“Uh, Frank?” Marcus spoke in the brief silence that ensued. Williams saw the crazy look in Campanelli’s artificial eyes and was immediately worried for his partner’s sanity.
“Put ‘em down!” Campanelli howled over the shrieking Chinese gangsters. He shoved Baojia forward, past the first set of doors on either side of them, keeping his handgun to the man’s temple. The armed thugs backed up as the police came toward them, heading to Baojia’s residence.
Faced with six armed officers, one of which was threatening to blow the head off of their boss, the older gangster with the handgun placed his down on the carpeted floor. In Chinese, he ordered the others to do the same. Reluctantly, they complied.
“Back up!” one of the officers to Frank’s right yelled. “On the floor! Now!”
As the patrolmen cuffed the gangsters, Campanelli guided Baojia to his own front door. “Open it.”
The door was not locked. Baojia turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Frank removed his gun from the shaking Triad man’s temple and gave his shoulder a shove. “Inside,” he ordered.
Finding the condo empty, Frank nodded. Marcus called in Rothgery and Wilkins.
“Well, Baojia,” Campanelli said as he sauntered to the middle of the lavish living room, “take a seat, this may be a while.”
The Triad lieutenant stepped back from the man that had just put a gun to his head, but already Frank could see the gangster’s contemptuous calm return. Baojia sat upon his ridiculously large and loudly colored couch, crossed his legs and watched as the forensic team went about his residence testing for traces of blood, gunpowder and DNA.
“Hey, Rothgery,” Frank called suddenly. Something had bothered him the second he had stepped inside, but he had realized what it was.
“Yes, Captain,” Lincoln returned with a tone indicating a dislike for distraction.
“Do you smell something?”
“I do. Cheap incense,” Rothgery answered immediately, forcing a scowl to appear on Baojia’s face. Apparently, the forensic man had insulted him.
“There’s something else,” Frank insisted, taking a dramatic deep breath as he stared knowingly at the gangster.
“Paint,” Marcus blurted. “Fresh paint.”
“Boom,” his captain smiled and pointed at his partner.
“Interesting,” Rothgery commented absently as he turned his attention to the walls.
Teri Wilkins lowered herself to the floor and, with a pocket knife, scraped away the paint just above the dark wood molding. The paint was recent, she noted, as the shavings curled in long wisps. Older paint would have been drier, more brittle. “I’ve got fresh paint here!” she called out.
Frank smiled at Baojia, who suddenly lost every trace of arrogance.
“I have the place redecorated every few years,” he said. It did nothing to wipe the smile from the detective’s face. “That paint is two weeks old.”
“Really? How about the carpet? Izzat new, too?” Campanelli asked as he sat in a recliner across from Baojia.
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that the chair I’m in feels pretty stiff. It’s new, too. So is that couch.”
“Yes. It’s all brand new stuff,” Baojia confirmed.
“I’m gonna tell you what I think, friend,” Frank warned as he stood. “I think Mickey Wong was killed in this room.”
“Here? You crazy,” the gangster lieutenant protested.
“You know what else? The unidentified victim was killed here, too,” Campanelli pressed as he walked to an antique Chinese cabinet, often referred to as a wedding cabinet. It was finely painted with red flowers and green foliage upon its dark, almost black surface. Its doors had no knobs as the key was intended to turn the lock and serve as a handle. Frank bent and took in the aroma of the wood. “You often clean antique furniture with bleach, Baojia?”
To this, Lei Wong’s right hand man went silent and stared at the wall that Lincoln and Wilkins were testing.
H. Lincoln Rothgery followed Campanelli’s gist and turned his attention to the cabinet. Retrieving a small bottle of luminol from his kit, he sprayed a cloud of it onto the item and held his portable analyzer over it. The device chirped excitedly and displayed the patterns of blood spatter on its small screen.
“We’ve got it, Frank,” Lincoln announced and allowed the captain to see the screen. “Most of what is left after the attempted cleaning is permeated along the edges of the doors.”
“Do you have enough there to get DNA from it?”
“Absolutely,” Rothgery answered and bent to take a sample. “Give me a moment.”
Frank turned to Baojia and smiled grandly.
“I didn’t kill Mickey, Detective Campanelli,” the nervous old gangster professed.
“It was your sixty-two Lincoln that was found burned at Soldier Field,” Frank explained as he sat on the couch next to his victim. “It’s your condo that has blood all over it. What did you do with the old furniture, Baojia? Did you send that out to be burned, too?”
“Excuse me, Captain Campanelli,” the uniformed sergeant called from the open front door. “These two want to come in.”
Frank could see Ru Yi and Lei Wong beyond the officer. He nodded and gestured with his fingers that they could enter. He greeted them and stood.
Ru yi was supporting the elderly leader of the Triads by gripping him under the right arm while a cane in his left did the rest. To Frank, the man appeared very frail, much older than his first visit less than a week prior.
“Detective Campanelli,” Lei Wong began, “Baojia is telling the truth. He is not responsible for my son’s death. I am.”
“Please go on,” Frank gestured to the chair and Ru Yi guided the old man into it.
