Black Widower

by Thomas Laird

  “I just can’t do it, Jennifer.”

  The shroud remained, twirling slowly.

  “I understand if you’re disappointed in me. I understand if you hate me. But I got bigger responsibilities than I had when you first started coming to this dock in the middle of the night. I have a wife and a bun in the oven. I won this big award, now, and I can’t dishonor all the other guys who won it before me. It’s like a tradition, Jennifer. And I’m sure not the most patriotic son of a bitch on the block, but I did bleed for my country and I can’t deny I thought I was doing the right thing when I joined the Navy.”

  He stopped abruptly, and he tried to fathom what this mist before him really was.

  “I don’t hate the Vietnamese. I don’t hate Asians, or any other goddam body. I never wave the flag in no one’s face, Jennifer. But I can’t do damage to that honor they gave me because that’d do dirt to my family. And I got a family, now, for the first time in my sad-assed life. I’m not screwing this all up.

  “That cop will do you justice. I know he will. I wish there was some way I could fix it myself, but shit happens, even to me, and now everything’s changed.”

  Leonard stood there as if he thought she might respond in some human language he could pick up, he could actually hear. But the figure began to mist up, and then the fog-like, small cloud began to drift out over the inky murk of the water. Then she was gone, and Tare, Medal of Honor honoree, stood all alone on the dock he built with his own hands.

  *

  There are things to buy for the baby. Cribs and diapers and other such sundries that a newborn requires. And things for Joellen, as well. Pregnant-girl clothes that balloon out in front, because she is gradually gaining a little pot belly that hasn’t been attained by imbibing at her place of work, Tony’s.

  And there are trips to the doctor, also. Multiple trips that are challenging their incomes. So Tare has to visit the swamp more than he’d like to catch gators for shows and zoos and such. The money is getting better because Leonard is good at baiting and catching the prehistoric little pricks. And most of them aren’t all that little, but the market favors the youngsters. When they get full-grown, gators are harder to manage. They become fiercer, and their size and bulk are considerable, at maturity.

  But the pay is keeping the Tare family’s heads above water for the moment.

  There has been no word from the State Police about employment for Leonard. He keeps hoping because he knows the pay will be a lot steadier, and there will be health insurance which will be a godsend for the family. This out of pocket crap is just that, crap. It eats their income down to a very low survival level, even though Joellen works more hours, now, at Tony’s because Tony has just had hip surgery which results in his virtually handing over the bar to Joellen.

  But the hours will have to be reduced as she gets closer to delivery time, and they both pray that there are no complications which put her on her back for an extended time because that will force them to live on bottom-line groceries. Leonard wants Joellen to have first class nutrition so that the creature in her tummy gets all the vitamins it needs. It’s all like a vicious circle, Leonard thinks. You fall in love, you have a child, and then all the fine complications arrive.

  But he wouldn’t have it any other way. Tare literally feels like a new man. He’s not some fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants coonass, any more. He’s not some derelict hillbilly without a future. He’s not some sad-ass vet who’s drowning in a case of Jax beer.

  He’s a family man with responsibilities. And he’s also a Medal of Honor winner, an icon, a role model.

  It might all be his cross to bear, but he can tote it.

  *

  Leonard wonders how it goes, up in Chicago. He hesitates to telephone the Homicide detective again, not wanting to give Parisi another burden to bear.

  But he has to know.

  “How you doing, Leonard?”

  They’re both on a first name basis, currently. Leonard wonders seriously if that’s Parisi’s way of humoring the alligator hunter.

  But the detective doesn’t sound like he’s cracking smart-ass with him, Leonard figures.

  “Anything new on this guy, Skotadi?” Tare asks.

  “We’re working it full time. I think we’re getting a little closer, but I can’t get into specifics.”

  “I know, Jimmy. I know.”

  “Hey, I saw the article about you in the papers, and I saw you with the Big Shot on the TV news, too.”

