The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

“No idea where they might be?”

  “None. Last I saw them was in the club. Sorry. Don’t you have video footage?”

  Drexel rubbed his left ear. “No cameras in the bar. Just outside.”

  “So you have us going in and out.”

  “Yes. But between, you could have slipped out somehow. It’s a big stretch of time.”

  Kara shrugged.

  Drexel tapped the edge of his glass. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see with your friends, I guess. Something else, though. What do you know of Hal’s allergies?”

  “He was allergic to peanuts. Nuts. I’m not sure exactly what but we always avoided nuts.”

  “What about spirulina?”

  “What? I have no idea what that is.”

  “Seems people add it to energy drinks.”

  Kara nodded. “He was always drinking that stuff. I couldn’t do it myself. I preferred—well—” She held up her glass of bourbon and smiled.

  “A bag of the stuff was in the trash. Your fingerprints on it.”

  “Okay. I don’t know anything about that.”

  Drexel nodded. “So tell me why you were at the fight tonight?”

  The smile dropped away. She swiped a length of hair away from her face. “Hal was into it. He gave money to that Tunney guy.” She twisted her lips.

  “But?”

  “But. But he enjoyed it too. He liked the betting. He didn’t care about money, but in those fights, if he came out with more money he was the winner. Winning was important. Getting up on someone. It was justice for him for all the bad shit in life.”

  “But why were you there?” Drexel pointed at her on the word “you.”

  She looked at him, squinted her eyes a tad. “I’m thinking you know how couples aren’t separate. They start that way. And then—sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it’s slow—you’re not so separate.” She raised her hands in a shrug. “I was there because though Hal’s dead, his money isn’t.”

  “How much does he owe?”

  Kara’s eyes moistened, and she shook her head.

  “Could Tunney have done this to Hal?”

  Kara nodded. She unzipped her purse and pulled out a small tissue from a travel-sized pouch of them. She dabbed the corners of her eyes.

  He took a drink. The girls who had noticed Kara earlier were spying glances back. He looked back at her. “We don’t have to continue right now.” He gestured with his index finger to the two women.

  She glanced backward and then nodded at Drexel. She pulled out the scarf from her purse, as she was putting it on, tucking her hair underneath, she said, “So you’re guessing. You’ve no idea who killed Hal.”

  “We don’t have many good leads, that’s for sure.”

  “So your boss—”

  “My boss’s boss.”

  “—is hot to pin it on me because Hal’s the talk of the political world, and he needs a killer.”

  Drexel shrugged. She had accurately summarized the state of the investigation, though more openly than he ever dared. “He’s not going to let up.”

  She stood up.

  “Is that all you can give me?” He was pleading, and he did not know why. Why did he want Kara to give him something to clear her name? He stood up.

  “No.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t follow me.”

  He looked around and many more people recognized her and were watching. She turned and walked out the door. Drexel sat back down, staring out the door for what seemed like a long time. As he drank one more whiskey, he reviewed the discussion with Kara. Any lingering doubts about her innocence drifted away. If his commander insisted, he would defend her innocence. Most importantly, he needed evidence that even Sobieski could not deny.

  As he walked home, the poem went through his head. He had not heard the last stanza and he could not remember it himself. That is the one Zora always lingered over, saying the words softly, carefully, as if all the meaning of the world was in those words.

  Chapter 16

  When Drexel arrived at the office the next morning, Victor was waiting for him and motioned for Drexel to come to his office and sit. “Sorry to be an ass, but Sobieski is on me about yesterday’s daily.”

  “That I didn’t file.” Drexel set his extra large coffee on the desk.

  “Right.”

  “Well, I was kind of busy with the investigation.”

  Victor scratched his head and did not smile. “He doesn’t care. He wants the dailies. I couldn’t care less, but then we’ve worked together for years now. This is just a heads up that he’s going to let you have it at the meeting this morning.” He stood up. “Look, he’s a numbers and procedures guy. Remember that and you can avoid being yelled at.”

