by Meg Lelvis
“Sorry Vatava. Busy, but maybe my cohort in crime can spring for a drink.”
As if on cue, Sherk walked through the door. “Did I hear my name mentioned?”
Velda beamed. “You sure did. Bailey volunteered you to buy me a drink tonight in return for the many favors I do for you guys around here. Case in point, the forensics report you’ve been waiting for.”
“Ah, Velda with the wonderfully poetic name. I’m afraid I have a previous engagement this evening. We need to meet another time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like all men. Make promises they never keep.” Velda turned to leave. “By the way, your boss won’t be in today.”
“Sarge? Ha, she must have a hot weekend planned.” Jack scoffed.
“Try to contain your disappointment. See you guys later.” Velda glided out of the room.
Sherk eyed Jack’s donuts. “I’ll be back in a minute. Give you time to peruse the report.”
Jack read through several pages in the file, zeroing in on essential information. He devoured his first glazed donut and brushed crumbs from his shirt onto the floor.
Sherk returned to his desk. “I’m all ears, Jack.”
“Nothing we didn’t expect. Same killer for both murders. Perp’s skin cells from the vics’ throats and hair fibers match. Not in the system. A long shot that the Vendez creep would’ve done Welton and not the nun, but now that’s settled.”
“So we can look at Bruce Welton’s relatives. They could give us his friends’ names. The uncle who got him the Home Depot job is worth pursuing. Still need to figure the nun connection.”
“Yeah, but I like the boy’s parents or maybe another family. Did we ever find out about anyone else’s kid he messed with?”
Sherk shook his head. “Nothing’s on record, but you can rest assured he abused more than the one boy.”
“Yeah. Nobody came forward after Welton’s murder got in the papers. Guess people are too embarrassed or something. Maybe they’re afraid they’ll be suspects.” Jack reached for his buzzing phone, held it to his ear. “Hey Daryl. Glad you called. Put you on speaker for Sherk.”
“Good morning, guys.” Daryl Gray’s voice boomed. He’d make a good bass in an opera. “I’ve looked over the information on your so-called Bible thumper, and came up with a general summary. You guys have been around the block a few times; you already know most of what I’m gonna tell you.”
“That’s fine, Daryl.” Sherk opened his notebook, pen in hand. “We value your expertise in these matters.”
“First, as you know, he needs another vic to be an official serial killer. Bound to be a third murder, maybe more depending if or when he’s caught. I’ll call the killer ‘he’, since women serial killers are rare. This guy’s smart, educated, tech-savvy. Your ordinary white guy, thirties or forties, nice looking or average. Looks harmless— gets him past doormen, clerks, and so on, with little hesitation.”
“Okay, what else?” Jack drained his coffee.
“Hold on, Bailey. Need some water. Talking to you makes me thirsty.”
“Take your time, Daryl. We have no immediate plans,” Sherk said.
“Here goes, guys. Your killer isn’t a run-of-the mill serial. His motive is to rid society of pedophiles. Stems from his own probable abuse as a kid. I’d say the good nun either hurt him or witnessed someone else doing it, most likely a priest. The nun turns a blind eye, and the boy wonders all these years why she didn’t do anything to help. Sees it as the ultimate betrayal. Not just the priest, but the eminent Sister Anne turned on him as well. All speculation, of course.”
Sherk paused from his notes. “What’s your opinion on the Bible verses? Is the killer being satirical, or mocking the scripture since he’s clearly breaking the law of man and God?”
Jack frowned. What the hell was he talking about?
“You may be correct, Sherk,” Gray said. “It’s clearly a sign of his intellectualism, and you’d think he’d be disillusioned on religion after his treatment by the clergy. Hard to say how he truly feels about religion or if he believes the context of the verses he’s left. At any rate, he could have narcissistic characteristics like thinking he’s smarter than everyone else, especially cops like you.”
Jack raised his brow. “Yeah, I get the idea he’s playing cat and mouse with us, the smartass prick.”
