Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “A true fact,” said Lieberman. “Think you could recognize this woman if you saw her again?”

  “Don’t know, maybe,” Dupree said with a shrug. “She had a big chapeau like this.” He demonstrated the size of the brim. “And dark glasses. I think she was a good looker though. Smelled tres bon. Think I would recognize that, par-fume.”

  “Thanks,” said Lieberman. “We may get back to you.”

  Dupree was fingering the fiddle again.

  “I’ll be here or in the cab,” said Dupree. “No place much else to go.”

  Lieberman put his notebook away and went back out onto Kedzie. He checked his watch and got into his car.

  Dr. Ernest Hartman’s office was in Uptown on Bryn Mawr right next to the el stop. Dr. Hartman’s patients could, while they were waiting or having their fluids drained or taken, indulge in neighborhood bird watching. The trains came rumbling in front of his window and a sharp-eyed woman with the flu or man with a murmur would occasionally spot a Black-Jacketed Daytime Mugger on the platform, though you were more likely to catch sight of a Fleet-Footed Purse Snatcher.

  Dr. Hartman’s office was small and ancient and smelled like decaying wood. Parking was difficult, even for a cop, and the waiting room had only four chairs. Hartman’s other offices were in the Fullbright Building downtown on Wacker Drive across from Marshall Field’s and in the Carlson Building in Evanston across from the library. The Edgewater office was primarily for the cops and to satisfy Hartman’s belief that he should be doing charity work. Lieberman had arrived five minutes late, taken the tests, which lasted fifteen minutes, and was asked by Hartman to have a seat.

  “Results,” Hartman said, coming into the small office next to his examining room where Lieberman sat flipping through an old People article on Princess Di.

  An el rumbled into the station and Lieberman looked across the desk at Hartman, who was, at forty, decidedly overweight. Other than his weight, Hartman, his sparse hair brushed forward like a cartoon Napoleon, carried a cheery smile even when announcing inoperable tumors and terminal diseases. Hartman was wearing a blue lab coat over his suit. He looked less like a doctor than an actor about to do a commercial for Maalox.

  Behind Hartman’s desk was a light box to which he was now clipping x-rays of Lieberman’s innermost parts and processes. Hartman, when he had finished clipping the x-rays, sat in his swivel chair and examined them.

  “Yep,” he said. “See, right there.”

  Lieberman looked in the general direction he was pointing.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The knees, both of them,” he said. “Arthritic joints. Padding, that white stuff between the bones. Right there. Worn down.”

  “I know,” said Lieberman. “You told me last year.”

  “A little worse this year,” said Hartman. “Not a lot but a little. Knees ache, tender?”

  “When I walk a lot,” said Lieberman.

  “You walk a lot?”

  “I walk,” said Lieberman.

  “Impact’s no good for knees like that,” said Hartman, looking at Lieberman. “You don’t play volleyball, jog, basketball, things like that?”

  “No.”

  “Good, but you’ll probably need an operation,” said Hartman, swiveling again to examine the x-rays.

  “When?”

  “Who knows,” said the doctor. “When it starts hurting, interfering with your walking. Ten years, possibly twenty. Maybe never if it doesn’t get bad enough and you don’t do a lot of impact.”

  “What else?”

  “Blood pressure is under control,” Hartman said, looking at the check list in front of him. “You take the Tenormin every morning, right?”

  “Every morning,” agreed Lieberman.

  “Liver enzyme is still up there,” said Hartman. “You still come out positive for hepatitis. Liver’s a little large.”

  “I’ve had that for thirty years,” said Lieberman.

  “Have it till you die probably,” said Hartman. “You can’t give blood.”

  “Can I take it?” asked Lieberman.

  “Do you need it?” asked Hartman.

  “What else?”

  “Let’s see,” the doctor continued. “Bone spur in the little finger of the left hand. There on the next x-ray. Should have been taken care of when it happened.”

  “That was 1969,” said Lieberman. “Broke it chasing a woman named—”

  “I’d leave it alone since you don’t seem to mind that you can’t bend the finger,” Hartman said, looking at the x-ray.

  “Go on,” said Lieberman.

