What did you want to be when you were you my age and came up here to play?”

  Chapa didn’t have to think about his answer for long.

  “I wanted to write for a newspaper. I wanted to be a reporter. Just like some boys wanted to be astronauts, or baseball players, though I wanted to be both of those, too.”

  “And you’ve been able to be a reporter.”

  “Yeah, for a while, anyway.”

  Nikki raised her arms in the air, screamed, and let herself slip down the slide. Chapa didn’t.

  “C’mon Dad,” Nikki called from below in her small voice.

  “You go on and play. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She shrugged and ran over to the swings to join Erin and Mike.

  From somewhere in the distance, maybe one of the houses that fronted the park, Chapa heard an up-tempo piano rendition of “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Leaning on his knowledge of jazz—which was not quite extensive, but not bad, either—he guessed it was Bill Evans on keyboard. Whoever it was, the music was a perfect fit with everything else around it.

  Chapa thought about all that had taken up so much of his time and attention over the past several days. How much of it actually meant anything? Everything Chapa had been focusing on, the stories he had been chasing and the people he’d been spending his time on, now seemed to belong to another universe.

  For possibly the first time since he became a journalist, Chapa began to give serious thought to simply walking away. Not just from the Chicago Record, but from newspapers altogether. What was left of the newspaper business anyway? He didn’t recognize it anymore.

  Maybe he could get a job teaching, work normal hours, and fly off to Boston once a month to see Nikki. Or would Erin consider moving to Boston? That would be a lot to ask, too much, maybe. But then so many things could fall into place if they could make it work.

  Nikki, Erin, and Mike had timed their swings so that they rose and fell and swung back in unison like perfectly synched pendulums. Chapa looked at the empty fourth swing, and knew what he needed to do next.

  Chapter 61

  Chapa put away the rest of the Chinese food, and started heating up some milk to make hot chocolate. He’d been disappointed when Erin chose to go home, but she probably wanted some time to be alone with
Mike. There had not been much of that over the past few days.

  Nikki had left her chopsticks, along with a piece of sweet and sour chicken on her plate. Chapa was amused when his daughter boasted that she knew how to use those things, but pleased when she proved she could.

  His feelings changed a little when Nikki explained, “Stephen taught me how.”

  All through dinner he was still thinking about life after the newspaper. How things would be different if he could see Nikki twice a month, every month. That would be so much better for everyone, except maybe Carla, but to hell with Carla. He would start looking at other jobs tomorrow while Nikki did her homework, not at Erin’s, but in her own house.

  He poured two cups of hot chocolate and carried them to the living room, stopping at the foot of the stairs to call up to Nikki. She came down from her room a minute later wearing a pair of pink pajamas with the word Princess stitched across the front of the shirt. That reminded Chapa of her Halloween costume, and it felt good to know he’d be with her on that night.

  The TV was turned on, but the sound was muted and it had been that way since dinner. That was fine as far as Chapa was concerned.

  They talked about school and her teachers and classmates, and whether she was having any trouble doing her homework this way, with the lessons arriving via email.

  “Not really. Erin has been very helpful. She knows a lot of stuff.”

  And then Nikki was back on the subject of his relationship with Erin. Chapa felt more comfortable talking about that now.

  “You two should get married someday,” she said, blowing away some of the steam from her cup. “She’s certainly crazy about you.”

  Chapa smiled.

  “What has she said to you about me?”

  “Not too much, Daddy, just some girl talk. But she has a couple of friends that she emails, and they talk about you.”

  It took Chapa a moment to process what Nikki had said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I read them. She forgot to sign out once and I—”