Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  Apartments lined one side of the street while upscale single residences hid across the street, out of sight behind eight foot high brick walls. The apartment complex contained at least twenty separate three story units, each with sixteen to twenty four apartments of various sizes. This was one of the higher priced rentals in the area and catered mostly to professional people. Johnny Rocco must be involved in more than selling cars to live in these surroundings. Clay located the apartment Rocco lived in and parked in a space at the rear of the adjacent building. Uncovered parking was available in front of and behind the buildings, while garage parking was available to tenants behind each building.

  Walking over to Rocco’s building Clay followed a couple in front of him through the locked entrance and down a wide hall way toward the front of the building. All of the doors to apartments had entrance locks with deadbolt locks mounted above them.

  A credit card won’t open these, he thought to himself. The building had twelve units in it, four on each of the three floors. Rocco’s apartment was on the second floor at the rear of the building. Another apartment entrance was across the hall from Rocco’s, and two more were at the front of the building.

  After leaving the apartment complex, Clay found a pay phone and called the dealership where Rocco worked to inquire about making an appointment with him for eight o’clock one evening during the week. The secretary who took the call informed him Mr. Rocco would be available every night the remainder of the week and was scheduled to closing, nine o’clock.

  Clay decided to go by the club to work out, and then drove home for dinner with the family.

  At eight thirty he drove to the Auto Center dealership and located the red Caddy. Since he had time to kill he wandered through the luxury foreign car showrooms and ended up at the Cadillac showroom just before closing. The salesmen were easily discouraged at this late hour and left him alone after feeble attempts at striking up conversations. As the salesmen gathered in groups preparing to leave, Clay exited the showroom and walked out to his car. Five minutes later Rocco left the building with several other men who separated as each went to his car. After driving off the lot Rocco made a left turn and drove three blocks to a titty bar. Several of the other salesmen pulled into the parking lot and the group went inside together.

  Clay parked across the street and went into a diner, bought a newspaper and ordered a cup of coffee. On his fourth cup he saw the group come out of the bar and head for their cars, laughing and cutting up with each other.

  Following the red Caddy was no problem. Rocco drove the speed limit and was cautious not to arouse attention from the patrol car they passed At the apartments Rocco drove around to the garages and into number 2306. Clay parked in a reserved parking slot and watched as John Rocco came out of the garage, flipped a half used cigarette butt to the center of the driveway, closed the overhead door and walked toward the building entrance. As Rocco entered the building Clay got out of the car and retrieved the still smoldering butt Rocco had just disposed of.

  It was now close to ten thirty and there was just enough time to drive to the police station and see if Weavers car was still in the parking lot. Clay passed the lot and drove further down the street, made a “U” turn and parked where he could see the exit. I’m starting to feel like an under cover cop myself, with all of this surveillance and tailing he mused. At nine minutes past eleven, Weavers dark blue Chevrolet Biscay sedan went under the raised exit gate arm and headed in the direction of his house. Ten seconds later another unmarked car left the lot and turned in the direction Weaver had taken. Clay waited until the second car was almost out of sight before he pulled out. He followed at a discrete distance all the way to Weaver’s street and turned off two blocks from the house. The die was cast. He had a plan. Earlier he had watched the evening news weather segment and learned intermittent rain was predicted for the next two days.

  Thursday night at five minutes past nine John Rocco left work and stopped at a bar for thirty minutes with another salesman. By ten Clay had followed him to the Woodlands apartments and watched as he entered his building for the night.

  At ten forty five Clay parked a stolen, black Pontiac Firebird in the swimming pool lot and sat looking at the house occupied by the Weaver family. A light was on in the kitchen at the back of the house. An hour earlier a light rain had started and had continued sporadically since then. He was dressed all in black but would not be wearing rain protection. He anticipated getting wet and believed he would be alright in the low fifty degree weather for the short period he would be out side. He was simply dressed: black running suit, black Ked tennis shoes, one size larger than his usual size tens, a black stocking cap and brown jersey gloves. An old 9mm pre WWII Italian automatic was in his right jacket pocket and a new .38 caliber S & W revolver was in his left pocket. Leaving the comfort of the car he kept to the shadows and made his way to the chain link fence separating the community area from his targets home. Jumping over the fence he landed on both feet in the shadows behind a metal shed at the corner of the yard. The only lights casting shadows were back at the far corners of the pool area.

  Crouching low, he quickly moved to the back of the house at the corner leading to the garage and took refuge under the roof overhang. He assumed the wife and son were still up watching TV. The neighbor’s house was fifteen to eighteen feet away and he would need to stay cognizant of any movement from there. It shouldn’t pose any problem because the bedrooms were on the other end of the house and all of the lights were off. Staying between the house and evergreen bushes Clay cautiously eased toward the front of the garage, squatting down before reaching the brick front. Approaching the corner, he peered over the shrubbery into the darkness looking for the police car assigned to harass Weaver. He spotted the dark shape two houses away and quickly evaluated the view they had from their car. The light rain was in his favor, causing the policemen to keep the car’s windows closed. The only light came from pole mounted street lights at each end of the block and three yard lights standing like sentinels offering protection against evil lurking in the encroaching shadows. Clay determined if he stayed low while moving around the corner and into the garage he wouldn’t be seen by the men in the parked car. The large mature bushes would block their view and the dim single bulb yard light didn’t cast enough light to help them see through the light rain beading up on their windshield.

