by Meg Lelvis
The TV was announcing sports scores when Donald staggered back to the living room and fell into the chair. He panted, wiped trickles of sweat from his forehead. Felt his glasses under his skinny butt. Scooched, retrieved the glasses from the scratchy fabric, put them on gingerly.
“Think. Think. What to do?” He’d call the cop station. Bridgeport or Skokie? Nah. No good. They wouldn’t tell him anything. He grabbed the newspaper, still in its sleeve. Hands shook as he ripped it open, frantic. There is was. Bottom of page one. He read the article, noting more details than the TV news had revealed. The paper mentioned Bruce Welton’s name as the second vic. Donald threw the paper on the floor.
He stood. Clenched his fists. Looked up. Yelled.
“No! No! Some bastard copied me!”
Chapter 30
Driving to work the next morning, Jack’s mood fluctuated between upbeat and irritated. His near euphoria over his financial windfall was diminished by thoughts of Molly’s rebuff. He refused to acknowledge he was humiliated, but logic told him he was overreacting. Things might work out between them, although given Jack’s history with women, he doubted Molly would be a success. What the hell. Better off without her. Besides, she lugs heavy baggage, including alcoholism. Might be screwed up like the woman he hooked up with a couple years ago in Texas. Gotta forget those days. Now, he was about to become a rich man.
When Jack strolled into the bull pen, Sherk was at his desk drinking coffee.
“You’re early,” Jack said. “Everything okay? How’s Erica?”
“She’s fine. True, I’m on time this morning. Maybe Ms. LePere will notice.”
“Who gives a damn?” Jack sat down. “Thought more about our talk with Abbott. Today we should interview all the guys, mainly the two he remembered from his school days with old Father McGarvey.”
“Right. The priest probably messed with more than one boy. Curious if they’ll act nervous like Abbott did.” Sherk straightened his glasses.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Then see about getting their DNA. Depends how things go.” He reached for his mug. “Gonna get coffee.”
Too many thoughts crammed his brain. Tempted to tell Sherk about Buckley’s offer, he knew he shouldn’t say anything yet. How would he tell his family? His mother would faint. Or worse.
The break room smelled like strong coffee and warm blueberry muffins. Jack followed his nose to the coffee pot where Velda was pouring herself a cup. “Bailey, what’s up with the latest murder? Vic was a coach I hear.”
“You hear too much, Vatava. Keep your nose to the grindstone.”
“Ha, always do. Tried to save you a muffin.”
Jack noticed a measly half pastry on the tray, surrounded by crumbs. “Whaddya do? Eat the whole pan?”
Velda waved toward groups of cops sitting at small tables. “Those cretins got here first, the jerks.”
Jack scooped up the remaining muffin in a napkin. “Seen Blondie yet?”
“Yeah, in the hall. In a sour mood. She needs a good lay.”
“Vatava, I’m shocked how your mind works.” Jack started for the door. “By the way, I agree.” He stuffed the crumbly mess into his mouth and headed out of the room.
When Jack returned to his desk, he and Sherk studied the list of former students. Jack gulped his coffee. “Let’s map out the closest ones and go from there.”
“Right,” Sherk said. “Let’s see. Mark Percy lives in Bridgeport. Works at Testa Produce on Racine.”
“Might be hard to get him alone. Better to get ‘em at home, but don’t wanna wait all day,” Jack said.
. . . . .
Twenty minutes later, Sherk drove south of Pershing to the white, unadorned produce warehouse on Racine near Forty-fifth Street. Over 100 years old, the family-owned business supplied restaurants, schools, and other facilities with the freshest, tastiest produce in the Midwest, according to their marketing department.
When Jack and Sherk entered the building, a young, dark-haired woman of hefty proportions greeted them. “May I help you?”
After introducing themselves and assuring her that Mark Percy was in no trouble with the law, they followed her into a vast room with rows of multicolored fruits and vegetables in flat crates. Scents of citrus and rainforest filled the air, as they walked down the aisle to a back door.
The woman opened the door. “Hey, Josh,” she called to a middle-aged man beside a truck. “Mark here?”
“Yeah, just a sec.” He seemed to text someone. “Be right here.”
The woman turned to leave. “He’ll be here in a minute. Lucky he’s not on the road yet.”
“Must be a driver,” Sherk said.
“What clued ya in?” Jack glanced around the parking lot where men in navy coveralls loaded boxes into semis. The trucks were bright blue with red lettering, with an image of a pineapple in a lower corner.
A robust-looking red-haired man trotted over. “Mark Percy.” He held out his hand.
“Detective Bailey, Bridgeport PD.” Jack flashed his badge. “My partner, Detective Sherkenbach.”
Percy wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and black jeans. His smile was wide, and he exuded a hearty confidence. “What can I do for you guys?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk? Won’t take long,” Jack said.
“I’m due to pull out in a few minutes. Can we talk here?” Percy asked.
No one in sight. “I think that’ll work,” Sherk said.
“We’re investigating the recent murder of Sister Anne Celeste from Nativity of Our Lord Church in Bridgeport.” Jack watched him closely.
