“It’s good. Let’s move on.”
Sophia takes four steps and puts the mic in Moe’s face. “Sir, how do you feel knowing a murder took place here this morning?”
“Fuck off, Sophia. That’s how I feel. Fucking fuck off.”
Sophia looks at Moe. Cameraman quits filming, busies himself with turning knobs on his battery pack. “Monica,” Sophia says with mock enthusiasm. “I thought you were a boy. You beat us here. Well done. Did you get anything?” She gives Cameraman a look to make it clear whose fault it is she didn’t arrive sooner. “Never mind. I don’t care. Excuse me. I have to get back to making news.”
“Journalists report news. Not make it.”
Sophia flips Moe off, showing that her long polished nails are encrusted with tiny fake jewels. She struts her fat ass away.
Cameraman gives Moe a nod and counts it down again as Sophia puts the mic in Michael Jordan’s face. “Officer, what can you share about the attack?”
He glances over his shoulder to the men near the dumpsters. “No. Comment.”
Moe follows his gaze. Oh my fuck! She knows the shorter detective. She hadn’t realized who he was before. While Michael Jordan is occupied, she scoots over to Flattop. “Officer,” Moe says. “What’s your name? Off the record.”
“Chapman. Patrick.”
“Thanks, Patrick. I’m Moe. I work for Text Block. Can you do me a favor and tell Whistler that Moe wants to say hello?”
“What’s a Whistler?”
“Down there. Whistler Diaz. He’s my cousin.”
Officer Chapman looks confused but says, “I’ll let him know.”
Geometry of the Learning Curve
The first thing Whistler learned as Ruther walked away was that the big man in the small jacket was not named Tiny. “I’m Ezekiel. Don’t call me Zeke.” He’d said it as he and Whistler followed Ted toward a half-hidden body left to rot between dumpsters.
Whistler was nervous about the reality he was walking into. His mind looked for a distraction and noted that despite Ezekiel’s size, he moved with a light step. He said, “I’ve never met an Ezekiel. It’s distinctive. I notice distinctive names. My name’s Whistler.” Ted and Ezekiel both stopped and turned. He knew the look. They expected an explanation. “Don’t ask,” he said. Neither of them asked. They had all started walking again.
Ted lugs an oversized wheeled duffel behind him. It has an enormous Blackhawks patch on the central compartment. The small wheels vibrate over the asphalt, and the sound moves through the frame and is magnified by the hollow of the bag, turning the soft rectangle into a resonant amplifier. The whirring sound surges and recedes in rhythm with Ted’s long strides. It swells as they near the corpse. The sound makes Whistler a little crazy. His forehead starts to sweat. His armpits feel wet. He mops the sheen from his face with the rolled sleeve of Ruther’s shirt. Whistler realizes he’ll need to get it dry-cleaned before he returns it. The duffel stops.
Ted unzips the bag and passes out blue booties. Ezekiel forces the average-size booty over his above-average shoe. Ted hands around a box of latex gloves. Whistler snaps one on his right hand. His left he leaves free for working his tablet.
They approach the body. A woman. She is bruised and scraped flesh with matted hair. She is deadweight in the early stages of rot. She’s the meat that remains when the soul leaves. The way she lies looks uncomfortable. The rumpled and crushed shrub of her hair causes Whistler to brush his own hair down. She had soiled and wet herself. To witness a body so nearly lifelike but clearly dead causes activity in the less-evolved corners of Whistler’s brain. He takes a step back.
The woman looks young. Fit. Dressed in athletic gear with expensive running shoes. Her throat is mottled with dark marks. At a casual glance, Whistler might think she wears a scarf. Her body is on its left side. Hair hides her face. There’s a pool of blood on the pavement under her head, a congealed brown halo.
Whistler doesn’t know what to do; he stands and gawps. He shuts his mouth and looks to the other men. They wear neutral expressions. He tries to emulate them, tries to be professional. I’m not fooling anyone.
Ted squats; his bony knees make sharp angles. He eyes the body. He shifts his center of gravity to fish in his duffel and get out evidence baggies.
Whistler backs further away. He powers on the tablet. He swipes and taps and starts taking photos with the pad. He types notes with one hand, capturing as many details as possible.
“Do we know who the victim is?” Whistler asks.
