Penance

by Dan O'Shea

  Lynch pictured what the doc was saying. Awkward to swing sideways at a guy’s head. “OK, doc, go on.”

  “OK, so if you are standing up, the only way somebody takes you through the head from side to side with an ax is if they are a couple of feet taller than you. Hurley was over six feet. In this case, it looks as though Hurley was lying on the floor. We’ve got an ax mark in the floor under his head and wood splinters in his scalp on that side. So the transverse wound makes sense because it was a descending blow to the side of his head while he was lying down. But what’s he doing on the floor?”

  “Maybe he got knocked down first.”

  “I don’t have any other sign of trauma, and, if our guy had used the ax to knock him down, I would. So there’s that. Now, suppose our fictional somebody, he doesn’t want Stefanski to look shot, so he does his Jack the Ripper routine on him. Suppose he also doesn’t want Hurley to look shot, but Hurley’s shot through the head. So he lays Hurley on the floor and cuts his head in half, and picks up the chunk that shows an entrance wound.”

  “OK, say I play along here. Before the ax work, what I got is one guy shot through the chest and another guy shot through the head, temple to temple. Missing chunk’s from the right temple, Hurley’s right-handed. Which probably makes it a murder-suicide. Hurley pops Stefanski, then pops himself. You got any powder burn on Hurley? Stippling?”

  Anthony shook his head. “No. But if it was a contact wound, then it would have been very localized, localized enough to be on the missing chunk of Hurley’s head.”

  “And with the semen stuff, maybe you have some kind of lover’s quarrel. But what’s with the ax shit? I mean, Hurley and Stefanski didn’t chop themselves up.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “So maybe this. Hurley and Stefanski do the nasty. Maybe Hurley wants to, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, it sets him off. He plugs Stefanski, he plugs himself. Somebody walks in, puts it together. Somebody who doesn’t want a homo murder-suicide to be the story. So we get the ax and the footprints and the blood graffiti and all of that.”

  “Makes you sound like a fruitcake when you say it out loud, doesn’t it, detective?”

  “Little bit, yeah.”

  “Another problem with that. Time of death. Based on body temperatures, we’ve got a time of death right around midnight. You guys got there by 12.30, right?”

  “Yeah. We got an anonymous disturbance call. Somebody said he’d heard some shouting, saw three black guys jump in a red Dodge, tear ass off. Call came in at 12.17.”

  “Thirty minutes, forty five minutes tops, between time of death and you guys coming through the door. Hard to see a murder-suicide, then somebody finding the bodies, and then somebody staging this whole mess in a half hour.”

  “So your call is what?”

  “I go to court, all I can say is that the evidence points to both of them being hacked to death with an ax, time of death around midnight.”

  “And that’s what’s in the report?”

  The ME smiled. “We’ve got the report. Of course, sometimes I get a report done, and then I get some other results in, so I file an addendum. It just so happens that I didn’t get the results on the semen, blood typing, and what have you in on time for the main report, so that’s in this addendum.” He pushed a manila envelope across the table to Lynch. “There should be a copy of that with the official report, too, of course. It would be unlike me to forget to file one. But it has been a long night.”

  “Leaving the ball in my court?”

  “You decide it’s gotta come out, I’ll back you up. You decide one thing’s got nothing to do with the other, I see no reason to have young Hurley’s reputation destroyed.”

  Lynch thought about it. “Fucking Stefanski. What I’ve heard, he always did have trouble keeping it zipped.”

  “De mortuis nihil nisi bonum,” said Anthony.

  “Been a long time since my altar boy days, doc.”

  “Say nothing but good of the dead.”

  CHAPTER 10 – RIVER FOREST, ILLINOIS

  Present Day

  Rusty Lynch lived in one of the big old stone houses set back off Oak Park Avenue just as you drove north into River Forest, place probably going for seven or eight hundred grand. Uncle Rusty paid cash for the joint the month after he got back into town from doing his eleven-month hitch at the Club Fed up in Wisconsin, same Club Fed where Dan Rostenkowski worked on his short game after getting caught with his pinkies in the House Post Office cookie jar. In fact, Uncle Rusty and Rostenkowski had been in together for the bulk of Rusty’s jolt. Rusty’d been in on some kickback beef the Feds cooked up when he wouldn’t play ball on one of their stings. He’d fallen on his sword for the Hurleys in the sure and certain faith that they’d have his back when he got out. Lynch wasn’t even sure Rusty liked the River Forest house. Rusty’d always been a city guy, the type that started breaking out in hives he didn’t smell some diesel fumes every ten minutes. Now he’s living on a half-acre of oaks pretending to be a feudal lord? Lynch figured the house was more like a fuck you at the Feds who sent Rusty up. The top Fed prosecutor who tried to flip Rusty was one of his neighbors now.