“Mickey was not a defiant son…until recently. His dealings with the organization in China were done without my consent.”
“What dealings are you speaking of?” Frank asked as he sat back down, leaning forward to hear.
“He was arranging a human trafficking network,” Lei Wong paused and sighed. “It was against my wishes.”
“So, you shot him, Lei Wong?”
“No, Frank. I had an assassin brought in from Hong Kong. He is your unidentified victim,” Wong explained. “His name was Chen Tao.”
Campanelli shifted in his seat. “Why would you hire this man to kill your son?”
“I asked for Chen Tao to be sent to me for the purpose of intimidation. I did not realize how deeply my son felt about leaving this planet. He stood in my office,” Lei Wong continued in a voice shaking with anger and regret, “and swore to me that he was leaving for Alethea. This was dire news considering I had just offered him my place. I had been grooming him for my position for more than a decade,” he finished and bowed his bald head.
Frank had a hard time denying his feeling of sympathy. For the most part, the Chicago Triads owned legitimate businesses. Violence against innocent bystanders was rare and, when something did happen, it was usually triggered by internal struggles for power or against rival gangs which were dwarfed in comparison. Still, they were gangsters, controlling the traffic of illegal drugs and ran the brothel and two gambling houses in Chinatown.
“You ordered Chen to shoot your son, here?” Campanelli asked, incredulous at the stupidity of the choice. With a city full of broken down buildings and empty fields, committing a murder where one lived seemed more ludicrous than the crime itself.
“No!” the old man protested with a strike of his cane upon the carpeted floor, then let out of pained sob and lowered his shameful head. “Yes…yes, I did. My plan of intimidation failed. Mickey was determined to leave on the next flight out of the country. We argued. He stormed out. I…!”
The room hushed to a fragile silence at each pausing of the old man’s confession. Even the uniformed policemen just outside the room quieted to hear. Lei Wong used his cane to stand, his eyes full of tears as he recalled the horrific moments of that night. Marcus grew concerned and
took several steps toward him as did Ru Yi. He noted the Triad leader’s harsh breathing, bulging eyes, shaking hands and trembling knees.
“Frank,” he sent in text, “EMT’s?”
Campanelli glanced over his shoulder at his partner and back to Lei Wong. Looking more closely at the man, he saw what Marcus was seeing; an old man close to a complete collapse. He nodded at Williams, who then transmitted the call for medical assistance.
“Lei Wong,” Frank said as he stood. He reached a hand to the struggling elder in an effort to calm him and guide him back down to the chair.
“I…,” Wong choked and grasped a hand to his chest, “ordered Chen Tao to…kill my own son!”
Ru Yi grasped Lei Wong’s arm and tried to press him back to the chair. The elderly man’s frame was like a cage of steel. As frail as he appeared on the outside, inside he was immobile. Ru Yi whispered her master’s name, but he did not hear.
“Frank!” Lei Wong bellowed and reached out his free right hand. Coming near, Campanelli allowed him to grab his shoulder for support.
“Lei Wong, please…,” Frank murmured.
“Chen followed Mickey in here. I…heard the shot!” Lei Wong would not be seated. He let his cane drop to the floor and he snatched Ru Yi’s offered hand. On these two people he anchored himself for the final confession. “I took out the Dragon’s Breath…from its case. You know the item I mean, Frank.”
“Yes. The blow gun that you keep in the glass cabinet behind your desk,” Campanelli nodded. It was indeed a fine piece of Chinese artistry. Carved from fine bamboo, the weapon, when assembled from its four pieces, formed a dragon nearly four feet long. The darts, also bamboo, were six inches in length and, when loaded at the rear of the Dragon’s Breath, were blown out through the opposite end, the beautifully carved and detailed mouth of the dragon’s head.
“I dipped the dart in…an antiaris poison,” Lei Wong went on in obvious duress, but he would not be moved or stopped, “I came here, found Ch…Chen…and…,” he finished, not from choice, but from a violent coughing fit that ended his words.
The old man’s knees buckled and he collapsed into the chair where even his breath was silenced.
Ru Yi and Frank both shouted his name, but he was not responsive. Marcus, trained in the medical arts, attended to the man, stretching him out upon the new taupe carpet. After several long minutes of hard work, the EMT’s arrived and took over in the attempts to bring Lei Wong back.
In time, they too, failed.
Baojia had come to his feet when Lei Wong dropped, staring at his fallen master with an expression of horrified grief. To Frank’s surprise, he noted the gangster had even produced tears that he was certain were genuine.
Ru Yi was crying openly but silently, wiping her eyes constantly and devastating her lightly applied eyeliner and mascara. Teri Wilkins, not without a heart, came near and handed her a handkerchief. She guided Ru Yi away from the scene, into the kitchen.
Rothgery stood in silent reverence at the wedding cabinet. Frank caught his eye and sauntered over to him.
“Did you have any luck finding poison in Chen Tao’s body?”
“Not yet, but,” Lincoln returned in a near whisper, “it would be a great help if we could search Lei Wong’s residence for the poison so I know what to look for.”
