“So you wouldn’t have anything to do with a group that provides transportation to those that do,” Frank stated for him.
“Nope.”
“And you have no idea who it was that got on that helo,” Campanelli said flatly, his eyes never leaving Trane’s face.
“No, sir.”
“Ever seen that aircraft, before?”
Trane scoffed and smiled. “Hell, no. I would love to see it in the daylight.”
“Why?”
“It looked like a Bell Four-Thirty, but I’m not sure.”
“How do you know that?”
Trane laughed, though briefly as his humor was not shared. “Umm, aircraft mechanic,” he said sarcastically and pointed at the name tag on his coveralls.
“Okay, smartass,” Frank spoke up harshly and took another step toward Trane, “suppose you explain why that helo is such a big deal and cut the crap.”
“Woah, wait a minute, take it easy,” Trane protested, his humor gone. “I have no intention of not helping, okay? Look, the Four-Thirty hasn’t been built for about a hundred years, so the chances of that particular craft being authentic are pretty low.”
“You’re saying it was a replica?”
“Probably. It’s a pretty common design to copy, but expensive. You need something like this baby over here to produce the pieces,” the mechanic explained, gesturing to the fabrication machine. “The designs are available on the internet, so anyone that has the materials and access to one of these can do it.”
“Could you do it?” Frank asked him directly.
“Well, sure. I just can’t afford to. If I did, I would register it and everything. I’ve got no need for a ghost aircraft.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no tail number on it. That, together with the awful paint job and no exterior lights tells me that whoever owns it doesn’t want it seen.”
Frank and Marcus looked at each other. Campanelli could see that he and his partner were in agreement. This man had nothing to do with it.
“Mister Trane, I thank you for your help,” Frank said as he held out his hand. “If you think of something else please contact me.”
“No problem,” Michael said, shaking the offered hand.
“Where are you going for vacation?” Campanelli thought to ask as he turned to leave the shop.
“Just up to Wisconsin for the week.”
Frank nodded and followed his partner back to the car. Sending orders to the other officers to file their reports before the morning, he and Williams left O’Hare, setting the cruiser’s destination for the District One Station.
“Air Traffic Control reports that there was no radar image of the craft as it approached,” Williams said from the passenger seat. The report from the officer in charge of the communications truck had just been uploaded to the CPD computer and Marcus was curious.
“How ‘bout on its way out?” Frank asked, far less interested. His mind had turned back to the Mickey Wong murder.
“Only briefly and even then, it was diminished.”
“So, that was not just a crappy paint job. It was radar absorbing material,” Campanelli deduced.
“That, and an electronic system as well, says the report. It was a really small signature, apparently. It took a controller who is ex-military a while to spot the image on the recording,” Marcus explained.
“Send me a copy of the report.”
“Done.”
The two were quiet for a time. Marcus had assumed that Frank was reading the report on the evening’s incident, but he was wrong. Frank was silent until the cruiser turned onto Eighteenth Street.
“I’m going to request that Rothgery be put on the bodies. That ballistic report in the Wong case still isn’t up on the server.”
“The morgue’s understaffed and always behind. What’s the hurry on that one, Frank? Mickey Wong was just a gangster, after all,” Marcus returned lightly.
“The big deal is that there could yet be a gang war,” Frank answered, looking to his oversized partner. “Just because nothing’s happened yet, doesn’t mean it won’t.”
Williams nodded in reply.
“Mickey was an asshole and it’s understandable to not care that he’s gone,” Frank explained. “I happen to like what’s left of this town and I don’t want any innocents murdered over this guy.”
“I know, Frank,” Marcus said lowly. “You’re right. I’ll meet you at the lab in the morning.”
“Good man. Oh-six-thirty,” Campanelli said as he manually guided his cruiser to park next to William’s vehicle. “Now, get out.”
Marcus had the door opened already, but he looked back at his captain. In the gloomy light offered by the bulb in the roof he could see a trace of a smile. “Goodnight,” he offered and then was gone.
