by Meg Lelvis
KAREN ELIZABETH BAILEY
Beloved Daughter, Wife, Mother
March 28, 1962 – August 15, 2000
A smaller gravestone in the same shiny black and lavender sat next to Karen’s. Above the inscription a marble cherub depicted a child with long hair and flowing dress. Jack forced himself to read the words remembering his daughter:
ELIZABETH MAUREEN BAILEY
Beloved Daughter, Granddaughter, Niece
August 31, 1995 – August 15, 2000
Songbirds mocked Jack’s sorrow. The group was silent by the graves, then some began to wander among other markers. Now and then he caught a trace of subtle floral perfume from Beth or Laura, maybe both. Who cared. He noticed the grass, green and lush. Why did cemeteries appear well-maintained and landscaped? Their residents didn’t know the difference. People spend big bucks on the dead so they’ll feel better about themselves.
Hard to imagine what Karen would look like at age fifty, and Elizabeth, seventeen. Maureen’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Beth says we can go to her house when we’re ready. We’ll leave you here for a minute, Jacky. Take your time.”
He always hated this part of the ritual, when they left him at the graves, assuming he’d want to be alone with Karen and his daughter. He figured he had to man up and do it. A soft breeze soothed his face; he wanted to talk to those he still loved, but the lump in his throat damn near choked him. Times like this, grief ate him alive. Would it ever get better? Highly doubtful.
Chapter 16
As along as he could remember, Donald Sowder knew he was different. Maybe it was his small frame. Maybe his dad yelling at him for striking out in Little League. Maybe his classmates calling him ‘Little Donny Sowder Puss’. Pound someone into the ground long enough, he becomes weak. Vulnerable. Just ripe for the picking. Ripe for the eminent Father. Then it happens. But it remained buried in Donald’s mind. He willed himself to live in the present, stay out of the past. Concentrate on today. Now. In his crappy apartment.
After devouring a breakfast of fried eggs and toast, Donald carried his dishes to the sink and poured a second mug of coffee. Bitter, strong odor filled his sinuses. He inhaled deeply and trudged into his lifeless living room and sank into the shabby sofa. Gulping coffee, he placed the cup on a worn end table, reached for the remote, changed his mind, and replaced it on the armrest. The gray walls were barren. The matching tan couch and chair, threadbare and stained, should be tossed out, but Donald hated the thought of replacing them. Too much time and energy. Besides, who cared. No one ever visited.
He slouched back and looked straight ahead toward nothing. At least it was Saturday, and he could escape his tedious job and tiresome co-workers. His boss, a major headache as well, forever explained directions as if Donald didn’t understand the first three times.
Rising from the sofa, he then wandered to the window, pulled open the drapes, and gazed out. Looked like a nice day. Guess he should visit his mother. Sure dreaded that. Diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s, she was stuck in a nursing facility, thanks to his father. She wasn’t missing in action yet, but he didn’t want to deal with her. Cramped the old man’s style of bowling and drinking beer with his cronies. Lucky for him a buddy knew that Goldpine Home was affordable and a decent place compared to other warehouses for the elderly.
After pouring himself a second cup of coffee, Donald sat at the rickety kitchen table. His thoughts wandered back to last Tuesday. The nun’s funeral had gone without a hitch. Confident he had blended into the woodwork, he surprised himself by joining his fellow mourners in their walk to the altar to receive communion. He’d gazed straight into the priest’s eyes when he offered the Eucharist. I’m not in a state of grace, Father. A mortal sin. If I burn in hell, I know another of your brethren who will be right beside me.
Earlier when Donald entered the church, the smell of candle wax and incense made his stomach turn. Taken aback by the large number of people, he slipped into a pew and sat beside two elderly men, one resting a hand atop a cane leaning against the seat. Donald halfway greeted the old gent and bowed his head in mock prayer. Seconds later, he glanced around at the congregation and was surprised to see many middle-aged and young people. Guess Sister Anne was well-loved by everyone she met. If they only knew.
