by Thomas Laird
“Nah, you don’t. We’re all done. Unless you got something else you want to tell me.”
I hand him my card.
“You ever read Crime and Punishment, Frank?”
“No. I never.”
“It’s about a kid, a college punk, who axe murders this old pawnbroker and her half-sister. He’s looking good for the deed, too. No witnesses, none of the fancy evidence shit we use today. I mean this kid is free. Except for one item. You know what screws him, finally, Frank?”
He shakes his head. His forehead is really wet, now.
“His conscience. Just his own conscience. Ain’t that a bitch, Frank? Ain’t it?”
I laugh, and then I rise. I motion to the door.
“You’re outta here, partner,” I tell him.
He gets up and slowly shuffles to the door.
“You know, Frank,” I add just as he’s about to depart. “You know, a guy like O’Connor could afford to buy you, he could afford to pay for a hit on the old lady. Easy. Just as easy, he could afford to get rid of loose ends, say, if he got nervous about those loose ends.”
Swanson turns and looks at me. I’m not smiling anymore. He has his eyes wide open, just before he turns and walks away.
I read a lot in Vietnam, whenever I had the opportunity. Whenever I had R and R lined up, I just stayed on base. I was sending money back home from the War, and I didn’t spend cash on booze or broads or drugs. We could get good stuff in-country, when we weren’t out on ops or crossing borders we weren’t supposed to cross. I read Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and Flaubert and a lot of American authors I avoided reading when I was in school. I even read Shakespeare and Milton. But most of all I kept rereading The Odyssey. I read about Homer’s epic, also. I read how it was done orally, at first, because there was no recorded writing until later. The story was told and retold over and over so often that these “bards” memorized every line.
If it hadn’t been for writing, though, we never would have seen The Odyssey or The Iliad or a lot of other classic stuff.
Yeah, all the literature I’ve been exposed to was read largely on my own. Boredom started me reading, but it became fascinating, later on, especially when I was in combat. Fascinating because the writing, the words, was so very different from my landscape, from my personal environment, when I was in combat.
There was savagery in those stories, but it was framed in poetry. There was no such poetry in the experiences I had. I guess war is a typical topic in literature. It’s got that grandiose conflict in it that is the stuff of storytelling. But I never had time to notice the sweep and grandeur of the terror I was living in a battle or in a firefight. There was only an immense desire for survival, nothing more. Politics and poetry were nowhere present, nor was drama or insight or irony—any of those literary terms they teach you in a classroom.
The Odyssey struck me differently than any war story or war novel I’ve ever come across. Odysseus knew firsthand about death because the gods stuck death in his face and those gods wouldn’t let him look away. They kept messing with him for twenty years until they let him go home, and then there was more killing to deal with. It never stopped. Only the prophesy of that blind guy, Tiresias, told Odysseus that he would croak peacefully, that he’d go out like a gentle tide when he was very, very old.
I don’t know if I’ll go gently into that splendid evening. I survived two tours in Vietnam, with a few nicks to remind me of my time there. So I came back home to continue to deal with the Reaper. My job is to catch those people who would bring death on before its natural approach. Like Homer’s guy, it looks like God or the gods of Odysseus are sticking it in my face and they simply won’t let me look the other way.
22
The workload is catching up to me. I never realized how much Lila took off my shoulders until I had to handle all the details by myself. She was far better at getting written reports on paper than I am, and I used to rely heavily on her to help me do my own paperwork.
But the biggest burden is still Franklin Toliver. He won’t go away even though there have been no new sightings of him in weeks—maybe it’s months, by now.
It’s late September, but the heat holds on, climate-wise, I mean. This summer won’t surrender. On and on it goes, and when the humidity lingers with the high temperatures, the murder toll rises. We know that the full moon is a legend, but the heat is truly a decent predictor of human behavior when it comes to offing your fellow man. The domestics pile up high when it’s this hot. Even air conditioning doesn’t put a dent on the mayhem. The gangs are out on the streets along with pissed off husbands and wives, angry brothers and sisters, really hacked boyfriends and girlfriends. The slightest provocation sets them off.
Add that list of potential homicides to the real ones we’re already dealing with. Summer is our busy season, like Christmas is for the retailers. We be murders. Except that we don’t discount our goodies, in the Homicide Division. Life comes at one set rate, pretty much. At least it does in my eyes.
It seems remote, by now, that there’s any chance Franklin has shacked up in his mommy’s house. The State cops would not have let it happen. Their reputation is pretty solid when it comes to being uncorrupted. There are crooked five-ohs wherever you look, but the State Police are regarded as pretty much on the up and up. We’re the ones with the rep for taking money to look the other way. There’s a well-known story about why bars stay open in Chicago. The Captain gets his, the Lieutenant gets his, and the Sergeant in the bar’s Area gets his—they all get theirs or the tavern gets closed. There’s truth to the fable because I’ve seen the scenario unfold before my very eyes. A lot of cops are taking money. The story from Serpico, the book and the flick, is not fictional throughout the nation. It makes this job even more difficult when the public doesn’t trust you, and finding killers who plan their crimes is made much more unlikely when nobody talks to you because they’re not sure if you’re connected or not.
