(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind'

by Michael A Diaz

  CHAPTER 7

  Chicago Police Dept. 3151 W. Harrison St. January 16, 1995 0900 hours

  Lt. Turner ran his fingers through his short hair, shaking his head as he sat in the confines of his small office. He was exhausted, his mind refusing to work with his customary speed. Last night had been a monumental fuck up and the day was shaping up to be just as bad. The Assistant Chief of Police had just left his office and they had exchanged words that were not very complimentary. Last night had been a hell of a mess and the damn paperwork was still waiting for him.

  Thompson had come in with the news that they had found a man that might be a suspect in the killing and they had looked at the man’s file closely. The suspect in question was Robert Dudley; a man that Dunbar had arrested several years ago, when he was still a uniformed officer, for the brutal rape and attempted murder of a woman. During the trial the man had made threatening remarks about Dunbar, swearing that he would kill him. The suspect had served a ten-year sentence and then was paroled just about a week before Dunbar was killed. It was a long shot, but…all they had so far. They had been able to pinpoint the man’s whereabouts and the three of them had moved in on him, locating him at a slaughterhouse during working hours. Two minutes into the interview, Turner had realized the man was going to be trouble. He was six and a half feet of pure muscle and meanness and refusing to cooperate with any cop, no matter what the reason. He had glanced at the three men confronting him, the scar of the left side of his face, running from his forehead to his chin, flaring to a vivid red at the mention of Dunbar’s name. The man laughed long and hard when he had found out that Dunbar had been killed, the small, beady eyes full of satisfaction at the news and Turner almost lost it then. Realizing that the interview was not going anywhere Turner had decided to take the man into the station and work with him on his own turf. That was when things went to hell in hurry.

  “I’m not going any…fucking…where with you guys”. Dudley said, his face etched in rage, spitting the words. Thompson reached for him and the man snapped, moving incredibly fast for one so huge. His left hand shot forward like a deadly snake, taking Thompson by the throat and squeezing hard, while the right hand went for the gun hidden at the small of his back. In seconds, Turner and Miller had joined the struggle, Turner reaching for the hand holding the 9 mm Beretta, the edge of his hand snapping at the wrist. The pistol went off and blood spread everywhere, Miller falling down hard on the concrete floor of the slaughterhouse, a scream of pain and rage reverberating from the walls. Men who were working close to Dudley when the cops showed up scattered at the sound of gunfire, leaving them alone.

  From out of nowhere, a kick caught Turner on the chest and he found himself struggling for balance while his mind screamed at him. One of his men was down, blood spurting from a chest wound and a glance at Miller showed the paleness and the pain etched deeply on the rugged face.

  “Jesus…Christ”, Thompson said, swinging a fist at the man holding him. The next second, he was down on the ground, the figure of Dudley running fast, away from them.

