by M. K. Gilroy
She’ll have a hard time getting hired by CPD without a makeover, I think to myself, but there I am being judgmental again.
“You two worked the Cutter Shark case, didn’t you?” Fazzoli says.
“KC was the hero,” Gibson interjects. “She’s Mikey Conner’s kid. Remember Mikey?”
Mikey? Never heard my dad called Mikey.
“Of course I do,” Fazzoli says crossing himself. “Good man. Good cop. And it appears the nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree. So that was you that gave that whack job a beat-down. I’m impressed, KC.”
I hate the nickname KC. I have fought it since grade school. About the time I think I have eradicated it once and for all, it pops back up.
We need to cut the chitchat and look at the body. Fazzoli has been on the job long enough to compartmentalize. All business one minute; hey, how is the family? the next.
“What do we need to know?” Don asks, getting us back on track.
“You’re going to get a lot more details from us,” Fazzoli says. “We’ll tell you how many times he got kicked. We can tell you what blow caused the most damage. But you aren’t going to learn anything you don’t see with your own eyes. Bad case. Bad. I’m an old geezer and this is as bad as it gets.
“Kid gets pushed sideways right by the curb over there,” he says pointing. “Looks like his attackers were running at him from the other side of the street. We got a lot of cigarette butts and a few blunts over there, so we think they were in the recessed doorway. I’m no detective, but the kid on the bike was probably peddling as hard as he could and got the bike as close to the curb away from his pursuers as possible. He wasn’t fast enough. He got pushed and was flung on the sidewalk a couple feet further than the bike landed.”
“We moved the bike,” Gibson interjects. “But we have all the photos to document forensics reports.”
“If you look at his right arm closely, you can see it’s broken,” Fazzoli continues. “Compound fracture. Might be from the fall. Might be from a kick.”
“Any ID? We have a name?” I ask.
“No ID, but one of the witnesses thinks she knows the kid,” Gibson says. “We’ve sent a detail over to find a family member and confirm.”
“Kids killing kids. What is that about?” April asks. Good for her for speaking up. But she isn’t going to like the answer.
“We’re on a dividing line between neighborhoods,” says Don. “And gangs stake their territories based on race. Blacks don’t cross the street and go north. The Hispanics don’t cross it and go south.”
“But he was on the dividing street,” she protests as if that might change something.
“Might have cut through the alley down there,” says Gibson, pointing. “A lot of times no one bothers with turf if it’s a kid. But sometimes they do. If I was a betting man I’d say the kids who did this are junior members of Diablos Santos. If you’se take someone out, even if it’s a kid your age, you’re a lot closer to becoming a full member.”
April looks like she is going to be sick. Maybe it’s her preternaturally white skin and she has a nutritional deficiency. Maybe I’m projecting. I feel sick to my stomach too.
“No-o-o-o-o-o! Not my baby!”
A scream pierces the air and drives like an arrow into my gut. I can barely breathe.
Two police officers, one female and one male, are flanking a young black woman who doesn’t look old enough to be a mother, but probably is.
She breaks free of their grasp. Gibson stops in front of her as she races toward the broken body. He looks to Fazzoli.
“We got what we need, let her in.”
Gibson releases her and then holds her shoulders from behind to steady her as she begins to wobble. She sinks on all fours. Her face is inches from her son. All crime scene activity has stopped. I think the world has stopped. Her head is rotating slightly. She is looking for a sign of life. Any sign. Her eyes are wide open. She is willing her son to open his. Her lips are moving quickly and silently. I think she is praying.
She looks heavenward. Her eyes clench shut tightly. The night is shrouded in an eerie silence. I realize I am holding my breath and make myself breathe in and out.
I kneel down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. I hear the softest purr coming from somewhere deep inside of her. Her head arches back fully. Her eyes are still shut. A wail rises from her chest and goes straight to the gates of heaven.
“Nooooooooooo.”