  Lynch parked in Rusty’s brick circle drive at the end of a line of six cars, the Grand Marquis the princes of the city drove or were driven in. Couple of the cars had drivers lounging in the front seats, listening to the radios. A stretch Mercedes at the end of the line. The driver was a retired cop Lynch knew, guy named Lewis, standing next to the car smoking, guy who’d done his twenty, then gone private. Personal security, that kind of shit. Lynch pulled out a Camel and joined him.

  “Hey, Lewis. Riding shotgun for somebody?”

  “Hey, Lynch. Howya doin? Yeah. Funny you turning up. Got a call from Eddie Marslovak. Thing with his mother got him freaked a little, I guess, maybe thinking somebody’s coming after him. He’s gotta nice ride, anyway.”

  Lynch looked up and down the Mercedes. “Got a bar and everything?”

  “Bar, TV, couple a cell phones, some kind of hookup so his computer’s on line. Like driving a space shuttle. Hey, you’re workin’ his mom’s case, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You out here to see him?”

  Lynch shook his head. “Wanted to talk to Rusty real quick. Guess Uncle Rusty’s still got the juice, huh?”

  Lewis dropped his butt to the bricks and ground it under the toe of his wingtip. “What I hear around the Hall, more juice than ever. Taking the fall on that Fed beef, good career move, far as I can see. Got him out of the county board seat. Doesn’t have to play sleight of hand to get paid no more.”

  “Well, not me, Lewis. Still on the city’s clock.” Lynch flicked half a Camel into the pine bark mulch along the side of the drive and headed for the door.

  Rusty Lynch was what Lynch’s old man would have been given another thirty years. Big, hair gone pure white, fine cross-hatch of busted veins over the nose and cheeks, still that sparkle in the eyes that was menace and merriment both at once. Rusty Lynch broke into a broad grin when he opened the door.

  “Johnny. Fuck me, it is good to see you, boy. Get your ass inside, say hello to the fellas.”

  “Rusty,” Lynch said, stepping into the slate-floored hall. “You’re looking good.”

  “I’m lookin’ like a fat old drunk whose clothes all have enough Xs in them to go into the dirty book business and don’t I know it.” The old man threw a playful jab into Lynch’s gut. “But you’re keepin’ fit, Johnny, and you always favored your mother anyway. Good on you.”

  Rusty ushered Lynch into the living room, a long rectangle with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. All the furniture was wood or brown leather. Marslovak and Burke, Hurley’s chief of staff, Lynch knew. They sat to the right.

  “Some of you boys know my nephew, John Lynch, him being one of Chicago’s finest. And, Johnny, I know you know some of the boys. Eddie I know you just met, though not the best circumstances, and you and Dick Burke go back a bit anyway.” />
  Lynch nodded at Marslovak and Burke. Burke gave a short wave.

  “Tony Lazzara’s the mayor’s new money man. Rod Fell’s our rising star in congress, up there in Rostenkowski’s old seat, and, God help me, these other fine boys are riding herd on him, out from the masters at the DNC, but I can’t keep their names straight. Anyway, just wanted to show you off. Is it private business you’ve got?”

  “Just a couple minutes is all I need, Rusty. I can come back.”

  “Oh, no need of that, Johnny. These sharp fellas can carry on without me for a bit.” Rusty draped an arm over Lynch’s shoulder and turned him toward his study.

  Rusty dropped the hint of brogue and the stage Irish act as soon as he and Lynch got into his office and shut the door. Being in touch with the auld sod was always good practice in Chicago, but Rusty had been born on the west side, just like Lynch.

  “Interesting crowd,” Lynch said.

