by Matt Hader
Enright also learned that the suburban police departments were not starting a robbery task force (as the media reported) to help nab the Baby Face Robber. Each department would have to fend for themselves.
Every municipality, even crime spree-ridden areas, felt the pinch of budget cuts.
The Buffalo Grove cop also let Enright in on a little-known detail. The cops didn’t care all that much about the robber. The police chiefs of said departments were more interested in making their municipalities more money through traffic and parking citations. Traffic and parking tickets were big business in the suburbs, especially with the economic downturn. There was no profit in catching robbers, just the expense of overtime and a possible trial.
Enright sipped his coffee, picked up his pencil and absently drew a lazy, thin line from one X to the next.
“Holy shit!”
“We got kids here, mister,” said the skinny waitress.
Enright checked his tab - $9.75. He tossed a fifty on the counter and said, “Buy them some damned earplugs.”
He gathered up his map book and exited the establishment. As he charged out the door and headed for his car, he bumped into a muscular man sporting long hair and a tight, Golden Gym tank top. The guy looked as if his favorite vitamin was chewable steroids. His biceps were larger than most people’s thighs.
“What the hell, man?” said the Golden Gym dude.
Enright didn’t even acknowledge him as he stepped toward his car that was parked at the rear of the building.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Hey, dickwad!” said the Golden Gym dude.
Enright turned just in time to see the Golden Gym dude approaching in an aggressive manner. Enright didn’t display any fear at all. In fact, his expression and eyes flattened and a strange calmness overcame him.
The Golden Gym dude leaned forward to give Enright a shove, and that was it. Enright dropped his map book to the ground and in a series of extremely quick and surprisingly athletic moves involving the utilization of his elbows and the heels of his hands, he obliterated the ‘roid head.
Enright may have looked like a poorly dressed and paunchy, used car salesman, but he was able to cause some major bodily damage. He could thank his Krav Maga training for making quick work of the larger man.
He left the Golden Gym dude lying on the ground and gasping for breath and continued toward his 13-year-old car. After getting in, he placed the open map book onto the passenger seat and started the engine.
The thin line that the X’s helped him create on the map book made an almost perfect circle around Balmoral, Illinois.
CHAPTER 18
After getting home from a fruitless search for Amy’s other home off of Long Grove Road, John had taken two more 500 mg tablets of Vicodin.
There were fewer homes in the area where he had searched, but the odds of locating either Amy or the house she lived in were slim. His plan was to locate the house and question any neighbor he could find to see if they knew Amy’s whereabouts.
But the only anomaly he found was a landscaping crew putting the finishing touches on a French provincial home’s yard overhaul where a female real estate agent had just placed a for sale sign.
Now allowing the Vicodin to work its warming magic, he could barely read the Dink’s Diner menu laid out on the table in front of him. He pushed a stack of dirty dishes to the side of the table and tried to get better light on the menu. It’s not that he needed the menu to order; he knew exactly what he wanted to eat. The game he played was trying to see if he could make out the blurry words.
Larry, the cook, knew something was amiss with his buddy. He delivered John’s corned beef hash and eggs himself and took a seat across from him.
“What’s going on, man?” asked Larry.
John’s eyes had a difficult time focusing on Larry’s face but his dreadlocks were quite intriguing to him. He reached out and stroked a few of them.
“Are you okay?” he said as he gently pushed John’s hand away.
Larry was no fool. He slid the food closer to John and handed him a fork.
“I’m guessing Vikes or Hillbilly heroin.”
John motioned to the stacks of dirty dishes on the table and shrugged. “The dishwasher quit - again,” said Larry.
John took a bite of the food, smiled and said, “Cumin!”
“Keep it down, man. Lou’s in a shitty mood today.”
“Is that not normal?” John asked with a chuckle.
“The regulars are all bent out of shape because they think the town’s cancelling the Fourth of July bullshit. If the regulars get their tighty-whiteys in a bundle, Lou does the same. You know that.”
Now Larry had John’s attention. He said, “What do you mean? I thought someone was giving money to-”
He had said too much.
“How did you know about money rumor? No one talking about that until just today,” said Lou in his broken English, sneaking up on Larry and John.
“I heard you talking about it when I came in,” John lied. He and Larry shared a quick “let’s keep this between the two of us” look.
Lou’s jaw muscles worked angrily as he took in the sight of Larry sitting at the table with John. He thought of his next move for just a second or two longer. “You? You fired!”
“Lou, please. I didn’t do anything,” said Larry.
“You and this shit always talking quiet over here. What you talking about, huh? You make fun of me?”
John said, “Lou, you have it all wrong. Larry loves working for you. He loves working here at Dink’s. Don’t ask me, ask anyone here.”
Larry was frozen in place, near tears, and not even wanting to take a breath. Maybe if he just let things settle without adding anything else to the discussion, everything would be okay, and he could go back to work.
“What the hell you talking about, Sparky?”
