by Vicki Vass
A waiter wearing a black shirt with a black bowtie offered me a drink. I grabbed the glass, drank it down quickly, grabbed his shoulder and grabbed another one. It was some kind of wine. James walked over with a woman around his age. Maybe a young sixty. Her gray white hair was tied in a long ponytail. She was wearing all black except for a white fuzzy vest. Some kind of faux fur. In this group, I couldn’t see anyone wearing real fur.
She was very attractive. I wondered if that’s why James was interested in her. They were holding hands and exchanging kisses on the cheek. I thought it would be nice to see James with a girlfriend.
“Jan, I’d like you to meet Angela. She’s the genius behind these paintings,” James said, leading her over to me.
“Thank you for coming,” Angela said, reaching out a hand to shake mine.
She had a strong grip. I liked that.
“What do you think?” She turned her attention to the John Wayne Gacy painting.
To be polite, I gave it another look and shared my own experience. “My friend, Sophie, her husband’s first day on the Des Plaines police department was the day they arrested Gacy. He used to bring home the files for her to read. She would read them to me. Not a big fan of Gacy,” I said.
“That’s so fascinating. I’d love to talk to her or read those files for research for my book,” Angela said.
James interrupted. “Angela and her partner are writing a graphic novel about some of the world’s most notorious serial killers.”
“Our working title is Notorious. I’ll have to introduce you to my partner, Karen,” Angela said, gazing around the room. She couldn’t find who she was seeking and wandered off to talk to someone else.
James took me around the exhibit. We looked at all the paintings. James staring much longer than I did. Angela’s work was nice but it wasn’t to my taste. I prefer landscapes or flowers or even pet portraits. I sat on one of the wood benches in the center of the room. I was enjoying watching the people more than the paintings. They seemed very full of themselves, each trying to top the other, talking about point of view, depth and brushstrokes. They seemed to be in a competition to win the prize for the most interesting person in the room. My money was on the young guy wearing the black turtleneck and large black-framed glasses and tight black jeans. He seemed to have a personal story about every painting like it was painted for him. People listened and nodded. I took out my handkerchief and giggled into it.
James was in his element, however. He loved to talk. He enjoyed debating and could hold his own with anybody about any subject. I was hoping he’d win the prize tonight. The young man in the black turtleneck watched James and was getting angry. Angela came over and sat next to me. “Aren’t you having a good time, Jan?”
“No, Angela, I’m having a very nice time,” I said. “You’re very talented. It’s just that I don’t know a lot about fine art.”
“You don’t need to know a lot about art. It’s really about how it makes you feel when you look at a painting,” Angela said, standing. “Come with me.”
I followed her and we stood in front of a large painting that took up half the wall. It depicted Richard Speck wearing a nurse’s uniform. “How do you feel?” she asked.
I thought about the nurses who I had worked with over the years including the ones who gave their lives to save lives. “Makes me angry,” I said.
“All you need to know about art is how it makes you feel,” Angela said.
James was right I did like Angela. She was strong and caring. She would make a good wife for him.
The show closed at 11 p.m. I was starving. The little hors d’oeuvres were not to my taste. They were too fancy and too spicy. James offered to walk Angela and Karen home. I recognized Karen immediately as the woman arguing passionately with the man in the turtleneck. Her hair was chestnut brown and cropped short. She wore black army boots, black jeans and a black leather jacket.
“James, do you want to get a bite to eat before we head back?” I asked.
“Our apartment’s only a few blocks away. Why don’t you come up? I wanted to hear more about the John Wayne Gacy files,” Angela said.
“Yes, Angela told me,” Karen interjected. “I’d love to hear more. We can make something.”
I thought it was nice they could work together and share an apartment. They have to be very good friends to spend that much time together. It must be very convenient. James took Angela’s arm in his as we walked. I thought they made a handsome couple. I hoped Karen didn’t feel left out. I hoped she had a boyfriend of her own.