Donald was not about to attend the reception and lunch after the service; didn’t want to push his luck remaining anonymous. Heading for the front door, he kept an eye out for anyone who looked like a cop working the case, who thought killers show up at their victims’ funerals. Good luck with that. He’d glanced at a tall guy who looked like an actor from a TV show or somewhere, couldn’t place the name. Everyone else looked ordinary. No worries. Donald could keep one step ahead of the police. They weren’t as smart as he.
A white-haired usher by the door, reminded people of the reception. Donald pointed to his watch, shook his head. He’d had enough holy bullshit that morning to last him forever.
. . . . .
Donald blinked himself into the here and now, drained his lukewarm coffee, and wondered how to fill his day. He’d wait until tomorrow afternoon to visit his mother since she attended chapel services on Sunday mornings. She didn’t realize the non-denominational worship wasn’t Catholic. Guess Alzheimer’s kept her happy in that regard.
An hour later, he drove his gray beat-up Toyota northeast on I-55. He’d decided to wander around Oz Park since it was sunny with temps in the sixties. Located in Lincoln Park area, Oz was built in honor of Frank Baum, who wrote the classic novel while living in Lincoln Park in the late 1800’s.
Fascinated by the book and movie as a young boy, Donald visited the park several times a year, admiring the towering life-like sculptures of Dorothy and her friends placed amongst winding paths shaded by maple trees and deep-colored foliage. Maybe those pink flowers, whatever they were called, would be in bloom.
After fifteen minutes, he exited onto I-90 and headed north. About seven miles later, he turned onto 64 and meandered through tree-lined residential neighborhoods until he reached Webster Street and found a decent parking place in the main lot. Donald got out of the car and made his way toward the central path, ambling toward whatever lay ahead. Dressed in a long-sleeved tan shirt and jeans, he felt comfortable and invisible.
A small boy walking ahead with his parents turned to admire a poodle sporting a purple leash, strolling with its owner. The kid wore thick glasses, striking a painful chord in Donald. He usually ignored children, but the boy reminded him of how he’d looked in grade school. He could still hear the taunts: Hey, Buddy Holly, like your glasses with mason jar lenses. Ha ha. Clever assholes. Maybe he should go after them next, after scraping pedophile scum off the earth. Doing the Lord’s work, he was. He knew the Bible verse by heart for his next undertaking, no pun intended.
Chapter 17
After suffering through an hour of dessert and small talk at the Buckleys’, Jack leaned back in his seat as Tommy drove home. Thank god the graveside visit was over for another year.
Maureen turned around in the front seat. “Well, Jacky, that wasn’t so bad was it?”
He sighed. “No, Ma. Loved every minute. Like when you spilled your coffee on prissy old Beth’s white tablecloth.”
“Ha. That woman poured too much in my cup. On purpose, you can bet. Always has to have the upper hand. Another way of showing she’s above me.”
Tommy laughed. “Yeah, she was above you, Ma. Standing right over you pouring coffee.”
“Very funny. I have such clever children.” Maureen sat straight in her seat.
Jenny said, “So you’re sure it was a Freudian slip of the hand?”
Everyone chortled except Maureen. “I don’t know why I bother with you kids. Next year you can go by
yourself, Jacky. I don’t need Beth Buckley in her fancy house and fancy neighborhood. How her husband and daughter put up with her, I’ll never know.”
“Guess I should thank you all for going with me,” Jack said. “I’ll bring you back next year except for Ma.”
Maureen harrumphed. “Fine with me. Don’t see why she had to show off and serve that truffle. You’d think— “
“Trifle, Mom, trifle.” Jenny touched her mother’s shoulder.
Jack added, “She didn’t serve us fungus, Ma.” More chuckling.
“Quit laughing at your poor mother. How did I raise such smart alecks?”
Tommy glanced at Maureen. “Ma, truffles are like French mushrooms, some kind of fungus. High-end restaurants serve them.”