  “I wouldn’t call him a procedures guy.” Drexel dismissed Sobieski with a wave in the air. “We don’t have much in this case. And—and—not anything I think he wants to hear. I could have filed the daily, but then I wouldn’t have been re-establishing a connection with Kara.”

  “Call her Ms. Brandt. Call her the Bull’s girlfriend. Call her anything but Kara. At least in front of Sobieski. You can wave your hand all you want, but you know it’s true.”

  “Fine.” Drexel let his gaze drift over Victor’s desk to the book shelves and then out the window. “Do you remember what you told me when I first joined Homicide?”

  “What am I going to regret saying now?”

  “You said a detective must always seek the truth, no matter how elusive.”

  “Shit. That’s a dime a dozen phrase. I regret it already.”

  “But it’s true regardless. At least it can be. Do you remember the Karnowsky case?” In 2003, detectives arrested Justin Karnowsky for gunning down the Hernandez family of five in Roscoe Village for three thousand dollars found in the house. When he was taken into custody, he was in possession of the family’s Jeep Grand Cherokee. He had opportunity (Karnowsky’s alibi was that he was home drinking, watching the Bulls game), and he had worked for the Hernandez family by installing a deck.

  Victor nodded.

  “That detective got a certainty in his head. And ignored all the other evidence.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to make the same mistake. We’re not arresting people for misdemeanors.” Karnowksy, arrested, tried, and convicted was later exonerated when the pistol used to kill the family was found on a Latin King, Felipe, who had been insulted by the mother and wife of the family. Felipe had followed them home, shot them, and sold the car to Karnowsky, who never knew. Between the times of the two arrests, Felipe had participated in a half dozen shootings. Karnowsky never recovered and many still think he was the killer.

  Victor shook his head. “Our job is an imperfect tool, my friend. We better get to your execution.”

  Drexel followed him into the conference room, where Kaito and Daniela were already seated, cups of coffee before them. They exchanged the usual morning greetings. Sobieski came in a couple of minutes after that, bearing a scowl that seemed intentionally exaggerated, though Drexel had no doubts the commander was angry at him.

  Sobieski sat down in the chair, the plastic and metal whining with the force. “Ah, I see our lead investigator decided to show up to work this morning.”

  Drexel did not respond, knowing it was pointless.

  “This police department requires regular reports on a daily basis for good reason. It’s a required task. There’s no excuse why you can’t get them in on time, but let’s hear what your excuse is.”

  Drexel rocked back in his chair. “I was out investigating.”

  “And after that?”

  “If I had filed them then, you’re telling me you would have read them in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Sobieski leaned back, rested his elbow on the arm rest, and put his hand to his chin.

>   “I was following a lead about the Bull being involved in an illegal fight slash gambling operation. Doing so, I encountered Ms. Brandt at the event and took the opportunity to interview her again.” Drexel paused. “I had a lot of damage to make up.” He could see Victor wince.

  “Excuse me?” Sobieski blinked.

  “I had to correct her sense of being judged guilty already.”

  “Implying that I did something wrong.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell her that, but yeah.”

  Sobieski’s exaggerated scowl now seemed real. “I’m sorry, I thought we were interrogating a murderer and not having a sit down, polite date. Did you hold hands?” Drexel raised his hand to interrupt, but Sobieski continued. “You answer to Victor, and he answers to me. I know the code of homicide detectives, where you get lots of free rein. It’s your case. Fuck that. You haven’t found a drop of evidence exonerating her. My interrogation tactics are sound, and my requirements for reports and being kept informed about this investigation are non-negotiable. Are we clear? Your captain will be noting it in your personnel file.” Sobieski’s eyes narrowed and he managed to somehow look down at Drexel even though they were sitting at the same height, a look Sobieski had used before, the glare that carried Ryan’s fate.

