“What about the women who worked here? Did you interview them yet?”
Sheriff Lundin nodded. “A mixed bag. One is practically mute. I’d say retarded, but you can’t say that nowadays. One was hysterical. Just continued screaming, ‘They killed them, they killed them all!’ Then babbled incoherently. And the last one told us what we needed to know. Said a man pulled a gun on her, then gave her instructions to watch the kids and contact the authorities at the first light of day. You want to question her yourself?”
Czarcik shook his head. Sheriff Lundin looked at him peculiarly. What kind of detective are you? she seemed to be thinking.
“But I would like to see the bodies now,” Czarcik said.
Sheriff Lundin escorted Czarcik into the Bradleys’ quarters. The bodies were already bagged and tagged.
“We weren’t expecting visitors,” Lundin said apologetically. “Want me to speak to the coroner? See if you can sit in for the autopsies?”
“No need,” Czarcik said, distracted. He walked into the master bedroom with Sheriff Lundin following close behind.
“Now in here, there’s some details we left out of our statements to the press,” Lundin explained.
“I’m listening.”
The sheriff scratched her face. “It’s the way Reverend Bradley was murdered.”
Czarcik was getting annoyed. “Well, what is it?”
“I’m trying to think of how to say it . . . clinically.”
“OK . . .”
Finally, Sheriff Lundin made a slicing motion across her body. “He was castrated.”
Czarcik clenched instinctively. “Ouch.”
Sheriff Lundin nodded. “Sometimes it’s good to be a lady.”
Once he had time to process the latest revelation, Czarcik surveyed the scene in the master bedroom. A fucking mess. A bloodbath.
“What do you think, Detective?” Sheriff Lundin asked. “This your guy?”
Czarcik gave her a noncommittal look and pointed to the wall where “Romans 12:19” was now dry. “I assume your men cross-referenced the appropriate verse?”
“Didn’t need to. Most of the people in this area are good churchgoing folks. They can cite scripture like you and I might know Beatles lyrics. Handful of them could recite the verse from memory.”
“And . . .”
Sheriff Lundin took her time replying. “‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the Lord. Or something like that.”
Czarcik wasn’t remotely surprised. It was just like Daniel. Mysterious enough to keep the locals busy looking for erroneous Satanic links, and playful enough to keep him engaged. Unlike the other murders, Czarcik had a sneaking suspicion that this one was meant specifically for him. Not the targets, of course. They had been chosen well ahead of his involvement. But the theatrics. As if Daniel knew Czarcik would appreciate them.
That didn’t make sense. Daniel wanted him out of the way. In his mind, Czarcik was an impediment, not a toy. And Daniel was a lone wolf, not a puppet master.
Besides, Daniel would have absolutely no way of knowing that Czarcik was on his tail. He was confident in his belief that his threats, as Groucho, had gotten through to the detective.
“Detective?” Lundin was staring at Czarcik, waiting for a reply.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She offered a wry smile. “I just said, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to this place, but I sure would hate to be the insurance adjuster.’”
The Rush came just as Sheriff Lundin let out a chuckle. Czarcik’s synapses were electric. The world before his eyes was a black pool of blinding colors.
Insurance adjuster.
That’s what had triggered it. Unlike his usual bouts of inspired mania, he didn’t think this one would go away until he grabbed the clue. He couldn’t afford to let the answer come to him organically. He felt the need to grasp the phrase, wrap his burning brain around it, and force the answer to reveal itself.
He wanted a cigarette. A drink. Blow. Anything to jump-start the process, to cause the random impulses to coalesce into something cogent. He said the words quietly but aloud.
Insurance adjuster.
He forced himself to ride along the stream of consciousness, from the headwaters of the words.
Insurance adjuster.
A common job. And what was it at its essence? A determiner of damages. Damages for the client. The victim. The customer. Reverend Bradley had a policy, no doubt. Who would it revert to? His wife? Dead. His children? Dead. Relatives? Unlikely. Then who? What could this chain of policy ownership reveal? Some secret? Whose . . . secret?
With that final word, Czarcik had the key. He wanted to let out a victory cry. Secret. That’s what it was. A secret. Only whose?
Sheriff Lundin was already staring at him as if he was out of his mind, so Czarcik quickly excused himself and walked hastily from the house.
It wasn’t until the warm Indiana sunshine, finally breaking through the clouds, hit him square in the face, and the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with manure filled his nostrils, that he realized just how stifling the atmosphere inside the charnel house had been.
He lit up a cigarette and sucked the thick smoke deeply into his lungs. Then he took out his phone and placed a call.
“There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?” the voice on the other end asked.
“You’ve seen it on the news?”
“No. I just woke up,” Chloe said. She sounded as though she was still half-asleep. “But I figured that’s why you were calling.”
His call waiting beeped. Czarcik ignored it. “I’m in Indiana. And I think you should meet me here.”
“Do they want to question me?” she asked.
“They have no idea who you are and no idea who was responsible for the murders.”
There was a brief silence. “Thank you for your discretion.”
“But I think that we should have a chat.”
Chloe hesitated before saying, “Where should I meet you?”
A soft breeze blew through the firs. Czarcik could smell the evergreen.
