Trouble in Mind

by Michael Wiley

  ‘Sorry,’ Kelson said, ‘I talk when I shouldn’t.’ He left the drugstore and drove to the Ashland Avenue address where Trina Felbanks had said her brother lived.

  Christian Felbanks owned a condo above a bike shop in a four-story redbrick building. When Kelson parked in front and got out, the damp air smelled of the Lebanese restaurant two doors south.

  He went into the front alcove and tried Felbanks’s buzzer. No one answered it. He tapped the intercom speaker and buzzed again. Still no answer. He tried the lobby door. Open.

  When he worked undercover in narcotics, he got used to going into buildings uninvited – hanging out with addicts and dealers in stairwells, popping the locks on security doors so an informant could talk without worrying who was listening, hoisting himself through broken windows to impress suppliers. In those days, if he got into a building as easily as he went into Felbanks’s, he would’ve worried – probably would’ve left and tried a different deal on a different day. Back then, nothing came easy, and he paid a high price for every mistake. Now he said to the door, ‘Shish kebab’ – a word that popped from his mouth and also the lunch he would treat himself to two doors south after he scared Felbanks straight.

  He went up to the first landing and knocked on the door. Then knocked again.

  No answer.

  He tried the knob and, when it turned, said to it, ‘Two for two. What’s the chance of that?’ When he worked undercover, such easy access meant an ambush, and even now he said, ‘Easy does it,’ as he stepped inside.

  A blond wood floor stretched to a pair of windows facing the street. On one wall, there was a little fireplace. There was a Naugahyde couch and matching chair, another chair, upholstered in beige, and a glass coffee table with a chip on one edge. On one side, there was a kitchen and dining nook. On the other, a hallway led to a bathroom and a bedroom.

  Kelson went into the kitchen. Except for a bunch of bananas by the stove, the counters and cabinets were clean, the stainless-steel sink scrubbed and dry. A ceramic container held matching red spatulas and serving spoons. Two decorative signs – The Chef Is In and Happiness Is Homemade – hung above the toaster. ‘Unlikely,’ Kelson said, and opened a cabinet. The bottom shelf was lined with jars of organic protein, fish oil, B-12, N-acetyl cysteine, and a half dozen natural supplements. ‘Health nut?’ Kelson said. ‘Which makes no sense.’

  He left the kitchen and crossed to the bathroom. Nothing in the cabinets announced Felbanks’s side trade as a dealer of opioids.

  Kelson went up the hall to the bedroom. On the far side of the room, sliding glass doors led to a balcony patio with a black metal staircase that went up to the next floor and down to a backyard. One of the sliding doors was open, and the March wind had blown in rain, soaking the carpet. In the middle of the room, there was a queen-size bed, neatly made with a batik cover.

  In the middle of the bed, there was a dead man. He was lying face up, and even with the man’s gray skin, Kelson recognized Felbanks from the picture his sister gave him. Felbanks wore white jockeys and a pair of black socks, nothing else. Since taking the picture, he’d shaved his head. And where the bridge of a pair of glasses would’ve crossed the top of his nose, he had a bullet hole.

  ‘That sucks,’ Kelson said. ‘For you.’

  Seven or eight prescription bottles littered the bedside table. Felbanks’s shoes, pants, and shirt lay on the carpet.

  Kelson touched the man’s arm and rested his palm on his naked belly. Cold.

  ‘Who did you bring home with you?’ he asked the body. ‘Thought you would get lucky. You almost got there. Maybe you should’ve taken off your socks. No romance in socks. Enough reason to kill a man.’ He laughed – the way, in the first months after Bicho shot him, he laughed even when nothing was funny.

  Then he dialed 911.

  But as the line rang, the door to the condo burst open, slamming against the wall. A dozen men and women hit the floor in heavy boots, charging inside.

  Kelson jerked from Felbanks’s body, drifted toward the balcony stairway, and reached for his Springfield.

  Three men, in the jumpsuits and vests of a Chicago Police SWAT team, rushed into the bedroom. They wore black combat boots and black combat helmets, held black assault rifles with sniper scopes, and kept black pistols holstered on their legs. Two pointed their rifles at Kelson’s chest, one at his head.