“I think in this case we have more than probable cause. See to it when you can,” Campanelli said and stepped quietly to Baojia’s side. Catching the eye of Marcus, his partner approached from the other side.
“I…don’t believe it…,” Baojia murmured. His eyes were locked on his deceased master, but he had detected Frank’s approach and was speaking to him. “After everything…all of this…he’s gone.”
“Why don’t you tell me the rest of it?” Frank said lowly, just enough for Baojia to hear.
“The rest?” the senior gangster tore his eyes from Lei Wong’s body and saw the meaning in Campanelli’s face. “Yes, well…Lei Wong put a dart in Chen Tao. Chen fell right here,” he gestured to the spot where Frank stood. “Whatever was used killed him quickly, paralyzing him first.”
Frank gestured for Rothgery with two fingers. The forensic scientist approached so that he may hear the description of the action and know where to look.
“Where was Mickey’s body?” Frank asked of Baojia.
“He was on the couch…the old couch. Right where this one is.”
“Whose idea was it to put a bullet in Chen Tao’s face?” Campanelli drilled.
Baojia swallowed hard and told him. “Mine. Mine. I wanted to protect Lei Wong.”
“You took the gun from Chen Tao’s hand and while the man was lying dead…here,” Frank gestured to the floor below him, “you pulled the trigger.”
“Yes! Goddamn it, Frank! Yes!” Baojia all but shrieked. “I needed to hide his identity. I had…both bodies removed and placed in the trunk of my car.”
“By yourself?”
Baojia just stared into Campanelli’s eyes. There was no way that the gangster would identify the underlings that assisted him. They both knew it.
“All right,” Frank smiled crookedly, “you had the bodies dumped in Ping Tom Memorial Park. Why there?”
“I panicked. I thought it would point to a rival gang,” Baojia answered, speaking quickly. “I didn’t think it through. When the car came back, I saw all the blood in the trunk and knew that I should have had the car burned with the bodies inside.”
As they conversed, Rothgery went about crudely cutting the newly installed carpeting at the location Baojia had indicated. Tearing a clumsy square of it away, the bare floor was revealed. Nearly in the square’s center was a deep, clear impact crater enshrouded with blood. Lincoln dug at it with a pocket knife. A moment later, he rose.
“Here we are, Frank,” Rothgery announced with a faint smile. In his gloved hands were tweezers and in between them was a badly smashed chunk of lead.
“Very nice, Lincoln,” Frank commended. “All that’s left is a definite DNA match.”
Rothgery nodded and walked away, bagging the bullet as evidence.
The coroner’s men entered and bagged the body of Lei Wong. Baojia could not stand to watch. He sat on his fresh couch and looked away. Ru Yi, on the other hand, could not turn away from the scene. She leaned on the counter and watched them carry her master away.
Frank sat on the couch next to Baojia. He could see from the man’s eyes that there was no trace of the high-ranking Triad in him. He was just another older man like himself; stripped of pretense and fearing the future.
“Baojia,” the Captain of Detectives began in a conversational manner, “I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit murder, arson, obstruction of justice and whatever crimes we discover along the way.”
Baojia smiled and nodded. The hatred that he had once felt for this policeman of Italian descent was gone as were the transgressions of their past. “I understand, Frank. I’m…relieved actually. I’ve worked hard serving my master and now that he’s gone…I am happy to know that I’m not taking his place.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“Lei Wong’s desk,” Baojia answered.
Frank looked to Marcus, who nodded and placed the handcuffs on Baojia and both detectives walked him out. All three men rode in the cruiser in silence.
Campanelli arrived at home just in time to watch the sunset from his balcony and the passing of the evening “L” train. The air was still warm, almost hot, but the breeze cooled it. Frank could tell that it would be a comfortable night’s sleep if it could be attained. He had come home from work the long way, stopping at the liquor store for a bottle of Scotch. There was no such thing as a single malt these days unless one wanted to spend a month’s salary, but the blended concoction would do. He lit another cigarette, looked to the darkening multi-colored sky and loosened his tie.
Frank did not sip the first glass, nor did he the second. He sat on his outdoor lounger and downed the third halfway when the doorbell alerted his impla
nt. He did not rise from his reclined position, but he sent the portal his permission to open.
“Hi, Frank,” Tam said in her sultry voice. He knew that it only sounded as such because she was tired from a day of working at her diner, but he paid the fact no attention.
“Tam,” he greeted and reached out his hand, which she took as she sat across from him.
She noted the level of Scotch in the bottle and the presence of the plastic wrapper on the table. The bottle was a fresh one, heavily dented. “That case you didn’t want to talk about…ended…badly?” she fished.
“Started badly, ended badly,” he agreed, “but what about a murder case is well?”
Tam smiled, triplicating the dimples in her cheeks and brightening not only her face but his evening. She leaned over and kissed him tightly. She smelled like hamburgers and onions and he smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, but neither minded in the least. They were two people living in a once great city, doing what people do in the time of the Great Exodus.
Campanelli: The Ping Tom Affair Page 8