  “Heart’s OK. Lungs OK. You do anything for exercise?”

  “Nothing,” said Lieberman.

  “I don’t either,” Hartman confided. “Probably should. I mean I probably should. Metabolism. You’ve got a little belly starting but your weight is fine. Upper back still giving you trouble?”

  “When it gets cold,” said Lieberman.

  “Allergies are the same,” Hartman said, looking at the bottom of his list. “Milk intolerance.”

  “I don’t drink it anymore,” Lieberman lied.

  “Then,” said Hartman standing, “that’s it. Considering the climate, your age, and your profession, you’re a healthy man. I’d suggest when you hit that pension age you sell everything you’ve got and move to Florida. I hear Fort Myers is still cheap. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Lieberman, also standing. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Ask me a question,” said Hartman. “I’ve only got a few charity cases waiting.”

  “Hanrahan come in for his physical yet?” said Lieberman. Hartman removed the x-rays from the light box and turned it off.

  “Hanrahan,” said Hartman, turning to face his patient. “Hanrahan. Yes.”

  “He’s my partner,” said Lieberman.

  “Right, I remember,” said Hartman. “I told him to watch his liver, his weight, and his mental attitude. I encouraged him to go on a diet, stop drinking, and make an appointment with the police psychology office. I told him it was up to him this year but if he didn’t, and he survived till next year, I’d put in a recommendation. That what you want to know?”

  “It’s what I want to know,” said Lieberman.

  The visit to Hartman had taken less time than Lieberman had thought. Since it was more or less on the way back to the station, and since he had the time, Lieberman drove south about ten blocks to Wilson and then away from the lake to the dead-end street in Ravenswood where Hanrahan’s house stood. Kids were playing in the street when Lieberman went up the steps and knocked on the door. Every third word the kids said was something that would have gotten them drop-kicked by Lieberman’s mother half a century ago. None of them could have been more than ten.

  Hanrahan answered by the second knock. He was dressed in a clean shirt and tie and had obviously recently shaved and showered. Only his pink face and bloodshot eyes betrayed him.

  “Come in,” he said, backing away from the door. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  Lieberman went in. It had been at least five years, when Maureen was still living in the house, since he had been inside. The house, like Hanrahan, surprised him. It was neat, uncluttered, clean. They moved to the kitchen, where a pot of fresh coffee was brewing.

  “Place looks nice,” said Lieberman. He accepted a hot cup and noticed that the dish drainer was empty.

  “Abraham,” said Hanrahan. “I can see beyond those drooping eyes. You expected me to be hung over. You expected this place to smell and look like the inside of a dumpster, like Strewbecki’s apartment or something out of a TV cop show.”

  “Good coffee,” said Lieberman, sitting at the kitchen table. The top of the wooden table was spotless.

  “I keep it like this,” said Hanrahan, looking around and taking a sip. “I do the laundry, put it away, vacuum the rugs, have Mrs. Boyer come in every two weeks. It’s my therapy, Rabbi. I keep thinking maybe Maureen w
ill knock at the door some night and I’ll be sitting in here with a pot of stew I made … I’ve turned into a good cook … and … you get the picture.”

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman.

  “I let this place fall apart and I’m that much closer to falling apart,” said Hanrahan. He finished his coffee and moved to the sink, where he washed the cup with liquid Palmolive, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher.

  “Just came from Doc Hartman,” said Lieberman finishing his coffee. “Says aside from my bad knees, blood pressure, screwed-up back, trick finger, and weak stomach, I’ll be good for another year.”

  “Never doubted it,” said Hanrahan with a smile, taking Lieberman’s now empty cup.

  “He says you should see the shrink,” Lieberman said.

  “Don’t believe in them,” said Hanrahan. “Believe in them less than I believe in the God of my fathers. Let’s change the subject.”

  “New subject is last night,” said Lieberman. “How are you feeling?”

  “Responsible,” said Hanrahan. “And I don’t want to lose that feeling. I didn’t find our friend Jules the Walker. Kept at it till about three. Came home and went to bed sober. I’m tired but I’m ready.”

