by M. K. Gilroy
I covered everything on my mind in fifty-five minutes.
“I think our time is up today,” she said.
Today sounds ominous. What will we talk about next time, I wonder? That was everything. I guess I could have talked about how my family has handled—and not handled—my father’s death.
“I have some questions I want to ask you next week,” she said. “I want to just say how proud I am of you for opening up.”
That takes me by surprise. I assumed she was writing “religious nut job” after I asked if she believed in God.
“What you did today, Kristen, is very important. Authentic relationships require authentic transparency. As humans we erect walls between ourselves and others, even people we love, because we are afraid what they will think if they see the real person we are. We grow closer as we take down the wall, sometimes one brick at a time, to be seen for who we really are. It is scary and takes trust to remove those bricks that we’ve carefully erected to protect ourselves. I think you did that just a little bit today and I applaud you. This is something we can build on.”
Build on. Yep, I’m going to be seeing Dr. Andrews for a while.
I like what she said, but put another way, I’m building an authentic relationship with someone who can’t have an authentic relationship with me because we are in a therapeutic relationship and it would go against her professional code to interact with me in any other setting.
I took down a few bricks and started an authentic relationship with someone I can’t have a relationship with—par for the course for me.
On my drive home I wonder how I can tell her I took the whole wall down and what she saw was probably all she was going to get. I am all for an appropriate amount of transparency. But I’ve somehow come to this notion that we aren’t an inside person and an outside person. We are what we do and do what we are.
I don’t know if that’s good theology or psychology. I might ask Jimmy what he thinks. He’s a very nice man. People love him. He listens and cares and helps. He’d be that way even if he wasn’t a pastor. But I’m not sure he knows how to respond to me. I’ve tried to broach a question I have about my dad’s death but we haven’t gotten anywhere.
He’s not the only one that isn’t sure how to deal with me. I’ve been told on more than a few occasions that dealing with me is like dealing with a brick wall. Andrews is right about me putting bricks up.
I don’t stay too introspective very long. Maybe I have undiagnosed ADHD. Next thing I know I’m humming the Pink Floyd song, “Just Another Brick in the Wall.” That might not be the actual name of the song. But that’s the phrase I remember along with “teacher leave those kids alone.” That gets me thinking about Bradley. Oh man.
70
I CALL BLACKSHEAR.
“Yeah Conner?”
Maybe I should tell him he needs to take a few bricks down.
“What’s the status of the crime scene?”
“The Kelttos?”
“Yeah.”
“Still sealed.”
“I want to walk through it. Any chance we can meet in the morning?”
“You out of the hospital?”
“Yep.”
“My team has gone through it with a fine-toothed comb.”
Like their work on the O’Hare surveillance videos I want to point out, but stop myself.
“But I haven’t,” I say nice and firm.
“You’re not going to find anything we haven’t already put in evidence boxes.”
“I just need to feel the vibe.”
He sighs. “You got it. What time?”
“What works for you?”
“Eight in the morning too early?”
“Perfect.”
“Scratch that. We see Bradley early tomorrow. Has to be tonight.”
I’m tired, but beggars don’t make the rules.
“Even better,” I say.
“I can get there at sevenish.”
“Knock on my mom’s door when you’re in the neighborhood, Bob. I’ll stop by and see her. And thanks a ton.”
I stopped by Mom’s for dinner. I didn’t even have to explain that I am being shadowed everywhere I go by two CPD officers and one FBI agent. She now makes extra food as the rule of thumb. That meant the FBI agent, a guy I hadn’t met, John Turvy, ate with us. Mom made a mean pot of fiery chili and insisted I take bowls out to the guys in the squad car. As long as neither has my nephew James’ genetic propensity toward flatulence, that should help make a bitterly cold night go easier.
Blackshear called a couple times to say he was running late and didn’t show up until a little before nine. My eyes were heavy and my head was bobbing while we waited. Mom immediately talked him into a bowl of chili. She sent me outside in dropping temperatures to deliver warm blackberry cobbler and melting ice cream to the guys in the squad car—the ice cream wasn’t melting for long. Blackshear may have had his nose bent out of shape with me for making him work late, but he wasn’t turning down dessert. It’s a little before ten and we are finally ready to head to the Kelttos.
“So what are you looking for, Kristen?” he asks.
“Nothing in particular, Bob. I just sometimes get feelings. It happened on the fourth murder with the Cutter Shark. Gigi. Remember her?”
“Don’t even ask me that, Kristen. I’ve spent the last year trying to forget everything about that sick case.”
“I should do the same but you’ve heard what I’m dealing with?”
“No. What’s up?”
“That’s for another day. I just know that my dad and Big Tony told me you have to feel the crime scene. Scalia said he’d pray even though he wasn’t a particularly praying Catholic outside of Mass. We were so stuck on that case that I did it. All I could think of was a Bible verse when I went through her house. I don’t know the whole thing, but the point was basically, ‘watch and pray.’ So I did. And I felt something.”
“Like a ghost?” he asks as he unlocks the back door to the Keltto residence.
“No, you goof. Not a ghost. Just a feeling that helped me later on.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. It just did.”
