Evidently, there’d been a minor Gordian knot getting the rock-and-roll drummer back to Chicago, but CPD attorneys sliced through the red tape and Milwaukee PD wound up escorting Clare to CPD’s headquarters building. Considering Clare’s lack of hygiene, that was A-OK by me as I imagine Officers Gimm and Wabiszewski would have tucked him in the back of Kippy’s Malibu with me.
Trevor Ames looked all constipated upon our arrival, but the detective’s fiber supplement kicked in once he was given the go-ahead nod as lead interrogator. The rest of his colleagues were so busy slapping backs, they let us accompany them behind the observation mirror—the one-way mirror—in the room adjoining the interrogation room as long as we kept quiet or whispered any responses to questions they might have about our peculiar evening in Milwaukee.
The room was wired for sound, the tape recorder turned on. We sat silently, Vira at Kippy’s feet, and watched through the mirror as Detective Ames began working his magic.
Turned out not much of Trevor Ames’s magic was required. The discomfort of CPD’s interrogation room—no windows, one door, bare walls, a table containing my iPhone in case Clare needed to be reminded of his inadvertent confession, and a cushionless seat on par with a 1940s-era folding chair for him to park in—didn’t faze the rock-and-roll drummer one iota.
Even after he’d been notified of his rights, Eddie Clare was an open book.
Gone were the blurry eyes as Clare’d had hours to sober up on his final farewell tour to Chicago. Some paramedic along the way had cleaned the abrasions and scrapes about the drummer’s mug from where Kippy’s partner had introduced him to the sidewalk off North Water Street. The paramedic must have had a sense of humor as Clare now sported SpongeBob Band-Aids on both of his cheeks and forehead.
“You know I loved Tabitha,” Clare began his tale.
We all leaned forward like a Busby Berkeley production as Ames replied, “This all went down because you had the hots for Whiting’s girlfriend a million years ago?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Detective—a lot of emotions were at play. I gave Jonny half a dozen whacks for how he treated Tabby and another half dozen on account of, you know, the fuck-over. The U-Turns—the band I cofounded—got fame and fortune … and I got to spend my life shoveling asbestos.”
“Shoveling asbestos?” Ames asked. As if by magic, the detective had a beard comb in his hand. No kidding—he began raking it down one side of his face.
“It’s a metaphor,” Clare replied. “Figure it out.”
“But you’ve got a wife back home in Lubbock.” Ames took a blowup of Mrs. Clare’s driver’s license out of a folder and set it on the table in front of the drummer. “Was she aware of your plans for Jonny Whiting?”
“No.” Clare stared at the picture of his wife. “Old RBF is in for a surprise.”
“RBF?” Ames asked as he began raking the other side of his face.
“Resting bitch face.” Clare’s eyes widened, “Hey, can I listen in when you let her know?”
Ames stared at Clare, astounded at the man’s insensitivity. “That’s not how this works.”
“It’ll be comic gold.”
The detective shook his head and began combing his mustache, oblivious to the fact that he was publically grooming. I wondered when the floss would come out.
Clare leaned back in his chair. “You want to know the real reason I got kicked out of The U-Turns?”
“Of course.”
“I told Jonny I’d kick his ass if he kept treating Tabby like crap. I met her first—loved her guts out—and was dumb enough to bring her around to meet the band. I introduced her to Jonny … and that was that. They became an item and I had to stand by and witness his shit, day in and day out. Then, a week after I confronted him, I get tossed out of the studio. Now you’ve got to understand something here. Jonny and I went way back—I mean way, way back—grade-fucking-school back, and all of a sudden I’m out on my ass.” Clare pounded the table with his fist. “Boom! Gone!” he said. “No girl. No band … nothing.”
After Clare’s burst of drama dissipated, we sat behind the mirror and watched as Ames wrapped up loose ends. The detective prodded—a question here, a beard comb there—and Clare’s answers tumbled out unrestrained.
It turned out to be a John Lennon thing after all, only not a crazed fan as Ames had previously surmised. It was the scalding hatred of a drummer dismissed from a band on the verge of stardom, a Pete Best kind of thing as Pete Best had been an original member and the first drummer with the Beatles before they replaced him with Richard Starkey … aka Ringo Starr.
