by Rick R. Reed
"Randy, it ain't gonna do any good! You know nothing. You don't have an idea of where that monster might be." His mother stood in his bedroom, wringing a dish towel and staring at him, trying to make eye contact he refused to give. Randy was dressing to go out and hunt. He had put on black corduroys and a black sweatshirt. The only thing that wasn't black was the beige of his boots. He wanted to be inconspicuous.
"Ma, I have to look for him. He killed Maggie.
He ruined my life." Randy was beyond emotion; his words were empty, his voice that of a robot, no inflection or feeling.
His mother tried to take his shoulders and make him look at her. He shrugged her away. To his back she said, "Listen to me. I know what he did. He took Maggie away from me too. You don't think I loved her? She was like my own! But Randy, this should be handled by the police. They'll know what to do. You're just going to stir up more trouble, maybe get yourself killed."
For the first time Randy turned and met his mother's eyes. "You think I care?"
"Don't say that."
'The police will just let him out; there'll be some little technical hitch and the guy'll go free. That's what always happens."
"It is not, Randy, and you know it. Lots of criminals pay for what they do. Why do you think the prisons are overcrowded? At least—"
"I have to set things right myself."
"What are you talking about?"
Randy pulled on a pair of gloves and shrugged into his jacket. "Nothing, Ma. I just want to find him."
"Please, please don't do anything you're gonna live to regret. I've had enough pain. I don't want to see my boy in prison."
"Who says I'm going to prison?"
"Then what?"
'Then nothing."
Randy started toward the stairs, his mother behind him. "Randy, please ... I'm begging you.
Don't go after that man. I'll call the police and we'll all talk to the detectives."
"No, Ma." Randy descended the remaining stairs and, without pausing, opened the door and went into the evening.
He got in his car and started it. He let the engine warm and played with the radio dials, trying to find a good station. Finally he turned the radio off: no distractions.
The buzzing of the door seemed louder than usual, and Randy hurried to get inside. The noise hurt his ears. He took the three steps to the first floor in two hops and stopped in front of Pat Young's door.
The voice that answered the knock sounded nervous and weak. "Who's there?" came out as a whispered croak.
Randy paused, wondering whether he should be truthful.
"Who the hell's there? I can't see through the goddamn peephole!"
"Bob Kneffer."
"I don't know any Bob Kneffer. Get the hell away from my door."
"I was sent by the super," Randy said, thinking as he went along. "He wants to put new plumbing in some of his buildings. I need to check yours out."
"What? At night?"
"I do special jobs for the super when I'm not at my regular job. This happens to be the most convenient time for me." "Sure, sure. I'm going to have to call the super before I let you in."
"He's not home!" Randy shouted, thinking furiously. "Didn't he give you a note? He was supposed to send one to all the tenants. That damn guy. Listen, I have a copy of what he said he was going to send, with his signature and everything. Would that be enough?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"All right, lady. Forget it. But I'm warning you, I don't know when I'll get back, if ever."
"All right, all right."
Randy listened as Pat slid the bolt across the door. When their eyes met, she gasped and tried to slam the door in hi£ face.
But she wasn't quick enough. Randy slammed his arm into the door, flinging it open. He hurried inside, almost knocking Pat over in her wheelchair.
She started toward the telephone. "I'm calling the police. You have no right."
Randy got in front of her, picked the phone up, and ripped it out of the wall, making sure he pulled hard enough to yank the box away from the wall. She wouldn't be using her phone for a while.
"You prick!"
"Don't you call me a prick." He leaned down so his face was inches from hers. "You're protecting a killer and I want to know where he is."
"I don't know."
"Remember the beating I gave you last time? It's nothing compared to what you'll get this time if you don't tell me where he is." "I told you; I don't know." Pat wheeled herself toward the little kitchenette, away from Randy.
"I think you do."
"Look, there's no way I can prove I don't know where he is," Pat said, finally reaching the kitchenette and backing into it. "I'd like to know where he is myself. But I don't."