“By leaving his calling cards with the body, he’s seeing if they’ll be made public. So far it’s been kept under wraps and should continue that way.” Gray cleared his throat. “That about sums it up, guys. I’ll email you the report. Or you’re welcome to come up and get it. It’s lonely up here on the top floor.
Jack scoffed. “Poor guy, have to put up with the brass and your private luxury john.”
“You saying I’m not the brass, Bailey? Don’t bite the hand, and all that.”
Sherk chortled. “Thanks, Daryl. We’ll wait for your report.”
Jack clicked off. “Let’s go get the perp now that we know what to look for.”
Sherk ignored the sarcasm. “I think we need to revisit the student rolls from the time of Sister Anne and the priest accused of misconduct. Even if nothing came of the allegations on that particular priest, it doesn’t mean he was innocent.”
“Yeah, it started with the nun, gotta be somebody who went to school during that time. A good project for you. Let me know what you find out.” Jack rose from his chair.
“It’s not even lunch time, Jack. Thinking of vacating the premises?”
“You bet. I need to go home and feed Boone. Neighbor’s out of town and can’t take care of the mutt.”
“Is that a fact? I think you can devise a more imaginative excuse than that.”
“’Oh, what a tangled web we weave’. See, you ain’t the only one who can quote Shakespeare.”
“Sir Walter Scott.”
“Huh?”
“Sir Walter Scott, Jack. His work is the origin of the quote you sited.”
“Get outta here. Gotta be Shakespeare.” Jack knew he was wrong. Can’t argue with Sherk, that pain in the butt.
“Don’t feel bad. Many people misquote the tangled web. It sounds as if it could be Shakespeare, but Sir Walter Scott wrote in his play—”
Jack threw up his hands. “Okay, okay, save the lecture. I was wrong, you’re right, happy now?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but—”
“Sherk, you’re drivin’ me frickin’ nuts. I’m outta here.” Couldn’t wait for a shot of Jameson.
. . . . .
During the night Jack tossed and turned, dreaming of explosions and green fields. He awoke early Saturday morning feeling like an iron fog enveloped him. Boone slept on the floor beside the bed.
“Oh god,” Jack groaned. Karen’s birthday. Wished he could forget. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled to sit up. He stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. When he looked in the mirror, an old man stared back at him. Eyes were black sockets, head like a misshapen pumpkin.
He staggered back to bed, but sleep stubbornly steered clear of him. Half an hour later he sat up, looked at Boone. “Okay, Buddy, might as well get up, face the day.”
The big dog gazed at Jack with soulful brown eyes as if he reluctantly agreed.
. . . . .
Emerging from the shower, Jack heard his phone ring. He figured it was his mother, so he let it go to voicemail. Undoubtedly wanted him to come over for lunch before the ordeal that awaited him. He finished toweling off, threw on sweats and an old sweater, fed Boone, and brewed a pot of coffee.
He sat at his small round kitchen table and scarfed d
own a couple dry muffins from the corner bakery. After carrying his mug of coffee to the living room, he sank into the leather sofa and checked his phone. Of course, his mother had called. Forced himself to call back.
“What took you so long to call?” Maureen Bailey chirped.
“Caught me in the shower, Ma. What’s up?”
“You know what’s up, Jacky. Are you coming for lunch? Tommy and Jenny’ll probably be here.”
Earlier, Jack decided to pass on lunch, but if his sister and brother were there, he wouldn’t be stuck alone with his mother.
“I dunno. Got a lot to do. They going to the cemetery?”
“Just talked to Tommy yesterday, and he’s going. I’ll call Jenny now and see about her.”
“Okay. Guess I’ll see you around eleven thirty?”
“No, that’s too late. Come at eleven. I’ll tell the others.” Maureen took a breath. “Actually I should make a brunch since it’s a little early. I could cook bacon and maybe some pancakes—”
“For god’s sake, Ma, give it a rest. Just a baloney sandwich, who cares?”
“Don’t get fresh, Jacky. I’ll make what I want to. You just get here at eleven. Bye.”
