by Meg Lelvis
“Why did they divorce?” Jack asked.
Brown cleared his throat. “Ah, well, I don’t know.” He gave a half chuckle. “Guess they had some differences, you know how that goes.”
“No, I don’t.” Jack gazed at the man. “But I’d like to.”
Brown shrugged. “Well, I really don’t— “
“Look, ah Morty, is it? You need to come clean with me. The guy’s dead. He ain’t comin’ back. The more we know about everything in his life, the sooner we’ll find the killer.”
Looking flustered, Brown gulped his water. “Okay, there was some talk—just rumor, that Grant may have been ah, inappropriate with some kids. Seems Sara, his wife believed it, she took their kids and left.”
Showing no visible reaction, Jack’s instinct was confirmed. An older pervert this time.
“So nothing was ever substantiated about the rumors?” Sherk asked.
“No, nothing. I never believed it. Not Grant. Would never mess around, certainly not with boys.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “People believed Clinton too.”
“Look, Detective, I knew Grant for— “
“I know, I know.” Jack held up his hands in mock defeat. “Think we’re done. We may wanna talk again.”
The three men pushed back their chairs and stood. “Here’s my card,” Sherk said. “Call if you think of anything, even if it seems unimportant.”
Brown took the card. “Okay, will do.” He glanced at Jack, an uncertain expression on his face. “Sure hope you catch who did this. Grant was such a good friend, a terrific guy.”
Jack wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. He led Brown through the living room past the two cops and opened the front door.
Brown stopped and looked at Sherk. “Oh god, who’s going to tell Sara and the kids?”
“We’ll notify the Rockford police, and they’ll send a couple officers and a chaplain if they employ one.” Sherk touched the man’s upper arm.
Brown furrowed his brow and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Sherk and Jack joined Perez and the other officer in the living room.
Perez said, “So, you guys gonna take over the case or what’s next?”
“Probably. Need to check with the supervisor at the Skokie PD.” Jack wanted the cops to disappear. “You can check in and see if you need to hang around. We’ll wait for the ME.”
“Gotcha,” Perez said as he turned away and called on his cell.
Jack motioned Sherk toward the kitchen. As they sat at the table, Jack said, “Let’s look at the verse.”
“Yes, I’m curious as well.” Sherk reached inside his jacket and took the bag out. He dug in his side pocket for his latex gloves, and pulled them onto his hands.
“Looks like the same type of paper as the others,” Jack said.
“Yes, and the blue printing evidently the same.” Sherk unfolded the note and read, “Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin, and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death. James 1:15.”
Jack scratched his temple. “Someone sure broughteth forth death on this guy. What’s your translation?”
“Pretty much literal—that temptation or desire is acted upon, sin is the result, and in the long run, brings death. So, it’s the same theme as the other verses.”
Perez stuck his head in the kitchen. “ME and forensic guys are here. Me and my partner are cleared to head out. Boss on his way too.” He hesitated. Gazed at Jack. “Anyone ever say you look like Liam Neeson?”
“Once or twice.” Jack stood and asked Sherk, “Ready to turn the verse over to the CSI guys?”
Sherk folded the note and placed it in the bag. “Yes, it’s ready.”
The ME and CSI team of two men wearing paper booties, hurried into the living room where Jack introduced himself and Sherk.
“Dude on ice is in here.” Jack led the men into the bedroom. The stench seemed more powerful than before. The ME, a tall, gangly balding man, wore the standard white lab coat and proceeded to open his bag and don his blue paper cap and gloves. The CSI guys busied themselves with separate tasks, one clicking away on his state-of-the-art camera, the other kneeling on the floor examining the beige carpet.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Sherk said. The ME nodded at him and bent over the body.
Jack and Sherk made their way to the kitchen. “Chatty group, ain’t they?”
“I noticed. Do you want to call Skokie PD to coordinate, or wait for the boss, whoever he may be?”
“I’ll call. See what’s going on.” Jack found the number and punched it in.
. . . . .
Two hours later, Grant Adams’s house was cleared of all people, dead or alive, and Jack and Sherk rode off heading south toward Bridgeport. The ME had judged time of death to be somewhere between midnight Wednesday to around five this morning. After learning Bruce Welton’s cause of death, the ME found a puncture mark on the corpse’s left side of his neck, same as Welton’s. Somulose was most likely used, but the exact substance would not be known until lab results were obtained.
Sergeant Joe Rossi had arrived at the Adams house shortly after the ME. His tough appearance and burly manner fit his Italian name. He reminded Jack of an aging Brando.
“You guys keep us in the loop at all times,” the sergeant had said. “We don’t have the crime here in Skokie that you do, but we got a couple good detectives in the department.”
Exiting onto south 94, Jack said, “Can you believe that arrogant prick Rossi? All the guy needed was a cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.”
Sherk smiled. “I’m glad you defended Bridgeport’s crime rate. The man does have an attitude.”
Jack protruded his jaw, spoke as if he had a mouthful of cotton. “Yeah, revenge is a dish best served cold.” He smoothed his hair.
Sherk laughed. “Not bad, Vito. Not bad at all.”
