His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

“Is it okay to talk business? I don’t want to bother you if you’re resting.”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m afraid we lost out on the bid for the Devon building. Evermore upped our offer by $10,000, and because the owner didn’t know how long you’d be in the hospital, he didn’t want to wait, and accepted it.”

  “Damn! But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” This was the second building he’d back-and-forthed with—and lost to—Evermore Properties in the past month, and it was getting old. Fast.

  “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t have the authority to counter again.”

  Elliott sighed. “That’s okay. You’re right, and I understand. It’s a nice building with a lot of potential, and I hate to lose it, but…”

  Evermore Properties, which was primarily a land development firm, had recently been taken over by Alphonso Collina, whom Elliott had known and disliked since childhood, and whose family had for a time lived next door to the Smiths in Lake Forest. The Collinas had come into their wealth during Prohibition by means everyone knew but no one openly talked about. By the time Elliott’s generation had come along, the source of the Collinas’ wealth was considered just an interesting bit of Chicago folklore.

  Elliott’s passion was preservation of Chicago’s past. Evermore, especially with Al Collina at the helm, was interested only in bulldozing whatever was there and throwing up expensive high-rise condos—though the term “expensive condos” when used in Chicago was redundant.

  “I know,” Larry said, calling Elliott’s attention back to the present. “But you can’t save every building with character in the city. When it comes down to altruism versus profit, profit nearly always wins. It’s the old bottom line, and that line says that throwing up a high rise is a lot more profitable than renovating a much smaller building.”

  They’d had this conversation before, and Larry was right. One of the principle reasons Elliott had gotten into property renovation in the first place was out of a love for the feel, the flavor, the architecture of older buildings. Elliott Enterprises, his official business name, specialized, if it could be called that, mostly in four- to twelve-unit apartment buildings built in the twenties and thirties. He felt they had a charm many of the newer buildings lacked. They were part of Chicago’s history, and he wanted to preserve as much of it as he could.

  It wasn’t that there was any particular shortage of potential properties, but every now and then a building came along that especially interested him, and the Devon building had been one of them. What disturbed him most was that losing the bid would disrupt his “flow,” as he thought of it. He only concentrated on one building at a time, and had established a pattern—whenever the building he was currently working on was nearly done, he’d start looking for another, timing it so that he could smoothly move from the end of one job to the beginning of another. He envisioned it rather like Tarzan swinging through the jungle from vine to vine, reaching out to one just before he let go of the other. He’d planned on the Devon building being his next vine.

  While he had, to the consternation of his parents, taken out a contractor’s license, and often did much of the renovating work himself, he relied on a team of licensed independent subcontractors—primarily a plumber, a carpenter and an electrician—for any work that required the meeting of building codes. He also had contacts with other small, specialized subcontracting firms for things like roofing, carpeting, wood restoration, heating equipment and window replacement.

  His most recent project, a classic ten-unit on Granville, had been nearly finished and almost ready to go on the market when he’d had the accident. He knew there would be another, but losing out on the Devon property broke his rhythm, and he resented it.

  Shortly after hanging up with Larry, the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Elliott, it’s Rick. You got home okay? How are you feeling?”

  “I’m doing fine, Rick, thanks.” Actually, he was developing a headache and realized he’d forgotten to take his next dose of medication.

  “Think you might be up for a little company later? I thought I could bring some dinner over so you wouldn’t have to worry about trying to cook. I won’t stay long.”

  “Sure,” Elliott said, his spirits picking up just on hearing Rick’s voice. “That’d be fine. I was just going to have a TV dinner—that I can do with one hand.”

  “Any preferences?” Rick asked. “Chinese? Pizza? Something from The Bagel? Stella’s?”

  Elliott grinned—realizing as he did so that he hadn’t done much grinning in the past several days. “Ya think Stella’s might have meatloaf today? That or Salisbury steak? Something I don’t have to use both hands to cut?”

