by Meg Lelvis
“I’ll see you soon. Glad we’re on board.”
After they hung up, Jack felt relieved. Decision done. His imagination took over. He could tell LePere to go to hell and shove his frickin’ job. Send Maureen to Ireland with Jenny or Tommy. Hell, the whole family. Not him though. He’d never go back there. Never.
Chapter 28
Monday morning dawned bright with a warm breeze fluttering through trees, heralding its welcome spring to Chicago. Karen had loved spring with the emerging tulips, daffodils, and all things green. Jack’s step was lighter as he strolled into the station. Whose wouldn’t be with a high of someone winning the lottery. Can’t let himself get too excited. Keep a cool head. Be cautious. Too-good-to-be-true thoughts seeped into the corners of his mind.
Jack no sooner walked through the door of the station than he ran into Chub Nesbitt.
“Bailey,” the big man boomed. “Been hiding from me?”
“Not good enough apparently.” He and Nesbitt continued down the hall. “You weren’t around last week when I looked for ya. Let’s have a chat.”
“What I’ve been afraid of.”
Nesbitt chortled. “Seen the morning papers?” He unlocked his door and closed it after they stepped inside. “Have a seat.”
Nesbitt walked around his large desk and sat. “News of our serial killer made the Tribune this morning. The Leader too. Says the Skokie killer may be linked to the nun and Welton murders.”
“What?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “Who the hell leaked that? They mention the Bible verses?”
Nesbitt rubbed his shiny temples. “No, just the latest vic may have been involved in inappropriate crap with Little League boys.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Some idiot in Skokie must’ve leaked the information.”
“Yeah, well I don’t have to tell you, Bailey. Get on it. What’s your next move?”
“Me and Sherk are gonna start interviewing Sister Anne’s former students when this McGarvey priest was at her church during his time. Allegations against him were never proven, but that means nothing. Look at all the priest cover-ups in the last ten years.”
“Think that’s the key? McGarvey messed with a kid that started his path to serial killing?”
“Sure of it. My gut’s usually right. We’re on it pronto.”
“Good.” Nesbitt stood. “And watch it with LePere.”
“Right, Cap. Keep ya posted.” Jack stood and hurried out the door.
Walking into the bull pen, he spotted Sherk at his desk staring at his computer screen.
“You’re here early,” Jack said. “How’s Erica feeling?”
“So far so good. Her mom wants to come help out, but Erica doesn’t like the idea.” Sherk took a drink of coffee. “Yes, I’m early. Thought I’d surprise Ms. LePere, but haven’t seen her yet.”
“Did she come by Friday afternoon busting your balls about going AWOL in the morning?”
“Not a word. Nesbitt must’ve clued her in.”
Jack picked up his mug from a pile of folders. “See the papers this morning?”
Sherk sighed. “Afraid so. It seems the Skokie PD is focusing on their own importance in the case, making us the less intelligent guys who need their help.”
Jack murmured in agreement and headed for the break room. He dodged questions from Velda Vatava and several cops about the newspaper columns. Leaving this frickin’ job grew more and more tempting.
Coffee in hand, he returned to his desk and booted up the computer. “Let’s head out and talk to that Len Abbott guy. Maybe we won’t get sidetracked by another murder this time.”
“Right,” Sherk said. “Think we should show him the list of the other boys who were Sister Anne’s students? We may be able to read something in his face. Not sure what though.”
“Yeah. I’m sure McGarvey messed with more than one kid. Sick bastard.”
“We’re operating on pure assumption at this point, Jack. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Sherk, you can be a real pain in the butt.”
“I know. I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Should get us there by nine o’clock when the company opens.”
. . . . .
Jack and Sherk drove down Pulaski Road until they were a couple blocks from Abbott’s software company.
“Look at that.” Jack pointed toward a huge cigar store Indian standing atop two white pillars on a one story building on the corner of Sixty-third Street. “Still standing after all these years.”
