The Third Rail mk-3

by Michael Harvey

  The words came grudgingly. But they came. “We pul ed a body from this location in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Which means…,” Alvarez said.

  “This guy has an accomplice,” I said. “He’s alive and he’s not gonna just go away.”

  Rodriguez pul ed the pages back over and took another look.

  “The cardinals’ hats and the city. Think he’s talking about the archdiocese?”

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  “What about this last thing?” Rodriguez glanced at the reporter. “NBC?”

  “We were thinking the NBC tower,” Alvarez said.

  Rodriguez nodded. “Targeting the TV station, maybe?”

  “Could be something else,” I said and moved over to a computer terminal in the corner.

  Rodriguez and Alvarez looked over my shoulder as I Googled “NBC THREAT ACRONYM.” It showed up as shorthand slang coined by the Department of Defense. NBC: nuclear, biological, and chemical. As in weapons.

  Alvarez let loose a low whistle. “That works, too.”

  “I’m thinking we better get Lawson on the line,” Rodriguez said. He picked up the phone, then put it down.

  “What about her?” He pointed to Alvarez, who suddenly didn’t seem so essential. The reporter pul ed a Baggie from her purse. Inside it was an envelope and more sheets of paper.

  “Let me guess, the originals?” Rodriguez said.

  Alvarez nodded. “Might be able to get some prints. Maybe DNA off the seal.”

  “Gonna keep yourself relevant, huh, Rita? What else you got?”

  “I’d like to think we’re past that point, Detective.”

  Rodriguez was getting squeezed a little. Part of me thought he didn’t half mind.

  “Tel you what, we’re gonna honor our deal. But for right now, we have to keep you somewhere close. Just not right here.”

  “The feds won’t let me sit in?” she said.

  “If we approach them about it this morning,” Rodriguez said, “not a chance. Thing is, you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then I put a set of cuffs on you and throw you in a room anyway.”

  “Fuck you, Detective.” Alvarez pushed up from her chair, picking up her folder and the Baggie with the originals.

  “Sit down, Rita.”

  Alvarez thought about it and sat. The detective pushed in a little closer. “I’m in this city for the long run. So are you. I’m also a straight shooter. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Work with me on this and you won’t be sorry.”

  Alvarez glanced over, but knew better than to think she’d find anything in my face.

  “I want a room with a phone.”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “No phone, Rita. No Internet. No e-mail. Not until we figure out what we’re looking at.”

  “I want an update every hour. And I need to be able to file something for tomorrow.”

  The detective gave a short nod.

  “Don’t screw me, Rodriguez.”

  “I won’t, Rita. Promise.”

  Then the reporter stormed out of the room and into solitary confinement. Sure, she caved. But she did it with a little bit of grit. In Chicago, that counted for a lot.

  “Where’s the reporter?” Katherine Lawson was floating on a computer screen in a sea of cyberblue. We had fil ed her in on Rita Alvarez and scanned a copy of the letter and maps to her desktop.

  “We have her on ice,” Rodriguez said.

  “What about the letter itself?”

  “The original’s right here.” Rodriguez held up the Baggie. “Looks like it was hand-delivered to the paper, but no one seems to have gotten a look at the guy.”

  “Wonderful,” Lawson said. “Forensics is coming over to pick up the originals. And we’re going to need to talk to the archdiocese.”

  “So you think this is real?” Rodriguez said.

  Lawson rubbed the heel of her palm into her forehead. “I don’t know what to think, except that we’re al gonna look like a bunch of assholes if this thing blows up.”

  She was thinking about the press conference last night-the case they had already taken credit for solving.

  “I’m gonna need to talk to the mayor,” Lawson said. “Maybe get him on the phone with the church.”

  “This morning?” Rodriguez said.

  “Sooner, the better. Meanwhile, I need to take a minute here with Kel y.”

  Lawson waited until the door closed behind Rodriguez before speaking. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “For what?”

  “Mouthing off in the bar last night. Bragging about a case I thought I could bury.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “I don’t think so. It seems like you’ve had a better grasp of things every step of the way. How is that?”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  “You stil meeting Hubert today?”

  “Supposed to. Why?”

  “I’d like you to run the contents of this letter by him. See what he comes up with.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. And get me everything else he’s got. Including the stuff on your old crash.”

  “You buying into that?”

  “I’m buying into you being two steps ahead of the field. If the edge lies with Hubert, I’d like to use it, rather than apologize later for ignoring it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “Good. Now, what are your feelings on today?”

  “You stil have a relationship with the archdiocese?”

  “I can handle them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s what I’m asking. Talk to the cardinal. Talk to the mayor. Use whatever pul you have to get into the churches and shut them down until you figure out if the threat is real. And…”

  “And what?”

  “And hope whatever this thing is, it hasn’t already started.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Hubert Russel lived in a studio on Division, just west of Damen. The neighborhood was jumping, with new restaurants and bars that actual y smel ed good. Most of that goodness, however, had yet to float up and into the hotbox apartments, crammed into ancient brownstones perched up and down the block.

  “Nice place you got here,” I said and put my foot down on a cockroach the size of a smal sofa. The beast squirted out from under and looked up to see if that was my best shot. I put my heel into it until I heard a crack, then a snap. Score one for the good guys.

