Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  Several sheets of stark white paper had been folded neatly in half and tucked inside. Chapa removed them, revealing a manila envelope pressed against the vinyl record.

  He opened the envelope, turned it on its side, and four crudely cut pieces of paper tumbled out. One landed on Chapa’s lap, two more on the floor, and another fell onto the desk pad, flipping over to reveal the image of a man’s leg, clad in dark pants. The dress shoe pointing to the left told Chapa which leg this was. He collected the other pieces, placed them on the desk, and built the small puzzle.

  One arm—the left, a torso, two legs, no head. The subject had been dressed for business or church, or maybe he didn’t differentiate between the two. It had been a simple photo of a man standing in place against a wall. Each part of his body cut out of the picture, most of the background trimmed away.

  Who the hell is this supposed to be?

  Chapa turned his attention to the quarter-page-sized photo. The black-and-white image was fuzzy, a cheap copy machine duplicate of a group shot that had been taken at some meeting or business event.

  Despite the low quality, Chapa instantly recognized the nine men and one woman standing side by side in what he assumed were their favorite power poses. For once, Vanny Mars wasn’t the tallest or widest one in sight, but it was still a close call.

  Chapa now knew every one of Oakton’s power elite by name, title, and reputation. Their names were printed in caption form across the bottom.

  Franklin Gemmer, Clay Hunter, Charles Stoop, Richard Wick, Vanessa Mars, Greg Vinsky, William Blair, Dr. Walter Bendix, Ted Bruce, George Forsythe.

  But what held Chapa’s attention wasn’t the super-serious looks on their faces, or the way that Vanny Mars seemed to have the middle to herself, as none of the men apparently dared to brush up against her. It wasn’t anything actually in the photo that prompted Chapa to put it under the desk lamp and lean in for a closer look.

  Something had been scribbled across the bottom in red ink, maybe by a source or by Chakowski himself. Chapa realized he would likely never know which, but he also understood it might not matter.

  Chapa read it again, then looked at the men in the photo and compared them to the broken and uneven figure he’d pieced together on the desk. His attempts to match those pieces to anyone in the picture failed, and Chapa began to wonder if those body parts all came from a single photo, or even a single person.

  He couldn’t know. But Chapa was certain that he had to find out what that handwritten sentence in the lower margin meant. His eyes were drawn to the writing again. Chapa could not stop looking at it, then letting his eyes wander up to the group photo, then back again.

  As Chapa read it once more, he noticed that the bottom edge had curved under a bit, enough to obscure the line underscoring the first word. He flattened the thin piece of copier paper against the desk, and looked at it again.

  He is one of them.

  Chapter 79

  Playing a hunch, Chapa called Jan Boll, a reporter at the Baltimore Tribune.

  “Damn, Chapa, must be a dark day in hell if I’m hearing your bark on my line.”

  Boll, whom Chapa knew was a damn good reporter, had worked at several different papers in the Chicago area back in the 90s, before relocating to Maryland. It wasn’t the prospect of a better job that lured her to the Eastern seaboard but rather a cure for her teenaged daughter’s illness.

  She found it at a clinic near Baltimore, and then managed to land a job, albeit one that came with a pay cut. In time, the move and the strain of having a sick child cost Boll her marriage. But Boll would spend the rest of her life telling anyone who asked that she was okay with that trade-off.

  They exchanged the customary friendly questions about family, health, and work before Chapa got after it.

  “I need your help, Jan.”

  “Oh shit, Chapa, how much is this going to cost me?”

  “Just a few minutes of your time. It’s not as though there’s anything to write about in Baltimore anyhow.”

  Boll’s big laugh made Chapa flinch away from the earpiece. He hadn’t heard it in a long time, and realized now that he’d missed it.

  “I need you to track down a photo from five years or so ago, and fax me a copy.”

  “I might be able to do that, in spite of the fact that you’re the schmuck who’s asking.”

  He reminded Boll of the car accident in 2005 that had resulted in the death of a prominent businessman.

  “I believe his name was Roland—” Chapa started.

  “King,” Boll said, completing the thought before adding that she remembered it well. “But if memory serves, you won’t get much out of the photos from the wreck. The vehicle was burned like charcoal, not much there.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “It was a one-car deal. Poor guy smashed into a pole, and the car blew. Not much left of him or the vehicle.”

  This was info Chapa already had. But hearing a closer account of it made him feel a little like he’d been there.

  “Cops investigate the fire?”

  “No, not much. Man hits pole at high speed, car blows. Pretty easy to put together that cause and effect. Case closed.”

  “Here’s the thing, Jan, I’m more interested in what the guy looked like. Maybe if your paper ran a headshot with the story or alongside the obit.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll try and run those down. Now tell me why.”

  Chapa wondered why it had taken so long for a news-hound like Jan Boll to ask him that. Boll was a veteran journalist, a solid one at that. She had probably been waiting to see how many cards Chapa was willing to show before pressing the issue.

  He would’ve done the same thing.

  “All I can say at this point is that there may be more to that accident than anyone realized back in 2005.”

