Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  “And you spoke with Mr. LeRigg to set this deal up?” Sharon asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Leal said. Always be polite in testifying. Another O’Herlieghy maxim.

  “So tell us, Sergeant, what exactly happened on the night of May nineteenth of this year?”

  Leal took a deep breath. The darkened superstructure of the abandoned factory snapped into place in his memory as it had done so many times since that night.

  Patches of misty fog obscured most of the surroundings except for a radius of about fifty feet. It was chilly for spring, and a dampness had seemed to settle over him. Two halos sprung around the headlights of LeRigg’s Caddie as he flashed the lights twice. Leal’s partner, Bobby Hilton, his long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, returned the signal and drove forward slowly. They were off the radio, not wanting to risk getting picked up by an errant scanner. But Leal knew that Johnny DeWayne and the rest of their backups would be spreading out through the factory now.

  “We had just started the exchange of money for the two kilograms of cocaine,” Leal said, his voice suddenly cracking slightly, “when we were interrupted.”

  Sharon appeared to notice this and paused to glance at him. “When you say ‘interrupted,’ what exactly do you mean, Sergeant?”

  The darkly tinted rear window of LeRigg’s Cadillac lowered with electronic precision, and he looked up at Leal.

  “Ready to do the do?” LeRigg said.

  LeRigg and two other men got out of the car, each wearing long leather coats that no doubt concealed heavy weaponry. Leal felt for the comfort of his own Beretta on his right hip.

  “After we showed LeRigg the money, he was in the process of opening the trunk to allow us to sample the cocaine, and then we made the final exchange,” Leal said, speaking slowly and clearly. He was hoping the accompanying tremor he felt in his voice wouldn’t be audible.

  “And then what happened?” Sharon asked.

  “As we were in the process of placing the gym bag with the drugs in our trunk, we came under fire.”

  The screech of tires as another car seemed to come out of nowhere. Bobby had been watching LeRigg and the two flunkies, and Leal barely turned in time to see the huge gun flashes tearing through the night. You see the flash and then hear the sound, someone had always told him. But he felt the sound instead. Like a brick had smacked into the left side of his chest. This wasn’t supposed to be a “buy-bust” and they weren’t prepared. More gunshots…Or was it thunder? Leal didn’t know as he felt his legs going weak, twisting underneath him, the strength pouring out of his body as the blood seeped between his fingers.

  Gunfire again. Bobby running, firing, then abruptly stopping. Leal looked up and saw his partner’s head jerk to the side as if recoiling from a massive punch, his eyes having that vacant, glassy look when his head snapped back…

  “Officer Hilton was killed,” he heard himself say. “And I was wounded.”

  The world retreated into a velvety silence. Leal’s head lolled back, and he saw Bobby falling toward him. More flashes lit up the darkness. Suddenly Johnny DeWayne was kneeling next to them. Leal could see Johnny’s lips moving, but couldn’t understand the words. He followed the other man’s gaze down toward his chest, seeing the bright red, bubbling froth expelling steam with each of his breaths. Each one feeling like someone was twisting a knife into his chest.

  “So Officer Hilton was killed, and you were wounded?” Sharon said.

  “That’s correct,” Leal answered.

  “And did you happen to see Mr. LeRigg during this time?”

  “Yes, he fled in his vehicle as soon as the gunfire started,” Leal said. “Officer DeWayne and the others administered to Officer Hilton and myself. LeRigg got away.”

  “And Mr. LeRigg was subsequently picked up on a warrant?”

  “Yes,” Leal said. And he came up with some bullshit about his car being stolen by two dudes.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Sharon said. She turned to the arena of spectators. “Are there any questions?”

  A middle-aged white guy in the third row raised his hand. A solitary one, and Leal figured the guy had probably been there for the past three weeks thinking he was hot shit.

