The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  Campello shot at Lopez with a thumb and forefinger. “Bingo. He didn’t get the Cracker Jack prize he was expecting.”

  “That could explain a lot, Frank. I’ve been wondering why they would want to kill you. Not that I haven’t thought of it myself.”

  Campello snorted. “Yeah, well, this guy had it in for Polanski because Polanski was knocking too close to home on the murder at Navy Pier. Why else would Peter go after him?”

  “Because he’s a concerned citizen and resents Polanski’s attack on two good cops?” Lopez grinned.

  Campello shook his head at the dour attempt at humor. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You’ll need more than you’ve got.”

  “I know. But at least I can hold him and keep him in place while I do some digging. He won’t be out and about trying to kill anyone.”

  “Someone might. If you’re right, Peter wasn’t acting alone. There are others involved.”

  “Whatever he’s doing, it’s got a connection with the club.”

  “Speaking of which…” Lopez reached into one of the drawers and extracted a printout. He slid it across the desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a run-down on the club’s employees and their arrest records. I’ve found an unusually high number of Hispanics working there.”

  “Illegals?”

  Lopez shot him a knowing look. “Your murder victim was an illegal too, right?”

  Campello nodded as he scanned the printout.

  “You think this guy is preying on illegals?” Lopez asked.

  “It’s starting to look like that. What do you think?” He folded the printout and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Lopez shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. It certainly appears like the club is a racket. The employees there are hiding in the open and that gives Peter leverage over them. They set themselves up for that when they sneak across the border. Their need to make a living while remaining anonymous sets them up for every type of exploitation imaginable.”

  “I didn’t see any prostitution arrests on the sheet. Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “I saw that too,” Lopez said. “Not unheard of, but unusual for a place like that. Most of the money the girls make in a place like Silk ’n Boots comes under the table. Selling sex, drugs… it’s part of their world.”

  “Peter is doing something and my first thought was prostitution. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Keep the prostitution thing in your mind. He may be running it under the radar, but let’s focus on the murder.”

  Campello had known Lopez for a long time. Both had started on the department as patrolman in the 31st and there was less than a year’s difference in their length of service. And although Lopez seemed supportive of his efforts against Green, he was also doing something he’d never done before. Advising one of his men to take it easy.

  “I am focused on the murder, Julio. And as much as I don’t like the guy, so is Polanski. Our efforts almost got us killed. But there are some threads here that extend beyond the girl’s murder and I’m following up on them. They could be Peter’s motive.”

  “Follow up on them, but don’t make them the focus of your investigation. A girl was murdered. Find the evidence for that and we’ll charge Peter if he did it. In the meantime, we’ll hold him on suspicion for the attack against Polanski… or you, whatever the case may be.”

  “He’s behind the attack, Julio,” Campello said.

  “You have a suspicion, Frank, but you don’t have the evidence to hold him. find the evidence that connects him to your suspicion and we’ll charge him. But keep Trina’s murder foremost.”

  Lopez’s demeanor had changed. The Greens were a powerful family in Chicago and as a result, wielded a great deal of influence. But that had never stopped Lopez from going after someone before.

  “You OK, Julio?”

  “I’m fine, Frank. Just find me evidence that’ll stand up in court and find it quick. I don’t have to remind you of who Peter’s father is and the effect a false-arrest suit will have on all of us.”

  Campello rose from the chair and stood in the open doorway. “I don’t care about a false-arrest suit, Julio. Peter’s good for it and you know it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Campello went downstairs to the holding area where Longhorse was being processed in preparation for his transfer to the Cook County Jail. Campello’s pistol had been returned, so he left it with the officer in charge of the detention area and waited in an interrogation room. As soon as Longhorse was delivered, he was sat at the table while his right hand was shackled to a ring embedded in the concrete-block wall. The delivering officer asked Campello if he needed anything else. Campello shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on Longhorse.

  “You want anything, Bobby?” Campello was pleasant, concerned. “Soft drink? Coffee?”

  The man rubbed his shackled wrist with the other hand. “Coffee would be nice.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Crème. Two sugars.”

  The uniformed officer left the room to get the coffee and Campello stood beside the door opposite the DJ, leaning against the wall with both hands in his pockets.

  “You’re in a bit of a fix, Bobby.”

  He snorted with a lopsided grin. “I’ve been in them before. I’ll be in them again.”

  “This is a little different, Bobby. You tried to kill two police officers. That’s going to carry some time with it. And the lab is going over the crime scene. There’s enough there to put you away for a very long time.”

  Longhorse said nothing.

  The door opened and the officer brought the coffee into the room. He sat the cup on the table, along with a packet of non-dairy creamer, two packets of sugar, and a stir. As he left, he told Campello to call if he had a problem.

  Longhorse stirred the coffee.

  “Who sent you after Polanski?”

  “Who said anyone did?”

