High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Kitty looked like she wanted to cry. Georgia felt her helplessness.

  Purdy jiggled his line. “Hey, I think I got something.” He started to reel in the line. A moment later, a fish appeared, flopping and twisting.

  “Another walleye!” Purdy cried happily. “Looks like we have a feast for dinner.”

  Georgia watched as he landed the fish and, after it stopped thrashing, put it into the cooler with the others. She turned back to Kitty. “You were saying?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. That’s what I told the cops, by the way. And the FBI. I wanted them to know that in his heart, he was a good guy.” She bit her lip. “But then it all changed.”

  “How come?”

  “Beef Jerky started coming around.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Five Months Before the Demonstration

  Kitty was wiping down the bar on a hot September day, wondering what more she could do to help her brother. He was suffering from a severe case of PTSD. Every morning she was afraid he might not wake up, fearing he might have swallowed all his Ambien along with the booze. As it was, he slept most of the day, but that wasn’t all bad. Kitty went to work around four, and he was usually up, morose and depressed, but awake. He would show up at the Barracks at some point.

  The Barracks was both a godsend and a curse. It was a refuge of sorts, almost a halfway house where vets could commiserate, talk out their anxieties—all of them had anxieties—and, of course, drink themselves into oblivion. Kitty couldn’t blame them after what they’d seen and done. But it was also a curse—precisely because it was a refuge. Vets could hide at the bar indefinitely. Forget they’d once had a life. Avoid making plans. Kitty had to tread carefully. She wasn’t a therapist, just a bartender. Still she tried in a subtle way to hold out hope like a beacon. Not unlike that motel commercial that promised, “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

  Around five in the afternoon three men came in wearing fatigues and army jackets. They commandeered the round table in the front of the tavern. Two were slim, pale, and covered with tats up and down their arms. The third was a beefy, stocky guy with a shaved head, intense eyes, and a horseshoe mustache so perfectly manicured he had to be vain about it.

  Scott was nursing a beer at the bar, Kitty watching over him, when Horseshoe Man called out, “Hey, pretty lady, you got any beef jerky?”

  Kitty looked over. “I might. Can’t vouch for how fresh it is.”

  “You got it, I’ll take it. Any way I can.” He grinned.

  The men with the tats snickered.

  Kitty nodded, walked the length of the bar, and disappeared into a back room. She emerged a moment later with three packs of the stuff and brought them over to the men.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You just made yourself a huge tip, little lady,” Horseshoe said.

  “He can’t get enough of that shit,” one of the Tats said with a laugh. “Always had a pack in-country.”

  “Damn right, Hairy,” Horseshoe said. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Kitty.”

  “Well, Miss Kitty, I’m Beef Jerky.” His grin widened but it didn’t reach his eyes. “At least that’s what they call me.”

  She had to smile. The name fit. “I’ll make sure to order some fresh jerk,” she said. “Any particular flavor?”

  “Now, aren’t you the sweetheart? They told me this place rocks. Any’ll do.” Beef Jerky gazed around the tavern, which, now that it was happy hour, was filling up. His knowing expression said he could size up a situation right away. He didn’t miss a thing.

  Kitty went back behind the bar. Scott was hunched over, staring into his beer, a plate of buffalo wings beside him.

  Beef Jerky eyed him. “Hey, soldier.”

  Scott didn’t make any sign that he knew someone was talking to him.

  “You at the bar . . . what’s your name?”

  Kitty glanced at her brother, then at Beef Jerky. Up until now Scott had stayed clear of other vets in the bar, to the point that Kitty worried he was withdrawing into a shell that no one could ever crack, so she nudged him. “Hey, Scotty. That guy’s talking to you.”

  Scott looked up with no expression in his eyes, then slowly turned around. She wasn’t sure to this day what made him answer. She would always carry a shred of guilt that it had been her prodding, but after a long pause, he said, “Jarvis.”

  Beef Jerky nodded. “Where were you deployed?”

  “Iraq. Two tours. Then one in ’Stan, Helmand Province.”