  Checking his watch he noted it was twelve minutes past eleven. Weaver should be home in another four to eight minutes. Clay took the cigarette butt he had retrieved after Rocco flipped it away out of a small plastic container and rubbed it against the brick wall as if putting out the fiery end. It was dropped on the ground against the wall where it was protected from the weather. He was chilly because his clothing had been dampened by the light rain while he approached the house. But now, in the dry area under the overhang of the garage roof he was prepared for a short wait.

  In the distance a dog barked faintly several times and then was silent. A car passed the house and the police car, continued on to the second corner and turned to the left. The dog barked again several times, and then another dog, closer than the first, took up the anguished howling. Clay’s leg muscles were beginning to ache from the position he had imposed on them. He began to move slowly, keeping his torso low but straightening and stretching his legs.

  At twenty minutes past eleven he checked his watch. No need for alarm, he told himself, Weaver is just a little late getting away after being relieved. But, in spite of his rationalization, he felt butterflies begin to swarm in his stomach.

  Eighteen minutes later headlights warned of a car approaching from the direction Weaver should arrive from. Clay checked his watch; eleven thirty eight. The car approached slowly, and without using a signal, turned into the driveway. The car tagging him pulled in behind the surveillance unit on duty and turned off its lights. The cops whose shift was finished turned on the car’s headlights and quickly drove past Weaver’s house and to the end of the str
eet.

  Clay’s apprehension over Weaver being late evaporated as he took a deep calming breath while crouching low in the shadows. It’s show time. He felt a surge of energy flow through his body in anticipation of the kill as he removed a stubby silencer from his pants pocket and screwed it onto the semiautomatic. He was three feet from the garage corner and had shortened the distance as the door opener groaned, the door rattled in its tracks as it rose, and a light in the garage turned on. When the door stopped, the car advanced and entered the narrow opening. As the front half of the car passed by him Clay gained the corner and waited impatiently for the sound of the driver’s door being opened and then closed. Brake lights on both rear fenders lit up, the car stopped, and the engine died. The glow from the headlights was extinguished and after eight to ten seconds the driver’s door finally opened.

  Ron Weaver held a brown paper grocery bag in the crook of his left arm, and pushed the car door closed with his left elbow. Clay pivoted around the corner of the building when he heard the anticipated thud. His movement took him into the garage, still crouched low, gun in hand.

  In the dim light cast by a single 60 watt bulb encased in opaque yellowed plastic, Weaver saw a crouching figure spin smoothly around the edge of the entrance with eyes peering at him through a soot black face. He froze in his tracks in surprise and heard the muted Thump Thump Thump of three shots being fired. The impact of the slugs shattered his ribs and breastbone causing him to stagger and slowly collapse to his knees as the intruder, still crouched low, approached closer. Weaver fell backward, losing his grip on the bag of groceries he had just bought at an all night market. His mind commanded his right arm to release the keys in his hand and reach for his service revolver, but the arm ignored his minds urgent plea. Instead he watched a carton of eggs roll over the top of the crumpled sack and fall onto the garage floor. Three eggs bounced out of the gray pressed paper carton, two breaking and the other rolling under the car. He fought with the knowledge his wife would be disappointed he had dropped the groceries, while at the same time trying to deal with the frightening spectacle in front of him. His left arm slid along the side of the car, attempting to stabilize his fall. In silent horror he watched as if hypnotized, as his demonic assailant placed a silencer to his forehead and fired the gun again.

  Clay leaned forward over the prone body, while the head twitched several times, flexing his right wrist as the gun was placed near Weavers right temple area he pulled the trigger. The action was repeated on the left side of the head. The six spent bullet casings were scattered around and under the car after being ejected each time the weapon was fired. Crouching over the inert body he spotted an unanticipated trophy. Weavers shield, mounted on a leather backing was slipped over his belt in front of his left hip. He grabbed the shield and then saw and removed a revolver from Weaver’s holster at his side. Both trophies were slipped into his jacket pocket.

  Wheeling around he moved back to the entrance, still crouching like a tree frog with his legs extended horizontally from his body to stay low. He slipped back around the corner staying between the bushes and the brick wall, figuring he had ten minutes maximum before the men watching the house became suspicious and came to investigate, or the wife went to greet her husband. Slowly straightening up he looked again in the direction of the new surveillance team and then moved just as slowly and cautiously away from his work site as he had approached it. Taking his time he moved from shadow to shadow, surveying each area before moving ahead.