She lifts off her hands and turns to me and clutches me ferociously. Her nails dig into the back of my shoulders as her scream continues to pierce the silence. Her head drops on my shoulder and she begins to sob. I feel her shoulders shake and heave. I hold her awkwardly. She is purring again. Faintly I can hear her voice between the sobs, No God, no God, no God, no God, not my baby. Not my baby.
I will not forget this moment for as long as I live.
• • •
I sit listlessly on my couch in the dark. I’ve been back in Chicago two weeks. Two mothers have lost a son.
One son was a lost soul; the other was full of promise. Doesn’t seem to matter. If you brought a child into the world, how do you cope with the gaping wound in your heart?
I want to be a mother some day. But looking at the broken body of Keshan makes me wonder.
Dear God, why?
I stare at the blank screen of my television.
40
“YOU’RE QUIET TODAY,” Mom says, leaning over her plate and looking down the table past James and Kendra at me.
We always sit in the same seats. Jimmy gets head of the table. Mom to his left, Kaylen to his right. Klarissa sits to Kaylen’s right. Kendra and then James are to the left of Mom. I am not only seated at the end but I’m also the only one who doesn’t have someone sit across from me, unless there is a guest or two. No guests today. I am face-to-face with the wall. Suppose my family is trying to tell me something?
“Tough week,” I answer. “Except for yesterday’s soccer game with Kendra.”
“My team won too!” five-year-old James shouts. I think NASA satellites are scanning Chicagoland for earthquake activity after that outburst. Jimmy gives him the parental dirty look—a little judgmental if you ask me—and James immediately returns to his mashed potatoes.
I get lost in the shuffle myself, so I understand wanting attention, James.
“I was at your game King James and you were incredible.”
He smiles sweetly and then opens his mouth as wide as he can so I can see his mashed-up mashed potatoes. That’s my King James.
They don’t keep score at games for five-year-olds—even though most parents and coaches know exactly what the score is. But by my count James’ team lost about 12-1. It’s possible I blocked a few extra goals for the other team out of my mind. But even in loss James truly was incredible. Just not at soccer. He pushed and shoved. He tackled. He laughed. He cried once. Big baby. He even missed scoring a goal three feet away from an open net. He kicked at the ball hard. He just didn’t make contact with it. He ended up on his backside. But the kid bounced right back up and pumped his arms like he got the game winner for the USA in the World Cup.
Your resiliency will take you far, young man.
Age five is too young to separate sheep and goats in sports and life, but there will come a day down the road when I suspect King James will make the switch to tackle football or something else that requires a spirit of reckless mayhem, with fine-motor skills optional. His dad is a great guy. I love my brother-in-law. But Jimmy doesn’t have a clue about sports. Yours truly will have to break it to him and Kaylen.
I smile at the thought. It is my first smile since I held Keshan’s mother in my arms.
I look at Princess Kendra and King James, then down at my sister, their mommy. Kaylen is almost full term with Baby Kelsey. What would I feel . . . what would I do if something ever happened to my angels? I shudder. I look up. Everyone is staring at me expectantly.
“Huh?”
“Where’s your mind, Big Sis?” Klarissa asks me. “I just said this should be a good week. You arrested the Durham killer. That’s a good thing. You’re still Chicago’s hottest female crime fighter. I saw you on a date with one of Chicago’s wealthiest bachelors. I might be jealous.”
“You had a date?” Mom asks.
She didn’t have to sound so surprised.
“We arrested the killer but Durham is still dead,” I say to Klarissa. “And you already know I didn’t have a real date.”
That lightens the mood of the table. Not. I have a gift.
“You’ve got a tough job Kristen,” Kaylen says. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how Dad did it either.”
“You still have to feel at least a little good to wrap up a case and put away a killer—don’t you?” Klarissa asks.
Of course I do. Penny Martin is the murderer after all. Isn’t she?
“It does,” I answer. “My mind is just wandering. I’m already working another case. A twelve-year-old kid got killed. This one punches you in the gut a lot more than Durham.”
