Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  Part of the second floor had collapsed into the first, and a portion of the roof along the right side had given way. But the area of the room where Chapa had found Charles Stoop and George Forsythe was still largely intact. Chapa realized that meant Forsythe could still be alive, but he didn’t care one way or another.

  Chapa’s vision began to blur just as his hearing returned to normal. He felt a swell of heat that started in his shoulders, then rushed to his head. Chapa sensed he was falling, a moment before passing out against the curb.

  Chapter 97

  In his final moments of life, George Forsythe confirmed Chapa’s version of events, but not his own direct involvement in the death of Jim Chakowski. That story would be left for Chapa to tell.

  Police found three dead bodies at the house before Forsythe increased that number by one. Several of the neighbors had heard the gunshots, but no one saw a man running from the house moments before the police arrived.

  Tom Jackson had been delayed at his desk for a few minutes, and made a call for a cruiser to be sent to Elm Grove Street. The car was on its way when a report came in that someone had heard a shot. One cruiser became three and the situation took on a life of its own.

  The house had been rigged to blow the moment that the light switch in the front room was flipped on. An investigator determined there was a trip switch near the back door that activated the system. Chapa realized that Vinsky must have set it on his way out.

  A team of officers, along with a bomb squad, rushed to Vinsky’s residence as soon as they heard Chapa’s story. Nothing had been done to the wiring there, but what they found was unlike anything any of them had seen before.

  The place was empty, as though no one had lived there for months.

  “Even the toilet paper holders were empty and polished clean,” an officer Chapa recognized just from knocking around town would tell him at the hospital a couple of hours later.

  The only signs of Greg Vinsky were a five-shelf bookcase stuffed with legal pads, each filled with hand-drawn stick figures, and a bulletin board covered in photos. The cops were busy trying to match the folks in the pictures to recent murder cases.

  Chapa was being worked on in the same section of the emergency room as Tom Jackson, who had indeed sustained a mild fracture, and a few minor lacerations. When the doctor was done setting his arm, Jackson walked over to Chapa, looked at him, and offered a quick, silent nod. It was the one thanks Chapa would get from his friend, but it was more than enough.

  The cut along Chapa’s ribs required three dozen stitches, the wound in his leg from his fall over the fence was closed with a strip of suture tape, and the doctor recommended he stay overnight for observation.

  “You probably have a mild concussion.”

  Chapa, however, had no interest in doing that. He wanted to give the cops his statement and then get on with it. He had already phoned Matt Sullivan and told him to hold Page One. He was coming in to write it. He also called Erin and assured her that he was okay. But that did little to keep her from crying.

  Except for the throbbing in his side and the subtle ringing in his ears, Chapa felt like a million bucks—give or take a million.

  But he knew the hurt would settle in later. It always does.

  “Doctor says you were lucky. Just a flesh wound, though I suppose a damned painful one.”

  “Tell you what, Tom, just for kicks you ought to let some psycho slice your ribs open sometime and see how lucky you feel.”

  The immediate efforts to locate Greg Vinsky came up empty, and were quickly expanded into a statewide search. The fact that Vinsky was still out there somewhere made Chapa feel thankful that Agent Sandro was looking out for Erin and the kids.

  The Oakton Police Department sent a cruiser to patrol Chapa’s house just in case Vinsky headed in that direction. But Chapa could’ve told them they wouldn’t find him there.

  After they had patched him up and he’d given a statement to Jackson and another officer, the doctor gave Chapa some painkillers and sent him on his way.

  “You should’ve gotten there sooner, Tom. You missed a hell of a show.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone in the house before we got there.”

  Jackson was right, and they both knew it, but Chapa heard no conviction in the man’s voice.

  “Alex, tell me you’re going home or over to Erin’s to rest for a day or two,” Jackson said as he helped Chapa slip back into his bloodstained shirt.

  “Hell no. I’ve got a story to write and three hours till deadline,” Chapa said, easing himself off the medical table.

  For Chapa, going into the office tonight was not only about being a journalist and doing the job. It was therapy.

  “Now where did your guys park my car?”

  Chapter 98

  Leah Carelli was waiting in Chapa’s office when he walked in. She’d turned on the desk lamp, which cast a warm glow across her upper body. She was wearing her hair down, which took ten years off, and a tight white top that drew attention to itself.

  “You’ve looked better,” she said and leaned back in his chair, arms stretched upward, hands clasped behind her head, her significant breasts front and center.

  “You’ve looked worse.”

  That made her smile.

  “Listen, Leah, I have no clue what you’re doing in my office, and if my head wasn’t so scrambled right now I’d probably care about the reason, but I’ve got a story to write.”

  Leah stared at him for a moment, a half smile decorating her perfectly made-up face. Then she slowly got out of Chapa’s chair and repositioned herself on the edge of his desk.

  “Word has gotten out around town about what happened tonight.”

  “Good, that means more papers sold tomorrow.”

  She smelled soft and sweet like dessert. Chapa reached over and flipped on the ceiling fan.

  “Are you hot, Mr. Chapa?”

