Rain Will Come

by Holgate, Thomas

  He had been Czarcik’s partner for the past six months and would be his partner for the next six until he retired at age forty-five with a full pension. After that, he and his wife, who hated children with a vigor equal to his own, planned to purchase a cabin on Lake Superior, where they would live out their years with as little human contact as possible.

  Czarcik and Klein were paired up thanks to a departmental initiative that sought to place rookie cops with veteran ones. The idea, of course, was to have the first-year officers soak up the experience of their elders. Learn at their knee, so to speak. What should have been more than evident was that cops closing in on retirement had little interest in any kind of half-assed apprenticeship program. They wanted to avoid two things in the twilight of their careers: getting shot and a charge of police brutality. Furthermore, it wasn’t particularly inspiring for the rookies to be constantly exposed to such simmering pessimism.

  For all the program’s faults, Czarcik and Klein got along well enough. In Czarcik, Klein saw a kid who had gotten into law enforcement for the right reasons; in Klein, Czarcik saw someone who was the antithesis of guys like Clemens and Tibbett.

  “Ed?” Czarcik said, looking at his partner. Klein was behind the wheel. He always drove when they went out on a call.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do a lot of cops go drinking before their shift?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I was having dinner at Galway’s before work and ran into Clemens and Tibbett. They were off duty, but they offered me a drink.”

  “Those guys are idiots. Miracle they haven’t been killed by now.”

  “But is it true? You know, that a lot of the guys drink on duty?”

  Klein looked at him and frowned. “Yeah, it’s true.” Czarcik nodded and turned toward the window. Klein glanced at him sideways while keeping his eyes on the road. “You’re not a big drinker, are you?”

  Czarcik shook his head.

  Czarcik and Klein had been on plenty of domestic-disturbance calls together. By now, their roles were fairly consistent. Czarcik was the sympathetic ear who took the victim’s statement, and Klein, by virtue of his experience and disposition, made sure the aggressor didn’t do anything stupid.

  Most of these calls played out the same way. Rarely did they walk in on a Carlo and Connie scenario. The man was usually quiet, embarrassed, almost apologetic, while the woman assured the officers—even as her nose began to swell and her eyes blacken—that it was all one big misunderstanding.

  Czarcik hated walking away from these calls empty handed. But he couldn’t force someone to file charges.

  The two were greeted at the door by a man. It wasn’t unheard of for a white family to be living in this area of the South Loop, but it wasn’t that common either. His color caught the cops off guard, as did the way he greeted them like old friends.

  “Come in, come in,” he said as he ushered them into the apartment.

  “Mr. Kuzma,” Klein said as he looked around the apartment, “we received a call from a female at this residence who claimed to be in some type of physical danger.”

  “Doctor Kuzma,” the professor clarified. “I’m a professor at the University of Chicago.”

  Klein ignored him. “How ’bout you tell me what’s going on here.”

  “Nothing; it was my mistake,” said a soft female voice. They all turned around as a woman entered the room from a short hallway. She was small and delicate, wearing a modest nightgown, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dressed for bed. Her arms were painfully thin, like taut cables covered in parchment paper. Just below one shoulder, peeking out from under the fabric, was a fading yellow bruise.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” Czarcik asked as she walked over and leaned against her husband. He draped his arm around her. She was so frail she seemed to glide, as if her presence in the home was more spectral than human.

  “I called the police,” she explained. “Wilson was in one of his moods, and I haven’t been sleeping.”

  Czarcik looked over at Klein. They were used to cockamamy explanations. Coded language. Euphemisms to make abuse seem more palatable.

  “So, Officers,” said the smarmy professor, “we’re supporters of civil servants. We give generously during your pledge drive. But as you can plainly see . . . there’s nothing to see here.” His smile, which he clearly thought was charming, gave Czarcik the willies. His too-white teeth looked like mini tombstones.

  Again Klein ignored him and turned to the wife. “Would you like to file a report, ma’am?”