“Not yet,” Ted says.
Whistler tries to suss it out by the numbers. Given the victim’s outfit, she was likely going to or coming from the park along the lakeshore. He looks toward the lake. Twenty yards away, Hoss has the tunnel taped off and is standing guard.
Ezekiel is done with his initial assessment. He says respectfully, “This is where it happened. She may have been dragged this way.” He draws a pretend line from the tunnel to the body. “The killing happened here.”
Ted takes a digital recorder from his bag and starts it. He moves between the dumpsters. A breeze comes off the lake, rushes through the tunnel and stirs the scene. A rancid smell swirls from one of the dumpsters, sour, like food waste sharp with rat piss.
Ted places two fingers on the woman’s carotid artery. “No pulse,” he says. “It never hurts to check.” Ted talks as he carefully examines the body, starting at the head, working his way down. He is slow, meticulous. “The victim is a white female. Early thirties. Cause of death appears to be manual strangulation. These contusions are excessive.” He gently slips his hand under her neck and lifts lightly. “Based on rigor around the neck and jaw, but absent in the limbs, I estimate time of death two to four hours.”
Whistler looks at his watch and makes a note. He hears a commotion. Chief and Champ are keeping a few people away. He sees a tall man with a camera on his shoulder. He turns from the news crew.
Ted’s attention is on the dead woman’s head, walking his fingers carefully over her scalp. “Brown hair of medium length. Recent cut and style. Expensive. Its rumpled, but no split ends, tasteful, conservative. She has product in here, maybe some kind of paste. It’s crispy near the roots. Dried perspiration. I’d guess white-collar job. She may have been exercising recently, or the sweat could be from the struggle. Based on damage to her throat I’d guess she died quickly. Maybe too fast for this much perspiration. I’ll do a rape kit at the shop. Maybe we’ll find DNA. But her clothes look undisturbed. A laceration under her head. I’ll look when we move her.”
Whistler asks, “Is it possible a blow to the head was cause of death?”
“This amount of blood …” Ted leans back to let Whistler see the puddle. It looks like take-out duck sauce left in the fridge. “It’s not a major wound. Likely happened during the struggle. Even minor scalp wounds bleed a lot.” He folds himself back over the woman. “Her right ear is pierced, but no earring. I’ll check her left in a moment.”
Ted takes a light from his pocket and holds her nearest eye open. He passes the light across her pupil. “Blue eyes. I’ll get a height measurement, but I’d say five—five and a hundred and forty pounds. As expected, petechial hemorrhage in the eye indicates asphyxia caused by pressure from strangulation. Or more accurately, in this case, throttled with prejudice.”
Whistler taps notes. He walks closer, curiosity assuaging his primal need for distance.
“If someone took her earrings, we could have a motive,” Ezekiel suggests calmly, not an assertion so much as a collaborative guess. “Mugging gone too far. Maybe she fought back or lipped off? Things got out of control.”
“Not that likely to get mugged in this neighborhood. She probably wasn’t carrying a bag. Not if she was out for a run.” Whistler says.
“Maybe,” Ezekiel concedes. “But you’re more likely to be mugged than choked to death over here.”
Whistler types Mugging? Robbery? Earrings? Purse? “Do you see a phone?”
“No
t yet,” Ted says. He continues moving down the body. Periodically Ezekiel asks a question. Whistler takes notes.
Whistler edges in, leans to see the gouge of flesh missing from the underside of the scalp. He reaches his gloved hand forward to smooth her hair and get a clear view. “Look here,” he points. “See how her hair is crimped like it was pulled back. You find a hair tie?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You smell that? Like lilacs and Windex? Only a whiff.”
“No, I don’t smell it. But I caught a scent of chlorine. Maybe she went for a swim,” Ted says. “The smell of the dumpsters makes it hard to be sure. I’ll swab for compounds at the shop.”
Whistler takes a hard look at the woman’s throat. “I’ve never seen bruising like this.”
“Someone clamped on her so hard he crushed her trachea and probably fractured vertebrae. Her neck was squeezed out of shape. She never had a chance.”
“Someone she knew or someone out of control,” Ezekiel says.
“You said he. Did you mean to say he?” Whistler asks.
“Most likely a man. On the large side,” Ted says.