  “My daughter talked to me till after four,” said Lieberman. “I’m tired and I don’t know how ready I am but I’m walking. Let’s go.”

  They took separate cars and arrived at the Clark Street Station just before ten. It was a busy Saturday. People were lined up to fill out complaints. The squad room was filled, mostly with Hispanics from the immediate neighborhood, sitting stone silent and frightened or angry.

  Mel Hobson looked as if his temper was about to go. The last time it went was in the winter, when he almost ripped the ear off of a mugger named Jonas who wouldn’t answer questions for his rap sheet. Allen Bootes and Joanna Mishkowski were in the corner talking to a frightened little black girl who kept looking up at an equally frightened black man handcuffed to a bench across the room.

  “Calls,” said Connie Parish, covering the phone with her hand. “On your desk. And a prelim on the P.M. corpus.”

  “I like the hairdo,” Lieberman said. “Very chic.”

  Connie, whose uniform was perfectly tailored and whose skin had been badly dealt with by heredity, smiled, touched her tinted straw hair, and went back to the phones. Lieberman was on the phone at his desk making a call and reading the preliminary autopsy report on Estralda Valdez when Hanrahan came in. Lieberman waved to him.

  “Right,” Hanrahan heard as he approached Lieberman’s desk. “I hear you, Sol. You’re right … I don’t know … Who knows? You have any idea where he might be? … I’ll try it. I may need a statement from you … Maish’s fine. His son, my nephew Joe, remember? The lawyer, running for alderman. Why would I kid? You stay in touch and you’ll know … Bess’d like that … I might not be home but you can look at the lawn. You can knock. You can hope. Keep your brother-in-law out of trouble.”

  Lieberman hung up and looked at the notes he had written. Some of it didn’t make much sense. He told Hanrahan what he had, handed him the autopsy report, and the two of them moved through the squad room to the hallway and up the stairs to Hughes’s office. Hanrahan did the knocking. Lieberman opened the door and Hughes looked up at them from the report he was reading. The office looked more like that of an accountant or a ward committeeman than a police captain. The furniture, donated by various grateful businesses in the area, was somber, dark, serious wood. The bookcases were filled with books on the law and weapons, and department regulations, along with a thesaurus, dictionary, and assorted reference books. One wall was a picture window looking out into the parking lot so Hughes could see his men coming and going. The other three white walls each held a single photograph. The one behind Hughes was of the captain shaking hands with the late Mayor Washington, who had his left arm around Hughes’s shoulder and his right hand clutching Hughes’s hand. The photograph on the wall to the corridor was of Hughes, Senator Ted Kennedy, and Adlai Stevenson III in black tie at a Democratic fund raiser.

  The photograph directly across from Hughes’s desk was a reduction of the front page of the Chicago Sun-Times, March 16, 1969. Patrolman Hughes’s photograph was on the front page and the headline blared, LONE POLICEMAN WINS GUN BATTLE WITH GANG MEMBERS, TWO DEAD, SIX INJURED.

  It was impressive. It was supposed to be. Lieberman and Hanrahan sat in the two chairs opposite Hughes’s desk.

  “I’ve read it,” Hughes said putting the report on his clean desk and tapping it with his finger. “There’s nothing in it. Where’s this Jules Van Beeber you mention? You got him yet?”

  “No,” said Lieberman. “But we just got a report from a lawn service man who says he found someone fitting Van Beeber’s description in his truck outside the victim’s window this morning. The man in his truck was holding a lamp and claimed to have flown over a balcony. He told the lawn service man, Solomon Worth, a strange story.”

  “You telling me this Van Beeber fell off of the Valdez woman’s balcony and walked away from it?” said Hughes.

  “Fell or jumped,” said Lieberman. “Landed in bags full of grass and leaves.”

  “I’ve heard stranger,” Hughes said, looking at Hanrahan, who shifted uncomfortably. “Go nail him. Wrap it up. A homeless nut shouldn’t be hard to pick up.”

  “How’s your wife taking it, Captain?” Hanrahan said.

  “My wife is fine. My wife still wants to move. You get this guy and fast and we might still be able to sell,” Hughes said. “Get him fast with a solid confession and this piece of shit report gets my blessing and no recommendation for investigation for discipline. Fast means today. We understand each other?”