I truly believe the reason that Jesus Christ got whacked on Calvary was because he was not connected. If he’d run with a crew, no one could’ve touched Him. You cannot fuck with made men unless you yourself have a death wish. Jesus was just a carpenter from Nazareth. He didn’t even have a union behind him, so who spoke for Him in front of Pontius Pilate? Nobody piped up, as I recall the story. They sat back and asked for the life of that asshole thief, instead. And Christ winds up getting literally nailed, and look how jolly the world is today. If He really delivered us from sin, you have to wonder what deliverance really is.
I get all these fever-y little thoughts when I think about Toliver still being out on the streets. I feel helpless, even with all the resources the CPD has. We’re actually sharing information with the FBI, on this case, and it has still got us exactly nowhere.
And I keep rattling the same cages over and over with no apparent results. I call the Lieutenant Governor about twice a week to see if he’s made any contact, and I get his assistant, a snotty little punk who came from the Chicago Machine politics. I’d like to talk to him face to face, someday, but it’s probably better that I don’t. He’s connected, you understand. He’s not in the Mob, at least not in the Sicilian crew. He’s in the post-Boss gang that has ruled Chicago politics as well as a good chunk of the funny business occurring in the State Capitol. So he gets to be snotty with Homicide detectives, like me.
Nothing on the Sharon O’Connor front, either. I’ve closed several slammer homicides in the last couple weeks, but a stiff could’ve closed those cases. All of them were domestics, all had witnesses who were tickled to death to send Uncle Artie or Whoever to the slammer for popping Aunt Fucking Frieda over the nob with a skillet or a ball bat. Real Sherlock Holmes stuff.
I’m visiting Lila several times a week. She doesn’t need my help. She pretty much is getting ready to come back to work, or at least she seems ready physically. Mentally, I’m not so sure.
I’m sitting on her couch at her apartment. The extra room is still unoccupied since the flight attendant exited
. Lila’s lived alone now for a while.
“When’s he going to release you?” I ask her.
“Maybe in a couple weeks,” she says.
She’s cut her hair short again and she’s lost a lot of weight and she wasn’t heavy in the first place.
“Maybe?” I ask.
“I still don’t have much endurance, Danny. The blood loss took a lot out of me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it did.”
“Thanks for the backup,” she snorts.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I know you were hurting. I just miss you, is all.”
“How can you miss me? You’re over here two or three times a week.”
“I miss you on the job. Things are piling up.”
“They always do in the heat, Daniel.”
She rarely calls me that. No one does, except for Lila when she’s poking at me.
Her apartment is the usual military immaculate. She’s got the energy to keep it spotless, it appears. I know she can’t pay for a maid on a detective’s pay. My place is not nearly as GI as hers. I’ll bet she does the corners with a toothbrush.
“I just miss you. If I’m coming over too much, then I’ll stop.”
She frowns. It makes her pale face look even whiter. There is not much color at her cheeks—or anywhere else. Only her gorgeous eyes remain as alive as I remembered them.
“Don’t talk like that. You know I want you to come over here. Christ, you’re talking like a jilted high school kid.”
“I feel jilted.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I can’t talk about that, right now, Danny.”
She means my offer to have her move in with me.
“Let’s talk about Kelly,” she says. Suddenly, a slight blush appears at her cheeks.
“She’s fighting with Mike,” I reply.
“You didn’t think they’d be happy forever after, did you?”
“I was hoping. She has some endless happiness coming to her.”
“It doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
We sit in silence. She’s in her recliner, across from me, and white light is pouring in from her western-facing windows. She has central air, of course, but you can feel how torrid it must be outside just by seeing the color of the sunlight.
“Anything new on the big two fronts?” she asks.
“Toliver is still subterranean. I think O’Connor did his wife or paid someone to do her. I think the doorman was crapped out and the hitter got inside when he was z-ing, or I think old Frank Swanson was paid off to keep his mouth shut. I think the latter scenario is much more likely. Frank needs the money and Frank is rightly frightened of Bill O’Connor.”
“What’s his motive?” Lila asks. She’s perked up, now that I’m talking about work.
“What are the usuals? I’m thinking he took out a big policy, but so what? He’s fucking rich anyway. He’s worth a half billion, our people tell me. You know, our bean counters. Then there’s the other woman.”
“Is there another?” she asks. She’s sitting up straight, now.
“I don’t know, but I’m making inquiries. It’s tough to get intell on him because he makes all his employees sign no-disclosure documents, and Mr. O’Connor has only the best attorneys.”
“Of course. So?”
“So I’m going to find out, but like I say, it might come hard, digging into his personal life. He hasn’t got where he is by being lazy about his private shit. The papers would love to catch big Bill with his peepee in the wrong outlet. They haven’t yet. Not even the rag mags and the scandal sheets. He’s sued those guys three times and walked away with millions. They don’t want to fuck with big Bill because he sues and wins. There are other clowns out there who love the pub no matter what it’s saying or smearing them with.”
“He’s not like all the others, though.”
“No, Lila. He’s what they used to call discreet. Maybe it’s because he’s a Catholic, like me. And Irish and old fucking fashioned.”