  “Call it in…call it in”, Turner snapped, running fast after Dudley, his mind churning. Miller was down, hurt badly and the man they were after was running like a scared deer. He was out of sight in seconds. He heard Thompson on the radio, giving the dreaded call, ‘Officer down, officer down’ and then he was ducking bullets as Dudley whirled around, snapping off shots at him. He ran after Dudley, his Glock in hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his legs ate up the distance. He cursed himself for all the damn cigarettes he had been smoking lately. He ducked behind a parked car on the street as a bullet whined by and he caught a glimpse of Dudley as the man sprinted for an alley. He ran after him again, his heart in his throat, feeling the incredible burning in his chest and the painful beating of his heart against his ribs. He ran into the alley, adrenalin pumping hard in his veins, all thoughts of safety forgotten now, as the figure of the man that had shot Miller loomed in front of him. Dudley had trapped himself in an alley with no exit and now he turned like a cornered rat, rage clouding his face, the 9mm Beretta coming up. Turner saw the man whirling, saw the black pistol coming up and he moved swiftly, crouching, his Glock coming up, screaming once, “Drop it”, the pistol spitting fire the moment he had it aligned with the man’s chest. He screamed again as he felt the kick of his pistol in his hand, adrenalin burning through his blood, making everything incredibly clear and sharp, life suspended in slow motion. His eyes took in the figure of Dudley as the bullets hit him in the chest, the force of the blows sending the man backwards, hitting the ground with a thud. The man yelled once, a scream of primeval fear and pain, his legs kicking a wild staccato on the asphalt and then he was still. Turner approached him carefully, pistol trained on him. Reaching him, he kicked away the pistol lying close to Dudley. He glanced at the man’s chest, seeing the blood and watery fluids seeping from the wounds and he holstered his pistol, crouching down next to the body. His fingers went to the neck, feeling for a pulse, finding nothing. He stood up, glancing around, listening to the sirens in the distance approaching fast. Running footsteps behind him made him whirl around and he saw Thompson running toward him. He glanced at the man on the ground again, wondering why in hell the man had run. He shook his head, knowing that the answer lay within the dead man now. ‘Probably didn’t like cops’ he told himself as he reached for the pistol lying on the ground and then he straightened up, looking at Thompson.

  “You…okay? Thompson asked, panting heavily, his eyes taking in first Turner and then the man laying dead on the ground.

  “Yeah…yeah. I’m…fine”, Turner said, his hand wiping the sweat from his face, his breath coming shallow and fast. He turned around, facing Thompson.

  “Miller…?” he asked softly, dreading the answer, feeling his heart slowing down.

  “He is…okay”, Thompson answered, his usually calm voice shaky now. “Paramedics are…with him.”

  Turner shook his head slowly, running fingers through his hair. The main suspect was now dead and they were back to square one. They still had a thousand questions and no answers again. Why did the man run? Was it because he didn’t like cops or because he had been involved in Dunbar’s killing? He glanced at the man’s shoes, working boots, at least a size twelve. He breathed deeply of the cold air, clearing his head.

  “Son of a bitch”, Turner mumbled to himself, shaking his head at the way things were shaping up now. Dudley’s shoe size was nowhere near what they had found at Dunbar’s crime scene. ‘There is going to be hell to pay on this one’, he thought grimly. With those thoughts in mind, he started walking, making his way back to Miller.

  * * * *

  Turner’s fingers massaged his aching temples, his eyes glancing at the pile of papers and reports on top of the desk. He felt drained, lethargic, knowing he had not been able to get enough sleep lately. They had spent most of the night at the hospital, waiting for word on Miller, taking care of his family and reassuring them as much as they could…and listening to Assistant Chief Crawley ranting and raving about the investigation and about the man now dead.

  “Yeah, last night was bad’, he said to himself, thinking about Miller in the hospital. He had lost a great deal of blood, but after emergency surgery, had regained consciousness around midnight and was even able to smile at his wife. The doctor was sure he was going to make it, the bullet had missed his important organs, but…it was going to take time. He stood up now, his mind running with all the questions, finding no answers to any of them. He glanced at his watch, breathing deeply of the stale air in the office. He looked at the pile of forms on his desk and sat down again, resigned to the fact that the damn paperwork had to be done. He also had to review the tape made of the burial, even if he thought it would be a waste of time.

  Adding to his misery was the fact that in a few short hours he had an interview with IA, (Internal Affairs) concerning the shootings of the s
uspect and Miller. The Assistant Chief was on his ass, IA was snooping around concerning the shooting and the way it had turned out and they still had a dead cop and no answers. He shook his head in disgust again. Yeah…it was going to be one hell of a day, he though, bending his head to the task at hand.

  CHAPTER 8

  East Downtown Chicago Mickey’s Bar and Grill 115 St. January 27, 1995

  02:35 a.m.