  “Good heavens, no,” she said, instinctively pulling her nightgown tighter at the neck and moving deeper into her husband.

  Czarcik sensed movement behind him. He dropped his hand to his gun, just brushing the weapon, making sure it was there, as a young girl came into the room. She looked to be around fourteen and had the dazed countenance of someone who had just woken up. She didn’t appear particularly surprised or unsettled by the presence of the two strange men in her home.

  “Go back to bed, Genevieve,” said her father. “Mommy and Daddy have visitors.”

  The girl turned around and walked back to her room. But as she did, she glanced up at Czarcik.

  His knees turned to jelly, and he reached out—inconspicuously, he hoped—against the wall to steady himself.

  My God, he’s fucking his daughter.

  He couldn’t explain how he knew, how he knew with absolute certainty. The girl held his gaze, locked in, burning the image into his brain. And then she was gone.

  For years after, Czarcik tortured himself by trying to assign meaning to that stare. Was it acquiescence? Capitulation? Defiance? He didn’t know. But her eyes. Her eyes were hollow.

  “Officer Czarcik?” Klein was saying with some impatience in his voice. Czarcik looked over. The girl was gone, and Klein and her parents were waiting on him.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, ‘We’re wrapping up here.’”

  He didn’t know how long he had been out of it. Couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “Last chance, ma’am. You sure you don’t want to file a report?”

  She looked at him with pure disdain. They had covered this already.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” the professor said as he led the officers out.

  “Professor, just one more question,” Czarcik said. “Out of curiosity, what do you teach?”

  “Philosophy.”

  “Ah.” Czarcik smiled. “Forsan miseros meliora sequentur.”

  Dr. Kuzma frowned. “Gentlemen.” He closed the door quickly.

  “That was one weird fucking family.”

  The duo was back in the car, driving up Wabash as the L shrieked above, sending showers of sparks raining down around them.

  “We should have stayed. We should have pushed. Gotten her to make a statement,” Czarcik said angrily.

  Klein looked at his younger partner. “You out of your mind? How many of these domestic calls have you been on now? You weren’t going to pry a word out of that woman with a crowbar and thumbscrews.”

  “Still . . .”

  Klein shook his head. “And what the fuck were you doing at the end there? Speaking in tongues?”

  “It was Latin. From Virgil. Loosely translated to, ‘For those in misery, perhaps better things will follow.’”

  Klein seemed to ponder the phrase. He wasn’t much of a scholar. “A-fucking-men,” he said finally.

  Czarcik never mentioned the girl again to Klein or anybody else. Over time he even forgot her name. But he never forgot those eyes.

  FOURTEEN

  “I’m pulling you off the case.”

  This was not what Czarcik had been expecting.

  He had been planning to make a brief appearance at BJE headquarters, have a few cups of bad coffee, maybe admire the new desk sergeant who had just gotten a breast enhancement. What he wasn’t expecting was this shit.

  “I’m leaving it in the hands of the very capable Chicago P
olice Department,” said Eldon Parseghian.

  He was standing in front of the mirror on the back of his office door, adjusting his navy power tie. Parseghian was dressed in his best Armani suit, preparing for a lunch with the governor to discuss something obviously above Czarcik’s pay grade. His back was to Czarcik, who was sitting in a chair in front of his boss’s desk.

  “I think that’s a mistake. A big one.”

  “I’m sure you do. What I can’t really figure out is why. I mean, they brought us in to look at the crime scene, determine what the fuck happened. A robbery? A territorial beef? Some weird voodoo shit? I figured you’d give it the once-over and throw it right back at them. But you’ve been chewing on this like some goddamned junkyard dog. The whole Chicago PD sting. I didn’t understand what the fuck that was about. But I wasn’t about to question you if we got our man and some good press. At this point, though, we got nothing. Just a drain on resources.”

  “I’ll do it on my own time. I have more than a month of vacation time coming my way.”

  Parseghian checked himself in the mirror one last time. He pushed a few strands of gray, wet with styling gel, back behind his ear and turned to Czarcik, looking at him like he was crazy. He then went back and sat down behind his desk. “You out of your mind?”