More parents were headed into the compound, their faces a combination of relief and stoicism. They passed by fellow parents leaving with their daughters, huddled like refugees from some third world war zone.
“Just get in the car and drive. I’ll call you soon and tell you where to meet me.”
“I need to shower. I can be there in a few hours.”
Czarcik ended the call and walked back to his car. He leaned up against it, watched the police working, the families leaving, and lit another cigarette.
Whoever had called while he was on the phone with Chloe had left a voicemail.
“Detective Czarcik, this is Salvatore Cicci. Of Cicci Industries. Call me back at your convenience, please. I have some information I think you’ll be very interested in hearing.”
Czarcik got in the car, away from prying eyes and listening ears. He called Sal back, got his secretary, and waited too long for the man to pick up the phone.
Sal was chipper when he answered. “Detective. Apologies for the delay, but I was on the phone with Adelman Jones. Naturally, I couldn’t just get off.” Adelman Jones was one of the biggest real estate management companies in Chicago. Czarcik doubted this was whom Sal was talking to. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting he knew of the company.
“What do you have for me?”
“A friend of mine heard about a deal going down in Chinatown. Shark fins and black bear bladders coming in from the Pacific Coast. Apparently, some Chinamen will pay a pretty penny for this shit. Supposed to have medicinal properties or something. Entire shipment is supposed to be worth three hundred grand. This the kind of stuff you were talking about?”
“No.”
Czarcik pulled away from Miriam Manor. No reason for him to go back; his work there was finished.
Even if one of the investigators managed to stumble upon something of significance—an accidental forensi
c hit—it would be of limited help in foretelling Daniel’s future plans. The folders told him as much as he could learn from the crime scene.
Czarcik’s thoughts at the moment weren’t even on Daniel. They were on Chloe, and what he had realized just before he called her.
From the beginning, he hadn’t trusted her. Not completely. She may have played the role of the guileless grieving widow, but she had lied to him before. And now he knew why.
What was worse, however, was that he’d underestimated her. This was a mistake he swore he wouldn’t make again.
TWENTY-TWO
1990
Fucking regulations. Fucking codes, ordinances, rules, and regulations.
The politicians were on some kind of crazy health kick. If the madness continued, soon smoking would be completely banned in restaurants. This wouldn’t do for Officer Paul Czarcik, currently in the second year of a pack-a-day habit.
Thankfully, Rosalita’s Café catered to smokers, with a large plastic ashtray as the centerpiece of every table.
Czarcik sat alone in the back of the restaurant, reading the Sun-Times. He had just gotten off his shift and was tired and sore. There was a Bulls game on tonight, which he was looking forward to watching. Michael Jordan impressed him. The kid from North Carolina had become a bona fide hero in the city. Some of the cops, mainly the young black ones, proclaimed him the greatest of all time. This was lunacy to Czarcik. The Bulls hadn’t even won a single championship. And the way the Pistons and Celtics were built, an NBA title didn’t seem likely any time soon.
A waitress who was probably born at Rosalita’s and who was likely to die there approached Czarcik, her pad and pencil in hand. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee. Black, please.”
She scribbled something on her pad, even though it was less than ten steps to the counter.
Czarcik turned to the obituaries, as he did every day after reading the sports section. A morbid and semi-obsessive habit. Although he wasn’t yet thirty, he had a perverse fascination with those who died younger than him.
And there she was, halfway down, the second obit on the page. The name meant nothing. Didn’t clear away the cobwebs. But her picture. Those eyes. Those eyes burned his soul.
“Nothing else I can get you?” His coffee was in front of him, the waitress waiting patiently. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He returned to the paper, and the waitress eventually walked away.
Her name was Genevieve Kuzma. She was a freshman at the University of Chicago, where her father, Dr. Wilson Kuzma, taught philosophy. There was no mention of an illness. Or an accident. No cause of death was listed.
Czarcik knew what this meant. Genevieve Kuzma had killed herself.
Jillian Eig was only eighteen years old but, as she explained to Czarcik, had been smoking since she was twelve. She was a brilliant hyperactive child, born to two brilliant and completely unequipped parents who considered cigarettes a safer alternative to mood stabilizers.
She sat on her dorm room bed, legs crossed underneath her, wearing a two-toned, long-sleeved Poison T-shirt. Czarcik sat mere feet away from her, on Genevieve’s bed, his feet on the floor.
The roommates had known each other for only a single semester—Jillian was from Saint Paul—but they had bonded immediately, like long-lost sisters.
Czarcik made Jillian rehash the discovery of the body. She had found Genevieve hanging from a curtain rod in the communal bathroom. The investigators were thorough. Foul play wasn’t suspected. It was a perfectly ordinary, if tragic, suicide.
“And she didn’t leave a note? Nothing?” he asked. Jillian shook her head, the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. “But you know why she killed herself.” Jillian nodded.
“Because of him,” Czarcik said quietly. He didn’t need a response.
Czarcik lit up a cigarette and leaned back on Genevieve’s pillow. His eyes drifted to the painted concrete wall next to her bed, which acted as a bulletin board. Flyers for local bands. A mini U of C pennant. Camel Cash. Normal teenage stuff. There were no photographs of her parents anywhere in the room.
