American Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  “Who would threaten you here in Chicago and why?”

  Before Leone could answer, Murphy’s cell vibrated a little jig on the bar counter. He answered and listened for half a minute, scowling. He clicked off the call and looked over at Leone. “Gotta go. Domestic abuse case in progress nearby.” He plunked down enough to take care of the beers and then some. “University cop needs backup.”

  Leone tailed Murphy to the exit.

  “Why don’t you stay here?” Murphy said.

  “You order me not to come?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “Then let’s get going . . . but I’m in charge and you observe. Capish?”

  “Of course.”

  At the wheel, Murphy switched on the Ford Explorer’s blue flashers and siren. The unmarked SUV hurtled down Harrison Street to the postmodern condominiums of glass and polished steel crowding out the red brick and stone houses of a Little Italy rapidly becoming Chicago’s Littlest Italy. The Ford Explorer screeched to a stop behind a parked police car marked University of Illinois at Chicago.

  A UIC police officer hustled from the stoop of a townhouse to the Explorer. “He’s inside, Murph . . . threatening to kill himself and his wife.”

  “Did you try talking him down?” Murphy said.

  “He doesn’t think UIC cops are really cops. He won’t talk to me.”

  Murphy winked at Leone and turned to the UIC cop. “The mope’s got that right.” Murphy punctuated his jibe with a jovial shove to the cop’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. But you owe me one.”

  Outside the open front door of the townhouse, Murphy negotiated with the suspect husband who introduced himself as a UIC professor of linguistics. Swinging a bicycle chain from side to side, the professor allowed Murphy and Leone to enter but demanded that the UIC “cop-lite,” as he called him, remain outside. For that concession, the professor surrendered the chain to “cop-lite.”

  Murphy entered with Leone to see a woman cowering on the floor in a corner with a bruise on her arm. Murphy felt absurd trying to convince this egghead that the law did not allow one to “chastise” . . . as the egghead put it . . . one’s wife with the bicycle chain, no matter what early English common law had to say.

  The feeling of absurdity turned to anger when the professor ignored him and tried to engage Leone in a discussion about the phonetics of the Italian language. The egghead still had a living person who loved him in her own twisted way. He, on the other hand, had seen his wife die in his arms while wiping the sweat off her pained face with a cold cloth.

  “Enough trying to teach some sense to the professor.” Murphy faced the woman. “Did your husband beat you with a chain?”

  Sobbing on the floor, she nodded her head without looking up.

  “You’re overreacting, dear,” the professor said. “Remember. This gumshoe won’t be around later, but I will.”

  “That’s it.” Murphy read the professor his Miranda rights and prepared to handcuff him. “You’re under arrest for domestic violence.”

  “Don’t arrest him,” the woman cried out, staggering to her feet. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “I’m taking you to the station for booking,” Murphy said to the professor.

  “Can I get my wallet from the drawer in the next room?”

  “In and out,” Murphy said. “And leave the door open.”

  “Should I not accompany him?” Leone asked.

  “Not necessary.” Murphy had a plan to teach the egghead a lesson, but he didn’t want Leone to see it unfold. “Wait outside.”

  Alone with the woman, Murphy faced her. “If you back down, he’ll do it again. We can get a protective order.”

  A drawer closed in the neighboring bedroom.

  “No, no.” Swaying side to side, she held her hands over her ears. “Let him go.”

  Murphy pounded his fist into the open palm of his other hand. If he pimped the professor enough with insults maybe he could provoke . . . watch his Irish temper, they said . . . maybe then his fist would slide . . . accidentally, of course, into the professor’s face . . . or better, if, God willing, he resisted arrest . . . maybe it would slip again into his face and then again and again.

  The professor came at him with a .38 Colt revolver pointed at his chest.

  “I knew I could outwit a dumbo cop . . . even a real one at that.”

  Murphy saw his deliverance advancing toward the attacker from behind.

