"Hmm, interesting. Ben, think back to last Wednesday night, around 6:30 or 7:00, which was when Edwina was stabbed. Were any of those three–Sulski, Rollins, Voyczek–in here at the time?" I purposely avoided asking Barnstable about himself, at least for the moment, figuring it might come out in the conversation. It did.
"I couldn't tell you that, 'cause I wasn't here myself until later in the evening."
"Probably working late at the gym, eh?"
"No, I been puttin' on weight these last few years," he said, patting his outsized stomach, "so I been doin' a lot of fast walking after work, several miles maybe two, maybe three times a week. Wednesday was one of them nights."
"I would have thought that you'd get plenty of exercise at the gym."
"Yeah, you'd think so," he said, seemingly unaware that he was being questioned, "but in there I spend all my time working with the young boxers, so I'm not doin' anything to take care of this." He rubbed his tummy again. "Say, here I been talkin' away all about myself. I'm good at that." He laughed at himself. "I never even asked what you do."
"I do some investigating."
His face registered modest surprise. "Really? You mean like a cop?"
"Sort of," I said. "In this situation, though, it's a family thing rather than work."
"Well, I wish I coulda helped you, and I sure hope for your sake it ain't your cousin what done it. But if he did, he'll have to pay, of course."
I nodded and said goodbye, heading for the door. My plan was to return the next night and meet one or more of Edwina's other 'friends.' But plans have a way of getting altered.
CHAPTER 12
When I got to my desk in the Headquarters press room at nine on Monday morning, I was hoping that nobody would ask me about Charlie's situation. I didn't like being personally involved in a news story, even in the somewhat peripheral role of cousin to a murder suspect. Besides, there was nothing new to report at the moment anyway.
I needn't have been concerned, however. This being the first week of the new season, it was only natural that baseball was the prime topic of discussion.
"Hey, I've got a great idea for a pool," Packy Farmer rasped between puffs on one of his grotesque little hand-rolled smokes. "We all throw in five bucks and write down where in the standings we think the Cubs are going to finish. In October, the one who's closest wins the fins."
"And just what happens if more than one of us picks 'em in the same spot, Einstein?" Dirk O'Farrell asked.
"Very simple, my good man," Farmer answered, tapping the side of his head. "Given my superior brain-power, I have anticipated your query. There's a tiebreaker, see? Everybody writes down the number of victories they think our Wrigley boys are going to get. The one who picks them in the right spot and is closest in the win column goes home with the dough. Nothin' to it."
"Wonder if anybody will pick them to finish first?" O'Farrell asked.
"Doubtful, Dirk," Anson Masters proclaimed. "Sure, they won the pennant last year alright, but none of their starting lineup had to go off to war. Cavarretta, Pafko, Nicholson, Lowery, Merullo, Passeau, Borowy…they were either 4-F or too old to get drafted. Other teams had some of their best players in the service, and those boys, like Musial of the Cardinals and Williams of the Red Sox, among others, will be back playing this year."
"As much as it pains me to say so, you're right, Anson," I put in. "Hell, the Cubs would have won the World Series last fall if the Tigers hadn't got that guy Virgil Trucks back from the war just in time to pitch in the Series and win one game. As it was, our boys took the Tigers all the way to seven games before losing. Without Trucks back with them, we probably would have won the whole thing.
"But there are a lot more like Musial and Williams and Trucks and DiMaggio coming back from the service to play this year. Our boys will be fielding pretty much the same squad as last year. No improvement."
"Yeah, there's no possible way the Cubs can win it all," Eddie Metz of the Times agreed. Eddie never had an original thought…he usually waited until somebody took a position and then agreed with it.
"Well, are you all in or not?" Farmer demanded.
"Sure, why not," O'Farrell said, taking a five dollar bill from his pocket and waving it. "In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. But I want an impartial observer to hold the dough and the predictions. I vote for Nick here, our City News friend. On his salary, we won't push him to join the pool, but he can be the keeper of the ballots and the greenbacks."