“Statistically, a female victim choked to death, a man did it.”
The redheaded patrolman approaches. “Detective Diaz. There’s a woman. A reporter.”
“Hold on,” Whistler says. He watches Ted pat the corpse around the hips. At the small of her back, he locates a zip-pocket in the waistband of her stretch pants. He produces a blank magnetic key card and a mashed roll of five-dollar bills.
Ted says, “No ID. Just this.”
Ezekiel says, “Well, shit.”
Whistler turns to Champ, “You heard Ruther. Don’t say a word to the reporter. Skulk.”
“Yeah. I know. She says she knows you. She wants to say hello.”
Whistler looks west. He sees Moe. She’s cut her hair even shorter, but there’s no question it’s his cousin. “Okay. I’ll get there when I get there.” He continues watching as Ted zip-ties clear bread bags around the dead woman’s hands.
“Excuse me, Detective,” Champ says.
“Yeah?”
“She called you Whistler.” Champ squares his body in preparation to ask a follow-up question.
Before he can form the words, Ezekiel and Ted say, “Don’t ask.”
Like a Boss
The hanging supplies slap against the insides of the panel van when Kaz breaks hard at the intersection of State and Congress. The light turns green, and he leans hard on the horn in a rage at the cars that clog the intersection.
“The light is red. You drive like fuck. Stop going. Come on!”
He edges his way between cars that blare their own horns. It takes three minutes to reach his destination and ten minutes to find parking. He backs into a spot reserved for compact cars, next to a tiny park.
The park has cast cement benches encrusted with oversized backward and upside-down letters that spell illegible words. The benches rest at perfect angles for watching dogs shit in dead grass. Kaz hates those benches. Kaz is no fan of city dogs or their owners dangling plastic bags of turds like opaque scrotums. Nor is he impressed with the abandoned lot converted into a disgusting open-air toilet with seating for perverted voyeurs.
When he rams the gearshift into park, he knows he’s blocking the car behind him. He imagines his bride’s loving encouragement: “Quit acting like a bitch.” Svetlana would approve of his ruthless parking.
Kaz jumps out, nearly dooring a bike messenger.
“Open your eyes, asshole,” the messenger calls as he swerves, standing on his pedals and pumping his legs to get up to speed.
“Fuck you,” Kaz says, flipping off the biker’s back as it moves into the distance. He jogs across the street and onto the sidewalk, checking the clock on his phone. Made good time.
He takes a moment to get focused on the task ahead. He assesses his image in the plate glass of a storefront. I look good. He uses his palms to stroke his pale hair against both sides of his head: right side, left side. I’m the boss. I’m in charge. I’ve worked hard, made moves. I’m a machine. He thinks of Svetlana again. She is a hard woman. But he believes she wants what’s best for him, what’s best for their growing family.
“Showtime,” he says under his breath.
He walks into Coffee Girl and approaches the only customer in the place. He ignores the greeting from the woman behind the counter. He sticks his hand out and forcefully pumps the little man’s hand before he can rise. He looms above the older man.
“You must be Greene. Pleased to meet you,” he says, taking charge. He chooses not to call him “Doctor Greene”—the title elevates the other man. Kaz doesn’t want that.
“Yes,” the smaller man says. Greene is not much to look at, not particularly professorial despite his credentials; not tall, neither fit nor out of shape, not young but not too old. An average, unremarkable man in a crappy brown suit and no tie, a collared shirt with the top two buttons undone over a black T-shirt with writing on it.
Kaz looks at the face of his phone and says, “Let’s get started.”
“Yes,” Greene says again. The man’s awkwardness makes Kaz feel in control.
“I’m Kazimierz Gladsky. Named after Casimir Pulaski. You know Pulaski: American Revolutionary hero, father of American cavalry, was the first to introduce the fruit-filled paczki to North America. Very famous.” He waits for a response and is disappointed. “Kazimierz was his true Polish name. That is my name too. Kaz for short or Mr. Gladsky if you’d prefer.”
Greene nods, a gesture so slight it’s more like a tic. The man’s eyes are dead.
“Did you know this city has the largest population of Poles outside of Krakow?” Kaz adds the tidbit to prove he’s no dummy. “It’s true. Believe me.”