“Quite amazing in this politically correct day and age,” Sherk said. “How long has it been there?”
“At least forty years. Used to be a cigar company. No surprise there.” They passed the enormous landmark, the Geronimo-like image holding one hand high in the air. A sign across its chest read Eye Can See Now.
“Wow,” Sherk exclaimed. “He’s wearing glasses. Must be advertising the Midwest Eye Clinic below.”
“Hard to get anything past you.”
“I’m truly amazed there haven’t been protests from Native Americans. It could easily be construed— “
“Give it a rest, Sherk. We’re about at Abbott’s place. Wonder if Costello’s there.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Wasn’t about to start a ‘who’s on first’ conversation.
Jack pulled into a parking lot beside a two story unadorned gray building with a sign above its door reading PrimeWare. “Sounds like a store for boxer shorts,” he said as they walked in the front door.
“They’d need to correct the spelling of ‘ware’ in that case.”
Was Sherk serious? No patience to find out.
A young, attractive woman with long red hair sat at a desk in the sparsely decorated entry area. She looked up from her keyboard “May I help you?” Her manicured nails were black, matching her lipstick.
“We’re here to see Len Abbott,” Sherk said.
Her teeth contrasted sharply with the dark lip color. “Do you have an appointment?”
Sherk took his badge from his pocket. “I’m Detective Sherkenbach, Bridgeport PD. This is my partner Detective Bailey.” Both men held out their ID’s.
Noting the look of concern on the girl’s face, Jack said, “He’s not in any trouble, Ma’am. We’re gathering information, and we have a few questions for Mr. Abbott. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
She reached for her phone and punched a button. “Len, someone’s here to see you. Can you come to the desk?” After hanging up, she said, “He’ll be right out. Would you like to sit?”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” Sherk smiled as he and Jack walked to the other side and sat in black vinyl armchairs.
Within two minutes, the door across from them opened and a short, skinny wisp of a man walked through. A strong wind could blow him away. He glanced at the receptionist, then at Jack and Sherk, who stood. Len Abbott looked like the poster kid who got sand kicked in his face at the beach.
“Len Abbott?” Sherk asked.
“Yes?” The man wore a rumpled yellow short-sleeved dress shirt, baggy khakis. His thin black hair receded from his forehead, plastic framed glasses and a stubble beard covered most of his small round face.
After introductions, Abbott led the way into a large room with a dozen cubicles arranged throughout, where young men in shirts and jeans pinged away on their keyboards. Abbott made his way to a closed door which he opened, revealing a small conference room with a table and six chairs.
“We can use this.” Abbott’s voice was soft, tentative, womanish. “Sit anywhere.”
He took a seat at
one end, Jack and Sherk sat on either side.
“So, Len,” Jack half smiled. “Or do you prefer Bud?”
Abbott stared at Jack. “Huh?”
“Sorry. I’m sure you heard that all your life. Stuff like, ‘where’s Lou?’ and ‘who’s on first?’
Finally, the lightbulb. “Oh, you mean Costello. Yeah, not so much any more.” Abbott seemed to relax.
“Tell me, what does PrimeWare do,” Sherk asked. “Primarily.”
“Oh, the company enhances, maintains, and provides support for a software payroll system.”
“And what’s your job here?” Jack wanted the guy to keep feeling at ease.
“Well, as a programmer, I update the code with new features, changes in laws, bugs, and customer support. The program was originally designed to run batch, then we reprogrammed it to run online, and now we anticipate using the cloud— “
“Hey, you’re talkin’ Greek, man.” Jack leaned back. “What kinda degree do you have to do all that?”
Abbott shrugged, his cheeks flushed. “Oh, I enrolled at Dawson Tech for a couple years and worked at— “
“That’s good.” Jack had enough small talk. Not that he understood a word of it. “We’re here to gather information on a case we’re working on.” Jack noticed the pocket protector on Abbott’s shirt. Hadn’t seen one of those in awhile.
