by Jean Heller
He dimmed the beam again, and we set a fast pace back to he street where we’d parked his truck.
“Did you hear anything else?” I asked Mark.
“No,” he said. “Nothing but the animal. But there’s something about this place that’s definitely spooky.”
“What?” I asked.
He laughed, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve seen a lot of machine shops in my time, and they always spook me. Chains hanging from the ceiling. Power tools that look designed for torture. I can’t help but think of medieval dungeons and what was done to prisoners there.”
“I see your point except for one small thing. I don’t think they had power tools back then.”
We got back into the Toyota, and I felt myself expel an audible sigh of relief. Trespassing in the dark of night on potentially dangerous ground wasn’t exactly my definition of a dream Saturday night date.
47
As ugly as the weather had been on Saturday, Sunday promised perfection. The front that generated the storms through Tornado Alley and the torrential rain in the Great Lakes region had moved east, scrubbing the sky over Chicago a bright cobalt blue framing a sun that was supposed to coax the temperatures into the low seventies. And the wind was calm. It didn’t get any better than that.
Mark and I were up early. It was Murphy’s idea, not ours. After we’d finished the newspapers and a full pot of coffee, we needed food. Good food.
So we made our way to Little Italy and the Sweet Maple Café, a rustic place owned by a family with its roots in North Carolina. If there was anything they could make as well or better than anyone else in Chicago, it was biscuits, grits, and pancakes. They also did an outstanding job with eggs, bacon, and fried chicken livers. There was no mediocre food at the Sweet Maple Café. And no small portions.
What there was, as always, was a major waiting list for tables. But the staff at Sweet Maple was genius at moving people through without making anyone feel rushed. Our turn came after about forty-five minutes, not bad for a Sunday. I had been there on days when I could have knitted a sweater while waiting in line.
Because the weather was so nice, the staff had lined the sidewalk with reasonably comfortable white plastic chairs. Mark and I claimed two of them and sat down to enjoy the weather and the people watching. We spoke very little. I suspected we both had the Saudis on our minds, and that wasn’t a subject to be discussed in public.
I ate my way through most of a giant breakfast that included a three-cheese omelet and a biscuit the size of a beach ball but way tastier. Then I watched Mark polish off spiced-apple pancakes plus a bone-in ham steak, biscuit, and grits.
“I think you have a hollow leg,” I said.
“I didn’t eat that much,” he said. “I saved some of the ham for the pup.”
“Yeah, two bites.”
“Big bites.”
We went back to the house to deliver Murphy’s meager share of Mark’s breakfast. Mark wondered if it would be a good idea to nap a while.
“So all those calories can turn to fat while we sleep?” I said.
“Well, I wasn’t thinking about going right to sleep,” he said. “I had a tempting idea for how we could burn off some calories first.”
“Tell me what you have in mind,” I said.
“I’d rather show you.”
And he did.
It was almost 3 p.m. when we woke up.
“What shall we do with the rest of our Sunday?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind repeating the earlier part of our day,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t think I could eat that much food again.”
“That wasn’t the earlier part I had in mind. Think about it while I go pee.”
When he returned, I said, “You know, as tempting as your proposition is, I really would like to get another look at that machine shop, in the daylight this time.”
“You’re supposed to be relaxing on your day off,” he said.
“Can you relax thinking about those children?” I asked.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Come on, Murph. You wanna go inna truck?”
If you’ve never seen a large Irish setter get up on his hind legs and do a happy dance, you’ve missed a real treat.
The area in which the machine shop was located was probably zoned commercial or industrial. It should have been zoned rusty. Rust was the only thing holding together the vehicles sitting around empty. The metal on the buildings was rusty. Doors were rusty. Dumpsters were rusty. The only items totally rust-free were the bars and grates that covered the entrances to the building owned by Abdallah bin Kalil, one of the Saudi delegation due to arrive in Chicago in ten days.
It was easier to see the neighborhood in detail in the daylight than it had been in the dark. And one detail had changed. The machine shop had two loading docks, both of which had been closed and gated the night before. Now one was wide open with a white van, also rust-free, backed up to it.
“That’s a Ram ProMaster 2500 high-roof,” Mark said, almost whispering as if someone might hear him. “That’s about two-and-a-half tons worth $40,000.”
“Fit for a prince,” I said. “How do you know what it is?”
“One of my buddies has one. It has every bell and whistle known to man on it. He carries all his fire gear in the back plus a small inflatable and some fishing rigs in case he happens to pass a nice lake.”
As we crept by, I saw that there was a sliding cargo door on the van’s right side. It was closed. One high window was covered by tinting so dark I was sure it must be illegal. The two swing-out cargo doors in the back stood open. There was no activity around the vehicle or as far as I could see into the building.
“You see a place where we could park and watch without being noticed?”
Mark scanned around.
“No,” he said.
“There are only two streets out of here. One is the way we came in, and the other is up ahead. If we go back out to Western, we should be able to find a spot to settle in and watch both streets.”
