“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s what the rapist pleaded at trial. ‘Skinny jeans defense,’ the Trib called it.”
“I remember something like that.”
“He claimed the jeans were so tight, he couldn’t have taken them off without her help.”
“Did it work?”
“Might have. Except two people saw him drag her by the hair into an alley. Didn’t do anything about it. But at least they testified. And then there was the broken nose and fractured cheekbone. Skinny jeans defense didn’t go down so well with the jury when that all came in.”
“Yeah?”
“Theresa got up on the stand and said if she could, she’d hire someone to do to him what he did to her. Then she’d cut his heart out and watch it stop beating in her hand. Jury believed her, too.”
“Where’s the guy?” I said.
“Pulled sixty years in Stateville. Lasted six months. They force-fed him a bottle of Clorox and dropped him from the top floor of the roundhouse.”
I looked over at Theresa, who was joking with a doctor on her way out of the ER.
“She’s a neighborhood girl,” Rodriguez said. “West Side. Takes care of people. They take care of her.”
“You like that?”
“Why not? What did she give you?” Rodriguez held out his hand. I shoved the bottle of pills into it.
“Cracked rib.”
“You drive your car here?” Rodriguez said.
“It’s in the lot. How’d it go at the grocery store?”
“Just getting started. They’re hauling the bodies over to the morgue. I gotta head back.”
“And I need to get some sleep.”
Rodriguez tossed the bottle back into my lap. I got up and started to look around for my coat. A few feet away, a young black kid was strapped to a gurney. They’d brought him in unconscious a half hour ago and left him in a far corner. Then they’d moved him a little closer and hooked him up to some machines. Now he was suddenly awake, ripping an IV out of his arm, thrashing against his restraints, and groaning. An intern tried to calm him. The kid lay back, head whipsawing back and forth, breath more of a wheeze, like his chest was full of dry feathers. There were fresh welts on his arms, and small blisters cooked on his face and neck.
The intern moved closer, picking up the IV stand and punching some numbers into a wall phone. Presumably, a call for help. The kid snapped forward again, body rigid, straining for upright. One of the thick blue straps snapped and the metal buckle cracked the gauge on a blood pressure cuff. The boy craned his mouth open. For a moment I thought he was choking. And maybe he was. Then he coughed, a thick, rich sound. Bright red blood splattered the intern’s scrubs. The boy took in a breath of air and slumped back to the gurney.
Theresa Jackson pushed back into the ER, flat eyes passing over the two of us as she pulled the green curtain across. The last thing I saw was a second intern tugging on some gloves and a mask, an older doctor slipping close to the gurney, and Ellen Brazile, glasses up on her forehead, staring intently at the patient’s chart.
“Fucking hate hospitals,” Rodriguez said.
“I think I need a second, Vince.”
“For what? Let’s get out of here.”
“A second.”
Rodriguez nodded toward the doors. “I’ll be up at reception. Five minutes, then I’m gone.”
“All right.”
Rodriguez left. I put on my coat and moved a little closer to the drawn curtain. Theresa stepped through. She wore a white mask and a paper smock sheathed in plastic. Her gloves were glistening with fresh blood.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“That guy okay?”
“Probably some sort of internal bleeding. Whatever it is, it ain’t good. And you need to stay away.”
Jackson slipped out of her smock and gloves, bundled them up, and dropped them into a hazardous-waste container. Then she pushed the mask up off her mouth. “You hearing me?”
“The woman in there. You know her?”
Theresa shook her head. “She’s with Dr. Peters. A colleague or something.”
“What’s she doing?”
“What’s she doing? Nothing. Just reading the chart and looking at the patient. Where did Rodriguez go? He needs to get you out of here.”
“Reason I ask is the woman is a friend of mine.”
“That woman?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ellen Brazile.”
Jackson slipped the mask back down. “You stay here.”
Two minutes later Ellen Brazile came through the curtain and lifted her mask off her face. She wasn’t smiling either.
“What are you doing here?” Ellen said.
We were standing in a dark hallway, near a rack of vending machines from 1963. I looked through the clouded glass at a row of selections. At the very end was a Zagnut bar.
“I didn’t think they still made Zagnuts. You have any change?”
She wasn’t amused. I found a few quarters and got the Zagnut anyway.
“I got hurt on a job. Cracked a rib.” I lifted up my shirt and showed her the white bandage. Then I unwrapped the Zagnut and offered it to her.
“No thanks.”
I took a bite. “Smart move. Anyway, my ribs hurt. At least they did before I popped one of the pills they gave me. What’s your story?”
“I don’t have one, Mr. Kelly.” Already she was creating distance. She’d wanted to know why I was at Cook County. Now her curiosity was sated.
“You have a story, Doc. Everyone does.”
“I need to get back.”
“Let’s start with that.”
“With what?”
“Today, we investigated a possible pathogen release in the subway. Tonight, you’re in the Cook County ER, standing over a patient who’s spitting up blood.”
