A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  I sternly looked at DiMatteo and made a demand.

  “Give up Kilbane, Tony, and you can walk out of here. We’ll call it a professional courtesy. Tell us why you were having dinner with Kilbane last Thursday night. We all know Kilbane knows something, and he was probably trying to drag you and your family into this,” I continued to push, thankful that I had gotten this far with him. Judging from his reaction, I could tell he knew a lot more than what he was letting on.

  “Fuck off, Dorian.”

  “Rat him out, Tony. Eventually, we will figure out that Kilbane hired either you or one of your boys for these hits. At that point, all of you will go down for these Pedophile Priest Murders.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that one,” DiMatteo replied.

  “Or…” I continued to push, “when the evidence left at the crime scenes comes back from CSI with the DNA results, we will be able to tie you directly to these homicides,” I was bluffing, but trying to get him to feel very nervous.

  Little Tony started to laugh again, not feeling fazed by any of this dialog.

  “This conversation is putting me to sleep, Dorian. Let me know when my lawyer shows up.” He smugly looked at me, giving me his usual ‘go fuck yourself’ smile of his.

  “I hope your lawyer brings you some bail money, Tony. You’re going to need lots of it, and you’re going to be here for a while,” I replied, motioning the detectives looking on from the one-way glass window that I my interview with Mr. Anthony DiMatteo was over.

  “Do you really think I give a shit about a DUI charge, Dorian? I’ll just have to give more hours to my chauffer,” he cynically replied, as two officers came into the interrogation room to book him and bring him downstairs to lock-up.

  “Your problems are far bigger than this DUI charge, Tony. Let me know when you’re ready to talk,” I replied.

  “In the meantime,” as I stood up from the table and put my around DiMatteo’s shoulder, “you and I are going to be reeeeally good friends again, just like before. Right Tony?”

  “Fuuuuuck youuuuu,” he said in his snarky Joe Pesce tone of voice, as the two precinct officers took him away.

  I sat in the interrogation room alone by myself for a few minutes, knowing that the other detectives on the other side of the one-way glass window were no longer there, observing my interrogation.

  I was very deep in thought. I didn’t know where these homicide investigations were going, what direction they were headed, or how much further I could go. Until the crime lab comes up with any hard evidence, or if any other investigative clues turn up anything significant, I felt like I was at a dead end with these cases.

  But if I was certain about anything, I knew I was right about one fact: Monsignor Kilbane was probably trying to hire out the DiMatteo Family. Little Tony and the Monsignor had a very close, life-long relationship, and the ‘Mob Boss’ was the most obvious choice if Kilbane was trying to get someone involved to accomplish these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’. If I hadn’t achieved anything else that afternoon, I realized that I had accomplished one thing:

  I had planted a seed into Little Tony DiMatteo’s brain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dover Catch

  I was nervously pulling into the parking garage on North Dearborn Avenue, as I was more than thirty minutes late for my business meeting with Olivia Laurent, the executive from the Great Lakes Insurance Company. I had to drive my car several floors up the parking structure, as I texted Olivia on my way to let her know that I would be late for our get together that evening.

  The interrogation session with Little Tony at the Seventh District had made my being on time difficult that early evening. In between battling all the traffic on I-94, then running home to clean up and change at my loft in the West Loop, trying to make this meeting with Olivia was very stressful. It was already past 8:00pm, and I was hoping that Olivia would be very understanding.

  The sun was starting to set behind me as I walked through the all the shuffling people and the bustling traffic of Chicago. I couldn’t help but notice the grandeur of the Merchandise Mart across the Chicago River, casting its long shadow onto the newly renovated river walk. It was a warm summer evening, and you could feel all the excitement in the air as everyone was ready to start another wonderful Chicago summer. It had been a long winter, I thought to myself, and it seemed like everyone was looking so forward to the long summer days and the wonderful, warm summertime evenings in the city.