We walk through the first floor slowly. Blackshear is watching me the whole time. That’s distracting. Then we cover the upstairs. I stand in a bedroom that is probably less than fifty feet from Bradley’s room next door. He was picked up three hours or so ago. I feel no vibe. Blackshear keeps peeking over at me.
“Bob, stop looking at me. I told you, I don’t see ghosts.”
“Sorry. Sorry. You have me curious.”
“Good. Then just do what I do. Watch and pray.”
“I don’t really pray, Kristen. That’s my wife’s department.”
“You either keep your eyes to yourself and start praying or I’m going to punch you in the nose.”
“I’ve always thought I should pray,” he answers, stifling a smile.
Okay. This is forcing things with him looking over my shoulder. I wasn’t expecting words to appear in a mist before my eyes with the name of the murderer, but I was expecting something. Just a better feeling for Ed and Nancy and what happened. I feel nothing.
“Done?” Blackshear asks, looking at his watch.
“The garage,” I say.
He purses and then puckers his lips. His mouth opens to speak the words he wants to say. But it closes. Blackshear nods and we bundle up our coats to brace against the lake wind that has worked its ways between houses, alleys, businesses, and walls to lash into us in the fifteen short steps between the back stoop and the side door of the one-car garage.
Blackshear flicks on the light. Even with everything organized and placed on shelves and hooks and in cubbies that wrap around three walls, there is nothing but a small path around the Malibu.
I look at a bucket with rock salt on my right. I shut the world out, including Blackshear. I pass the automotive section. A case of oil. Four one-gallon containers of windshield wiper fluid. Radiator
fluid. Car wash and waxes. Leather care for car seats.
The next two steps take me into home maintenance, with tubes of caulk, cans of paint, half-used rolls of shelf paper, concrete sealer on the bottom shelf, and more. I can see around the car. The other wall is yard and garden supplies and tools. A lot of stuff for such a tiny yard.
I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a Home Depot or Lowes.
I stop at the back of the garage. There is a long tool bench that reaches from wall to wall. Above are cupboards. On top of the bench is an impressive array of power and hand tools. Beneath are portioned slots with different kinds and sizes of lumber.
I stop and look at the unpainted cupboards. We might be in an enclosed structure but it is freezing. I blow out and see my breath. I look over at Blackshear. He avoids eye contact. He wants to go home. I do, too.
I look at the last cupboard along the back wall. I reach in my pocket, pull out a small but powerful black flashlight and play the beam over the woodwork. If it was daylight and the garage door was open it would be easy to see, but Chicago is shrouded in gray during the winter, and the light bulb flickering on the ceiling of the garage is weak. But there it is, clear as day. A name has been scratched in the wood by an inexperienced juvenile hand.
Bradley.
Blackshear sees it and shrugs.
I walk back to the side door and get a stepladder. I prop it in front of the bench, two legs on a raised concrete slab, two on the floor of the garage. The bottom shelf is filled with magazines and stapled paper documents. I hand them down to Blackshear and we take a quick look-see. Do-It-Yourself woodworking magazines and plans. Hand-written scribbling in pencil.
Next shelf up I pull out a partially completed project. It is a box made out of mahogany or hickory or some other dark wood. Next to it are materials, including a roll of felt, to finish what looks like will become a jewelry box. I assume Bradley has started a project for his mom. Nice. Too bad he might not ever get a chance to finish it.
On the top shelf is a simple leather tool belt on top of a neatly folded apron. I look at the tan leather belt. The name Bradley has been burnished on the inside.
Looks to me like Bradley did more with Ed than he indicated to me at the bus stop.
Bradley. What did you do, Bradley? Did you kill the guy that was trying to help you?
“You getting a vibe Conner?” Blackshear asks, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah . . . just not sure what it means. How about you?”
“I’m praying but I’m getting a little weirded out, Conner.”
71
“VANESSA, YOU DON’T owe me any explanation. This is between you and Don. It’s a family decision. I’m all for whatever you feel is right for you.”
I got back to the condo and thought of Mr. Bernard. I need to check on him. Amazingly, the Bear didn’t kill him. Knocked him out and slid him under the greeting desk but apparently Mr. Bernard is one tough old bird. The kid working the lobby says he is going to be okay and come back to work. I notice he is nervous talking to me and looking around. He is probably wondering who else is after me.
“Did they do a good job on the new door?” he asked.
Admittedly—and I’m embarrassed to say—I hadn’t looked close, but answered, “It looks great.”
Klarissa’s bathroom in the master bedroom has a huge Jacuzzi tub. I soaked away the last nine days, starting in Central Park with a dying man. I wonder again how his wife is doing. Justine. I saw another picture of her with a news story. She is stunning.
I haven’t done a crossword in forever and planned to sit in bed and veg out doing a puzzle or two before falling asleep.
There’s an FBI agent in the living room. Torgerson takes his place at eleven. I had planned to be asleep already. Then Vanessa called. She is feeling bad for pushing Don to finalize a decision.
“Don’s a wonderful husband. I don’t care how much he makes. Money has never been an issue.”
She’s made sure of that with her career. Must be nice.