Lou happened to take a look around at the other customers in attendance. All of them looked on with surprised expressions.
Emil said, “He does make good pancakes, Lou.”
John said, “Lou, I know you don’t like me, but don’t take it out on Larry. Shit, do you have an itchy trigger finger, or what?”
Lou worked his jaw muscles again and nodded for Larry to get back to work. Larry got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen without hesitation.
John asked, “What did you hear about the festival?”
“Why should I tell you?” asked Lou.
John shrugged and made a “no problem with me” face and took a bite of food.
“The rumors I hear say money the person leave is not enough. I don’t know if I believe any of it.”
“That festival has been going on forever,” said John. “How much more do they need?” he added, trying to keep cool.
Lou looked as if he wanted to punch John in the head but responded with, “How the shit do I know? It’s rumor. But what can you do about it you piece of worthless shit? Mow lawns until you get cash?”
The rush of anger-induced adrenaline perked John up to a fight or flight level. It was looking like fight until John said, “No need to get personal, Lou.” He went back to eating his food and ignored the diner owner, but he knew that his robbery efforts were going for naught and that was extremely troubling.
“I don’t like you coming here anymore. This is the last time. No more. Larry, you hear me?” said Lou.
Larry, peering through the kitchen pass-through, nodded and went back to work.
John continued eating and ignored the fuming Lou. He had bigger fish to fry. If the rumors were true, and the festival was actually being cancelled, he was going to have to ramp up his robbery antics. He wasn’t sure he had it in him any longer.
His thought process had slowly shifted in the past week
s’ time, vacillating between saving the celebration and getting to know the beautiful Amy more intimately. Amy was winning out for his focus of late.
But he had to stop taking the Vikes to even have a chance with her, he knew that. As he shoveled in his last bite, the decision had been made. He was going to quit cold turkey. No more Vicodin for him. He wasn’t going to destroy the thousands of pills he had stolen from the dentist’s office, which were currently residing in his garage near the cheap 9mm pistol and the baby face masks. He was sure he could use the Vike vine to get rid of them somehow.
Maybe selling the Vikes could help save the celebration? But selling that amount of pills could bring undue notice on him, and that might play havoc on his ultimate plan for himself and the Fourth of July celebration.
And now Amy was muddying the waters – in a good way. He was going to have to stop taking the Vikes, though, that was for sure. The two pills he had popped an hour before were the last that would ever hit his bloodstream.
It was an easy decision to make. The thought of being with her, even with the odds stacked against him of that ever happening, was winning out. As he allowed his breakfast and his anger to settle, there was a gnawing thought in the back of his head, though.
He still had to save the celebration.
Maybe he could have it all? Why not, other people chased their dreams and succeeded every day. Why not him? But he had to stop taking the drugs. That he had to do - starting right now.
CHAPTER 19
The driver couldn’t believe his luck as Jimmy the cop walked back to his Balmoral police car and shut his emergency lights off.
The driver had sped northbound on Balmoral Road, doing 40 in a 25. He drove right through a crosswalk where children were about to enter, continuing north he ran the red light at Balmoral and Main.
Jimmy pulled him over as he crossed the railroad tracks. The driver, a little tipsy due to a three-beer lunch at a day of the week themed restaurant in Hoffman Estates, was on his way to confront his ex-boss after being fired for porn surfing while on company time.
The driver barely had a chance to toss a newspaper over the top of the .38 revolver on the seat next to him, when a smiling Officer Jimmy poked his head through the open, driver’s side window and said, “Hiya!”
“Hiya, back…?” said the driver.
“Man, you were booking it, brother. Did you see the kids you almost hit, or the red light you blew?”
The driver was beginning to have flop sweats and his hand was inching toward the newspaper concealing the .38, when--
“Well, you slow down, sir. Be safe, and have a great day,” said Jimmy.
“Huh? Sure…”
The driver took off like a shot, getting out of Balmoral as quickly as he could.
Officer Jimmy got into his car and said to no one, “This is the most beautiful day I think I’ve ever seen.”
He shut down his lights, put the car into gear and slowly drove away, the gentle breeze pouring through his open windows allowing the folded letter on the passenger seat to fully open.
It read: “Congratulations on passing your lieutenant’s test.” The second line was the kicker, though, “With the retirement next month of Lt. Scharm, you are next in line to take the position.”
Jimmy couldn’t and, hell, really didn’t want to contain his glee, as he slowly drove through the beautiful park on Balmoral’s northeast side. The world seemed brighter, and the running and playing children in the park more joy-filled.
All was right with the world.
CHAPTER 20
He was feeling sick to his stomach as he drove the stolen Saturn away from the gravel company’s parking lot.
He had popped so many Vicodin for so long now that he didn’t take into consideration what suddenly stopping would do to his body. The symptoms, some launching a surprise attack on his lower intestinal tract, were almost worse than the MS pain. With the DT-like shakes wracking his body, he was barely able to keep the stolen car between the yellow and white stripes of Route 22 in Fox River Grove.
