Start Shooting

by Charlie Newton

  I twist one-eighty for my partner, then three-sixty. “Jason!”

  No answer.

  Nine minutes since the shooting stopped; the air’s still adrenaline and death.

  Radios crackle. Lights strobe the pavement blue-red-and-white. Armed men and EMTs move in and out of staccato 8 mm reality. Four TAC cars are stopped at odd angles, doors open. Shell casings and glass shards litter the intersection.

  Mouth dry; pulse at one-twenty and coming down.

  More beat cars roll in to block the side streets. Gas and oil and blood puddles glare in the crisscross of headlights. Officer Lopez is dead behind the wheel of the Toyota. Two Latin King shooters are dead from Crown Vic bumpers, both bodies splattered into the intersection. The gangster I shot is being placed in the nearest ambulance with two EMTs feverishly attempting to keep him from bleeding to death. Hahn hit the shooter on her sidewalk at least twice but he’s conscious and breathing as his EMTs stretcher him past me. Same with Hahn, thankfully.

  How she is a survivor is one of those mysteries that can happen; the bullets go everywhere you’re not. All but one—a .38 ricocheted, then hit her second gun. The .38 didn’t break her hip, but bruised her so badly she couldn’t stand. Hahn is loaded into her ambulance, windshield pieces buried in her face and arms; her eyes remain locked on Lopez’s lifeless body.

  Jason is bleeding but not bad. Buff is about to tell him a second time to get his ass to the hospital but has to turn to more uniforms piling out of their cars. “No, back it up to Paulina, nothing eastbound past Paulina.” Buff walks the uniforms west, pointing at where he wants them.

  Radios bark that Homicide is on the way in, as are the crime-scene techs. Jason spits a glass fragment. “Shit, that hurts.”

  I’m still trying to figure what happened, what I just saw. The radio squawks inside our car. The call tape won’t sound like a dope buy that went bad; this was an execution; the Kings were waiting for that red Toyota. And until a few minutes ago I was supposed to be driving it.

  “Officer Vargas?”

  I turn to a white male in a sport coat. He introduces himself as an investigator from OPS and asks what happened. OPS is the Office of Professional Standards—any officer-involved shooting is investigated by OPS. Our commander is for sure on her way, same for the street deputy—he’s a deputy superintendent and the highest-ranking policeman on duty when Superintendent Jesse Smith isn’t. I start to answer the OPS investigator and four Homicide dicks screech to a stop in two cars; my brother Ruben is one of them. He runs to me instead of walking to Officer Lopez dead in the Toyota. “We cool, buey?” Ruben prods my vest and squeezes one shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  Ruben nods a professional acknowledgment to the OPS investigator, then back to me. “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Remember what I told you at dinner.” Ruben scans the scene. “Three dead, two dying gonna make the Olympic village major-unhappy.”

  I nod again; he does the same, turns, and walks toward Lopez. I will see Ruben again tonight when the officer-involved interviews start at ADD, the Area 4 Detective Division. If my shooter dies, I’ll be under the lights all night and be offered days with pay, pending the investigation’s outcome. If he lives, I’ll only be at ADD half the night, till OPS and Homicide and the ASAs and the street deputy and finally our commander all are satisfied that what we did passes all the best second-guess tests modern man can devise. Then I can type reports till my fingers go numb.

  The OPS investigator separates me from Jason and asks me what I heard, saw, and what I did. He writes it down, asks to hear it again and follows his notes while I repeat my answer, then confirms: “Shooters One and Two on your side of the Toyota were both firing?”

  “Yeah. The Tec-9s. Both were firing at Lopez. I shot Shooter One; he went down. I shot Shooter Two as he sprayed us. Fez’s car caught him.”

  Ten feet away, Jason picks at the glass in his cheek and tells the flashing lights, “Motherfuckers blew up my car.”

  The OPS investigator focuses on Jason, then the 9-millimeter magazines by the bodies, and asks me, “Both shooters had reloaded and had commenced firing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Frown. “Compared to what?”

