The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  He arranged the photos on his desk, studying them from different angles by standing and moving around them. He had learned long ago that perspective was often the key to good police work. None of them revealed anything that immediately stood out and he slumped back in his chair, frustrated. The remainder of the afternoon dragged by.

  The deputy coroner’s initial report indicated Trina died of cerebral hemorrhage, but that she had endured a beating that would likely have killed her anyway if left untreated. The autopsy revealed that her spleen had been ruptured and a kidney damaged heavily enough that it would have needed to be removed. Massive internal bleeding had occurred and she had suffered several broken ribs and a broken finger on her right hand.

  Forensics was limited and tainted, given the boys’ intrusion into the dumpster, the rain, and rotting refuse. There was no DNA under her fingernails and no isolated strands of foreign hair and no prints. Additionally, the tarp in which she had been wrapped was not unique and therefore untraceable. Polanski had not returned to the office yet, so any evidence that might have turned up from the victim’s apartment would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Campello opened the desk drawer to retrieve his pistol and was immediately struck by the sight of Rand’s cup. The day ended on the same sour note on which it had begun.

  Dropping his pistol into his holster, he slid the drawer closed and locked it.

  He took the stairs to the first floor and nodded a goodbye at the officer working the public desk on his way out of the district office. The northeast wind that had whipped across the pier earlier that day had not subsided and he pulled the collar of his jacket against his neck.

  He went to the segregated lot that was surrounded by a one-story chain-link fence. Part of the lot was allocated to the personal vehicles of the officers and staff who worked the 28th. His ’65 Corvette, Rally Red with black leather interior, was his passion and the only thing he had managed to salvage from four failed marriages. He had rebuilt the car with his father during the last summer of the previous century, prior to the old man’s retirement and subsequent decline, and they had taken great pains in adhering to the original specifications. In addition to their careers with the CPD and their poor choice in women, they shared a passion for Corvettes. The ’65 stood as the best in class as far as they were concerned, and Campello babied it with the loving care a concert violinist might show for his Stradivarius. Both were fine instruments, requiring a delicate touch if they were to reach peak performance.

  Clearing the entrance to the lot, he saw a late-model Ford Taurus leaning to one side. The left front tire had been slashed and the knife was still protruding, a certain tipoff that the car belonged to Polanski. Though Campello did not like the man, he also did not care for the tactics that would inevitably be used against him. They were childish at best and often played into the hands of the brass who saw value in someone who would turn on others.

  He climbed into the Vette and fired the engine. It hummed to life without missing a beat and he savored the moment.

  Pulling out of the lot, he exited onto LaSalle Street and began working his way through the rush-hour traffic to the North Side. Tertwiller, Silvio, Hughbanks and the others had already left and were likely on their second round at Jeep’s. The bar was a favorite haunt of the cops who worked the loop, primarily because Mickey Rattner owned it.

  Michael “Mickey” Rattner had been a cop’s cop and worked the 28th in the days when the first Dailey was mayor. He’d been involved in the riots of the ’68 Democratic convention, when the 28th earned the name “the Castle”, and was forced to crack a few heads in order to restore order to a city that was crumbling as fast as the counter-culture movement could take it apart. His efforts won him a ten-day leave without pay and a bust in rank. After that, his work on behalf of the good people of Chicago waned, and he started to drink. His drinking led him to a place called The Lucky Dog, the favorite watering hole of the local cops at the time, and his life became a free-fall of booze and barflies. Two failed marriages followed, and he eventually retired from the department and bought The Lucky Dog, changing the name to Jeep’s – homage to his favorite vehicle ( Jeep was his nickname).

  Peanuts were free, and drinks were half price to working cops. He tolerated no bull, and often cracked as many heads on a busy Friday night as he had during the rioting of the convention over forty years ago. The place had retained its former glory and served as the favorite gathering place to a whole new generation of cops.