  Leone wrapped his arms around the front of the professor’s chest and threw him to the floor. “I suspected he would create difficulty,” he said, picking up the .38 revolver.

  “Thanks for saving my ass.” Murphy clapped the cuffs on the professor. “I owe you big time . . . partner.”

  Chapter Nine

  At District Thirteen’s roll call, Commander Jack Cronin introduced Commissario Marco Leone, standing along the back wall of the conference room with Detective Jim Murphy. “May Commissario Leone be an inspiration to you all.” The commander sat down behind the desk at the front of the room. “He came to the aid of Detective Murphy who was bein’ held at gunpoint by the perp. He subdued the perp by wrestlin’ him to the ground.”

  The police captain seated at the table facing the commander’s desk turned to the group and led a round of applause to honor the commissario. Several detectives let out whistles of approval. Wearing a Cubs baseball cap turned backward, a young undercover cop in T-shirt and jeans high-fived the surprised Leone.

  “You’re all no doubt wonderin’ why I’m doin’ the roll call today. We have a mystery in the neighborhood. And I need my detectives to solve the mystery.”

  He stood up and walked over to a wall map depicting Chicago gang boundaries dividing up the city like a Thanksgiving turkey. The biggest slices went to the Big Five: Gangster Disciples, Vice Lords, Black P. Stones, Latin Kings, and Black Disciples. For Leone’s benefit, Murphy suspected, the commander repeated what everyone in the room but Leone knew. With more than six hundred lesser gangs than the Big Five, like the Asian Boyz, the Arabian Posse, and the Insane Deuces, Chicago had become the gang capital of the United States, fueled by the sale of street drugs worth tens of thousands of dollars per day.

  A new gang calling itself the Aztec Warriors had acquired military-grade weapons and used guerilla tactics similar to those of US special operations forces. The commander’s hunch was that the leaders were hardened veterans returned from wars being fought by the United States in at least seven different countries.

  The combined gang membership across the city was estimated at about seventy thousand. That was more than three US army divisions. With each new gang, the territory of the others became smaller. The resulting turf battles meant increasing homicides and mayhem on the streets. Even established gangs split and formed separate factions. They were biting and scratching one another like rats in an ever-more crowded cage.

  The Big Five, reduced in power by police action, no longer had the ability to impose a truce, even if they wanted to. The commander concluded his overview of Chicago gangs with his perennial bit of wisdom: unorganized crime was now more of a danger to the life and property of the ordinary citizens than organized crime.

  “Not like Windy City,” Leone said. “More like Wild City.” He turned to Murphy with a smirk. “I thought crime was organized in Chicago like our Mafia.”

  “Here in Chicago we call it ‘the Outfit,’ also known as the Mob and the Syndicate. It’s been coming apart since the 1970s. The RICO Act devastated the leadership. Wiretaps and witness protection encouraged members to turn on one another.”

  Bored by the commander’s recitation of gang facts known to every detective in the room, Murphy tuned out, ruminating about what Cronin had told him a few days ago. Rumor on the street was that Santiago had returned to gang life. Not Santiago. The commander never like
d Santiago and was biased against him. Santiago was a common Hispanic name on the street. It had to be a case of mistaken identity.

  Murphy had used every tool of persuasion he had learned in books and on the streets to prevent Santiago from returning to gang life. He was good at only a few things, but working with kids was one of them. They tapped him when a grammar school needed an Officer Friendly to explain police work. His old Bridgeport neighbors said he could charm the birds out of the trees. He had that Irish knack for gab that offset his otherwise too numerous deficiencies. Santiago had denied returning to a gang, and that was good enough confirmation of Murphy’s parental skill. His son’s rehabilitation was one of his few success stories.

  “Any questions?” the commander asked, ending his gang report.

  “Where’s the mystery, Commander?” asked the captain. “This is old news.”

  No one knew how he got away with his cheek toward his supervisor. It had to be something he had on Cronin as leverage. He could get away with things no one else could.