“But I don’t know how you guys do this work, Kristen. I really don’t. It’s an awful job. You work insane hours trying to keep the city safe, then you have to hear the media blast you for all the things you do wrong.”
The cleansing I felt after the soak is wearing off quickly.
“He’s a great father. Devon and Veronika adore him. But they’re getting older. The world changes when you go to middle school. They’re going to need more time from him.”
I think of Kendra. Does she go to middle school next year or the year after? Oh man. Time flies.
“I hear you, Vanessa, and agree.”
“But I want Don to be happy. And he’s miserable right now.”
“Maybe that’s because of the job, Vanessa. Maybe you’re making your own point. We’ve got some crazy stuff we’re working on. That won’t change.”
“I know, Kristen. I know. But part of it right now is you. You got shot for heaven’s sake. He feels like he can’t leave you in harm’s way.”
“He knows me well enough, Vanessa, and he knows I’m not his job. This has nothing to do with me.”
“His head knows but his heart doesn’t. He grew up being a star football player but his daddy was coach and made sure he knew it was a team game.”
“I know he was a star. My Huskies still remember him putting up two hundred yards against us for Ball State.”
I don’t know if Don could have made the NFL. I know he would have gotten a look if he hadn’t blown out his ACL his senior year. Part of the reason we are a good team is we have some things in common. I got a torn ACL playing soccer for Northern Illinois. Same conference as Ball State. I can fantasize about being the next Mia Hamm but I do know in my real world mind that I had no chance at the NFL or Team USA.
“Maybe if he moved up in management and wasn’t on the street, it’d be okay,” she continued, not sounding very happy or convinced.
“If he stays on the force that will happen sooner or later, Vanessa. He’ll be a captain and then commander is next. He’s a smart guy. Everyone respects him. The sky is the limit.”
I don’t think that’s what she wanted to hear. She wants a new start in California. She can feel the sun already. I bite my tongue and don’t mention they are running out of water out there in addition to their own problems with crime.
“Can I ask you one small favor, Kristen?”
“Anything, Vanessa. Name it.”
“It’s actually two things.”
“No big biggie, even if it’s three things. Anything for you and your family.”
“Just . . . I’m not sure how to say this . . . just do your best to let him know you support his decision.”
That stings a little. Did she think I was going to work against her?
“You got it, Vanessa,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can put in my voice. “That’s easy. I do support his decision. What else?”
“He’s worried about Debbie. He doesn’t want to leave Chicago with her the way she is. He feels responsible.”
That’s got to be tough. Don’s sister is a crack-head who has been in and out of jail for drugs and prostitution. He and Rodney try to get her into rehab at least once a year. She agrees and then bolts. I was there when she stood them up last Thanksgiving.
“I know this is too much to ask. But if you can let him know you’ll check on her from time to time, he might feel better.”
“Vanessa, you didn’t even have to ask. I’ll do it. I want to do it. I’m happy to do it. I know he’d do the same for me if our positions were switched.”
“Let him know, Kristen. It will help.”
I really like Vanessa. She and Don are wonderful together. She’s perfect for him—she understands his need for Italian silk ties. I don’t want to get into judging. I guess I’ll just say, Don may be the head of the family, but she is the neck that turns the head.
“This is Squires.”
No one spoke.
“This is Squires. C
an I help you?”
“Donny . . .”
The broken voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Donny. I’se got myself in troubles again.”
“Where you at, Debbie?”
“Cook County Sherriff’s.”
“I’ll come get you.”
“You’re gonna have to talk to them. They might not let me come with you.”
“What’d they pick you up for, Debbie?”
“Some things I don’t like to say out loud. Just come down if you can and if Vanessa’ll let you’se.”
Squires decided to ignore the last jab, even if there was a hint of truth to it.
“Donny.”
“Yeah, Deb.”
“Don’t bring that skinny partner of yours. She’s crazy. I don’t like her. She gonna get you killed one day.”
“Sit tight, Deb. I’m on my way.”
“I ain’t going nowhere. They got me locked up again, Donny.”
Squires felt sick to his stomach. What in the world had happened to his smart, witty, and beautiful little sister? Problem is he knew what happened to her, but how? She might have been smartest of the three kids. Deb was definitely smarter than him. About the time he was off at college and Rodney was finishing law school, their dad got sick. Cancer. Their mom was so busy taking care of him that Deb was left to her own devices. She got in with the wrong crowd, hooked up with a bad guy—now deceased—and spiraled into drugs and the crimes required to support the habit, robbery and prostitution.
He would call Rodney on the way over. It was two hours earlier there.
Deb sounded bad. Vanessa would put up a stink if he even considered bringing her back to the house. She had never let Devon and Veronika see their aunt, not that Debbie had ever made an effort. He needed to take her somewhere else tonight. After her disappearance at Thanksgiving, Rodney put a couple top-notch rehab centers on retainer, ready to take her 24/7, no advance notice.
Debbie would squawk and cuss Vanessa up and down the whole way over, blaming Vanessa for not welcoming her into the home. The more Don defended Vanessa, the louder Debbie would get. The truth was, he didn’t want her around the kids either.