  Campello rolled into the lot and strode into the bar. It was shotgun in design with a row of booths to the right, opposite the bar that ran the entire length of the wall to his left. There was a mirror behind the bar, reflecting the joy or misery of whoever sat in front of it. Music came from a jukebox, one of the few holdovers from The Lucky Dog, and on this night it was belting out Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll”. The song was upbeat and did not fit Campello’s mood.

  “Hey, Frank!” A standing Hughbanks yelled above the din, motioning Campello to the rear of the bar.

  He shouldered his way past a thicker-than-usual crowd and dropped into the chair that his crew had saved for him. Tertwiller, Silvio and Hughbanks were ensconced around a circular table where the line of booths ended.

  “What’re you having, my man?” Hughbanks asked. His eyes were already glassy.

  Campello nodded at the beer that Tertwiller was nursing. “One of those.”

  “Excellent choice. I’ll be right back.” He rose from the table and shuffled through the crowd to the bar.

  “Where’s your partner?” Shelly yelled over the music.

  Campello shrugged. “He was supposed to be looking at the vic’s apartment, but I haven’t seen him.” He grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. “And I don’t care to.”

  She grinned and raised her bottle in a mock toast before taking a long, hard swig.

  “I don’t understand guys like that,” Silvio said. “He’s supposed to be on our side, not theirs. And even if he wasn’t, even if he doesn’t like us or thinks that one of us has done something we shouldn’t, he should work through it. Take it through the proper channels, you know? You don’t turn on family.” He picked a couple of nuts from the bowl. “Criminals don’t. They stick together.”

  Tertwiller agreed. “That’s why they call them crime families.”

  Hughes returned with a bottle that he dropped on the table, before giving Campello a collegial slap on the back. The beer was cold and smooth.

  “I asked Lopez to get rid of him,” Campello said, setting the bottle on the table and reaching for another handful of nuts.

  “He won’t,” Tertwiller said. “The brass is on his back.”

  “This Polanski has got everyone on each other’s back,” Silvio said. “He’s got the whole department disrupted.”

  “So what do you want us to do, Frank?” Tertwiller said. “Tell us what you want and we’ll see it gets done.”

  Campello shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, Shelly. He’s here to stay, at least for now, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Hughbanks shook his head. “Something can always be done, Frank.” His speech was starting to slur.

  “Guys like him usually do it to themselves, Jerry,” Campello said.

  “Every day he sits here is too many,” Silvio countered.

  “Bill said that if Caine and Dorchester come out of this, they’re going to sue Polanski,” Tertwiller said.

  “Really?” Hughbanks asked.

  She lifted her bottle and paused to nod.

  Hughbanks said, “They’d have a case. Their reputations are ruined, their careers are in the tank… he shouldn’t be able to walk away from a thing like that.” He shook his head. “Does he think he joined the choir? We’re cops. We’re not Boy Scouts. We’re dealing with killers, thieves… rapists. Sometimes you got to fight fire with fire. Everyone knows that.”

  Campello shrugged and drank the beer. The others all nod
ded their agreement with Hughbanks.

  “We’re in a war for our very survival,” Silvio said. “The bad guys have everything in their favor and we’ve got nothing in ours. Maybe we should strike like everyone else. Let the bad guys take control. What do you think would happen then? Huh?” He drank his beer and nodded. “That’s right. They’d be begging us to come back. They’d give us all the help we need and guys like Polanski… they’d be right where they belong. Out on their tail.” He thumbed over his shoulder.

  “I don’t like working with him,” Campello said, finishing his drink and glancing at his watch. “But there isn’t anything I can do about it.” He stood.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Silvio said.

  “Where you going, Frank?” Tertwiller asked.

  “To see my dad.”

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “He was a good cop, Frank,” Silvio added as Hughbanks left to get another beer, giving Campello a friendly pat on the back. “Maybe we can swap him for Polanski.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Marimar had not been his first choice when looking for a place for his father, but the facility was close to home and it was clean and safe and the food was relatively good. But the best care at any facility went to the residents whose family members dropped in unannounced, so Campello made a habit of swinging by at varying times.

