As he walked out of the convenience store eating a hotdog that was likely to cause food poisoning, with his face scrunched up in anger at the hatred he had for himself, Rhys grunted loudly. Hunter approached him, standing in his way on the sidewalk. Rhys stopped the instant he noticed Hunter’s towering figure. From his height, Hunter could see Rhys was struggling to find enough hair to brush over the top of his bald patch.
“I imagine this isn’t a coincidence.” Rhys grumbled once he regained composure.
“No, it’s not.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Rhys began walking again. The sidewalk was uneven, dirty, and littered with trash. “I’ve worked all night, and I’m tired. I’ve got nothing to add about anything. Go and bother someone else.”
Hunter knew it wouldn’t take much to light a fire in the dragon, it wouldn’t take much to produce an angry response—all he needed to do was prod the right area and his rage couldn’t be contained.
“I wanted to talk about your father.” Hunter stood still on the street as McCann started to walk away.
“My father?” McCann’s son turned around. “He wasn’t much of a father. I wouldn’t even call him that. He was a bastard to me most of my life. He used to beat my stepmother and I regularly, as if it were some sort of sport. What a guy, eh? Bet they didn’t say that at his funeral.”
Hunter didn’t reply as McCann’s son walked back towards him. The street around them was quiet, except for the traffic a few feet away, and the shop next to them was empty, with a broken door to match the boarded up window.
“But you’d know about bad fathers, wouldn’t you, Tex Hunter? Here you are—the son of a serial killer—talking to the son of a drunk, corrupt cop. What a moment.”
“What a moment indeed.” Hunter nodded. “Did you want your father dead?”
“Want him dead? Of course!” Rhys’s buttons had been pushed, not that it took much. Even if Rhys accidently pressed the wrong digit on his television remote, it was enough to see it thrown across the room. “I wanted him dead for years! So many days when I was a kid, I wish he got shot at work. I wish he wouldn’t come home, and I wish he wouldn’t beat my stepmother. Yeah, I wanted him dead.” He stepped closer to Hunter, within a foot of his towering figure. “But ‘did I want him dead’ and ‘did I kill him?’ are two different questions.”
“Did you?”
“Kill him?” He shook his head. “One of my life’s great regrets will always be that I didn’t do it. I thought about it, dreamed about it, longed for it, over so many years, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. I would’ve loved to have killed him.”
“Your father changed in his last months. He tried to redeem himself. He wanted to leave behind a positive legacy.”
“Changed! Are you serious?” The anger was starting to rage through Rhys. His left arm flailed around, narrowly missing an older lady walking past, but McCann didn’t care. “He was corrupt and evil! People like that don’t change! He even used me as part of a set-up to bribe people. His own son was being used so he could harass people!”
“People can change, Rhys. Your father tried to redeem himself, and tried to leave the world a better place. There were a lot of people at his funeral, people that came to pay their respects to a man that helped them, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
“He didn’t deserve my attendance at his funeral. That man ruined my life.” Rhys shook his head. “He took me into a life of crime.”
“Took you into a life of crime?” Hunter’s head tilted to the side. “What do you mean by that, Rhys?”
“He used to pay me to sell stolen televisions to unsuspecting idiots, who he then went and bribed. It was the only way I would talk to him—if he paid me, that is. He tried to get me to sell a stolen freezer once, but I said that was too much.” McCann ran his fingers through his hair and looked away. “What do you want? You asking about my freezer?”
“Your freezer?”
“I sold my freezer last year. I don’t even have one any more.”
Confused, Hunter stared at him for a long moment.
Rhys McCann looked tired; not the sort of tired that came from missing one night of sleep, not the sort of tired that came from lacking a few hours of shut-eye, but the sort of tired that came from hating your entire existence. The bags under his eyes were heavy, his skin looked dehydrated, and his shoulders were tensed with years of nervous energy.
“Where were you on July 26th last year?”
“No.” He scrunched up the trash from his hotdog, and threw it into the gutter. “I’m not a suspect. You have nothing on me. Nothing!”
“You should come into my office and we’ll talk about it further. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”
“No!” McCann stepped forward, his eyes barely coming up to Hunter’s chin. “You stay away from me or I’ll make sure you regret it!”
“It’s important, Rhys.”
“Not a chance. I want nothing to do with people like you. Keep me out of it.” Rhys turned, storming down the street, yelling to himself about his father. “And I want nothing to do with him!”
Hunter waited a few moments, watching Rhys until he turned the corner of the next block, before he walked back to his car, pondering the encounter and the man himself. That Rhys McCann had a temper was unquestionable. He was impulsive, abusive, and quick to anger—the sort of person who could have lashed out and struck his own father after years of built-up rage, and then callously dumped the body in the Chicago River. If Nina Aisha didn’t do it, then Hunter had found a new suspect.