Frank drove the cruiser home. It had been a long day and the event at O’Hare seemed somehow meaningless and deeply disturbing at the same time. Frank could not push away the image of the family of four hunkering down, remaining in danger with the hopes that the speeding aircraft would stop and pick them up. The whole scene screamed of desperation that the detective had not realized existed amongst the populace.
Once inside his apartment, he poured himself a Bourbon and sat out on the rooftop patio. The depth of night was disturbed little by the lights of buildings. There were few skyscrapers left in the city and in turn, fewer street lights to cast their yellow glow upward.
Frank stepped to the edge of his patio and cast his eyes southward, over the angled divider separating his patio from the one belonging to the empty apartment next door. From here he could see the lights in the windows of Lei Wong’s condominium though only the top few floors. He wondered if Lei could be staring out the window, planning his murderous revenge. Frank was certain that the old man knew more than he had said about the murder of his son.
Campanelli sat on a lawn chair and gazed into the almost cloudless, star-filled sky. He took a sip of Bourbon and, finished with his admiration of the points of light, shut his implants down, taking his sight with it. Relaxing in the outdoor seat, he placed his feet upon his plastic table and kicked off his loafers, their leather soles clapping onto the cement.
His glass half-full, he set it upon the smaller table next to him and tilted his head back to take in the night breeze that whistled weakly over him. In the next minutes that followed, a dozen vehicles went by, more than a few of which were police cars. That he could tell from the sound of their heaviness and the thick hum of their semi-pneumatic tires against the pavement. A rare jet plane roared off overhead, heading east.
Frank drifted to sleep only to awaken sometime later to the sound of a far off siren. He refrained from engaging the CAPS-Link to discover what was going on. If it involved him, he would find out soon enough. Finding his glass, he emptied it of Bourbon and stood. In his self-imposed darkness, he found the sliding door, closed it after him and set the empty glass on the counter. Removing his coat, he laid it over a chair at the kitchen table and found his bedroom without incident. Undressing, he prepared for sleep.
Campanelli was too tired to regret passing up Tam’s offer of a date that night. He had simply spoken the truth in his answer to her message. He was beat. Lying down, Frank promised himself he would take Tam on a date soon. It would not be a night spent watching the evening holograms that would inevitably lead to the bedroom. It would be a nice dinner somewhere followed by a film, a real film, not a digital projection or a video share. He imagined their evening spent in the old-fashioned theater near Navy Pier where they projected light through a restored celluloid copy of a movie from the last century.
Frank wondered what was playing that week and fell asleep.
The alarm from his clock awoke him, but later than he had planned. He had forgotten to change the time, so it alerted him at six. Rolling out of bed, Frank walked into his shower and, still sightless, located the button for the shower and initiated its programmed sequence.
Halfway through his drying off, he powered up his implant. The world came into a brilliant wash of white, making him blink hard. He had left the bathroom lights on the previous evening and was facing the bank of miniature suns. The lenses regulated the amount of light to ease the discomfort, but a little too slowly and in steps rather than in one fluid change. Frank sighed at the discovery of yet another reason why his old equipment had been better. There were only a few bio-ocularists left in the States, and only one in Chicago. The diminishing quality of the lenses was not the technician’s fault. The man worked with the best equipment he could find.
Campanelli shaved, all the while irritated by the knowledge that, with regards to consumer products, the term ‘new’ no longer meant ‘improved’. Dismissing it, he dressed quickly and met Williams at Rothgery’s lab across the street.
“Howard,” Campanelli greeted the technician upon entering. He knew that the man preferred to be called ‘Lincoln’ or by his surname. It was made obvious by the man’s identification card attached to the white lab coat. It read “H. Lincoln Rothgery”. Frank could barely help but give the man a jab.
“Franky,” Rothgery fired back.
Campanelli moved on with a hint of a smile. “Where are we on the Wong case?”
