by James Green
After dinner, he decided he wasn’t quite ready to call it a night. There was a used bookstore only three blocks from his apartment. It stayed open late, even on Sundays, and Burke found it to be a great respite from his apartment.
The owner, a man in his early thirties, with reddish brown hair and wan skin was behind the counter. He was engrossed in a book propped up next to the cash register, but he looked up at Burke momentarily and nodded. They did not know each other’s names, but over the past few months they had gotten to know each other by their reading likes and dislikes. The other employee of the bookstore tried too hard to show he was a rebel. He was a man in his early fifties who – no matter what the weather – traipsed around the store barefoot and in shorts. His large stomach gave away the fact that he was a great aficionado of beer, and his unwashed, uncombed hair was a signal that he didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him.
The bookstore owner was a science fiction and horror fan, two genres that Burke hated. Burke loved history and biographies. One night, the owner suggested Burke might like a newly acquired book in the true crime section. Tom had politely declined; he didn’t tell him why he didn’t want to read it. Books were an escape for him; he got enough true crime in his real life. Enough for two people or more.
He found himself back in his apartment far too soon, with a Winston Churchill biography under his arm. He stared at his phone for a full ten minutes. Eventually, he told himself “fuck it” and dialed the number.
“Hi, Tom,” she answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Julie,” he answered, rushing the words. He wanted the conversation to be short.
“I heard we got an offer on the house.” There was silence on the other end.
“How are you doing, Tom? I hope you aren’t working too hard.”
“I’ve got a fresh case, but I’m doing ok.” Why was he telling her this? He needed to stick to the topic at hand and get off the phone.
“About the offer?”
“Tom, it’s way too low. We figured it out and you and I both would only net $25,000 from it once we paid the realtor.”
“Works for me,” he was staring at the TV. The volume was off, but they were showing college basketball highlights.
“Tom, I need more than that if I am going to buy a nice place.”
“Julie, you can find something with that. And if not, you can rent for a while. We can’t sit on this house forever. It is time.”
“This is just like you,” she replied, her voice raising sharply, “You always have to make a snap decision and once you make your mind up, then that’s it!”
He sat there for a moment. Originally, Julie had wanted to keep the house through a legal process called a quit claim deed, but Burke wasn’t interested in that. He worked too long rehabbing the house; he wasn’t going to let her stay in it. Instead, his lawyer and her lawyer negotiated back and forth until it was agreed that Julie could stay in the house until it was sold. Then the proceeds would be split equally between the two. In Burke’s mind, Julie was getting the better end of that deal, but he didn’t fight it. He just wanted out.
“Look,” he said, “I know you are attached to the place. So was I. But, we can’t live in the past. We have to move forward. Promise me you will think about it some?”
There was a long silence.
“Julie, are you still there?”
“Yes, Tom. I’m still here. I’ll think about it, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Ok,” he replied, knowing it was time to go before she tried to change the subject, “I will call you tomorrow night so we can finalize. Have a good night.” He pressed the ‘end’ button before waiting to hear what she said back. He turned the phone off for the night. He didn’t want her to call him back.
Monday, March 13, 7:30 a.m.
“Tommy”
Oh shit
“It’s your mother”
Obviously
“Are you there? If you are there, please pick up.”
She still hasn’t figured out the answering machine is digital and I don’t hear it when she leaves a message
“We missed you at Aunt Helen’s yesterday. I thought you were going to stop by. Call me, ok? Love you.”
Burke hit the button to delete the message. Shit. He had totally forgotten about the family float. With the murder and the lack of sleep and everything else going on it had completely slipped his mind. Friday was St. Patrick’s Day. And that meant another year of the Burke/Sullivan family float in the parade. How long had that been going on? As long as Tom Burke could remember.
What had started as a small family-style parade had grown into a 3 hour long, drunken excess of a march that over 200,000 people showed up to watch. KCPD hated the parade; a headache of traffic detours, drunk and disorderly calls and a bevy of elected officials who expected to be protected as they rode along Broadway for three miles amongst the masses.
For the Burke and Sullivan clans, St. Patrick’s Day was a national holiday. If it fell on a weekday, all the school age children would be pulled out of school. Vacation days were used for the working adults. Not showing up was unthinkable.
Tom had found himself in his mom’s dog house for the few years he had not made the parade, either by working or simple neglect. His mother’s displeasure amused him greatly because she wasn’t even Irish. Her maiden name was Wood, which was English. But, she wasn’t having any of it.
“Tommy, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” she would exclaim, “why are you trying to ruin my fun?”
This would usually be met with an eye roll and a sigh, but after a while he just gave up fighting with her over it. His father, who was 100% Irish and fit the stereotype of the drunken Irish cop to a T, had been a no show for years. So, in the odd dynamic that was the Burke/Sullivan clan, Mary Burke, a woman who kicked Tom Sr. out of the house in 1981, would be at the festivities every year with the Burke family, while Tom Burke Sr. usually held court at Murphy’s with his Irish cop friends.