Hunter wasn’t sure what his next move would be, but one thing was clear: he hadn’t finished with Rhys McCann yet.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 11
Six miles from Chicago's soaring skyscrapers, in a suburb where tourists rarely ventured, sat the Cook County Jail, one of the largest prison complexes in the country. It sprawled across the neighborhood of Little Village, a colossal structure, both in terms of its walls and its social presence, leaving its permanent mark on the area. Those who were lucky enough to leave, those who had served their time for their crime, were often kicked out the front gate, not even with a wave goodbye, and told to make their own way home. Often, new releases wandered the streets of Little Village, testing their first few moments of freedom. A fast food joint sat near the entrance, the first stop for many, but it had been shot up by gangs so many times that the owners were considering closing its doors permanently.
Close to the fried chicken shop, behind the mighty great concrete barrier to freedom, behind the rolled barbed wire, was Division Four of the Cook County Jail, holding seven hundred female inmates, and amongst them, at least one lost soul.
After weeks without her freedom, after weeks locked away from her city, Nina Aisha was adrift amongst a sea of pain, regret, and anger. Her new home was a place where dreams had been long lost, hopes had been squashed, and any chance of a happy future had been dashed. That pain, that devastating helplessness, was soaked into the walls. She could feel it all around her. That vast emptiness was the loneliest sensation she’d ever encountered. It left her new associates looking like zombies.
But the new blood, the sweet face of a new girl, had snapped the other inmates out of their trance.
Nina Aisha stood near her new friend Denise Rodman, whose bulk was large enough to hide behind. The sun streamed into the exercise yard, warming Nina’s skin, as it was the first direct sunlight she’d seen in weeks. The small patch of grass was green, fresh, and the dew hung in the air as the sky remained blue. A number of women were walking around the yard, stretching their legs, as the others were sitting, soaking in the sun’s rays. Denise had told her to keep moving, that the worst thing she could do inside was to lose her mobility or her fitness. Once that goes in here, she said, it’s gone forever.
The yard wasn’t big, barely the size of a baseball diamond, but compared to her small cell, it felt massive. As she sat on the col
d metal bench at the edge of the yard, Nina kept her eyes down, avoiding eye contact with everyone and anyone that circled near her.
“Oh, a new pretty one. So cute. Look at that skin. I wish I had skin like that. I could lick it all day long.” A group of women, led by another large woman, called out to Denise. “What’s the girl in for?”
“Murder.”
“Anyone good?”
“A cop.”
“Oooh.” The women sounded like they were still in high school, but that was normal for them, as most of them didn’t finish school. The lead woman smiled and turned to Nina. Her eyes went wide, wider than what would be considered normal. “Did he touch ya? I hate it when they do that. Those cops think they’re almighty and can do whatever they want. But we can fight back.”
“I punched him.” Nina replied. “But I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course. We’re all innocent here, sweetheart.” The other women laughed loudly. “Why did you punch him?”
“Because he came to say sorry that he ruined my life.” Nina backed away, sliding along the bench. “He came to say sorry for what he did in the past, all the pain he caused me, so I hit him.”
“Sounds like he deserved it.” The larger woman said. “Sounds like the man had it coming.”
“Someone had it coming for a long time. Someone had to pay for what happened to me.”
“What happened to you?” Denise rested her foot on the bench, leaning her elbow on her knee. “Another man?”
“A teacher.” Nina nodded, and the women collectively made a noise of understanding. That had been the story of much of their lives—they were commodities, things to be used, objects to be taken advantage of.
But as much as they sympathized with her, as much as they understood her past, it was a dog-eat-dog world, and, in this yard, this group were the pit bulls.
The group of women pushed past Denise, standing over Nina, reaching down to play with her hair, touching the skin of her face.
“She’s so cute.” “Yum.” “Tasty.”
The words were thrown around her, echoing in her head. Nina knew she was a target, fresh meat for the gangs, and no one could stop them from taking what they wanted—not her, not Denise, not even the guards. As much as Denise was her new protector, there was a clear social structure that had to be adhered to. Prison was an almost primal reflection on society—what the world would be like without hope.
Nina stood, unsure of where to go next. The women circled her, cutting her off from Denise, and any hope of help.
The first push came from behind Nina, and she fell into the chest of a six-foot African American woman. The woman’s hair was cut short, her shoulders broad, and her thighs were like tree trunks. If she wasn’t in a women’s prison, Nina would’ve called her ‘sir.’
The alarm went off for the end of their exercise session, and the relief for Nina was palpable. The other women began moving away, not even they were brave enough to fight against the end of yard time.
“You’re going to be ours soon, Freshie.”
“I can’t wait to taste you.”
Nina started walking with the crowd, moving away from the group of women, and the tears welled up in her eyes.
She owned her body. It was hers. It was the only thing she had ever owned, but it had been taken so many times, used and abused by others, that she didn’t want anything to do with it.
Her only possession in this world was the object that got her into the most trouble.
And she knew if she stayed in prison, if she stayed behind those walls, her only possession would be theirs to take.
Another woman, smaller and still in her early twenties, walked beside Nina, and whispered.
“Be careful around Denise. She’s been known to snitch to the cops.”
“And what happens if she does?”