Brazile shot a look down the hall. A couple of nurses were chatting in a drab smear of light, maybe fifty feet away.
“Afraid they’re going to hear me?”
“You need to get yourself under control, Mr. Kelly.”
“What does that mean?”
“The pathogen release was a false alarm. My presence here is completely unrelated to anything that went on in the subway.”
“Spitting up blood, red blotches, open sores. You must have a dozen monsters in your lab that can do that. You’re telling me there’s no connection?”
“I’m here because a colleague asked me to take a look at a patient. There are other things we do at CDA besides hunt for bioweapons. Many other things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Really?”
“You’re right. What the hell do I know?”
Her face cleared, and I realized, not for the first time, how incredibly attractive Ellen Brazile could be.
“I guess I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I overreacted.”
“Been a long day.”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong with the kid? Nurse said it was internal bleeding.”
Brazile nodded. “It is, but not caused by any sort of physical injury. At least not anything we can see.”
“So?”
“Could be some sort of food poisoning. He lives in an area nearby that’s got a lot of toxins. Lead in the paint. Something in the water. Could be a lot of things.”
“You gonna run some tests?”
“I’ll take a look at his blood and see what’s what.”
Down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of Rodriguez ducking into a small room near an elevator.
“I gotta run,” I said and held out my hand. “Twice in one day. We have to stop meeting like this, Doctor.”
She glanced at the candy bar in my other fist. “Mind if I take you up on that bite?”
“This?” I held up the half-eaten Zagnut. “Listen, they don’t rotate the stock down here very much. If you know what I mean.”
“Old?�
�
“Older than me. And that’s saying something.”
She took a bite anyway, chewed, and forced a smile. “Not bad.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“Thanks for today, Michael.”
A part of my brain noticed the switch to my first name and liked it. The rest of me took it in stride.
“For what?” I said.
“The subway. I think I told you before. It had to be unnerving.”
“I got used to it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, I know I can be a little short sometimes. But thanks again.”
She handed me back the candy bar and turned to walk away.
“Hey.”
She stopped.
“You want to get coffee? Not tonight, but, you know, some time?”
She nodded slowly, picking up my invitation and then gently putting it back down. “I can’t.”
“That’s fine.”
She held up a hand and circled closer. “I’d like to. But I can’t.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sort of … it’s bad timing.”
I wanted her to stop now. Wanted to find Rodriguez and get out of Dodge. Why did I get the goddamn candy bar, anyway?
“I see someone, too,” I said. “Well, not really. I see her, but she doesn’t see me. It’s complicated.”
She laughed, and that made everything a little better. “Always seems to be that way, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“You have a card?”
I gave her the one with my home and business address. I wrote my cell number on the back. She slipped it into her pocket.
“I better get back. And thanks again.”
“Sure.”
She pushed through the doors and back into the ER. I was alone. Just me and the vending machines. I pulled the lever for a second Zagnut and put it in my pocket. Old, maybe, but they were still damn hard to find.
I wandered down the hallway in search of Rodriguez. I found him in the small room, holding the corner of a white sheet, staring down at a corpse.
“A friend?” I said.
“Not really.” Rodriguez let the sheet fall back over the dead man’s face.
“Who is it?”
“Cop named Donnie Quin. Been dead most of the day.”
“Why’s he still here?”
Rodriguez shrugged. We stepped away from the body and back into the corridor. The elevator beside us was a large one, used to carry freight and, at some point this evening, Donnie Quin to his appointment with the Cook County coroner.
“What’s bugging you?” I said.
“Couple of things. First, he was one of the dirty cops I was investigating.”
I looked back toward the large lump under the sheet. “Quin?”
“Met with him this morning. He helped me set up the drug drop for the Korean.”
“What did he die of?”
“That’s the other thing. They have no idea. First, they thought it was his ticker. But the doc told me that wasn’t it.”
“What were his symptoms?”
“EMTs said he was struggling to breathe. Burning up. By the time they got him here, he was gone.”
“Where did you meet this guy today?”
“On the West Side.”
“Where?”
“Couple of miles from here. A food mart just off Austin. Why?”
“Where was he before that?”
“K Town. I told him we were cutting out the Korean. He told the Fours. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. What did you say the cop’s first name was?”
“Donnie. Donnie Quin.”
“When are they sending him over to the morgue?”
“Don’t know. Listen, I gotta get back to the Korean’s store.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Vince.”
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
Rodriguez tapped me on the shoulder and left. I took a final look at the white sheet and toe tag. Then I left as well.