“Oh, yeah, heard about that. She was my fifth grade teacher back then.” Percy tucked his phone in his pocket.
“Do you remember a Father McGarvey from that time?” Sherk asked.
“Oh sure. Father Dan. An okay guy. A little strict, but most were back then.” If Percy were hiding something, he was a damn good actor.
“Were you an altar boy when he was there?” Jack asked.
“Nah. My mom wanted me to, but I was more interested in sports. I said I didn’t wanna, so she didn’t fight me on it.”
Jack nodded. “Did you ever hear anything negative about him?”
“Just rumors after he left about allegations against him. But nothing ever came of it far as I knew. Why? You think— “
“We don’t know anything for sure, Mr. Percy,” Sherk said. “We’re questioning Sister Anne’s former students when Father McGarvey was there.”
Percy kept eye contact. “Yeah, I see. You think there’s a connection to Sister’s murder with Father Dan.”
“We’re exploring all the options.” Jack figured Percy to be a dead end. “We won’t take any more of your time.” He handed the man his card. “Call if you think of anything more. Thanks.”
“Okay. Wish I could’ve been more help.” Percy turned. “I gotta run.”
The men shook hands and proceeded on their separate ways.
Back in the car, Jack put on his sunglasses. “Didn’t get a vibe he was involved.”
Sherk drove away from the curb. “No. He doesn’t fit the profile of an abused kid. Too friendly.”
“Right,” Jack said. “Confident, willing to talk. Doesn’t seem like a kid who was picked on in school. Not like Abbott.”
Sherk stopped at a red light. “You’d think a kid who attended Catholic school would end up with a higher job than a truck driver.”
“Back then you didn’t have to be rich to go to Catholic school. Hell, look at me. All of us went. Our church had a deal. Kind of a sliding scale.”
; “I see.”
“Never checked, but heard truck drivers with seniority make pretty good money. Maybe I should look into that.” Odd, for a second, Jack forgot his windfall. Took getting used to.
Their next stop was Armour Square, to check out Tom Chu, another guy on the student list. They found the office, drove around the block for a parking place, and trudged into a drab gray one story building. Lettering on the front window read Liu & Tang Tech.
“Liu must sell orange juice,” Jack said.
“Ha, ha.”
When Sherk inquired about Tom Chu, the receptionist said he was out of town and would return in a week.
Next they headed for Lawndale, northwest of Bridgeport. Sherk parked the car in a shopping strip and led the way into a T-Mobile store on Twenty-sixth Street. He asked a smiling young Indian man if he could speak to Joe Miller.
“Sorry, you just missed him,” the man said. “He’s off till tomorrow afternoon. One o’clock.”
“Thanks,” Jack said.
“You guys interested in our new model? Just came in.”
Jack turned to leave. “Some other time.”
“I’ll take a look,” Sherk said.
“Here’s the best Smartphone of the year.” The guy whipped out the device from the glassed-in display case. “I give you the Galaxy S III”
“If you’re givin’ it away, I’ll take one,” Jack said. “Come on, Sherk. Got work to do.”
Quite a switch. Usually Jack was the slacker.
Heading south, they exited onto I-55 toward Midway Airport where Donald Sowder, the last man on the list, worked.
“How are your plans for the Germany trip coming?” Jack asked.
“Don’t know yet. Erica has another round of chemo this Friday. She’ll ask the doc about it then. May be too soon to tell.”
“Yeah.” Jack couldn’t think of anything profound to say.
Ten minutes later, they turned into the main terminal of the airport. Sherk slid the cruiser into a spot under the gigantic parking structure. He and Jack made their way past people of all ages and sizes waiting, departing, standing, hurrying. Entering the building, they headed toward a customer service counter, where a uniformed older man stood tapping on his phone. Jack flashed his badge, introduced himself and Sherk, and asked to see Donald Sowder.
“Just give me a second here, fellas.” He clicked several times, waited. “He’s over in Area H, restricted, but not for you guys, ha ha. Here’s a map.” The man took a highlighter and traced their route to the destination.
“Shit, must be five miles,” Jack said as they walked toward an escalator.
“The exercise will do us good. Wonder if Donald has a supervisor. Want to call first?”
“Nah. Better to catch him off guard. A boss may give the guy a heads up.”
Flight announcements blared through the PA system as they passed magazine and snack shops, Starbucks, deli counters. The enticing aroma from a Cinnabon bakery floated through the air. Jack noticed a Chick-fil-A as they turned a corner.
“Let’s stop here on the way back. I’m starvin’.”
“Sounds good. They offer a Southwest salad that’s quite healthy.”
“To hell with healthy. I’m having the spicy sandwich deluxe with waffle potato fries. Gotta live a little, Sherk.”
“A little or longer?”
Thinking of Erica, Jack didn’t want to prolong this line of conversation.
After several minutes they reached Area H, where a uniformed airport official directed them to an office area across the entry space. An older man with a white billy goat beard sat at a desk staring at a computer monitor. A nameplate read ‘Bob Wolfe’. He glanced up. “May I help you?”