“What happened?” Jimmy asks.
“I really can’t say right now.”
“No leads?”
“No, we have plenty of leads and the killers have been taken into custody.”
“More than one person killed a twelve-year-old?” he says with surprise.
“We’re running with it tonight,” Klarissa says, looking troubled. “I didn’t know you were working that one. I have to say it does sound awful with kids killing kids.”
“Kids present,” Kaylen says with a cough and stern look.
“What happened Aunt Kristen?” Kendra asks innocently.
Too innocently to understand and tell.
“I’ll tell you a little bit about it later,” I tell her with a hug.
“Me too!” James declares.
“Inside voice,” Kaylen says to him.
That gives Jimmy opportunity to change the direction of the conversation.
“How about the Bears? Still undefeated. Can’t believe they beat San Francisco in San Francisco last week.”
Jimmy doesn’t know squat about sports, but he is Chicago-born and bred. When in doubt and there’s a pregnant pause in the air, all you have to say is, “How’s ‘bout ‘da Bears or ‘dem Cubbies?” and the world is set to right. Doesn’t matter if they are winning or losing. They are yours. You are theirs. I think Chicago is unique in that we are just as happy losing as winning. Either way we have something to talk about other than taxes and murder. That’s not such a bad thing.
My media star sister, Klarissa, has a good heart. Doesn’t mean Keshan’s mother has crossed her mind or will ever be the lead story on a WCI-TV’s news report. The media has dealt with the story politically and sensationally—but no one has touched the reality of a grieving mother.
Durham was despicable. Immoral. Amoral. Cruel. Unfeeling. Boring except for his money and outrageous lifestyle. But he’s still a feature on the news every night.
• • •
“You okay, Little Sis?” Kaylen asks.
I’m getting ready to hop in my 15-year-old Mazda Miata.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay,” she says.
Klarissa left thirty minutes ago. She’s on air tonight. Mom just left to head back for church. It’s missionary night and she’s our church’s missionary president. That means I’m supposed to be there at 6:00 to hear a doctor who works in an AIDS clinic in Zimbabwe. I know that’s important and I should be there to support him—and Mom. I just want to stay home and do a mind and soul-cleaning workout. My apartment could use some cleaning too. I didn’t have time or motivation to vacuum or dust all week. I could clean, put a load in the washer, then run the steps at the Van Buren High School football stadium.
“I’m okay.”
Even as I numbly say the words I hear Keshan’s mother’s screech. I feel her fingernails dig into my shoulders. I see her face. Confusion. Rage. Abject sorrow. Back to rage and sorrow again. Then emptiness.
“I’m okay, Kaylen. It’s just what I said, a little kid got killed. Murdered. It’s not so easy to put this one out of mind. Don’t ask me how I’m doing again. Just give me a hug.”
She gives me the best hug she can manage in her current condition. I’m no expert, but I bet she has put on thirty-five pounds and is carrying a nine-plus-pound baby. Maybe another soccer player for Aunt Kristen. I’m the one who usually pulls away from contact. But I squeeze her as hard as I dare with what she has situated between us.
“I’m gonna roll,” I say.
“You coming tonight? It’ll be good.”
“I can’t do it, Kaylen. Cover for me with Mom if you can.”
“No problem,” she laughs as she bends over and hugs my neck one more time.
Maybe having the convertible top down will blow the funk I’m in away. But it’s there the whole drive home. I got some dust in my eyes and they teared up a little. But I don’t cry.
Austin comes to mind. No callback all week. He’s decided to move on. I really don’t know him that well anyway, so it doesn’t bother me.
Well maybe a little.
• • •
If I had known Penny’s car was on the video, I wouldn’t worked so hard to hold it up. Talk about good fortune, this takes the cake. She’s not sure she wants to meet with me. Good. I don’t need to meet her anymore.