  “Yeah. It was kind of a shock.”

  “They took their time, didn’t they, Leonard.”

  “My CO got greased. Otherwise it might’ve happened sooner.”

  “At least they got to you while you’re still on the right side of the sod, trooper.”

  “I was in the Navy, Jimmy.”

  “That make you a swabbie?”

  “It made me grade A fertilizer.”

  Parisi laughed. It was a true laugh. It was genuine, Leonard thought. He liked this detective even though he knew almost nothing about him.

  “You done us all proud, Leonard Tare. Congratulations.”

  “I keep seeing whatevers on the dock, Jimmy.”

  “Still?”

  “You don’t think I’m section eight, do you?”

  “Not hardly. Catholics believe in ghosts. Demons, too.”

  “And angels. This lady never did anything to deserve what Skotadi did to her, Jimmy.”

  “Nobody deserves murder.”

  “Don’t know if I totally agree on that one. I think I could give you a list, and we could start the listings in D.C.”

  Parisi laughed again, and Tare joined him.

  “You have to nail this bastard, Detective. She’s never going to be free if someone doesn’t get him.”

  Parisi remained mute on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll get him, Leonard. I’ll get him for you and for the whatever on your dock. I promise you. I’ll get him.”

  Chapter 12

  I told Leonard Tare I’d get Skotadi, but even when I was saying it there was doubt in my mind because we do not get them all. I don’t know of a single Homicide with a perfect batting average when it comes to catching killers. We all have those names in red on our boards. Sometimes cops spend a lifetime of frustration in pursuit of some swinging dick.

  But I don’t plan on striking out with the Vice cop. He’s murdered his wife and three men, likely. The Outfit is very displeased that two made men were on Skotadi’s list. The arsonist was not a member of their Italian-Sicilian elite, but he was an associate, and the wiseguys do not take kindly to killing any of their own unless it is they who do the whacking.

  Doc is like-minded when it comes to getting Derek. If only for the slaying of his wife, Jennifer, we both feel compelled to put him inside for the rest of his life.

  We always have other cases going. His is not the only thing on our plates. We’re restricted to a few hours a week to consider this one case, but we’re not going to let go of him easily.

  Doc and I see him in the building only occasionally, and we’re not allowed to harass him. If we did, he could exert his lawyer and the union on our asses, and we don’t need those distractions.

  But we keep on coming, hoping that something will arise that’ll lead us to his door with a warrant for his arrest on the charge of murder. One murder or four, he goes away forever.

  My kids are growing. They’ve been cheated out of having a mother raise them for all the years that Erin’s been gone. I sometimes wonder if they remember their mom, but I hesitate to bring it up to them because they’re still very young.

  My mother does what she can to give the two of them a sense of a feminine influence in their lives, but you don’t replace the real deal with a surrogate, even though she’s a blood relation to them.

  Eleanor, my mother, does not give me the song and dance about ‘when are you going to get married again.’ She lays off because she knows the hole Erin’s absence has carved into me. She l
ost my dad, Jake, long ago, and she’s been there and done that. But she’s not an old-fashioned Italian widow—she does not walk around in the black dress and the veil. She never did, except for the old man’s funeral.

  Jake’s wake was very amusing, in a black humor kind of way. There was a good chunk of the Outfit present. They all like a good funeral. They can wear their thousand dollar suits and they can flash their diamond pinkie rings at me that cost more than I made in a month. I try to ignore them, but I keep on getting dragged back to them when I need information. I’ve never given them any illegal favors in return. I might speak up for one of them who’s been helpful on a case when their sentencing comes up. But most coppers get their fingers dirty when you play in the mud all day.

  We get a call from Skotadi’s wife on a Thursday morning when Doc and I are working first shift. She sounds hysterical when I talk to her, so I tell her we’ll be there as soon as we can.

  We walk up to her floor in the apartment building, and we don’t even have to knock. She’s at the door waiting for us.