Randy noticed her groping for something and walked closer.
She pulled her arm out from where it was hidden. She had a butcher knife in her hand. "Don't you come any closer to me, asshole! I'll cut you, I swear."
Randy smiled. "You're just like him, aren't you?"
"You don't know anything. Now get out of here."
Randy laughed and tried to grab the knife from her. He felt a coldness on his leg, like someone had placed ice there . . . and then wet. He looked down to see his pants hanging open on one thigh. Blood was soaking the material. "You bitch," he whispered. "I oughta kill you."
"Come on," said Pat, holding the knife up. "Come on, why don't you try?" She laughed.
Randy started limping toward the door, holding his hand over the cut in his leg. The blood trickled steadily between his fingers. "I'll be back," he said. "And you'll be sorry."
"Big man, big talk!" Pat shrieked, and laughed.
She watched as he opened the door and left. The door remained ajar. Pat wheeled over and closed it. She made sure both locks were in place.
"My God," she whispered, "where are you, Joe?
Where are you, my baby?" She thought to herself, hoping in some way, Joe would pick up on her thoughts: Don't you know you'd be safe with me? I'd do anything, anything to help you. Please come home, come home to me.
Randy drove west on the Eisenhower Expressway, back to Berwyn. His eyes burned, crying out for sleep. The wound in his leg had crusted over, black and caked. He hoped it wasn't infected. The expressway was quiet; Randy had only a few cars for company. The highway stretched before him, Berwyn a million miles away.
He had been to the Lawson YMCA, where they refused to help him, saying their registration records weren't open to the public. Randy hadn't wanted to tell the clerk whom he was looking for, not when everyone in the Chicago area was now familiar with the MacAree name. He had slipped the clerk twenty dollars and got a chance to look at their registrations for the last month. There was no Joe MacAree listed. Randy hadn't really expected to see one.
Dejected, he closed the book. He had completed his tour of solid leads.
From that point Randy had done nothing but lock the doors on his car and cruise Chicago's seediest neighborhoods, looking for the face in the photograph, certain he could recognize it even if it was disguised.
He had seen fights, he had seen prostitutes (all kinds, women, girls, and boys), he had seen a car broken into. He had not seen anyone who even resembled Joe MacAree.
Randy really hadn't expected to see him. But he had hoped. God, had he hoped.
Now, as he pulled up in front of his parents' home, he noticed the living room lights were still on. Annoyed, he wondered why his parents weren't in bed. He didn't think he could face his mother now. All he wanted to do was walk in the door, head up the stairs, and sleep ... so he could begin searching again tomorrow. The hell with his job. It didn't matter anymore.
He headed up the front porch steps, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. He got them out, groping for the front door key. Before he could find it, his mother had peeked out from behind the curtain and then hurried to open the door.
"Randy," she said, stepping aside to let him in, "don't be mad. You father and I had to do what we thought was r
ight."
Randy looked into the living room to see two men, dressed in suits. They sat stiffly on the living room furniture, holding cups of coffee. One stood when he saw Randy.
His father emerged from the living room. "Son, these are detectives from the Chicago Slasher task force." His father spoke with formality, almost announcing the men. Randy supposed it was his father's way of showing respect for their positions. "They'd like to talk to you."
"Did you call them?" Randy looked at his mother.
"I did what was best, Randy."
"Son, someday you'll realize this was the right thing to do." "I don't have to talk to these men." "I'm afraid you do," one of the detectives said. The other detective put his coffee cup on the couch. He stood and extended his hand. "I'm Pete McGrew."
26
"Look. I don't have anything for you," Randy said. "I'm tired. I'm going up to bed." Randy turned and headed toward the stairs.
"We can bring you in for questioning. We have that authority."
Randy turned and stared at the detective who had spoken. McGrew. He looked at the Irish face, the ice blue eyes, and the curly black hair. The guy was a kid. Can't be much older than I am, Randy thought. He's just trying to throw his weight around. Well, I don't have to listen to his shit. The cops didn't want my help when I was willing to give it to them.
