The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  “Who is your source?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, but I think you know I can’t divulge that. You’re in danger, detective.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that frighten you? At the very least, concern you?”

  “I took an oath, Ms. Lee. I swore to uphold the law, regardless of the consequences to me or anyone else.”

  “Is the law more important to you than anything?” His wife had been silent throughout the interview and Christy glanced at her in a very broad and deliberate manner.

  “No, there are things that outweigh my devotion to the law. My devotion to Christ, for example.”

  His answer caught Christy by surprise, causing her to shift uncomfortably in her chair.

  “The law comes from God and applies to all of us. It helps give us a sense of order. Without it, everyone can go his own way, and where would that leave us?”

  His question was not rhetorical. She had no answer to give.

  “If the police won’t stand for what is right, who will? And you’re wrong in your view of the department, Ms. Lee. There are a lot of good men and women who will stand up and be counted. Unfortunately, they’re overshadowed in the media by the ones who won’t.”

  “The media didn’t create this controversy, detective.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But the media will spin things for ratings, and then everyone pays.”

  “So you’re going forward with your testimony against Caine and Dorchester.”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “Alone? Are you prepared for that?”

  “If I have to. But I think when the facts come out, I will not stand alone. I have faith in my brothers and sisters in blue, Ms. Lee.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Campello smiled, glad to see the television set off in his father’s room. Even with his advanced dementia, he might recognize events on the news, particularly if they involved his son, and would be needlessly upset by the callousness of a media whose only concern was getting one notch ahead of the competition. Nevertheless, the TV couldn’t remain off indefinitely. Campello would have to tell him. His father may not remember it, of course, but it would lessen the chance of the surprise and shock that would come with a news report.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, next to his father who sat in his Gerry chair, and handed the old man another bag of chocolate-covered raisins. He took the bag without comment and immediately opened it.

  “Oh, good. It’s been a long time since I had any of these.” He fished one of the treats from the bag and popped it into his mouth.

  “You want to take a walk, Dad?”

  The old man nodded and Campello helped him to stand. Still clutching the bag of candy, the old man held tightly to his son as they left the room.

  He had not wanted to place his father in a long-term care facility, but as his dementia became increasingly problematic, Campello was left with no other viable choice. Fortunately, this facility, so conveniently close to home and work, gave care as good as any within his budget.

  The old man shuffled along the hallway, taking pains with each step. Several residents already in the room reclined in chairs with their feet elevated, while others sat around the various tables assembling puzzles, playing games, or idly staring into space. The television had not been turned on in this room either, but that wasn’t particularly unusual. Most of the residents preferred to sleep, talk with the others, or pursue quieter activities.

  “Here, Dad, let’s have a seat.” He led the old man to a row of chairs that stood under a print of Warner Sallman’s Christ at Heart’s Door. The old man sat, lowering himself into the seat, gripping onto his son with both hands. He clutched the bag of raisins.

  Campello watched the old man slide another raisin into his mouth. The chocolate coating ran along his chin.

  “Here, Dad. Let me get that.” He dabbed at the old man’s chin with a handkerchief.

  His father neither protested nor acknowledged the gesture. Instead, he reached for another raisin.

  “Dad, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  The old man looked at him with eyes that were veiled; windows to the soul no longer. “Is it about your mother?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s about me.”

  “Who are you?”

  This would be a good day for telling him about the shooting. It would not be a good day tomorrow if he couldn’t recall and heard it for the first time.

  “I’m Frank, Dad. I’m your son.”

  The old man gently reared back from him. “My son?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “Dad, I was in a shooting today, but I’m alright.”

  “OK.” He slipped another raisin into his mouth.

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  The old man sucked noisily on the raisin.

  “My partner backed me up.” He could hear the surprise in his voice.

  “He’s supposed to. That’s what partners are for.”

  Lucidity, a valuable commodity for families afflicted by dementia, even if it didn’t come as easily as it went.

  “We got the guy.”

  “Good.”

  “It was an ambush, Dad.”

  The old man shook his head as he fished for another raisin. “That’s not good.”

  Campello was unable to suppress a grin. “No. It’s not.” He shifted in the chair, leaning slightly forward, and began working his hands between his knees. “I was afraid, Dad.”

  “Good cops don’t get scared.”

  “Maybe I’m not a good cop. I was scared.”

  The old man closed the bag of raisins and set them on his lap. He said nothing, but sat quietly as if waiting for his son to drop the other shoe.

  “It’s the second time in a month. The first time happened so fast, it was over in a minute. But this one,” he shook his head, “this one seemed to go on forever.”

  “Where was your partner?” The old man grew more lucid.

  “He came just in time.” He looked at his father. “And you know what, Dad? He wasn’t afraid. It was like he didn’t care if he lived or died. He just… pitched right in and subdued the shooter.”

  “That’s what partners are for.”

  “He’s a turncoat, a traitor, and yet he saved my life.”

  “He’s a good traitor.”