Greene moves his head in an indefinite manner that is neither negative nor affirmative, drawing a tiny shape with the tip of his nose. Something about this Greene is off. He’s stiff and shabby like a sun-faded mannequin in a tailor shop window. Kaz sets his bag in an empty chair but doesn’t sit. “Is the coffee good?”
“This is a cortado. It is Rosa’s specialty. It is strong enough to taste. The espresso is local.” It’s not a recommendation, just a list of facts with no particular emphasis.
Kaz turns his eyes on Rosa. She’s petite and curvy with black hair. She’s so excited she bounces slightly, like she might launch through the ceiling. He approaches, raps his knuckles on the counter and smiles. “You must be Rosa. My friend says to try the cortado. Make it two.”
“I could add simple syrup if you like it sweet.”
“I do like it sweet,” he says, not talking about coffee. “Your cortado, is it full-bodied?”
“The espresso is nutty, and the milk gives it a velvety feel.” Rosa gives him a sales pitch as she works, talks about the quality of the beans and the rarity of the espresso machine. He doesn’t listen, keeps his eyes on her body as she moves it around behind the counter. When she’s done he asks, “Are you the coffee girl?”
“The one and only.”
“I didn’t expect to meet a celebrity today.” He smiles it up.
She seems to take his flattery as an unwelcome pickup line, because her only response is a polite smile. She slides the drinks across the counter. “Enjoy,” she says.
Back at the table, Kaz plunks the drinks down and takes some papers from his bag. He sips the coffee. It’s strong and, despite the syrup, bitter. He doesn’t like it. Worse than Polish coffee. The scrawny professor gulps his like it’s cold milk. Kaz doesn’t want to lose the upper hand, so he says, “Mmm, good,” and sets his drink to the side. Four dollars I’ll never get back.
“That girl seems nice,” Kaz says leadingly. He cocks his thumb at Rosa.
Greene says, “Yes.”
Kaz squares the pages of Greene’s CV loudly against the tabletop. “Mr. Greene. Associate Professor of Literature at the University of Chicago. BA, MA, PhD.” He flips the pages of the document, “Published p
apers, keynote speaker. Three years’ teaching in Moscow. You are impressive,” Kaz says. He scrutinizes Greene and qualifies the statement, “On paper.”
The little man doesn’t react to the insult. Kaz tries again. “A lot of letters after your name. I never went to school. What matters is horse sense. You agree, don’t you?”
Again the man draws some infinitesimally small shape in the air with his nose, his expression blank.
Kaz goes on, “Why are you looking for work?” He sets the pages down and leans back in a display of his intention to pass judgment.
“I was in a crash. I hit my head and died. But I got better. I don’t remember the things I used to know, so I can’t teach. I’m in a new phase and I need a job.” Greene talks like he’s repeating a mathematical proof.
Kaz taps the pages against the table again. “What do you know about Bug Off?”
“What’s Bug Off?”
“The job you applied for.”
“Oh. The card said ‘Heroic work to rid the city of the scourge of pestilence. Good pay. Full-time hours. Benefits with transportation provided.’ That’s what I know.” His monotone makes Kaz want to punch this Greene in the throat.
“What most interested you in a job with Bug Off?”
“Transportation provided. I’m not supposed to drive.” Greene doesn’t gesture when he speaks. His fingers are interlocked on the tabletop with his cortado resting between his hinged palms. He must notice Kaz looking, because he lifts the drink to his lips and gulps the remainder.
“It would be better if you could drive.”
“I used to.”
Kaz takes that as confirmation Greene can drive and moves on. “Bug Off is a family company. My father-in-law started it. I took over when he recently passed.” Kaz pauses to allow Calvert to offer his sympathies. Calvert stares, unblinking. “We provide inspections and remedies for bed bug infestations. Once we worked for individual customers. One house, one room, one couch, bed, or drape at a time. But I changed it.” He takes credit for Svetlana’s business acumen because bosses project confidence and she told him to do so. “Now we contract with luxury hotels. We check and treat rooms with discretion.” “With discretion” is a phrase Svetlana told him to use when selling Bug Off’s services. “We’re the leading Cimex lectularius remediation experts in the greater Chicago area. You are familiar with the Cimex lectularius?”
Half Dead Page 6