“I wonder if he had a pre-nuptial agreement with Sharon,” she ponders.
“He did. I checked with his lawyers, and they were very insulted-sounding when I asked them.”
“What did she have?”
“Nothing. She was blue collar. She worked as an office assistant for him when he began to get lucky and made his big breakout on the tube.”
Lila pulls the recliner back so that her legs are elevated. She leans back and clasps her fingers together.
“Are you tired? I’ll go, if you’re pooped.”
“I’m pooped, but don’t go.”
“All right, but let me know when you’ve had enough of me.”
“You really won’t let anyone close. Don’t you know that, Danny? Your daughter knows it. Even though you’re getting better, you still won’t really open up. And that’s what scares me about you, about us. Haven’t you figured that out, yet?”
“I told you I loved you. That isn’t open, for crissake?”
“I know you love me. But you won’t let me get close. You didn’t let Mary get close, either, did—“
“I don’t want to go there, Lila….I better get going. I have to go on shift at six tonight.”
She watches me rise.
“Okay. But what about O’Connor? What’s his motive? No monetary gain, so why would he zip her? He could divorce Sharon and she winds up with shit. Why kill her?”
“Maybe he thought she needed killing. Maybe she was cheating on him. Maybe she wouldn’t leave big Bill, and her lover boy aced her. Crime of passion. You know, they still do happen.”
“Yeah, I guess they do.”
“I gotta go.”
“I’ll see you later. Tell Kelly not to go nuts over a fight with her guy. It’ll pass.”
“You think?”
“They always do,” Lila insists.
“Not with me. People usually tend to stay pissed at me. I’ll talk to you later.”
She leans back in her chair. Her face has gone pale again. I open the door and I’m out in the hall.
Lila’s not going to be back for another month to six weeks. Her doctor doesn’t like something about her blood count. And hearing that news from her on the phone makes me frightened for her. I thought she’d be back at work with me in just a few weeks, and now it looks more like months, or even longer than that.
So my Captain lends me a partner, temporarily. His name is Justin Grant. Justin is a tall black officer who’s been in Homicide just six months. But he’s known as a dude on the fast track.
“You have trouble partnering with a black man?”
I look at him in the locker room, standing next to me as I’m dressing to go on shift. I wear a navy sport coat a lot of the time, but I wear jeans coming to and leaving from work. I don’t wear a tie unless there’s a directive from the boss, and he’s usually laid back about our attire. I only wear the tie when I go to court, pretty much.
“You have trouble with a cracker?” I counter.
He smiles.
“It pays to ask questions first,” he beams. His teeth are gleaming white, long, and perfect. I wouldn’t want the fucker to bite me.
“I got no Aryan tear drops on my cheeks. I fought with lots of African Americans, in the day. Some of my best friends aren’t black. And some of my best friends aren’t white or Hispanic, either. In fact, I’m just pretty fucking short on friends.”
He laughs again, good-naturedly. I’m softening on Justin, I think. I don’t blame him for sizing me up. There aren’t many black Homicides, and there’s the usual reason for that fact, too.
“I think we can get along,” Justin smiles again.
He’s dressed in beautiful threads. Sharkskin suit, white shirt, gray, striped tie. Very professional-looking.
“Franklin Toliver is our main entrée, no?” he asks.
“And Bill O’Connor,” I add.
“You mean whoever did his wife?”
I look at h
im and wait.
“You think—“
“Could possibly be.”
This time I smile back at Justin Grant. He’s a handsome young man in his early thirties. I’m sure that women find him very attractive. I’ll bet Lila would be interested in him, even though she’s ten years older than he is. Any woman would find him appealing, I’d guess. He has a natural charm about him, after we got through the initial racial introductions.
“Justin?”
“Yes?”
“Do people who murder other people really irritate you? Do they really piss you off?”
“Without a doubt, they do.”
“Welcome to Homicide.”
23
We invite Mr. William O’Connor and his attorneys (two) downtown for an informal chat. Surprisingly, he agrees, and we meet in an interrogation room down the hall because my tiny office won’t accommodate all five of us—Justin is with me now, too, naturally.
The attorneys position themselves on either flank of big Bill, who’s sporting a canary yellow blazer and an aqua blue silk tie. The lawyers are dressed in more mute colors, brown and navy. They don’t say anything after I thank O’Connor personally for his time.
“It’s no problem. Anything I can do to help.”
He beams as if he’s come from a million dollar signing for an autobiography to be published by Doubleday—which he indeed has just accomplished a few hours ago, Justin informs me. The Doubleday people came to Chicago to ink him, which is an unusual setup in publishing, according to my new partner. Usually the deals are done in NYC.
“I’ve talked to Frank Swanson,” I tell him.
He looks at me quizzically.
“Your doorman. Frank? Remember him?”
“Oh! Sure, I had a brain lock there for a moment. I’m not very good with names.”
Justin sits at the end of the rectangular table, opposite from me. That way, we have them flanked. Justin was not in the military. He came to the police directly from college at DePaul University in the Loop. I’m wondering if he’s a Catholic, coming out of that Jesuit institution.
