by Dana Killion
“Back off,” I shouted.
“Who the hell do you think you are? What right do you have to get in my business and get me fired?” he screamed at me, so close that I could smell the coffee on his breath and feel his spittle on my face.
“You got yourself fired by making a public demonstration of hate,” I said, working to control my voice, fearing that my anger would escalate his. I looked around me for an escape plan, but the sidewalk was empty. As I edged closer to the door, he followed, and I saw nothing but venom in his eyes.
“Women like you are the scourge of the earth. You don’t know your place. That ex-husband of yours should have shown you the truth. Should have trained you better.”
I said nothing but kept my gaze firm, noting every word, watching for any telltale sign of what he might do next. His views of women in the world made me nauseous, but debating the subject wasn’t an option. I needed to get away from him.
Slowly I reached into my coat pocket, remembering I’d left my house keys there. I intertwined my fingers between the blades and drew out my hand, ready to use them as a weapon if I needed.
He continued to yell his ugly rhetoric about a woman’s place and how I didn’t know mine, but I refused to engage, suspecting that any sign of weakness would only increase my vulnerability. He seemed to be baiting me, expecting me to lash out at him, growing more enraged when I didn’t cower or scream. I knew Bennett was on the edge of losing control. I scanned the sidewalk, again calculating whether I could knock him unsteady and make a run for the door.
I shifted my feet to brace myself before I shoved into his body, then saw his hands come up to strike me. I swung for his face with everything I had. Unable to avoid contact, I reached him just as he reached me. His blow sent me back into the brick, my head snapping against the hard surface. As I crouched to avoid another hit, I saw blood in the trail marks my keys had left along his jaw.
“Hey!” I heard a male voice yell as I swung back at Bennett. Before I could turn, a large man shoved his way between Bennett and me, grabbing my attacker by the arm.
“I called 911,” someone else yelled.
Bennett gave the man an elbow in the ribs and pushed away, running toward his van.
I leaned against the wall, heart pounding, sweat dripping down my neck, watching him go.
“You’re going to pay for that, bitch,” he screamed before getting in his car and speeding off.
30
Damn! My head felt as if I had a hot poker embedded in my skull.
I sat on the sidewalk, leaning against the building, trying to control my racing heart. The man who had stepped between Bennett and me stood at the curb, flagging down the police vehicle that had just turned the corner onto Erie. A woman kneeled next to me, confused about what to do. Hovering, she asked if I wanted to lie down or if she could get something for me. She had pulled a package of tissues from her purse, and I was using them to press against the back of my skull. It hurt like hell to touch, so I had a feeling there was more blood in my hair than on the tissue.
A cold compress in a darkened room was probably on the agenda for the evening. This headache had a long way to go before reaching its peak. The one positive about my adrenaline rush was that I wasn’t feeling the February temperature.
A police officer joined the woman next to me.
“The ambulance will be here in a minute,” he said. “Lean forward, if you can, so I can take a look at the damage.”
I did as I was told, but even the smallest movement made my head feel like molten Jell-O.
“Doesn’t look too bad. Probably won’t even need stitches.” He handed me a sturdier compress. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“This guy was trying to beat the shit out of her!”
The man who’d inserted himself into the altercation piped up, telling the officer what he’d seen, and his female companion jumped in, adding her perspective. They were both in their twenties and, based on their attire, probably worked in the neighborhood. They spoke so rapidly that the officer needed to ask them to take turns so he could follow the chain of events.
I was still feeling winded, so I let them talk. Hearing them describe what they saw sounded substantially more ominous than the perspective I had while experiencing it.
I’d been focused on how to tamp down Bennett’s anger, but hearing these two describe the altercation made a chill run down my spine. I was lucky they had come along and luckier still to be sitting here with what felt like nothing more than a monster headache and a bandaged head.
Lights flashing, siren at full volume, an ambulance pulled up, drawing attention to our little party. The officer stood and continued speaking to the couple that had intervened while an EMT came over and began to remove debris from my wound. I sat quietly, leaning my head on my knees while he gently dabbed at the blood and cleaned the laceration.
I didn’t know Bennett well, but the impression I’d had of him as mild mannered had just flown out the window. Not only did the man have a serious temper, but he was obviously capable of violence.
And he blamed me for his firing.
The EMT placed a cold pack on the back of my head, securing it in place with an Ace bandage he wrapped around my forehead. He then asked me to lean back and pulled out a small flashlight to check my pupils for signs of a concussion. When he finished, Michael was crouched alongside him.
I looked up into his worried brown eyes. “I can think of better ways to get attention,” he said.
I gave him a weak smile. “Let me guess, you have the entire police force tuned in to call you if I’m ever in trouble.”
“You caught me. Guilty as charged. I pay them in beer. We even have a code name for you.” He smiled, but I had a feeling it was an effort. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
The EMT stepped away, satisfied that I didn’t have a concussion, trading places with the first officer.
“Give me a minute.” I called over the couple that had intervened and thanked them profusely, asking for contact information. The least I could do was to treat them to a nice dinner or something. When they’d gone, I filled Michael in on the background story.