  “There’s more to this than any of us realize.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not yet.”

  Parseghian didn’t push it. He rarely put the screws to an agent unless he felt the agent was holding out on him. And even then, he trusted the judgment of his best ones.

  The two men weren’t close—Czarcik wasn’t close to anyone—but he could read his boss fairly well. “What aren’t you telling me about this?”

  Parseghian sighed. He looked like an actor suffering from heartburn in an antacid commercial. “Watkins called me this morning.”

  “He’s an insufferable prick.”

  “Goes without saying. But that insufferable prick has a lot of pull in Springfield. He kept reminding me that this idea of yours has generated no legitimate leads.” Czarcik’s jaw tightened. Parseghian continued. “According to Watkins, they got a single confession last week. Off the street. The guy walked right through the front door and turned himself in. Callahan—you know Callahan? Whose old lady works for the Metropolitan Pier Authority?—well, he had the pleasure of interrogating him, during which time this man claimed responsibility for the Lindbergh kidnapping, the Oklahoma City bombing, and 9/11. Then he laughed hysterically before vomiting on Callahan’s shoes and passing out. He’s in psych at Stroger if you want to see him.”

  “I told you this was a hunch. I didn’t promise a foolproof plan.”

  Parseghian nodded. “And your hunches have always paid off, which is exactly what I reminded Watkins.”

  “I just need more time. And unless there’s something else you’re not telling me, Chicago PD has made less headway than us. Watkins might act like a self-righteous motherfucker, but he wouldn’t know how to solve a murder if the asshole walked into his office in a pair of handcuffs.”

  Parseghian got up from his desk. He walked over to the nearest window and stared out. “This afternoon, Watkins is going to tell the press that there isn’t enough evidence to continue to hold Mr. Oakes. He’ll assure them he’s pursuing all relevant leads and that we don’t have a serial killer in our midst. If someone asks him about the involvement of the BJE, he’ll tell them our services are no longer needed.”

  “Then we’re done,” Czarcik said. He pushed his chair away from the desk and headed toward the door.

  “Sit down, Paul,” Parseghian said, still gazing out the window. He rarely used Czarcik’s first name, and the detective had the sinking feeling that what was coming next was a lot worse than he first expected.

  Overflowing with nervous energy, Parseghian turned from the window, sat back down in his chair, fidgeted a bit, and looked across his desk at Czarcik.

  “This is a bad fucking time to be a cop, Paul, and an even worse time to be part of an organization that the public doesn’t really understand. There was a time when we were heroes. When CSI was the most popular show on TV. Didn’t matter most of it was bullshit. The public thought we were magicians, protecting them from serial killers on every corner. Now we’re the assholes who shoot unarmed black kids and cover it up.”

  Czarcik’s response was immediate, almost instinctual. “If you’re firing me, have the balls to do it like a man.”

  Parseghian held up a hand. “I’m not firing you. I’m suggesting you take your well-deserved retirement.”

  Czarcik seethed. At least Groucho had challenged him. Parseghian was putting him out to pasture. But as the anger mounted, he kept his composure, understanding that a violent outburst would be proven not cathartic but detrimental. Instead, he internalized. Compartmentalized. Took a deep breath and looked right at Parseghian. “What the hell is this really about?”

  Parseghian threw up his hands. “Bureaucracy. Money. State debt. Defaults. The fuck do you want me to say? What it’s not is some grand conspiracy.” He sighed. “Or about keeping the public safe.”

  “Let’s say I’m not ready to ride off into the sunset just yet,” Czarcik said. Parseghian waited for him to continue. “I don’t know what the fuck my union does, but I do know every month they wet their beak from my paycheck. And I do know that they don’t take lightly to their members being let go without cause.”

  “Without cause.” A slight smile pulled at the corner of Parseghian’s mouth. “You don’t want to go down that road, Detective.”