  He stares, but for some reason doesn’t press it. “And you have no explanation for the firepower present or any precondition for its use?”

  “Like I told you, no way they light up the Toyota if they know we’re cops. But they knew something, expected some kind of car-bomb, big move, and they knew it was that exact car. Maybe not the people in it, but the Toyota for sure.”

  “Who else knew about the Toyota?”

  “Don’t know.” I glance at Jason who can’t hear us. “Probably on loan from Vice.”

  “Who else knew the details of the mission? Day, time, location?”

  “Don’t know. Came straight from the commander and at the last minute.”

  “Last minute?”

  “We heard it was a go thirty minutes before we rallied. Like it could’ve been part of an Operation Hammer or something.”

  Buff steps between me and the investigator. Using one arm and both eyes, Buff hugs me hard. “Good job, Bobby. Did everything you could.” Buff doesn’t bitch about the gunfight. He turns to Jason still picking at the glass in his face. “Good job, Jason, damn good. Now go to the hospital.”

  Jason eyes Buff and his tone. It’s obvious Buff wants time to talk with Jason before OPS does; Buff will know what I said, and this way, Jason will too before he goes on the record. Heads will roll for this gunfight and Buff’s trying to keep them from being ours.

  The OPS investigator does not appear comfortable or confident. He says to Buff, “We better talk, before you and your team head uptown.”

  Buff nods, gives me the same cover-your-ass look Ruben just did, then walks off with the OPS investigator.

  Jason watches them avoid the headlights of more unmarked cars arriving. Halfway to the perimeter, Buff and the OPS investigator stop in the oscillating shadows, the investigator talking, Buff listening. Jason steps to me. “Cap rabid dogs and we gotta worry?”

  I scan the death scene: haphazard cars, bodies, and weapons, now surrounded by methodical meticulous police reaction. It’s a surreal moment—the sharp roar of the street, followed by the blanket silence of the system—surreal, but in most big American cities it happens once a day. A clearly shaken Jewboy steps around the broken glass, blood, and brass casings, but stays inside yellow crime-scene tape being strung.

  “That was bad.” Jewboy exhales long and slow, then chins toward Buff and the OPS investigator. As those two talk, they stare at a parked black Ford SUV that usually means FBI. Two men in dark suits stand either side of the SUV’s headlights, both talking on cell phones.

  “I fucking knew it.” Jason turns his back to the SUV. “Lopez was undercover. She and Hahn are after us … and we got one of ’em killed.”

  Jewboy nods, unusually somber, head bouncing from Jason to me. “But why be after us? We didn’t do anything. Did we?”

  Everybody’s waiting for me to say something … like I have the answer.

  FRIDAY, 11:30 PM

  The Area 4 Detective Division is a big building at Harrison and Kedzie. Buff has us all here, sans Jason who’s at Mercy Hospital till they remove the glass from his face and arms. In these situations, Buff operates in full father mode. We’re his charges, like his grunts were in Vietnam. If bullets are in the air, be they foreign or friendly, Buff leads from the front.

  And that’s a good thing, ’cause if Officer Lopez was a fed—and it appears she was—then an assistant U.S. attorney and other FBI specialists will be added to the normal rounds of post-shooting interrogations. Not debriefings: interrogations. Unfortunately, it has to be that way; when a public servant kills a citizen or three—even murderers armed with machine guns—the system has to satisfy itself that you acted properly. Properly is defined by hard-an
d-fast rules of engagement that are then interpreted subjectively. And you don’t get to whine, because you knew all that when you took the job.

  Two gangsters were killed with cars; I shot another who, as of ten minutes ago, is still alive; and Officer Hahn shot a fourth one who isn’t. Officer Lopez is dead and anyone who’s been the police more than an hour knows this incident was a setup, an execution. The fact that Sheila Lopez probably was a federal undercover officer points the finger at the police who organized the buy. As of this moment, we—make that Gang Team 1269—haven’t been told what case Officer Lopez was working for the FBI but it stands to reason that it was against our TAC and gang crimes unit. There is the possibility she was working a case on the Latin Kings and hadn’t involved us because a) we can’t be trusted, and b) how would we know “b” if we can’t be trusted?