  Kelson raised his hands – slowly.

  The man pointing a rifle at his head yelled, ‘Down.’

  Another yelled, ‘Now.’

  The third tightened his finger on his rifle trigger.

  Kelson got face down on the carpet.

  A man took his pistol, pulled his arms behind his back, and snapped cuffs on his wrists.

  Another man looked at Felbanks’s body and told his companions or himself or no one at all, ‘Dead.’

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said the man with the cuffs, and he yanked Kelson to his feet. Kelson let the man yank him, let him shove him out of the bedroom and into the hall. For once, he was speechless.

  SEVEN

  ‘You’re a monster,’ Kelson said when Homicide Detective Dan Peters came into the interview room. Peters towered over Kelson – a six-foot-three, 230-pound man, thick in the belly, thicker in the shoulders. His face was big and bearded. Kelson said, ‘Your head needs, what, two hats?’

  Another officer uncuffed one of his hands and ratcheted the open cuff through a loop on a steel table.

  Peters moved to the back of the table and sat.

  Kelson admired him. ‘What size shoes do you wear?’

  The detective looked cross. ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘A wedding ring. Is she as big as you are?’

  The detective opened a manila folder and leafed through the papers.

  Kelson said, ‘Because, a man like you – I mean, how do the two of you—’

  Peters stopped him. ‘Don’t go there.’

  ‘Really? But—’

  ‘Stop,’ Peters said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kelson said, ‘I can’t help—’

  Peters gave him a look.

  ‘Right,’ Kelson said.

  Peters picked up a sheet and read it. ‘Huh. Another ex-cop junkie. You know the percentage of guys from the narcotics squad that end up on the stuff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. But in the last eleven years you’re my third homicide.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Yeah? What’s it like?’ The detective pulled a paperclip from his shirt pocket. He rubbed it between his big thumb and a big finger.

  ‘First, I’m not an addict. Second—’

  Peters cut him off. ‘You look agitated. Twitchy. D’you do Oxy? Maybe a little China Girl?’ He pulled the paperclip apart so it looked like rabbit ears.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Kelson said. ‘Percocet. I got shot in the head.’

  ‘Of course you do. You need a lot?’

  ‘Depends on the day.’

  ‘Sure,’ Peters said, and he straightened the clip as if he might use the wire on Kelson’s handcuffs. ‘A man like Christian Felbanks, he could be a regular pipeline for a needy guy like you. A good friend to have.’ He bent the wire in two.

  Kelson said, ‘Big man with a nervous habit. But I get it.’

  Peters stared at Kelson for a moment before realizing Kelson meant him. He snapped the paperclip in two and laid the pieces on the table. ‘Why did you shoot Felbanks?’

  ‘I found him dead.’

  ‘Yeah? How did that happen?’

  ‘I knocked on his front door. I went in and—’

  ‘He let you in?’

  ‘He was already dead.’

  ‘You broke into his condo? To get the drugs?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. The door was open.’

  ‘Like – wide open?’

  ‘Like open enough to go in,’ Kelson said. ‘Unlocked. I went in.’ The pieces of paperclip could be a problem. Clutter. The sight of them needled at
his skull behind his left eye.

  ‘You and Felbanks must’ve been close, right?’ Peters was saying. ‘For you to go in, familiar like that.’

  ‘I never met him. His sister hired me.’ He gestured at the broken paperclip. ‘Would you mind taking that off the table?’

  ‘What, this?’ Peters left the clip where it was. ‘How much Percocet do you need, Mr Kelson? Every day? Two times a day? Three?’

  ‘Some days the pain’s worse than others.’

  ‘The craving? I hear it’s like rats gnawing on your intestines.’

  ‘Headaches for me. Percocet blunts them. They never really go away.’

  ‘Sounds miserable. Enough to kill for? I mean, if you could blunt them with more pills?’ Peters picked up one of the pieces of paperclip and, watching Kelson’s eyes, rubbed it between his thumb and finger.