"Fine by me," Nick said. "Do you want me to put them in a locked drawer?"
"Damn right," I said. "Who knows if one of these miscreants here might take to peeking at the others' picks along about September and alter his own selection?"
"And that includes the well-known rascal Snap Malek of Colonel R.R. McCormick's Tribune," O'Farrell said. I thumbed my nose at Dirk and wrote down my prediction, handing it to Nick along with five singles. (For the record, I would end up winning the pool in October, picking the Cubs correctly for third place, and beating Eddie Metz in the tiebreaker by coming within one of the number of victories they recorded.)
After the balloting was concluded, we all dispersed to our beats around the building, which meant I walked down the usual one flight and presented myself to Elsie Dugo Cascio, guardian of the gate to Chief Fergus Fahey's office.
"My goodness, is it that time already?" she said, looking at her wristwatch. "How the minutes do fly by around here."
"Only when you're really having fun," I replied. "I trust that his eminence is on the premises this fine morning?"
"He is indeed. I will announce your arrival." She mouthed my name into the intercom and he made a groaning sound, which meant he was girding for my invasion.
"Morning, Fergus. Nice to see you in such fine fettle, whatever that means," I said, sitting and flipping a half-full pack of Luckies onto his blotter. "Have a good weekend?"
He looked up from a stack of paperwork and said something that sounded like "Grmmph."
"I'll take that to mean yes. Anything going on that Chicago's newspaper readers are simply dying to know today?"
"Far as I'm concerned, not a damn thing," he snarled, pulling a cigarette out of my pack and lighting up.
"Which means, of course, that there's nothing new on the Degnan case?"
"Correct."
"What about Edwina Malek's murder?"
"What about it?"
"Are your boys doing any further digging?"
Fahey leaned back and closed his eyes long enough that he might silently have been counting to ten. "Snap, as far as I'm concerned, there's no earthly reason that they should be."
"Meaning, of course, that it's a foregone conclusion that my cousin is a murderer."
Fahey turned a hand over. "After all, he has been arraigned."
"There happened to be a batch of guys hanging around a saloon who were interested in Edwina Malek, who was known to frequent the very saloon herself. Any one of them could have done it."
"And how, if I may be so bold as to ask, do you happen to know this?"
I knew he wasn't going to like my answer. "I've been spending time in said saloon in Pilsen where she used to hang out."
"Goddamn it, Snap! Haven't you got yourself in enough trouble over the years by playing amateur copper? You're lucky to be alive."
"Charlie didn't do it, Fergus, and somebody has to find out who did. Looks like that's going to have to be me."
"Not that you're likely to take my advice, but your best bet right now is to go out and hire a good lawyer for your cousin."
"I already have–Liam McCafferty. See, Fergus, sometimes I really do take your advice."
"McCafferty, eh?" He whistled. "That's gonna be costly. Your cousin have that kind of dough?"
"He's getting some help," I said.
"Hmm. Now I wonder who from? Well, you can't do much better than the glib Irishman. Shit, with him on the job, I'd say your boy's chances are starting to look pretty good."
"But not good enough for me," I shot back. "For one thing, even the great McCafferty loses cases, albeit on rare occasions. For another, even if he were to get Charlie off, there would always be the suspicion that he really was the killer, and that the only reason he was walking around free was that he had a brilliant mouthpiece on his side. I plan to nail the murderer, with or without the help of Chicago's finest, and it looks like it's going to be without."
Fahey scowled. "I suppose it does no good to tell you to be careful."
"Why, Fergus," I said with a tight smile, "you know that I always listen to you."
He muttered something unintelligible and returned to his never-ending paperwork as I got up and left.
Back in the pressroom, I dialed McCafferty's office. This time, the ever-so-cool woman who answers the phone was actually borderline pleasant and put me right through when I gave her my name. Ah, the joys of being a client.
"How did your second talk with my cousin go?" I asked him.