  Our new commander—who organized the buy and should be under the lights with the rest of us—is seated next to an ASA (assistant state’s attorney—“the DA” in TV shows) and the OPS investigator who conducted the crime-scene interview with me. The fact that our commander isn’t under the lights means either she did her interview previously or she put the mission together with the full knowledge of the ASA. And that is not required policy for a street-level, stand-alone dope buy.

  Our commander asks me to explain what happened.

  I do.

  When I’m done reliving the gunfight a fourth time, she mentions, a fourth time, and on the record, that my brother Ruben is one of the Homicide detectives investigating the murder of Officer Lopez. The first two times she mentioned Ruben, I agreed. For the last two I have remained silent.

  She asks, “Did you speak with your brother tonight, prior to the shooting on Ashland?”

  “Yes.”

  “When and where.”

  “Levee Grill for dinner. Eight o’clock.”

  “Two and a half hours before the shooting?”

  Nod.

  “If your nod indicates an answer in the affirmative, please say so.”

  “Yes.”

  The ASA takes over. “Did you and Detective Ruben Vargas discuss the Latin Kings mission?”

  “No.”

  “Did you discuss officers Hahn and Lopez as possible federal agents?”

  “No.”

  My new commander leans in, extends a finger toward my face, and—

  Commotion behind her produces three more professionals led by a six-foot woman wearing a perfectly pressed suit in the middle of the night. The hair tightens on my arms. Jo Ann Merica introduces herself as the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Illinois and sits down uninvited. Seeing her here and in person at pushing midnight is so out of line I have to rub my eyes and remember to breathe.

  On TV you cowboy-up and tell the G to stick it; in real life you don’t. They have all the money and all the time required to ruin you, guilty or not. And they will, if they think ruining you serves some higher federal goal. Or if it helps run for governor. Jo Ann Merica studies me like the motionless, ghetto pit bulls do when you’re about to step into their yard. She’s famous for putting cops and politicians in prison, and for “thirty-two-degree eyes that don’t blink when children die.”

  The ASA shows me a copy of this morning’s Herald. “Is this what you and your brother discussed? And if so, what was the substance of that discussion?”

  “The Olympics is a bit off my beat.”

  The ASA frowns, flips the Herald over, and points to the exposé teaser.

  I silently count to five before answering. “Help me here. I’m not named in the Dupree lawsuit. And why does libel in the Herald on an unrelated case that happened when I was thirteen years old matter tonight?”

  “Answer the question please.”

  “I will, after you explain why it matters.”

  “You shot a man tonight; we want to know why.”

  “Because he had a machine gun and he’d just murdered one of my fellow officers.”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “I forgot, what is it?”

  “What information do you have on the Coleen Brennan murder?”

  “Coleen Brennan was my friend when other people wouldn’t be. Whatever we were is none of your fucking business.”

  “That’s your answer?”

  “If that’s your question.”

  Uninvited, the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Illinois, one of the most powerful federal officials outside Washington, D.C., takes over. “Did you ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”

  Neither the ASA nor my new commander challenge Ms. Merica’s right to take over, so I turn to her and answer, “No.”

  “Did any member of your gang team ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “That’s your answer? On the record?”

  “Yeah.” Bit of adrenaline.

  “Have you discussed Officer Lopez with Chicago Police Department officers Anderson, Cowin, and Mesrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you discuss the possibility that she was a federal agent?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “You’re certain you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember if I remember.”

  A meticulously dressed subordinate supplies Jo Ann Merica with papers and points mid-page. “Officer Mesrow remembers. Does that help?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  The subordinate’s finger points Ms. Merica to another section. She reads it, then says, “You told the OPS: ‘No way they light up the Toyota if they know we’re cops. But they knew something, expected some kind of car-bomb, big move, and they knew it was that exact car.’ Is that what you said?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How would the Latin Kings know?”