“He was waiting for me outside the building when I walked out. His name is Marcus Bennett.”
“Wait, you know the guy? The guy who attacked you?” Michael asked, his forehead furrowed.
“I know of him would be a better way to put it. He is a paralegal for Victor Kirkland.”
“Victor Kirkland, the divorce attorney? The Victor Kirkland who represented both of the murder victims?” Michael asked, his voice now grave.
I could see the anger bubble up inside of him. Anger at Bennett? Or anger at me for what he imagined had instigated the attack?
The responding officer stood nearby, listening to the details but not completely understanding the connections.
“Yes, that Victor Kirkland,” I said, adjusting my legs as my foot started to cramp. “Bennett was fired this morning, and he blames me.”
“I’m confused already,” the responding officer added, throwing up his hands.
“Forgive the obvious question, but why? Why exactly does he believe you interfered in his employment situation?” Michael asked.
“Let me start from the beginning. Bennett was one of the guys protesting outside of Gavin Wright’s arraignment yesterday. He, and two dozen of his women-hating friends, screamed and yelled and called Wright a hero for taking out his wife. Well, I was there, and I filmed it. When I realized one of Victor’s employees was screaming hate speech publicly, and I had it on tape, I had no choice but to share it with Victor. Thankfully, Victor responded as any rational employer would, and he fired the SOB. Therefore, Bennett blames me. And he came here specifically to let me know.”
“What did he say?”
“He ranted like a lunatic. Said delightful things like I hadn’t been properly ‘trained by my husband.’ Sweet, isn’t it? He’s an off-the-wall, eighteenth-century misogynist.” I w
as shifting from shock to anger, which I took as a good sign. “And, get this, he threatened that I would pay for what I’ve done.”
Michael’s jaw clenched, and I saw the look on his face shift from cop to boyfriend.
Like it or not, it wasn’t possible to isolate those roles anymore.
“Michael, it’s time for us to have a straight conversation about the connection between these two murders.”
31
“Are you tired of playing knight in shining armor?”
Having been given the all-clear by the EMTs, Michael escorted me back to my apartment.
“Apparently, someone needs to,” he teased. “Now, off to bed with you. Rest, I mean it, or I’ll haul you off to a lovely private cell at the Cook County jail. Trust me, you won’t like the food, so I suggest you behave.”
He led me down the hall to my bedroom, propping the pillows on my bed while I stripped down to my undies. I crawled in to the smooth, cool sheets while Michael ran off for supplies. He returned with water, Advil, an ice pack, and a towel that he laid on my pillows for protection. Walter followed him in, watching suspiciously from the end of the bed.
“Drink.” He handed me two pills and the water bottle.
“Yes, Dad.” I smiled, then gave him a kiss.
“Your cell is here on the nightstand. Call me if you need anything, okay?”
I nodded.
“I’ll check in later, maybe bring you some soup if you’re up to eating.”
I reached for his hand. “Thank you.”
He winked and smiled.
I settled back on the pillows, positioned the ice pack, and adjusted the comforter around me. With Michael gone, Walter curled up next to my leg, purring contentedly.
Despite the headache, I was wired. How had Marcus Bennett come to these viewpoints on women? What childhood trauma or backward parenting was responsible for these hateful beliefs? And how did his wife tolerate it? The extreme misogyny was beyond comprehension, at least to me, but that was an issue for mental health professionals. I closed my eyes and shut out the thoughts, letting sleep work its healing magic.
When I woke, the sky had gone dark. I switched on the lamp and removed the long-since thawed ice pack. Feeling grimy and sweaty, I stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water rinse away the dried blood and the stink of old adrenaline.
Feeling more refreshed, I dressed in yoga gear, hit my hair with just enough warm air to keep it from dripping, then rebandaged my wound.
Walter followed me into the kitchen while I turned on the teapot and opened my phone to see what messages I had missed.
A call from Borkowski, who’d been contacted by the police. And a text from Michael asking if he needed to pick up anything before he came over. I sent him back a note saying I was fine, popped a few more Advil, then took my tea to the living room. Sinking deep into the down cushions with a throw over my legs and the thriller I’d just started, I flipped the switch on the gas fireplace.
I’d barely cracked the spine when my cell phone rang. The doorman calling to say I had a visitor. Ryan Molina.
What was he doing here? I told the doorman to send him up, but I had every intention of turning him back around quickly. I couldn’t handle whatever he was selling, not tonight.
Hearing the ding of the elevator, I opened the door. Ryan stood in the doorway, droplets of snow melting on his cashmere coat.
“Are you all right? I just heard what happened.” His face was creased with worry as he looked at me, taking hold of my arm as he spoke.
My mind flitted between the real concern I saw in his face and the knowledge that he was a backstabbing pig intent on stealing my company out from under me.
“No serious damage. I just need rest,” I said, but made no effort to invite him in. I didn’t trust him and certainly didn’t trust his motives. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“What can I do?”
His gaze was penetrating, to the point that I felt exposed. I gripped the door, wanting to slam it closed and escape from his intensity.
“You look so, so vulnerable. Surely there’s something I can do.” He lifted a hand and caressed my cheek.