  “Come on, Bobby. You didn’t just decide to go after him with an automatic rifle for no reason.”

  Longhorse sipped the coffee. “Maybe I don’t like cops.” Campello laughed. “No, I think you were put up to it and now you’re going to take the hit for someone else’s idea.” He moved to the table, resting both hands on its steel top. “Did Peter Green put you up to this?”

  Longhorse chuckled.

  “Did Green kill the girl at Navy Pier?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know nothing about no girl at Navy Pier.”

  “How about Rita Chavez?”

  He ignored the question.

  “I know you knew her. She was Peter’s girlfriend and now she’s dead. And guess what? All roads lead to Silk ’n Boots. That means all roads lead to you. Did you kill Rita?”

  His eyes riveted on Campello. “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  Campello put both hands in his pockets. “Not for lack of trying. You shot at me today. You shot at my partner. You have a killer’s heart, Bobby. So it doesn’t make any difference if we put you away for one or three, so long as we put you away.”

  Longhorse brooded over the coffee, ignoring Campello.

  “I’ve read your sheet, Bobby. You’ve been a bad boy since the get go. Three counts of truancy followed by two counts of vandalism. Then there was the burglary charge. You did time for that one. And then you weren’t out two months before you’re back in for armed robbery and assault.” He paused for a reaction but got none. “That old lady must’ve put up a fight, huh? I’ll bet she held onto the purse like an old skinflint. But you showed her, didn’t you? Slashed her with a knife and then beat her to a pulp. But you got the purse, yes sir. You’re a real man, Bobby. Nine dollars fourteen cents and a three-dollar disposable watch. You showed her. That old broad laid in intensive care for six months. She won’t resist you again. No, sir. She knows you mean business when you’re bagging an old lady.”

&nb
sp; “Shut up!”

  “You did time for that one too, didn’t you? Of course, going after a man who’ll fight back is an entirely different story. You only do that when you can shoot from a distance. Men will fight back. They won’t let you take their purse.” Campello chuckled. “And then there was the gig at Silk ’n Boots. You were doing OK, but I’ll bet the dancers there couldn’t stand you.” He lowered his voice. “That means they turned you down, Bobby. They don’t want a wimp like you. Not those girls. They’re used to seeing men come in and out all day. They’re not going to be stuck with a washed-up ex-con who beats old ladies senseless for the coins in their purse. So you decided you’re going to make an impression. Show these girls you can be a man. And now you’re up for attempted murder on two police officers, not to mention all kinds of weapons violations. You see, you aren’t supposed to have a gun, Bobby. Not being an ex-con and all. And automatic weapons are a special no-no.” Campello leaned on the table again, inches from Longhorse’s face. “And I think you killed that girl at the pier – Trina.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “What happened, Bobby? Did she spurn you like all the other women you approach? Is that what happened? And then you decided to hit on Rita, only she told you no too, and then threatened to tell Peter, so you had to kill her too?”

  Longhorse nursed the coffee, keeping his eyes fixated on the tabletop.

  “And here’s the thing, Bobby. Whether you own up to it or not, you won’t be safe anywhere. Not even in jail. You hear me, Bobby? Someone’s going to get to you, even in here.”

  The DJ set the cup on the table. “I want my lawyer, cop.”

  Campello pulled away from the table. “I’ll get you one. But you won’t need him for long. You’re a dead man, Bobby.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Word of the shooting reached Christy by way of the newsroom while she was across town interviewing Alderman Aaron Green. She had asked the penetrating questions for which she was known, but had received the generic prescriptive answers for which he was known. Green made it clear he was pro-police; made it clear the department would do all that was necessary to protect the citizenry and property of Chicago. Each time he answered, his voice rose and his gestures were pronounced. Like the blowhard bag of wind from which the Windy City had derived its name, the alderman played the concerned politician to perfection. The interview had been a waste of time, so she excused herself as soon as she was told about the shooting. By the time she made it to the location, only a few officers and lab techs remained, none of them willing to provide useful information. She knew there would also be no point in going to the 28th. All she would receive there would be the traditional press release which was even less useful than a press conference.

  She called her source within the department, knowing he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with their arrangement. Like most deep throats, he showed signs of unease with the press. It gave him no joy to see information she’d picked up from him one day appear in print the next. From where he stood, their relationship was a one-way street. Still, if he got nothing else from Christy, she gave him an opportunity to strike at the bureaucracy he hated and a chance to covertly right the wrongs he had seen. But she held no illusions and knew the relationship was doomed to end. They all did, sooner or later.

  “What happened today?”

  “The shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone got shot at.” He was deliberately being coy.

  “I heard Polanski was involved.”

  The hesitation was protracted and then ended with a long deliberate sigh. “Yes.”

  “Was someone within the department gunning for him?”

  Another hesitation. “I don’t think so,” he said. “But someone was and they mistakenly went after his partner.”