  But that lonely, lightless road was the very one that Czarcik was contemplating. What if he took the one less traveled—encouraged by that grade school poem he suddenly remembered—and forced Parseghian’s hand? How messy could it get? He decided to rattle the cage a little longer. “And if I do?”

  The boss looked tired, in no mood to engage in a battle of wills. He fixed Czarcik with his most penetrating stare. “The amount of paper I have on you for cause is longer than War and Peace. I just never felt the need to use it. I hope I still don’t.”

  Czarcik had no doubt this was true. Groucho. Parseghian. They were two sides of the same fucking coin. The difference? One was an unpredictable serial killer while the other was the epitome of the company man. Equally ruthless.

  “I need a month,” Czarcik said somewhat sheepishly.

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “I need a month,” Czarcik repeated. “You won’t have to pay me,” he added before Parseghian could reply. This was the smart move, appealing to the boss’s parsimony. “The only thing I request is continued access to the same resources I currently enjoy.”

  Parseghian mulled over the offer, saying nothing.

  “I’d work alone,” Czarcik continued. “I’d call on the other agents and detectives only when absolutely necessary. And that would be infrequently, if at all.” He was slowly casting himself in the role of obsequious employee.

  “What about Chicago PD? They’ve already invested time and manpower—”

  “And gotten nowhere,” Czarcik interrupted. Then, trying to appear empathic, he said, “I’ll keep Watkins in the loop. Won’t step on anyone’s toes. Let his team lead the investigation. We won’t be working at cross purposes”—he paused—“just along different lines of inquiry. I’ll even share everything I find with him.”

  Parseghian was certain that Czarcik was being far from transparent. Such collaboration wasn’t in his nature. But even if he didn’t buy the reason for the detective’s sudden magnanimity, he couldn’t dispute the crux of his argument.

  The head of the BJE had built his career on, among other things, common sense. And this made a lot of sense. What was the harm in getting Czarcik out of his hair for a month, and then out of the bureau for good? If luck shone upon them, maybe he really would find the killer. Plus, at the moment, the public was consumed by the gun violence in the city’s gang-infested neighborhoods. They were hardly cl
amoring for justice for the murder of two degenerates.

  “One month,” Parseghian declared, holding up a single finger in case Czarcik misheard him. He tapped his thick knuckles on the desk; the sound echoed through the office.

  “You’ll clear it with Watkins? I don’t want any bullshit from his people.”

  Parseghian nodded. “I’ll clear it.”

  Czarcik stood up. “I appreciate it. But you’ll understand if I don’t shake your hand.” He was out of the office before Parseghian could figure out how to respond.

  The last thought he had before Czarcik left his office was not that the detective might get his man, but that the man might get his detective.

  And this struck him as not entirely disagreeable.

  “Fuckin’ Czarcik,” he muttered.

  FIFTEEN

  To astrologers, there is no earthly occurrence not foretold in the stars.

  The night was clear, and many of the constellations were visible to the naked eye. To some, they held answers.

  To men like Daniel Langdon and Detective Paul Czarcik, fate was determined by a single, unwavering constant: the will of man.

  How ironic, then, that at the exact same time, both pragmatists should find themselves in cheap motels barely six miles apart.

  Down in the South Loop, where the Orange and Green Lines passed over Congress Parkway, Daniel knelt in the bathroom of the Buford Arms Motel, introducing the calcium-caked toilet bowl to the contents of his stomach.

  The headaches had been getting worse. They weren’t the tension type, from which he had occasionally suffered during his years in the workforce, where it felt as if a band of hot steel was being slowly tightened around his forehead. Nor were they the excruciating, boring pain of a migraine, which had afflicted his mother all her life, sending her to a silent, darkened room to wish away the agonies of the condition. These were different. They were localized and grinding. Daniel found it hard to believe that there was not some living thing inside his skull—like in that old Night Gallery episode—feasting on the raw nerve endings, subsisting on the pain. He remembered those mental-hygiene films from his parents’ generation, in which an anthropomorphic piece of tooth plaque jackhammered a molar. That’s what it felt like.