  I noticed a beautiful brunette sitting alone at a table near the window, as I entered the Dover Catch Restaurant at 35 West Wacker Drive. It was a very upscale restaurant that faced the Chicago Riverwalk and the magnificent Merchandise Mart across the river. I was greeted by the hostess, and she casually brought me to our table.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Olivia. We had an interrogation of a suspect at the Seventh District on the south side, and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it here this evening,” I apologized, as she rose from her table and extended her hand.

  “I’m glad you could make it, Detective,” she smiled, as we both sat down and made ourselves comfortable.

  “I was just admiring the beauty of your city,” as she was gazing at the Chicago River across from West Wacker Drive.

  “What is that beautiful, old large building across the way?” she inquisitively asked.

  “Oh, that’s the Merchandise Mart. It was built by Marshall Field in 1930 and was the largest building in the world at the time it was constructed. It has over four million square feet of retail space and was owned by the Kennedy Family for over half a century until it was sold twenty years ago,” I explained, trying to impress her with my architectural knowledge. I only knew so much about it because I remember having to do a book report on it when I was a freshman in high school.

  “How interesting!” she exclaimed. “You live in such a beautiful city. I always enjoy coming here. It is such a sharp contrast from Detroit,” Olivia observed, while taking a drink from her ice water.

  The waiter came to our table and we ordered drinks and appetizers, as we were starting to settle in and get comfortable with one another and the conversation.

  “There is no better place in the Midwest than Chicago in the summertime,” I mentioned, trying to look in another direction other than stare at my beautiful dinner companion that evening. She was wearing a light red blouse and a short, dark skirt. Her black, high heeled shoes seemed to compliment her matching Coach Leather handbag as well.

  Her shoulder length, dark brown hair easily complimented her olive, dark skin. A gold necklace with a religious medal reflected the summer rays of the early evening sunset, as it gleamed against her tanned, sensuously dark skin. She had very light, hazel brown eyes that almost looked green in the summer sunlight. Her beautiful, iconic features looked like a cross between a very suggestive Jennifer Lopez and a very sensual Courtney Cox. I could smell her sweet-scented perfume in the air as I was sitting there at the table. I began to wonder if she ever got tired of looking so classy and so damned gorgeous. My mind began to speculate on how many ex-husbands, boyfriends and broken hearts she had left back in the Motor City.

  “So how is the investigation going?” she asked, as she was taking a long sip of her Pinot Noir glass of wine.

  “It’s been frustrating, Olivia. We have two unsolved murders of two pedophile ex-priests in the last three weeks, and it’s starting to look like we have a serial killer on our hands. We haven’t been able to lift a lot of evidence or DNA results from the crime scenes, and so far, we have no witnesses or any real murder suspects.”

  “Not even the Archdiocese, that Monsignor what’s-his-name?”

  “Kilbane?” I answered.

  “Yes. Isn’t he the assistant to the Cardinal? He’s the one who signed the life insurance claims.”

  “Yes, he is indeed. He is a very powerful, Chicago clergyman, second only to the Cardinal. Monsignor Kilbane is extremely arrogant and very well connected here in town, and he certainly isn�
�t cooperating with our investigation. But the Archdiocese of Chicago is well shielded and extremely protected legally and politically. Even if we could find any evidence that linked them to these murders, trying to prove it will be extremely difficult,” I explained, keeping my Courvoisier cognac very close to my lips.

  “Well, considering the amount of these life insurance claims, they would definitely have a motive,” Olivia said. “I read somewhere that the Chicago Archdiocese is having cash flow problems and is faced with selling off valuable assets and real estate just to settle all of these sexual abuse claims.”

  “I’ve heard that too. They have already sold off some valuable, lakefront land in Wisconsin that they’ve owned for decades, which was used as a campground for children years ago,” I recalled, doing some research on the real estate transactions of the Archdiocese the other day.

  “Well, considering that these child abuse claims have climbed to a staggering $200 million in lawsuit settlements, it would make sense that the Archdiocese could use the money,” she replied, enjoying her glass of satin red wine.