He tried pushing the pain and nausea to the back of his mind and to focus on the task at hand. He imagined what the place he was going to rob looked like. He didn’t do any reconnaissance outside of a Google search because, well, he felt like shit and thought that he could improvise this time around.
What could go wrong? He’d gotten pretty damned good at this game, and he needed to trust his instincts.
One thought that kept circling through his mind, though, was his wonderment over how city neighborhoods and small towns became so enamored and prideful of their breakfast restaurants. Magazine, newspaper articles and TV segments on such breakfast places always seemed to catch his attention, though, so maybe it was simply human nature to be interested and proud.
Morning brought new light, so it could be that the idea of eating a hearty breakfast at such a place did the same for the human psyche. Well, that and most establishments were excellent community meeting centers. Dink’s Diner was such a place.
John, outside of wondering what the food would be like, also knew that such businesses were cash cows. So, on top of poking the burgs surrounding Balmoral in the proud-of-their-breakfast-restaurants-and-communities’ eye, there was a money-retrieving method to his robbing madness.
He had to try having it all, saving the celebration and getting closer to Amy. Robbing this breakfast joint in Fox River Grove while Vicodin-free would be the first step in achieving his new goal.
As he drove past the front door of the business, he noticed that it was a small place, only about twenty feet from side to side. But there were a lot of cars in the parking lot. Maybe they were there for the other businesses in the small strip mall - a dry cleaners and a nail salon.
He parked in the half full, back parking lot near the dumpster, donned his mask, grabbed his cheap 9mm pistol, adjusted the windbreaker and made his way to the front door.
An old couple in their late eighties was having trouble opening the front door of the restaurant. John quick stepped to the entryway and took control of the situation, allowing the old couple to enter.
“Thanks, kid. Halloween coming early this year?” said the old man, who quickly noticed the gun and added, “You go ahead we don’t want to get in your way.”
“Thanks,” said the shaky John as he strode inside the restaurant and pointed the 9mm at the skinny and food-stained-tie-wearing manager’s head.
“All of it in a to-go box. Now,” he said calmly.
The manager hesitated because he was completely taken by surprise.
John was so focused on doing his work that he didn’t even take a look at where the customers may be. When he did take a glance to his right, he saw an enormous dining area, filled with about a hundred customers – all looking his way.
The twenty-foot wide area he’d seen from the street was simply the waiting area. The majority of the restaurant was built behind the other strip mall businesses.
“Shit,” said John to himself.
A woman screamed as loud as she could, the manager hit the floor behind the front counter and the place erupted in pandemonium.
John froze for just a second. “Aw, come on…” He finally turned and hobbled out the front door as fast as he could. The old man held the door for him this time.
As he rounded the building he saw a Fox River Grove police car parked in back of the stolen Saturn. A 24-year-old, male cop with a pimply face was walking a circle around the car and checking it out.
“Shit, shit, shit…”
John turned, passed by the front doors of the restaurant again, where the old man smiled and waved. He pulled the mask up so he could see more clearly as he made his way across the parking lot, dodging and weaving between parked cars and heading for Route 22.
Danny stepped from the
driver’s door of a large, white Land Rover parked right in front of John. The teen and the robber stood staring at each other for a quick moment.
Anger and hurt brewed in Danny’s eyes, though. He finally screamed, “Dude? What the hell, man!? I thought you were cool!”
“Oh, shit, shit, shit,” said John as he jogged away, crossed Route 22 and guided himself toward a large field with a dense wall of five-foot high corn rows.
“Police! On the ground! Get on the fucking ground!”
John didn’t even look back. He sprinted-jogged-hobbled as quickly as he could toward the wall of cornstalks and disappeared into the thick greenery.
Once out of view of the 24-year-old, Fox River Grove cop, John began zigzagging through the corn rows as he tossed the mask, the gun, and then peeled off the cheap, Wal-Mart windbreaker, tossing that as well.
After making each move, he’d stop for just a moment to see if he could hear the cop’s footsteps. After three maneuvers, all was silent. He heard in the distance the cop talking excitedly into his shoulder-mounted radio. He was about 150 feet away and still near the roadway of Route 22. He hadn’t really followed John at all, probably adhering to some police protocol of not going it alone.
That was just the police procedure John needed to put as much distance between himself and the Fox River Grove cop as he could.
Now stripped to a white t-shirt and blue jeans, he headed east toward Kelsey Road as quickly as his shaky and numb legs would carry him.
***
Jimmy the cop was at the self-serve car wash on Route 14, taking a break and lazily running some sudsy water over his Balmoral police car when his radio crackled with excited voices.
“We have a robbery in progress. Route 22 near Kelsey Road. White, male suspect wearing a baby face mask, blue windbreaker and blue jeans, armed with a semi-automatic pistol, last seen on foot, east toward Kelsey Road. Any mutual aid officers in the area, please respond,” said a female radio voice.
