by Mich Moore
thug, but it was he who had the scarier rap sheet. If anything untoward happened, they would both be thrown out.
But the cops weren't budging.
"You know that guy?" Murphy asked. Broussard's heart almost stopped. The cop was pointing directly at Speitz.
"Uh, no—"
"'Cause if you do, we want to know about it. No other questions asked."
The man had him on the spot, and he had never been particularly good at lying. "Well—"
Davis played with the tiny umbrella in his Coke. "Since he showed up three weeks ago, we've received reports of a new crime ring trying to get traction in town. It's nasty stuff. Human trafficking. And worse. We believe that this guy here has been recruited as an officer. But according to his sheet, he's clean."
Broussard remained silent.
He continued. "With enough money you can buy any type of ID and it'll be good enough to pass the filters."
Broussard nervously stroked his left pants leg. "I know him."
"From where?"
Broussard took a deep breath. "Nevada. I was living there. His name is Billy Speitz."
"He a buddy of yours?"
"Hardly."
"Is he a bad guy?"
He probably should not have said anything and it was probably going to draw more attention to himself, but ... what the hell. The don't-snitch code did not apply out here. And Speitz was definitely one of the bad guys. Broussard did not want to see him living large outside of a jail cell. Especially not here. Broussard nodded. "Guess so."
"How bad?"
"Don't know. I barely know the guy."
"Murder?"
"I never heard about it."
Murphy pulled a pocket computer from the inside of his jacket pocket and began to issue verbal commands.
"So you know this fella from ... ?"
"Nevada. I was doing some work there ... ."
"And you believe that his name is Bill Speitz?"
"Billy Speitz."
"Eh? That's not what his ID says. Interesting."
"Can you spell it?"
"No."
Murphy held up his pocket computer. "Neal, can you spell your name for me?"
"N-e-a-l-B-r-o-u-s-s-a-r-d."
Murphy began to study the machine's readouts. "Thanks." After a few moments he said, "Huh?" And then both of his eyebrows went up. He then put the machine away. "Whoever this palooka is, he's a person of interest in some other verifiable activities: burglaries and assaults. We'd like to bring him in for questioning but we're short on hard evidence, and the only eyewitnesses are people who themselves are suspects in other crimes."
Broussard swallowed hard. "I see."
The police officers stood.
"Thanks for your cooperation," Davis said. "Do us a favor and stick around. We may need you to come down to the station later."
"Sure," Broussard replied easily.
The next thing that happened took Broussard totally by surprise. The two cops made a beeline for Speitz, spoke a few words to him and his dining companions, and then escorted the big man into a waiting sedan. Broussard swallowed hard. These Chicago cops worked fast. And it wasn't going to take them long to figure out that his 'work' in Nevada was from the inside of a super max prison.
He needed to get out of town. Quickly. A plan for escape was formulating. He first went to the nearest library and used one of their computers. Most fortunately for him, he still had access to his bank accounts. He transferred five thousand dollars to the account number that Candy had supplied him with and the other five thousand to a check cashing store on the south side. He then purchased a bus ticket for Toronto that was scheduled to leave Chicago in three hours. Last, he searched for an address for an Anthony Lowe, Diane's father. He found one on a street that sounded familiar. He hurriedly copied it down and then left.
Out on the streets again, he hopped aboard a city bus and journeyed to the south side. He reached his destination in under an hour. He picked up his money first at the check cashing store, and then he walked six blocks west to Daisy Street. The neighborhood was very subdued. It was early afternoon, but there wasn't a soul stirring. He found the house numbered "227" and rang the doorbell.
To his surprise, it was answered quickly. An attractive woman appeared. She was an older, fuller version of Diane.
"May I help you?"
"Mrs. Lowe?"
"Yes."
A man's voice grumbled from within the house, full of suspicion. "Who's at the door, Verna?"
"My name is Neal. I'm a friend of Diane."
The woman's face broke out into happiness. "Neal! Oh, lord, please come in! Diane told us all about you!"
Obviously not everything, Broussard thought to himself.
Broussard stepped inside. Somewhere a berry pie was cooking. The father of Diane was a murky shadow in the dim hallway at the rear of the foyer. Paintings of religious figures dominated the vestibule, setting the tone of patient suffering.