“I just got started this morning, detective,” Rothgery stood at his full height and looked down his nose at Campanelli.
“I needed you,” Frank returned unapologetically.
“Yes, I know,” Lincoln agreed flatly and, with a sweeping gesture to the body stretched out upon the stainless steel table at his left, he began his oration. “A single gunshot wound to the face is what killed Mickey Wong. He is five-foot-nine and the trajectory of the forty-four caliber round suggests the shooter was shorter. The bullet entered the nasal passages at the middle turbinate and traveled upward slightly. Shooter was maybe five-foot-seven, maybe eight.”
“Unless he was shot from further away,” Williams added.
“Too much powder around the entry wound and the clothes,” Lincoln disagreed. “Trigger was pulled from about six feet away.”
Frank bent at the waist to get a good side view of Mickey’s ruined cranium. “It was a Magnum round like we thought?”
“Definitely,” the forensic scientist said. Both men knew that no manufacturer had made a firearm in that caliber for more than forty years. The handgun was an antique and most likely in the hands of someone wealthy. “The other victim was really quite interesting!” Lincoln exclaimed with suddenness and shifted his attention to the body on the other table.
“Any ID come in for this one?” Frank asked.
“Not yet, but have a look here,” the tall man beckoned as he stooped over the corpse.
Campanelli stepped next to Rothgery while Williams joined them from the unidentified man’s other side. Lincoln’s gloved hands manipulated the long forceps and pulled at the tissue at the man’s chest. Both detectives leaned in for a closer look.
“What the hell is that?” a surprised Frank Campanelli exuded.
“This is an entry wound from another type of weapon altogether. There’s no projectile, no powder burns, no exit wound,” Rothgery explained with enthusiasm.
Frank caught on immediately. “How tall is this guy?”
“Five-foot-seven,” Lincoln recalled from memory. He was eyeing Campanelli now with an unabashed grin. He loved dealing with intelligent people and the New York transplant was one of the better ones.
“What’s the angle of entry of both these wounds?” Frank pushed on.
“Ah! This chest wound is at a downward angle, just a scant few degrees and is smaller than the bullet wounds, the size of something forty caliber. However,” he went on with a hollow tap of the forceps to the dead man’s forehead, “the gun wound to the face is definitely the same as Mickey’s, but the bullet entered at an angle that suggests this victim was flat on his back. Someone stood above this man and shot downward.”
“Interesting,” was all Frank could think of to say.
“Tell me a story,” Rothgery said grandly. It was one of his little catchphrases.
“Any trace of poison?”
“I haven’t gotten around to that yet, but I will.”
The three were quiet for several heartbeats. Frank crossed his arms and stroked his chin in thought. “Mickey takes one to the face. This guy is put to the floor with a…what, a Knife?” At this, Rothgery shook his head. “Spear? How far in does this chest wound go?”
“Four inches, give or take an eighth,” Rothgery provided.
Frank repeated the measurement in a whisper. “There has to be signs of someone removing the weapon.”
“There is a slight tearing of the tissue indicating that very thing,” Lincoln agreed.
“Bow and arrow?” Williams asserted.
“No, not deep enough,” Campanelli disagreed, “unless whoever did it wasn’t very good with it. An arrow shot from a distance would not have entered at such a shallow angle.”
At that moment, Frank and Marcus received a text message over their implants. Both men looked to each other in dismay.
“We have to go, Lincoln,” Campanelli stated as he stepped back from the bodies. “That burned up car ready to go tonight?”
“Just as Vanek commanded, Detective,” Rothgery answered. “It’s already been towed to the impound lot.”
“Thanks,” Frank called over his shoulder with Marcus shadowing him. “We’ll think on this and get back to ya.”
The detectives strode to Frank’s cruiser and got inside hurriedly. In a moment, they were off, speeding south along Michigan Avenue. It was a few minutes before Williams dared ask the question.
“What the hell does the Superintendent want, you think?”
