Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

Lucille cocked her head. “Oh, no, no. Like I said, I never heard anything about Kate McCall.”

  “Did you spend much time at Jackie’s apartment?”

  “I never went to her apartment.”

  “I thought she was a personal friend.”

  Lucille sighed. “Well, yeah, but of a type. We’d meet at a restaurant and waste the afternoon with drinks and gossip. But that was the extent of our socializing. You could say we were daytime gal-pals.”

  I thought I understood. “And the renter in question, the doctor—”

  “Did you know that the doctor dated Jackie’s friend Linda Napier?”

  I kept my focus on Lucille while digesting the new information. “I did not know and that is interesting. How did you find out?”

  “Before Jackie left town, she told me about Dr. Kessler, that he might be worth developing as a donor. I told her the key was to get him here to see the facility. Jackie said she would work on it and let me know, but I never heard anything. Then one day my phone rang. Linda and Dr. Kessler were in the lobby. She wanted me to give him a private tour.”

  “Had Jackie introduced the two?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t realize who he was at first. Linda introduced him as Josh. They definitely acted very cozy, bordering on inappropriate.”

  “I get the feeling you didn’t approve of the match.”

  “Well, it was the middle of the day and they were acting drunk. I don’t think Linda needs a boyfriend who parties like that, doctor or not.”

  “When did you realize it was Jackie Whitney’s renter, Dr. Kessler?”

  “I bumped into them a few times on North Michigan Avenue. She introduced him again as Dr. Kessler, and laughed. Another time I saw them go into Jackie’s building together. That’s when I realized who he was.”

  “But you never discussed their relationship with Jackie?”

  “No, Jackie and I were not in touch when she was in Palm Springs. And I didn’t feel comfortable reporting on Linda’s love life.”

  “Do you know Jackie’s son? Phillip?”

  Lucille began stroking the scarf with her fingers. “He’s our assistant volunteer coordinator. I adore him. He’s so smart and way overqualified for his position. He has an MBA. I don’t expect him to stay very long, but he does an excellent job. I know he made Jackie very proud. And Phillip shared Jackie’s deep love of animals.”

  “How is he handling his mother’s death?”

  “He seems really calm, but I’m worried he’s keeping his emotions locked up. I want him to go to therapy, but he won’t.”

  “Maybe introspection is just what he needs—”

  “Stuffing emotions is very destructive to the human body. The heart especially. He should take time off and allow himself to properly grieve.”

  And who are you to tell someone how to grieve? I wanted to say. “Can I meet Phillip?”

  Lucille’s face clouded over. “Oh, I think you should leave him alone for now. His mother was just murdered and you want to start peppering him with questions and make him relive the whole thing over again? The police already spoke to him, I’m sure they’ll tell you what he said.”

  I did my best to look hurt. “Lucille, all I want is justice for Jackie Whitney—and for Phillip.”

  “I’m sorry, I feel a little possessive of him after what happened. I know he’s a grown man but like I said, I worry about him. Anyway, he’s usually out and about walking dogs with the volunteers. His schedule is erratic.”

  “Well, thank you—”

  “Have you taken a tour of the shelter, Mr., uh, Landau?”

  “A little bit. In fact, I was here a few months ago, to get information on setting up a pet trust.”

  Lucille beamed. “Wonderful! What kind of trust? Who are you using as a trustee, if I may ask?”

  “Revocable. I’m the trustee.”

  “Good. But you’ve made provisions for a successor trustee, I hope, just in case you are incapacitated or—”

  “My credit union will administer the trust if I die first. And when Punim dies, whatever is left will go to Furry BFF.”

  “Very nice. How did you come to set up the trust?”

  “Punim’s young and I’m all she has.”

  “I understand your feelings. But you’re still so young yourself. Remember, the trust is subject to estate taxes. While you’re alive it’s treated like any other asset.”

  “You know a lot about pet trusts.”