  Victor straightened a bit in his chair, getting ready to say something, but Drexel said, “Yes, I should have done the report, and I’m sorry, but we had her talking and then you interrupted that. I don’t see what was more important than to let her talk. The more she talks, the more we can see when she lies because we don’t have much in the way of evidence or leads in this case. Instead she threw up her mental defenses. There’s a time for intimidation—”

  “I’ll interrogate however I want to interrogate. End of discussion.” Sobieski turned to Victor. “This is your team. I’m holding you responsible. Get them in line and get this case closed. Those dailies go up the ranks.” Sobieski then stomped out of the conference room.

  Victor scratched his head. “Sorry guys. I know you’re on this.” He was looking back and forth between Daniela and Kaito. “He’s into this investigation more than most because the brass is breathing down his neck and wanting results faster than normal. But I’ve got your backs. He’s really ticked at me and Pierce—not you. So let’s hear where we’re at.”

  “He’s ticked at me.” Drexel then gave them a summary of his interview with Kara. Kaito nodded his head when told about the continued absence of Sam and Trina. The general thinking of the team was that while the explanation made sense, the story had a tinge of something wrong with it. Drexel asked Kaito to do more thorough background checks on Kara’s potential alibis beyond just the Chicago area and to conduct interviews throughout the women’s apartment complex. Confirming the alibi would assist in judging Kara’s story. They all agreed the actual evidence they had was thin and circling around the murder, not—at least as far as they could tell—tied directly to the crime. They had a timeline, and they had the weapon—if it could be called that.

  “So how do you want to approach this?” Victor lifted his green and white striped tie and laid it down on the buttons of his white shirt.

  Drexel leaned back. “I’m going to the Bull’s memorial service today. I’m not expecting much, but—” He shrugged and pointed a finger at Daniela. “Let’s take a closer look at Gordon Tunney. I’d like to get more of an idea of what we’re looking at. Then I need to talk to this Lori Williams and more people at TG Enterprises. When I talk to Lori—or try to—maybe that’ll give us enough to get a warrant someplace. I’d like to find that drive.”

  Daniela said, “You think they have it? I would have tossed it into the lake.”

  He let a thin smile cross his face. “They probably did, but I can dream. And you should have that warrant to get sales of that jammer. Any sent to the Chicago area that look suspicious. That and the stores that sell them.” Drexel looked back at Victor. “Can I have someone helping Kaito chase down Sam and Trina? We need them.”

  “Sure. Who?”

  “Starling.”

  “Done. Just let her know what you need.”

  They each refilled their coffees before leaving the meeting room and back to their respective desks. Drexel set his phone down on the desk and sat in the chair. Newgate was busy typing on his computer two desks down. Drexel’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. Ryan texted him, “In city this morning. Can we meet?”

  Drexel texted, “I’ll be at St. James this morning.” He then added, “The Bull’s funeral.”

  Starling walked into the detectives’ desks area, and Drexel said, “Victor said I could get your help.”

  She stopped. “Help. You want help?”

  “Yeah.”

  Starling walked up to his desk. “I don’t know whether to be honored or scared.”

  “Both.” Drexel’s phone buzzed. “I need help hunting down Kara Brandt’s alibis. We’re having a hard time finding them.”

  Starling nodded. “Send me your notes and files and I’ll get working on it. Darrell and I closed one last night, so I’ve got some time.”

  “Great. Coming your way.”

  Starling nodded and walked past him to her desk.

  Drexel looked at his phone. Ryan texted, “Meet me at McDonalds. Erie and State. 11”

  Drexel texted back. “OK.”

  The files and notes relating to Kara’s alibis were few, so Drexel made a note of their location and then placed them on the network for Starling, which he followed with an email. He also told her that the hardcopies were on his desk. He looked at the time and left the office.

  * * *

  St. James Cathedral, the mother church of the Episcopal diocese of Chicago, stood at the corner of Huron and Wabash, just seven blocks north of Trump Tower. A line of people stood outside the main entrance, overlooked by the Joliet limestone walls, pointed doorways, and windows. Wrought iron topped the bell tower, the lone surviving part of the building from the Great Fire.