  “Suicide? There was some talk about that at the time, I remember. C’mon Chapa, give.”

  “I’m way out on a limb right now, Jan, and some folks seem to think I’m busy sawing it off.”

  “Knowing you, I’m surprised you haven’t brought down the whole damn tree.”

  “I honestly cannot go deeper into this with you at the moment. But as soon as I break the story, assuming there is one, you will be the first reporter I tip.”

  “Full disclosure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapa could almost hear Boll drumming her fingertips on her desk.

  “How soon after you break it, Alex?”

  “Within twenty-four hours.”

  Another silence, but Chapa wasn’t worried. He knew where this was headed.

  “I’ll get back to you in about an hour, two max.”

  As he was hanging up with Jan Boll, Chapa’s cell phone started playing its tune. He checked the caller I.D. and saw Erin’s number. Chapa paused for a moment, wondering if he should tell her about what happened that afternoon.

  Chapa still didn’t know what to say when he picked up, midway through the second chorus.

  “Alex, there’s a man standing in my front yard. He’s well dressed, wearing a suit, and he has sunglasses on. I’ve never seen him before.” Erin lowered her voice to a whisper. “But he keeps staring at my house.”

  “What is he doing?”

  Chapa could feel his heart punching away at his chest as he waited to hear Erin’s voice again.

  “He’s…just standing there, by the street, near a large dark blue car.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Probably a few years younger than us. Alex, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was…posing.”

  “Come again?”

  “He’s wearing an expensive suit, really nice shoes, too. He’s got one hand on his hip, and—”

  Now Chapa remembered what Andrews had told him about assigning an agent to watch over Erin and the children.

  “Erin.” She was still describing the primping federal officer. “Erin, it’s okay, that’s FBI Agent Sandro, that’s just how h
e is.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Chapa had met Sandro a few weeks earlier at the FBI’s Chicago offices. He was relieved that Andrews had sent one of his best men. Not only did that give him a sense of security, but it also let him know Andrews was taking all of this very seriously.

  “But what’s he doing here, Alex?”

  He hadn’t counted on this question. Never thought that his friend’s attempt to protect the people he cared about would force him into this discussion before he’d prepared for it.

  Chapa had never lied to Erin, wasn’t going to now. But he decided that telling her the entire truth at this moment would not be good for anyone.

  “Joe Andrews sent him, you know, because of all that’s happened these past few days.”

  “And we need an FBI agent at our door to protect us? Who from?”

  “It’s just a precaution, Erin. You know how Joe is.”

  “Yes, I do,” Erin said in a grave voice.

  It told Chapa that she understood a great deal. And he knew then that things between them were going to get much worse before he had the chance to make them better.

  Chapter 80

  Chapa stuck his head out of Chakowski’s office and got Zach’s attention. The young man spun out of his chair and hustled down the hall.

  “What are you still doing here?” Chapa asked, inviting Zach inside and shutting the door behind him.

  “This is my long day.”

  “Do you ever have a short day?”

  Zach pretended to be giving the question some thought.

  “What’s a short day?”

  “This isn’t one, that’s for sure. I need you to keep an eye on the fax machine in the newsroom. I’m expecting something in the next hour.”

  “Does it have to do with what happened to Mr. Chakowski, and that note you gave me?”

  “Yes, maybe. Trust me, I’ll fill you in on all of it over a beer.”

  “Or two?”

  “At least.”

  Zach smiled and nodded, then headed back out into the newsroom. There were very few people left from the day shift, and the night crew had barely started stumbling in. Zach should not have much trouble retrieving an incoming fax, assuming Jan Boll managed to track down a photo.

  Chapa sat down in Chakowski’s chair. It was not nearly as malleable and soft as his own. This one had been used by a man working against unforgiving deadlines. Chapa knew that sort of pressure as well, but he’d also spent his share of time rocking back, trying to work out a story in his head before committing it to paper or computer screen. Chakowski had never struck him as the pensive type.

  He looked over the notes, focusing his attention on a list of names next to their businesses or the roles they played.

  Charles Stoop–Landscaping

  Richard Wick–Legal counsel

  Franklin Gemmer–Security systems

  Clay Hunter–Insurance

  Walter Bendix–Doctor, land developer

  Greg Vinsky–Logistics analyst

  George Forsythe–Electrical contractor

  Brent McGraw–?

  William Blair–Deal maker

  Ted Bruce–Public relations

  One name was missing—Vanny Mars was not on the list. Probably because she was a woman, and Chakowski, like Clarkson, had been tracking a man.

  Chapa studied the names, first individually, gathering up all that he’d learned about each of these people, then collectively, trying to decipher how they might operate as a single unit. Were they all willing participants? Probably not. Chapa mentally drew a line through the names Walter Bendix and Brent McGraw.

  That left eight of then. Eight men in. Were they like players in the old children’s string game of Cat’s Cradle? Tied together by their individual ambition, fear, and guilt.

  He was beginning to form a flimsy pecking order in his mind, and understand that he didn’t have enough concrete information to do any better, when his cell went off. He assumed it was Nikki calling, and answered in something approximating a calming voice.

