Violence

by Timothy McDougall

  Anderson pushed open a portion of a plywood barrier that used to be the sliding glass doors of the family room, and looked out over the neglected backyard. He stared into the pool that had beer cans floating at its bottom in shallow rain water made murky by windblown dirt. He was barely breathing. It took all his energy to fight recollections.

  Minutes later, Anderson finished emptying a gasoline container in the interior of the house that he retrieved from inside the cardboard box he had carried in from the car. He lit a match and tossed it on the family room floor. The blaze spread quickly.

  Anderson picked up the box off the kitchen countertop that now contained the only possessions he cared to take: Tristan’s book and some trampled photographs. He watched the fire spread throughout the rooms.

  Moments later, back in his Mercedes, Anderson took one last look at his former home as flames began to visibly lick and leak out the edges of the plywood barriers. He rolled into the street in neutral, started the engine and drove away without turning on the headlights, unseen.

  It was an hour later when Anderson had completed emptying out his desk at the office. He had a phone cradled against his ear as he placed the collected personal items in the box with the other things he took from his house.

  “Al, how are you?” Anderson said into the phone. “It’s Noel Anderson…”

  “How are you?” Ward asked, surprised that Anderson was calling, especially so soon after the verdict. Ward was sitting at his desk in his modest-sized office that was inundated with organizers and files. The space was also stuck in a kind of time-warp. Everything screamed the 1960’s or 70’s, from the cheap fake wood paneling to the brown shag rug, to the hanging lamp of a nude Grecian goddess seemingly bathing in the rain to the DayGlo Jimi Hendrix poster. Another peculiar accoutrement, in addition to the miniature medieval knight figures scattered about the room, were the displayed trappings of an actual knight which included a conical helmet, a chain of fealty, and a cruciform sword.

  “I’m good.” Anderson answered automatically. “I was wondering if you could put something together for me, a sort of report on the guys who murdered my wife. I’d like to know where they live, that sort of thing. I’d feel better in the coming weeks, months, years, whatever, if I knew where they were.”

  “Well, two of them are behind bars, but you know that.” Ward answered Anderson, trying to tug the knots out of the tangled phone cord.

  “I understand, but one is out and the other is going to get out soon.” Anderson continued. “I’m a little worried about them coming after me.”

  “My advice is don’t be.” Ward snorted confidently into the mouthpiece. “Criminals don’t usually revisit victims. Unless they knew them beforehand. Hell, they make enough enemies when they’re in jail or just plain livin’ to give any thought to you.”

  “You’re probably right, but I don’t want to pass these guys on the street.” Anderson answered as he stared at a framed family studio photograph of himself with Karen and Tristan. “Depending on where they are, I might want to move.”

  “The easiest way to track them is to put a GPS tracking device on whatever vehicle they’re driving.” Ward stated matter-of-factly. “You can follow ‘em wherever they go. All you need is an internet connection. Hell, you can do it over a phone as long as you can get on the web. That’s assuming these losers get a car. They’re not public transportation types so they usually get their hands on some type of vehicle, either through shacking up with a lonely heart and using her car or finding a junker and driving it without insurance or anything until they get pulled over for something and have to give it up. If you want me to, I’ll find out if the one guy has a car already and slap a tracker on it if he does, if it adds to your piece of mind.”

  “Nah, just a report is good.” Anderson assured him, after giving it some thought. “I just want to know the general area where they’re living. Where they might be working.”

  “I understand.” Ward stated as he eyed a framed photo of his own (circa the early to mid 1970’s) of himself in Marine dress blues standing with a pretty, shiny-faced young woman next to a Camaro. It goes without saying Ward cut a lean mean figure in those days. “Shouldn’t be too hard to locate the guy who’s out. The other guy who’s looking at parole soon, since he was in on a drug charge he will have to be set up with a halfway house or other re-entry location in advance. There’s also counseling he has to attend, and most of those offices are located downtown. I’ll find out what facility he has to release to. He’ll have to go there for at least a little bit of time. I’ll write you up a risk assessment, any known addresses, situations they’re likely to gravitate to, you know, where they hang out when they’re not in church.” Ward finished by attempting some levity.