  “Why weren’t there additional officers on the scene to arrest him?” the guy asked. His voice had an almost condescending twang to it. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Leal thought. Because, asshole, we never have enough fucking people or time or money…

  “Well, sir,” Leal said, clearing his throat and speaking as slowly as he could. “We were in the process of building a case and hadn’t planned to make an arrest at this time.”

  “How long did you work on this particular investigation?” a woman asked from the second row.

  “From the initial contact with our informant, it was approximately three months, ma’am.”

  “Why do you think Mr. LeRigg had the gunmen with him?” It was the son of a bitch in the third row again, and Leal mentally imagined going up to the seat and pimp-slapping the smug bastard.

  “Oftentimes, when dealing with situations such as these,” Leal paused to wring any condescension out of his voice, “when dealing with individuals who are trafficking illegal drugs, they may feel that there’s an opportunity to keep the money and their product. We call it, in the vernacular of the street, a rip-off.” He looked directly at the man now, keeping his expression totally neutral. He noticed Sharon staring at him. Man, she looks nervous, he thought. Probably worried I’m gonna blow up any second. That brought the trace of a smile to his lips.

  After a few more clarifications, Leal was excused. He took his seat back in the anteroom and waited. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out some gum, his latest passion since he’d quit smoking. Unwrapping the gum, he couldn’t believe how dry his mouth was.

  Christ, he thought. A little bullshit session like this, and I’m a candidate for the funny farm. Better get it together before I hit the street again.

  He found himself wishing he had a cigarette, despite not having smoked for over five and a half months, and was tempted to try and bum one from one of the other coppers sitting there. But he pushed the thought from his mind, knowing that he couldn’t afford to smoke again. The bullet had ripped through the lower part of his lung on the left side. If Johnny DeWayne hadn’t put that laminated card over the bubbling wound as it sucked in air…

  But as Leal chomped on the gum the desire for nicotine began to fade, and he reflected on how good it felt to be alive. After three months of therapy, swimming every day at the YMCA, and drinking only three cups of coffee a day, he felt and looked better than he had in years. His animosity toward the civilians who had asked the inane questions in the grand jury even began to diminish.

  I gotta stop hating everybody, he thought. Loosen up. But if only I could stop seeing Bobby’s face when I have to talk about it…

  Sharon Devain came out of the doorway and smiled at him.

  “You’ve got a true bill, Sergeant,” she said. “Number seven-oh-six.” Stepping all the way out, she closed the door behind her. Leal rose to his feet. Sharon began walking toward the main office area, talking over her shoulder. “They only had a few questions about why LeRigg was picked up on a warrant instead of being arrested on the spot. I guess they’ve been watching too much TV.”

  Leal smiled and followed her.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Leal said, appreciating the chance to talk with her some more.

  They came to a small corner of offices down the hall. The walls, which were just tall drywall dividers, were painted a putrid shade of yellow and covered with bulletin boards. On one wall, near a section of desks, the boards had rows of cut-off neckties, each tacked above a card bearing a state’s attorney’s name. The cards also had an offense, a date, and a verdict. Printed on the one with Sharon’s name was Aggravated Battery, along with a Guilty verdict, but instead of a necktie, the wispy nylon leg of pantyhose hung there.

  �
�It’s an old custom here,” she said, nodding at the oddly decorated wall as she picked up a pot from under an electric coffeemaker. “Our first wins in a felony jury trial.” She poured the hot liquid into two Styrofoam cups. “Cream? Sugar?”

  Leal shook his head. “Black’s fine, thanks.”

  He watched her load hers with sugar and creamer, then swirl a plastic stirrer around. She brought the cup to her lips and took a solid, but dainty sip. “I think it went pretty well in there,” she said.

  “You mean because I didn’t blow up?” he said, grinning.

  Sharon laughed. “Well, I must confess, I was wondering what the man was going to be like who took old Dark Gable down a peg.”