Eddie Clare didn’t have to be at some bar in Madison to perform until eight o’clock in the evening so he thought—what the hell?—plenty of time to drive to Chicago, do the deed he’d been contemplating for eons, beat fuckwad to death, and be back in Madison in time for the first set with an hour or two to spare. Clare said he got into Whiting’s building when an elderly couple was coming out, said he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, and kept his head down in case of any cameras.
Clare said Whiting recognized him right off the bat, seemed authentically pleased to see his old mate—as though Eddie Clare had long been expected—and invited him inside. They talked about old times in Whiting’s home studio—nothing heated or serious—and then Jonny went to make a dark roast from Costa Rica for them to sip. Clare said he had second thoughts, reservations—and considered backing out of his plan—that is, until he almost tripped over the Gibson Les Paul Custom sitting in a guitar stand along the side of the music room … Tabitha … Jonny Whiting’s shrine to the girl they both loved.
That was just too much for Clare to take—the final straw—so he placed The Was of Time CD into Jonny Whiting’s player, skipped forward to the title track, cranked the Nakamichi Shockwafe soundbar to cover any forthcoming reverberations from the neighboring condos, and The U-Turns original drummer picked up the Les Paul Custom … and headed into the kitchen.
“I’ve not felt this great in decades. Finally free of all that vile jammed down my throat. The U-Turns got champagne and blowjobs … Jonny got Tabitha, at least for a while … and I got to roll in my own shit.”
It had been gnawing at Eddie Clare for decades—a sliver that never worked its way to the surface, the wound that never healed—and for over half of his life he’d kept it hidden beneath the surface, but the grief was born anew, and amplified, every time he heard that tune.
Finally, Clare had taken action … and found himself at peace.
Knowing his arrest would be splashed across the headlines, the fame that had so long eluded Eddie Clare had come to an end.
“If you see Tabitha,” Clare said as Ames gathered his papers, “could you tell her—”
I didn’t get to hear Clare’s final reflection as the door to our room swung inward and slammed against the wall. All eyes turned in that direction and there stood the sergeant with the half-eyebrow, the one who’d hustled Wabiszewski and I to CPD’s hallway of interrogation rooms. He had a hard look on his face and he stared my way.
“You’re the dog man, right.” It was more declaration than question.
“Yes,” I said, startled, thinking I was moments away from being handcuffed.
“You’re needed at Washington Park ASAP,” he said in a tone that wouldn’t accept no for an answer. “Grab your dog.”
CHAPTER 17
The head of the Special Prosecutions Bureau inside the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office, Peter Feist, never made it home last night. When the head of Special Prosecutions vanishes into thin air, there is no waiting period: Chicago PD doesn’t waste any time hoping the absent official will miraculously reappear looking sheepish from some bender in Peoria. Peter Feist’s position in the State’s Attorney’s Office came with multiple enemies, and Feist’s take-no-prisoners reputation had doubled that number.
He’d last been seen leaving the executive offices for the night and had even been captured on the parking garage video at 11:25
p.m. as he slipped into his Lexus ES. Feist told his wife—who’d grown accustomed to her husband’s lengthy workdays—that he’d be home late. But when she’d not heard anything from him by 1:30 a.m.—which was quite unlike him, as he’d not called her or returned her phone calls or replied to her voicemails or text messages—she began making phone calls. Forty-five minutes later they received a break when CPD’s 2nd District night sergeant caught the alert notification and informed his superiors that, in fact, Special Prosecutor Peter Feist had requested a sweep of Washington Park at 11:30 p.m. the previous evening, and that no reason for the park sweep had been provided. A pair of squad cars dispatched from the 2nd District soon found Feist’s lonely black Lexus in one of the park’s south-side lots. The driver-side window had been smashed in and the glove compartment and trunk left open, but the officers were unable to tell if anything had been stolen out of the vehicle as the head of the Special Prosecutions Bureau was nowhere to be found.
CPD knew nothing good came out of Washington Park at half past two in the morning.