“Think the murder will hit the evening news or morning papers?” Jack’s voice back to normal.
“I’m sure of it. As the good sergeant said, a crime in Skokie is a pivotal event.”
They rode in silence as traffic thickened and slowed them down. Too many Sunday drivers on the road. Seemed no one kept up with the flow anymore. Jack weaved in and out between trucks and cars alike.
“I just checked, and Grant Adams doesn’t show up on the sex registry.” Sherk took his glasses off and cleaned them with a micro cloth. “I’ll ask Gary Calvin to do a more thorough search.”
“Damn, figured we wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a hit online. I knew the guy was a perv the minute his friend mentioned Little League. Sick bastard.”
“Yes, it all fits, unfortunately,” Sherk said. “Hopefully the killer’s bound to slip up before long, according to the profiler. As they gain confidence, they become careless.”
“Yeah. Problem now is facing Nesbitt when we get back.”
“Not to mention Ms. LePere.” Sherk sighed.
“I don’t give a damn about her. It’s the cap who’ll have my ass, maybe sooner than we think. The damn clock’s ticking louder than ever.”
Chapter 23
Donald Sowder pulled out of Goldpine Home’s parking lot and drove toward his crappy apartment near Midway Airport. On the way, he stopped at a Shell station to fill up his gray Toyota clunker. He once saw a bumper sticker several years ago that said: My other car is a piece of shit too. He’d been tempted, but didn’t want to attract even a modicum of attention.
Why was that fat girl at the next pump staring at him? He wanted to stare back, but told himself to focus on grabbing his
receipt and getting the hell out of there. Can’t let anyone remember him for any reason. Couldn’t risk someone identifying him in a lineup.
He reached his apartment building, a square, three story concrete structure, and pulled in the back, facing Fifty-fifth Street. He’d found the place here in Garfield Ridge, a community near Midway where he worked. His mother had given him used furniture and tried to foist several framed landscape prints on him. The place needs to look lived in, Donny, it should show who you are. How ironic was that? Yeah, in that case, he needed photos of kids in Belleview or Menninger.
Donald willed his brain to stay put. Quit flying around like a moth trapped in a lampshade. After unlocking the door, he hung up his jacket and plodded to the kitchen. Too early to drink, but what the hell. He grabbed a can of Bud from the fridge, poured it into a glass tumbler, and flopped into a worn blue corduroy chair in the living room. He turned on the TV and watched Jeopardy.
“Ah, ah, who was Longfellow?” he yelled at the TV. “Thanks, Ma.” “The Village Blacksmith”, one of his mother’s favorite poems. Under the spreading chestnut tree…. Yada yada yada. Poor old Ma. Stuck in a home. Hardly knows her own son, much less who wrote what poem. But he’d heard Alzheimer’s patients remembered songs from childhood. Who the hell knew.
His mother. She did what she could, he guessed. Should’ve stood up to his dad more. He wanted to blame her for drumming the church into him. For telling him about the new priest. Father McGarvey. Father Daniel McGarvey. Looking back, the priest knew Donald was an easy mark. Like a predatory animal, Father Dan had instincts. Sniff out weakness and go for the kill. Oh, it started gradually. Grooming they call it. Grooming.
Chuckling bitterly, Donald thought there should be a handbook for priests…. ‘Altar Boy Abuse 101’. Little Donny had been ripe for the taking. Skinny kid with inch-thick glasses, a bully magnet. Never told his mother when the kids would taunt, Donny Sowder’s mama’s a sow, Mrs. Sowder the sow. She babied him too much, at least that’s what his old man said. Gotta cut the apron strings some time. You’re making a sissy outta him.
Donald convinced himself to focus on the TV. Switched to CNN, heard about some follow-up rantings about a kid, Trayvon somebody who got shot in Florida. What else was new? More talk about gas prices, $3.39 for regular. Can’t even afford to drive around this miserable city. At least his clunker didn’t need premium, as if he’d ever afford a luxury car.
Time for an early dinner so he could draw the final plans for his next project. Had the scumball picked out, cased his house and neighborhood. Should be easy access. He felt high thinking about it. Wasn’t nervous, scared like the first time with Sister Anne. Practice makes perfect, and all that.
After a supper of frozen hamburger pizza and another Bud, Donald went into his workshop, as he called the second bedroom. He sat at a long table with two computers, a printer in between. Book shelves with neatly stacked files and magazines covered half of one wall. A twin bed with a blue plaid comforter sat against another wall. In case you have overnight company, or I come cook a late dinner. Thank God his mother hadn’t spent the night, nor would she ever. His father and sister didn’t bother with him, so the bed would never be used. Not by a girlfriend. No luck there. Wonder why.
After opening a manila file beside his monitor, he read several pages. He wrote incriminating notes in longhand which he could easily destroy, notes that cited names and addresses of evil-doers. He could cover his ass on his computer for research like which poisons worked best. Even googling ‘how to commit murder’ couldn’t prove anything.
Twenty minutes later, stretching back in his chair, Donald took off his glasses and set them on the desk. He rubbed his eyes, decided to call it a night, and sauntered to the bedroom. Damn, he shouldn’t have had that second Bud.