  “Just to see if you lads are awake.” The commander grimaced, his normally pinkish cheeks flared into crimson. He loosened the knot on his tie over his white shirt. “The mystery is that gangbangers are disappearin’ from the streets, and we’re not sure why. Not even their fellow gang members know.”

  Things were at a strange pass, the commander continued, when gang leaders wanted the police to do something about locating their missing members.

  “That’s a problem?” the captain asked. “Good riddance, I say. One less gangbanger on the streets. Street cleaners don’t worry about less trash to pick up.”

  Applause broke out in support of the captain’s declaration.

  “I’ll have no more outburstin’, thank you.” The commander beat a tattoo on the desk before him with his pointer. “The problem is the gangs are blamin’ each other for the disappearances. It’s causin’ friction, it is, and unless we do somethin’, the violence is goin’ to escalate.”

  “Is the roll call over?” the captain asked.

  “It is over when I say so,” the commander replied. He paced behind the desk. “We have to find out what’s goin’ on.” Cronin sat down in his chair. “I’m lookin’ for volunteers.”

  No one raised their hand. The rookie with the baseball cap started to but lowered his hand when fellow officers drilled stares into him.

  Leone looked at Murphy for their answer. Murphy gave him a thumbs-down.

  “Do you men of the Thirteenth District. . . and women . . . want the other districts to be shamin’ you now?” The commander tapped his palm rhythmically with the pointer. There was no response to his question. “Dismissed.” He threw the pointer on the desk and stalked out of the room.

  Chapter Ten

  “They’re bringing him back here any minute,” Jim Murphy said. He resented his brother’s eyes accusing him with that cold-fish stare. “Everything’s OK.”

  “If a man with Alzheimer’s wandering near the Indiana border is OK.”

  “Santiago was supposed to watch him.” He blew out a breath. “They found him and are bringing him back. That’s all that counts.”

  “I warned you about Santiago. Once a gangbanger, always a gangbanger.”

  “That’s enough, Bryan.” His brother wasn’t going to suck him into another quarrel. “You surprised me, flying into town and showing up at my front door without notice. Why exactly are you here?”

  “The Justice Department sent me and my team to investigate Walker’s assassination. They needed their top guy here.” Bryan set down his suitcase. “Only staying a few days.”

  “Where do you start investigating?”

  “Looks like it starts”—a thin smile spread across his brother’s face—“and maybe ends with you.”

  Nothing Jim Murphy ever did was good enough. Nothing would match his brother’s accomplishments: college valedictorian, Yale Law School, clerk to a Supreme Court justice, and now deputy attorney general of the United States.

  “I was out of position, OK?” Jim clenched his fists. “But he shouldn’t have left the limo against Secret Service orders and become a sitting duck.” He unclenched his fists and looked out the window for his brother’s team’s arrival. “You just got here and already you’re in my face.”

  “Don’t get your Irish up.” Bryan set down his carry-on bag. “I didn’t blame you.”

  “It’s what you’re implying.”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  “Get off my case, Bryan, with your hifalutin crap.” He turned his back and poured a cup of coffee. His brother could get his own. “I think it best if you don’t stay here.”

  “We’ll see what Dad says about that when they bring him back.”

  “This is my house. Not Dad’s. In case you’ve been too busy to notice, I’m taking care of him with his Alzheimer’s while you’re off fancy-free in DC.”

  “Dad belongs in DC at the skilled nursing home I mentioned.”

  Jim hurried to his cubbyhole of a den to cool off and slammed the door. He had a more pressing issue to take care off than to mix it up with Bryan. He called his contact at Missing Persons to find out if Santiago had turned up. It wasn’t like him to leave home without an explanation.

  Was Commander Cronin right? Had Santiago returned to gang life? That isn’t possible. He had given Santiago everything he could in the way of counseling and tutors and fatherly love. His smartphone buzzed.

  “How you doin’, Murph?” asked the sergeant from Missing Persons.

  “Lousy.”

  “Sorry, but no news. But we found your father and we’ll find Santiago.”