"A marginal improvement," he answered dryly. "I must say, though, that the lad still doesn't seem overly interested in his own future."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Well, while you're working on his defense, I'm trying to find out who else might have done the killing."
"Just how might you be going about that?" he asked warily.
"There's this bar down in Pilsen where Edwina spent a lot of evenings, as Charlie may or may not have told you. Turns out she drew quite a crowd of would-be swains around her there. It seems there was what might be termed a spirited competition for the lady's affections."
"That so?"
"Indeed. And I'm in the process of getting to know some of these Lotharios."
"Well, I have a few freelance investigators of my own that I find occasion to utilize from time to time. Would they be of any help to you in this endeavor?"
"Right now, I think I'll keep pushing on myself. Thanks anyway, though."
"Well, be careful," the lawyer cautioned. "Saloons often draw an unsavory lot, as I'm sure you are aware."
"You're the second person who's urged caution to me in the last ten minutes, and I assure you that I appreciate the advice. We'll talk soon."
The rest of the morning was uneventful. I had a sandwich with Packy Farmer at a little café a block from headquarters and got back to my desk a few minutes after one. I was about to call Marge Blazek at her dress shop and set up a plan for that night in the hopes of meeting another of the men who found Edwina beguiling. I had just begun to dial when Anson Masters of the Daily News picked up his own ringing phone.
"What? My God," he barked into the mouthpiece with what for him was uncharacteristic emotion. "When? Jesus, that's terrible! Just awful!"
Everyone had turned toward the pillar of the pressroom. "Well, it's outside the department's jurisdiction, but of course I'll check to see if they're sending any technicians or medical people out to the site. Yes, I'll get back to you right away."
He cradled the phone, and took a deep breath. "My city desk. There has been a disastrous railway crash far out in the western suburbs, in Naperville. Two streamlined Burlington passenger trains. One rammed the other, apparently at a high speed. Tore it all to pieces. Bodies all over the place along the tracks. The desk says it looks like one of the worst train wrecks on record."
Before any of the others in the room could react, my phone rang. It was Hal Murray, the Trib's day city editor. "Malek, there's been a railroad smashup out in Naperville–a real big one. Lots of fatals."
"I know. I just heard the word."
"Listen, we're really short-handed here," he barked in his typical machine gun-style cadence. "I got three guys down with that damned flu that's going around now, and a couple of others are at a three-alarm fire in a plant out on the northwest side that's getting bigger. I need you out in Naperville to do the feature stuff. Eyewitnesses, human interest, that kinda thing, you know. Unless you've got something really hot going on there."
"No, I don't."
"Good. We've already sent Phillips to do the Page One piece, although he's probably not out there yet. You can grab a ride with Cappelitti. He's just heading out the door to his car now. I'll catch him and have him pick you up in front of Headquarters."
"I'll be waiting for him."
CHAPTER 13
Lido Cappelitti was one of the best photographers on the Trib staff–maybe the best. He was damned good company as well, as I learned from the few times I'd worked with him over the years.
His battered green Dodge with its dented right front fender and cracked rear window never fully came to a stop in front of Police Headquarters. I jumped onto the running board and swung inside as we tore away to the screeching of tires.
"How you doin', Snap? It's been awhile," he jawed out of the corner of his mouth, as he lighted a Chesterfield, and steered with his knees. Lido couldn't have been more than five feet six, but when he was on the scene of a story, he had the voice and presence of a burly six-footer. You could hear him a half block away, bellowing orders, telling people how he wanted them posed, or hectoring a cop to "give me some space to take my shot here, will ya, Sarge?"
He wheeled the whining Dodge through the streets of the near south side, ignoring traffic lights and leaning on his horn with the confidence and panache of a driver who had a newspaper press photographer's card clearly visible on the inside of the windshield. Soon we hit
Ogden Avenue, which would take us all the way out to Naperville, located in the farmlands some 30 miles west. We finally cleared the Chicago city limits and raced through what seemed like an endless string of suburbs: Cicero… Berwyn… Lyons… Brookfield… LaGrange… Western Springs… Hinsdale… Downers Grove. Once we finally got to Naperville, Lido seemed to know where the wreck site was.