"Randy, please," his father spoke up. He sounded tired. "You have to cooperate. Don't you want the killer to be caught? Do you want sorpe other guy to lose his wife, or his daughter, or maybe his mother to this man?"
"I don't care about anyone else," Randy said. "He took that away from me."
"Who, Randy?" McGrew asked. "Who took that away from you?"
Randy shook his head. He smiled. "Whoever killed my wife."
"Stop this, Randy. Talk to these men. Before you get in trouble." His mother's eyebrows knitted together with concern.
The other detective spoke. He was older: bald pate, pot belly, suit going shiny in the elbows. He wore wire-frame glasses, aviator style. Randy supposed he thought they made him look younger. "Ma'am, why don't you and your husband go on up to bfed. We can handle this. It might be easier with the room a little less crowded." He looked at both of Randy's parents. "Would you mind?"
"Not at all, officer. C'mon, Theresa." Randy's father led his wife out of the room. Randy didn't watch them but heard the stairs creaking.
"Mr. Mazursky, I don't want to be a tough guy with you," McGrew said, making eye contact with him and holding it. "It's late and all of us are tired. Sam and me have been working since seven o'clock this morning. Our wives and kids don't know what we look like anymore. If you force us to we'll drag you into the Chicago station for questioning. Tonight. Make it easy on yourself. Tell us what you know."
Randy sat down and stared at his hands, twirling the wedding band he still wore. He noticed the sculptured pattern of the olive green carpeting.
McGrew sat down next to him and squeezed his shoulder. "I know it must be hard. I know how I'd feel if I lost my wife. I'd wanna get the son of a bitch myself, make sure."
More than what the detective said, Randy responded to his touch. It was solid and caring. He felt something drain out of him. Not the desire for revenge, but maybe a little of the pain, a little of the loss.
"Listen, Randy. I can't give you license to do anything. As a matter of fact it's my duty to advise you to stay out of this and let the police do their jobs. But you gotta understand: If you have a lot of help, there's a much better chance of this guy getting caught and punished than there is with just you out there looking for him."
"Guys like him always get off. Technicalities. Insanity."
McGrew shook his head. "It won't be easy for this guy, Randy. The whole city's watching this case. They want blood. They aren't going to think much of us or the government if he gets off easy. There'll be sentencing . . . and it won't be light."
"How do you know?"
The other detective in the room spoke. "Will you listen to what he said? This case has generated so much goddamn publicity. The public isn't going to sit still for easy sentencing or insanity."
"Tell us what you know, Randy. It can't hurt." McGrew looked at him. "How can it hurt to have lots of trained professionals out there looking for this guy? Besides, we already have a lead on who he is, so even if you don't tell us anything here tonight, we're gonna crack this case any day now."
Randy looked at the other man. "Is that right?"
The other detective raised his hand, as if he were taking an oath. "It's true, Randy. We have witnesses and a lot of evidence. They're out there looking for someone right now."
Randy thought for a long time, a time in which McGrew thought the young guy wasn't going to tell them anything. Then he looked up at both of them and said, "Okay."
Sam, the other detective, sat down and took out a pad.
"Randy, do you know who killed your wife?"
"I'm almost positive. His name is Joe MacAree."
The two detectives looked at each other, trying hard not to betray any emotion.
"What makes you think that?" Sam asked.
"It started when I went back to our old apartment to get some clothes about a day after Maggie was killed." Randy paused, took a deep breath. "I was just about to leave when I saw something shiny on the kitchen floor. It was a lighter. Turned out it was monogrammed 'J.D.M.' I tried to call the Berwyn cops at that time, but they kind of brushed me off." Randy ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at them. "I'm sorry, but it pissed me off."
The detectives nodded.
"I can get it for you, if you like."
"We'd like that, Randy."
"I'll be right back." Randy bolted up the stairs.