  She sat in the SUV, perfectly still, waiting patiently, the quiet hum of the engine soothing her overwrought nerves. She forced herself to remain as still as possible, conscious of her surroundings and the fact that if she moved too much inside the vehicle, someone might see her and later on remember that. It was cold outside and late and the streets were void of people, as was the parking lot behind the bar. There were four cars left now and in all probability the place would close their doors shortly. She realized this was not the nicest part of town and that her SUV would stick out like a sore thumb, but she was counting on the fact that people coming out of a bar at two in the morning were more than likely under the influence of alcohol and would not pay much attention to a lone car parked behind the bar. Still, she knew she was taking a considerable risk by trying to kill a policeman where people could be around, but that intensified her emotions, the adrenalin rush almost incredible as she sat still, waiting for the prey to appear. Her blood was on fire and she could feel the moistness in her loins as she waited, tension building slowly. She had been there almost an hour and before that she had cruised the street several times, her eyes searching for the dirty, black car parked behind the bar. The man she had come to kill was there, had been there for most of the night, drinking, whoring around. She glanced at the wristwatch again, willing herself to be patient. Sooner or later, he would come out and then, it would be the last day of his miserable life. For a brief moment, her mind centered on what she was about to do, killing another man, but she shrugged her beautiful shoulders. The man she was about to kill was nothing to her, just another cop that had inflicted incredible pain and suffering into her life, just like Dunbar, one of the ‘bad’ people that needed to be eliminated if society was to be safe. In the dark confines of her mind, policemen were the enemy, the ones that had failed to protect her, to keep her safe. They had destroyed her life and caused incredible pain and suffering to her. She was willing to kill them, to expose herself to retaliation and even death, but one way or another they would share in her pain for what they have done to her. One way or another, she was going to make them pay and pay dearly; with their lives.

  ‘This one has been a lot harder to plan than the first one’, she thought idly, her eyes glued to the small alleyway that the bar’s patrons used to get back to their cars. The man lived alone, in an apartment complex, surrounded by people. She had found the address easily enough and then, by calling the department and acting like she knew Officer Moore well, had obtained the information that he was working days, five days a week and off on weekends. Today was Friday, well…really Saturday morning and he was spending time in his favorite watering hole. She had followed him several times during the week after finding his address and watching the apartment, even sitting close to him during a lunch break, watching her prey closely, learning his routine, learning the man as he went about his business. He was an alcoholic or something very close to it, frequenting this bar more than once or twice a week. He was not married but with a long string of women around him and he was not as old as the first man, Dunbar. He had a rugged face and mean looking eyes, just as she remembered him from that horrible night so long ago.

  She laughed a mirthless laugh inside the SUV, as she remembered the way he had looked at her just a couple of days ago, when she had sat next to him at his favorite restaurant and she could see the speculation in his eyes as he wondered if he could put the make on her or how far he could go with her. And the whole time she was sitting next to him at the counter, her mind was busy thinking about ways to kill the bastard, barely able to control herself as she thought about what the man seating next to her had done so long ago.

  At first she had thought of just going to his apartment with some kind of excuse, but realized that would have been foolish. Any noise inside the place and the neighbors would be on the phone and calling the police in seconds. Someone could see her entering the apartment or leaving it. In the end she had decided to take care of him at his favorite watering place and after following him for the best part of a week, she had his routine. Movement by the small alley caught her attention and she saw two people emerge, a man and a woman. In the poor light given by a lamppost, she could barely discern them until they were almost upon her car and she bent down swiftly. Even if drunk, people tend to remember things, and it was better not to give herself away, she told herself. As the couple passed, she raised her head slowly, watching them. Both of them staggered, holding on to each other and she could hear the sound of a woman laughing and the gibberish talk of a drunk as the woman grabbed his ass and squeezed him hard. The man stopped next to a car, fumbling in his pocket for the door key before finding it. After several attempts and more laughs from the woman, he was able to open the door, the woman falling into the seat hard. The man walked around, fumbling with his door, getting in. Several seconds later the car started and slowly the driver moved out, brake lights shining brightly in the night.