  Leal feigned a grimace. “Isn’t there anybody in the whole court system who hasn’t heard that story?” He liked the way she laughed. It was both musical and hearty at the same time.

  “Oh, I’ve dealt with that man many times when I was out in the Sixth District,” she said. “Don’t think that I didn’t think about dissing him.” She smiled. “That’s why this assignment here at the grand jury was so nice. I didn’t have to deal with any judges or anything, for the most part.”

  “Sounds great,” he said. He brought the coffee to his lips as he assessed her some more. No wedding or engagement rings, he noticed. I wonder what the chances of her going out with me are?

  “But this is my last day here, though,” she said, taking another sip and looking at him over the rim of the cup. “I’m going to be working out of five in Felony Review.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s different,” she said. “You have to stay on call for twenty-four hours, and go out in the field to interview suspects and review cases. I even had to buy a new car in anticipation of getting beeped in the middle of the night.” She smiled.

  I’d like to beep you in the middle of the night, Leal thought. But he said, “Well, I have to get going.” Mentally he danced with the question of asking for her phone number. Oh, hell, she’s a lawyer, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Lawyers and cops don’t mix. He took a final swig of his coffee and dropped the cup in the wastebasket. “I’m supposed to report to headquarters for reassignment.”

  “Oh, you’re getting reassigned, too, huh? Where to?”

  “Don’t know yet,” he said. “Back to uniform probably.”

  “Oh yeah? So, is that good?”

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Well,” Sharon said, reaching out and shaking hands with him. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Leal said, feeling the squeeze of her hand, and wondering if their paths would cross again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Return to Mecca

  As Leal walked out of the Criminal Courts building and descended the pebbled series of cement steps he marveled at how nice the day had turned out. The bright sunshine he’d seen through the sixth floor windows of the grand jury room had burned off the low hanging clouds that had darkened the sky as he’d driven in earlier. Scattered groups of people milled about on the various flattened sections and stairs. A group of blacks, their hats all cocked the same way to signify gang unity, sat impassively on the cement bench. There seemed to be a constant stream of coppers going in and out.

  I wonder how many people we’ll indict today, Leal thought as he stopped to buy a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the “meat wagon” parked in front by the curb. The Dominican vendor always did a bang-up business there and Leal chatted with him in Spanish for a moment before moving across California Avenue toward the grassy island of trees that separated the avenue from the boulevard. A young woman had her canteen truck parked there, but she seemed more intent on soaking up the sun in her red halter top than selling anything.

  “The business is better right there in front,” Leal said, holding up his cup.

  “Yeah, I know, babe,” she said, smiling at him. “But what ya gonna do? Carlos got here first.” She cocked a thumb at the parking garage behind her and said, “I’ll get the next wave when he runs out.”

  Leal nodded approvingly, fishing for the keys to his Chevy Monte Carlo. The car had been red once, but it had clearly seen better days. As he got in he glanced around to see the young woman still checking him out. Then she tilted her head and grinned.

  “I know,” she called out. “Your other car’s a Mercedes, right?”

  Stung by her remark, Leal snorted as he got in and slammed the door.

  Screw her, he thought. Like she’s the queen of Sheba working a vending truck in front of the county jail, for Christ’s sake. Then he reflected that the Chevy did look like a wreck. It hadn’t seemed an issue when he was in MEG because of the endless supply of pristine, confiscated cars that he always used. He seldom even drove his old Chevy. That was part of what was so great about working undercover. The cars, the clothing allowance, the freedom of developing your own cases…But there was also the pressure to get results, to take more chances, to make the big arrests…You got caught up in the lifestyle, but still had to keep your lifeline attached, lest you get swept up in the maelstrom.

  Is that what happened to me? he wondered. Is that why I’m here now, at the top of the department’s shit list, divorced, separated from my kids, hating everybody, and driving a beat-up old Chevy that I should’ve traded in years ago?