“I’m…” I paused midsentence at the sound of the elevator doors opening again.
Michael stepped out, stopping in his tracks as he saw us. He looked from me to Ryan and then back to me again, anger in his eyes.
Ryan removed his hand, sensing the new tension, but didn’t flinch. Looking squarely at Michael, he extended a hand. “I’m Ryan Molina, an old friend of Andrea’s. It sounds like she’s had quite a scare today.”
I introduced Michael but didn’t explain our relationship. The three of us stood in the vestibule, silent, as if this were a battle of wills to see who would walk away first.
“Get some rest, Andrea,” Ryan said, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll check in with you in the morning.” He nodded to Michael and stepped into the elevator.
I opened the door, but instead of giving me a kiss, Michael went straight to the kitchen, leaving me to follow. He set down the brown bag he’d brought in and began removing takeout containers.
“Can I take your coat?”
“Obviously you’re feeling better,” he said, his voice biting. He slipped off his coat and handed it to me before turning back to the food.
I wasn’t in the mood for jealousy or petty arguments based on an assumption, not fact. After hanging his coat, I returned to the sofa and my tea, leaving Michael to pout on his own.
Moments later, Michael joined me on the sofa. “Who was that?” he asked, wasting no time with frivolous questions.
“Ryan is a consultant who’s been hired to do some work at Link-Media. He’s also an old friend of Erik’s.”
“It looked more like he was an old friend of yours.”
“Please don’t go there, not tonight.” I didn’t have the energy for an argument and would likely say something I’d regret. “Can we restart? I’m not trying to be evasive, but now is not the time. Please, just sit with me. We can enjoy the fire, you can have some scotch, I’ll have my tea, we’ll eat something, and we’ll both be better in the morning. I’ll tell you all about Ryan another time.”
“I was just surprised,” Michael said, his voice softer. “I’m sorry, but the way he was touching you made me defensive and protective, but I can let it go. I’ll get that drink.”
As he moved toward the kitchen, I laid my head back, thankful that I had averted a tense moment but also still feeling the heat of Ryan’s touch on my cheek. What was I doing?
Michael returned with his glass. He bent down and gave me a kiss before sitting next to me on the couch. “Better?”
“Much. Did you find Bennett?” I asked.
“Not yet, but it won’t take long.” He twirled the ice in glass. “We did speak to his wife. She didn’t know where he was, nor that he had been fired.”
“That means Bennett’s going to be mad at you, too. He seems like the kind of guy who’d prefer to control the narrative on how he lost his job. What did you think of the wife?”
“Unusual. I felt like I was talking to June Cleaver, complete with an apron and pearls, or maybe a Stepford wife. She smiled at me the whole time, like there was a button on the back of her head she had to manually turn off.”
“I don’t know what their story is, but I’m surprised she spoke to you at all. I think whatever lifestyle they’re into, they’ve got some funky rules about women being alone with a man.”
“I wasn’t alone with her. Her father stood behind her the whole time, and there were two young kids hiding behind her skirt.”
The image of Bennett as he raged at me came into my mind again. Twice now I had seen and felt his palpable anger.
“Are you certain Wright hired someone to kill his wife?” I couldn’t hold back. A thought was gnawing at me. “Bennett has shown hate toward women and that he’s capable of violence. He’s also a common link between both victims.
What if his hatred went too far? What if he is the one who killed both women?”
“That’s crazy.” Michael stared at me. “You have to stop this. Let Janek and me do our jobs. I can’t debate the details of a police investigation with you.”
“Is it really that farfetched? Those guys yesterday were militant. They believe men are superior beings, and they have dim views of successful women. Do we really know how far a guy like that would go?”
32
Elyse Wright’s terrified eyes flashed in my mind, and I awoke with a start.
After a fitful night, I had finally fallen into a deep sleep around 4:00 a.m. Between the uncomfortable icepack and the headache that wanted to make my skull explode, rest had eluded me. My bedside clock said 9:00 a.m.
Shaking off the image, I moved toward the bathroom. Walter followed, watching me as I removed the head wrapping that had shifted loose in my sleep. He sat on the counter, meowing at me.
“You’re right. I look like hell.”
Michael had been kind and thoughtful and caring last night, but the minute I challenged him on the cases, he’d shut down, refusing to entertain my theory. We’d eaten our meal in near silence, and he’d left shortly after rather than spending the night. I didn’t know how to feel about it, other than feeling very alone and confused this morning. I knew he was walking a thin line that went one way, Janek’s, but to refuse to entertain any alternative thought meant CPD could be looking in the wrong direction.
I settled into my morning routine, although my movements were slow and stiff. Every shift of my head brought a new stab of pain. As I dressed, I thought about Marcus Bennett. Victor had hired him, so it was safe to assume his references and work ethic were stable. But it wouldn’t be difficult to hide extreme viewpoints in the workplace, particularly given the demanding schedules of the legal industry.
I’d heard firsthand some of his derogatory viewpoints on women and had now seen a violent undercurrent. Was that violent streak a result of losing his job? A onetime event? Or was it a thread throughout his life? I didn’t know enough to have an opinion.