by Lee Strobel
The officer reached up to depress the button on his radio mic/receiver, which was pinned just below his shoulder. “Suspect wearing all black; five–nine or five–ten, one eighty.”
“Roger that.” A few moments later the radio squawked: “All units: witness reports suspect may have gotten on a motorcycle just east of McGuthrie Park, northbound on Highland.”
Immediately, the helicopter banked and churned east as the undulating sirens of two ambulances could be heard approaching down Antonio from the north. Meanwhile, two officers emerged from Nikki’s with their arms around the traumatized girls, ushering them into a patrol car for a trip to the station where they could be reunited with their parents.
“Nobody else in there,” one cop called over.
The initial officer turned to Phillip. “You said there was a cook inside, right?”
“Yeah, there was someone in the back, making fries. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“No description at all?”
“Couldn’t really see him — just his shoulders and arms.”
Taylor heard the door of the squad car shutting and looked over to see a cop unrolling yellow crime scene tape across the restaurant’s entrance.
“We need to get you to the station to give a formal statement,” the cop told Taylor.
By this point, squad cars from the Diamond Point police, the county sheriff’s department, and two adjacent municipalities were being directed toward the area. The copter made sweeps over the streets just east of the crime scene, scouring the roads for anything suspicious, especially a motorcycle.
And that’s when they saw him: a figure dressed in dark clothes and riding a cycle — it looked like a 250 or 350 cc bike from the copter’s vantage point — headed east on Ridgetrail Avenue in a business district with small shops, stores, and restaurants fronting both sides of the street.
As the copter swooped in for a closer look, the rider, hearing the noise but not looking up, hunched over and took off at a high speed, swerving in and out of traffic.
“That’s him,” said copilot Richard Drane. He quickly radioed the cyclist’s location. There were a couple of squad cars about half a mile away, their lights and sirens scattering cars as they headed for the scene but the congested traffic nevertheless hindered their progress.
The copter kept the cyclist in view, trailing at a comfortable distance. Drane scrutinized the suspect through binoculars. An ABC traffic copter cautiously approached from the south, but Drane warned it off. “We don’t need the media mucking this up,” he snarled.
The biker approached a red light, where cars were backed up for half a block, but he scooted along the fringe of the road, slowed briefly to allow a couple of cars to cross in front of him, and then shot through the intersection against the light. He darted down two more blocks, using the same maneuver to slip through two more intersections.
“Uh–oh,” Drane said.
Looking ahead a few blocks, he could see where the biker was headed: Diamond Point Mall, a bustling shopping mecca with over a million and a half square feet of retail space. Its parking lot, ringed by restaurants, was crowded with cars as people were arriving for dinner and shopping after a long week at work.
Sure enough, as he approached the mall, the biker slowed and then pulled into a five–story cement parking structure — and out of the helicopter’s line of vision.
“We’ve lost visual,” Drane radioed.
Squad cars were still quite a distance away; though there was a police substation at the mall, it was located on the far side of the shopping center. There were a dozen exits leading from the garage into the mall and the surrounding parking lot — most of them shielded from the copter’s view by overhangs. The mall itself had scores of exits.
“We’re not gonna be able to seal the place fast enough,” Drane said to the pilot. “By the time we get enough manpower over here, he’ll be long gone.”
The copter continued to hover, patiently searching for any sign of the biker leaving the parking facility. They never saw him again.
A 250cc Kawasaki cycle, dark red with a black sports faring, was later found abandoned on the first floor of the garage. When he was contacted, the bike’s owner wasn’t even aware that it had been stolen from the breezeway of his house in Lake Zurich.
II
Unaccustomed to having a double homicide in their generally quiet jurisdiction, Diamond Point police turned over the investigation to the Cook County sheriff’s department, which had more manpower as well as experience.