  He hadn’t been back since the shooting. Everything had been handled via the phone while he proceeded with his recovery. Johnny DeWayne had been given a meritorious promotion to investigations for his role in the incident. Leal envied him momentarily, then reflected that Johnny deserved it. Just like Leal deserved getting kicked back downstairs to uniform. Hell, he’d blown the case, gotten shot, lost one of his partners, and smarted off to a judge in court. What did he expect? A ribbon for being an asshole? For blowing the case? Was that why it happened? Had he failed somehow to see it coming?

  Leal decided to stop doubting himself and concentrated on the driving as he cut through traffic and headed toward the Eisenhower Expressway. Self-doubts were the quickest way to get yourself killed in this business. He knew that. And, what the hell, he thought. Maybe it is time for a change.

  Leal made good time exiting the Eisenhower at First Avenue, but caught the lights at Harrison and then again at Maybrooke. He watched the heavy stream of cars turning into the court parking lot and remembered the old days before the stop-and-go light had been installed and an officer had to be stationed there to direct traffic for a solid eight hours. It had been the preeminent shit detail for those who’d stepped on the wrong toes. Pure hell. He sighed, knowing that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about drawing something that bad for his transgression.

  After the Com Ed plant, Leal turned and joined the line going into the court parking lot. He knew there wouldn’t be any room in either the headquarters or academy lots, so he circled wide and found a space near the fringes that placed him relatively close to the three-building complex that housed the administration, the headquarters, and the academy. Strange how he kept returning here at different stages in his career, like a pilgrim to Mecca. His initial training when he’d first come on the job right out of the army, his sheriff police training after he’d served his two years in the jail, and the various specialty courses over the years: self-defense training, investigations school, MEG school…Now, he knew whatever was ahead was waiting for him just beyond the four massive white pillars that made the front entrance look almost like some ersatz antebellum mansion instead of what the solid black lettering across the front said it was: COOK COUNTY SHERIFF’S POLICE.

  He cut over to the side of the academy wing and pulled open the door, stepping into the coolness of the air-conditioning. To his right he saw some uniformed cadets sitting in a classroom, listening attentively. Been there, done that, Leal thought. But still, he was suddenly affected by a certain nostalgia. The pressure of cramming all that knowledge into just twelve weeks, the sweat of keeping up with the daily runs, the w
orkouts in the defensive tactics class…

  He heard the clanging of weights as he went by the gym and couldn’t resist poking his head in for a look. On the far side he saw a lone figure seated at the Universal machine doing lat pull downs. He walked over and watched the lean muscular arms bulge and strain with each repetition. Collar-length blond hair hung over the back of a dingy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The long hair made Leal wonder if the guy was a new MEG agent. Maybe his replacement. But when he was about four yards away the person stood up, and Leal suddenly realized that the “guy” was actually a heavily muscled woman. Her powerful curved legs sprung from a pair of red, French-cut gym shorts and seemed to ripple with each movement. She looked over at him and smiled.

  “Hi,” she said. “You want to do a quick set or something?”

  Leal shook his head. “Nah, you made me tired just watching you.”

  She smiled again and went to the shelf holding the rows of chrome-plated dumbbells. Her features were well formed, although somewhat sharp-looking, so that her face was one of those that could be described as almost pretty. He noticed that her eyebrows were a shade darker than her blond hair, which was plastered to the side of her head now. Seating herself on a bench, she began to do concentration curls with a twenty-five-pound dumbbell, causing a network of veins to spread up her arm and coalesce into a larger vessel that snaked over her biceps. Nice strong teeth flared from her tan face as her lips rolled back from an obviously burning exertion.

  Leal watched her do a few more curls, bracing her right elbow against her thigh. She switched hands, and he caught the tangy scent of her sweat when she shook her head, sending some droplets flying. The striations of her arms seemed to gleam under the sheen of perspiration. She completed the set. He was fascinated by her strength, yet somewhat repulsed by her massive muscularity.