  “It’s a dump, Mr. Kel y. But it’s al I can afford right now.” I settled on the edge of a kitchen chair. Hubert sat at his desk. A wooden fan hung from the ceiling. Between the two of us there was hardly room to take a breath.

  “You read the letter I sent over?” I said.

  Hubert nodded. “I might have something for you.”

  I pul ed a little closer. Hubert had a monitor hooked up to his laptop. Beside the monitor was a bottle of pil s. Pain medicine for the kid’s face. I watched as Hubert began to open up documents.

  “After you cal ed, I started pul ing emergency room admissions across the city. Then I ran that data through a program that sorts the information and looks for certain patterns. Actual y there are twenty-seven different filters in this program-”

  I cut in. “Hubert, we might have some shit going on here.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What did I find, right? Okay, in the past twelve hours there have been sixteen people admitted to ERs in the city, complaining of scorched red skin, blisters, and”-Hubert checked his computer-“weeping sores. Conditions range from serious but stable to critical.”

  “So what?”

  “So this program also matches symptoms to the signatures of different types of potential threats. These patients, al of them, seem to fit the pattern of an emerging chemical weapons attack. Specifical y, a mustard-based agent.”

  “Mustard gas?”

  “Some version of that, yes. Then I expanded the parameters to twenty-four hours’ worth of ER
admissions. Picked up four more cases.”

  I stared at the data on the screen. “How sure are you about this?”

  “I’ve had your letter less than an hour, Mr. Kel y.”

  “So you’re guessing?”

  “It’s a little more than that.”

  “Print me out the patient list,” I said.

  Hubert hit a key, and a printer somewhere began to hum.

  “What do you think?” Hubert said.

  “What do I think? I think we might be fucked.”

  I picked up my cel and punched in Rodriguez’s number. Hubert, however, wasn’t done.

  “I got a little more, Mr. Kel y.”

  I disconnected. “Go ahead.”

  “I pul ed background on the twenty victims. Started with the hospital admittance forms and dug from there. Focused on any religious affiliations.”

  More lines of meaningless text and numbers flashed up on the screen. Hubert highlighted a line of data. “Eighteen of the twenty identified themselves as Catholic. Half of them are registered in Holy Name’s parish.”

  A tingle ran down the back of my neck. “Where are the rest registered?”

  Hubert waved a hand around the room. “Al over. Stil, it’s interesting.”

  “The ones that aren’t registered at Holy Name-where do they work?”

  Hubert hit a few keys, and the information reshaped itself on his screen. “Eight of them work in the Loop or River North area. Here you go.”

  Hubert flashed up a map with Holy Name Cathedral at its center and smal flags for each person’s workplace. The longest distance was eight blocks.

  “They could have walked there from work,” I said, “which means seventeen of twenty have a possible connection to the cathedral.”

  Hubert nodded. “Looks like it.”

  I picked up my cel again and punched in the detective’s number. Rodriguez picked up on the first ring.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me. What’s going on?”

  “Lawson and the mayor have been on the phone with the cardinal. Archdiocese wants us to sit on it until we have something solid.”

  “Not too worried about their parishioners, I take it?”

  “It’s cal ed damage control, Kel y.”

  “Yeah, wel, I got something that might get things moving.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hubert’s gonna send you some data. Shows a pattern of hospital admissions over the past day or so. Bottom line is, we have twenty cases of what might be mustard agent exposure. Seventeen with connections to Holy Name Cathedral.”

  “What sort of connections?”

  “The sort that makes me think you got a hot spot, Detective.”

  “Holy Name, huh?”

  “It fits, Vince. Remember the letter referred to the cardinals’ hats? Holy Name has the hats of Chicago’s dead cardinals hanging from the ceiling.”

  There was silence, then a sigh. “Fuck me. Send over the data, and I’l get a team down there. Hold on.” Rodriguez paused, then came back on the line. “Lawson wants everything the kid’s got sent to her computer. And she means everything, Kel y.”

  Hubert tapped me on the shoulder and flipped his monitor around so I could see the screen of text he had pul ed up. I nodded and continued talking to the detective.

  “Not a problem. Just one more favor to ask.” Then I told him what I needed.

  “Why don’t we let the feds handle that?” Rodriguez said.

  “Because I’m concerned the feds wil rol over and play dead.”

  “And you’re going to go in there and bust bal s.”

  “I’m going to go in there and explain the situation. Then I’m going to get the information I need.”

  Rodriguez didn’t like it, but final y agreed to make the cal. “Just don’t piss this guy off.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Yeah, right. Head down that way and I’l cal you back.”

  I hung up. The text Hubert had accessed stil glowed on his screen. It was a newspaper article. Page 3 from yesterday’s Trib. The headline read: CHICAGO ARCHDIOCESE SETTLES SEX CASES FOR $12.3 MILLION.

  Hubert watched as I read, then offered up one word. “Motive.”

  “Maybe.” I slipped my cel back in my pocket and picked up my coat. “I gotta go. Send everything you have to Lawson’s computer. Include whatever you found on the old train crash. Then just hang tight.” I looked around the flat. “You okay here?”