  “I swear, Johnny, I work harder at this off-the-books wise-man shit than I ever did when I drew a paycheck.”

  “Still drawing a check, from what I hear.”

  “Well, I’m doin’ all right. I’ve always told you, Johnny, we look after one another in this town. You never did want to hear it, though.”

  “Just not my game.”

  “How’s your mother? Got down a couple weeks back, she was still hanging on.”

  “Gotta be soon, I figure. Not like there’s much left they can cut off.”

  “Tough thing. You’ve been good to her Johnny.”

  “She was good to me.”

  Rusty nodded, made a toasting motion with his glass. “So what brings you out? Not that you aren’t welcome.”

  Lynch pulled the Wrigley shot he’d taken from the Marslovak house out of the envelope and handed it to Rusty.

  “What do you make of this?”

  Rusty looked at the photo for a minute. “Santo and Kessinger. What you put that at Johnny? Give that about a nine on a scale of ten, wouldn’t you? And for old EJ Marslovak. Bet his boy would love to have this.”

  “EJ?”

  “Edward Jacob. Never did get the whole line score on him. Crew foreman at Streets and San, know that much. Supervised a lot of the work when himself ripped up the old Taylor street neighborhood to put in that UIC campus starting back in the mid-Sixties. Got himself noticed somewhere along the line, round about ’70, I think. Anyway, word came down from on high. I gave him some precinct work, some ward work, bounced him around the north side for a while, tried to work him in with the Polack crowd on Milwaukee Avenue, but he just never made the grade. Pretty clear the big guy owed him one, and the big guy was pretty insistent on squaring his debts. Not so clear what he owed him for.”

  “So he was a player?”

  Rusty shook his head. “Big guy wanted him to be a player, but EJ didn’t have the appetite for it. God, I remember him at the Connemara Ball, this has got to be maybe 1971. He’s got on some green tux he picked up at some rental shop. His wife, she’s got some silly getup on. You never saw two souls lookin’ more lost. Himself comes up, asks Helen to dance, trying to make her at home. Look on her face the whole time, you’d think Satan was trying to butt fuck her. They were out the door by 9 o’clock. Speaking of which, you goin’ this year?”

  “The Connemara? I don’t know, Rusty.”

  “You should make an appearance, Johnny. People miss you. Your old man, he was well loved, and there’s them that would like to make a gesture to his boy. You’re leaving a lot on the table, son. You got a whole inheritance waitin’ on you. You know I can lay it out for you any time you like.”

  “Thanks, Rusty. I know you told the old man you’d look out for me. I’m making my way, though.”

  “Don’t get touchy on me now. Nobody’s saying you can’t pull your own wagon. Just wondering does it have to be uphill both ways all the time with you. You’re owed, Johnny. Nothing more than that.”

  “Those debts seem to go both ways, Rusty.”

  Rusty gave a little snort. “That they do, my boy. That they do.”

  Back in the car, Lynch picked up his phone, checked his messages, hoping Liz had called back. Nothing. Little feeling in his gut. Might as well be back in high school. She’d been in circulation better than a year, had a couple of drinks, maybe it was just a thing. Nothing saying a woman couldn’t just be looking for a little touch.

  “Jesus,” he said to himself, pulling his sunglasses off the visor. “Might as well go home and watch Oprah.”

  Lynch took Harlem back down toward the Eisenhower, then cut east onto Jackson cruising the west side back toward the Loop, heading toward the United Center. His Crown Vic wasn’t a marked unit, but it was marked enough for this neighborhood. Lynch watched the look outs on some of the hot corners scurrying ahead, letting the street dealers know five-0 was on the block. Lynch rode with the window cranked down a couple turns, taking in the sights and sounds, just showing the flag a little, letting his chat with Rusty percolate.

  Lynch wasn’t sure he was worried about Eddie Marslovak being out at the house. Eddie moved a lot of money around town, both on the books and through back channels, so he and Rusty, they’d be dipping their sticks in the same hole often enough. The rest of it – Burke, this Lazzara guy, Pretty Boy Fell – that pointed to some official deal, not something related to the shooting. Interesting that Eddie wanted some security, though. Lynch would think about that.

  Lynch was more curious about Rusty’s quick spiel on Marslovak. Usually, Rusty was slow, patching things together, stopping to think about this guy or that guy, rummaging around the fifty years of hardball politics that cluttered up his head. So his rehearsed version of the EJ Marslovak story had Lynch wondering. Either Rusty’d been thinking about Marslovak himself – which was natural, given Helen’s murder – or somebody had tipped him off that Lynch might be asking.

  Just as Lynch swung north onto the Kennedy, his phone rang.

  “Lynch.”

  “Hey, John Lynch.” Liz. Son of a bitch. “Thanks for calling this morning. It meant something. Saved me thinking all day. You know, was it just the booze or something.”

  Lynch paused, wondering how far to go with this. Fuck it. Just roll with it. “Wasn’t just the booze, Johnson.”

  “Not very macho and cop-like, Lynch. You OK?”

  “Fine. Thinking about trading in my nine, maybe getting a nice .22. One of those little chrome plated automatics? Mother-of-pearl handle? Later maybe get my legs waxed.”

  “Now you’re sounding better. You scared me there for a second. Nice to know that you managed to squeeze in a thought about me, though.”

  “A couple, yeah.”

  “Nice thoughts?”

  “Well, not PG nice, but nice.”

  That chuckle. Already falling for that chuckle. “Still want to take me to dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like a real date? I go home and change and you pick me up and everything?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “You going to open the doors for me, help me with my coat?”

  “Don’t need a coat. It’s nice out.”

  “Help me pull up my zipper then?”

  “Help you pull it down, even.”

  “So a full-service date?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That chuckle again. “Pick me up at 7.00, John Lynch. And bring me flowers.”

  CHAPTER 11 – CHICAGO

  Lynch went straight to Starshak’s office. Starshak was wearing what he always wore – a solid navy blue suit, white shirt, simple tie, half a pound of crap in his hair keeping everything locked in place.

  Starshak’s office was always neat. He didn’t like shit out. Desk, low filing cabinet along the right wall, tall cabinet back in the corner. On the low cabinet he had a line of framed photos – his wife, the two daughters, one family shot that had the dog in it, big Collie, the kind with the darker hair. A fern hung in front of the window on the left. Thing was huge, and Starshak was alwa
ys futzing with it, picking off dead leaves, spraying it with the squirt bottle he kept in his desk. On top of the tall filing cabinet, Starshak had a glass case. Starshak made model airplanes. In fact, he was some kind of hot-shot modeler, even had some plaques on the wall near the cabinet. Every month or so he’d rotate a new plane into the case. Lynch had been out to his house a couple of times, holiday things Starshak’s wife would put on for the squad. Whole basement was walled with display cases holding Starshak’s planes.

  Lynch was pretty sure the plane in the case was new.

  “New plane, boss?”

  Starshak looked up. “Yeah. German. FW200 Condor. Scourge of the Atlantic. Long range recon mostly. Tracked conveys and called in the Wolf Packs.”

  Lynch nodded.

  “So how’d it go with the SWAT guy? He any help?”

  “You’re gonna love this. He says the guy took the shot from the old Olfson factory. Fourth floor, east end. Told crime scene, they got the mobile lab down there, they’re checking it out. Looks right, though.”

  “That’s like what, halfway to the Loop?”

  “Half a mile, give or take.”

  “This just gets better and better.”

  “Gave me some good stuff, though. Kind of a profile. Been lots of traffic in the old Olfson place, too – lot of garbage, lot of tagging. Based on the graffiti, looks like some offshoot of the Vice Lords hangs out in there. Gave the gang crimes guys a call, see if they can get me any names. Be somebody to talk to anyway. Took a better look around old lady Marslovak’s house, too. Found this.” Lynch handed Starshak the Wrigley shot.

  “So Marslovak’s old man had some clout?”

  “Talked to my uncle about it. He says Hurley the First owed the guy for something and tried to square it by wiring him in, but it didn’t take. Something about the whole thing seems off. Also, Rusty had some conclave going on out there – Eddie Marslovak, Burke from the mayor’s office, that new finance guy, Lazzara, Pretty Boy Fell, couple of DNC guys. And Marslovak’s got Pete Lewis riding shotgun for him now.”