The detectives watched him. Sam said, "Do you fucking believe this?"
McGrew shook his head. "I didn't think we'd get this much. Shows you should listen to your hunches."
"Yeah. When the kid's mother called, I didn't know. Thought we were just gonna calm down some strung-out husband."
At the sound of Randy's footsteps on the stairs, McGrew said, "Be quiet. Here he comes."
Randy returned and held the lighter out for McGrew to take. McGrew turned it over, weighing it in his hand and looking at the initials. He handed it over to Sam, who, after giving it a once-over, put it in his pocket.
McGrew asked, "How did you connect this lighter with MacAree?"
"I got a phone call from this woman that lives across the street from me. She said she knew who killed my wife and would tell me . . . for a price." Randy's eyes became angry. "Can you imagine that? Calling up someone whose wife has just been murdered and trying to sell them information?" Randy shook his head. "I hung up at first. Then, when she called me again, I decided I would meet with her. Find out what she knew."
"What happened?" Sam asked.
"I met her at some coffee shop and, once she realized I knew who she was, she decided we should go back to her place." Randy then looked embarrassed. His face reddened and he rubbed at the back of his neck. The detectives thought maybe he was going to tell them he made it with her or something.
"I beat the shit out of her. She demanded thousands of dollars. I just couldn't control myself. I went a little crazy."
After Randy didn't say anything, McGrew urged him. "So did she tell you then?"
"Yeah. I guess I scared her pretty bad. She said his name was Joe MacAree. She claimed she didn't know any more. I went back to see her again tonight. She's still claiming she doesn't know anything, but I think she's hiding something."
"Why's that?"
"Just a hunch more than anything else. She seems like she's protecting him. I also think if I had given her the money she could have told me more. I don't know for sure."
Sam wrote in his pad. "You know this woman's name, Randy?"
"Yes. It's Pat Young. Just like it sounds."
"Where does she live?" Sam was still writing.
"Oak Park Avenue, right across the street fr
om where I used to be. Her name's in the vestibule. You're gonna talk to her, aren't you?"
McGrew stood up. "You bet. I think we all need to get some rest." He took his coat from the back of the La-Z-Boy recliner, slid into it, and handed Sam his coat.
When Randy stood, McGrew noticed what he had kept hidden behind his hand. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked, pointing at Randy's thigh.
"Courtesy of Pat Young. Be careful." "You should have someone look at that," Sam said. "Might get infected."
Randy walked with them to the door. "I hope you'll keep me posted."
McGrew shook his hand. "We will, Randy, we will. I promise. And for what good it'll do, consider yourself warned. Stay out of this. Okay?"
Randy said, "Sure," but there was no conviction.
"Good night, Randy," Sam said, shaking his hand. "We'll be in touch."
Pat Young was smiling. Someone had just won twenty-eight thousand dollars on Jeopardy! She didn't know she was smiling.
The buzzer sounded and Pat wondered: Could it be him? She wished she had an intercom. She tried to look out her window, but there was no seeing into the vestibule. Reluctantly, she pressed the buzzer to admit whoever was ringing.
In less than a minute she heard footsteps outside her door. She was tempted to call out, "Joe?" but thought it might be that Mazursky creep again and he would think she knew something.
"Who is it?" she asked, then wheeled back to shut the TV off.
"Detective Pete McGrew. Chicago police. Please open the door."
Pat's face flushed. She felt her heart pounding. My God, she thought, has Joe been arrested? Had Mazursky squealed on her? What could she say?
"What do you want?"
"I just need to ask you a few questions, ma'am. Would you please open the door?" "Questions about what?"
"Ma'am. Open the door."
"How do I know you're a real police officer? Someone was murdered across the street, you know."
"I know. I'll hold my badge up to the peephole."
"I won't be able to see it."
"What?"
"I'm in a wheelchair."
The man outside sighed. "Do you have a chain lock?"
"Yes."
"Then put it on and open the door just a crack. I'll show you my bad^e."