  I could tell that Olivia had done her homework on these murder investigations and was well versed on the facts of these homicides.

  “Our company is starting to feel a lot of pressure to settle these life insurance claims. We have received some correspondence from the Archdiocese’s legal counsel, inquiring about their status.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I answered.

  “Have you thought about getting a list of abused victims who have filed claims against the Archdiocese?”

  “We have Intelligence at the Twenty-First District helping us on this investigation as well, and I know they are referencing such lists as potential suspects,” I replied, rattling the ice cubes of my empty drink glass. The waiter then arrived at our table to take our orders. I had ordered a Chilean Seabass entrée, while Olivia requested a shrimp and seafood salad.

  “I understand eating fish is a healthy alternative when watching your weight,” I exclaimed, feeling self-conscience about my over-sized waistline.

  I was trying hard to change the subject, as I was feeling uncomfortable answering her rapid-fire questions regarding the Pedophile Priest Murder investigations.

  “Yes, it is. I seldom eat red meat anymore. I eat a lot of fish and vegetables, and I try to get to the gym two or three times a week when I can,” she replied.

  “I wish I had the time. The pressures of this job and my divorce several years ago hasn’t helped my weight, and I’ve gained a significant amount over the past few years,” I said as I was making an excuse, taking another gulp of my second cognac and buttering up a third slice of freshly baked bread.

  “It’s hard, especially at our age. It seems like we work harder and enjoy our lives less as we get older. Our health and our waistlines seem to always take a toll,” Olivia replied, although by observing her youthful, fit and trim figure, had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “When were you divorced?”

  “Several years ago. My ex-wife decided she didn’t want to be married to a Chicago cop anymore. My daughter is the only good thing that came out of our twenty-five-year marriage.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” she replied, sounding very empathetic.

  There were a few moments of silence, as our dinner entrees arrived at our table. I was feeling generous and cut off a piece of my Chilean Sea Bass and shared it with her, placing it on her dinner plate. She looked at me, her eyes looking surprised and almost adoring, as she thanked me. Sharing my dinner entrée was a habit I had learned from being married for so many years. These days, I still feel guilty if I don’t do it whenever I’m dining out with a friend.

  There was something wonderfully comfortable about Olivia. She was easy to talk to, extremely intelligent, and a very interesting lady.

  She began telling me about her background and her career, explaining that she had earned both a law and accounting degrees, but chose to continue her career as the chief financial officer at the Great Lakes Life Insurance Company.

  “So how is it that a beautiful lady like you isn’t married?” I pursued my questioning, feeling ambitious after my second Cognac.

  “I’ve had lots of prospects and have had more than my share of boyfriends. But I get very nervous when the subject of marriage comes up, and after a few bad relationships, I’ve concluded that I would be far better off alone,” she explained, ordering another glass of Pinot Noir.

  “I’m very lucky to have my daughter, and my seven-year-old granddaughter,” I proclaimed. “She does a great job at looking after me. A day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t call or text me several times a day.”

  “You are lucky indeed,” she observed. “I would give anything to have a son or a daughter.”

  She looked out the window, staring at the Chicago River across the way, observing all the hurried people walking across Wacker Drive. She then took a breath and made a long, deep sigh. “I guess everything comes with a price.”

  We sat there and finished our dinner, making more small talk about the vast differences between living in Detroit and Chicago. I discovered that she was a huge Detroit Red Wings fan and had season tickets for hockey games that she very often attended, first at the Joe Louis Arena in prior years, and now at the Little Caesars’ Arena.

  “We’re rivals,” I jokingly said. “I go to about a dozen or more Blackhawks games every year.”

  “There is nothing greater than the Detroit – Chicago Rivalry,” she laughed, as she went on to talk about what a huge hockey family she had come from. Her three older brothers were all hockey players, and she spent most of her childhood in local hockey rinks, rooting on her brothers and their hockey teams. Olivia and her brothers followed the Red Wings religiously and revered to the likes of such older players as Gordy Howe, Alex Delvecchio, Chris Chielios and Pavel Datsyuk. I had to reprimand her a few times though, letting her know that Chelios was really a Chicago Blackhawk, disguised as a Red Wing. We both laughed, and I had to pinch myself, realizing that I had found a beautiful woman who was as much of a hockey fan as I was.