  “Right.” Anderson chuckled but he didn’t really think it was funny.

  Ward didn’t think it was all so humorous either, he was just anxious talking to Anderson. He felt really bad about what had happened to him.

  “Just don’t worry about it.” Ward assured him. “I’ll get on it right away and get something over to you.”

  “I appreciate it.” Anderson thanked him. He told Ward he’d talk to him soon and hung up.

  CHAPTER 15

  Music emanated from a dance club that had its main entrance down-market chic style in an alley. Ruben Roney exchanged a bag of ecstasy pills for a hundred-dollar bill from a fidgety college kid who stood in the shadows with a short-skirted long-legged girl.

  “Thanks, man.” The college-kid said, trying to sound cool as he led the leggy girl back to a BMW where another couple was waiting expectantly.

  “Thank you! I aim to please!” Ruben retorted, giving them a deep bow and a hand flourish, trying to act even cooler. He grabbed his crotch, gawked at the leggy-girl’s ass as she climbed into the BMW. “Sweet thing!” Ruben muttered to himself.

  Ruben pulled a whiskey bottle out of his coat pocket. He took a swig, watched the BMW speed away. It was a decent night, money-wise, so he decided to head for his dilapidated GM Saturn parked a short distance away.

  He had only just started off when the sound of footsteps made him turn. It was even darker away from the lights of the club, and he was buzzing a bit, but whoever it was didn’t jingle-jangle like a cop and Ruben sure as hell wasn’t going to refuse another customer.

  “How ya’ doin’? Lookin’ to score?” Ruben breezily asked the approaching figure. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  * * *

  Squad-car floodlights illuminated the interior of the Saturn where Ruben’s motionless head was slung back against the front seat headrest.

  5-inch tubing fitted over the muffler ran all the way to an end piece wedged through a crack in the front driver’s side window. A rolled up towel jammed in the remaining window opening made sure no fumes could escape.

  Chicago police and detectives were already on the scene going methodically through a death investigation. Photographs were being taken from all angles on Ruben. Yellow police tape had been strung across both ends of the alleyway. An investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office was stepping out of a protective “bunny suit” as a wagon backed up to collect the body.

  A detective, with a distinct upper-body brawny build discernible under his dress shirt, finished interviewing a couple of club employees.

  The detective’s partner, a 40-ish Irishman with reddish-brown hair, also in a dress shirt and tie, leaned back out of the front passenger side with Roney’s wallet in one of his latex-gloved hands, cell phone cradled against his ear. “All right, thanks.” He muttered to someone on the phone and closed it up with his free hand.

  The two detectives, handguns and badges visible on their hips, met up next to their unmarked cruiser.

  “No one saw anything.” The well-built detective reported to his partner.

  “M.E. said he’s not dead long.” The Irishman nodded, relaying his news, bored with it all already. “Looks like he was drinking. There’s also some pills, m
oney in the car.” He gestured with the wallet, flipped it open to show the deceased’s identification. “His name is Ruben Roney. Just got out of County not long ago after beating a murder rap.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Anderson climbed the stairs outside the Our Lady of Sorrows rectory. He stopped a passing nun on the steps.

  “I’m looking for Father Cannova.”

  “Father is over in church.” The nun answered him and continued on.

  The church itself was built over a hundred years ago by Polish parishioners and had survived many changes in the vicinity. It now served a hearty mix of nearly every ethnicity in this working-class neighborhood.

  Anderson walked up to the imposing front staircase. He could hear the thumping of music booming from behind the doors of the church.

  Anderson found it odd there would be any late services or the music would be so loud for a wedding rehearsal. It was after dinner and he was just hoping to get a minute with Father Cannova. He was unprepared for what he was about to encounter as he swung open one of the entrance doors and found himself instantly a part of an intense new world…

  The place was rocking, filled with swaying people who were clapping, singing to the thundering beat of “Heaven Is In My Heart.”