We arrived at their Bucktown loft. It was very neat and tidy but small. I figured most of the apartments here were expensive and not large. It was only one bedroom, the couch looked like a pullout. I felt bad for whoever had to sleep on the couch. It didn’t look very comfortable. The walls were exposed brick like the art gallery and more of Angela’s work hung on it. Apparently people in Bucktown don’t like drywall. I don’t care much for the unfinished look. It is too untidy.
Karen cracked open the large floor to ceiling glass window to let in fresh air. I could hear the sounds of the city, the horns, people talking. I sat on one of the uncomfortable little wooden chairs. Karen sat across from me on the couch. James and Angela fixed a snack in the kitchen. I could hear them talking about the show. “So, Jan, James told me about the murder on your block,” Karen said. “He said you found the body. Do the police know what happened?”
“No, it’s still under investigation,” I said.
“I’d love to find out more about the investigation. I read a lot of police procedurals,” Karen said, sipping on her wine. “And I’ve interviewed a lot of police officers for the graphic novel Angela and I are working on.”
“That’s interesting. Karen, what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m a writer. I write for the Advocate.”
I thought to myself I’ve never heard of the paper but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I just nodded.
“Angela and I have been working on this book for years now. I can show you what we’ve done.” Karen ran over to the bookcase and brought out several sketchbooks. “Here are some of the sketches that Angela’s done. It started as an episode book and turned into a graphic novel.”
Graphic novel, I glanced at the pictures. Fancy way for saying comic book. At least that’s what it looked like to me.
“The story is based on real life serial killers. Our characters are a composite of several killers from Jack the Ripper to Aileen Wuomos.”
I didn't recognize the name. Karen must have realized it because she continued, “She’s the serial killer from Florida whose story is told in Monster. You know, the movie?”
No, I didn’t know. The last movie I saw with Monster in the title was Monster U. I watched it with Danny in the tree house.
“Angela and I drove to all the cities where the killings occurred and visited the crime scenes. We looked up the police reports and photos to get more of an insight into the killer’s mind. This is the killer in our first book in the series. Her name is Rachel.”
I looked at the drawing. Rachel resembled Angelina Jolie to me. In fact all the women in the book were curvy and beautiful. “Are all your killers female?” I asked.
“No, they’re all asexual. The female form is the embodiment of beauty in our culture. We use that beauty to contrast the ugliness that lays hidden inside the serial killer.”
Intentional or not. It still looked like Angelina Jolie to me. James and Angela brought over four bowls full of bowtie pasta with pine nuts, broccoli and olive oil. I looked hard to find sausage or prosciutto but I got the feeling Angela and Karen were vegetarians.
“So, Jan, Karen has been telling you about our book,” Angela said, sitting on the couch next to Karen.
“Yes, it’s a very interesting and an unusual topic. What got you interested in serial killers?” I asked.
Angela became quiet and sipped at her wine. With a concerned look, Karen put he
r hand on Angela’s hand. “My parents and I were on vacation at our summer cabin in Minnesota. It was quite beautiful and very secluded. There were only two or three other cabins on the lake and they were back up in the pines. I was nine. I was playing on the beach. Back then parents never watched over your shoulder. It was a different time. I could see the cabin from the beach. I wasn’t more than a hundred yards away. I think my mother kept an eye on me from the porch. I couldn’t tell but I could feel her watching me.” Angela paused, then continued. Her eyes were wet with tears. “When I heard the gunshot, I thought it was fireworks. It was the end of June and the Fourth of July was coming. When I heard the second gunshot I instinctively knew what it was. The echo ran across the lake. I wanted to run to the cabin but I was scared. There were more gunshots peppered throughout the pines. My mind’s eye followed the sound of the gunshots as they circled the lake. I was scared. When the police arrived, it was nearly midnight. I was lying in the sand rolled up in a ball. They told me that everyone on the lake was dead but me. It didn’t make any sense. No robbery, no purpose, just random evil. That evil took away everything I knew to be my life. My family, my future. I didn't understand why. The killer was never caught and I kept asking that question. I think I still ask why.” She paused, picking up one of the sketches. It showed a cabin on a lake, the sky awash with red fireworks dripping like blood. In the woods, a pair of menacing eyes peered out from the darkness.