  A line of people seeming to represent all of Chicago made its way into the cathedral. Old wealth in expensive suits or dresses and coats and a imperious bearing, city officials, cops and firemen in dress blues, athletes also in expensive suits but towering above the rest, and a large contingent of normal Chicago dressed in cheaper suits or jeans and a shirt and tie. Almost all wore coats against the chill, despite the presence of the sun and blue sky.

  Drexel walked to one of the smaller entrances and showed his ID to the uni standing there. She nodded, and Drexel opened the door and entered the cathedral. He went through the narthex where the line was entering and signing the guestbook. Turning right, Drexel entered the sanctuary with its exposed wooden trusses and elaborate stenciling, which rose in discrete, multiple sections up the walls and to the ceilings in red, gold, and green, seeming to bathe the entire sanctuary in a golden hue. Brick-like patterns gave way to flowers connected by vines and then to a cone flower and its leaves filling in large portions of the walls, including behind the altar, rising to the ceiling. The ceiling featured crosses between geometric diamond patterns. The whole thing was breathtaking in its detail. Many churches featured ornate carvings and substantial decorative flourishes, but this seemed like so much more work and it called out for recognition.

  Drexel hung back at the entrance of the nave, which was half-full, and given the line, would be full. He looked around, observing the people, though they resembled those outside in all their variety. Before coming here, he knew it would be a long shot to find anything suspicious with this number of people and as public as the Bull was, but if he had not, something of importance would have happened. Drexel sat in the last row, closest to the central aisle. Shortly after, the mayor walked in.

  Mayor Wozniak was dressed in a mid-length, solid black dress. She cut her straight, dark blond hair, streaked with silver, shoulder length. She managed, as always, to be efficient in dress whi
le casting an elegant and powerful look. Flanked by two plainclothes cops as bodyguards, one of whom Drexel recognized: Curtis Norman. A former detective who survived a shooting three years prior and spent two months in a coma. The shooting had ended a corruption investigation into Norman, and then he was elevated to a cush job. Drexel did not recognize the other guard. The mayor went to the front of the nave and sat in one of the left-hand side pews. Eventually, the incoming line of people found seats, ushers closed the sanctuary doors, and a hush fell over the sanctuary. Just the rustling of the stiff paper programs or whispering.

  At the opening of the central doors, the crowd turned and faced the cross-bearer. The priest followed. Six pallbearers—Pritchard, two Chicago Bulls players, two Chicago Bears players, and a sixth Drexel did not recognize—carried the coffin draped in a pure white pall. Pritchard, not a short man by any means, seemed diminutive amongst them. The Bull had represented all the athletes. Following the coffin, Kara walked, alone. Dressed in black and a broad-brimmed hat with a veil, she moved with a heavy grace, staring forward. Kara was the only family the Bull had left in the world. And Kara too was alone. He felt for her, felt her need for comfort, need to be angry, need to express all to some listening ear even though it would change nothing. Would change absolutely nothing no matter how much she screamed at the world.

  The procession reached the end of the nave, where they placed the coffin on the catafalque. Kara sat in the front, right-side aisle as the priest took his place on the chancel. The congregants stood as the priest gestured them to rise. He said, “In the midst of life we are in death. From whom can we seek help? From you alone, O Lord, who by our sins is justly angered.”

  For those familiar with the proceedings or who had read the program—neither of which Drexel knew—the congregants said, “Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Merciful Savior, deliver us not into the bitterness of eternal death.”

  The congregation sat. As the liturgy continued, Drexel let his mind wander and he recalled a line from a poem Zora quoted on occasion: “And Death Shall Have No Dominion.” In his years as a cop, he had long reconciled himself to death’s final victory. When he told that to Zora after she quoted the poem again, she had become angry. “You’re missing the point. Yes, physical death wins, but what we do, how we are, what we leave behind does not.” Then she had flashed that delightful smile and tilted her head to the side. “Besides, that’s not the best line.” Death had taken Zora, ripped her from this planet far too early, but she had been right. Poetry won at least.