  “I’ll find out,” Rick replied. “What time should I come over? Seven?”

  “Seven’s fine,” Elliott said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Anything else I can bring you?”

  “Not that I can think of, thanks. I’ll see you at seven, then.”

  When they’d hung up, he called the lobby to alert the doorman that Rick was expected, and to just let him come up without calling first.

  * * *

  Dinner went well. Rick brought a bottle of wine, and they sat at the dining room table for nearly two hours, talking and relaxing. Elliott skipped the wine since he was on medication.

  Rick was a social worker with one of the city agencies, and though it was a grueling and often depressing job with a lot of pressure, he always managed to focus on the lighter side, and had an endless string of funny stories of life within a bureaucracy.

  Realizing it would be both awkward and uncomfortable for Elliott’s shoulder for Rick to spend the night, neither of them mentioned it directly. Rick left around eleven, saying he’d call in the morning to see if Elliott needed anything.

  Elliott turned out the lights, and more tired than he’d thought, did not, as he usually did, stand at the window and look out over the jeweled galaxy of the city spread out before him. Instead, he managed to get himself undressed and eased into bed.

  He’s nice.

  The thought jerked Elliott back to near-consciousness. Was that John’s assessment of Rick, or merely his own?

  My name is John. The sensation of frustration was overpowering. He thought of a stroke victim, struggling to communicate but unable to find the words.

  I know. And with that he sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Cessy called at 9:30 Saturday morning, asking about his health, if he’d slept well, had he had breakfast, did he need any help around the apartment, to which he replied “fine,” “yes,” “yes,” and “no.”

  “Well,” she said in her don’t-even-think-about-refusing voice, “you’re coming to dinner this evening. Brad will pick you up around six. Be waiting in the lobby.”

  Though Cessy was four years younger than he, she often treated him as though he were the younger—by far. And though he would never tell her so, she at times reminded him strongly of their mother. He also knew that if he pled not feeling up to it for whatever reason, she would assume he was having a relapse and insist on coming over and playing Florence Nightingale. Their mother would have sent a nurse, and Elliott was glad she and his father were for all intents and purposes incommunicado, and as far as he knew, weren’t even aware of his accident.

  “I can catch a cab,” he said. He knew far better than to suggest he could drive himself over.

  “Nonsense!” Cessy said. “It would cost a fortune.”

  “I have a fortune,” he teased. “Remember? So do you.”

  “Well just because you have it doesn’t mean you have to spend it,” she said flatly. “Brad Junior has swim practice this afternoon from three to five thirty, and they’ll come by and pick you up right after.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “Well, I can tell you’re feeling better,” she said. “Your sarcasm’s coming
back.”

  * * *

  Rick, true to his word, called shortly after Elliott got off the phone from Cessy. They talked for a while and tentatively agreed to get together for Sunday breakfast. Rick said he’d come pick him up, but Elliott insisted he could just take the bus, and that’s how they left it.

  He spent the day puttering, and in a rather grudging acknowledgment of the fact that he still wasn’t quite back to normal, napping. Around four, he began to get ready to go to Cessy and Brad’s.

  Although he wasn’t particularly fond of hats, he decided he’d feel a little less self-conscious about his partially shaved head if he wore one going out. His selection was limited mainly to winter caps, but he did have a baseball cap with a small rainbow logo he’d picked up in Boys’ Town at the last Pridefest, so he pulled it out of the closet as he was leaving the apartment. It wasn’t until he casually slipped it on his head that he remembered his stitches, and was reminded of just how sore that part of his head still was to the touch.

  He quickly took the hat off and went to the bathroom to check to see if any of the stitches might have been pulled out. Reassured that they hadn’t, he very carefully put the hat back on and left the apartment.

