Public Murders

by Bill Granger

  Donovan beckoned Weiss into the squad room. He picked up a phone and dialed. He waited for a long time and then spoke. “Hello? This is Jack. I got a friend of yours I’m talking to. Tell him who I am.”

  He handed the phone to Weiss. Donovan said, “We want to make sure you get all your phone calls.”

  Weiss took the receiver as though it were a hand grenade with the pin pulled.

  “Hello? This is Weiss. Morey Weiss. Who’s this?”

  “What the hell is going on, Seymour?” asked the sleepy voice at the other end. “What the hell did you get me into?”

  “O’Connor? Is that you? They got me down here, this guy says he’s your brother-in-law. I got troubles, big—”

  “Lemme talk to Jack.”

  Weiss handed the telephone receiver back to the thin, red-haired man sitting across the table from him. Donovan put the receiver to his ear and watched Weiss’s face.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s the beef with Weiss? He’s a good guy.”

  “How much does he drop to you?”

  “I don’t know nothing about what you’re talking about. You talk like a goddamn fed, for Christ’s sake. You keep your nose outta my business, Donovan.”

  Silence.

  “Jack? Are you there? What’s the beef with Weiss?”

  At the wedding O’Connor in a jovial, freehanded way had lent them his car for the honeymoon and then he had drawn Jack aside in the pantry of her mother’s house and given Jack a hundred-dollar bill. Sixteen years ago. He and Rita had driven away as though they would never come back. They spent the first night in a Holiday Inn just over the state line in Indiana. They didn’t even know where they were going and it didn’t matter. They couldn’t wait to touch each other, to release all the energy pent up during all the years they had known each other. O’Connor. He smoked cigars and drank whiskey and talked loud and he always bought at the bar. He had a red face and four kids and his children loved him. He played Santa Claus at Christmas when they were young.

  “Jack?”

  Donovan spoke quietly. “Weiss is going away for a little while.”

  Weiss said, “Christ.” He shrank back into the doorway to the interview room.

  “What’s going on, Jack? You down at the state’s attorney’s office or what?”

  “Weiss diddles little girls, Tom. Did you know that? He ties them up and he sticks things up their ass and he fucks them until they bleed, did you know that? And he strings them out on dope. Runaways, Tom, that nobody really gives a fuck about in the first place. Your buddy, Weiss.”

  “I didn’t know nothing about that.”

  “I believe that.” He was talking to O’Connor, but it was for Weiss’s benefit. “But your man Weiss is in serious trouble and he wants to be a tough guy. He wants to be very stand-up, he won’t even say his name. We want to ask your buddy just a couple of questions about a girlfriend of his named Christina Kalinski, but he doesn’t want to talk to us. So he started throwing your name around.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said Weiss.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tom O’Connor.

  “You wanna come down and do a character witness for your buddy, Tom?”

  “Hey, come on, Jack. I don’t mess with guys like that. You know that. Hang the little sheenie bastard.”

  O’Connor sounded afraid and upset and that pleased Jack Donovan. And then he remembered something else: when Rita went crazy, finally, O’Connor and his wife took in Jack Donovan’s two little children while he tried to put things together. The kids always told him they had had ice cream almost every night.

  Donovan cupped the receiver and stared at Weiss. “He says to hang you, Morey.”

  “Fuck this shit, fuck this shit,” Morey Weiss said, repeating the words like a charm. “What the hell?”

  “You made him unhappy, Tom,” said Jack Donovan. And he replaced the receiver on the cradle.

  Flynn, who had been standing behind Donovan, said to Weiss, “You wanna answer a few questions about Christina Kalinski?”

  Weiss shrugged and entered the interview room and sat down at a table.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  They waited, afraid to speak.

  Morey Weiss broke the silence. “I saw her picture in the paper yesterday afternoon. I knew it was her. She was missing since Sunday. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe she went home to her old Polack father. I didn’t know.”

  “You wanna wait around for your lawyer?” Flynn asked quietly. “We just wanna ask you a few questions of your own free will now.”

  “Sure,” said Weiss. He slumped in his chair, looking like a dead man.

  The interview room door was open, and Jack Donovan stood framed in the entrance. Flynn sat down at the table across from Weiss.

  “What happened about Christina Kalinski?”

  “You gonna hang this on me too?”

  “No,” said Jack Donovan. “We need some information about her.”

  “Hey, Morey,” said Flynn. “When you get up to Stateville, you’re going to like it. Really. They got guys up there who like to put their pricks up your ass, you know what I mean? And you’ll love it too, you know that? You like to tie up little girls? Shit, they won’t tie you up. They’ll make you love it, they’ll stand in line for you. You’ll get calluses on your knees, you’ll give so many blow jobs. You’ll get so you’ll go down on them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, you’re gonna love it so much. And you won’t never think about girls again unless you want to be one.”

  Donovan waited. He thought Flynn was wrong. It was the wrong approach. Weiss was shrinking into himself, slouching more, turning a deathly white.

  “I didn’t kill no one,” he said at last.

  “We know that,” said Jack Donovan.