  “This is Alex Chapa.”

  “Mr. Chapa, Mr. Chapa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, you’re there.”

  The voice on the other end sounded like it belonged to someone in the fourteenth mile of a marathon that they had not properly trained to run.

  “This is Tim Haas. I need to meet you right away.”

  “Why Tim? You sound anxious. What’s—”

  “No. I can’t do this over the phone, not right now. I have something to show you, but we need to meet someplace public. Safe.”

  “Okay. How ’bout a hint?”

  Tim Haas responded with more heavy breathing. Chapa wondered who or what he’d been running from.

  “Meet me at Lansford’s as soon as you can.”

  “The big supermarket?”

  “Lansford’s.”

  Chapa was about to explain how he’d had enough of mysterious meetings and that he needed to know more. But all he heard now was dead air.

  “Tim? You still there?”

  Chapa pressed the redial button, but his call went straight to Tim Haas’ voicemail. He grabbed his coat, checked the batteries in his digital tape recorder, and headed out of the office. He was almost to the door of the newsroom when Zach caught up to him.

  “Here’s the fax from Baltimore. It’s a photo, but it’s not very big or clear.”

  Chapa took the papers from him. There were two—a cover letter with a message from Jan Boll that read simply, I will look forward to hearing from you, and the picture.

  Zach was right, the waist-up shot wasn’t very good. The stark and grainy image of the man identified as Roland King stared back at Chapa as if asking, Do you know me?

  “Is it what you were expecting, Mr. Chapa? Does it help?”

  “Yes, maybe, not sure. He would not have been my first guess.”

  Chapter 81

  Chapa figured it would take him about fifteen minutes to drive to Lansford’s Megamart, a store as big as some shopping malls, surrounded by a new housing development on Oakton’s far north side. The big-box store was built with the idea that it could anchor a large shopping complex which would serve the thousands of people moving in.

  Except they didn’t move in, and the other stores never came. The houses stopped selling when the economy slumped, and developers responded by halting all new construction.

  Oakton had become an increasingly more difficult and complicated place to do business. The downtown masters made demands of anyone seeking to make it in their town. And not everyone was willing to pay what amounted to a form of protection money.

  Chapa wondered how many of the businesses he was now driving past were part of the game, either out of choice or need. Almost everything that he’d learned about his hometown over the past week had made him want to move away, go anywhere else, take Erin and Mike, and possibly even Nikki with him, and never look back.

  Maya had given Chapa several pieces of mail on his way out of the building. Most of it was his, except for one envelope addressed to James Chakowski. Chapa opened that one at a red light and found an invitation to speak at a small college graduation in the spring. He wondered if it would be tacky to call the organizers, explain the circumstances, offer to act as a stand-in, and insist that any payment of a speaker’s fee be sent to Warren Chakowski. Why the hell not.

  The parking lot, large enough for a stadium and tailgating, was about half full. Chapa spent a few minutes driving up and down the aisles, giving Tim Haas an opportunity to spot him. Were they meeting outside? Inside? In the men’s room?

  Satisfied that Tim was not waiting for him outside, Chapa found a space along the far right half of the block-long store-front, turned the car off, then checked his cell phone for any new messages, hoping that Tim had gotten back to him. Nothing.

  The overhead light switched on as he opened the door and started to get out, drawing Chapa’s attentio
n to an envelope that had slipped away from the others, off the passenger’s seat and onto the floor. He reached down, picked it up, and flipping it over noticed there was no return address. His name and address at the Record had been neatly centered and typed on a white label affixed to the front.

  Chapa held the thin envelope up to the light, but could not see through it. It felt flimsy, as though it was empty. There seemed to be another name under the label, typed directly onto the envelope, but he could not be certain.

  He tore it open and reached inside for a letter, but found none. Then Chapa squeezed the top and bottom edges, puckering it open, and shook out a small piece of paper that drifted down and came to rest on his lap.

  Pinching it between his thumb and index finger, Chapa picked up the thin scrap and looked at it under the light.

  It was a cutout of a man’s right arm.

  Chapter 82

  Lansford’s Megamart was a Midwest-based chain that had originated in Rockford, Illinois, and expanded to six states. The one in Oakton opened in 2002, promptly forcing a handful of locally owned stores out of business.

  Chapa didn’t care for the place. Yes, it was open twenty-four hours, offered lower prices on account of being non-union, and carried everything from power tools to mayonnaise, but it had absolutely no soul, or feeling of uniqueness. Chapa wondered if over time those things rubbed off on the people who regularly shopped there. Besides, he had little use for power tools and hated mayonnaise.

  He’d been in the store no more than five minutes, when he began to realize this one also offered something that wasn’t on the department directory—a stalker. The moving shadow had been tailing Chapa since they both passed the office supplies, then around the corner and beyond the eight aisles of cleaning products.

  If this guy was working passive security he might want to start looking for another job. Just out of curiosity, Chapa cut through the children’s wear, past pink sweatshirts and sequined tops that were far too revealing for a woman in her twenties, let alone a tween-aged girl.