  Reaching the stolen car he got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the parking lot with out hitting the breaks or turning on the headlights. Turning to the left he drove down the street in the opposite direction the guards had been pointed in. At the corner he made a full stop and flipped on the headlights. Pulling through the intersection he again checked the time; eleven forty five. Seven minutes had elapsed since the blue sedan entered the garage. The police should be getting curious as to why Weaver had not walked around the end of the car and closed the garage door. They would move their car forward to be in front of his open garage. The light on the door opener would have turned itself off, and one of the officers would enter the garage to check. An officer down call would be sent and back up units would be dispatched.

  By the time the radio call was made, Clay had left the residential neighborhood and was on the approach to Highway 290 heading east. A damp towel placed in the floor earlier had been used to clean his hands and face of the sooty camouflage makeup. With the heater on high the chill from his wet clothing was being countered. Another adrenaline rush started to build and he had to concentrate on maintaining his speed at the posted limit. An urge came over him to accelerate and drive as fast as the car would go in celebration and sheer ecstasy.

  He had done it; another successful job. No evidence left behind, no loose ends, no witnesses. Only a corpse left in silent testimony to prove he had been there.

  Now he could finalize the rest of his plan to deal with Johnny Lover Boy Rocco.

  The next morning Clay slept in until nine and then went to the gym for a work out. After hitting the weight machines and working through a yoga session he spent an hour in the lap pool. Later, a soak in the hot tub and a long hot shower left him feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

  While sitting in the hot tub he watched a special televised news report recounting the previous night’s murder of local policeman Ronald Weaver. Weaver, the subject of an internal police investigation, had been shot to death at his home shortly after his arrival last night. An investigation was being conducted into how Weaver was killed while police surveillance was positioned across the street at the time of the execution style murder. A statement released by the Police Commissioners Office said the authorities had no leads and no suspects in the death. Anyone having information pertaining to the crime was asked to call a hot line number set up specifically for the case. Clay smiled, confidant no one could ever provide the information needed to lead the police investigation to him.

  After leaving the health club he drove by the Twelfth Street Saloon to see Tony. He joined Tony and several other men at the round table and drank his first glass of beer while listening to their small talk. Tony brought up the subject of last nights shooting. To the group in general he said, “I guess you read the article in this morning’s paper about a cop getting whacked last night?”

  Donny Palmotto said, “Yeah, and I saw a report a little while ago on the television about it too. It took some cool mother fucker to hit a cop right in front of those other cops while they was watching his house. They still aren’t releasing any details about how it was done.”

  “Because the dumb bastards haven’t figured it out yet,” mused Charlie Rosen. “Give them a couple of months and they might have a clue.”

  Donny leaned forward, “It had to be somebody from out of town; Chicago doesn’t have a hitter of that caliber. Do you know of a local who could have done it Tony?”

  “Whoever it was knows what the hell he’s doing and probably made a real killing on his fee. It took balls to whack the fucker right under their noses.” Tony looked over at Clay and said, “What do you think about it, kid?”

  “This is all way over my head Tony. But I agree it was a pretty brazen piece of work.” The men at the table all knew about Clay’s role in dealing with the Russians and Donny and Joey Tadono both looked at him with a quizzical expression.

  Later, after Tony had dismissed the others he said, “Damn good job Kid. I gotta hand it to you; you’ve certainly got a talent for it. By the way, when the other boss’s who were being fingered learned about Weavers timely demise, they insisted on contributing to pay a part of the fee. I didn’t tell them you were doing me a favor. When they get the money to me there’ll be a forty grand payment for your work. Plus, I’m certain there’ll be more business from them. They were all very impressed.”

  Clay left the bar and headed home for supper, where of course, the main topic of discussion during
the meal was the recent killing of a policeman. Walter had learned from his customers the man was considered a dirty cop who was about to testify against some of the local criminal leaders.

  “I swear,” Walter remarked, “the Chicago criminal element is getting as bold as they were in the twenties. The mayor had better start getting things under control before the crooks take over the whole city and decent folks start moving out.” Clay just smiled and excused himself. After glancing through the evening newspaper, he kissed Margaret good bye and told her he was going to visit his girl friend and might not be back until late, or possibly in the morning. Lizzy just smiled at him and said, “Good night and good luck big Brother.” Margaret cocked her head and gave him a disapproving frown as he grabbed his jacket and headed out the back door.

  Clay drove to a pay phone and once more called the dealership where Rocco worked. Rocco was with a customer, so Clay gave a phony name and requested an appointment with him for later at eight. Continuing on to the warehouse where he had returned the stolen Firebird the previous night, he prepared for the next step in his plan. Items he had purchased over the past two days were placed in the car along with those furnished by Joey Tadono. Several of the items were put in a large cardboard box in the trunk, and the others were placed in a brown paper grocery bag on the passenger’s seat. Changing his clothes, he put on a light weight charcoal gray sweatshirt, another used running suit, a pair of cheap black tennis shoes and jersey gloves. Only one job remained before he could leave. After disassembling the Italian Glisenti automatic used to kill Weaver he carefully wiped down all surfaces, including the clip and the remaining five cartridges.