  The Vette hummed as he began to break free of the heavier loop traffic and by the time he had reached the far North Side, all thoughts of Polanski and dead girls, and cops – good or bad – were left far behind. He stopped at O’Reilly’s grocery to pick up a bag of chocolate-covered raisins, his father’s favorite treat, and then finished the drive to Marimar.

  “How’re you doing, Dad?”

  The old man’s gaze wavered before settling on his son, foggy and unfocused. The sound of beeping alarms wafted into the room from the nursing station at the far end of the hall.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Frank, Dad. I’m your son.”

  “Frank?”

  Campello sat on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach of the old man and his chair. A game show played on the TV. “Yeah, Dad. Don’t you remember?” He handed the bag to the old man. “I brought you some raisins.”

  His father took the bag from him with a bony hand and gingerly opened it. he peered inside suspiciously before reaching in for the treat. He was frail now. He wore a red and black plaid bathrobe over powder-blue pajamas and his thinning white hair was unkempt.

  Campello stood and put an arm around his shoulders, only to have it shrugged off.

  “Don’t do that. I don’t like that.”

  “OK, Dad. Sorry.”

  The old man slipped a raisin into his mouth.

  Campello glanced around the private room. It was clean, small and sparsely furnished. An untouched dinner tray rested on a bedside table and worn curtains framed the room’s single window. He scanned the fading photos that lined the walls. Most of them were black and white. There was a picture of the old man in uniform during his early days with the department alongside a family photo of Campello as a boy with a fishing rod in one hand. A photo of his mother hung on the opposite wall, alongside photos of his father’s two other wives.

  “Dad, I’ve got a new partner. His name is Polanski. He’s a traitor. A real back-stabber.”

  The old man cursed as he fished another raisin from the bag. “Don’t work with no back-stabbers. They’ll stab you in the back.”

  Campello grinned. “He came over from the 31st, Dad. Your old district.”

  “The 31st,” the old man said. “Now that was a good place to work.” He sucked the chocolate covering off another raisin. Campello stood and looked at the photo of his father in uniform.

  “Dad, do you remember Charlie Donovan?”

  The old man nodded. “Old Donovan. Now there was a cop’s cop. A real man. A good partner. Did I ever tell you about the time we caught those burglars over on Cicero Avenue?”

  He had. Many times.

  “No, Dad.”

  The old man recounted the story in vivid detail, embellishing it as he had for years. “Them was the days.”

  “It’s different now.”

  The old man waved him off. “You guys today don’t know nothing about police work. We used to pound a beat. Walk off shoe leather.” He slipped another raisin into his mouth and then focused on a scene that was in a place far removed from the walls of his room. “Standing in the rain, the sleet, shivering at all hours of the day and night.” He sucked on the raisin. “Stamping my feet to stay warm, looking for a place to buy coffee.” He chewed the raisin and reached into the bag for another. “I want some coffee.”

  Campello lifted the stainless lid off the dinner tray. The beef Manhattan was untouched, as were the mashed potatoes, green beans and chocolate pudding. The coffee, a favorite dinner beverage of the old man’s, remained covered. Campello removed the lid and tasted. It was cold.

  “You aren’t eating, Dad.”

  The old man looked at him with anger in his eyes. “I ain’t hungry. If you’re hungry, why don’t you eat?”

  “You have to eat.”

  “It ain’t your mom’s cooking.”

  Campello’s mother had died while he was still young and a series of tarts and bimbos had drifted in and out of his life and the old man’s bed in the ensuing years. The latest one, Caroline, had taken off as soon as he became ill. Campello could not remember much about his mother, but he could remember her cooking.

  He was replacing the lid on the coffee when an aide, a young girl in blue scrubs, came into the room looking sheepishly at Campello.

  “He hasn’t eaten,” he said.

  She feigned embarrassment. “Mister Campello. How come you didn’t eat?”