"I been in this burg before," he told me through clenched teeth that held the fifth Chesterfield of the drive. "Didn't ever expect to be covering a story like this here, though."
Never having set foot in the town, I was glad he knew his way around. We turned south off of Ogden into a residential street and soon found ourselves at a police barricade. "Road closed from here to the tracks," a uniformed local cop told Lido.
"We're with the Tribune. We need to get through right away," the photographer told him brusquely, gesturing to the press card on the windshield. "We're on deadline, and every second counts!" But, it was obvious that a mention of the newspaper and its immediate needs did not carry the same weight out here as it did in the city.
"Sorry, sir, but this is as far as the car goes," the cop responded, calm and unimpressed. "You'll have to walk the last block or so. Won't kill ya."
Lido scowled and swore under his breath, but we were left with no option. Sirens blared from all directions, and cops, firemen, and just plain civilians were running in every direction. I stuck my press card in my hatband and, as we were getting out of the car, a silver-haired woman in a housedress and bedroom slippers ran by us crying, "It's awful, awful! Somebody do something! For God's sake, do something!" I tried to stop her, but she pushed me away like a football player stiff-arming a tackler and kept on running, yelling, and waving her pudgy arms, her slippers going "flap, flap, flap" on the pavement as she ran.
I followed the squat, camera-toting photographer, stepping over fire hoses and weaving through the increasingly dense crowd of onlookers. When we came within sight of the tracks, we both put on the brakes.
It was a scene I never hope to view the likes of again. What I soon learned was that the last passenger car of the lead westbound train, the Advance Flyer, had been cleaved in half by the second train, the Exposition Flyer, whose silver diesel locomotive was embedded deep into the wreckage, with dust and smoke still rising from the destroyed coach.
Groans and screams came from the shattered car even now, some two hours after the crash. Bodies, some of them children, were sprawled along the tracks.
Firemen and other rescuers picked their way through the shambles, hauling passengers–many of them corp
ses–out through the windows of the train car or through the gaping holes where the sides of the car used to be.
Crews used acetylene torches, cutting away the metal to reach those who were trapped. The survivors, many of them blood-spattered and maimed, were being trundled on stretchers over to waiting ambulances. Lido was right there with his camera, snapping pictures and barking at rescuers to stop blocking his shots.
I spotted our general assignment reporter, Dean Phillips, talking to a fireman, and I joined him. "Any idea how many fatalities, Chief?" Phillips asked, notebook in hand, as he nodded his recognition to me.
"Too soon to tell yet," the grim-faced firefighter replied, wiping his grimy brow. "I know they've taken out at least twenty bodies so far, and there are lots more in there. Right now, we're mainly trying to get the rest of the living out of that hellhole. Some of them are pinned in pretty badly, as you can hear. I gotta go," he said, turning away and heading toward the trains.
"Snap, glad to see you here," Phillips said. "You're doing the sidebar stuff, right?"
"Yeah. I'll start looking for eyewitnesses."
"Good, you ought to find plenty of 'em. I'm off to talk to the cops and also somebody from the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy line to find out what the hell went haywire. See you later."
He went off as I watched members of the rescue crews moving into and around the passenger cars, which were strewn along the tracks at crazy angles like a kid's electric train that had derailed on a living room floor around the Christmas tree.
A group of students from nearby North Central College had arrived to help with the injured, as had employees from the big Kroehler furniture plant that overlooked the crash site. I interviewed one of the college kids, a red-haired twenty-year-old North Central sophomore, who had been a stretcher-bearer and was understandably teary and distraught about the agony he had witnessed. There was no shortage of help, but getting the injured through the crowds of onlookers at the scene and off to hospitals seemed to be the biggest challenge at the moment.
A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 9