  “Gus was in Helmand, weren’t you, buddy?”

  Gus, the other guy with the tats, was deep into a mug of beer. He nodded.

  “Come on over, son. Buy you another beer.”

  Jarvis glanced back at Kitty. “She’s my sister. Don’t need it.”

  “Well, in that case, Kitty,” Beef Jerky said, “bring us a pitcher.”

  Kitty, eager for Jarvis to actually socialize with other vets, replied, “Coming right up.”

  That’s how it started.

  • • •

  A month later, Scott was a regular at the table with Beef Jerky, Hairy, and Gus. Beef Jerky would hold court, occasionally inviting other vets to join them. Kitty began serving them extra wings, little pizzas, and other bar food. She knew this was probably their main meal, maybe their only meal of the day.

  Their conversation was wide-ranging. Sometimes it was what happened to them in-country; sometimes it was what they wanted to do now; sometimes it was furtive whispered exchanges that made Kitty think they were hatching some kind of plan. Running through it, all the time, was politics. Beef Jerky was all in for the president. “He’s exactly what this chickenshit country needs,” he’d proclaim. “The day he said, ‘grab ’em by their pussy,’ I knew he was the right man for the job.” He laughed.

  Kitty was apolitical. So was Scott, at least when he’d been discharged, but as he got friendlier with the boys, he started to repeat some of Beef Jerky’s aphorisms. There were chortles about lily-livered liberals, sticking it to blacks, wetbacks, and Arabs, and more. Kitty didn’t like it, but Scott seemed more engaged than he’d been in the nine months since he’d come home. Occasionally, he even smiled. A godsend and a curse.

  One day when talk turned to the future, which wasn’t often, because, as Kitty suspected, most of the GIs weren’t ready for it, Beef Jerky, as always, took the lead.

  “What about you, Jarvis? What are you gonna do?”

  Scott looked up blankly.

  “Well, what did you do before you went in?”

  “Not much.”

  Kitty cut in. “That’s not true, Scotty. Remember when you were talking about creating a video game?” She looked over at Beef Jerky. “He was incredible with all those computer games. He’d play with people all over the country. He could rack up points just by breathing. He’d win free games all the time.”

  “Is that right?” Beef Jerky said.

  “He was an expert marksman, weren’t you, babe?” she said with a touch of pride.

  Scott smiled, Kitty observed. That was good.

  “Good to know,” Beef Jerky said and ordered another pitcher. When it came, he poured beer for all of them. “So . . . I got this idea for a game, Jarvis. I call it the Perfect Kill. I bet you could do it. Make it up, I mean.”

  Scott looked puzzled.

  “I used to think about it when I was on patrol. What would it take to make the perfect kill?” He tossed back his beer. “See, it’s like this. You pick your target, get some height on it. Like in a copter if you’re in-country. But you could also do it in a city. You know, get to a building on the tenth floor or something. Far enough away but still in range. That’s one idea. I bet you could come up with a bunch of different setups, you being a sharpshooter and computer geek and all.”

  Jarvis canted his head. Kitty started to feel uneasy.

  Beef Jerky went on. “Then you draw a bead and go for it.”

  Jarvis emptied his glass. Beef Jerky poured more
beer. Jarvis shook his head. “It won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too easy to trace the trajectory. Anyone with any brains would know where the shot came from. Shooter wouldn’t be able to get away clean.”

  “Ah, but you see, there’s another step involved.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You ditch your rifle, your stock, your ammo. Everything. Then you pull out a grenade that you kept in your back pocket the whole time, pull the pin, and run like hell. The grenade obliterates all the evidence. Well, most of it. So even if someone figures out the trajectory, there’s not a lot to see when they get there. You’re home free.”

  Hairy interjected. “Wouldn’t have to be a grenade, neither. You could use any kind of IED. Or make your own. Like an ANFO or something. Even a pipe bomb. Put a timer, sensor, or tripwire on it, and boom.”