“That’s good . . . Hold it,” Mark said, his voice sounding urgent. “They’re moving. Get down. Get below the window frame if you can.”
He killed the engine. We both pushed our seats back and ducked.
“Take quick peeks,” Mark said. “If they look this way, they’ll be looking right at my window. I don’t dare move. But I think you can catch quick looks without being noticed.”
My first glimpse was of two swarthy men walking out through the loading bay roll-up door. They took a quick look around, apparently saw nothing that roused suspicion, and one of them went back inside. When he emerged again, he was carrying a large green lawn bag with something substantial inside. I couldn’t guess the weight, but from the pressure points pushing against the plastic, I could imagine it was a small human body.
“Goddamit,” I said. “It looks like another dead child.”
“Keep talking to me. Tell me what they’re doing.”
“I want to get a picture of this.”
I held up my iPhone.
“No!” Mark snapped. “They’ll see the flash.”
“It’s off,” I assured him.
I zoomed in and snapped several photos. I didn’t get either of the men full-face, but close to it. I got the bag, too. And part of the van, including the license plate.
Then I ducked down again.
“Good goin’,” Mark said. “Now stay down and let them leave. Then we can follow. The traffic’s light today, so we let them get a good head start and tail them from at least a block back.”
“They threw the bag in the back like it’s so much garbage,” I said.
“And who’s to say it isn’t garbage?”
“Is that what you really think?”
“I don’t know, Deuce. You’re the one who saw the bag.”
I called up the photo with the best view of the bag and held it in front of Mark.
“Aw shit,” he said.
I turned back to the window to continue my running commentary despite Mark’s instructions to stay low. I did try to stay as still as possible so no motion would catch their attention and hoped that would work.
“They’ve closed up the van . . . Now they’re closing the roll-up door . . . putting the grate down and locking it . . . looking around, checking the area. Damn, one of them might have spotted us. His eyes held on your truck a little bit too long.”
Mark reached past me and got his gun again. Then he reached back and grabbed the flashlight, which he handed to me.
“If it comes to that, swing as hard as you can for the face or head,” Mark said.
“One of them is walking this way, Mark. I think I see a gun.”
“I wish I hadn’t brought the dog,” he said. “If he barks we’re in trouble.”
“I think we’re already in trouble. Wait, no. The other one is calling to him.”
“Who’s calling who?”
“The guy by the van is calling the guy walking this way. Now they’re arguing.”
“I can hear them. I don’t think they’re speaking English.”
“Me, either. But the guy with the gun is walking back toward the van. He keeps looking back this way. I don’t think he’s happy.”
The gunshot was so unexpected I jumped. I felt the truck lurch.
Murphy leaped to his feet, and Mark ordered him to lie down and be quiet.
“I think he shot out a tire,” I said.
“As long as that’s all he shot,” Mark said. “Are they leaving?”
“They’re both in the van. I think so. Yeah, they turned left out of the property, but we won’t be able to see whether they go north or south on Western.”
“We make crappy sleuths,” Mark said.
As soon as the van turned the corner, Mark leaped out of his truck and raced to the corner where it disappeared. When he came back, he said he saw it turn south on Western.
“Back in the direction of Ryan Woods,” I said. “They wouldn’t be audacious enough to keep burying bodies there, would they? The police and the Tony Donato’s crew are still there.”
“With these people, who knows?”
We stayed in the truck for nearly ten minutes until we were sure the van wasn’t going to reappear. When we concluded we were safe, Mark suggested I take Murphy for a walk while he changed the truck tire.
“Did you see what kind of gun the guy was holding?” he asked.
“It looked like yours,” I said, “like a semi-auto.”
He smiled at me.
“For someone who says she hates guns, you’ve got the lingo down,” he said.
“Know your enemy,” I replied.
“Well, if it was a semi-auto, and unless he picked it up, there’s probably a shell casing lying around somewhere nearby. Why don’t you and Murphy see if you can find it? If you do, don’t touch it. Call me. I’ll bag it. Meanwhile, the slug is still in my tire or somewhere nearby. I say, Holmes, we might have ourselves some clues.”
48
I did find the shell casing and watched Mark pick it up by putting a pen inside it so he wouldn’t disturb any fingerprints.
“That’s the way they do it on TV,” I said. “Did you learn from watching ‘CSI?’”
He rolled his eyes at me. I’m sure he did.
Together, we lifted his murdered tire into the back of his truck, next to Murphy’s crate. We could hear the bullet rattling around inside. We were filthy by the time we finished, but we had formulated a plan.
The next morning I was going to tell Eric Ryland what we had seen and what happened. I would clear it with him to take our evidence and my story to Pete Rizzo at the Chicago PD. We would get his vow of confidentiality and tell him everything. Somebody had to get into that machine shop before another garbage bag was carried out. I figured our report and the evidence, along with the photos I’d taken, would be enough probable cause for the cops to get a warrant for the place.