His thoughts fluttered their way to the Closed Door. No, can’t go there. The door must remain shut and locked. He could see the door now. The door to the sacristy. Where the altar boys went.
Chapter 24
Jack plowed through heavy traffic, and arrived at the station by mid afternoon. Thinking of facing Chub Nesbitt, Jack decided to bite the bullet and head for the man’s office. The captain would be ready to explode, but better get it over with. Sherk nodded his agreement.
As they made their way to Nesbitt’s office, Velda Vatava strolled down the hallway, arms laden with files and pamphlets. “Bailey, decided to grace us with your presence,” she sang.
“Not that you deserve it.” He and Sherk were at Nesbitt’s door.
“If you’re looking for the captain, he’s out for the afternoon. But maybe I can help you.”
“I doubt that, thanks anyway.” Jack stopped. “Know when he’ll be back?”
“No. He doesn’t tell me everything.” Velda shifted the papers in her hands. “But your favorite lady boss, You-Know-Who, is on the premises.”
“In that case, it’s time to raid my stash.” Jack was ready for a shot of Jameson.
“Think I’ll join you,” Velda said as Jack led the way to the bull pen. He opened the door and ran into Daisy LePere, the odor of rose perfume assaulting his nostrils.
“Bailey, Sherkenbach, my office, now.”
Jack gave a mock salute. “Yes Sir, uh, Ma’am.”
She glared at him and elbowed her way past them into the hall, brushing against Velda’s arm. “Excuse us, Ms. Vatava, we have work to do. Carry on.”
“Of course, Ma’am. Always carry on. It’s all I do.”
When they reached LePere’s office, she unlocked her door and indicated two chairs across from her desk. “Sit,” she barked.
“Woof, woof,” Jack said as he and Sherk followed her command.
“Watch it, Bailey.” She sat behind her pristine desk. “You’re skating on thin ice.”
Jack convinced himself to shut up. He’d promised Nesbitt, and didn’t want to push his luck with the cap.
LePere smoothed her navy jacket lapels. “Well, now that you have a bona fide serial killer on your hands, what can you tell me?”
Sherk relayed everything he and Jack knew about Grant Adams, and their plans to pursue leads.
“What does the Bible verse say?” LePere asked.
Jack fished his notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin, and— “
“Okay, I get the drift.”
“Don’t you wanna know where it’s from? James one— “
“I said, okay, Bailey. I’m not a theologian.”
You can say that again, Jack thought. “No comment, Ma’am.” He tightened his lips together . “If that’s all, me and Sherk’ll get busy.”
LePere sneered. “I’ll say when we’re done here. Be sure and keep that Skokie sergeant in the loop. Coordinating with another department, always a pain in the ass, but it is what it is.” She stood.
“Okay, we’re done. Sherkenbach, be on time tomorrow. I’ll expect a full report in the afternoon.”
Sherk cleared his throat. “Tomorrow I have— “
“No problem, Sarge, uh, Ma’am. We’ll get to it.” Jack practically dragged Sherk from the old bag’s office and closed the door. “Don’t say anything about your appointment with Erica tomorrow. You told the cap. Good enough.”
Sherk looked worried as they headed to their desks. “I guess, but she should know— “
“She’ll find out soon. Quit worrying. You’re covered.”
. . . . .
That evening Jack sat in his recliner guzzling beer and watching the news. Boone slept at Jack’s feet, snoring and twitching now and then. Some guy on CNN yakked about China and Russia endorsing a cease fire by this creep, Assad,
who says he’ll withdraw his troops from Syria’s cities by April 10. What a joke. And there will soon be peace throughout the Middle East.
Jack reached for the remote to change channels when his phone buzzed. Irritated at the interruption, he read the caller ID: Stewart Buckley. Crap, what did his former father-in-law want?
Muting the TV, Jack punched on the phone. “Stewart, what do you need?”
The man chuckled. “Hi, Jack. Right to the point, as usual. How are you getting along these days?”
“Good.” Pause. “Any reason I shouldn’t be?”
Chuckling again. “No, no. Just asking. I hope I’m not disturbing your evening.”
God, these rich lawyers all sounded the same. “No, just hanging with Boone. We’re doing nothing.”
“Okay. I’ll get to the point.” Finally, Jack thought.
Buckley cleared his throat. “I’d like to meet with you sometime soon. Nothing’s wrong, but we’ll need privacy. If you don’t mind, we could meet at the club. That’s closer to you than my house.”
“Gotta tell ya, Stewart, this sounds a little— “
“Mysterious? Sorry, Jack. Don’t mean to be. It’s important to you, but not in a negative way. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Okay, when did you have in mind?”
“If you’re free this Saturday, let’s meet for lunch or dinner, whatever’s best.”
Jack thought a few seconds. As usual, he had no plans for the weekend. Could always work on the new murder, as well as trying to see Molly again. His curiosity overruled. “Lunch would be good.” That way he could see Molly in the evening if he had the courage to call her.
He and Buckley agreed on a 1:00 meeting at Park Ridge Country Club, where the Buckleys had been members for years. Wonder what the man wants. Said there wasn’t a problem. If not, what could it be?