  Hubert nodded. “I’m good.”

  “You’re a little better than good, Hubert. You sniffed out what might be a chemical weapons attack against the city and gave us our best lead on this guy.”

  “Guess that was pretty cool, huh?”

  “Bet your ass. Keep it up. We’re getting close to something. I’l cal you in a couple of hours.”

  And then I left the kid, alone in his apartment, tapping away at a mountain of information, fishing for a shark in little more than a rowboat.

  CHAPTER 38

  It’s cal ed the House of 19 Chimneys. I thought about trying to count them, but didn’t want to besmirch the romance of the place with anything as ordinary as fact. Instead, I got out of my car and walked a complicated path to the cardinal’s doorstep on North State Parkway. It had taken a couple of hours, but Rodriguez final y angled me the invite-not entirely surprising given the church’s desperate need to put a lid on whatever was brewing inside their whitewashed wal s. I was about to lift a heavy brass knocker when my cel phone buzzed. I stepped back to the sidewalk. It was Rodriguez again.

  “You in yet?”

  “On the precipice.”

  “We just ran some field tests at Holy Name.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Our guys kept things quiet and went in as a cleaning crew. Got a preliminary positive for some sort of mustard agent. Fucker spiked the holy water.

  ”

  I wasn’t surprised, but stil felt a chil. Strange days, indeed.

  “Does the archdiocese know?” I said.

  “Not yet. Lawson’s got the cisterns sealed off and wants to run some more tests first, so keep it to yourself.”

  “Fine.”

  “You real y think our guy’s an abuse victim?”

  I looked up at the residence, swore I saw a curtain twitch, and, for just a moment, was back on the South Side. “I think it’s worth a conversation.”

  “Guess it can’t hurt.”

  “What about the press?” I said.

  “What about them? They don’t know a thing about the letter or Holy Name.”

  “What about Alvarez?”

  “She’l be our mouthpiece. We get the story out the way we want, when we want. And she gets her exclusive.”

  “So you got that handled?”

  “You worry about the cardinal, Kel y. Let me worry about Alvarez. Cal me when you get done.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, Kel y…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  I cut the line and walked back up the cardinal’s path. This time I picked up the brass knocker just as the door swung open. On the other side was a nun, dressed entirely in white and looking at me like she knew better. Behind her were three more nuns, hands tucked into their starched sleeves, faces cast in perpetual shade. The nun at the front door stepped aside without a word, and I walked in. The head of Chicago’s two mil ion Catholics swept around a corner with a smile and a handshake.

  “Mr. Kel y.”

  Even at seventy-three years old, Giovanni Cardinal Gianni was stil a bit of a rock star. On his seventieth birthday, Newsweek had dubbed the sturdy dark Italian “America’s Own Pope.” I wasn’t sure how wel that went over in Rome, but Gianni was here, smiling and, best I could tel, stil in one piece. He ushered me into what I guessed to be a study and gestured to an armchair wrapped in velvet. “Please, sit down.”

  Like most Chicagoans, I’d driven by the cardinal’s residence and wondered what the eleg
ant pile of red brick and sandstone might look like inside. It was about what I’d thought. Floors of polished wood interrupted by hal ways of polished marble. Large rooms cluttered with furniture no one used and pictures of saints no one knew. Bunches of flowers, bloodred and bone white, lurking in distant corners and sucking al the air out of the place. To my left and right, wal s of books. Most of them, I was betting, Bibles.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Kel y?”

  “Thanks, Your Eminence. That would be nice.”

  Gianni raised a finger without turning his head. Somewhere behind him I heard some movement. A nun, I guessed, in search of a cup of joe. “We’ve already served lunch. But if you’re hungry, I’m sure the sisters would be happy…”

  “No thanks,” I said. Gianni nodded and waited, one leg crossed over the other, dark face loose and relaxed, entirely empty of any sort of clue.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” I said.

  Gianni spread his hands, palms up. “I spent most of the morning on the phone with the mayor and the FBI. They ask me to spend my afternoon with you, who am I to refuse?”

  The cardinal’s stick-on smile mirrored my own. He got up and walked to a picture window that looked out over a half acre’s worth of bare trees and front lawn.

  “So much for keeping things under wraps,” the cardinal said. I fol owed his gaze out the window. A TV truck had just pul ed up in front of the mansion. A camera crew scrambled out and began to shoot pictures. So much, also, for Rita Alvarez’s exclusive.

  “You know this town, Your Eminence. There’s very little that remains secret for very long.”

  “We’re not asking anyone to keep secrets, Mr. Kel y. Just a little discretion.”

  Gianni had been a rugby player in his day. I could see the game in the heft of his shoulders and the smal, rough scars around his eyes when he scowled.

  “So what happens next?” the cardinal said.

  “We’re checking out Holy Name, as we speak. Depending on what we find there, we’l develop a plan to sweep the rest of your churches.”

  “You know how many parishes there are in the archdiocese?”

  I shook my head.

  “Three hundred fifty-nine. You’re going to check them al?”

  “I don’t know, Father. But we’l try to keep disruption to a minimum.”