“Why didn’t she tell anyone?” Czarcik asked.
For the first time in their conversation, Jillian seemed unsure of herself. “You really a cop?” Czarcik reached into his pocket, took out his badge, and handed it to her. She inspected it, seemingly satisfied.
“Who was she going to tell?”
Czarcik shrugged. “A counselor? The university? The police?”
“Man . . .” Jillian shook her head and snuffed out her cigarette in an ashtray next to her bed. “He told her if she spoke a word of it to anyone, she was going right back to the hospital. She said that was worse than home. And besides, who’s someone going to believe, a kid with a history of mental and emotional problems, or the esteemed professor?”
“I would have believed her.”
“Well then, I guess you’re a day late and a dollar short, aren’t you?”
The funeral was held at St. Boniface Catholic Cemetery. The priest went through the usual liturgy. Dr. Kuzma spoke eloquently about his daughter. He quoted Descartes, Kant, and some other assholes nobody in attendance had ever heard of.
Mrs. Kuzma was completely out of it, pumped so full of tranquilizers she couldn’t even sit up without the support of her husband.
The funeral was well attended. Most of the mourners were colleagues of Wilson Kuzma from the university.
Czarcik stood in the back, then left before anyone could notice him.
It was after midnight when Czarcik pounded on the Kuzmas’ apartment door.
The professor opened it, his hair askew, as if he had been sleeping. Czarcik was in street clothes. Dr. Kuzma looked him up and down. “I’m sorry, but we’re not having visitors until tomorrow.”
“I’m not a visitor.” His speech was slow, softened by alcohol.
Dr. Kuzma tried to place Czarcik. Then a flicker of recognition passed across his face. He pointed to Czarcik. “You’re that cop. The one who quoted Virgil to me.” He was pleased with himself.
“I know,” Czarcik said. Dr. Kuzma cocked his head, curious. “I know why.”
The smile melted from the professor’s face. “Then you better come in.”
Dr. Kuzma led Czarcik down the apartment’s short hallway to his study. He looked over his shoulder and held a finger to his lips. “My wife is asleep. She had a long day.”
They entered the study, and Dr. Kuzma closed the door behind them. The two stood in the lair of a serious academic, or at least one who took himself seriously. Every wall was dominated by a bookshelf, and every bookshelf was filled with books. There was a large dark wooden desk centered in the back of the room. Two well-worn leather chairs sat in front of it. To the left, flush against the bookshelf, was a leather couch. On the right wall, just off the corner of the desk, a wet bar.
An intimidating space for people intimidated by such things—children and first-year grad students.
The professor walked over to the bar. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I recall your name.”
“My name is Paul Czarcik.”
“Well, I’d offer you a drink, Paul, but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, it seems you’ve had a bit already.”
Czarcik smiled—more of a snarl—and joined the professor at the bar. He grabbed a bottle of Four Roses and brought it over to the couch. He unscrewed the top, plopped down, and took four big swigs.
Dr. Kuzma studied him. “Rather rude.”
Czarcik wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and leaned back on the couch. “You buried your daughter today.”
The professor sat down in the chair behind his desk. He stared across the room at Czarcik. “My daughter was a very sick young woman. While I dreaded it, I feared this day was inevitable.”
“I spoke to her roommate. I know what you did.”
“Impressionable women can have such rich imaginations . . .”
Czarcik choked down the rising bi
le. “I could arrest you, you know,” he threatened.
“If you could have, you would have.”
Czarcik took a final sip of bourbon. He screwed the cap back on and placed the bottle on the floor, where it fell to its side. He rubbed his face. “Help me understand.”
Dr. Kuzma morphed into professor mode easily. “You know, according to Nietzsche, good and evil are simply man-made constructs designed to keep the masses in check.”
“We both know that’s a gross oversimplification of his argument. Is that the kind of crap you teach your Philosophy 101 students?”
The professor shook his finger at Czarcik. “I knew you were no ordinary cop. So tell me, what is it you want to know?”
Czarcik focused, his eyes pleading. “Why?”
“Because I could,” Dr. Kuzma replied without an ounce of regret or contrition. Czarcik felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. The professor bared his teeth. “What did you expect?”
Paul Czarcik believed in evil. Not in any metaphysical sense, but in the sense that the world was filled with very bad people who did very bad things. He was faced with it every day. He saw it in the streets. He saw it in the ghettos and in the crack dens. He saw it in the halfway houses and the battered women shelters. In the free clinics and emergency rooms. He saw the brutality, the pain, the hopelessness. The assaults, rapes, murders. This was Chicago, not Kansas; he had seen the worst that humanity had to offer.
And right now, he saw all of that in the face of Dr. Wilson Kuzma, professor of philosophy at the University of Chicago.
Czarcik got to his feet, unsteady. He grabbed the cushy arm of the sofa.
Somehow he made it out of the apartment and down to the street before he vomited all over the base of a parking meter.
He thought back to Genevieve’s funeral. To the Lord’s Prayer. For something, no matter how ephemeral, to hold on to.
And then he vomited again.
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