  “We do,” said Lieberman. “We’ve got the prelim on the autopsy. Eight penetrating wounds to the abdomen. Blade was thin, about six inches long. Lab reports the murder weapon wasn’t on the premises. Tony V and the evidence boys say there was no money in the apartment, no bank book, no address book.”

  “I’ve seen the reports,” said Hughes: “Remember what I said last night? The case is yours. Go find this Van Beeber, ask him what he did with the knife or whatever it was, and nail him shut. Do it. I’ve got some work to get done.” Hughes picked up the phone and looked at the two detectives, who got up and went out the door.

  “I don’t think he likes us, Abraham,” said Hanrahan.

  “I think he’s that way to the just and unjust alike,” Lieberman said. “I got a call to make, then let’s go find Jules the Walker.”

  Lieberman called Maish and asked him to put together a dozen fresh bagels, some nova lox, and a tub of cream cheese with chives.

  “Lisa and the kids are staying with us a while,” Lieberman said.

  “Like that, huh?” said Maish.

  “Who knows?” said Lieberman.

  “I like Toddy,” said Maish. “I don’t always know what that Greek stuff is he talks, but he’s a good kid. I like him.”

  “I do too,” said Lieberman. “Maybe all is not lost.”

  “I don’t know if I could take little kids anymore,” said Maish.

  “I got a choice?” asked Lieberman.

  “Rosen wants to talk,” said Maish.

  “I’ve got no …” Lieberman began, but Herschel was on the phone.

  “A bunch of Alter Cockers here want to know when you’re bringing your girlfriend back for a visit,” he, said, a wave of ancient chortles behind him. “She picked up some limp spirits.”

  “She’s not coming back,” Lieberman said. “You’ll have to settle for Gert Bloombach.”

  “You’re going to keep the cutie all to yourself,” said Herschel, obviously playing to the chorus behind him.

  “She’s dead, Hershy,” Lieberman said.

  “You’re kidding,” Rosen said, suddenly sober.

  “Would that I were. Put Maish back on,” Lieberman said and Maish’s voice came back.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Give the Cockers a piece
of chocolate cheesecake on me,” said Lieberman. “I’ll be by later to pay you and pick up my order.”

  5

  SINCE JULES THE WALKER had last been seen by Sol Worth clutching a lamp, Lieberman decided to check the pawnshops within easy walking distance, starting on Devon and working his way north to Howard. Hanrahan would try St. Bart’s Church on Granville six blocks away. St. Bart’s had a walk-in for the homeless and about a dozen beds. They might know Jules or where he hung out. The detectives would meet for lunch at McDonald’s on Howard near Western at one. If they had nothing, they’d try to think of another angle.

  St. Bart’s was close enough to Broadway so the homeless could find it without getting lost and close enough to Little Saigon so that many of the parishioners were now Asian. An editorial writer for the Sun-Times had been the first to note the oddity of a congregation of Vietnamese supporting an assortment of black and white homeless men and women.

  Hanrahan parked in the small parking lot of the church and walked in. The door was open but the church seemed deserted. At the sight of the crucifix inside the door, Hanrahan crossed himself. His eyes found a stained-glass window above the door that let in blue-red light and cast a dancing image on the wooden floor in the open lobby. Hanrahan looked back and up at the vision of Jesus in glass being taken from the cross. His eyes followed the outline of dark lead that formed the crown of thorns on the head of Jesus. One of the four women in the glass looked vaguely like his wife Maureen.

  “Can I help you?” came a man’s voice and Hanrahan turned to see a young black man about thirty in a perspiration-stained grey University of Illinois sweatsuit.

  “I’m looking for a priest,” Hanrahan said.

  “You found one,” said the man, stepping up and holding out his right hand. “Sam Parker.”

  “Father Parker,” Hanrahan said taking the offered hand. “I’m Detective Hanrahan.”

  Hanrahan showed his badge. Parker looked at it carefully.

  “Want to come in my office?” said Parker, pointing back the way he had entered. “I just got back from running. I don’t dress like this for work, at least not usually.”