Homicide detectives Mark Bekins and Sarah Crowley, given charge of the case, were questioning the still–shaken Phillip Taylor in a borrowed office at the local department, a mile and a quarter from the scene of the killings. For the fifth time by Phillip’s count, they quizzed him on details of the crime.
No, I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a black ski mask with some sort of logo on the front. Not sure what it was — it was gold and circular or octagon shaped … Height? About five–nine or five–ten. Weight, maybe one hundred eighty pounds … Black jeans, black shoes, black windbreaker over a dark T–shirt. Latex gloves … The gun was silver, a revolver about the size of a.32, though it sounded louder than that — probably a.38 … No accent I could make out … No accomplices that I saw. Didn’t see a getaway vehicle … He fled out the east entrance … No, he didn’t ask for our wallets.
Phillip had experienced a lot during his years with the Navy, including a few horrific on–ship accidents that disabled young sailors. But he had never stood beside a friend as his life was violently snuffed. He had never had an erratic killer aim a loaded gun point–blank at his chest. And he had never been so sure he was about to meet his Maker.
“We’re interested in the cook,” Bekins was saying. “He seems to have fled. I’m betting there’s a connection. Maybe the killer used to work there and they conspired together. You never saw the cook’s face?”
“No, just a figure working back there, wearing a white apron, I think.”
“Back to our suspect. What do you think prompted him to shoot the cashier?”
“I don’t know. He was impatient, he was demanding money, and this Nick guy just froze.”
“Do you think the suspect was on drugs?”
“He seemed hyped up, real antsy, but drugs? He might have been. I’m not sure.”
“And your friend — Mr. O’Sullivan — how did he get shot? Did he make a sudden move or attempt to subdue the suspect?”
“No. He might have flinched maybe — that’s all it took.”
Sarah Crowley, wound tight and all–business, a single mother of two who was known as one of the toughest cops in her unit, spoke up.
“Mr. O’Sullivan was a defense attorney. Maybe the shooter recognized him after he shot Mr. Gamos. Maybe he was a former client or friend of a client and was afraid that his mannerisms or voice would give him away, so he decided to get rid of him.”
Phillip looked down at his paper cup of muddy coffee. “That could be. It’s a theory, anyway.”
Bekins seemed to like the hypothesis. “Let’s contact his secretary and see what she thinks. Maybe she’ll recognize the MO. We’ll need a list of his clients, former and current.”
Phillip leaned back against the wall, the front two legs of his wooden chair lifting off the ground. He ran a hand through his gray bristly hair.
“Could someone call the church and let them know that I won’t be leading my group tonight?” he asked. “They’re going to be wondering why I never showed up.”
“Sure,” said Bekins. “And we’ll have someone drive you home. You have someone to be there with you? Better not to be alone.”
“I’ve called my daughter.”
Bekins, whose slight built didn’t hint of his accomplishments in tae kwon do, put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to put a squad outside your house tonight.”
“Why? You think I’ve done something wrong?”
“No, nothing like that. I
just figure this case will get a lot of media heat because of the O’Sullivan connection. The papers are going to publish your name. Everyone, including the shooter, will know who you are. You’re the best witness we’ve got; it’s unlikely but conceivable he would want to come after you.”
“So for now,” added Crowley, “we’ll have a squad at your place. But until we find this guy, you’d be smart to stay at a friend or relative’s house.”
Phillip didn’t like it, but their plan made sense. “No leads in finding him yet?”
“We’ve got virtually the entire force looking for him,” said Bekins, crossing his arms across his chest. “He drove into that parking garage and disappeared. Who knows? He might have had an accomplice waiting there and they calmly drove away before we were able to secure the scene. There were cars and trucks all over the place. There are a thousand ways he could have slipped out.”
Phillip shook his head. “I can’t believe he just shot Tom — for no reason.”
III
At 6:28 p.m., a “Breaking News Alert” from the Examiner flashed to mobile phones and computers throughout the Chicago area: “Thomas R. O’Sullivan III, youngest member of once–powerful Illinois political family, among two slain in Diamond Point holdup. Lone gunman sought. Click on the Examiner website for developing details.”