  He looked at the clock on his desk—just under two hours before tomorrow’s Record would be put to bed.

  “Right now, I’m not anything but on a deadline.”

  Chapa slipped past her and headed for his chair, but Leah grabbed his arm and spun him around. He winced.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize you were hurt,” she said with a lace of concern in her voice, but did not release his arm. “I just need to know what kind of story you’re going to write.”

  “The truthful, fact-filled kind. Those are the ones I’m good at.”

  Leah slid closer and her chest brushed against Chapa’s.

  “I hope, Alex, that you condemn the man and not the system.”

  The fog in Chapa’s head was beginning to clear.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that things work around here, and I like that. When the dust settles, I could be in a really strong position in this town. I could help you.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “I would be your inside source, and you could tap me any time you wanted.”

  He felt her warm breath touch his lips.

  “Then you want me to fudge the story so that you can move up within a corrupt system?”

  Chapa was in no mood for subtleties.

  “You don’t have to fudge anything, Alex. Just keep the focus where it belongs.”

  Over the course of his career Chapa had received the sort of threats and offers that seemed to attach themselves to certain kinds of stories. But none had ever been delivered in such an appealing package.

  “We could be together again, Alex. This time professionally as well as…well, you remember.” She smiled, not just with her painted lips this time, but her entire face. Chapa remembered loving that smile.

  “I’m in a relationship, Leah.”

  “So? Lots of people are in relationships.”

  “I’m in love with this woman. Maybe she’ll even marry me.”

  Leah leaned back, away from Chapa, as though she was trying to get a better look at him.

  “Are
you still grasping for decency, Alex?”

  “Maybe. It’s not much of a grasp, I’ll give you that. But maybe.”

  She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Chapa withdrew a little, but Leah’s touch did not hurt. It burned.

  “I feel like I’m being held together with sutures right now,” he said, leveling his shoulders.

  “You know, Alex, every attempt you’ve ever made at being just another straight-up guy has failed. Your marriage, fatherhood, and as for your career—” Leah surveyed the damage to Chapa’s body. “Well, just look at you.”

  Chapa arched back until her hand slid off his shoulder. But it didn’t go far, stopping on his chest.

  “Could be I’m getting closer with each failure,” he said as her hand slipped inside between two buttons. “Anyway, I want to try again, with Erin, for Erin.” He took her by the wrist and eased her hand out of his shirt, squeezed it, then let it drop. “For me. Because it’s what I want.”

  “You going to marry this one?”

  “Could happen. If I’m lucky.”

  Leah shook her head as if she knew something Chapa didn’t.

  “But you’re a tramp, Alex. Always have been. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much. Oh, you can clean up good, sit next to this woman at PTA meetings, go meet her family, say nice things about their furniture and manicured lawn.”

  She placed both hands on Chapa’s shoulders, slid closer to him on the desk, until her breasts pressed up against him.

  “But you’re still a tramp. It’s what makes you a good reporter. You’re not tethered to anyone or anything. That’s why you’ve survived this long, and when the time comes, which it will, you’ll follow your instincts again. Just like you did tonight.”

  Chapa slipped out of Leah’s grasp, dropped into his chair, and laughed.

  “You’re amused, Alex?”

  Chapa shook his head, reached down and turned on his computer.

  “No, not really. I just realized why I dumped you, way back when.”

  She started to say something, less friendly now, but Chapa stopped her.

  “Tell you what, Leah, if you want we can continue this dime store seduction bit some other time. Right now, I’m wearing a fresh row of stitches in my side, I’m heavily medicated, and I’ve got a story to write. So please, go find another friend.”

  Chapa then began writing his story. He did not look away from his monitor when Leah stood and walked out.

  Chapter 99

  Ninety minutes later, Chapa sent the story in. He had not spared anyone, and he’d been especially tough on the system that had invited someone like Greg Vinsky in, then shielded him.

  Matt Sullivan marched into Chapa’s office twenty minutes after the story had been filed. He stood in front of Chapa’s desk, and said nothing at first, as though he’d known exactly what he wanted to say but then forgot all of it the moment he walked through the door.

  “You’ve been through a lot, Alex,” Sullivan said finally, and let gravity and his weight pull him down into the chair across from the desk.

  “A lot of people have been through hell because of the man who called himself Greg Vinsky, and some folks never made it back.”

  “That’s some story you wrote tonight.”

  “Sure is. Macklin going to let it run?”

  “Of course he is. With all the attention that’s going to rain on this town the last thing he wants to do is appear complicit in covering anything up.”

  “Damn, you mean his newspaper might actually get ahead of the story this time?”

  Sullivan leaned forward, hands clasped in front between his knees as he looked down at his shoes.

  “Matt, do you know why I became a journalist?”

  After letting out a heavy sigh, Sullivan answered, “Because your father was one.”

  “Nope.”

  Sullivan looked up, curious.

  “Because my mother’s stories about him convinced me that we are the only shield between regular people and tyranny. Because an independent press is a democracy’s best friend, and corruption’s worst enemy.”