Mark would run the plate on the Bentley at the mansion and the van at the machine shop and see what came up.
Ryland was happy with neither our plan nor with me.
“Are you actually trying to get yourself killed?” he asked. “What you’re doing out there is insane. You’ve become the proverbial loose cannon. This isn’t a game.”
“Do I act like I’m having fun?” I demanded. “I want to do the right thing. I want to go to the police. I will get a promise of exclusivity from Pete before I tell him anything. And I will show him copies of my photos, but I won’t turn them over.”
“You’d better be right,” Ryland said. “If we lose this story because of you, your Pulitzer might not be enough to protect you.”
I almost told him the dead children appreciated his concern, but I didn’t.
He gave me a hard look and turned back to his computer, dismissing me.
I told Pete Rizzo I needed either an hour of his time or twenty seconds. It all depended on how he answered my first question.
“Well, that’s an interesting way to ask for a meeting,” he said. “How’s eleven? We can talk here, if I don’t throw you out of my office, you can buy me lunch.”
“I’m not sure after you hear the story you’re going to feel like eating.”
He gave me his word that whatever I told him would stay in his office, with the caveat that he wouldn’t help me cover up or delay reporting a crime.
“Then you have to give your word,” I said, “that whatever the department decides to do, I’m the only outside person you’ll talk to until I break the story.”
“I have a pretty good idea what the subject matter is, so the best I can give you is that I’ll try. I really will try. That’s gonna hafta be good enough, Deuce. I can’t make commitments for the higher-ups.”
Had it been anyone other than Pete, I wouldn’t have accepted it. But he was a man of his word. As I drove to his office, I recalled how he’d been a street cop for nearly ten years when a gangbanger deliberately ran him down as he wrote a moving violation citation on somebody who ran in the same crowd. Pete was in the hospital and rehab for seventeen months and never could get certified for street duty again. So he wound up driving a desk, which must have been a huge blow to his self-esteem. If he was bitter, he never let it show. He earned the respect and trust of every reporter who worked with him.
We avoided the good-natured banter that usually marked our meetings. We both wanted me to get to the point.
I started the story at the beginning, all the way back to Murphy finding the bone in the woods. It took me nearly forty minutes to get through all of it. I told him about Charles. About Joey Russell, Charles’s younger brother. About the assault on me and my ability to identify the NSA guy, Mason Cross, as one of my attackers. About the possible connection to Winona Jackson’s murder. I told him about the mansion and the Wisconsin plate Mark was running. And I told him about the Saudis. I told him about the industrial site on the South Side and the shooting there, about hearing the bullet rattling around in Mark’s tire, and about the casing on the ground near where the shot was fired. I told him about Mark recovering the casing without touching it and putting it in an evidence bag, which he sealed and signed.
In short, I told him everything.
“I managed to get photos of the guys in the white van,” I said, “and one of them clearly shows the garbage bag. When you see it, I don’t think you’ll doubt it’s the body of a child. It’s heartbreaking.”
When I finished, Rizzo stared at me and whispered, “Holy fuck.”
I had nothing more, so I sat and waited for him to make the next move.
When it came, it was not what I was expecting.
“You screwed up, Deuce,” he said.
“How?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
He stood up and began pacing his office.
“For starters, trespassing is a crime. At the mansion and the machine shop.”
“How did we trespass at the mansion?” I
demanded. “We were standing in an alley owned by the city. We were searching garbage left out in the public alley. The courts ruled years ago that trash left out in public, on public property, is fair game. We had every right to pick through it.”
“Okay, yeah,” Rizzo said. “But not at the machine shop. You went on their property to find the shell casing. You should have stayed in Mark’s truck and called 911. Or better yet, driven to somewhere safer.”
“On three tires?” I said. “We couldn’t move until we changed the tire, so why not look for the casing?”
“Because it’s probably not admissible evidence now.” Rizzo was getting heated. “Chain of possession, and all that legal stuff.”
“Mark’s trained to collect evidence,” I insisted, getting a little heated myself. “What do you think arson investigators do? I took a photo of it where we found it and made sure the building and parking lot were in the frame. Mark insisted on that. And the casing will match up with the slug in Mark’s tire. We talked about cutting it out. But he thought it would be best if we turned it all over to you whole. Assuming you want it.”
I pulled out my phone and punched up the photos for Rizzo. He spread his thumb and first finger over the screen to go in closer.
“One guy’s holding the bag, and the other one has a gun in his hand.”
“Yeah,” I said with as much sarcasm as I dared muster. “I think we noticed.”
“Hard to tell for sure, but it looks like a Ruger. Mark carries, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said. “A Glock.”
“That’ll help in ruling out him shootin’ his own tire.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, Deuce, I’m not.” He moved his fingers over the next photo and brought the garbage bag up bigger. “Christ, that does look like the outline of a child. We’re going to have to get our lab guys on this before we can even consider whether to go for a search warrant. Where’s the tire now?”
“Still in the back of Mark’s truck, I suppose.”