The news alert chirped Reese McKelvie’s phone as he was walking up a long flight of stairs to a restaurant in suburban Morton Grove, where he was planning to meet some supporters for a strategy discussion over filet mignon and lobster tails. At first, he was going to ignore it; he received so many emails that he had been trying to break the habit of immediately responding to every one as it came in. He was starting to feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
But his curiosity won out. He stopped on the top step, withdrew the phone from his pocket, clicked on his email — and his eyebrows shot up and his eyes blinked in disbelief at the news alert. Then he frowned and cocked his head as he studied the phone, as if trying to will more information to emerge.
“What is it?” asked his advisor, Ken Underwood.
A small smile formed on McKelvie’s lips as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Then, a full grin. “Just a fortuitous coincidence,” he said lightly.
Underwood pulled open the restaurant door and the two of them strode inside. He didn’t catch the remark that McKelvie muttered under his breath: “I hope.”
IV
The news found its way to Art Bullock as he was driving home from the church after a ten–hour workday. It was the lead story on WGN radio’s 7:00 p.m. broadcast: “Police in suburban Diamond Point are hunting for the lone bandit who shot to death the owner of a hot dog stand and a customer, who happened to be the member of a formerly powerful Illinois political family.”
The name of his suburb piqued Art’s curiosity; he reached over to turn up the volume.
“Killed were Thomas O’Sullivan III, a defense attorney and son of former political powerhouse Thomas O’Sullivan, Jr., who died a few years ago in the midst of a corruption investigation, and Nick Gamos, owner of Nikki’s Hot Dog Stand at 2392 Hightower Road. The gunman failed to get any money from the failed heist; he escaped on a motorcycle and was last seen entering the parking garage at Diamond Point Mall. Stay tuned for further details.”
Art’s car almost swerved into oncoming traffic; he ignored the angry honks and changed lanes, then turned right onto a quiet tree–lined road and parked. As he was frantically trying to process what had happened, his cell phone rang.
“Art, it’s Rick Guthrie at the church. We got a call that Phillip Taylor was in a restaurant where there was a shootout and two people were killed.”
“At Nikki’s?”
“That’s right. You’ve heard?”
“Just caught it on the radio. Is Phillip all right?”
“Yeah, he’s okay.”
“Do me a favor,” Art said. “Get me his address.”
Thirty minutes later, Art was sitting across from Phillip in his living room, while Phillip’s daughter unpacked her suitcase in one of the small home’s two bedrooms. Phillip was emotionally exhausted, his eyes blood–shot from the tears he scrupulously avoided anyone seeing him shed.
The long pauses in their conversation were natural and quietly soothing. They didn’t discuss the robbery when Art first arrived; instead, Art was concerned about how Phillip was faring.
The disparity was obvious between Phillip’s unconvincing words — “I’m doing all right” — and the sadness and despair on his face. They sat for the longest time, until his daughter’s voice called from the kitchen: “Coffee?”
They both declined. A few moments later, Sheila walked in, holding her own steaming cup, and claimed a seat on the couch. Art had only met her once before, briefly, years earlier. She was in her mid–thirties now, her hair, dark with premature gray streaks, was pulled back into a hastily created ponytail.
“How well did you know the guy who was killed?” she asked her father.
Phillip leaned back and sunk into the soft cushion of the chair. “Not long, but we really connected. Tom’s … he was a great guy. It’s inconceivable that he’s gone — suddenly, just like that. We had just been joking, ordering hot dogs, and then — this.”
There was more silence, until Phillip spoke again. “Art, did Tom happen to set up an appointment with you? He was the guy I told you about.”
“Yeah, he came into the office. He was an easy guy to like. I can see why you two connected.”
“Did he discuss what was weighing on him? There were some personal matters that were really troubling him, stuff that he said he couldn’t trust to anyone but a pastor. Were you able to help him?”