  Chapa took stock of the way Sullivan was smirking.

  “Did you ever believe that, Matt? I mean, before this became just a job to you, something to preserve at all cost, no compromise too big as long as your name was still at the top of the staff box?”

  “That’s not fair, Alex.”

  Chapa eased out of his chair, struggling not to wince from the pain in his side, walked around the desk and sat on a corner.

  “You’re probably right, it’s not. But I hurt like hell, I’m tired, and it would be nice if my newspaper behaved more like a newspaper.”

  Sullivan nodded, but Chapa understood it wasn’t necessarily because they agreed on anything.

  “I think you have a choice to make, Alex. This town, your town, will need some rebuilding after all this. You can be an important part of that. You can write the bad with the good, but the goal is to help the people who read our paper feel good about their lives and their community.”

  Chapa shook his head.

  “That’s not the goal at all, Matt.”

  The old chair squealed as Sullivan stood.

  “Well, here’s how it is. Macklin isn’t going to fire you for the same reasons he didn’t kill your story.”

  “Because he can’t”

  “If you like, sure. But moving on, we’re all going to need a shared vision of purpose.”

  “A shared vision of purpose? Are you hearing yourself, Matt?”

  “Think about what you want your role to be going forward. It’s about the future, now, Alex.”

  Chapa rubbed his palm across his face and chin as Sullivan’s words sank in.

  “Matt, Did your mother ever read you the story, The Emperor’s New Clothes?”

  “I think so. You mean the one where the kid is the only person who’s willing to tell the truth about the emperor actually being naked? Sure, Alex, I know it.”

  “Ever wonder how that kid ended up?”

  Sullivan’s brow curled as he appeared to be giving the question some consideration. Or maybe he was just trying to gauge where Chapa was going with this.

  “Not really, Alex. Why, was there a sequel?”

  “No. But I’d bet he died alone, broke and forgotten.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he told folks a truth they didn’t want to hear. Because he did the right thing, and made others seem corrupt and foolish in the process.”

  Sullivan patted him on the arm and Chapa instantly wished he hadn’t.

  “You’re obviously in serious pain. It’s time you went home,” he said, opening the door and stepping out before turning back to say one more thing. “You’re a hell of a reporter, Chapa.”

  The door closed and Chapa was alone in his office. He sat back down, put his feet up on the desk, and looked at the photos of Nikki on his wall, thinking of all the things he’d planned on doing with her this past week. Chapa stared at the images, moments captured and opportunities lost, for a long time, allowing his thoughts to wander in whatever directions they chose to go. Until they finally started marching back home and coalescing into one, single idea.

  Chapa spent ten minutes, maybe less, typing up a letter of resignation for the job he’d held for over fifteen years. He kept it professional, listing philosophical differences as his core reason for leaving the Chicago Record. But there was much more to it than that.

  On his way to the hospital, and even now, he could not stop thinking about his decision to go into that house, knowing that a killer was probably waiting inside. He hadn’t been Nikki’s father when he did that, he was someone else. Someone who was able to forget those who relied on him just long enough to get himself into trouble.

  Was that what Leah had meant? What she’d called his instincts?

  Reaching down between a bookcase and file cabinet, he pulled out a faded gray satchel. It was a simple two-pocket denim model, all he could a
fford, maybe even more than, back when he bought it.

  Fighting with the zipper until it finally gave, Chapa opened the rectangular bag and laid it on the desk. He then took down all of Nikki’s drawings, some were on paper that had yellowed and curled in the five or six years they’d spent on the wall. He placed those in a file folder, which he slipped inside the bag, then did the same with her photos.

  Chapa removed all of his notes and address books from his desk, tossed those in the bag. Then his handful of CDs, a half-empty bag of Lemonheads, and a few pens. He coaxed the crooked zipper closed, tucked the satchel under his arm, against the healthy side of his body, and got up.

  Looking back at his chair, he saw how his imprint was now a permanent part of the leather backrest. Chapa took off his press pass, and dropped it onto his desk, next to the letter. He thought about all the extra hours he’d spent here, when he could’ve been home with Carla and Nikki. The late and canceled dates with Erin, and all of the things he’d put off just to get that extra quote or different angle.

  Did any of it matter now?

  Maybe it was time to revise his instincts—if that was possible. Chapa was willing to find out. He took one last quick look around, turned off his desk lamp, and walked out.

  Chapter 100

  Three days later

  Chapa’s mail contained the usual assortment of bills, offers, and junk. But on this day there was something else, too.

  The simple white envelope felt thin, like there was nothing inside. He held it up to the sunlight, but couldn’t see through, and checked the postmark—Ortonville, Minnesota.

  Never heard of it, Chapa thought as he tossed the other pieces of mail on a small table by the door.

  “It’s a beautiful day, let’s not waste it,” he called toward the top of the stairs.

  The envelope had no return address, and for a moment Chapa worried that this might be some sort of threat from a disgruntled reader. Maybe one who saw his work on the Internet. But he shook off that concern—after all, who in Minnesota would want to harm him—and tore open the top of the envelope.