  After paying the dinner check, we exited the restaurant and crossed Wacker Drive, walking down the concrete stairwell onto the Chicago Riverwalk down below. Olivia marveled at all the river walk restaurants and cafés, the sidewalk music with all its musicians, playing their version of any song for a nominal donation. We walked together, very closely, and I was tempted several times to grasp her hand while we wandered together along the river walk.

  By then it was almost 10:30pm. Olivia apologized, explaining that she had to catch an early flight back to Detroit at 7:00am and had to be at Midway Airport very early the next morning. I walked her back to the Chicago Sheridan, strolling through the revolving doors and into the hotel lobby. We both stopped short of the escalator in the middle of the hotel.

  “I had a wonderful evening, Phil. Thank you so much for dinner and for showing me around town.”

  “I’ve showed you nothing. There is still so much more to see. When are you coming back to Chicago?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

  “That all depends on how quickly your police department can catch this serial killer,” she quickly answered. “I’m hoping that we won’t have to hire our own private investigators, if your department doesn’t make any progress with these cases,” she casually said, in a very cold tone of voice.

  I was shocked. What? Private investigators?

  That’s all I needed. More people looking over my shoulder. She never mentioned anything at all about the possibility of getting more investigators involved in these homicide cases.

  My expression quickly changed, from casually relaxed to almost shocked. I must have displayed a disillusioned, disenchanted look on my face as I was staring at her, totally speechless. Olivia must have noticed my quick change of moods, and I expected her to wave me farewell and quickly, jump onto the escalator to her hotel room.

  But she instead, grasped my hand and gave me a lo
ng, wet kiss on the cheek.

  “I just know you’re going to get your man, Detective,” she said seductively, in a Jessica Rabbit tone of voice. She then turned and hoped onto the escalator, retiring to her waiting hotel room. I stood there and just watched her go up the moving stairway, hoping she would turn around and give me a final wave goodnight. But Olivia Laurent never looked back.

  My head was spinning. I had never felt so elated, so anxious, and yet so confused, all at the same time. It was as though she was trying to get as close as she could to me, maybe even mentally seducing me, without ever lifting her baby finger. She was giving me signals that maybe, she was personally interested, and that conceivably, wanted to get close to me. A close intimate relationship, perhaps?

  But she was also putting out some different signals that evening, and I was totally confused and conflicted. I was beginning to realize that settling these insurance claims might be her only goal in all of this. I was anticipating the possibility of a personal connection with her, but realized that maybe, she just wasn’t interested. I had falsely gotten my hopes up that evening, and I was now feeling somewhat dejected.

  I strolled out of the hotel lobby and onto West Wacker Drive, wondering if I was ever going to hear from her again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Holy Name Cathedral

  It was a bright, warm, sunny morning as worshippers were walking up the steps of Holy Name Cathedral for the early six o’clock mass. The early weekday service was popular among working Roman Catholics and commuters who worked in the Chicago Loop and was heavily attended. Monsignor Joseph Kilbane had arrived early that morning and entered the cathedral from the side door entrance. He greeted a few parishioners as he entered the sacristy and began putting on his green chasuble and holy vestments.

  It was his turn that Wednesday morning, as he dressed and prepared the cruets that he needed to recite the early, weekday service. He was on a revolving schedule at the Archdiocese with other priests for saying the early morning gospel and hearing confessions on that day at Holy Name. The Sunday church bulletin always advertised the name of the assigned priest who would be saying the daily masses and confessions during that week. Fr. Joe enjoyed offering his time and saying mass when his turn came up, as he found solace in this distraction from his stressful, administrative duties at the Archdiocese of Chicago.