  He was standing in front of the building’s main entrance when the SUV pulled up the ramp, made a U-turn in front of the garage entrance, and stopped in front of him. Twelve-year-old Brad Jr. hopped out of the front passenger’s side door and got in the back, pausing only long enough to say, “Hi, Uncle Elliott.” Since it was one of those no-elaborate-response-expected type of greetings, Elliott gave none other than a short “Hi, Beej”—his nickname for his nephew—as he climbed into the front seat.

  “You doin’ okay?” Brad, Sr., asked as Elliott fumbled on his seatbelt one-handed.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Sorry I didn’t get by the hospital more often while you were there,” Brad said, moving the car forward down the ramp and stopping at the street to wait for a break in the traffic.

  “No problem,” Elliott said. “I wasn’t in much of a visitor mood for most of it, anyway.”

  He really liked his brother-in-law, and they’d gotten along well since the first time they’d met. Brad wasn’t much of a talker, and Brad, Jr. (“BJ”), pretty much took after his dad in everything—interests, build, skin coloring, hair. But his facial features more closely resembled Cessy, including the Smith blue eyes.

  Jenny, BJ’s eight-year-old sister, was a carbon copy of Cessy when she was Jenny’s age. Jenny’s principle joy seemed to derive from bedeviling her brother, who took it with far more patience and maturity than Elliott remembered he had exhibited with Cessy.

  The baby, Sandy, was too young at eight months for Elliott to be able to tell who she would more resemble as she got older.

  The family lived in a typical, well-kept-up single family home in Rogers Park, complete with a small front porch with a carved-wood sign saying “The Priebes” beside the door. The minute he walked in, Jenny came running to him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a big hug.

  “Uncle Elliott! I’ve missed you! They wouldn’t let me come see you in the hospital.”

  Returning her hug, conscious of his shoulder as he did so, he said, “I missed you too, Ladybug.” He used the nicknames only when directly addressing the children, never when referring to them with anyone else. It was something special just between him and them.

  The removal of his hat prompted immediate and rapt attention from both Jenny and BJ, though BJ, tried not to make his fascination obvious.

  “Does it hurt?” Jenny asked.

  “Only when I laugh,” he replied, eliciting no response from the girl, but getting a grin from her brother.

  While Cessy was fixing dinner and BJ and Jenny were in their rooms doing homework—Elliott was surprised to learn that Jenny, only in third grade, had homework—he sat with Brad in the living room having a beer and watching the news.

  As a homicide detective and career cop with the Chicago Police Department, Brad wasn’t fazed by very much and had accepted Elliott’s being gay as a matter of course. While it wasn’t a subject they talked much about, neither did Elliott feel he had to avoid it. His sexual orientation had always been a nonissue with Cessy who, in typical sisterly fashion, was continually questioning him about his social life and encouraging him to find someone and settle down.

  He was rather surprised to hear himself asking, during a commercial break in the news, “Brad, can you do me a rather odd favor?”

  Brad looked over at him. “What do you need?”

  “The day I was taken to the hospital, they brought another guy into the ER at almost exactly the same time...a gunshot victim with no I.D. He didn’t make it, and I understand they just listed him as a John Doe.”

  Elliott was rather puzzled, both as he asked the question, and on reflection, that he had never sensed a reaction from John when Norm had mentioned the John Doe. Perhaps the possibility that he might have been the other man in the ER just hadn’t registered.

  Brad tilted his head up once to acknowledge he understood the reference. “Yeah, Ken and I got that one, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t aware you were in the ER at the same time. We weren’t called in until a little later and I didn’t even know that you were in the hospital at that point. Anyway, what about him?”

  “Have they identified him yet?”

  Brad took another sip of his beer. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do they know exactly what happened to him?”

  “Other than that he was shot six times? Only that a 9-1-1 call came in reporting gunshots in an alley between Surf and Diversey, just a couple blocks from St. Joe’s. Responding officers found the guy on his back beside a Dumpster, barely alive. They called for an ambulance, but they didn’t think he’d even make it to the hospital. He did, but just barely.”