  “Somebody tipped them. And no, I don’t know who. I was told by my sergeant who was told by our commander”—I nod across the table at my commander, intent on saving her career—“to perform the buy at a specific time and in a specific manner. That’s what I did; that’s what we all did, including Officer Lopez.” I cut to the ASA. “And I was not notified of this mission until after I left my brother and Mr. Barlow. And no, I did not speak to either man again until I saw Ruben at the crime scene.”

  The U.S. attorney taps her pen. No one speaks, not the ASA, my commander, or the OPS investigator. The U.S. attorney continues. “Did you and your brother discuss the red Toyota at the Levee Grill?”

  “I already said, no.”

  “Not to me.” Pause. “I understand former First Ward alderman Toddy Pete Steffen was at your table.”

  Uh-oh. Either the Levee Grill is under federal surveillance or Ruben and I are being tailed. “Mr. Steffen said hello. To Ruben’s lawyer.”

  The U.S. attorney nods. “And the two Japanese men from Furukawa Industries?”

  Staring at Jo Anne Merica, it hits me that she hasn’t asked about the Duprees’ federal lawsuit that might make her governor. Her only focus, at midnight, is me, Ruben, and federal undercover agents. And now Toddy Pete and Furukawa—

  “The gentlemen from Furukawa—did you or your brother speak with them?”

  Blink. “Why would we?” My commander and the ASA stare bullets at me. I cut back to the U.S. attorney. “One of you three wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Small smile; unlimited budget, thirty-two-degree eyes. “I wonder how the Vargas brothers—street cops from the Four Corners—can afford James W. Barlow as their attorney. And why they’re in the same restaurant with Toddy Pete Steffen and Dr. Hitoshi Ota, CEO of Furukawa Industries, Chicago’s Olympic benefactor. It looks like a meeting, smells like a meeting, maybe it is a meeting.”

  Barlow I understand; the rest I’m clueless. “Wanna repeat that in English? ’Cause this street cop doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  The U.S. attorney leans forward. “I think you do.”

  My new commander waits until she’s certain the U
.S. attorney isn’t continuing, then says, “You’re given two days with pay, pending the review of tonight’s shooting. And, per previous notification, you are to report to the Internal Affairs Division Monday morning at 0800 regarding the Coleen Brennan accusations. You may appear with or without an attorney.”

  My hands unfold damp. There should be FBI specialists in here if Hahn and Lopez are FBI, and there aren’t any. That black SUV and its two guys belonged to somebody.

  Jo Ann Merica says, “Do not leave Chicago without prior notification to my office. You’re excused.”

  SATURDAY

  ARLEEN BRENNAN

  SATURDAY, 1:00 PM

  The alley behind my apartment radiates fight-or-flee. One hand squeezes a cocked murder weapon, the other squeezes the steering wheel. Heat prickles my neck. Through bit teeth I repeat, “I am not a victim.” I am Arleen the Bold, clutch down, in gear, engine running. And have been for twenty-eight minutes. July sun glares my VW’s windshield. Fight-or-flee. Robbie Steffen is here, has to be. Robbie has to kill me. I was on Lawrence Avenue, and a player—the state’s attorney can charge me with murder. The U.S. attorney can charge me under RICO. Robbie knows I’ll get some kind of immunity on the murder charge to bury a crooked cop. I release the steering wheel, keep the cocked .38 in my other hand, and call my landline again.

  No answer. The window curtains don’t move. But Robbie has to be here.

  Robbie couldn’t find me last night because I slept in my car and moved every two hours. Now if I can just survive a fast trip up my back stairs … Run up, pack the Blanche clothes for my audition—the ones I wore that got me this far—grab my hair and makeup case, I’ll hide out at Julie’s till audition time. By then, something will have worked out. It’s my turn.

  I squeeze the .38 and glance at the Streetcar pages. Fight-or-flee?

  Arleen the Victim or Arleen the Bold? My hand reaches for the Streetcar pages, my pages. Pick. Choose. I cut the ignition, pop the door, and bolt. At the stairs, I leap two at a time, key the door, jump inside, close it, and listen … to the city outside, me breathing, nothing else.