The Black Cage

by Jack Fredrickson

  The piece he’d just posted to the Examiner was trashed. The witnesses at the Kell to Lehman’s and McGarry’s bust of Fernandez were both gone.

  He called Glet’s cell phone when he got out to the sidewalk.

  ‘We just talked, an hour ago,’ Glet said.

  ‘We need to talk some more, face-to-face.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Fernandez; about witnesses; about McGarry the keeper, whatever you meant by that.’

  ‘I’m at ATF.’

  ‘I’m fifteen minutes away.’

  ‘I’ll be out for a smoke. I’ll give you ten puffs.’

  Glet was already fouling the air with a fresh cigar when Rigg walked up. The deputy was sweating like always, despite the cold, but there was a slight smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Would Lehman push witnesses out of town?’ Rigg asked.

  Glet’s smile disappeared.

  ‘My two witnesses at the flop that saw Lehman bust Fernandez have disappeared,’ Rigg went on.

  ‘Two winos?’ Glet blew a smoke ring up into the air. ‘Rumor is,’ he said, watching it, ‘Lehman’s got a million in drug money that never made it into the evidence locker.’ He smiled a little, meaning it was no rumor. ‘He could have paid them, or just threatened them to leave. Look, Milo, I don’t know if you shot too fast, accusing Lehman and McGarry of stashing that Fernandez. I sure don’t like the implications of it, if it’s true. But stick around. There’s going to be big news breaking at a press conference right here this afternoon. You’ve been invited, along with everybody else.’ Glet pulled back his coat sleeve to check his watch. ‘Any second now.’

  ‘About what you’ve been up to?’ Rigg asked.

  Rigg’s phone chimed. Glet grinned, pointed to Rigg’s jacket pocket. ‘Go ahead.’

  Rigg took out his phone, saw a text from Eleanor at the Pink: ‘Presser at ATF at two this afternoon. Gun distribution case.’

  ‘You got just enough time for a nice cup of coffee and some deep breaths,’ Glet said.

  ‘That gun bust you said might link to Stemec Henderson?’ Rigg asked.

  Glet threw his cigar against the side of the building. ‘Lehman might have really done it this time,’ he said, and went inside.

  Rigg stared at the door for a moment, wondering what Glet had meant, and then went off to find coffee to kill time.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ the short man in the brown suit said. ‘I’m Special Agent Till for the ATF.’

  By ‘all’, Till meant the seven newspeople gathered in the employee lunchroom. Four were men, three were women. All but Rigg and one other were third-stringers. All had pens or pencils poised above slender wirebound notebooks, and all balanced small digital recorders to catch what they forgot to write. None had video cameras. An ATF presser about gun distribution did not draw television.

  The other veteran, besides Rigg, was Greg Theodore of the Tribune. He sat at the front table. Rigg guessed that the Trib’s media man was there because he’d figured Rigg would show up because of the ninth person in the room. Deputy Jerome Glet leaned his bulk against one of the vending machines for coffee, soda and petrified snacks that lined one wall.

  ‘What we do does not normally elicit much interest from the press,’ Till went on, with an acknowledging faint sweep of his hand, ‘but it was suggested we reach out to you, and others who apparently could not attend on such short notice, because of an unusual turn one of our cases took a few days ago.’

  He paused to look at Glet, who nodded for him to continue.

  ‘One of our illegal firearms distribution investigations reached a satisfactory milestone a week ago, with the arrest of Kevin Wilcox. Ours is part of a multi-state, multi-task force investigation into illegal distributions of firearms throughout the Midwest. That’s ordinary stuff for us, here at ATF, but our interrogation of Mr Wilcox took an unanticipated turn when we reached out to the Cook County sheriff’s department – as much as a courtesy as anything else, because Mr Wilcox’s activities took place in unincorporated Cook County, their jurisdiction. Deputy Jerome Glet began working with us. In the interest of full transparency, he thought it best that we hold this press briefing so he could personally brief you on his part in our investigation.’