  “I didn’t, I swear—”

  “Hey, take it easy,” said Donovan. “You want to talk to us? Is that right?”

  “Sure, sure. Just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Fuck him,” said Flynn.

  “Give him a cigarette.”

  Flynn pulled out his pack and threw it on the table. Weiss took a cigarette and lit it nervously and threw the match on the floor. His hands shook.

  Flynn watched him.

  “You don’t have to talk to us,” said Jack Donovan quietly.

  “No. I know that. I know that.”

  “You want to talk to us?”

  “Sure. Sure I do. Listen, I didn’t have nothing to do with that thing in the park.”

  “What thing?”

  “Christina. Getting killed.”

  “I can’t really talk to you about that, Mr. Weiss,” Donovan turned as though to go. He looked back. “Unless you’re willing for us to talk to you about Christina without your lawyer being here.”

  “Maybe I should wait.”

  “Fine,” said Jack Donovan. “Take him into the lockup. We won’t talk to him until he’s appeared before the judge this morning. You know we aren’t going to recommend any bail.”

  Weiss looked up. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “We don’t need to talk to you,” said Jack Donovan. “Why not send him to the lockup.”

  Flynn smiled. “Sure. He can get practice up there sucking off cocks. It’ll be just mild stuff compared to Stateville but you gotta start small.”

  Weiss cried, “Man, don’t send me to jail.”

  “Listen,” said Donovan. “First you want to wait for your lawyer, then you don’t want to wait for your lawyer. I don’t really give a shit. I’m trying to be a nice guy in this, and you aren’t letting me.”

  The tension was unmerciful. Morey Weiss squirmed as though the chair was red hot.

  “I wanna stay here. I wanna talk to you. I gotta talk to you. You gotta understand me.”

  “Fine,” said Donovan.

  Flynn got up and went into the next room. He returned with a Sony tape recorder. He pus
hed it on.

  “My name is Jack Donovan and I’m an assistant state’s attorney assigned to the criminal division of the Cook County state’s attorney’s office. This conversation is being recorded with the permission of Mr. Seymour Weiss of four hundred East Randolph Street in Chicago. Police Sergeant Terrence Flynn, assigned to Area One Homicide, is a witness to this conversation. Mr. Weiss has freely granted permission for us to interview him and waived his right to have a lawyer present. Is that right, Mr. Weiss? Don’t nod.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know you can consult with an attorney and that you can have an attorney present during questioning?”

  “Yeah. It’s all right.”

  “Do you want to delay this conversation until we can reach your attorney?”

  “No, I can’t reach him myself.”

  “You have been charged today, July 27, with crimes not relating to this conversation. You are now in an interview room in police headquarters at 1121 South State Street. You have not been coerced into permitting this conversation, have you? Don’t nod.”

  “Yes. I mean no. I wasn’t coerced. I want to talk to you.”

  “Did you know Christina Kalinski?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I met her in a bar. On Rush Street. It was the Follies.”

  “When did you meet her?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “What happened after your first meeting, if anything?”

  “I offered her a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing some waitress work in my place.”

  “What place is that?”

  “Susy-Q Lounge. On Rush Street.”

  “What were her duties?”

  “Wait on tables for the drinks. Give the customers a good time.”

  “Was she hired to perform acts of prostitution?”

  “Fuck no. Not that.”

  “Did you become her lover?”

  “That. Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was it part of her condition of employment?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Did she have to go to bed with you to keep her job?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that. She wanted to get away from her old man.”

  “She found you attractive.”

  “I got a certain style.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “You got it on the sheet. Outer Drive East apartments.”

  “Around ten A.M., on Sunday morning last, Christina Kalinski was murdered near Monroe Street Harbor, within a quarter mile of Outer Drive East.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “No one said you did.”

  “Were you a gentle lover?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Did you and Christina play games?”

  “Sure. Gin rummy.”

  Even Flynn laughed.

  “Did you ever whip her? Or tie her up?”

  “Sure. Sometimes. She liked it that way. You find most broads are like that, underneath. You know, a little kinky. Puts some spice into it. Me, I can take it or leave it. But you know, you throw a fuck into a broad and that’s it. It gets boring after a while.”

  “Did you beat her?”

  “Not beat. I slapped her around once or twice but so what? You never slap a broad around? They need it once in a while, you know? They expect it. You treat a broad like she’s the Queen of Sheba, they get to be a pain in the ass.”

  “Did she live with you?”

  “After her old man threw her out. A crazy man, an old country Polack. You know what I mean? He come down to my joint one time with this other guy and they wanted to cause trouble, you know? They called the cops on me, checking everyone’s ID, everything. But my joint is clean, and my broads weren’t doing nothing illegal. The Supreme Court says you gotta let them show you their cunts if they want to.

  “But these two old Polacks come down and they accuse me practically of kidnapping Chris. I told her right there she could go home with the old man any time she wanted to. She says she wants to stay with me. Look, I was nice to her. She’s free, white, and twenty-one—so what the fuck? Listen, I took care of her. She wanted a dress, I give her a dress. I gave her a coat. I didn’t have to do that. Besides, she’s a nice piece of ass. I mean you guys are older. It’s nice to have a little young quail once in a while, right?”