41
IT’S 9:00 AND we’re halfway through fall, but it’s raining like an April shower. No running the stadium steps. Didn’t feel like driving over to the 24/7 fitness center where I have a membership either. But I wanted a good workout.
I’ve got Journey’s Greatest Hits album on too loud. The old guy that lives below me will hit his ceiling with a broomstick if I’m interrupting whatever it is he does, but I need some energy music and will risk it. I’ve done fifty lunges with a thirty-pound barbell in each hand. I held a face-down plank for five minutes, long enough to hear all five minutes and two seconds of “Who’s Crying Now.” I can go longer but let’s face it, planks are boring. And the song was over.
I grabbed two twelve-pound weighted gloves and punched air for five minutes and twenty-six seconds. My arms complain the whole last minute of “Separate Ways.” I move to the light jump rope for both “Lights” and “Lovin,’ Touchin,’ Squeezin.’” Big hits but not my favorite Journey songs.
Steve Perry is almost done singing “Open Arms”—I always thought it was a little sappy but hard not to sing along with—and I’m counting out the pushups. I’m determined to hit fifty. I ran through the first twenty-five fast and easy. The next ten are slow and hard. Now my arms are shaking as I count forty-one.
I hear a knock on my apartment door. That’s strange. I next-to-never have company. Most of my socializing centers around family and church, so I have a steady stream of invites but don’t do a lot of inviting and entertaining.
I’m not going to admit I wasn’t going to make it to fifty as I stand up from my exercise mat. I have on compression shorts and a sports bra. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail. I am soaked in sweat. Not sure I want to see anyone or be seen by anyone. All I want to do tonight is take a thirty-minute shower and watch some TV or read a book.
I twist the volume novel to low, pad past my eating area and the opening to my kitchen and down my short entrance hall to the front door. The security chain is on. I look out the peephole. It’s Barbara Ferguson. She looks like a drowned rat. Not as bad as me, but bad for her.
I slide the chain, turn the dead bolt, and open the door. We just look at each other for a couple of seconds.
“You going to invite me in?”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Her eyes narrow and she cocks her head. I laugh.
“Come on in and look around while I get a shower. Not quite as nice as your place.”
She doesn’t bother to disagree.
• • •
I’ve go
t a towel wrapped around my hair. I have on an NIU sweatshirt and some comfy plaid flannel pajama bottoms. Bobbie is sitting on my couch sipping a cup of hot chocolate.
“You got anything stronger I can put in here?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“I suspected not,” she says. “So this is Chez Kristen?’
“Impressive, huh?”
“Not exactly the word that came to mind.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“No offense meant.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Positive. I like it. It suits you. Austere. Simple. But the quality looks good.”
“Single white female with not too many expenses. So I’ve spent a little on my furniture.”
“But not on your TV,” she says with a laugh. “Anyone tell you about hi-definition and flat screen technology?”
“Yeah, it’s a monstrosity,” I respond. “But it’s got sentimental value, even if the picture isn’t crystal clear.”
I brought it over from the basement of my parents’ house. It was what Dad watched in his man cave, which was a beat-up desk and couch on a tattered green piece of carpet in the basement.
“But you didn’t come over to look at my style sense. And I know you probably missed me since I got busted on my date with Derrick, but I thought you might hold out another week. What’s up Bobbie?”
She looks at me then closes her eyes. Her lips open to speak, then close again.
My partner claims that no one can do the awkward pause as well as me. It’s a great interview technique. Stumble around and look down at your notes like you’ve forgotten what you were going to say. People are helpful so they say things they wouldn’t normally say to fill in the awkward space you’ve created. I doubt it would work on Bobbie, but there’s a time to nudge and push the conversation along. There are also times you let it move on its own pace. This is that time.
I can hear the Seth Thomas antique wind-up clock on my dresser in the next room tick-tocking away. My kitchen sink has a drip if I don’t push the lever down just right. I obviously didn’t push it down just right. The fragrance from my green tea tree shampoo permeates the room.