  Glet introduced himself. ‘I was brought into the Wilcox investigation at the request of Agent Till, here, because of jurisdiction, nothing more. And, for some days, that’s all it was. I was simply kept apprised of their gun distribution case and allowed to sit in on their interviews. But, because we never give up on a mature murder case and we never quit investigating new cases as well’ – he paused to look directly at Rigg, long enough to cause everyone else to turn to look at him, too – ‘I began to wonder if there might be something to the close proximity between where Bobby Stemec and the Henderson brothers were found murdered and the Happy Times Stables, north and west of the city of Chicago, where Kevin Wilcox carried out his gun distribution scheme—’

  ‘Alleged gun distribution scheme,’ Till interrupted.

  The third-string eyes turned back to Glet, but not Greg Theodore’s. His eyes stayed on Rigg a moment longer. Rigg could only shrug and smile back.

  ‘Alleged scheme,’ Glet corrected. ‘In the course of Special Agent Till’s investigation, I became aware of a number of points of potential contact with my ceaseless investigation’ – again he looked at Rigg, to underscore the point – ‘into the murders of Bobby Stemec, Johnny Henderson and Anthony Henderson, the October before last.’

  By now, all the reporters were writing furiously. This was no ordinary ATF presser about a gun bust. A big break in an old case was being presented.

  ‘It is premature to go into detail,’ Glet continued, ‘but we expect to request that Sheriff Lehman charge Wilcox with the Stemec Henderson murders.’

  Theodore shot up his hand. ‘What evidence have you got, and is Wilcox suspected of other murders?’

  Instead of answering, Glet looked at Rigg, taunting, almost begging him to follow up on the same question.

  Rigg bit. ‘The Graves girls? Is Wilcox a viable suspect in the murders of the Graves girls and Jennifer Ann Day?’

  ‘I am investigating other matters. Thank you all for coming,’ Glet said, without any mention of why Kevin Wilcox was suspected of the Stemec Henderson murders or any other crimes. He and Till left the room through a side door.

  ‘What ties Wilcox to anything?’ Theodore shouted after them.

  ‘Has he confessed?’ someone else yelled.

  Rigg called out nothing. It would have done no good. Glet’s moment was to tantalize, to draw attention to himself and hope to keep it there.

  There was a rush to leave the room. No longer did print deadlines dominate. Now all news was hot, aimed for the Internet as short and as fast as it could be typed, from cars or sidewalks or wherever.

  Not so with Rigg. He was in no hurry. All he wanted was quiet, a place to think.

  ‘You just got bumped as my next lead,’ Theodore said, sidling up. ‘I was going to write about your resurrection, flashing your rusted sword of righteousness in the name of Richie Fernandez and his potential involvement in the Graves and Day cases.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘And your non-existent witnesses,’ Theodore said, watching his eyes.

  Rigg shrugged and Theodore hurried away.

  Heading toward the parking garage, Rigg tried to puzzle Glet’s cryptic performance. The deputy came across as positive that Wilcox had killed the boys, but then had suggested he was working an angle to something else, an angle that didn’t necessarily point to the murdered girls.

  Too many oranges were up in the air, and the juggler was still quite blind.

  He wrote the bit from a Starbucks before his coffee had a chance to cool.

  STEMEC HENDERSON BOMBSHELL AT THE ATF

  Milo Rigg, Chicago Examiner

  In a confusing performance at an ATF gun case press conference, Cook County Sheriff�
��s Deputy Jerome Glet announced this afternoon that Kevin Wilcox, currently being held by the ATF on charges of illegal weapons distribution, was likely to be charged in the long-unsolved murders of Bobby Stemec and Johnny and Anthony Henderson. Glet declined to offer specifics, other than to imply he was investigating other matters that might, or might not, stem from the arrest of Wilcox. Efforts to reach Deputy Glet and Sheriff Joseph Lehman for clarification have been unsuccessful.

  He called Aria after sending it to the Pink.

  ‘How the hell can he do that?’ she said. ‘Toss out a grenade and then leave the briefing?’

  ‘Maybe to blindside Lehman and pre-empt him from running with that yellow body-marks card we gave him. And to make sure all eyes stay focused on him. Glet wants redemption.’

  ‘He’s gone rogue to get it?’