  Lucille laughed. “My background includes an estate and trust certification specialty, which plays an important role in our long-term fundraising goals.” She looked at her watch. “Before you go, why don’t you check out the volunteer opportunities?”

  Chapter 10

  I walked a mile down Clybourn to North where I took the Red Line to Chicago Avenue then walked another mile to a blind alley off Delaware Place. The alley ran behind the Youji Lu Grocer and was clean and tidy like a fancy suburban cul-de-sac. When a pound of mushrooms costs a thousand dollars, your customers expect no less. Even the dumpster looked regularly scrubbed clean. I lifted the lid. Only a quarter full. A woman smoking outside the back door to the adjacent boutique watched me. She looked flawless in her black pencil skirt, white tailored jacket, and red lipstick.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  “What am I thinking?”

  I walked over to her. “Have you worked here a long time?”

  “Ever since I opened the place three years ago.”

  “And you come out here for a smoke several times a day?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have you ever seen a guy rummaging through that dumpster looking for some special garbage?”

  She laughed and blew out a lungful. “Oh, I’ve seen him, all right,” she said. “Chinese guy. He wears waders up to his chest.”

  “I get the feeling you have some history with the guy.”

  “A pipe burst in our basement, ruined a box of gift bags. I tossed it in the dumpster and ended up getting a $200 fine for illegal dumping.”

  “Ooh, that hurts. Not very neighborly. Do you sell women’s accessories? Handbags and stuff?”

  “I do. Thinking about buying something?”

  “How about a Chanel handbag? The little ones. A clutch, I think they’re called. Red leather with a metal bracelet.”

  “That’s called a wallet on a chain. They start at around three thousand dollars.”

  My turn to laugh. “Okay,” I said. “I guess a dozen roses will have to do. Hey, what about scarves?”

  “What about them?”

  “How much for the really colorful ones with horses on them?”

  “If it’s the kind I’m thinking of, they start around two hundred and fifty.”

  “Okay, then. Thanks for your help.”

  The woman dropped her cigarette, snuffed it out with her toe. “Have a nice day,” she said then returned to her boutique. As I retraced my steps, a hulking figure entered the alley from Delaware Place. His lumbering gait, protruding stomach, and cue ball head could’ve represented any ex-cop stuffed into a polyester sport coat with shoulder seams riding up their collarbones. But I knew this ex-cop.

  “What’s up, Landau?” Detective Brookstone said. “Still playing junior G-man? Making the city safe?”

  “You mean safe from people like you, Brookie?” I said. “Is that the same jacket you wore on that CCTV video? You know, the one where you beat the hell out of that female bartender because she cut you off?”

  Brookstone’s eyebrows lowered. Tiny muscles clenched up the side of his head. “You want to see a replay of that, smart guy?”

  “Okay, chill out. I deserved that. But help me understand something, Brookie. From the day I started investigating, you made it really clear that you don’t like me. But we don’t even know each other! You just came out swinging as soon as I hit the street. Why? What did I ever do to you?”

  “I’m surprised your pal Kalijero hasn’t sat you on his knee and told you t
he facts of life already. Maybe he’ll also teach you to keep your big mouth shut and save your pretty little face from getting bashed up.”

  “Too late, Brookie. Been there, done that. Several times, in fact. And it was worth every bruise and welt. So what are you doing in this alley? I’m fresh out of crack, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or are you on your way to high tea at The Drake hotel?”

  “You’re helping that public defender get that bitch off murder.”

  “What the hell do you care?”

  “Someone else cares.”

  I took a moment. “What? You’re somebody’s muscle? What’re they scared of? The DA is prosecuting. If she’s guilty they’ll prove it in court.”

  “That isn’t always the case and you know it. Just take it easy on the reasonable doubt crap. Let justice be served. Got it?”

  I didn’t like his tone. “Sounds like a threat. What’re you going to do, beat up my mother?”

  Down went the brow again. I imagined the bartender’s overwhelming fear just before he tore into her. I stepped back then took a circuitous path around Brookie, back to Delaware Place.