“Truffles are fancy chocolates too, Mom,” Jenny said. “Easy to get mixed up.”
“Okay, enough.” Maureen paused. “Jacky, did I tell you about the box of your father’s I found? Tommy looked through it, so it’s your turn now. Thought you boys might want some of the stuff in there. I’ll give it to you when we get home.”
“What’s in the box?” Jack asked.
“Looks like a bunch of papers and pamphlets from the war. Never saw it before till I was in the basement looking for an old postcard from my aunt. Looked high and low for it, and found this box way back behind where the old coal bin used to be. Anyway, I— “
“Okay, Ma, I’ll look at it.” He doubted he’d want anything from his old man’s box of junk, but he’d humor his mother, take it home, keep it a week, then give it back. Didn’t want more clutter in his house.
. . . . .
The rest of the weekend dragged its weary feet. Sunday evening Jack looked at the battered-looking cardboard box Maureen had foisted on him yesterday. The box, on the kitchen floor by the back door, emitted a musty odor which hung in the air. He sighed and decided to tackle it tomorrow. No doubt boring military documents. No hurry.
. . . . .
The next morning, Jack ran into Gary Calvin walking into the station.
“Bailey, you’re here early. What’s the occasion?”
“Nah, my usual time, you’re the one half an hour late.”
“Whaa— “Calvin stopped and glanced at his watch.
“Gotcha!”
“Don’t confuse the guy who does you favors.” Calvin held the door open for Jack, and they walked into the bull pen. “By the way, heard they found a body last night.”
“Hell no. How did you find out already?” Last thing he needed was another murder. Jack shrugged out of his windbreaker and hung it on the coatrack. He followed Calvin to his desk. Sounds of clacking keyboards filled the air. The cop sitting nearby used too much musk aftershave. Jack resisted the temptation to enlighten the guy.
“How soon you forget, Bailey. I know what’s going on before dispatch does.” He booted up his computer. “That’s why they call me president of the geek squad.”
Jack didn’t know if he was serious or flinging the bull. “That ain’t all they call ya, but you don’t wanna know.”
Calvin cleared his throat. “Everybody likes me, if nothing else, for my shirts.” He puffed out his chest. “Just got this yesterday.”
Jack leaned in to read the red shirt’s black printed words: If you need Help, just Ask. Underneath in smaller letters: Someone else.
Jack groaned. “Who makes up those lame ass sayings? Sixth graders?”
“I thought you wanted to hear about the murder.” He glanced around at cops milling about talking and drinking coffee. “Between you and me it’s not your Bible verse guy.”
“Let me guess. No Bible verse with the body.”
“Elementary, dear Bailey. Scene doesn’t fit the MO of your killer. Other vics weren’t shot. Anyway, outta our district. North Lawndale called it in, so no worries.”
Jack stood. “Now ya tell me. Had me goin’ for a minute. Catch ya later.”
He reached his desk and grabbed his discolored coffee mug, when Daisy LePere sidled up to him. He got a whiff of her rose perfume. Couldn’t stand the stuff.
“Sarge. Just off to get coffee.” He knew he was trapped.
“Ms. LePere, Bailey.” She wore a pale blue silk blouse under her black pinstriped jacket. Her blond hair pulled back in a knot. “You may be interested to hear there’s another murder victim. Happened last night.”
“Heard already. Glad it’s not in our territory.”
She looked taken aback. “How do you know that?” Her blue eyes blazed.
“I have my sources.” He gave a half smile. “But I never reveal them.”
“Lose the smart ass attitude, Bailey. You may find it interesting that the victim was a minister at a Congregational church in North Lawndale. But no Bible verse found, so it doesn’t sound like your perp.”
Jack told himself not to scoff. “Gee, Sarge, you’d give Sherlock a run for his money. Now if that’s all of your fascinating deductions, I’ll get— “
“Bailey, I’m this far from writing you up. I’ve already talked to Nesbitt about your attitude.”