  ‘He wants Lehman’s job,’ Rigg said, ‘and that starts with stepping out from behind Lehman. Glet’s now the man who’s about to solve Stemec Henderson. But, as he again implied today, he’s also chasing something bigger.’

  ‘Does this affect your story about Richie Fernandez?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He seems interested. He’s not outright dismissive, he’s not insisting it’s only a catch-and-release.’

  ‘You’ve got to find this other thing he’s chasing.’

  ‘I’ve got a more immediate problem. My witnesses to the Fernandez bust have disappeared. Just Wally and the desk clerk are gone. Lehman could have threatened them or paid them to leave. I’ve got to find Fernandez.’

  ‘Best you first find out that big thing Glet’s chasing.’ She clicked him away.

  His coffee had cooled. He sipped at it, looking out the window at the sun setting behind the glass towers of Chicago’s Loop. An hour passed, maybe more. And then his cell phone chimed with a new text message.

  How about a drink? it read.

  TWENTY

  They sat in big overstuffed chairs with warm tumblers of Scotch, served neat. The drapes were pulled and Harold Benten’s darkened living room smelled of the books on the two walls of shelves and of cigarette smoke, though there was no ashtray on the table between them, beneath the only lamp lit in the room.

  ‘I called, right after you departed the Pink,’ Rigg said.

  ‘My wife said.’

  ‘She was evasive.’

  ‘We’re adjusting.’

  ‘You did request time off, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Rigg asked.

  ‘I put in for a week off, for the doctors to run tests. Donovan must have taken that opportunity to ask himself why he’s paying me, a wrinkled gent past retirement age. He told me to take a few weeks, but I got the feeling the chute was already primed for the young Miss Gamble.’

  ‘She says her emphasis is on advertising revenue, not editorial.’

  ‘And has she been soliciting new revenues?’

  Rigg thought for a moment. ‘I can’t answer that. I’m not at the Pink much.’

  ‘She’s well acquainted with Donovan, I hear,’ Benten said.

  ‘North Shore, the two of them,’ Rigg said. ‘Any test results yet?’

  ‘Prostate, slow growing,’ Benten said. ‘Chemo and radiation.’

  ‘It’s going well?’

  ‘I’ve just begun.’

  There was no cigarette package in Benten’s shirt pocket. ‘You quit smoking?’ Rigg asked.

  Benten nodded. They’d been talking more than prostate, just without words.

  ‘So, you saw my afternoon post,’ Rigg said.

  ‘Glet said a lot, and not a damned thing.’ Benten’s right hand started toward the used-to-be pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, but there was only habit there now, and he dropped his hand to his lap.

  ‘It’s Stemec Henderson, but maybe fourfold,’ Rigg said.

  ‘Fourfold? I see only three cases. Stemec Henderson is the first, but Glet’s only naming Wilcox, providing no details.’

  ‘I presume he has evidence, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone out on that limb.’ Rigg told him about the index card listing body marks on Anthony Henderson and the Graves and Day girls.

  ‘Sweet Jesus O’Keefe,’ Benten said. ‘That seems to link the two cases, the boys and the girls. You really think it’s this Kevin Wilcox who’s done them all?’

  ‘I would, except Glet doesn’t seem to think so. He’s only talking Wilcox for the boys.’

  ‘The third case is that Richie Fernandez you say Lehman and McGarry busted,’ Benten said.

  ‘Busted, but never booked. He’s disappeared, like the two witnesses at Fernandez’s flop who saw the arrest.’

  ‘Why make them disappear?’

  ‘Fernandez went awry.’

  ‘He got damaged during the initial interrogation?’

  ‘Lehman’s been accused of beating witnesses before. Maybe this time he went too far.’

  Benten winced, and asked, ‘What’s the fourth case?’

  ‘Glet’s been hinting he’s got something bigger than the boys, the girls and Fernandez. That means there’s another case entirely.’

  ‘Then that’s what you should be chasing.’

  ‘You sound like Aria.’

  ‘Except she looks better than I do.’

  ‘She wears pearls. Ad revenues are going to rise when she goes out with our advertising peddler.’