Jack sighed and hung up. The woman was George Castanza’s mother.
Boone whimpered when Jack rose and returned to the kitchen. “Come on, guy, let’s go for a walk.”
The sun poked out behind puffy clouds in a sky of powder blue. The air felt cool but comfortable. Perfect sweater weather for the end of March. Small patches of gray snow were scattered on the ground. Jack liked the older homes and tree-lined streets of the neighborhood. Had that small-town vibe. Didn’t feel like part of Chicago. He took a deep breath. Felt energetic for a change, which amazed him. A sharp contrast from his usual gloom and doom.
Boone plodded along beside Jack, stopping to sniff the grass, bushes, fire hydrants, whatever was available. Birds tweeted like piccolos in a symphony. Several blocks later, the big dog slowed his pace.
“Okay, Buddy, let’s head back.” Too bad his life wasn’t as great as the weather.
His phone buzzed as they approached his duplex. He stopped, read the screen, and tapped it on. “Yeah, Jenny.” He led Boone up the sidewalk and listened to his sister tell him she’d be at their mother’s for lunch. “See ya, gotta get Boone in, on a walk.”
He punched off the phone, put it back in his pocket, and unlocked the front door. After unclasping the dog’s collar, he tossed him a milk bone treat.
Jack couldn’t wait for today to be over. Dreaded seeing Karen’s parents. Her father, Stewart Buckley, wasn’t too bad for a rich white guy, but the mother was a different story. How Karen turned out so nice was beyond him. For the umpteenth time, he thought, ‘Why did I leave Texas?’
Chapter 15
By 12:30 Maureen’s lunch was over. Tommy offered to drive his silver Chrysler Pacifica since it was comfortable for four people. They headed out of Bridgeport toward I-90 and exited north for the twenty-minute drive to Park Ridge. Maureen sat in front with Tommy, Jack and Jenny in back.
“Smooth ride, Tommy.” Jack leaned back in his seat. “Lots of leg room.”
“Yeah, gets good gas mileage for a bigger car. How’s your Beemer holding up? That thing’s gettin’ old.”
“Runs like a top.” Jack turned to Jenny who was gazing out the window. “Glad to hear Nolan’s going to law school. Getting into Loyola, smart kid. Runs in the family. Tell him congrats from his old uncle.”
Jenny looked pleased, dark wavy hair framing her oval face. Her eyes were the same clear sapphire blue of the Bailey family. The only girl of five children, Jack once thought of her as a tattletale pest, but now he considered her a loyal friend.
“Come around more often, Jack— Nolan likes to see you.”
“Yeah. Guess Cate’s doing fine.”
“She’s been looking into colleges already. Maybe Loyola or Northwestern. Hoping for a scholarship.”
Jack clenched his teeth. Elizabeth would be seventeen now as well, a junior in high school this fall. He forced himself to look out the window, gazing at stores and unadorned buildings of Chinatown to the east.
They drove without chatter past the outskirts of Lincoln Park. For once his mother wasn’t yakking about the weather, local news, her Mahjong group.
Several minutes later, Jack spotted the tops of distant buildings in downtown Chicago to the east. “That must be Sears Tower.”
Tommy glanced out the window. “Willis Tower now.”
“Yeah, keep forgetting.”
Maureen scoffed. “It’ll always be the Sears Tower to me. Don’t know why they have to change the names of things. Like the White Sox Stadium will always be Comiskey Park. Now we’re supposed to call it Cellular? That’s just plain stupid, if you ask me.”
Jenny laughed. “Nobody asked you, Mom, but they should.”
Tommy shifted the visor. “Yup, Willis was the tallest building in the world, now second I think.”
Maureen asked, “Well, what’s the tallest then?”
Jack said, “The one in Dubai. Can’t pronounce the damn thing.”
Tommy said, “Starts with a B, Bunj Kalifa, something like that.”
“Whatever.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “We’ll never get there.”
“Your kids might.” Jack said. “We sound like a Seinfeld conversation.”