With a police escort, in addition to nonexistent traffic, Vira and I were at the park by 3:35. By 3:50 a.m., Vira had found the leader of the Special Prosecutions Bureau facedown in a dank fishpond, which was an oddity itself as the poor man was lying on his back. His neck had not only been broken but cranked violently backward. Vira led me to the body and, as though struck by lightning, she fell into another one of her occurrences. One paw hovered above the water by Feist’s shoulder. And though I’m not sure what chemical signature she caught in the night’s breeze, or if she caught anything at all, her eyes scanned back and forth like a searchlight over Feist’s body, and then across the pond.
Vira’s a sweetheart; she’s highly sensitive, and I began to wonder if these occurrences stemmed more from finding human remains—discovering death and the brutality of murder—than any subsequent attempt at making sense of it all, of performing some kind of scent forensics. And I recalled the pounding heart and dry heaves and tears from my first year on the job.
I took a knee beside Vira and gently stroked at her still-quivering shoulder. “It’s okay, Vira,” I said. “It’s okay, girl.”
* * *
A Lincoln Continental pulled into the parkway, turned into the pond-side lot now bristling with police activity, and parked a row behind Feist’s Lexus ES. The ES was being serviced by a team of forensic specialists and looked as though it were going through some kind of high-tech car wash. Somehow the press had yet to stumble upon what would become their lead story of the day. I sat at a nearby picnic bench while Vira loafed on the grass at my feet. We were waiting to see if the investigators—all currently ruining their dress shoes in the muck down by the pond—would need my statement or for me to assist them in any additional search, which, at the moment, did not appear likely.
Not often, but now and again I’m required to testify in local or state court, so I always jot down the sequence of events—from when I’m first contacted through the discovery of any remains—as well as any details or observations or items of interest that occurred along the way. And if there were ever a case that might require my testimony, this was likely the one. I’d finished scribbling my thoughts in a mini notebook and was jamming it into my back pocket when the doors to the Continental swung open and like flicking a switch Vira went livid, growling and springing forward—her leash taut in my grip—barking like a maniac, demanding I set her free. I didn’t recognize the mountain-sized chauffeur in the long coat and hat who stepped out first, but I sure as hell recognized the man who exited from the back seat of the dark sedan.
My blood froze.
And as much as I despise choke collars, I wished to God I’d had one looped around Vira’s neck.
“Stop it, Vira,” I whispered down at her, not wanting to draw more attention to ourselves than we already had. Vira ceased her barking and lunging but stared daggers at the duo standing next to the Lincoln. Her growling continued unabated.
The man who’d stepped out from the back of the sedan glanced over—at Vira’s furor—and began heading in our direction as his driver leaned back against the Continental, folded his arms, and stared at the two of us. I rolled the leash around my hand to keep it tight, to keep Vira from doing anything we’d both regret.
“Get that fucking dog out of here,” the man commanded as he stopped ten feet from our picnic table, making certain he was outside of Vira’s reach, “or I’ll have it shot.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, gripping my free hand around the scruff of Vira’s neck, my other hand still tight on the leash, backing away and pulling my golden retriever with me. “Quiet, girl! Quiet!”
In seconds, Vira and I were at my F-150. I opened the passenger door, and Vira leaped in but coiled about, keeping her eyes focused on Washington Park’s newest arrivals, the man and his mountainous driver; her growl continued but at a softer pitch.
“I get it, Vira,” I said, sitting next to her and scratching at the sweet spot behind her ears. “I get it.”
We both watched as Police Superintendent Gerald Callum strolled back to the chauffeur of his Lincoln Continental. The two men spoke quietly for a minute before Superintendent Callum turned to head down the jogging path through the strand of trees on his way toward the pond, toward the city’s latest homicide scene. Callum’s driver—big enough to make the Continental look like a subcompact—focused on Vira and me for several more seconds before unfolding his arms, turning, and following Chicago’s police superintendent into the woods.
I scratched at Vira’s ears and whispered, “This one’s going to be tricky.”
* * *
Back home, I fed the dogs a late breakfast and then sat at the picnic table in the backyard. I was physically drained from lack of sleep, and from the events of the past twelve hours, but—after Washington Park—I was in no way ready for shut-eye. I’d made a stack of toast for myself, but found I had no appetite after all. Eventually, I wound up tossing those slices about the yard for the kids to eat.