  Rigg got up and they walked to the door.

  ‘Be careful, Milo,’ Benten said.

  ‘Of what?’ Rigg asked.

  ‘Of Donovan and maybe Aria. Everyone’s expecting the Examiner to founder on to the bankruptcy rocks, and they’ll throw you overboard if it will save a nickel. Be careful of Lehman, McGarry and Glet, too. They’re probably headed for different – and, for you, more dangerous – rocks. Unsolved killings, hidden suspects, disappearing witnesses – those threaten to bring them down.’ Benten held open the door. ‘And who’s threatening them hardest?’

  Rigg wanted to crack wise to ease the fear that was in the old man’s voice. But he couldn’t summon the words, and so he just thanked him for the Scotch.

  The memory of the strange, soft swooshing sound he’d heard at McGarry’s estate the previous night still nagged, and nothing waited back at the apartment except more futile combing through his files, so he drove west again. Again, he cut the lights before pulling off the side road running alongside the McGarry estate. And, again, he looked out through the darkness at the dimly lit mansion and the almost invisible outbuildings clustered at the back. McGarry’s white Escalade was parked on the driveway, up by the mansion’s side door.

  He powered down his window halfway and then, in a moment, he fell into sleep. Not gently and not into a light doze, but deeper, into a hard sleep borne of too much fatigue from too many nights of being tormented by the black cage; too many too-early phone calls from Carlotta Henderson; the looming shame of the Richie Fernandez story, about to be rendered unproven by the disappearances of his witnesses; and now the warmth of Harold Benten’s tumbler of undiluted warm Scotch.

  The cold woke him an hour later, confused, struggling at first to understand why he was sitting up. Only slowly did he realize that he was not at his apartment, on his mattress on the floor, but in his car.

  He looked out his side window. No new lights had come on in the mansion, and the outbuildings remained dark. McGarry’s white Escalade remained parked on the driveway.

  A glint came through the pines, from far behind the house, and glinted again. He pressed against the half-opened window, straining to listen. And, like the night before, he heard the soft whoosh, only now he could identify it. It was the sound of snow being moved. Someone was shoveling behind the mansion, using an aluminum shovel that caught the glint of the moon. It made no sense. There were only grounds back there, lawns and gardens and such, but no pavement to clear.

  He realized, too, as he should have the night before, that such an opulent estate would have an extensive security system. Motion-sensor li
ghts, cameras, maybe even sirens should have been set off by any movement behind the mansion. But the soft shoveling had triggered nothing. Someone had turned off the system, someone who was now out shoveling in the snow, on the lawn, in the dark. Someone who did not want to attract attention.

  Someone who was very likely Charles McGarry.

  The shoveling continued for another minute and then it stopped. Rigg strained to hear a house door open, like he had the previous night, but no sound came back from the darkness. He squinted toward the driveway, but it was too dark there to see if someone was moving toward the Escalade.

  He waited another moment and then slowly opened his door. The Taurus’s dome light had long ago burned out, the result of too many nights of working inside the car. That night, it was a blessing.

  He eased out, leaving the car door ajar behind him, and crossed the narrow side road. He paused at the edge of the fence. Nothing glinted. Nothing sounded.

  The chain-link fence was only six feet – high enough to keep out animals, but not, he told himself, an intrepid reporter hell-bent on chasing a story that was likely only to trash what little was left of his reputation. As if to underscore the point, the fence tore his pants as he dropped to the ground on the other side.

  He stopped to listen. Still, only silence came back.

  There was barely enough moonlight to navigate, but enough crusted snow to crunch. He moved carefully, one slow, quiet step at a time, in the direction of where he’d heard the shoveling. It took five minutes to find the mound. Footfalls had beaten down the snow around it.

  From what he could see, such a mound in the middle of the back grounds made no sense.

  From what he could imagine, it made all the sense in the world.

  Big bulbs on high perimeter poles flashed on, flooding the whole property with blinding white light. He ran, casting a long shadow, toward the fence. He jumped up to pull himself over, digging the tips of his shoes hard into the metal mesh, and toppled over to the other side. Scrambling up, he fell, twisting his ankle.