CHAPTER 21
Rachel had scrubbed any trace of herself from the apartment, right down to the shelf and a half of healthy food she’d kept in my fridge. The good news was that left more room for beer. I’d bought a four-pack of Half Acre tallboys and found a spot for them beside two different kinds of mustard. Then I popped one and walked back into the living room. I thought about calling, but knew I’d get her machine. As bad as I was with people these days, I was even worse with their machines. So I sat on the couch instead and looked at the spaces where her things used to be. Things I’d hardly noticed until they were gone. Spaces I’d need to get used to. It was past midnight when I turned out the lights, climbed into bed, and closed my eyes.
It was a soft day in Chicago. The sky was blue, the smell of fresh grass and dirt thick in my nostrils. I stretched my eyes across a long, patterned canvas of outfield. There were people dotted here and there, crouching forward, bare hands clamped on knees. Others idled along the foul lines in groups of two or three, chatting pleasantly and drinking beer.
I felt more than heard the crack of the bat. The ball, high and dark in the sky. Hit almost directly over my head. I ran, but couldn’t feel my legs underneath. The ball reached its apex and began to drop, seams spinning as it fell. I reached, careful to keep my hands wide, fingers straight, and caught it softly over my shoulder. Sixteen-inch softball. Simplest thing in the world. As long as you didn’t think about it. Or were dreaming.
I pulled up in three steps and turned to throw the ball back toward the infield. My mother was there, on the other side of an outfield fence I hadn’t noticed before. She clapped noiselessly but didn’t smile. I thought it was because she was ashamed of her teeth. Or maybe she was just ashamed. I tossed the ball in and followed.
By the time I got to the dirt skin of the infield, the players were gone. The air, slack. My brother stood near home plate, face and shoulders limned in shadow. I moved closer. Philip turned, lips creased in a yellow curl. I tried to scream, but my voice, like my mom’s, was gone. A cold hand held my heart until it shivered and stopped.
I sat straight up in my bed. The pup was balled up in the corner, tail wagging slowly, head flicking from me to the hallway. My alarm clock rolled over to 2:00 a.m. Someone was knocking at the front door.
I got up, found a bathrobe, and squeezed a look through the peephole. I thought about what I saw, then swung the door open.
“You change your mind about coffee?”
Ellen Brazile hugged herself and glanced at the apartment across the hall.
“Don’t worry,” I said and stepped aside. “He’s either out at a bar or dead drunk asleep.”
Ellen walked in. I sat her in the living room and switched on a lamp. Her long cheekbones looked like sculpted ivory. Her profile, a scuffed portrait in the thick of a Chicago night.
“I’m sorry for coming over like this.” She took a quick glance around the apartment.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It was just hard to talk before. And … ”
“And you want to talk about something that can’t wait?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
She tightened her mouth and wrinkled her forehead.
“You came all the way up, Ellen. Why stop now?”
“Did you tell me the truth about Cook County?”
“You want to see the X-ray?”
“No. Just tell me the truth.”
“Hold on.” I padded out to the kitchen and got another Half Acre out of the fridge. Then I reconsidered and found the whiskey. I moved back into the living room, sat down, and showed her my drink. She shook her head.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I took a small sip of scotch. “I was working a case and banged up my ribs. Not too bad, but enough. End of story.” I took another sip and placed the tumbler on a side table. “Now, you want to tell me what’s really bothering you?”
A pause. “I lied about why I was at the hospital.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I know you lied, yes. Why? I have no idea.”
“Maybe I’ll take that coffee.”
I wound up making her a cup of Barry’s Tea. She puffed her lips and blew on it. Then she took a sip. “Good tea.”
“It’s Irish.”
“Of course.” Another sip and she was ready. “You want to know what black biology is all about?”
“I thought I got an earful today.”
“Hardly. People talk about weaponized anthrax and the like. Child’s play compared with what I have on my laptop.”
“Maybe I don’t want to hear this.”
“Who does? Ever think about cancer as a transmissible disease? You catch it like the flu. I got that beauty mapped out right now. All I have to do is build it. Got a stealth version as well.”
“Stealth?”
“The pathogen lies dormant in the body until it’s triggered by some external event. Like the herpes virus is triggered by stress.”
“Except the external event in this case … ”
“Would be designed and controlled by whoever created the pathogen. You infect the community and wait. Trigger the event at your time and choosing and activate the virus.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Who’s asking for that?”
“Sounds like you might be. If you can’t handle the pressure, get out.”
“I don’t want to get out. Not now. Not when we’re so close.”
“To what?”
She shrugged. “What do you think? Creating life from nothing.”
I looked at my glass of whiskey and wished I’d brought in the bottle. “Why are you telling me all this, Ellen?”
“I’ve left three messages today for Matt Danielson. He hasn’t returned any of them.”
“The subway thing was a false alarm. He’s probably moved on to bigger and better disasters. He’ll get back to you.”
She hunted around for someplace to put her cup and wound up placing it on the floor. “Is that okay?”
I waved a hand. “Why were you at Cook tonight, Ellen?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Are you afraid there’s been a release?”
“I’m always afraid of that. Been that way for five years.”
We All Fall Down Page 9