“Oh?” Abbott’s eyes widened. “I don’t see how— “
“Don’t worry, just a few questions and we’ll be done,” Sherk said. Abbott looked back and forth at the detectives like he was watching a tennis match.
Jack jumped in. “Did you know Father Daniel McGarvey from Nativity of Our Lord Church?” Catch the little punk off guard.
“Uh, what?” Abbott’s pupils expanded. “Oh, I’m not sure. Uh— “
“This would’ve been back in the seventies. In grade school,” Sherk said.
“Oh.” Abbott’s face looked as if he’d solved a math problem. “Is this about that nun’s murder a couple weeks ago?”
The guy was a quick study. “Yeah, it is.” Jack leaned in. “Sister Anne Celeste. You had her in what, fifth grade?”
“Uh, yeah. About fifth grade I think.” Sweat lit up his balding hairline. “Are you asking everyone who had her for a teacher?”
“No,” Jack said. Did Abbott think he was a suspect? “Just her students during the time Father Daniel McGarvey was there.”
“What did you think of Father Daniel?” Sherk asked, removing his glasses.
“Oh, uh, I don’t actually remember. That was years ago.” He swiped his brow with his hand. “Too many years to recall.” He shrugged. Looked at his hands.
“Some allegations against him,” Jack said. “That jog your memory?”
The corners of Abbott’s mouth twitched. “Uh. No, afraid not.” He started to rise. “Sorry I can’t help you. I need to get back. In the middle of a— “
“Yeah, a program to enhance and maintain something,” Jack said.
Sherk took a piece of paper from his notebook and handed it to Abbott. “Could you take a look at these names and tell me if you knew any of them?”
Abbott took his time reading the list. “Uh, a couple sound familiar, but I can’t be sure.”
He paused and pointed his finger on the paper. “These two were in my class.”
Sherk took the paper. Thank you, Mr. Abbott. That’ll be all for now.” He reached in his pocket. “Here’s my card. Call if you think of anything else.”
“One more thing.” Jack pushed back his chair and stood. “Did Sister Anne ever rap your knuckles with her ruler when you didn’t write your letter A’s correctly?”
Abbott looked deadpan. “That didn’t happen much.”
So much for the guy’s sense of humor. They said their good-byes, and Abbott headed back to his computer and cloud nine or whatever. The receptionist was busy examining her nails as Sherk thanked her and led the way out the door.
Driving back on Pulaski Road, Jack said, “Classic case of a guy lying through his teeth. Can’t prove anything, but I bet my left nut he was messed with by the McGarvey prick.”
Sherk sighed. “I’m afraid so. Even if he wasn’t abused, he certainly knew about the allegations.”
“I think we’re zeroing in, Sherk. I’m sure the killer was a vic of the priest’s. Doesn’t sound like Sister Anne did anything except turn a blind eye. Since the priest’s pushing daisies, the nun was the target. Then the perp goes after other pedophiles he’s heard about or seen on the registry.”
“Yes, to rid the world of them. We need to stop him before—” Sherk’s voice trailed off.
. . . . .
Thirty minutes later they sat at their desks updating paperwork. Sherk’s phone buzzed.
“Yes.” Pause. “I see. Thanks. We’ll keep you posted.” He hung up. “That was the Skokie detective about the autopsy report on our coach Grant Adams. Cause of death is the same type of somulose used on Bruce Welton. Injected into the same place, upper throat. Same amount, 120 cubic centimeters.”
“No surprise. The perp probably knew about the coach or heard the rumors. Vigilante justice.” Jack stretched back in his chair. “By the way, who did Len Abbott know from the list of students he looked at?”
“He knew the last two names.” Sherk reached for his notebook. “Let’s see here. Mark Percy and Donald Sowder.”