  —

  This unexpected encounter caught me off guard. Not until I had reached Superior Street did I emerge from a daze to find myself wandering down Michigan Avenue. Leaning against Neiman Marcus, I called Kalijero.

  “What?” Kalijero said, answering the phone.

  “Remember Tommy Brookstone? Brookie? The off-duty cop who beat up that woman bartender?”

  “What about him?”

  “Out of nowhere, he just shows up in an alley and tells me to lay off investigating the Jackie Whitney murder. And why the hell haven’t you told me about some grudge he’s holding against me? I assume it has to do with my dad.”

  “He told you he had a grudge?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me. He’s been going out of his way to be a prick since day one. I finally said something about it and he told me to talk to you.”

  Silence, then a loud sigh. “You already know about me busting your dad’s gambling operation, but you don’t know everything. It turned out a young detective was working as an enforcer for one of the subagents, squeezing money out of gamblers not paying their debts. Sometimes, he went around collecting while on duty. His name was Tommy Brookstone.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Frownie still had connections to the cops back then. He got wind of Brookstone’s little side job and told your dad to watch it. Bernie Landau was smart enough to know that if Brookstone was actually beating people up, he was doing it on his own and not as part of a sting operation. He was also smart enough to recognize Brookstone as a kind of insurance policy. So when your dad got busted, he played the Brookstone card to get a better deal from the DA. That’s how your dad got to do his time in a medium-security prison instead of going to Stateville.”

  “But Brookstone got to stay a cop?”

  “Nobody would testify against him except your dad. Internal Affairs insisted there be some consequences, and since Brookstone wasn’t well liked, the brass busted him back to patrolman with rookie pay. He stayed there for ten years. That’s a lot of money. He blames me too, by the way.”

  “What did you do?”

  “It’s what I didn’t do. I was a respected veteran by then. I could’ve found a way to get your dad’s deal with the DA to go away. But like I told you before, I had already turned down Frownie, who begged me to get Bernie a lesser charge—for your sake. Now I’m supposed to put the kibosh on his chance to do his time in medium security instead of a shithole? I couldn’t do it.”

  “I need to find out who hired him. Got any info on Brookie since the feds skewered him?”

  Another round of silence, then, “He’s back on the force, you know.”

  I didn’t know. “How is that possible? He—”

  “He beat the hell out of a woman half his size and only got probation and anger management classes. Anything is possible in Chicago. I would’ve thought you knew that by now. I’ll make some calls. But don’t count on anything worthwhile.”

  “One more thing. Why would a killer move a body from the living room to the bedroom closet to hide it on a shelf? I mean, the body’s still in the apartment so what’s the point?”

  “You’re talking about Jackie Whitney’s body?”

  “Of course.”

  “You just unlawfully disseminated sealed court records. You could go to prison for that.”

  “Oh, c’mon! Aren’t you working with me?”

  Kalijero laughed. “It means the murder wasn’t premeditated. Moving a body out of the apartment would require planning. The killer panicked and thought hiding the body would buy time, put more space between the killer and the cops.”

  “Not premeditated. Now it seems obvious. Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Hopefully I won’t slip up and tell someone you leaked info on the case,” Kalijero said. “But you never know.” He hung up.

  Kalijero and I had too much history for comments like that to worry me. And he knew something trivial like an alcoholic cop with a bad temper wouldn’t scare me off. I sat at a patio table outside of Gino’s East and called Furry BFF. Lucille had acted like she wanted to be Phillip’s guardian, but she didn’t mention having to communicate with him through a lawyer.

  “This is Christie,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Can you tell me if Phillip is working today?”

  “Uh, who’s calling, please?”

  “My name is—George. I’m an old friend of Phillip’s mother.”

  “Okay, why don’t you give me your number, George, and if I see Phillip, I’ll have him call you back.”