  A dancing woman just inside the entrance gently took Anderson by the arm and drew him inside the vestibule.

  “Welcome! Praise God!” She shouted over the din.

  Another dancing couple each took a side of Anderson and shepherded him into the nave where he advanced down the center aisle through the pulsating crowd as if carried on a thundering wave of raw emotion.

  Anderson scanned the pews teeming with singing churchgoers, their hands held up, eyes closed as they all swayed back and forth in the throes of holy ecstasy.

  The aisles were all crammed with people laughing like children, dancing, weeping, praying. One man roared like a lion.

  A 10-year-old girl thrashed about on the floor in the center aisle where a woman prayed over her, tears running down her cheeks. Anderson stopped as the woman shrieked, “God is in her!”

  Other parishioners spoke in tongues.

  “Yo co pala neyo moway!” Said one.

  “Keela keela peeto ayeeee!” Said another.

  “Me pikka tool nomee!” Cried yet another.

  Father Cannova stepped up to a microphone located in front of the ornate altar where a five-piece rock band was playing.

  “Oh Lord, give us a sign of your power!” Cannova implored into the ether. “We ask for the angels of heaven to embody us!”

  Anderson locked his gaze on Jeannie, the young woman he encountered earlier who was working in the church rectory when he donated the insurance checks. She was squeezed into a pew between other congregants, clapping, swaying, and deep in spiritual rapture.

  Jeannie opened her eyes, looked about and realized Anderson was staring at her. There was a flash of initial joy on her face that was quickly covered up with a glare of defiance and she turned away.

  “I feel the angels of heaven here tonight!” Father Cannova shouted into the microphone as he unhooked the mic from its stand. “I feel the presence of God!”

  There were shouts everywhere of, “Praise the Lord!”

  Father Cannova spotted Anderson among the throng.

  “Mr. Anderson, is that you?!!” It was an inquiry of real surprise and delight.

  Anderson sort of ducked his head down out of embarrassment but then looked back up to face him.

  “Come forward! Come forward!? Cannova urged him.

  All eyes focused on Anderson.

  The congregants in the aisle parted for Anderson who was now forced to make his way to the altar where Father Cannova embraced him.

  “Are you here to receive the loving grace of God?!!” Cannova asked, his voice booming to the rafters.

  Anderson was clearly uncomfortable, but caught without an escape.

  Cannova embraced him again, and then shouted into the mic to the dancing throng. “This man’s family was taken from him in an act of violence, yet he has come to receive the healing power of our Lord Jesus Christ!”

  Voices in the crowd shrieked, “Praise Jesus!” and “Alleluia!”

  “Brothers and sisters, quiet please!” Cannova commanded the congregants.

  The band kicked the tempo down into a slow steady rhythm.

  Cannova turned to face Anderson and placed his hand on Anderson’s shoulder.

  “Do you want to be healed?” Cannova asked evenly, as he then turned the mic toward Anderson for his response.

  “I, uh… yes. Yes.” Anderson responded timidly into the mic’s mouthpiece.

  A group of people pressed forward at the front of the altar to pray at Anderson.

  “I ask everyone here to pray for you.” Cannova summoned the whole assembly before turning back to face Anderson. “And I am going to ask you to do one of the most difficult things you have ever done. I am going to ask you to pray out loud for the healing powers of our Lord Jesus Christ to enter you. Say out loud, LORD JESUS, HEAL ME!”

  “Lord Jesus, heal me.” Anderson stated reservedly.

  “You can do better than that!” Cannova shouted.

  “Lord Jesus, heal me!” Anderson declared again, a bit stronger.

  “Oh, come on!” Cannova beseeched him.

  “Lord Jesus, HEAL ME!” Anderson bellowed, finally getting into it.

  The praying people at the altar formed a semi-circle about Anderson in order to perform a ritualistic laying on of hands.