Jack knew Captain Chub Nesbitt didn’t give a rat’s ass if Jack called the sergeant ‘Sarge’ or not. Daisy LePere was the person bothered; the woman was a ball-buster and out to get any man who stood up to her.
Jack nodded. “Anything else?”
She ignored the question. “Yes, Bailey. Do you have a brilliant theory on why someone would murder a pastor?”
“Maybe he didn’t like the sermon.” Jack shrugged.
“Not funny.” She turned to leave when Sherk arrived at his desk. He looked at LePere and nodded. “Good morning.”
She glanced at her phone. “You’re late, Sherkenbach.”
Jack glowered. “Didn’t know we had to punch in.”
“No, but maybe we should think about installing a time clock for the rank and file.”
“Sorry,” Sherk said. “One of those mornings.” He reached for his coffee mug.
“Just don’t make a habit of it.” LePere stomped away.
“Aye aye, Captain Bligh,” Jack muttered.
She turned and faced Jack. “Excuse me, I didn’t hear that.”
“Nothing, just hoping they’d have donuts today,” Jack said, and watched her march away. “Let’s get coffee, Sherk. Looks like you could use some.” He studied his partner. “You look like shit. What’s up?”
Sherk stood and followed Jack toward the break room. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Why not?” Jack wasn’t used to seeing him tired and down in the mouth.
“Nothing.”
They filled their mugs and helped themselves to cardboard-looking sugar cookies. When they returned to their desks, Jack said, “Don’t wanna pry, but you’re not your usual cheerful annoying self. Juss sayin’.”
“I suppose I have to tell you sometime.” He stared at his cookies.
“Is it Erica?” Jack recalled Sherk mentioned his wife wasn’t feeling well lately.
A patrol cop wandered over and interrupted with a question. “Anything new on the Bible thumper case?”
“Nothing new,” Sherk answered. “We have some ideas, but no progress at the moment.”
The cop shook his head. “Too bad. Hear about the vic from last night?”
Annoyed by the intrusion, Jack turned to his computer and clicked on his keyboard, hoping the guy would get lost. “We’ll keep you posted.”
“Right.” The cop sauntered away.
Jack quit typing and looked at his partner. “Well?”
Sherk glanced behind him. No one there. “We got some bad news yesterday. Erica has—” He cleared his throat. Jack said nothing. “She’s diagnosed with—” His phone buzzed.
Jack’s jaw clutched in irritation as Sherk read the screen. “Gotta take this.”
Jack waited while his partner carried on a one-syllable conversation. Looking haggard, Sherk hung up. “That was Erica. She heard about the next appointment already.” His vacant eyes stared straight ahead. “Awfully early for the nurse to call.”
Jack felt a pit in his middle. “Jesus, what is it?” Sherk’s face turned gray. His hand shook as he lifted his mug and took a sip of coffee. Looking at Jack, he pushed his hair from his forehead. “Ovarian cancer.”
“Oh, Christ, Sherk. Sorry.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’ll tell you more later. Not telling anyone else yet. Still a shock even though we knew it might happen.”
“I gotcha. Mum’s the word.” Jack remembered his mother talking about a relative with what they called female-type cancer, but he knew nothing about it. Never been interested in medical stuff; he was forced to hear too much disease information when his father died of lung cancer years ago.
Sherk stood. “I need more coffee.”
Jack watched his partner shuffle away, head down.
. . . . .
By eleven o’clock Jack neared the end of his paperwork. He perused the student lists from Nativity of Our Lord school from 1973 through 1975. Father Daniel McGarvey was the priest during that time when Sister Anne Celeste taught fifth and sixth grades. Allegations against McGarvey were never proven, but he was reassigned to a parish in Indiana within several months.
Sherk looked up from his desk. “I’m done with my perp search. Shouldn’t take long to question Bruce Welton’s uncle in Naperville. How about an early lunch, and then we can visit the uncle.”