"Anthony, this is Neal. The young man that Diane was so sweet on."
That's when the older man's caution fell away. He walked up to Broussard, hand extended.
"Well, hello! It's nice to finally meet you."
"Same here."
"You were all that girl talked about. But then, she was always a bit boy crazy. Welcome to Chicagoland."
Mrs. Lowe directed everyone into the living room. There were pictures of Diane everywhere: Diane in her high school senior picture encircled in blue fur. Diane's prom picture with a chubby escort. Diane at Disneyland wearing Mickey Mouse ears. And finally Diane, maybe six or seven, dressed in a frilly dress, her hair a mass of black ringlets and pink bows.
"She was a pretty child," Broussard said.
"On the inside, too," Mr. Lowe said. "Not many cared about that, though. A worldly person takes a kindness for a weakness. They don't realize that it's the Lord's light shining through the darkness."
Mrs. Lowe blinked back tears.
"I'm sorry," Broussard told her.
"We all are," Mrs. Lowe admitted. "I don't know why God allowed this to happen ... taking Diane and millions of people ... but it's His will and we have to accept it."
"Is there any chance that she made it out before the earthquake?"
"I've been praying so hard that she's still alive, but I don't want to keep beggin' the Lord to make it so. Not when so many others are asking for the same thing." She bowed her head. "But God is good, Neal. Maybe one day she'll come home."
His phone buzzed. He should not have answered it. The only people who would be calling him now would be from Redstone. He glanced at the caller's number and once again did not recognize it. "Excuse me." He stepped away to answer it.
"Mr. Broussard." Broussard went rigid with alarm; he did not recognize the voice. "This is Officer Nathan Murphy, Chicago police. We met earlier today."
Broussard's heart skipped a beat. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming down to the police station today. I know that it's getting late, but it would help speed our investigation of the William Speitz case if we got some additional info from you."
Broussard was secretly furious. This put an enormous kink in his plans. But he could hardly blow the cop off without arousing suspicions. It still made sense to cooperate with them. "Um, all right. I'll be down as soon as I can."
"Good. I'm sending the station's address and directions to you now. See you soon."
Broussard clicked off and returned to the Lowes. "I'm afraid that I have to go."
The parents responded graciously. "Thank you so much for stopping by to see us, Neal," Mrs. Lowe said, holding his hand. "It gives me such joy to know that she finally had love in her life."
Her words made him feel oddly uneasy. Had I loved Diane? "Yes. Okay. Here's my business card. Please call me if you hear from her."
"We will," Mr. Lowe responded warmly. "And, Neal, God will forgive your sins. You only need ask Him."
Broussard was st
unned. They knew!
"Right," he stammered. "Thank you."
He left the Lowe house, feeling deeply ashamed and confused.
One hour later he entered the witness theater at the police station. The viewing room was at capacity with a true cross-section of city folk. Men in business suits. Weeping moms in jogging suits. Grannies. Hippies. Bums. Nuns. There was even a boa constrictor coiled up quietly in the chair closest to the guard desk, a large bandage duct taped to one side of its head.
Down in the front there were several men staring vacantly in their direction from inside a concrete lineup room on the blind side of a plate of one-way glass. Broussard could not make out their faces from where he stood.
Officer Murphy emerged from a gaggle of cops and—without any preamble—asked him to identify William Speitz.
"Don't worry," he assured him. "They can't see or hear you."
Broussard walked closer to the one-way glass and looked over the choices. Billy Speitz was indeed standing in the lineup. He had been cleaned up and was sporting some hair on his head, but there was no doubt that it was his old nemesis from Lincoln Hills.
"Third down from the left. That's Billy Speitz. William Speitz."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes." Broussard looked around the room. "Did he commit crimes against all of these people?"
"No. Everyone in the lineup is a suspect in one or two felony crimes. These are all of the witnesses that we could round up for these six suspects. Speitz was our last."
"I see."
"With resources being what they are, we have to bunch things up a bit. We don't have courts or a penal system now so we do everything here. Saves taxpayer time and money."
"I see."
Murphy excused himself and positioned his body near the front of the room in order to get everyone's attention. "Folks, you're free to leave