  Campello grinned and looked at the old man. “I didn’t think there was any such thing.”

  “There isn’t.” He waggled his finger. “But this time, he was good.” He glanced nervously about the room. “We better get home. Your mother is going to be mad if we’re late for dinner again.”

  The old man had been swimming above the water, but was beginning to slip beneath the surface again.

  “It was good to see you, Dad.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Christy arrived back at the newsroom late. The cleanup crew was busy emptying trash cans and mopping the tiled floor. Ted Flynn was still at his desk, typing furiously. He glanced up as she entered, a look of dismay on his face.

  “Demille wants you,” he said.

  “Is he happy?” she asked, dropping her purse on the desk.

  He leaned back in his chair and looked her up and down. “You look rough, kid, and that’s saying something. You never look rough.”

  She glanced toward the editor’s office where Clarence Demille sat with his sleeves rolled up, talking on the phone and glaring at her through the open door.

  “Who’s he talking to?” she asked.

  Flynn glanced over his shoulder to the editor’s office. “Now how am I supposed to know that? Listen, I wouldn’t go in there. That piece on the riots was due an hour ago. He had me write it up and that ain’t kosher. He’s mad. If I was you, I’d go on home and deal with it—”

  She marched toward Demille’s office, ignoring her desk-mate’s advice.

  “Hey, you listening to me?” Flynn called.

  “Always.”

  She kno
cked on the open door-frame out of a sense of propriety. Demille pointed to a chair beside his desk.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said into the phone, watching as she sat. “And I don’t care. This thing is a shame on the city and this is a town that’s had more than its share of that.” He rolled his eyes, taking them off her for the first time since she’d returned to the office.

  She crossed her legs, hoping they would put the man in a better frame of mind when he tore into her. Missing deadlines wasn’t something he took lightly. It was an irresponsible action and required a major shift of manpower.

  “Listen,” he said in the phone, “one of my do-nothing reporters just came in. I’ll get back with you.” He paused. “Yeah. I’m going to be here all night, apparently, so I’ll call you back.” He nodded his head. “Right. Talk to you then.” He hung up.

  “Listen, Clarence, I—”

  “Don’t, Christy.” He massaged his forehead with the fingers of one hand. “I waited as long as I could. I gave the story to Flynn.”

  “I know and I’m sorry. But—”

  “But what, Christy? Is this where you tell me that your nose for news supersedes your obligation to follow orders? Or that I should give you free rein because I was your professor in journalism school and I know what a free spirit you are?”

  She fidgeted with her watch band and gave him a sheepish grin. “I—”

  “Or do you tell me that the real story isn’t the riots or the millions of dollars in damage? No, wait, let me guess, the true story is the rogue cop who is testifying on two other cops that we reported about several weeks ago and that no other media outlet in this city still considers news. Is that what you were going to say?”

  “This guy is an enigma, Clarence. He’s either the most honest cop in America or he’s as dirty as the rest of them and he’s trying to cover his tracks.”

  He groaned and tossed her a telephone message pad. “Take a look at that.”

  She pulled it off the desk and read it.

  “There were two uprisings in the suburbs last night,” he said, pacing the room. “Elk Grove Village. Arlington Heights. A car overturned, businesses looted, a truck driven through a convenience mart.”

  “Clarence, I—”

  He waved her off. “Don’t, Christy. Don’t even go there.” He sighed and lowered his voice, leaning over her, fixing his eyes on her. “I thought you were the best student I ever had. Your ability to see things as they were and then root out the story from the fluff was some of the best natural talent I’ve ever seen, and I’ve done this job for forty years. But your prejudices are blinding you. I gave you the city beat over other, more seasoned reporters because I thought… no, I knew you could handle it. They had the connections and the clout to ferret out the facts, but you had the nose,” he tapped his nose with his index finger, “and that’s something I can’t buy. I can easily find someone who’s connected. But natural talent like yours…” He waved her off in disgust and resumed pacing the room.

  “If you think I have this talent, why aren’t you supporting me?”

  He tapped the message pad that was still in her hand. “Because you’re not using it. You’re tossing everything to the wind because of your anger with the cops. It distorts everything you do, Christy. You’re looking at the world through colored lenses and it’s keeping you from seeing the truth.”

  “Clarence, I interviewed Polanski at his home last night.”

  “So what?” His voice was loud, shrill. The cleaning crew began looking toward his office. “While you were talking to him, the city burned. You and Nero have something in common.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “None of this is fair, darling. It isn’t fair that God blessed you with ability and left someone like…” he turned toward the news room, searching for a suitable foil, “like… Ted Flynn with nothing. That guy couldn’t report on his own feet and get it right. But he works. He takes instruction. He follows through.” He leaned across the corner of his desk until he was within inches of her face. “He follows orders.”

  She massaged the fatigue from her eyes. “OK, Clarence. What do you want me to do?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I want you to be on the street tonight, in the middle of the mayhem, getting some solid man-on-the-street stories. our readers need to feel,” he clenched his fist, emphasizing his point, “how these riots are affecting the average people.”