If Tom had his druthers, he wouldn’t be at either location, but barring death or a move at least 2,000 miles away, that wasn’t going to happen. He enjoyed seeing family, running into some cousins that he only saw this one day each year, but he hated having to juggle family loyalties between his mother and his father. He had nothing to do with their break up, but even at forty-one felt he was still being used as a pawn in their game of which parent could drive the other more crazy.
To this day, he wasn’t sure exactly what had broken them up. He suspected his father had cheated on his mother, but he didn’t have any evidence. At the time she kicked him out, Tom Sr. was still only a moderate drinker, and had always treated his kids well -- when he was around. Tom knew his father was a workaholic, so it wasn’t odd that he put in long hours.
But what was odd was that something had happened that derailed his father’s career. His own grandfather, Robert Burke, had been a homicide detective for over twenty-five years. He was a legend, not only for his clearance rate but by the fact he never swore. The man was an anachronism. He used words like “Geez” and actually meant them. This perplexed his grandson. How did a man who saw human beings doing the most heinous things, saw horrors that only other members of homicide could truly understand, never curse, even once, in his life?
Tom Sr. was following his dad’s footsteps when something had happened. Something really bad, too, because in the gossip filled community that was KCPD, not one person had ever told Burke exactly what went down. His own father would say simply “Shit happens, Tommy. Watch your back. Trust no one.” But that was it. He wouldn’t give any details. Neither would anyone else.
Oh, there were rumors. Tom Sr. had fucked the Chief’s wife. Tom Sr. got caught taking evidence cash from crime scenes. But, to Burke, none of that could possibly true. Make no mistake; the man could be a bastard. But, he did operate within a code. No lying, no stealing, no ass kissing. And, despite his faults – the temper, the drinking that got worse the older he g
ot, the cynicism - as far as he could tell, he had lived up to that code.
The only clue, the real fact he could bank on came from his Grandfather not long before he died. When Burke had promoted to Detective, his grandfather was greatly pleased. He hugged his grandson, and whispered in his ear, “I am so proud of you. This will be hard on your father, but he will proud, too. He just won’t know how to say it.” And then the old man broke down and sobbed. Burke held his grandfather and let him cry, not knowing what to say. “I told your dad to get out, I told him they were never going to promote him, but he didn’t listen.” Two months later, Robert Burke was dead, and the mystery remained. That mystery would have to go unsolved at the moment.
The second message was from Bethany Edwards, which was a surprise. Burke had given her his card when he was leaving Saturday night, but he did that out of habit. Most people never speak to you again about a homicide, unless they have to. Many don’t trust the police, and the ones who still do usually are too shook up about the case to want to talk about it again.
Edwards stated that she had some information about Viceroy that Burke might find interesting. She indicated she didn’t want to leave the information on the phone, and had asked him to call her back to set up a face to face meeting. Tom glanced at his watch; it was already 7:30. He was supposed to be meeting Thurber in fifteen minutes at headquarters. Bethany Edwards would have to wait.
He and Thurber had started their Monday early, at City Hall right at eight when the doors opened. They decided to avoid the basement where the City Hall security chief was housed. Thurber had intimated that he was less than impressed by the man.
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Thurber explained while sucking on his Marlboro before they entered the building, “let’s not waste any more time on that asshole.”
Thurber heaved himself up the stairs, flicking the cigarette butt to the side before flashing his badge and entering the building. This was typical of Thurber; he just assumed Tom was going to follow him. He just moves and that’s that. Tom hated this about him. Burke even held rank on Jack and Tom was the lead investigator on this case. Hell, everyone knew that Tom was even the better investigator; everyone, except Thurber.
There was some good news. Thurber had gotten confirmation that the City did in fact have the ability to track the elevator system in City Hall. The bad news was that they would have to talk to their private vendor about getting the data. It wasn’t located at City Hall and the wanna be cop who posed as City Hall security said he wouldn’t have that information until Thursday.
City Hall was a big building. It was time to split up. Tom volunteered to interview the members of the City Council. Thurber was going to do follow up interviews with the Mayor’s staff and then head over to the City Manager’s office. Burke was relieved that he wasn’t going to have to spend the entire day with him.
Grabbing the express elevator, Burke quickly arrived on the twenty-second floor of City Hall, the floor that housed the City Council offices. He flashed his badge to the receptionist and asked to see Councilman Murray. He had already made up his mind that this Councilperson would be his first stop. Maybe what Bobby had told him was pure gossip; but he knew Bobby and he was reliable. He wouldn’t have told him about Murray and Vithous clashing unless it had most likely happened.
While he waited in reception he thumbed through his emails on his phone. Burke wasn’t really reading them. What he really was doing was trying to get a feeling of the floor. Who met with the City Council and why? Frequently a ‘ding’ would sound, and the doors to one of six elevators would open. The vast majority of the visitors were white men, In nice suits, many with their initials monogrammed on their cuffs. It was clear from watching them they had been there many times. They used the receptionist’s first name upon their arrival and she clearly knew who they were. A quick phone call and the men with their blue suits and power ties would be whisked behind the counter into a meeting room Burke could see behind the receptionist’s desk.