  Despite the headache, a little smile came to Kelson’s lips. He glanced around the interview room and said, ‘I was a cop. I know how this thing works. The cold air pumping from the ceiling vent, the dim lighting, the plain walls. You want to disorient me and make me lose my sense of time. After an hour or two, it could be midnight or noon, winter or summer, here or a thousand miles away. The thing is, though, I like this kind of room. But if you’d throw away the paperclip, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘You’re not going to talk?’ Peters asked.

  ‘Just the opposite. I’ll talk and talk until you get sick of me. But even with your big fat head and your big fat ears, you won’t hear what I’m telling you.’

  Peters poked a big finger at Kelson. ‘If you don’t watch your mouth—’ Then he stopped and wagged the finger. ‘There was a time in this department when we would break a smartass like you. I kind of miss those days.’

  ‘I only tell you what I’m thinking,’ Kelson said. ‘I can’t help it. I could do it all day.’

  So Peters scooped up the other piece of wire and stood. ‘You like this place? Well, you can stay until you talk sense. Meantime, make yourself at home. Get cozy. Sorry I can’t get you a pillow and hot chocolate. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’

  He left the room.

  Two hours later, a uniformed cop came in, unhooked Kelson’s cuff from the table, and guided him out of the room. ‘You charging me?’ Kelson asked.

  ‘What did Detective Peters say?’ the cop asked.

  ‘Nothing about charges.’

  ‘All I know is I put you in a holding cell. No hogging the interview room.’

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘OK,’ the cop said, with the same tone he might use if Kelson asked for a Ferrari.

  ‘Now,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Tell Detective Peters.’

  ‘Fine. Take me to him.’

  ‘He left for the day.’

  ‘This isn’t right,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Neither is killing a man.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Tell Detective Peters.’

  The cop took him down a stairwell, out into a hall, and down a set of white metal steps into a basement with a drain in the middle of the concrete floor and a line of seven white jail cells. Each cell had a bench bunk and a stainless-steel sink/toilet combo. The first two cells had men in them. The cop took Kelson to the one farthest from them and locked him inside.

  ‘A lawyer,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ the cop said, and turned to go.

  ‘I need my meds,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Junkie,’ the cop said.

  EIGHT

  Kelson went to the bunk, lay on his back, and did the breathing exercises Dr P taught him to do to relieve stress and lessen the pain of a headache when Percocet didn’t do the trick. He breathed in, long and slow, and breathed out, long and slow. But when he breathed out, words as weightless as the thoughts in his head floated on his breath. ‘Percocet – dead man – bottle of – jailhouse bench, ha! Dr P – it ain’t working – it ain’t.’ He breathed in, long, slow. ‘Peters is – jackass big-footed big ha! – what he does in bed’s his own damn – what he does to me is—’ Then the men in the other cells told him to shut up, which made him yell at them, which made them tell him what they’d do to him if they could get out of their cells and into his – which made him laugh so hard his lungs hurt, which relieved the stress and head pain.

  Then one of the men said to the other, ‘Screw it, he’s a nutcase.’

  Which made Kelson explain, ‘Not a nutcase. Disinhibited.’

  Which made the man say, ‘Yeah, whatever … nutcase.’

  At some point, a cop brought lunch. Later, a different cop brought dinner. ‘This sucks,’ Kelson said out loud more than once, which made the other prisoners laugh at him, but the plain white walls and bars and the plain gray floor suited him well enough, and he announced that fact too – more than once. Lights went out at ten p.m. and came back on the next morning at six. The cop who’d put him in the cell the previous day returned at six fifteen and told Kelson to get out of bed and hold his hands for cuffs. Kelson stretched his limbs, yawned, and held out his wrists. The cop sneered at him and said, ‘A sociopath, huh? No worries? Slept like a baby?’

  ‘Babies sleep badly,’ Kelson said. ‘Up at night – hungry, wet.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ the cop said, and took him upstairs to the interview room.

  Kelson’s friend and former division commander Darrin Malinowski was waiting for him.

  Kelson raised his cuffed hands to greet him.

  Malinowski said, ‘Oh, Sam.’

  Kelson shrugged.