  Another large man scooted around behind Anderson into a catching position as Cannova set the mic back in its stand.

  Cannova raised his hands heavenward in supplication and placed his palms gently on Anderson’s forehead. He pushed Anderson softly back into the waiting arms of the large man who lowered Anderson gently to the floor.

  Other congregants surged forward and writhed about on the marble floor next to Anderson.

  The band started playing full throttle again, rocking the house.

  The whole place erupted into a cheering, dancing mass of humanity.

  “If you doubt that the Holy Spirit lives, look no further than this man!” Cannova cried out.

  Anderson slowly rose to his feet and stared intently at the boisterous, teeming assemblage.

  “You are now ‘Slain in the Spirit’!” Cannova exclaimed to Anderson. “Let the Holy Ghost be your guide! You have a family now! You are a member of the family of God!”

  Father Cannova stood at the bottom of the stairs bidding good-night to the service attendees as they streamed out of the front doors of the church.

  Anderson descended the stairs and moved up to Cannova. Several parishioners patted Anderson on the back and shook his hand as they moved past him.

  “I hope we’ll see you again.” Cannova warmly inquired of Anderson.

  A crying woman pressed a bouquet of flowers into Anderson’s hands. “Peace be with you! I pray for you!” She said as Anderson smiled at her and she drifted away.

  “Church has changed quite a bit since I used to go.” Anderson said bemused as he turned back to Cannova.

  “Yes it has.” Cannova agreed.

  “I’m praying for you!” Another man with a limp told Anderson as he hobbled past.

  “We have the more traditional masses you could attend.” Cannova offered. “If that’s what you prefer.”

  Anderson just stood in non-committal silence for a moment.

  A few more people moved past them and said good-night, expressing sympathies to Anderson.

  “I need help, father. I need you to pray for me.” Anderson asked Cannova.

  “You don’t even need to ask.” Cannova reassured him. “I already pray for you. And as you can see, everyone else does, too.”

  “I appreciate it.” Anderson solemnly expressed his gratitude as he nodded, shook Cannova’s hand and headed off into the parking lot.

  “God does have a plan!” Cannova called after him.
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br />   Anderson reached the edge of the lot where a darkened dormant building was located. It was another piece of church property, a grade school that was closed-down by the Archdiocese due to insufficient enrollment. As he reached his car he could hear a couple arguing in the shadows.

  “What have you been doin’?” The man raged. “I’ve been waiting out here for fucking ever!”

  “Get away from me!” The woman shouted back. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

  Anderson stepped up to find it was Jeannie who was in the middle of a screamfest with a long-haired, leather clad dirtball. His name was Jack Trax, and he looked like a reject from Spinal Tap.

  “I’m under a lot of pressure!” Trax yelled as he grabbed her by the arm. “And you’re fuckin’ around over here!”

  “What pressure?!!” Jeannie snorted, putting a key to the door lock on her 1996 rusted-out Impala.

  “You don’t know nothin’, you stupid bitch!” Trax spewed as he decked her with a hard slap across the face.

  Anderson trotted up to Trax as Jeannie, hands over her tear-filled mascara streaked face, looked up, embarrassed.

  “You want to try that on me?” Anderson challenged Trax.

  “Get the fuck out of here.” Trax answered with irritation, shoving Anderson aside.

  Anderson grabbed Trax and ran him headlong into some trash cans. Trax went sprawling, spread-eagled atop some rubbish. Anderson easily gathered him up and punched him in the stomach.

  Jeannie sprang to her feet and pulled at Anderson.

  “Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” She screamed, pushing herself between them.

  Trax fell to his knees, wheezing.

  “Are you crazy!” Jeannie shrieked at Anderson. “Get out of here! LEAVE US ALONE!”

  Jeannie kneeled down and comforted Trax who gladly took her aid.

  Anderson, puzzled, backed away.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.” Trax muttered to Jeannie shamelessly. “All I want is to be with you. I’m sorry.”