Frank glanced over at his partner then back to the road. “He’s probably gonna tear us a new one for lettin’ Arness and family get away.”
“Great,” Williams muttered.
The cruiser parked in front of the four story brick structure and they went inside. Upon entering the front office the secretary rose from her seat and, without announcing their arrival, opened the door and gestured them inside. Silently, it closed behind them.
Campanelli and Williams stood just inside the doorway for a moment, taking in the atmosphere and an account of the men in attendance. Chief of Detectives Dmitri Vanek sat to their left next to NAGIS Chief, Hugh Darlington. Neither man looked particularly unhappy, Frank decided, but Vanek’s professional façade was fully in play. His expression was that of someone suffering from constipation. Darlington was as always, unreadable. On Frank’s right, Chief of the Organized Crime Division, Earl Sebastian sat next to his Deputy Chief, Lorenzo Alonso. Those two had a look of mildly suppressed anger. Certainly, as Project Sentinel was in the hands of the OCD, Sebastian and Alonso had a bigger stake in it.
“I think everybody knows everybody,” began Police Superintendent Jack Dehner in his authoritative baritone, “so let’s get to it.” Dehner added an almost undetectable sigh and sat back in his tall chair and gestured to Sebastian. The Superintendent rested his head on his right arm while his fingers scratched at his longish gray and white mustache.
“Captain Campanelli, Detective Williams,” Chief Sebastain started out in a manner which confirmed disdain, “would one of you care to explain your actions at O’Hare last evening?”
“Well, which part of it do you mean, sir?”
“What I mean, Detective, is how and why you let Arness escape? You had plenty of officers to back you up, yet they slipped away from you!” Sebastian finished in a raised voice, leaning forward in his chair and giving Campanelli the full brunt of his thick-jowled scowl.
“Sir, we did not simply let the helicopter go by. It approached the stakeout area at a high rate of speed and put the officers and ourselves in danger. What exactly should we have done?”
“You could have shot the thing down, Campanelli!” Alonso piped up.
Frank did not care much about Deputy Chief Alonso’s bar
k. The man had always been more politician than police officer and to have such a man suggest a dangerous course of action in the field was too much. “Yeah! Shoot it down and have it come crashing on top of six policemen and kill all aboard including two children would have been the thing to do! Izzat what you’re saying, Alonso?!”
“That’s Deputy Chief to you, Campanelli!” Alonso shouted, suddenly on his feet.
“That’s Captain of Detectives to you, hotshot!” Frank fired back, stepping forward and meeting Alonso’s eyes.
“Frank!” Vanek tried to interject.
“To suggest that I was expected to waste the lives of fellow officers and innocent civilians just to keep ‘em from leaving this rock is more than I am going to take!” Frank pushed. He felt Marcus’s large hand gently tug on his right shoulder, but he violently shook it off and gave the big ex-SEAL a hot glare. What he saw did calm him, however. Williams was cool and unemotional other than a general look of mild concern. The man did not need to send a text message to say what the face was saying, but he did anyway.
“Don’t let this little prick win, Frank. We have too much to do,” Marcus had composed.
Frank nodded and relaxed his tense arms, letting his fists uncurl.
“Detective Campanelli,” Superintendent Dehner spoke deliberately, “there is no question that to have brought down the aircraft on top of your position would have been sacrificial and ludicrous,” to this, Alonso sat. “I’m sure that is not what is being suggested. The amount of information retrieved on the incident is invaluable as we had no idea how the network functioned prior to the operation.” He finished, giving a slight nod to Vanek.
“From this event, we now know that the subjects are picked up by the helicopter and taken elsewhere,” Dmitri Vanek explained. “Their identity is changed and forwarded to another airport and transported to a spaceport. So far, there is no trace of Arness or his family at either San Francisco or Cape Canaveral.”
“That suggests what?” Frank put in. “That the subjects are transported overseas? With falsified identification they could get into space at another spaceport.”
Campanelli: The Ping Tom Affair Page 6
