The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  She inched closer to the window as she punched the number into her phone. As soon as the voice came on line she said, “It’s Christy. You got anything for me?”

  “You looking for something in particular?”

  “Polanski.”

  “He’s yesterday’s news, Christy. Give it up. There’s more to our world than that guy.”

  “As long as the riots continue, he’ll be relevant. There’s a story there and I want it.”

  The voice sighed. “OK. I may have something, but I’m not sure.”

  She dug through her purse for her notebook and pen while balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Shoot.”

  “There’s been some talk about Polanski being transferred to the 28th.”

  Christy smiled. The 28th was in the loop, making it close to her home and work. “Is this just talk or do you have something concrete?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end. “It’s pretty tight. It looks like he’s going to be working with Frank Campello.”

  “Campello? Wasn’t he the detective who killed the suspect last week? When his partner was killed?”

  “The same.”

  She pulled to the order station. “Hold on.” She placed her order then said into the phone, “That’s not going to go down well. Campello a cop’s cop and he’s going to be working with Polanski? There’s going to be a firestorm over that.”

  “It ain’t going to be pretty. A lot of the guys at the 28th are pretty upset by Adams’ death. He was well liked. Putting Polanski in the mix is like dropping a match in an Iraqi oil field.”

  “Is he going in soon?”

  “Maybe today. They’ve been trying to keep it hush-hush because of people like you.” There was irony in his voice. “The theory is that if no one knows where he’s going until he shows up, there will be less time to plan trouble.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Trouble’s coming either way. The man is going to meet with resistance.”

  “Who’s the commander of the 28th?”

  “A guy named Lopez. Julio Lopez. He’s as straight as they come.”

  “Just so I understand, you’re telling me that there’s been talk about a transfer and the 28th looks good for it?”

  “Yeah. Probably because Rand Adams was killed in a shooting similar to the one that Polanski has involved himself with.” He snorted. “Irony. You’ve got to love it.”

  “I prefer to think of it as drama. It makes for good news.”

  “Maybe. But I think when this trial is over most of the drama will be over too. It’s all about the cleanup now.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Although Polanski made every effort to break the ice, Campello decided to ignore him and didn’t say a word during the short drive from the 28th to the crime scene at Navy Pier. By the time they arrived, a steady drizzle had begun, further adding to the already darkened mood inside the car.

  Campello drove to the pier’s main entrance, surveying the scene through the rhythmic thumping of the wipers. A cluster of squad cars, some with their blue lights still flashing, was parked at the front entrance along with the crime lab’s van. Technicians were milling about behind a cordon of yellow crime-scene tape and a small group of people, who had probably come to the pier for entertainment, were gathered along the barrier and getting more than they had anticipated.

  He double-parked the burgundy Crown Victoria alongside a marked squad car.

  “Let me do the talking,” he said, shifting the transmission into Park.

  Polanski said nothing, but slid out of the car. He was tall with a slender build, and wore a tan cashmere overcoat on top of a chocolate suit, white shirt and brown-striped tie. He pulled the collar of his coat around his neck as they approached a uniformed patrolman standing watch behind the tape. The officer, a tall lanky kid who could not have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six, stood with his shoulders hunched against the rain. He stamped his feet in an effort to stay warm.

  “Hey, Frank. Sorry about Rand.” He raised the tape, allowing the detectives to cross under.

  Polanski stuck out a hand. “Andy Polanski.”

  The patrolman reached to shake hands, but hesitated before withdrawing his hand. Polanski swallowed hard and looked away to the investigators in the distance.

  “What’ve we got, Devon?” Campello asked.

  The patrolman nodded over his shoulder toward the Lake Michigan side of the pier. “We’ve got a young victim in a trash bin. Two kids discovered her and got hold of Brown. He was working the pier.” He glared at Polanski.

  “Is the coroner here?” Campello asked.

  The officer shook his head.

  “OK. Thanks.” He clamped his star on the collar of his jacket and gave Devon a collegial pat on the back before walking toward the area, leaving Polanski to catch up. At the bin, Campello grabbed the lip of the trash receptacle and pulled himself up. Polanski found a nearby collection of pallets and stacked a couple of them. He stood on the makeshift platform and peered into the container.

  The woman was lying on her back, partially covered in a tarp, and largely obscured by garbage and other debris. Her arms were askew and her ashen face was swollen and disfigured. Her neck was bruised, and her eyes were open and fixed.

  “She’s young,” Polanski said.

  Campello ignored the man, but noted the same fact. Both of her hands were bruised and her wrists were swollen. He dropped to the ground.

  “Any idea when someone from the coroner’s office will be here?” he asked a young woman, a lab tech, who was photographing the scene.

  She shifted the camera to the other hand. “They’re sending Barb. She’s on the way.”