  Scott seemed to consider it. “I guess.”

  “But a grenade is cleaner,” Beef Jerky said with authority.

  Kitty took a plate of pigs in a blanket out of the microwave and gave them to the men. “You be careful with that kind of talk, boys. Not sure I want to know any more.”

  Beef Jerky laughed. “Your brother does, though, don’t cha, Jarvis?”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The Present

  Georgia unzipped her jacket. The icehouse was actually kind of warm. Or maybe it was the heat of discovery. This was the breakthrough she’d hoped for. She leaned forward. “So Beef Jerky recruited Scott to kill Dena Baldwin.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Kitty said.

  “But that’s exactly how Dena’s assassination went down. Where can I find Beef Jerky? What was his real name?”

  “You can’t, and I don’t know.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s dead.” Kitty’s voice was flat.

  Georgia felt as if someone had plunged her into the icy water below Sand Lake. “How?”

  “An OD. Opioids.”

  “Laced with fentanyl?” When Kitty nodded, Georgia asked, “When?”

  “A couple of weeks after Scott died.”

  Georgia calculated the timing. “So about seven, eight weeks ago.”

  “End of January.”

  “I still don’t get it. The way Dena Baldwin died was identical to that Perfect Kill thing.”

  Kitty sneaked a glance at Purdy. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

  “Complicated how? What are you not telling me?”

  Kitty hesitated. “First of all, I still don’t believe Scott had it in him. He was always a sweet guy. I could see traces of it even after he came home. But he was gullible. And Beef Jerky did a number on him, that’s for sure. Actually, I had hoped Scott would meet a nice girl. I even called some friends to fix him up. I thought that might help. And it did. For a while.”

  “Scott had a girlfriend?”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Three Months Before the Demonstration

  Six weeks or so after Beef Jerky and his pals showed up, just when the leaves were turning fiery red, yellow, and orange, a woman came into the Barracks before happy hour. She was tall, with brown hair, and attractive in a homespun way, Kitty thought. She asked for a pop. Scott sat at his regular spot near the end of the bar. Kitty began to chat with her, all the while scheming for a way to get the two talking to each other.

  “Nice place, the Barracks,” the woman said. “Do you own it?”

  Kitty shook her head. “Wish we did, don’t you, Scotty?”

  The woman peered at Scott.

  Kitty went for it. “That’s Scott. My brother.”

  The woman smiled. “Nicole.”

  “Hi, Nicole.” Kitty returned the smile. She turned to Jarvis. “Scott?”

  He looked over and gave Nicole a brief nod.

  Nicole didn’t seem to mind. “How long have you been bartending?”

  “Five years. I was part-time when I was at DePaul. After I graduated, I started full-time.”

  Nicole didn’t ask why a woman with a college degree would make a career out of bartending. Kitty appreciated Nicole’s discretion. She wasn’t sure herself.

  Nicole came back the next day around the same time. This time she sat on a barstool closer to Scott. She told Kitty she was job hunting but it wasn’t going well. She was looking for an office manager job, but all the good ones were taken. Kitty was considerate as well and didn’t ask many questions.

  The third day Nicole came in was the beginning of happy hour. This time she sat just one barstool away from Scott. As the bar filled up, she reached across the barstool between them and struck up a conversation. The rising noise of the crowd made it difficult for Kitty to overhear them, but Scott nodded a lot, to the point where Nicole moved over and sat next to him. Kitty topped off their drinks whenever she could and brought them a plate of pizza squares with a smile.

  When Beef Jerky showed up and invited Scott over to their table, which now had a “Reserved” sign on the top, Scott hesitated. Beef Jerky, who had seen him talking to Nicole, said, “Bring your friend over, too.” Scott leaned over to Nicole and whispered something Kitty couldn’t hear. A moment later, they were both sitting down at the round table in front.