“People go missing.” She clicked her fingers. “Just like that, they disappear, never to be heard of again.”
And then it became clear—she was between a rock and a hard place.
Agony, or death, was coming for her.
Chapter 12
“I should’ve known you’d find a way to talk.”
“You didn’t return my calls, Tex. I left messages. Many of them.” Pradesh Baron walked into the bar as Hunter finished his steak and vegetables. Hunter often enjoyed eating alone—there was something about having his thoughts only on the meal in front of him that made him feel focused.
The Berghoff Restaurant in Chicago was mostly known as a beer stop, established in the 1890s by a German immigrant for the Chicago World’s Fair. The restaurant was small, having been in the same location on West Adams St. for more than a hundred years. In the age of corporations and egotistical advancement, this business was a rarity—a family run business where the understanding of customer satisfaction was passed from one generation to the next, and that loyalty was only matched by the staff, some of whom had worked there for more than forty years.
The inside of the building was filled with old-world charm—subdued lighting, recently polished dark-wood paneling, new leather on the dining chairs. A bar ran along one side of the room, filled with a mix of tourists and locals, and the restaurant was to the right, the tables and chairs were close to each other but not packed in. Despite the number of people, despite the chatter of noise, it was a pleasant atmosphere, one full of enjoyment.
Whenever the rib eye came on the specials board, Hunter made sure he stopped in. The beautifully seared steak melted under his knife, the side of asparagus was perfectly cooked, and the fingerling potatoes were flawless, leaving a sense of satisfaction that was only matched by the stein of locally crafted lager. It was a meal, a moment, that Hunter didn’t want to be distracted from.
Mercifully, he had finished his meal before Pradesh Baron broke that focus.
Born in Wisconsin to hard working Asian Indian parents, Baron had grown up as an outcast, an Asian foreigner in a sea of white, and having no social life meant he had little choice but to take on his parents’ work ethic. As a prosecutor, Baron developed a reputation as one of the calmest people in the business, his relaxed face never showed any signs of stress, despite the eighty-hour weeks and five children at home. His wife, his mother-in-law, and his eldest daughter all made sure the house ran smoothly.
“How do you do it, Tex? How do you defend cold-blooded killers when you know they shouldn’t be out on the streets again? How do you let that happen?” Baron pulled out a chair at the round table, sitting down without an invitation.
“That’s my job, Pradesh. I give people the chance at a defense. That’s an essential part of the legal system.”
“Ah.” Baron opened his arms out wide. “The defense that your father never had. Yes, yes. I do remember reading about that. I guess we’re all motivated by something, aren’t we?”
Hunter didn’t respond. He reached across, took his napkin, wiped his mouth, placed the knife and fork neatly on his plate, closed his eyes for one last moment to savor the taste of the steak, and smiled gently. In a world full of stress, in a world full of chaos, this steak was his rose, his object to stop and smell.
“I’ve since heard you asked for this girl’s case. You chased it. This didn’t fall into your lap by some strange coincidence, you wanted to defend this girl. You wanted to take revenge on Sidney McCann for what he did to your family. You want to punish his family because he did his job.” Baron leaned forward on the table. “Did you really hate Sidney McCann that much?”
Again, Hunter didn’t respond.
He opened his eyes and studied the man opposite him—the creases under his eyes showed a lack of sleep, the stain on his collar meant the shirt hadn’t been washed properly, and his stubble was at least two days old.
“When did she find out about your affair?”
“What?” Baron was affronted. “What are you talking about?”
“Your wife. When did she find out?”
“How would you know that?” Baron’s mou
th hung open.
“You look stressed, untidy, and tired. That’s a very different look for you.” Hunter lifted his stein and smelled the lager. It was strong enough to feel the effect of alcohol from the smell alone. “I doubt you’re stressed about a case, because you never get personally involved. Your finances would be fine, as your job is secure as a prosecutor, and I haven’t heard of any complaints against you. That leaves your family as the cause of your pain.”
“You were always good at reading people, Tex. I guess that’s why you’re so good at your job.” Baron brushed his hair down. “My wife and I, we’re… working things out. We’ll find a way to make it work. We don’t do divorce very well in the culture of our parents. It was a mishap on my behalf, that’s all. I’ve profusely apologized.”
Hunter had a love of psychology, trying to understand what motivated people, and himself, to do what they do. Why does a person choose their career? Why does a worker continue to show up to a job they hate? Why spend a life in an office when the sun makes a person feel happy? He knew his answer, the answer to his questions, but often wondered about others. For him, it was always the same answer when he asked those questions in the mirror—he did what he did for justice.
“But I’m not here to talk about my family. That’s my business.” Baron recomposed himself, moving uncomfortably in the chair. “I’m here to find out why you would betray your own—the people that are paid to protect this city. Why would you want to let a killer, a cold-blooded murderer, back out on the streets of Chicago? Why? So she can kill another cop?”
“What do you want me to say, Pradesh? That I’m double-crossing the girl? That I’m doing it to make sure that the girl gets a lengthy conviction?”
“That would be a start.”
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