  She settled into her seat again, willing to wait as long as it was necessary for Moore when suddenly she caught movement with the corner of her eyes again and she swiveled her head like a hunting leopard searching for prey. A man was coming and seconds later the figure took form. She recognized his shape immediately and her heart started beating a painful, wild crescendo against her ribs, adrenalin surging through her, her loins hot and wet with the intensity of her emotions. It was Moore, walking slowly and not too straight toward the back of the lot.

  Next to her, on the passenger seat, rested the axe, clean and shiny and her hand reached for it, knowing the moment to kill another one of the bad people was close at hand. Her eyes followed the figure of the man without blinking, all her attention centered on the man staggering slowly toward the back of the bar…and death. She glanced at the clear light on the post, wishing she had the presence of mind to have taken it out earlier, as she had done with the one by Dunbar’s house. Now it was too late to worry about that, she thought fiercely. In the future she had to do better, she told herself, her hand gripping the axe tightly, her heart in her throat at the prospect of killing the ‘other’ man that had fucked up her life. Moore came abreast of her car and she slid down swiftly, almost contemptuously. The man was drunk, that was obvious and he was probably cold and worried about getting in his car, not looking around for anybody. The man stopped a few feet from her car and suddenly a lighter flared in the semidarkness of the parking lot, illuminating the face. The man brought the lighter to his face, cupping his hand to shelter the flame from the wind, blowing a plume of smoke seconds later. The man resumed his stumbling gait, almost reaching his car, hesitating briefly and almost turning around, like a man that had suddenly remembered something important. The next second the man was doubling up, retching, almost falling in his desire to keep vomit from getting on his shoes, stumbling and cursing. A grin flickered briefly on the beautiful face at the man’s predicament and her eyes followed him. She saw him wiping his mouth and then fumbling with the keys, much like the other drunk had, body swaying in the cold wind. She opened the door to the SUV quietly, her hand bringing the axe close to her side. Another foul man was about to die and she could hardly restrain herself. Deep blue eyes, cold and hard, took in her surroundings with a quick glance. Everything was quiet, deserted, just the cold and the whispering wind and a killer. The black clad figure started walking, her long legs closing the distance between her and the man swiftly.

  * * * *

  Officer Pete Moore walked slowly toward his car, his alcohol soaked brain almost incapacitated. He burped noisily, tasting the
sourness in his mouth and a grin flickered briefly on the weathered face, remembering the whore inside the bar. She had tried her best to get him to buy her drinks, tried to get him to take her home with him. Like he needed a stupid whore to go anywhere with him. Besides, Gloria was all fucked up with the damn cocaine and he had just about enough of her. He had slapped the hell out of her and then some Joe in the bar had taken her out and away from him. ‘Good riddance…bitch”, he mumbled, as his hand reached for a cigarette and the lighter, his feet going sideways when he wanted to go straight. ‘Damn, but I’m drunk”, he thought sourly, wishing he had not had that last drink. He lit the cigarette, cupping his hands around the lighter against the damn wind, his body swaying back and forth in an effort to stay upright. He took a long drag of the cigarette, his eyes glancing around the almost empty parking lot. That was when his eyes took in the exhaust coming from the tail pipe of the parked SUV on the corner of the lot. He blew smoke from his mouth, trying his best to discern if there was someone inside the shadows of the car. His befuddled, alcohol soaked brain tried to think, wondering if he knew anyone who owned a vehicle like that. It was new and looked quite expensive, too damn expensive for the neighborhood, he thought. He didn’t know anybody that owned a car like that, no one, that was for sure, he told himself. Even if drunk, Moore was a cop, an experienced one and the fact that there was a strange vehicle parked on a corner of Mickey’s Bar at this time of the morning started him thinking. Dunbar’s killing, his long time friend and partner, was still fresh in his mind. He was about to turn, going back to the vehicle to see if anyone was inside, when his stomach heaved on him and he felt the nausea welling in his throat.