Jenny laughed. “Who played George’s mother, can never remember.”
“Dunno,” Jack said, “Ma was gonna audition for the part, but she never got past central casting. Scared off the guy when—”
“That’s enough, smarty pants.” Maureen turned to face Jack. “I’ll have you know I could’ve doubled for Maureen O’Hara in those days. I was named after her, and I always—”
“Really? We never heard that before.” Jenny patted her mother’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t she be dead by now?”
“Jennifer, don’t be smart like your brothers. Of course she isn’t dead. She’s my age. No surprise we’re both alive in 2012.”
Tommy snickered. “Yeah, you were born the same year, that’s why you were named after her. Didn’t know O’Hara was a famous baby actress.”
“You can all just go jump in the lake. I get no respect around here. Especially on today, Jacky.”
“Oh, Mom, Karen would have a good laugh along with us.” Jenny looked at Jack.
“I think so, Ma,” he said. “She’d rather we’re happy than a bunch of sad sacks.”
They were quiet for awhile. Signs for O’Hare Airport popped up west of the freeway as they approached exits for Park Ridge. Jack’s stomach wrenched at the sight of the familiar area he’d rather forget.
Five minutes later they wound through neighborhood streets shaded by large maple and oak trees, elaborate two-story brick homes set back from the street. Slowing down, they entered the landscaped grounds of Cooney Funeral Home’s vast cemetery. The older section, housing the graves of Karen’s relatives, was bordered by large green shrubs and trees. Flat landscape turned into small grassy hills, narrow roads curved around various-sized gravestones.
Tommy’s car crawled along until it reached a cluster of several tall pine and fir trees. He parked behind a silver Phantom Rolls Royce gleaming in the sun.
“Looks like ‘ol Stewart sprung for a new Rolls,” said Tommy emerging from his car with his family.
“Yeah, looks like a 2012, not the wreck of the used ’08 he had last year.” Jack never saw the appeal of Rolls, with their boxy-looking hoods, but Karen’s father had driven a Rolls forever, according to her. Jack referred to the ostentatious Spirit of Ecstasy
hood ornaments as the Flying Nuns. His used Beemer surpassed the Rolls in looks, no question.
The fresh air smelled of pine under a cloudless Wedgewood sky; birds sang of spring’s arrival. Maureen glanced at the treetops. “What a beautiful day. Just perfect for Karen.”
The rest murmured in agreement and meandered around marble markers to join three people standing near two headstones of pale lavender splashed with black.
A thin older woman in a charcoal pantsuit held out her arms to Maureen. They gave one another a stiff, awkward hug. “Oh, Maureen, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”
Maureen’s smile looked forced. She smoothed her short bottle-fed hair. “Hi, Beth. Good to see you.”
Beth Buckley greeted the others, while her husband Stewart and daughter Laura waited their turn to say hello. Karen’s family had that rich, useless look about them, a line Jack thought of from a Julia Roberts movie. Beth looked like she just stepped out of the spa, with a new haircut, highlights, blow-dry, mani, pedi, and Lord knows what else.
Laura’s long straight hair was highlighted like her mother’s. Wearing a beige silk pants outfit, she bore a slight resemblance to Karen. They had the same auburn hair, and Jack wondered why Laura ruined it with blond streaks. She smiled and touched Jack’s arm, then gave him a quick hug.
“Good to see you, Jack. Wish we could meet in other circumstances.”
“I know. Glad you could make it. How are things in Denver?”
“Good, Dan and kids doing fine.” Laura turned to say hi to Jenny.
Jack shook hands with Stewart, whose smile showcased white teeth and matching hair. In his cotton polo shirt and khakis, he looked like he just stepped off the Mayflower with a desirable tee time awaiting him.
Beth placed her usual floral arrangements of white and yellow roses by the gravestones; white for Karen, yellow for Elizabeth. Jack never brought flowers except when he came alone on their anniversary.
Reading the inscriptions on the markers was never easy for Jack. Karen’s stone with angels in bas relief on either side of the epitaph: