by B C Bell
There was a moment of silence as the masked man lowered an eyebrow and massaged his jaw in thought. Dexter finished a large vertical slash between the corpse’s breasts, and then began to separate her skin from her rib cage as if he were skinning an animal.
“So regardless, he was poisoned.”
“Regardless.” The coroner grabbed a slice of the dead woman’s chest and, wrenching it upward with both hands, began to peel it back, revealing her insides.
Mac tried not to throw up in his mask. “Methanol poisoning?”
“That’s right.” Dexter stopped peeling and took a deep breath from exerting himself. “It’s funny though, I’ve been told it was pretty common back in the early days of prohibition—bad bootleg whiskey—but that’s at least nine cases, by my count, in the last month. Somebody’s got some bad hooch out there.”
“And they’re forcing it down other people’s throats…” Mac mumbled.
“Wha’d you say?”
“How much of this methanol would it take to kill somebody, Doc?”
“Not much at all. A tablespoon’ll blind you. Four or five and you’d be lucky to survive the night.”
“But you’d have to autopsy the body to find it, right?
“Absolutely.” Dexter said, beginning to tear open the other side of the dead woman’s chest. “Now, can you answer a question for me?”
“…no self-respecting criminal would ever bother with this.”
“Sure,” Mac said, hoping he wouldn’t vomit. The combination of gore and formaldehyde in the air was making him sick.
“You’re that Bagman from the newspapers aren’t you?”
“Yeah?”
“So what are you doing here?”
“The right thing I hope.”
“Sure, but aren’t you supposed to be some kind of mob guy?” The coroner said, and walked around the table.
“Believe me,” Mac pointed at the mask, “no self respecting criminal would ever bother with this.”
The coroner shrugged. “It looks a lot better than that paper bag.”
“Really?”
“Heck yeah! It’s like—The Lone Ranger or something. A masked good guy…” Dexter dropped the scalpel on the table behind him, leaned back against it with both arms, and stared off into the distance as if he were fantasizing.
“I hate to admit it.” Mac sort of shrugged to himself. “But I kinda like that show.”
“Me too, but don’t tell anybody.” Dexter smiled.
The unconscious guard on the gurney stirred underneath the blanket. Mac pointed at him. “Look, I gotta go or I’m gonna have to knock that guy over the head again. I didn’t really want to do it the first time.”
“A masked good guy…” Dexter repeated, wonderingly.
“Thanks, again.” The Bagman said and saluted the coroner with two fingers.
“Anytime, Kimosabé.”
Mac peeled the mask off as he stepped out of the morgue and hung the lab coat back on the rack by the outside door, still holding his breath. He filled his chest with fresh air as he stepped outside, relishing the fuel and coal exhaust over the smell of the sanitized hospital. Circling the building, he sat back down in the Packard with a chill still running down his spine. He drove out of the neighborhood, circling, just to make sure nobody was following him—that Dexter character was just too cool a customer. Then again, Mac thought, maybe being surrounded by corpses all day just does that to a guy.
***
It was almost midnight when Mac parked the car and went into an all night drugstore on Ashland, near Lincoln. He gave the night clerk a nod and headed for the phone booth, making sure to close the door just enough so nobody else could hear him, but leaving a crack in it so the fan and the light in the ceiling wouldn’t come on. He dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed before the operator had a chance to respond. After seven rings somebody on the other end picked up.
“Hello, Hunts?”
“Eeeaauurrgh… No, Hunts is asleep at this hour with the sane people. Is that you, McCullough?”
“You know it’s me, Hunts. And you know, I know you’ve never gone to sleep before midnight in your life.”
“Obviously, you never seen me at work, Mac. What do you want?”
Mac tapped the window of the booth impatiently. “Something even more unlikely than you really being home and asleep,”
“What’s that?”
“An honest cop.”
Hunts started laughing on the other end of the line.
“No, really,” Mac said. “I’m serious.”
***
When Lieutenant Jacob Costanovitch was five-years-old, his father had left the mines in Pennsylvania for a construction job in Chicago because the old man didn’t want Jake spending the rest of his life inhaling coal dust and wondering what the sun looked like. Unfortunately, Jake’s dad broke his back falling off a ladder on the job six months later. His mother, barely able to speak English, had supported the family as a washwoman—all the while forcing her son to go to school and stay out of trouble. After graduating from high school, little Jacob became a rookie cop, spoke perfect English, and paid off his parent’s bills. Soon after, he became Lieutenant of Detectives for the forty-third precinct and started a family of his own. He just wished he was home more at night to appreciate them.
Costanovitch considered himself an American success story, and he wasn’t about to waste his work, reputation, and family just to make a buck under the table. He hadn’t had a drink since prohibition. He knew which officers were crooked, which ones were straight, and had fought crime and corruption for over twenty years. Still, he could hardly wait until they repealed the eighteenth amendment so he could get a drink.
It was another early morning when he stepped out of the precinct house and ambled over to his car in the parking lot. A brand new Essex-Terraplane, it was his one small luxury. The rest of his money went to bills and family expenses, specifically two daughters in their teens who were the source of his worries this late night—or early morning. Sarah, the older one, was getting ready to go to college and he was worried about the payments. Lucinda, the younger one, had been caught sneaking out only two nights before, and her clothes had reeked of alcohol and tobacco. It wouldn’t look good for a Lieutenant on the force to have a daughter arrested and, just being an honest cop, he had made enough enemies on the force to have some flatfoot do it out of spite. His mind was occupied with his personal responsibilities as he unlocked his car. He never noticed the streetlight on the edge of the parking lot that had been knocked out.
Costanovitch sat down and sighed as he put the key in the ignition. He was adjusting the rearview mirror over the windshield when he noticed the masked man in the backseat. He jumped, startled, and made an awkward reach for his gun belt.
“Don’t do it, Lieutenant.” A voice said, quickly. “Not only could I fill you full of lead right now, but I don’t want to. And keep your hands down.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“That’s no way to greet a friend, Jake. I read in the newspaper you guys want to talk to me—now’s your chance.”
Realization widened the lieutenant’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “The Bagman, right? I see you finally sprung for a mask. Too bad, I was hoping I could get an order to go.”
“How about ‘left down that alley, hang a right, and park on the street.’” Mac pointed across the lot. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I just don’t want any trouble from your friends.”
The lieutenant pressed the starter and eased the car out of the lot. Mac had limited him to short distances, so Costanovitch couldn’t suddenly speed up and swerve the car around.
“What is it you want, Bagman? Why me?” The lieutenant was already turning onto the street. There was a place to par
k only a few car lengths away. Mac knew the lieutenant wouldn’t try anything funny while he was driving. It was what he’d do after he stopped that worried the masked man.
“I heard you were an honest cop,” Mac said.
“What? So you want to turn yourself in?” Costanovitch shut the engine off and turned halfway around, resting his right arm across the passenger seat.
“I don’t think one honest cop is going to be able to protect me from the rest of them—the ones on Slots Lurie’s payroll.” Mac leaned back in the seat and rested his gun hand on one knee.
Costanovitch’s left hand came up suddenly, a police .38 aimed over his arm, military style. But it was too late. He’d heard the ratcheting sound of Mac’s .45 revolver cocking and something hard had pressed against the side of his head—all in the same time it had taken him to pull his gun out of his lap.
With a jolt the policeman looked down and saw the index finger of Mac’s other hand stuck in the barrel of his service revolver. The cold, hard steel pressed a little harder against the side of the lieutenant’s skull. This Bagman was fast, Costanovitch never even saw him lean forward. And the masked man hadn’t flinched.
“Now you can pull the trigger and blow my hand off, but the gun’s going to blow up in your face, probably kill us both. Even if it doesn’t, I’ll spasm, finish pulling the trigger and blow your head off. I’m not here to come to blows.” He smiled at his own wordplay underneath the chamois mask. Mac was cracking himself up. “So why don’t you just hand me the gun, and we’ll talk. You may not know it, but we’re on the same side.”
Costanovitch let go of the gun, still astounded by The Bagman’s speed; it was as if he had known what was going to happen. Mac’s hand enveloped the police .38. He laid it on the seat beside him, and put his own gun hand back on his knee. There was a bullheaded silence as both men stared each other down.
“I knew you were crazy,” the lieutenant eventually said. “Criminal trespass, kidnapping, assault and battery, racketeering, a massacre for chrissakes! Destruction of city property—”
“That thing with the hand grenade on Southport?”
The lieutenant’s face swelled and turned red.
“That was an accident. Could’ve happened to anybody,” The Bagman said, waving it away with his gun hand. “Let’s get to the point.”
“Out with it then.”
“You had a cop on the take, McCreedy. He was poisoned, but you told the press he’d drowned. Why?”
“Because Mayor Kelly’s men said so. Cermak’s men would’ve done the same. You don’t tell the public a hero’s been murdered unless it was in the line of duty. And you never admit to a cop on the take until you have him in court. Can I smoke?”
“No. I like the windows closed,” The Bagman said, turning his gun hand up in a shrugging motion, the barrel pointed at the lieutenant. “Why not admit I broke up the bank messenger robbery?”
“A—because you’re a wanted felon. B—because we don’t want every nutcase in the city pulling a bag over his head and trying to take credit for it. And C—because we’re not going to glorify a vigilante.”
“I can almost see your point there. Did you know McCreedy was on the take?”
“I suspected it.” Costanovitch scratched at his jowls. “They don’t last long out here. If they don’t take the money, the other guys on the force don’t trust ‘em. Pretty soon, they stop backing ‘em up. Accidents happen. But no, it wasn’t common knowledge that he was on the take.”
Mac tilted his head and his hat back. “How’d you survive so long? I mean, being an honest cop with no backup?”
“I got lucky, had one good partner—worked alone a lot when I didn’t—got promoted early. Homicide’s a lot different than being on the beat. You though, I’m gonna call in a whole team of men for you.”
“I’m flattered. One last question, though. Who’s behind the poisoning?”
“I don’t have any evidence, but from the way you’re talking, we both suspect it’s Slots.”
“Why? Lurie have a history?” The Bagman looked almost casual with his fedora on the back of his head. His gun still lay on his knee, the barrel pointed at the lieutenant.
“How do you think he got his nickname? ‘Slots.’ He was forcing drain cleaner down victim’s throats like a kid puts coins in the gumball machine. He was good at it too. Most of these idiots just force that stuff down the victim’s throat till they’re coughing up blood. You ever see lye scars running down a man’s esophagus? Big ol’ white sides all swollen and popped? Disgusting. But not Slots. He was a real neatnick, took months for us to figure out how he was doing it.
“‘Course, that was probably before your time.”
Mac picked up the police .38, flipped the cartridge open and dumped the bullets out in one motion. He flipped it closed and put it back on the far corner of the seat. “Oh yeah, you may already know, but Spider Donlan was in on the bank courier job. Would Slots have killed him for being a screw up, or was it because it he didn’t clear it with the big boys first?”
“Could be either. Spider was enough of a screw up to have done both. It was only a matter of time. I notice you’re carrying a .45 revolver…”
“Sometimes I do,” The Bagman lied.
“The rest of Spider’s gang got all shot up with .45 slugs.” Costanovitch smiled with one side of his mouth. “Funny coincidence, huh?”
“Hilarious,” Mac said. “No offense, Jake, but I’m kind of short on time. Anything else you wanna tell me?”
“Sure, how ‘bout this. If Slots doesn’t kill you, I’m going to. The last thing this city needs is more blood on the street just because a couple of crooks want to run the same racket.”
“Listen. One more time. We’re on the same side.” Mac opened the car door. “I only mentioned taking over the protection racket to get Slots out of the neighborhood. Besides, if you kill me, that’s just more blood in the street.”
“You’re dead already, Vigilante. You just don’t know it.” By the time Costanovitch had said it, The Bagman was gone.
The lieutenant spun around in his seat and switched on the dashboard police radio. “This is Costanovitch,” he yelled into the mouthpiece without even waiting for it to warm up. “I’ve sighted The Bagman on Sheffield, right by the Addison Station! Repeat! The Bagman has been sighted on Addison and Sheffield! One block from the station! Get all available men to the corner of Sheffield and Addison! Do you read me? Do! You! Read!” he yelled into the hand piece as if that would make it broadcast faster.
A small tinny voice finally responded. “Received and broadcast, Lieutenant. All available men! Be on the lookout for The Bagman in the vicinity of Sheffield and Addison! Repeat, The Bagman has been sighted in the vicinity of Sheffield and Addison, behind the Forty-third Precinct Building! Suspect will be wearing a face mask…” Costanovitch realized how ridiculous that sounded and got back on the horn:
“Suspect is armed and dangerous! This ain’t no joke! I want every available man at the station! On the street! Now! That’s an order!” The Lieutenant bellowed loud enough to be heard at the precinct house even without the radio. “Everybody! On the double! Suspect is armed and dangerous! Get out here!” The radio crackled back at the detective, repeating orders to every officer within broadcast range.
The lieutenant hit the starter, turned on his headlights and began circling the neighborhood. “OK, smart guy, I know you’re local, and I know you’re a criminal.” Just a few minutes later he pulled the Terraplane over, staring down the street in the direction of the police station. Patrol cars and policemen were still herding through the doors out into the city.
Costanovitch struck a match and lit a cigarette. “And you probably don’t smoke,” he muttered. Then he slammed the heel of his palm into the wheel again and cursed into the darkness. He’d actually kind of
liked the guy.
Chapter VI
The Feds
Inside the Forty-third Precinct, the sound of policemen slamming lockers and loading guns had barely begun to fade. The desk sergeant sat in his chair, leaning on one elbow with his chin in his hand, staring down at the sign-in sheet and wishing he were in on the action. Never mind that he had bursitis in his hips and was past retirement age, or that he made an extra five dollars a week working the desk—he missed being out on the street in the thick of things. Heck, he was probably the only person in the station right now besides the drunks and the bailiff upstairs. Just one more time, he’d like to be in on the action.
Gunfire echoed in the street—sounded like it was right next to the station. The old cop could practically smell the gunpowder and feel the recoil running up his arm. Somehow, he hoped, he just might get in one more big arrest.
Abruptly, the front doors rattled and then swung open. A burly man with a flat nose and eyebrows like wild hares came out of the night. He looked both ways and then ran up to the desk, flipping open his badge.
“Fowler, FBI!” the burly man said. “We’ve got The Bagman holed up in the Addison El Station! He’s taken hostages!”
The desk sergeant’s mouth flew open in a combination of horror and joy. He might not be in on it, but he was close to it—and in a position to help. “What do you need?” he blurted out, jumping to his feet and almost running around the desk. He’d completely forgotten about his hip.
“Guns, ammo, tear gas, anything you can think of! Where’s the armory?”
“Downstairs in the basement. But I’m not allowed to sign any of that stuff out.”
The Federal Agent grabbed the sergeant by the front of his shirt, then caught himself, let go and brushed the front of it down apologetically. “Didn’t you see my badge, Sergeant? This is a federal emergency! You want me telling J. Edgar Hoover we let a fugitive get away because the Chicago Police didn’t cooperate? Just point me down there… if you’re too scared!”