“I think it helped to get it off his chest, that’s for sure. But he hadn’t figured out a way to resolve things yet.”
“What was eating at him?”
“Sorry, Phillip, he made it clear that I should always keep it confidential, and I need to abide by that, even now. His death doesn’t release me from my commitment to secrecy.”
“I understand.”
“I wish I could talk about it. It’s given me some sleepless nights.” “Is there anyone at all who you can disclose it to and maybe get some advice?”
“Not without violating my word and my pastoral code. The only people I could ethically discuss it with would be those who were directly involved in the incident he told me about.”
With that, Art paused. His own words caught him off guard; this was a scenario he hadn’t considered before.
“I see,” said Phillip. “That way you wouldn’t be disclosing anything new to them.”
“That’s right.” Art was thinking through the implications as he spoke. “They already know what happened.”
“But if they already know what happened, would it make any difference to talk to them about it?”
Suddenly, for the first time, the path ahead became clear to Bullock. “It might be the very best thing I could do,” he said.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
I
“¡Policía! ¡Abra la puerta!”
Inside, a woman shrieked. “¡Dios mio!” the cops could hear her exclaim.
Homicide detective Mark Bekins, his gun unholstered, pounded again with his fist on the apartment door. “¡Abra la puerta, ahora!” he shouted. “Open the door — now!”
His partner, Sarah Crowley, standing off to his left and gripping her.38 revolver, put her hand on his back, as if to signal they were going to need to plow through the door. Two Chicago police officers in full protective gear, standing a step or two away, tightened the grasp on their shotguns.
But with that, the door suddenly cracked open — very slowly, just a hesitant few inches. Instantly, Bekins threw his shoulder into it and, with Crowley and the Chicago cops right behind him, they plunged into the nearly vacant third–floor apartment on Chicago’s West Side as Bekins shouted, “¡Policía! Policía!”
A woman in her early t
wenties, looking about seven months pregnant and holding the hand of a terrified three–year–old boy, let out a scream and stumbled backwards, catching herself before she fell. Coming up from behind and reaching out to steady her, having just exited the bedroom, was Alberto Ramirez.
Crowley pulled the woman aside as Bekins grasped Ramirez by his shoulders, spun him around, and pushed him up against the wall. “Spread ‘em,” he demanded, and Ramirez compliantly shifted so his legs were apart and his hands were as high as he could put them on the wall.
With Crowley and the two Chicago cops covering him, Bekins holstered his gun and searched the suspect, then efficiently cuffed Ramirez’s hands behind his back and turned him around.
“Anyone else here?” he asked. Ramirez shook his head.
Crowley pointed with her gun for the woman to sit on a threadbare couch as the child, now crying uncontrollably, scrambled up and buried his head in her lap. Crowley used her gun to direct Ramirez to stand next to the couch while the two Chicago cops, leading with their weapons, scoured the bedroom at the rear of the apartment, finding nobody.
Locating Ramirez had been easy. They had found his name scrawled on some notes among Nick Gamos’ business papers. When they discovered Nick’s cell phone, they quickly found Ramirez’s number stored on it. The phone carrier provided his address. Overall, the investigation was progressing faster than Bekins or Crowley had anticipated; they were convinced that the fry cook would be instrumental in quickly wrapping up the case.
Neither the woman nor Ramirez resisted. The detectives holstered their guns while the two cops stood sentry at the door. Bekins yanked out a folded document from his back pocket and flashed it in the general direction of Ramirez.
“This is a warrant for your arrest,” he said. “Está bajo arresto.”
Ramirez looked confused. “What have I done?” he asked in passable English.
Bekins had already exhausted most of the Spanish he had learned at the Police Academy. “We have a warrant for you as a material witness. A witness — Un testigo. We’re arresting you, but you’re not being charged with a crime at this point. We want to question you about the holdup at Nikki’s.”