And I marveled at Vira’s ability for about the tenth time that morning.
It was like in those old black-and-white films my father loves, where a convict escapes from prison and then we see the warden hold the escapee’s shirt under a pack of bloodhounds’ snouts, and then we’re off to the races as the dogs track the fugitive through swamplands and forests and down country roads as they’re able to isolate the convict’s scent from that of other people. Only in Vira’s case, she’s able to cut out the middleman—the warden—and figure out the culprit’s scent all on her own.
My girl’s a prodigy.
With Eddie Clare having thoroughly confessed to Jonny Whiting’s murder, it was doubtful my Milwaukee recording would be needed for a trial. Nonetheless, I was grateful that CPD’s IT guy had been able to copy the Clare recording off the Voice Memos app so they wouldn’t confiscate my iPhone. I took it out, laid it on the table in front of me, and looked at my golden retriever. “What do you think, girl?”
Vira barked once, either to prod me along or at a squirrel that had darted out from beneath a nearby pine tree.
“After last night, you know she’s sound asleep,” I said and scratched at the top of Vira’s head. “You know we’re going to wake her.”
Vira barked again.
“As you wish.” I picked up my phone … and tapped in Kippy’s number.
PART TWO
CHICAGO
I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons.
—Will Rogers
CHAPTER 18
Frank Cappelli Sr. sat alone in his home office. He’d hung up the landline, having just confirmed the five-course catering service from Davanti Enoteca as well as the six extra cream cakes from D’Amato’s. The Mediterranean cruise packet—first class every step of the way—was hidden away in a bottom desk drawer, awaiting to be wrapped. His wife’s birthday was on the horizon and though she’d instructed him, a bit too pretentiously, to throw no surprise party or waste a
ny more of their money on over-the-top gifts—and though he’d nodded along with her pretense, just as he nodded along every year—Cappelli Sr. wondered what would occur were he truly to obey his wife’s faux wishes.
Though it wouldn’t appear on the thermostat, he assumed the temperature in the household would plummet … and not by a mere handful of degrees.
Cappelli Sr. could now add Event Planner to the list of things that might have been had birth not dictated his lot in life. That vocation could sit alongside financier, restaurateur, and developer—though Cappelli Sr. was more a behind-the-scenes patron. That vocation could sit on the same might-have-been shelf beside race-car driver—though his times at the track, decades earlier, had never been all that swift; the red Lamborghinis were more for appearance. That vocation could sit next to accountant or bookkeeper, which, the more Cappelli Sr. thought about it, was ultimately what he had become.
One of the cell phones on his desk began to vibrate. Cappelli Sr. knew whom the phone indicated, brought it up to his ear and said, “Yes.”
“Phase two is complete.”
“Were there any issues?”
“Not unless you sweat a barking dog.”
“A what?”
“Nope,” the voice said. “There were no issues.”
“You know my philosophy on anything that crops up? Anything that threatens the garden?”
“I believe I do.”
“Rip it out at the root,” Cappelli Sr. said.
“Roger that.”
“Tell me about the final piece?”
“Not to worry,” Police Superintendent Gerald Callum replied over Cappelli’s burner phone. “That final piece will be like flicking over a domino.”
CHAPTER 19
I’d read somewhere the name “Chicago” comes from the Frenched-up version of the local Indian word shikaakwa, which stands for wild onion. We each had our assigned homework and Kippy’s task was to peel back the layers of this wild onion so we could place our current predicament into some kind of historical context. Americans everywhere seem to have at least a foggy awareness of Chicago’s checkered past. We Chicagoans like to wink and joke and guffaw about our town’s illustrious history and—knock on wood—pray it all remains in the past. In times gone by, machine politics provided police protection for prostitution and gambling. In fact, police corruption had already been a booming industry in Chicago when the Volstead Act—carrying out the Eighteenth Amendment to prohibit the manufacture, sale, or consumption of alcoholic beverages—jacked the whole shooting match up on steroids as bootlegging became big business.
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