  “And what about Polanski?”

  “What about him?”

  “Nothing, I guess.” She stood. “Anything else?”

  “Be safe. You aren’t high on the list with the cops. If you get in a jam, you’ll be the last person they’ll want to save.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Riots erupted again later that evening in the corridor served by the officers of the 31st, with an arson surfacing for the first time. Several buildings were torched, the fire racing through the block. Firefighters were unable to access the nearest hydrants because of illegally parked cars and had to move farther down the street. The delay cost them time which led to significant damage to the businesses in the area and to the local community. Early estimates put the cost in millions of dollars. One citizen was severely burned and another had to be treated for smoke inhalation. Four officers were seriously hurt in the melee, and dozens of arrests were made. The CPD turned out in force, in numbers larger than since the unrest began, but still they could not seem to gain the upper hand. Aaron Green deplored the uprisings in a brief press conference the following morning, saying he would meet with departmental and civic leaders in the afternoon in an attempt to hammer out a solution. That was the public face of it. The private one looked very different.

  He arranged an emergency meeting with Bureau of Detectives Chief Roger Hanroty and Deputy Superintendent Franklin Mayron. In his years as an alderman, Aaron Green had been privy to the career rise of many in the department’s senior management and had often lent a helpful hand to many of them as well. His long involvement in the CPD had given him a knowledge base that exceeded that of most of the department’s leadership. He knew where the skeletons were hidden, along with the interpersonal rivalries and jealousies that often arise when a group of ambitious and highly motivated people are thrown together. It was no secret to anyone, though, that Hanroty and Mayron despised each other and had come to an uneasy truce many years ago. Aaron’s awareness of their rivalry gave him power, which is coin in the bank to a politician.

  He met with them to discuss tactics on controlling the uprising. They had nothing to offer not already being done, and he feigned interest in their discussion while lauding their efforts. But Peter had been arrested, and Aaron’s chief goal in asking for the meeting was to chide the brass on arresting his son and get all charges dropped. An attorney in his own right, the alderman had reviewed the evidence against his son and determined it was virtually non-existent. But his primary impetus in getting the charges dropped had come from Paulie Vincent and Anthony Delgado. Their mutual business interests would not tolerate Peter’s persistent screw-ups. Although Aaron was an alderman, the power was wielded by Vincent.

  During his discussion with Hanroty and Mayron, Aaron learned that the shooter in the attack on Polanski had also attacked Polanski’s partner, Frank Campello. The detectives believed the man was hired for the task, and were looking hard at Peter. But when Aaron learned that Longhorse was denying all allegations and was refusing to implicate Peter, the alderman insisted that the departmental chiefs release his son, pending any additional charges. Mayron voiced his view that Peter should remain incarcerated, at least for forty-eight hours, but Hanroty, true to form, went against Mayron’s position. Although Mayron outranked Hanroty, he didn’t outrank Aaron Green, and the alderman used the division between the two men to secure the release of his son. Since no charges had been filed, none were required to be dropped and Peter was released.

  By the time Aaron returned to his office, Peter was waiting.

  “Hi, Dad.”


  Aaron set his briefcase on the desk and then slapped his son with all the force he could muster. Peter recoiled, with his hand to his face and shock in his eyes.

  “You are destroying everything I’ve managed to build!”

  “I’m not doing—”

  “Shut up! I’m tired of your excuses. Sick of playing nursemaid to you. When are you going to grow up, Peter?”

  He lowered his hand. “I did grow up, Dad. Or haven’t you been home two nights in a row often enough to tell?”

  Aaron struck Peter again, harder, driving him against the wall. “Everything I’ve done has been for you! The late-night meetings, the years spent building the business, the times I’ve gotten into the sewer and played politics… it’s all been for you.” He seized his son by the lapels and shoved him onto the sofa. “Did you stage an ambush against that cop?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy! I’m fighting a powerful impulse to hand you over to them.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “What about that girl at the pier?”

  “What? I haven’t killed anyone! You can ask Tony.”

  Aaron leaned to within a few inches of his son’s face. “I did ask him. And you know what? He thinks you probably did it.”

  Peter shifted on the sofa to distance himself from Aaron. “I can’t help what he thinks, can I?”

  “Did you do it, boy? Did you?”

  “I’ve already said no. What else can I say?”

  His son’s ability to lie with a straight face had always troubled Aaron.

  “Why do the police think you did?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask them?”

  The flippant answer angered him and he drew back to strike his son again, but stopped when Peter withdrew into a fetal position with his hands covering his head.

  Aaron cursed and withdrew his hand. He bolted off the sofa to fix a scotch and soda. Carrying it back, he dropped himself next to Peter.

  “I’ve got Raoul on it.”

  “What does he say?”

  He lifted the drink. “I haven’t talked to him yet.” He sipped the scotch and soda. “But I will.”