  “Sure you will. Bye.”

  Something bad must have happened. Santiago must have been abducted. He and his wife had put too much love into Santiago even to imagine that their son would abandon his Alzheimer’s-stricken grandfather to return to the streets.

  From the den window, Murphy saw a familiar cop walking his father to the front door. He ran out the den past his brother to open the door before the doorbell rang.

  “Is this your father, Jim? His ID says Patrick Murphy.”

  “It is.” He went to hug his father on the porch stoop.

  His father pushed him away. “Get your mitts off me.”

  Bryan came out and hugged their father. Patrick Murphy returned the embrace. The father pulled away. “What a sight for sore eyes. What is my wonderful son, Bryan, doing in Chicago?”

  “Just some business.” Bryan had agreed not to disturb their father with news of the Walker assassination. One of the few times Patrick Murphy ever cried was on the day JFK died.

  “Who’s this guy, Bryan?” Patrick pointed at Jim. “He keeps saying he’s my son.”

  “I’m Jim, the Chicago cop, your youngest son.”

  “No you’re not.” Patrick shrank away.

  “Where’s Santiago?” Jim asked.

  “You should know. You took him away. You invaded our house and held us hostage. Did he kill Santiago?” Patrick asked Bryan.

  “Dad . . . ,” Jim Murphy said. “Don’t you remember? I’m your son, a Chicago cop just like you were.” He faced Bryan. “Tell him, damn it; tell him who I am.”

  “He’s disturbed enough.” Bryan put his arm around their father. “I don’t want to upset him some more.”

  The cop who’d escorted the elder Murphy home squeezed Jim’s shoulder and took his leave.

  “You never did back me up,” Jim said to Bryan.

  “You’re getting paranoid.” Bryan got into his brother’s face. “You shouldn’t be his guardian.”

  “Get out of my house. Before I throw you out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  From his Meridian Club penthouse, Sebastian Senex gazed down through the night onto the glowing grids of streets and expressways that made Chicago the
city of straight lines. On the surface, the everyday course of city life ran true and direct without pussyfooting and meanderings, a plain-spokenness he admired. But that was the surface where salt-of-the-earth Chicagoans lived. Under the rectilinear rectitude lay a political labyrinth where movers and shakers cut corners in the shade to make the straight ways crooked.

  Not for nothing had he named his secret organization of municipal heavy hitters the Hinky Dink Society in honor of the most colorfully corrupt alderman in Chicago’s history. Michael “Hinky Dink” Kenna and his partner, John “Bathhouse” Coughlin, were kings of corruption in a city where myriad politicians had failed to dethrone them. No one could surpass their First Ward Ball of prostitutes and drunken carousers parading through the streets or the shepherding of bribed flophouse residents to vote early and often on Election Day.

  The Hinky Dinks of the twenty-first century were more subtle. Under his leadership, this clandestine network of power brokers ran a shadow government manipulating city and county officials of both parties to do their bidding behind the scenes. The executive committee of the Hinky Dinks had urged him to get over his loathing of Franklin Dexter Walker. Getting involved in ideology, they said, wasn’t good for business. Brewster would win the presidency, they assured him. No need to get obsessed with Walker.

  They were woefully wrong in their smugness. FDW had just barely snatched the narrowest of victories in a rigged election. Unless stopped, he would have plunged America headlong into disaster. Senex had correctly decided to eliminate Franklin Dexter Walker without the knowledge of fellow Hinky Dinks. They didn’t have the intestinal fortitude. By contracting for a targeted removal, he had not only neutralized FDW. He had also derailed the political plans of Dallas Taylor.

  Because of her background, Walker’s vice-presidential candidate was the more dangerous of the two millennials. Unlike Walker, born to a power conferred by privileged social status, she had proved her mettle by clawing and scratching her way out of a south Dallas ghetto through law school and onto the Judge Dallas TV show where millions watched her small claims court drama week after week until they admired her more than any Supreme Court justice.