  “I was over at Outer Drive East and talked to the doorman. He said Christina left the building last Sunday a little after nine A.M. and that you followed her about a half hour later.”

  “I was wonderin’ when you were coming to this part. This is a lot of shit. This is where you try to pin this thing on me. Well, you can shut off the machine because I ain’t saying no more. You wanna talk to me, talk to my lawyer.”

  “Sure. Fine. I think we got enough.”

  “Now what’s that mean?”

  “That’s fine. Shut off the machine, Terry.”

  Flynn obliged.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Weiss. “She was goin’ to church. Went to church every Sunday. Don’t ask me. Long as I know her, she goes to church over to St. Peter’s on Madison Street.”

  Flynn didn’t speak.

  “Hey, honest,” said Weiss.

  “And you went to church too,” said Flynn.

  “Not me. I’m Jewish.”

  Donovan said, “Just went out for a walk.”

  “Sure,” said Weiss. “I’m an early riser. I like to walk. Besides, I usually go up on Rush Street, get some eggs, read the paper, you know. Sunday morning.”

  “Who was Maj Kirsten to you?”

  It was Flynn. Weiss looked startled.

  “Who?”

  “Maj Kirsten.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She was murdered last month in Grant Park.”

  “Hey, you guys trying to clear the whole roster with me? What the fuck, do I look like a shine?”

  “Christina’s father says you killed her.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Why do you want to tie up little girls?”

  “I ain’t going to talk to you about that.”

  Donovan said, “We don’t need to talk to you, you little scumbag. What do you think we’re playing? I don’t want to talk to you anymore, you smug little shit. You think you got outfit clout and you think that’s going to save your miserable ass. Well, I got news. You think the outfit is going to bat for a queer son of a bitch like you? You think they’re gonna defend you against molesting little girls? The worst thing that could happen to you, you son of a bitch, is to get out. Go ahead, walk out on bail, and you’ll be in a trunk in three days or hanging on a meat hook somewhere. You think the outfit guys don’t have little girls at home? You give them a bad name. You’re between a rock and a hard place, and no matter what you call it, you’re dead, Morey. Real dead. So you go on back to your cell and wait for your lawyer and you talk to him and then go to court. And you think, Morey, you think about how you’re going to get out of this one. You want to be a stand-up guy? Good. You be that because you’re going to have to take all the shit that goes with it.”

  “I didn’t kill no one.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” said Donovan.

  “Listen to me—”

  “You spend a little time and think about if you want to get on our good side. Think about what kind of plea you want to cop to get easy time. Because right now you’re booked on the next train to Joliet, and when you get to Stateville, they’re going to have a welcoming committee for you. And you never knew time was going to be so hard.”

  “Listen. Can we work something? Can we hang it on the nigger, on Luther?”

  But Flynn led him out of the room without another word.

  9

  Thomas P. Halligan and Leland Horowitz arrived at the Criminal Courts building on the West Side shortly af
ter eleven A.M. This in itself was unusual. Though Bud Halligan had been the state’s attorney for nearly seven years, no one in the Criminal Courts building, where much of his office was located, could recall his ever visiting the place.

  Halligan preferred to govern his sprawling little empire from a more comfortable office downtown in the Civic Center. There was located the polite and comprehensible civil division of the office, and Halligan liked the men who worked in the civil division. They had pocket calculators and gray suits and wore shirts that always looked clean. When they returned from lunch, their breath did not reek of garlic and cheap Italian wine like those on the West Side who liked to eat in the old Italian section around Twenty-fourth and Oakley streets. Halligan also preferred the downtown office because it was physically closer to the source of political power in the city—just across the street from City Hall.

  Frankly Halligan did not like the atmosphere on the West Side. And he did not like or comprehend the strange, snarling men and women who worked as prosecutors in that sprawling criminal division. They did not have pocket calculators, only brown case envelopes. They did not speak, they shouted and laughed—too loudly. And the corridors of their domain seemed perpetually crowded with evil-smelling people. It was chaos.

  Shortly before Halligan took office there had been a judge in the old court building who sentenced a young black criminal to ten years in prison for armed robbery and rape; the young man became so upset by the verdict that he suddenly pulled a pistol from his suit and blew the top of the judge’s head away. Before they shot him to death in the court, he also managed to wound the court clerk, a young assistant state’s attorney, and his own lawyer. Halligan thought at the time that the incident symbolized the madness of the place. Who would willingly work in such conditions?

  Besides, Horowitz pointed out to Halligan from time to time, the mayor of the city (who was also head of the vast political machine to which Halligan owned allegiance) liked to see Halligan’s face occasionally when he dined in the Bismarck Hotel downtown. That alone was justification for his preference for the downtown office. In fact, Halligan was so seldom a visitor to the West Side building that the guard in the lobby ordered him to open his briefcase and patted him down. The weapons search was routine, instituted years before after a berserk gunman had entered the lobby one afternoon and gunned down two witnesses on their way to a courtroom where they were to testify against the gunman’s brother in a murder trial.