  Until the coroner arrived, there would be no point in climbing into the bin. The medical examiner would collect forensic evidence and make an initial attempt at determining the time of death. She would not want anyone contaminating her crime scene before she had a chance to examine it. But given the rain and the rotting garbage, Campello knew forensics would be questionable.

  “When was she found?” He asked.

  “An hour ago.” The photographer pointed to a tall solidly built man standing nearby in uniform who appeared to be older and more seasoned than Devon. “The officer over there said they got him as soon as they found her.” She yelled toward the man. “Officer? These detectives would like to speak to you.”

  The patrolman came to where Campello and Polanski were standing. His name tag identified him as Brown, the man Devon said was working the pier. The officer looked at the swirling sky and then gestured for them to follow him to an alcove that was behind the collection of dumpsters and out of the wind and rain.

  “What time did the kids get you?” Campello asked.

  The man took a deep breath and glanced upward, trying to recall. “It must’ve been an hour ago. no more than an hour and fifteen.” He pointed to two boys sitting on a pallet a few feet away in the alcove. “The fat one got into the bin when he heard the cell phone ringing. That’s when he discovered the victim. And then the taller one came to get me.”

  “He climbed into the bin?” Campello asked.

  Brown nodded. “Coroner’s not going to be happy.”

  Campello shrugged. “She’ll have to work with what she’s got. Where were you when the boy got you?”

  “I was standing on the south end of the concourse freezing my tail off.”

  Campello couldn’t help but grin. The officer had the weathered look that came with years of walking a beat. He was everything that Devon, the young patrolman at the tape line wasn’t, but one day would be. Experienced and knowledgeable. For that matter, the officer was everything that Polanski wasn’t. A cop.

  Campello glanced over Brown’s shoulder in the boys’ direction. They were sitting with their knees flexed tightly against their chests. Their arms were wrapped around their legs and they had their eyes focused on their feet. The heavier of the two was gently rocking.

 
“Where’s the phone?” Campello asked.

  Brown held out a zip-lock-style bag. It was sealed with tape that had EVIDENCE etched across it in red.

  Campello took the bag, aware that Polanski was breathing over his shoulder.

  Brown said, “They skipped school to come to the pier. They were dumpster diving when they heard the phone ring. A lot of kids skip school to come down here. Some of them dip into the trash bins looking for things that have been discarded. T-shirts, CDs, trinkets.” He shook his head as he looked at the boys. “They’ll never forget this day.”

  Campello opened the phone’s recent memory and discovered that a call had come in at around the time the boys heard the ringing.

  “Why don’t you go talk to the kids,” he said to Polanski.

  As soon as the detective was out of earshot, Brown said, “Is that who I think it is?”

  Campello shot the officer a knowing look.

  “I wouldn’t want to be within a hundred yards of that guy.”

  Campello gave Brown a wry grin. “Was the phone ringing when you reached the bin?”

  The man shook his head. “No. By the time I got here, the boys had already gotten the phone. The fat kid found it, but tossed it to the other one. He came to get me and handed me the phone.”

  “You bagged it right away?”

  Brown shook his head. “No. The techs did as soon as they arrived.”

  Campello glanced around. “I don’t get it. What was she doing out here?”

  Brown shrugged.

  “I mean, there’s nothing here at night. And it’s still early, so it’s unlikely she got dumped here this morning. And even with the garbage strike, someone would’ve found her when they used the bin.”

  “Maybe not,” Brown said. “How often do you look in the trash when you dump your garbage?”

  He had a point. But still… Campello pushed several of the buttons on the phone and then said, “It belongs to the girl.” He held out the phone for Brown to see. There was a photo of the victim standing in front of the city skyline. Her face was distorted in the photo, suggesting she had taken it herself.

  “Anything you can trace?” Brown asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Campello found the recent incoming number again, and then dialed it with his own phone. He disconnected as soon as he had an answer. “The phone call was coming from Silk ’n Boots.”

  “Isn’t that the strip club on Rush?”

  “Yep.” He punched the voice mail on the victim’s phone, before realizing he didn’t have her passcode. “I can’t access her voice mail so I don’t know if there’s a message, but we’ll have the lab get it. Check her SIM card, too.” He punched a button and the phone’s memory came into view. “She gets a lot of calls from there.”

  A sudden gust of wind kicked up, spinning through the alcove and rocking both officers. Brown blew on his cupped hands and then thrust them into the pockets of his jacket.

  Campello called to the technician photographing the scene. “How much longer are you going to be?”

  She shrugged while continuing to photograph the scene. “Maybe another five minutes. Ten tops.”

  Polanski had finished his interview of the boys and was approaching.

  “OK,” Campello said to her. “Send us what you’ve got when you get it.” He turned to Brown, “When you guys get finished interviewing everyone, make sure we get a copy of your report. I’m going to follow this lead before going back to the station.”

  “OK, but if I was you,” the officer said, “I’d sneak out of here on the other side.” He gestured toward East Grand Avenue and a familiar Toyota Corolla that was advancing toward the pier.