  “Do they think it was a robbery?” Elliott asked.

  “Possible, but I doubt it. Robbers don’t usually bother taking stuff they don’t want. This guy was left with nothing—they even tore the labels off his shirt and pants and took his shoes. That’s pretty extreme. It was obvious they didn’t want to leave anything at all that might help identify him. That all adds up to a premeditated hit.”

  “How come there was only one 9-1-1 call, do you suppose? There are apartments all around.”

  “Well, there was a small fire about that same time on Pine Grove. The sound of the fire trucks may have covered the noise. It doesn’t take long to pull off six shots.”

  “Jeezus,” Elliott said. “The poor guy. So you think it was gang related? Or mob? Or a drug deal gone bad?”

  Brad shook his head. “No way to know for sure. The guy was clean, not a trace of drugs of any kind. Given his age, the fact that he was a white male, and the area he was killed, gang activity isn’t likely. This guy was shot six times, and none of them to the head. We’re willing to bet that it was a premeditated hit, though pros don’t usually waste bullets. One shot to the back of the head would be more their style. But we’re checking into every possible angle.”

  “So, could you tell anything at all about him?”

  Brad finished his beer and set it on the floor beside his chair.

  “Mid-to-late thirties, five-eleven, hundred-seventy-five pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. The only thing we’re pretty sure of is that he wasn’t from around here since no one’s reported him missing. That, of course, makes identifying a body even tougher.”

  “Do you get a lot of John Does?”

  “Quite a few—this is a big city,” Brad said. “But there are more Janes than Johns. Most Does are identified within a week through missing persons reports, dental records, scars, birthmarks, tattoos, fingerprints or DNA, but since a lot of the Jane Does are prostitutes and a lot of the John Does are drifters, it isn’t easy.

  “Nobody’s reported this guy missing. He had perfect teeth—not so much as one cavity—no tattoos, no scars, not a blemish on his body other than the bullet holes a
nd some facial bruising. We figure he hit the ground face first, and then whoever shot him turned him over to clean out his pockets. There were no fingerprint or DNA matches. And the more time that passes, the less likely we are to be able to give the guy a name.”

  Elliott shook his head, reacting to an odd wave of sadness. “So where do you go from here?”

  “Follow up on any leads that might come along. We’ve already canvassed most of the residents of the buildings siding the alley and within sight of it, but nobody claims to have seen or heard anything other than the fire trucks. We took some post-mortem photos, which is standard when the body is recognizable, and have shown them around the area, but again, nothing. Unless someone comes along looking for him, we’re pretty much stymied at the moment. But it’s an ongoing investigation, and we’ll keep looking.”

  “Isn’t there some sort of national clearing house for helping to identify unidentified bodies?” Elliott asked.

  Brad shook his head. “Well, there’s the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. But its database has a list of more than 5,200 people who’ve never been identified. That’s one hell of a lot of dead bodies to sort through when you’re looking for one specific person, and it’s been estimated that number is only about fifteen percent of the actual total, largely because there aren’t any laws requiring police to enter the information. We entered your John Doe, of course. Nothing’s come up, but at least he’s there.

  “Some local agencies and jurisdictions have their own limited databases, but most agencies shy away from posting photos on the internet because there are too many pervs out there who would be swarming over the site just for kicks. And those jurisdictions that do post photos usually go to the trouble of opening the bodies’ eyes or touching up the photos in some way to make it look like they’re alive.”

  “Now that’s downright gross!” Elliott said.

  Brad shrugged. “Maybe so, but that’s the way it is,” he said. “And then there’s The Doe Network, which isn’t affiliated with any governmental agency, but they don’t post photographs, just sketches. They’re on the Internet, and it’s their policy not to display post-mortem photos publicly, out of respect for the victims and their families. I personally don’t believe any sketch is as accurate as a photo, but it’s their call, and we’re stuck with it.”