Chapter 29
Eight miles away from the Bridgeport PD, Donald Sowder, bored as hell with the morning’s national news, switched channels to a local station. Chomping his toast, he missed part of the crime story the slick-haired anchor spoke about. All Donald heard was an unidentified man found dead, cause of death unknown. Nothing earthshaking about that. Just another murder in the big city.
He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. He popped Unisom most nights, but they didn’t help much. He shouldn’t have gone off his meds without telling his long-ago shrink.
Last night he woke in a sweat. Why? Oh yeah, that damn door again in his nightmare. This time it opened several inches, hinges creaked, a large hand beckoned.
Come in Donny, come learn your lesson.
Had he dreamed that voice?
Covering his head with the blanket, he whispered No, Father, No, Father over and over.
After Donald finished breakfast, he rinsed the plate and cup in the sink. Cleaned his glasses for the second time, always with a micro cloth. He brushed his teeth, came close to glancing in the mirror, but averted his eyes. Why can’t you look in the mirror, he asked himself time and again. Couldn’t think when that reaction began. Maybe last year?
Before he unlocked the front door, he pulled the living room curtain aside and peered out. No strange vehicles lurking about. Partly sunny, a few cotton ball clouds, grass turning green. Should be a smooth drive to Midway.
. . . . .
By 5:00, Donald was anxious to ditch work and head home. He stopped at his favorite 7-Eleven on West Archer to grab dinner and replenish his supply of beer. He bought a six-pack of Old Style and a hot meatball sandwich. After a guy at work had sworn the place sold great food, Donald reluctantly tried it out. Had to admit, the pizza and sandwiches were top drawer in his opinion, although most nights he ate frozen dinners on his sofa while he watched TV.
After entering his apartment building, Donald stopped in the vestibule for his mail. The usual junk and his newspaper were crammed into the box. He rode the elevator to the third floor, unlocked his door, tossed the mail onto an end table, and hurried into the kitchen. Didn’t want his sandwich to get cold, so he unwrapped it, opened a can of Old Style and put the remaining six
-pack in the fridge.
He settled into his shabby armchair and turned on the TV. Biting into his sandwich, he watched a young brunette jabbering about the spring-like Chicago weather. He took a swig of beer and glanced at the mail on the table next to him. A brochure of an airline special to Costa Rica promised a romantic get-away if one booked a flight before the end of April.
Donald scoffed. He never thought about travel. Why bother? Who’d go on a trip with him? He glanced at the pamphlet’s cover photo, a small boy and girl splashing in white, frothy waves on a sandy beach. What a crock. Who’s that happy? He tossed the flyer back on the table beside his book of Edgar Allan Poe short stories.
Draining his beer, Donald thought of his childhood before ‘the happening’ as he euphemistically called it. When life was carefree. The place he’d go to in his mind when darkness overtook him. The summer his family spent a week at the Wisconsin Dells with Uncle Phil and his kids. Phil was the best role model in the world for eight-year-old Donald. Took him boating, fishing, hiking. He’d tell Donald what a smart kid he was. More than his father ever did. The good times ended a year later when Phil was killed in a car accident. Part of Donald died with him.
Words from the newscaster jolted him back to the present. What was that about a murder in Skokie? The same newsfeed he heard this morning? “According to Sergeant Joe Rossi, the victim may be connected to two other area murders last month, including Sister Anne Celeste of Bridgeport.”
What? An invisible force seemed to knock Donald over. His heart throbbed, he couldn’t breathe. Hot coals seared through his body. The next words came from a distant sphere.
“The two departments are working together to determine motive. When asked for details, Detective Jack Bailey of the Bridgeport PD refused to comment.”
Sweating, Donald stood mesmerized by the TV announcer. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.
He gasped. “No. No.” He gagged. Ripped off his glasses. Tossed them on the chair. “No. Can’t be—” His stomach lurched. The meatball’s spicy sauce rose to his throat. He dashed for the bathroom, tripping on the table, the can of beer and sandwich plunging to the floor. Made it to the john. Bent over the toilet just in time.