City staffers were easy to make out. Even if you didn’t see their ID badges, their outfits screamed civil servant. They too had ties on, but usually no jackets and certainly no monogrammed cuffs or expensive suits. Their clothes looked like they came from a large retail store on discount. Many of the outfits didn’t fit right; they couldn’t afford custom tailoring. They would walk right past the receptionist and would also disappear into a conference room or someone’s office.
About the time Burke had lost patience and was going to stand up and ask what was taking so long, a heavy set woman with frizzy black hair and a frumpy outfit said “Sgt. Burke?” as she opened the security gate. Burke stood up and walked towards her.
“I’m Karen Miller, Councilman Murray’s aide. His office is this way.”
Burke followed her as she turned to the right and used her security badge that was hanging around her neck to open a pair of doors down a short hallway. She propped the door open with her large arms and motioned him into the Councilman’s office. Murray stood up as he entered.
“I’m Councilman Murray,” he extended his arm for a handshake.
“Sergeant. Tom Burke with KCPD murder squad,” Burke replied, as Murray squeezed his hand tightly. “I assume you know why I am here.”
Murray motioned Burke to sit down and then did so himself, behind a modern looking desk.
“Yes, such a shame.” It sounded lame the second Murray uttered it. Burke let him squirm a little bit as he opened up his notebook, took out his pen and wrote down slowly Councilman Murray, 3/13.
Murray was younger than Burke had expected. He had dark blonde hair that had yet to produce any gray. Murray’s head was too large for his body, but he was handsome, nothing special, but certainly his mug would look good on a campaign sign. In fact, Burke could see Murray’s very head and shoulders on a large campaign sign on the wall behind the desk. Murray looked assertive in his picture. The sign said in a large font “Murray” with a smaller font stating “Making Kansas City Work.” Like most political signs, it was the requisite red, white and blue.
The office was adorned with pictures of Murray. Murray with voters. Murray with Congressman O’Malley. Murray with his City Council colleagues. Lots of pictures of Murray with his wife and kids. And interestingly, not a single picture of Murray with Jane Hughes. Murray had five kids. Three boys, two girls. A family of clones. Murray, the wife and the kids all looked exactly like. Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect smiles. It was eerie.
“Now Sergeant, what can I do for you?” Murray leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head.
“You have a nice looking family,” Burke replied.
“I’m sorry?”
“I couldn’t help notice the pictures of your family, you must be very proud.” Burke said.
“Yes, absolutely,” Murray exclaimed. While caught initially off guard, he seemed happy not to be talking about John Vithous. That was about to change.
“Councilman, you probably are wondering why I am talking to you,” Burke said as he made eye contact with Murray.
“Well, I assume you are talking to all of us on the City Council, correct?” Murray’s arms moved from the back of his head to his desk.
“True, but I will be honest, you were first on my list.”
“And why is that, Sergeant?” Murray seemed impatient and possibly even a bit annoyed.
“Well, here’s the funny thing,” Burke replied. He was using his pen to outline Murray over and over again on his pad. “I looked at almost one hundred of John Vithous’ emails the day that he died, and not one was to you or mentioned you.”
“That doesn’t seem so odd,” Murray replied his arms now folded around his chest.
“No, except you are the only one on the City Council that he didn’t email or talk about.”
That wasn’t necessarily true. Burke had noticed that Vithous had emailed most of the City Council, and it was true, Don Murray wasn’t one of them. But there probably were a couple others too.
He was guessing Councilman Murray wouldn’t check, though.
“Well, it is no secret that John and I were not friends,” Murray replied.
“Yes. I had heard that,” Burke confirmed. And then he waited long enough for the moment to get uncomfortable and for Murray to say something more
“Sergeant. Burke, my mother told me not to speak ill of the dead, so I probably shouldn’t say more,” Murray protested.
“My mother told me all sorts of things when I was a kid that I now ignore, Councilman,” Burke countered with a smile, “I’ll make you deal. Whatever we discuss here today? We won’t tell either of our mothers.”
This got a small smile from Don Murray. He leaned back in his chair.
“I guess it’s no secret that I was on John Vithous’ enemies list. And Sergeant, to be fair, that list was very long.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I guess I was special because from the day I got here I didn’t play by their rules,” Murray continued.
Burke stopped writing for a moment.
“What rules?”
“The Mayor’s and John’s rules, Sgt. Burke. Their unwritten rules. The minute I didn’t vote with them on a project they were unhappy. The second I voiced my apprehensions to reporters about an ordinance they wanted passed, I became dead to them.” Murray ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
“And what did being dead entail, exactly?” Burke asked.
“It meant no ordinance I sponsored had any hopes of getting passed. Hughes would assign it to Bill Cunningham’s committee to make sure it would die before it ever got heard. It meant that I went from being chair of the transportation and infrastructure committee to just being a member of the housing committee. Can you believe that? From chair of one of the most powerful committees at City Hall to a member of committee I couldn’t have cared less about.”
“Not much public housing up in your district, huh?” Burke surmised