  I gave Christie the number to Verkakte Fashions then called George and told him what I had done. “That puts me in an awkward position,” George said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’d be doing me a great service if you could get him to talk to me. Or find out when he’s walking dogs at the shelter, then I can take it from there.”

  “I’m uncomfortable being sneaky.”

  “George, I promise you I have Phillip’s best interest at heart.”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “One more thing. Did you know Linda was dating Jackie’s renter, Dr. Kessler?”

  “That’s news to me. But as I told you before, Linda was pretty closemouthed on her personal life, so I didn’t push it. Why?”

  “Just curious. Thanks for your help.”

  Running on fumes for having walked over two miles on four hours of sleep, I grabbed a taxi back to Furry BFF, bought a veggie burrito, then hung around trying to get a visual of volunteers walking dogs. There wasn’t a whole lot of grass in the immediate neighborhood. Locust trees were scattered here and there, offering small islands of green vegetation, but not much else. I leaned against a bicycle rack, ate, and waited. Soon a gray-haired woman wearing a green waist-length smock appeared, walking a yellow Lab mix. The male dog utilized buildings or telephone poles when a tree wasn’t available, eventually disappearing down a side street. A few more volunteers came along, then several more, all taking the same route, the dogs logically following the messages left behind by their fellow shelter mates. What started as a trickle turned into an army. Senior citizens, middle-agers, young couples, parents with preteens, all appeared with dogs at their sides. When my phone rang, some of the dogs barked.

  “He’s there,” George said over the phone. “He just called me from the shelter.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Oh, my gosh. Well, thin, fairly tall, dark straight hair, nice looking.”

  “Did you have a conversation?”

  “Yes, he was very pleasant. I told him how sorry I was. He was very appreciative.”

  “Thanks, George. I owe you.”

  Lagging toward the rear of the procession, I followed the dog walkers to a vacant lot full of mown weeds and gravel, surrounded by a deteriorated chain-link fence. The sagging posts and broken links had been jerry-r
igged to maintain a degree of stability. Some dogs ran off-leash while others were led around by their masters. Volunteers lined up at the vulnerable parts of the fence to prevent escape attempts. Several people scoured the area picking up dog waste and putting the larger stones into a pile in the corner of the lot. The people were having as much fun as the inmates.

  I joined the crowd, engaged in conversations about their assigned dogs, petted many of them, and considered the possibility of structuring my life to accommodate a deserving dog. Punim, of course, would have to be consulted. A couple of volunteers fit George’s description of Phillip. Then a man confirmed that Phillip was indeed kneeling down, rubbing the belly of a German shorthaired pointer. I walked over.

  “Can I pet him?” I asked.

  Phillip glanced up at me. His face was slender with delicate features. A prominent brow ridge gave him a deep-in-thought look. “Of course,” Phillip said. I took a knee and began scratching “Bo” behind the ears. The dog slurped my face. “Adopting?” Phillip said.

  “Not now,” I said, wiping my mouth. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”

  Phillip straightened up. “Reporter?”

  “Private investigator, working for Kate McCall.”

  I took out my ID and handed it to him. He studied it, handed it back, then said, “Kate McCall didn’t murder my mother?” His lack of emotion was a bit creepy.

  “I want to make sure the police got the right person, that’s all.”

  Phillip nodded. “Interview friends and family first,” he said then stood up. “Walk with me.”

  I followed him and Bo out of the de facto dog park. “That’s a beautiful dog,” I said. Phillip voiced no opinion.

  Once we reached the sidewalk Phillip said, “What gives you doubts?”

  “Your mom was supporting a lifestyle beyond what Kate could’ve achieved on her own. Why kill her?”

  We continued in silence until he said, “Why kill her? Really good question.” His sincerity caught me off guard.

  “What do you think about Kate McCall’s guilt, Phillip?”

  Phillip didn’t hesitate. “No opinion.”

  She might have murdered your mother, for fuck’s sake!

  “My dispassion puzzles you,” Phillip said. “Is he normal? Pathological? Philosophical? Nihilistic?”