  ‘You don’t look so good,’ Malinowski said.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Of course. Anything I can do.’

  ‘The cop I talked to yesterday – he thinks I killed Felbanks. He thinks—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Malinowski said. ‘We’ll straighten it out. Take a seat. Talk to me.’

  So Kelson sat and told him what he’d told Peters. Trina Felbanks hired him to convince her brother to stop stealing and dealing. Kelson went to Christian Felbanks’s condo and found the body. The SWAT team raided the condo.

  Malinowski sat across from him with his fingers folded on the steel table. Kelson appreciated the neatness of the gesture and said, ‘You’re a good man, Darrin. Good haircut too. You’ve got your priorities straight.’

  ‘Right,’ Malinowski said. ‘Look, the story you’re telling doesn’t make sense. Not to Peters. Not to me either. You say you went in and found the body. But if that’s all it was, why did you pick up the pill bottles on the night table?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘The homicide guys did a quick check, made a few calls, did the preliminary forensics. No one wants an ex-cop in the tank with a bunch of guys he’s busted. Forensics ran the prints from the bottles through the database – you know, to clear you. But they got matches on two of them.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Kelson said.

  Malinowski gave him a sad smile. ‘Saying that is good. But it doesn’t change the facts. It doesn’t change what’s real.’

  Kelson shook his head. ‘I walked into the bedroom, saw Felbanks, checked he was dead, and called nine-one-one.’

  ‘You called nine-one-one?’ Malinowski said.

  ‘I started to,’ Kelson said. ‘SWAT came in. I moved away from the bed. I didn’t touch anything.’

  ‘In the whole apartment, you didn’t touch anything?’

  ‘In the kitchen and bathroom, I opened the cabinets.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Malinowski said. ‘You aren’t making sense.’

  ‘All I can do is tell the truth,’ Kelson said.

  Malinowski said, ‘OK, when you opened the cabinets, what were you looking for?’

  ‘Felbanks’s drugs,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Good,’ Malinowski said. ‘The drugs you found in his bedroom?’

  ‘Yes – or no. I don’t know. Them or other drugs. His sister said—’

  ‘So you and Felbanks partied and th
en—’

  ‘I didn’t party with anyone. I didn’t touch the bottles. I found him dead.’

  Malinowski sighed. ‘Right.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘How’s your head now? Your therapist told us you might have memory problems. Any blackouts?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kelson said, ‘I woke up this morning in jail and couldn’t figure out how I got there.’

  Malinowski looked at him, uncertain.

  ‘Irony,’ Kelson said. ‘I can still do irony – sometimes. My memory’s as good as before I got shot. It’s in my therapy records.’

  ‘So you didn’t touch the bottles. You didn’t help yourself to a few pills. You weren’t going to run off with the whole stash.’

  ‘I didn’t touch them,’ Kelson said.

  Malinowski sucked his bottom lip. ‘OK, we’ll let that go. You’ve got another problem. You say Felbanks’s sister hired you to talk sense into him?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kelson said. ‘Trina Felbanks.’

  ‘Twenty-nine years old?’

  ‘I would’ve guessed thirty.’

  ‘Short red hair? Carrying a few extra pounds?’

  Kelson nodded. ‘Carrying them in the right places.’

  ‘Flat face?’ Malinowski said. ‘Short neck?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  Malinowski said, ‘Trina Felbanks was born with Down syndrome. A lot of other issues. Trouble with her heart. She’s lived her whole life in Sioux City, Iowa. She couldn’t get to Chicago unless someone put her on a cart and pushed her.’

  Kelson opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Malinowski asked, ‘You want to tell me what really happened?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Kelson said.

  ‘You can’t, or you won’t?’

  Kelson looked at his old commander and said, ‘I need a lawyer.’

  ‘Peters didn’t arrest you,’ Malinowski said.

  ‘He held me here last night.’

  ‘That was him being an asshole. He said you smarted off and needed some quiet time.’

  ‘A lawyer,’ Kelson said.

  Malinowski gave him a curious smile. ‘Peters says you’re free to go.’

  Kelson held his cuffed hands toward him. ‘Then unhook me.’