  Campello followed Brown’s gaze and groaned. “As if this day hadn’t started out bad enough.” He turned to Polanski. “I’m going to run a lead. Why don’t you get a ride with one of the others back to the office? I’m sure the boys’ parents will be there soon and it’d be good if someone was there.”

  Polanski looked anxiously at Brown as Campello left him, cutting through the concourse building to the other side of the pier.

  CHAPTER 4

  When she pulled away from the drive-up window, Christy made a second phone call, this time to the 28th, to hear that Campello and Polanski were out of the office, confirming her snitch’s suspicions of Polanski’s transfer.

  A third phone call to the news room at The Chicago Star revealed that a reported murder victim had been discovered at Navy Pier and that Campello had been dispatched to the scene. It seemed logical that Polanski would be there too, especially since he wasn’t in the office, and wherever Polanski went, she was sure to follow.

  She pulled in near the concourse building, taking the spot left by a departing burgundy Crown Victoria that had been double parked. She recognized it as an unmarked squad car, a term that was an oxymoron at best. For all the effort to make them blend in, cop cars stood out like a priest behind bars.

  The rain had slowed to a trickle and Christy turned off the wipers as she studied the scene. A crowd had gathered, but most of them appeared to be tourists and there were no indicators that any other journalist had arrived.

  She killed the engine, then checked the batteries in her tape recorder. They were good, so she grabbed her things and rolled out of the car. When she reached the crime-scene barrier, she flashed her credentials to the cop standing guard.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the officer said. “I can’t let you through.”

  “Officer…” she paused to glance at the name tag over his right shirt pocket, “… Grimes, I am a member of the press and the people have a right to know—”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand. But you will have to wait until a press announcement is made.”

  “Who is your superior?”

  He pointed to a large man in uniform, standing near a dumpster at the rear of the building.

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “At the press conference.”

  “Now, officer Grimes. Let me talk to him now.”

  The officer opened his mouth to speak, but then reached for the microphone attached to an epaulet on his jacket. Christy could not hear what was said, but did hear the comeback over the patrolman’s radio.

  “Yeah, I saw her,” the voice said. “Tell her to wait. I’ll be right there.”

  “He says you are to—”

  “I heard.”

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and dropped the tape recorder in the pocket of her trench coat. The damp chilly air was penetrating and she tried to stay warm by pacing the length of the crime-scene tape with her hands thrust in her pockets. The TV news celebs, late as usual, began arriving in panel vans with their antennae raised and the station’s call letters emblazoned on the side. By the time the supervisory cop made it to the line, she knew that she would be but one of a gaggle of reporters, all vying for an exclusive or an off-the-record quote from someone in the know. Such information had always been deemed as non-attributable, but her profession had wilted to something less than what it had been and lowered the bar by revealing the identity of off-the-record sources. It pained her, but she held no illusions. News gathering had become a vicious business because news reporting had become a big one.

  She moved as close to the restricting tape line as possible, her voice-activated tape recorder in hand as the officer approached. A wall of human flesh pressed against her as the various crews – print and broadcast – gathered around.

  “Folks, there is really nothing I can give you now. I suggest you go to the 28th district headquarters and wait for the information officer. He will conduct a press conference shortly and—”

  “Tina Marie, Eye on Chicago,” a young woman standing at the back of the crowd said. “Is the victim the missing girl from—?”

  “I know who you are, Tina. And I will not answer any questions here. As I said, there will be a press conference at—”

  “But you’re not denying it, are you?” she asked.

  “I
’m not denying a lot of things, Tina. I’m not denying she could be Daisy Duck. All I’m saying is, if you report the story you are apparently determined to report, you do so at your own peril.”

  A second reporter, Mike Connors, from a competing station, asked if the victim’s family had been notified. Since the body had just been discovered, it was obviously too early to notify them and Christy recognized the ploy as a roundabout way of getting to the victim’s identity.

  “Do I look stupid, Mr. Connors?” the officer asked.

  “What can you tell us?” The question came from the back of the crowd.

  “What I just did. That there will be a press conference at the headquarters of the 28th sometime this afternoon. The information officer will answer all of your questions then.”

  Another reporter asked a pointless question, and Christy decided that the give and take would go on for a long time. Glancing to the south end of the pier, she saw the crowd of tourists begin drifting back into the concourse building as they lost interest in the scene. She separated from the cabal of reporters, slipping the still functioning recorder into the pocket of her coat.

  As soon as she was in the building, she pushed through the languishing crowd, eastward past the McDonald’s to the middle of the building where she was able to pass through to the north side of the pier. Once outside, she was behind the barrier and only yards from the site of the trash bin that contained the murder victim. The deputy coroner had arrived and was beginning her initial investigation, and nearly all official eyes were on her, leaving Christy with open access.