  Then she waves us inside. The first thing I notice is her swollen face. It isn’t puffed up from a beating, though. It looks like she’s been crying mightily.

  Then Doc and I get a look at her place. It’s as if someone’s been through here with a sledge hammer. There’s broken glass, broken furniture—Whoever did it was very thorough. Everything she has in here has been torn up. The couch has been slit open and its stuffing is everywhere. All the paintings and photographs from the walls have been shattered and torn to shreds with some kind of sharp object.

  “Do you have insurance?” Doc asks.

  All Carrie Skotadi can do is weep. I guide her to a chair that is somewhat intact.

  “You know who did this,” she states, suddenly.

  “Derek,” I reply.

  “He’s going to kill me, you know.”

  “You ought to file an order of protection, Mrs. Skotadi,” Doc adds.

  She nods, and then the tears commence once more.

  “Is there anywhere you can go until all this gets cleaned up?”

  She looks at me and sniffs.

  “The police have already been here and seen this, but I wanted you to know so that when he does murder me, the way he did Jennifer, that I told you up front what he was going to do.”

  “Who did you talk to when the first cops arrived?” Doc wants to know.

  “His name was Mark Keller.”

  “I know him,” I say.

  “So do I,” Doc agrees.

  “We’ll have a talk with him right away,” I promise. “I’m very sorry about all this, Mrs….”

  “My name is Carrie. And I’m getting a divorce. I’m filing today. And I’ll seek an order of protection as soon as I see my lawyer.”

  “He’s very dangerous, Carrie. Find a new apartment. Get a new phone number and keep it unlisted. Get an answering machine, because he’s a policeman and can get unlisted numbers. Don’t communicate with him, and stay away from places you went with him. You might also take a leave of absence from work so he can’t visit you there. I’m sorry to have to frighten you with all this,” I warn her.

  “He did kill Jennifer, didn’t he. He dragged her body all the way down to Louisiana and…”

  She has her face in her hands.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you? A relative, maybe?”

  “I’ll call my dad. He lives in California. Maybe I’ll stay with him for a while.”

  She stands up, and I extend my hand to her.

  “I’m very sorry about all this,” I tell her.

  “Be careful, and take care of yourself. I think California sounds like a good plan. You can call us and we’d be happy to drive you to O’Hare. Just let us know,” Doc adds.

  She guides us to the door, and I look back at the debacle one more time.

  I think to myself that whoever did this was not angry, not enraged. Whoever did this was what the shrinks call a psychopath.

  *

  We catch Mark Keller of the Violent Crimes Division in the cafeteria at Headquarters in the Loop. He’s a veteran of twenty years and has spent his time with his crew ever since he left his patrolman status, fifteen years ago. We sit with him in a booth. I bought lunch for the three of us.

  Keller is yet another ex-military. Ex-military is almost synonymous with current cop. He’s a medium-sized Irishman with sandy-red hair that is quickly receding on top. He’s in pretty good shape for a man in his late forties, pushing fifty.

  “He did a thorough job,” he says.

  “You mean Skotadi,” Doc says.

  “Whoever. From what you guys told me over the phone, I’d say he was a good bet. Proving it will be a little tougher.”

  “He had the keys, Mark,” I remind him.

  “Yeah. Not changing the lock was a bad move on the wife’s part, but you can’t do a locksmith without the landlord’s okay. Anyway, his fingerprints will already be all over the place, so prints wouldn’t help us much in court.”

  “Do they have video surveillance at the apartment building? I didn’t see any cameras,” Doc inquires.

  “No video,” Keller laments. “Sorry, boys.”

  “You canvassed the other tenants?” Doc asks.

  “In the process. So far, nobody knows nothing. The usual shit.”

  “He thinks like a police, so he covers his tracks. He was a Homicide, once upon a time,” I say.