Sherk made the introductions. “We need to speak to Donald Sowder. Are you his supervisor?”
The man’s eyes widened. He began to stand, hands on desk. Jack said, “Don’t worry. He’s not in trouble. We’re gathering information is all. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Well, ah, Donald isn’t here today.” Wolfe cleared his throat. “He called in sick.”
“I see,” Jack said. “Does he miss much work?”
“Hardly ever. Other than planned vacation days, Donald is never gone. Never been sick before that I can recall.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe,” Sherk said. “We’ll try another time.”
The man coughed. “Yes. Yes. You could call first.”
“Right.” Jack turned to leave. He hoped Wolfe wouldn’t call Sowder and tell him the cops came to visit. But telling Wolfe to keep mum would’ve made the guy more suspicious than he might already be.
Retracing their steps, Jack and Sherk stopped at Chick-fil-A. After devouring their meals of chicken and salad, they found their way out of the terminal. “Think we should surprise Sowder at home?” Jack asked.
“I do, even though we’ll rouse him from his sick bed.” Sherk unlocked the cruiser.
Climbing into the car, Jack said, “He’s no more sick than I am. Interesting how the guy’s a no-show at work right after the news stories break. Frickin’ Skokie cops.”
Jack dug out Sowder’s home address and entered it into his phone. “Lives in Garfield Ridge, right in this neighborhood. Must take him all of ten minutes to get to work.”
Sherk exited the airport and turned onto Central. At Fifty-fifth, he hung a left, and slowed down in front of a square gray building. He parked the car in the rear and turned off the engine.
Jack’s stomach tightened. “Got a feeling about this, Sherk.”
“You rely on instinct too much. Better to let your intellect guide you.”
Jack bristled. “Yeah, yeah.” Didn’t need a lecture when his nerves were on edge.
The air was sunny and crisp as they walked from the car into the entryway. A row of mailboxes lined one wall. Jack squinted as he read the labels. “Here it is. D. Sowder. 3B”
A desk cluttered with file folders sat near the elevator. “Nobody around to screen us. Let’s go.” Jack punched the button.
They emerged from the elevator onto the third floor and found 3B several doors down the hallway.
Jack held his ear against the door. He heard a TV or radio. Men’s voices.
No bell, so Sherk rapped. “Mr. Sowder?”
The TV stopped. Silence.
Jack rapped louder. “Bridgeport police. Open up. Just want to talk to you.”
Nothing.
Sherk nodded at Jack. “Sowder, don’t make us break the door down.”
Nothing.
“Okay, you asked for it,” Jack yelled. He pounded three times. Heard a click from the other side. Sounded like a lock.
The knob turned. Door opened a crack. No one visible.
Jack reached in his side holster and pulled out his Glock.
Chapter 31
Sherk edged away from the door and stood alongside the wall. Jack pointed his gun straight ahead. Across the hall a door opened, and a frowsy older lady stuck her head out.
“What the hell’s going on? I’m gonna call the cops.”
“We are the cops, lady,” Jack snarled. “Get back in your room. Close the door.”
“You sure you’re cops?” She eyeballed Sherk. “Where’s your ID?”
Sherk stepped toward the woman. “Ma’am, please go back in your apartment.” He flashed his badge close to her withered face.
“Okay, okay, but that guy’s harmless. Weird, but harmless.” She stepped back and slammed the door.
Jack knocked
one more time. “Come on, Sowder. Open up. Slowly.”
“Let me see your badge.” A tentative voice from inside.
Sherk held out his ID. “Mr. Sowder, we just want to talk to you. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
The door opened several more inches. “I’m not feeling well. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“No we can’t.” Time for bad cop. Jack rammed in the door, and a thin middle-aged man fell backwards.
The man staggered and righted himself. “Hey, what are ya doing? I didn’t do anything.”
“Then you got nothing to worry about.” Jack pointed his gun at the floor, noting the man’s short, brown hair, thick wire-rimmed glasses. His faded red t-shirt and gray sweatpants loose fitting, rumpled. A faint musty odor hung in the air.
Sherk indicated a threadbare sofa. “Have a seat, Mr. Sowder.”
The man dropped onto the couch. Sherk sat beside him, Jack stood.
“Why were you hiding, Mr. Sowder?” Sherk asked.
“Ah, I dunno. I’m not feeling well and I didn’t know— “
“Yeah, you said that already. Called in sick from work.” Jack slid his gun into its holster.
“You went to my work? You talked to my boss? Why? What do you want?”
“Slow down, Mr. Sowder.” Sherk leaned toward the man.
“Donald. Call me Donald.” He pushed up his glasses with a shaky hand.
“Okay, Donald.” Sherk’s voice softened. “Take a couple deep breaths. Try and relax. We have a few questions and then we’re done.”
Donald took a deep breath and appeared to calm down. He glanced back and forth between Jack and Sherk. “All right. What do you want to know?”
Jack took out his notebook. “Were you a student at Nativity of Our Lord School in Bridgeport back in the seventies?”