  Kitty thought Nicole would despise Beef Jerky. But she didn’t. Or else she gave an impressive performance. She let the boys do the talking and smiled at all the right times. She asked a few questions and absorbed their responses without arguing back. Little by little Beef Jerky let down his guard, and Kitty could tell from his eye contact and smiles that he liked Nicole. Before long the group was listening to Beef Jerky mock the Resistance and pay tribute to the man in the White House. When Beef Jerky asked Nicole what she thought, Kitty heard her say, “Oh, I’m not political.”

  Beef Jerky yanked a thumb toward Kitty, who was clearing empty glasses off the table. “Neither is Kitty.” He sniffed. “What’s wrong with you women?” Then he grinned. “It’s okay. I can think of a lot of other things you should be doing.”

  That prompted a snicker from the Tat boys, as Kitty called them, but a wan smile from another vet at the table. He was a slim guy in jeans and a sweater. His hair, while short, had some style to it, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses over big brown eyes.

  “What’s a matter, Purdy? You don’t like your women quiet?”

  “Sure I do,” he said and looked straight at Kitty. “But I also like women who take charge.” For some reason Kitty’s cheeks felt hot. Purdy smiled.

  “Oh man,” Beef Jerky teased. “Purdy here ain’t one for fighting. He just wants to tap those keys, don’t you?”

  Purdy shrugged. “That ain’t true, Jerky. I wouldn’t mind waking up by a crick where water runs over the rocks or roosters crow instead of the fucking traffic.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” Nicole glanced at Scott. “Right, Scott?”

  Beef Jerky arched his eyebrows. “Jarvis here’s a soldier, honey. He’s got a mission to execute.”

  “A mission? What are you talking about?” Nicole asked.

  “He’s gonna create a video game and make us all rich.” Beef Jerky laughed. At Nicole’s confused look, he said, “We call it the Perfect Kill.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The Present

  Here Kitty stopped her story. “There’s something else we haven’t told you.”

  “What’s that?”

  Kitty and Purdy exchanged glances. Kitty bit her lip and wouldn’t look at Georgia. She motioned to Purdy.

  He cleared his throat and cast his line into the ice hole. “So, you know Beef Jerky and his pals are vets, right?”

  “I do.”

  “What you don’t know is that they are members of a group called the Prairie Rats.”

  “The Prairie Rats?”

  Purdy went on. “They’re pretty much a right-wing hit squad and they do dirty work for conservative politicians. The Barracks is their watering hole, at least in Chicago. Mostly they come in to get loaded. But that’s also where they d
o their recruiting.”

  “What kind of dirty work are you talking about?”

  “Whatever needs doing.” Purdy’s steely expression told her everything.

  Georgia took a minute to process it. “So that could include beating up on anyone who might be too curious about them or the politicians they work for?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about breaking into homes to gather intel?”

  He nodded.

  She spoke the next words slowly. “What about assassinating people they consider enemies?”

  “It’s entirely possible.”

  “Jesus Christ. How do you know this?”

  Purdy pulled his fishing line out of the ice hole and looked straight at Georgia. The folksy accent he’d been using disappeared. “Because I did their IT for them.”

  “You?”

  “They call me Purdy because I went to Purdue and majored in computer programming and engineering.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I didn’t know all of it when they recruited me. But I wondered why they offered me a shitload of money to do—um—well, things after graduation that I don’t want to talk about. But when I found out what they were really up to, I wanted out. By that time I’d met Kitty.” He gazed at his fishing rod. “I was lucky.”

  Georgia looked from Kitty to Purdy. “So Beef Jerky did recruit your brother.”

  Kitty didn’t answer for a moment. “I’m still not sure about that.”

  “But—”

  “Hear me out.” She slipped the rubber band out of her hair, finger-combed it, then retied it into a ponytail. “I was happy when he started taking up with Nicole. They seemed to hit it off, and I was grateful he had an, well, an alternative to Beef Jerky. The P-Rats are bad news. When they’re not working for whoever they report to, they sell and distribute narcotics.”

  “That’s why we were surprised that Beef Jerky OD’d,” Purdy added. “He’s been dealing for years. He knew his product and what to stay away from.”