  “Which makes him oilier than the usual skunk. He knows how evidence works. He’s not going to do anything stupid, as far as leaving his scent behind…Did you tell his wife to get the hell out of there, Jimmy?”

  I nod at Keller.

  “Good…You like Skotadi for the first wife, no?”

  I don’t answer, but I smile weakly.

  “This guy is evil. That’s all I keep hearing from other cops, Doc.”

  My partner raises his palms off the table.

  We finish the lunch of burgers and fries and other assorted heart-attacks-in-the-making, and then we down the soft drinks. Keller has to go back to work, and so do we.

  I encounter Skotadi in the john on the first floor while my partner is out of the building to visit his dentist for a root canal.

  He’s at the far urinal, nearest the door. I’m over by the wall. I try not to look toward him, but he starts it up, anyway.

  “I hear you visited my wife,” he barks toward me without turning his head.

  “I saw your handiwork. Yes.”

  “Now that’s all very much unsubstantiated, Detective. You know how it works with the burden of proof.”

  “Don’t tell me my job, asshole.”

  “I hope you’re carrying your sap, Parisi.”

  He’s still staring at the wall in front of him at his pissoir.

  “No. Not today, Derek. But I’ve got a gun. I know all about self-defense, too. Why don’t you stash your dick back in your pants and come on down here?”

  “Not likely. I know that you know you have nothing on me. Not for Jennifer. Not for those three mob asswipes. You have exactly nothing, and we both know it. Why don’t you just admit it?”

  I zip up and look down at him. I can feel my right hand itching to take a go at the .38 in the shoulder holster. But this is not Dodge City in 1880, unfortunately, and I’m not Wyatt Earp.

  I walk directly over to him, and he finishes zipping up.

  “Have a good one, Jimmy,” he laughs, as I walk out of the restroom.

  Jackie Bishop calls when I return to my office.

  “Can we get together for a drink tonight?” she queries.

  “I thought you were back with your ex-husband,” I remind her.

  “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “I don’t know, Jackie.”

  “I understand I hurt you. Don’t hold a grudge. How about a second chance? Everybody deserves one of those, don’t they?”

  I should just hang up as an answer, but I find myself saying all right
and that I’ll meet her at Sweet Lou’s Pizza on 95th and Harlem tonight at 7:00.

  Then I call my mother and ask if she can sit with the kids until I get back from this ‘date.’ Eleanor sounds almost gleeful that I’m going out, and so I get back to the one case that is the pebble in my shoe, the thorn in the place where the sun don’t shine, for Doc and me both.

  *

  Jackie says she’d understand if our meeting up together winds up being a one-shot deal. She says she might feel that way, herself, but she reminds me that we had a nice situation going before she let her mommy parts do her thinking and let her ex back in the door.

  We’re sitting in Sweet Lou’s on a Friday night. The place is packed and noisy, and even though we both have to talk loudly, there’s a sense of privacy here because it’s so high-volume that no one can hear what their neighbors at the other booths are saying. And the music is so loud that it’s practically deafening. I can just barely make out what Jackie says, so we have to lean across the booth to comprehend one another. They’re playing the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” on maximum warp on the jukebox.

  We sip at a couple of draughts when we’re not yelling at each other across the table.

  The pizza arrives, and we hurriedly gobble it down, and we take down another pitcher of Old Style.

  We realize this is no place for an intimate conversation, so thirty minutes later we’re in my car headed toward Jackie’s apartment.

  There is little conversation in my ride, en route. But when I pull to the curb outside her building, she’s across the seat and almost on top of me. If I ever thought of resisting her, it must have come and gone in a blink, because we’re tangled together like two mating spiders.

  “Maybe we ought to go inside,” I suggest.

  When we’re headed into the building, we stop about every two feet to go at each other with the same ferocity we had back in the front seat.

  Finally, we arrive inside her flat, and seconds after that we’re totally disrobed, standing barefoot on her living room carpet. We don’t remain standing for long, and we find ourselves joined on the floor.