As she spoke, I could feel her pain. I know what it feels like to lose a loved one to a violent crime. You have two choices. It’s like a light switch. If you flip it down, it means you hide in the darkness for the rest of your life. If you flip it up, you walk with the light. I could see that Angela flipped the switch up.
We finished our pasta and polished off the bottle of pinot Grigio. While James cleaned the dishes, Angela showed me more of her artwork. After hearing her talk, I could appreciate her point of view. I could see the sadness in the paintings. Angela explained them to me as we gazed through her portfolio. We came to a painting of a tree in a swamp. There was a pair of shoes hanging from a Cypress tree draped in Spanish moss. “What’s this, Angela?”
“It depicts a series of unsolved murders in Louisiana after Katrina.”
“Why is there a pair of shoes hanging from a tree?”
“Several rescue workers were found murdered. All of them were missing their shoes. That’s why I painted the shoe on the tree,” Angela said. “The killer took the shoes as a souvenir. He was never caught.”
Chapter Twelve
I arrived at the county offices in Wheaton, Illinois. They sprawl across four or five buildings and several acres. I picked the largest building, which holds the main government offices. The first floor holds the sheriff’s office, the county clerk and property assessor. I parked in the parking garage and crossed over the overhead walkway into the building. I am always surprised when walking in that there are no metal detectors.
Located on the third floor is the DuPage County Coroner’s office. I carried the tin of cookies that I had made this morning. I know, Sal, the coroner, enjoys my biscotti with his coffee. Sal and I go way back. After I retired from nursing, I worked part time at Jewel, the local grocery store. Sal was in the meat department working his way through medical school. My husband Gino helped him get into the University of Chicago residency program. Working as a butcher helped Sal with his knife skills. Now instead of carving up porterhouse steak, he is carving up cadavers.
After greeting the receptionist and mentioning Sal’s name, I made my way to the back office and the break room where I waited for him. After a short period, he came out wearing blue scrubs and wiping his hands on the side of his pants. I hoped he washed his hands. He gave me a big smile. It was obvious he was glad to see me or at least my biscotti. I handed him the tin. “Jan, you brought biscotti. My favorite.” He poured himself a mug of coffee and dipped one of the cookies in the coffee. We sat at the small break room table.
He polished off a second biscotti. “Oh, I missed these. I tried Caputo’s and Mariano’s bakeries but they’re nowhere as good as yours.”
“The secret is I use lard instead of butter.”
“You shouldn’t have told me that,” he joked, patting his belly, which I noticed had grown substantially. He laughed at his own joke, a loud roar that resounded through my ears. I restrained myself from mentioning either the laugh or his weight gain.
“Sal, I need your help on something,” I said. “Gary, our mailman, was brought here a couple days ago.”
Eating his third biscotti, Sal looked something up on his iPad. “Here it is, Gary Ingall. Yeah, I did the autopsy myself. I filed the report with the police and the FBI. Some newbie agent came down personally and picked up the report.”
“Agent Peabody, I’ve met him.” I nodded.
“Yes, Agent Peabody, Sherman Peabody. I remembered his first name. I thought it was funny. Like the cartoon Sherman and Peabody. Nice enough kid,” Sal said.
“Sal, you know I was the one who found Gary,” I said.
“You don’t say?”
“Can you tell me how he was killed?” I asked.
Sal put down his fourth biscotti and slid his chair closer to my side of the table. Looking around the break room, he whispered, “Jan, you know I could get in trouble. It’s an ongoing murder investigation, and the feds are involved. I told you after the last report I gave you that was it. I could lose my job. Even worse I could go to jail.” He paused. “Jan, you don’t want to get involved.”
I grabbed the cookie tin and slid it back to my side of the table. “Gary was my postman. He was my neighbor. He’s from my block. I’m already involved.”