  “But who else would want him dead? If it wasn’t someone within the 28th, it would almost have to have come from the 31st. Right?”

  “Maybe. Or it could be the case he’s working.”

  “Oh, come on. When has that ever happened? You told me yourself that he was working the murder of a transient. Is that enough to kill for?”

  This time the hesitation was longer, more deliberate. Christy knew that she would lose him if she pulled too hard. Like reeling in a large fish, she would have to show finesse if she wanted to keep him on the line.

  “OK,” she said. “I’ll figure that part out for myself. Just answer me this. Could it have been someone within the department?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he’s still alive.”

  He was not forthcoming for the remainder of the call and she decided that going directly to Polanski would offer an opportunity for information she couldn’t get elsewhere. But it wouldn’t be easy. Any attempts at interviewing him in the office, particularly after a police-action shooting, would be a waste of time. There’d be a rigorous interview with the department’s shooting team and FOP attorneys would be all over the situation, making any chance of getting a formal statement from him as impossible as getting one from the President. She wanted to know what happened and she had an intuition that there was more to the story than a few simple questions on a television news program could reveal. Finding the facts and unearthing the true story from them was a print journalist’s strength, and she intended to exercise it as much as possible.

  After a quick dinner at McDonald’s, she arrived at the Polanski residence in her battered Corolla. Night was falling and lamplight shone from the windows. The house looked as tranquil as the others on the street, but that was an illusion. Peace could not be found in a house where the family was under as much fire as this one.

  Christy hesitated before getting out of the car, uncomfortable about disturbing Polanski at home, yet determined to uncover the detective’s story.

  She ran across the street and along the sidewalk to the front door. The yard was well maintained, and yellow forsythia bushes bloomed along each side of the door.

  She rang the bell and waited. After a few seconds, a young girl with blonde hair and thick glasses opened the door.

  “Hi,” Christy said, smiling broadly. “Is your daddy at home?” The glasses had begun to slide down the girl’s nose under their own weight and she pushed them into place with the back of her hand. “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Could I?”

  The girl nodded enthusiastically. “Sure.” She stepped aside, allowing Christy to enter. “I’ll be right back.”

  The house was simply but tastefully decorated in early American décor with a homey feel. When she was a girl, Christy had imagined living in such a house one day. She had grown up in a home where dysfunction was function, and often used her imagination as a means of escape.

  “Ms. Lee?”

  Polanski was standing on the stairs, his hand resting on the balustrade.

  “Detective,” she said, hearing an apologetic tone in the word, “how are you?”

  He descended the stairs one deliberate step at a time. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to talk to you.”

  “I thought I made it clear at the pier the other day that I have no interest in talking to you.”

  She caught herself ringing her hands. For the first time in her professional life, she was nervous. She had invaded the man’s home and she was ashamed. But she persisted and stood her ground. “I think you should. It’s in your best interest.”

  “And you can decide that for me, Ms. Lee? You can say what is best for me and my family?”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, detective. I know the CPD, and I know that like any other police department, they don’t hold well to traitors.” She winced at the word. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound so judgmental, but that is how you are viewed by the department. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

  He stepped off the bottom step and was standing less than a foot in front of her. “And that’s news?”

>   “Getting shot at is, don’t you think?”

  He stood motionless, studying her with that hardened cop-stare she had come to despise. But then, much to her surprise, it softened, and he said, “If I talk to you now, will you leave me and my family alone?”

  “If you answer all of my questions and if you—”

  “No. This is the one and only time. You agree to this, or I’ll toss your butt out of here.”

  Deciding that one conversation was better than none, she agreed.

  She sat at a circular dining-table with Polanski and his wife. He insisted that Jenny be present because she was his wife and very much a part of his life and the decisions he made. He agreed to no ground rules with the exception that the session not be taped. Christy agreed and opened her pad.

  “How has this been for you?”

  “The trial or the shooting?”

  “The trial.”

  “It’s been hard. I’m ostracized, isolated.” He put a hand on his wife’s. “Jenny is receiving harassing phone calls while I’m away and that’s been hard on her.”

  “And the kids?”

  He shook his head. “Some teasing at school, but nothing beyond that. If there were, I’d have to take action. I think they know that. They don’t want confrontation. They just want me out.”

  “They?”

  He shrugged. “Whoever in the department is behind this.”

  “How do you feel about Campello?”

  Polanski sighed, looking off into the distance. “He’s a good cop. I don’t agree with his stance on this thing with Caine and Dorchester, but I think beneath all the…” he hesitated as though searching for the right word, “stuff, he’s a decent man.”

  “Why don’t you just leave?”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  She was aware of his father and the stigma he had forced on his son, but she decided not to raise that issue and risk alienating him while he was being congenial.

  “Do you think someone was gunning for you today?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “My sources within the department thinks it’s likely,” she lied.