  He fished another raisin from the bag. “What’re you talking about? I ate.”

  She was hesitant to remove the tray. “Do you want me to leave it?”

  “He hasn’t eaten. What do you think?”

  She nodded nervously and turned to leave the room.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the coffee cup. “Bring him a cup of hot coffee.”

  She took the mug and left. He cut the beef into small sections and pierced one with a fork. “Here, Dad. Try this. It looks good.”

  The old man took the meat off the fork and chewed methodically while holding fast to the bag of candy.

  Campello scooped some of the mashed potatoes and passed them to his father. He missed the mark and a spattering of potatoes dribbled down the old man’s chin. “Sorry, Dad.” He dabbed it with a napkin before trying again. He was more successful the second time.

  Outside the room, across the hall, a woman cried out for her mother. Two doors down, a television suddenly blared before going silent.

  “You like it here, Dad?” He stirred the gravy over the beef and cut another small slice.

  The old man glanced around the room. “Yeah. Don’t you?”

  “Sure. It’s nice.”

  “How is Rand?”

  The old man’s awareness came and went like a fading radio station. He wasn’t aware of the shooting and Campello had felt no need to tell him.

  “He’s fine.”

  “You take care of that family of his.”

  He paused to look at the old man, taken aback by the statement.

  “I am, Dad. I saw his wife this morning.”

  “Cops have got to stick together, son.”

  Campello smiled.

  “And watch that partner of yours. Watch him close.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” He passed another bit to the old man. The aide came in with a fresh cup of coffee and handed it to him. He passed the cup to his father.

  “Cops ain’t choirboys,” the old man said, taking the cup from him and echoing the bar conversation of an hour before. “Just watch your back.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Polanski returned after completing his search of Trina’s apartment and was not surprised to find
that his tire had been slashed. Similar incidents had occurred when he was still at the 31st, ranging from busted windshields and damaged tires to the more mundane, like a drawer full of shaving cream.

  He had planned to take the Taurus to check out a lead and then head directly home. But Peter Green would likely be leaving the warehouse soon and Polanski wanted to question the man without the dampening effect of Campello’s sarcastic presence. Rather than use up valuable time in changing the tire, he took the unmarked squad car.

  He headed to Green’s warehouse on the near West Side. The warehouse was actually a series of buildings located on a large lot surrounded by a chain-link fence with a retractable gate at the front entrance. When he reached the facility, he noted that other perimeter gates were still open. A couple of trucks remained at the loading dock as workers drove forklifts or pushed trolleys laden with merchandise.

  He drove through the main gate and followed the signs to the office, a two-story brick building that appeared much older than the others. He parked in a stall labeled VISITOR and went into the building.

  The reception area was stark, but pleasant and functional. A plain but sweeping staircase ascended off to his left, augmented by a bank of three elevators positioned along the wall behind the receptionist’s desk. The floor was tiled in gray slate and a flat-screen TV was anchored to the wall just above the elevators. No art hung on the walls; the room was void of plants.

  The receptionist, an attractive and professional-looking woman, greeted him. “What can I do for you?”

  He showed her his star and asked to speak with Peter Green. The woman lifted her phone’s hand-piece and punched in a number. After speaking in hushed tones, she told Polanski to have a seat and that Mr. Green would be down shortly. Polanski thanked her and sat on an orange vinyl chair opposite the elevators. his vantage point gave him a panoramic view of the lobby.

  He crossed his legs and began thumbing through a magazine, while keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the people drifting in and out. A salesman stopped by the receptionist’s desk to confirm a date he had scheduled with a buyer, and several of the dock workers left manifests with her on their way home. Nothing disconcerting until a tall, swarthy-looking man in his mid thirties came into the office. His physical bearing suggested he was used to getting his way. His demeanor was confident, and he appeared agile and solid despite most of his physique being obscured by a three-quarter-length black leather coat. His thick black hair was lacquered straight back, leaving a single comma to dangle over his forehead.