“Look, Jan, I owe you. I will always owe you. Gino was like a father to me. I wouldn’t have made it through med school without his help but you’re asking me a lot. If anyone ever finds out I gave you Gino’s autopsy report, I will lose my job.”
I still have nightmares about that report. What they did to him, what they took from me. “Salvatore, I promise you this is the last favor I ask of you.”
Sal signed and nudged me closer. He whispered, “He was beaten to death with a blunt object.”
“That’s horrible, Sal.”
“Yes, it is. Unfortunately I’ve seen worse,” Sal said.
I thought to myself so have I. “Any idea what the weapon was?” I asked.
Sal paused while the receptionist came in, took a yogurt out of the fridge and walked back out. He whispered to me again, “We don’t know. I couldn’t match the wounds with any similar wounds in the database. I found some kind of fibers but Agent Peabody took them to the FBI lab.”
“Well, Sal.” I put my hand on top of his. “Thank you so much. Say hi to Maria and the kids. Are they all fine?” I stood up, handing him back the tin.
“Everyone’s great,” he said with a mouthful of his fifth biscotti.
I turned to glance at him on my way out. “You will send me a copy of Gary’s report, won’t you?” I asked.
Sal nodded, crumbs around his lips.
Chapter Thirteen
“Here, test the mic,” Roger, James’ friend, said to Danny as he helped set up the PA system in the gym.
Danny glanced up at me. I nodded permission. He went onto the stage in the Woodland View Park District gym. Over the years, the Woodland View Police Department received awards for its involvement in the National Night Out crime prevention program. Every year more and more families attend the free event. This year was no exception. The gym was already packed. McGruff, the crime fighting dog, handed out stickers to the kids. Out in the parking lot, kids climbed in and out of police vehicles and fire trucks. Other community groups like the library and park district participated with crime prevention displays, information booths, refreshments, and this year, the talent contest inside the gym.
James was very excited that the Night Out Committee approved his talent show event. He spent weeks planning it and holding rehearsals. Roger set up Ma
rian’s karaoke machine. Bill built the small stage in the gym. It was looking to be a fun time. Danny was nervous about playing guitar in front of the rest of the kids. I knew he’d be okay. We practiced Blackbird by the Beatles over and over.
James walked onto the stage. He was the emcee for the night. He dressed up for the occasion in a tuxedo with pink striped cummerbund and bowtie. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the first annual Woodland View Night Out talent show,” James said. The mic squealed. Everyone covered their ears. “Sorry, sorry.” James stepped back. After fiddling with the controls, Roger gave him a go-ahead nod. He tapped on the mic. “Once again, we’re very excited. We have some of the most talented performers in all of DuPage County,” he said, with a flourish, bowing and pointing out to the crowd.
Sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, the kids clapped and cheered. Most of the parents sat on the hard wooden risers. “We’d like to thank our sponsors, Chubby’s Drive-Through, the Woodland View Dairy Queen, Target and the Dollar Store for donating prizes for tonight’s talent show,” James continued talking, pointing to a table where the three judges sat. “Our judging panel includes Police Chief Mark Krundel.” The crowd clapped. “Park District Superintendent Tim Guido.” The crowd clapped again. “And local recording artist from the band Rebel Reign Dan Dillon. ” The crowd went wild, and the kids rose to their feet. James motioned for everyone to sit and settle down. He introduced the first act, North Linden Jan’s granddaughter, Becca.
She did a karaoke version of Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off. I knew the song because Danny and Meg played it for me. Becca was adorable, her ponytails danced as she twirled around the stage. North Linden Jan stood by the side of the stage, cheering her on and dancing along. Her spindly legs flopped about like a grasshopper.
I sat next to Marian. We watched all the kids. They were all very cute. Danny’s friend, Matthew, did a magic act. Monika’s niece, Madison, did a dance routine to the song from Frozen. “Who’s the guy helping James?” Marian bent over next to me and whispered.
