Lone Wolf #6: Chicago Slaughter (10 page)

It was not easy to conduct a long series of long-distance phone calls from a hospital bed, fighting all the way through bureaucracy and the chain of command to find the man he wanted twelve hundred miles away, but Williams did it. He was determined to do it. There was, after all, nothing else to occupy his time and he had decided when he began—at eleven o’clock Chicago time, high noon in New York—that he would just not be put off with it and he was going to get through no matter what. They could send the godamned phone bill to the New York police department, by whose courtesy he had this very excellent hospital room and surgical benefits and the rest of it. He kept in mind the lesson he had learned through being in civil service himself, which was that nothing they did or said to you was ever personal. Nothing personal at all; it was not him they were grinding to a pulp through their policies and procedures and assistants and inquiries, it was anybody who got between them and their safe little system. Chalk up another one then for Wulff.

He got through, finally. There was a new shift at the door; a couple of sullen rookies who seemed to resent the fact that Williams was lying in there all expenses paid and collecting salary in the bargain; they hinted that Williams had probably arranged the knifing himself so that he could get something free out of the NYPD or maybe that was just the inference they were seeking. He figured these new cops didn’t give a shit what he did with the phone as long as he kept it quiet, and the nurses and floor detail had long since stopped trying to do anything with him at all. He was a convalescent case and the hell with him. So he went on with it, doggedly dialing Chicago again and again, going from bureau to bureau, finally, he was able to trap a secretary into giving Patrick Wilson’s home phone number and from there on it was easy.

He wasn’t able to get Wilson at home but by pushing his wife very hard—she sounded like a real piece of ass but dumb, like all prosecuting personnel or those associated with them, seemed to be, basically just dumb—he dug out the phone number of a place where Wilson might be reached if he wasn’t in his office or court during working hours. She called it a conference center but to Williams it sounded like a bar. Only two more calls and he was able to get hold of Wilson himself midway between a court appearance, he said, and an urgent interview with a state witness. He sounded impatient and angry but otherwise unremarkable. Williams didn’t know; somehow he had expected more. Superman should have a resonant voice filled with confidence and passion, whereas Patrick Wilson, head of an important federal prosecution sounded like—well he sounded something like an informant. Williams pressed on though. Don’t let little details like this mess with your mind. For all he knew the guy had a lot of brains, although he certainly sounded like a schmuck.

“Well, I don’t know,” Wilson said when Willams had put the case to him hurriedly, bringing his voice to a concentrated point of whispering, “I just don’t know. I can’t make any definite commitments, that’s for sure. It sounds to me like the matter is out of my hands.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Other agencies are obviously looking for your man,” Wilson said. There was a sound of hammering in the background, voices singing off-key, detached obscenities, like dismembered limbs floating in water, seemed to be there as well. “They would probably supercede my authority—”

“Don’t you know who Wulff is?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into that kind of material with you over the telephone, even if you are who you represent—”

“You mean to say that you don’t know who the man
is?
” Williams said. “How can you be into an investigation like this and not know who I’m talking about?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t know who he
was,”
Wilson said, “I did say that there’s information here which I certainly couldn’t release unofficially over the telephone to someone whose identity is unsubstantiated.”

“I have reason to believe that this man is coming to you, and that a whole lot of stuff is going to fall into your lap and there should be some guarantees—”

“I can’t make any guarantees or representations at all,” Williams said. “All of this would have to be handled on an individualized basis. Certainly if this man is as potentially valuable as you say he is we might be able to make certain allowances, we might be able to at least explore the question of a limited immunity—”

“
Limited
immunity,” Williams said. “What the hell are you
talking
about?”

“I don’t even know who you are, friend. I’m not going to get into bargaining with you on the long-distance telephone.”

“You interested in getting something done out there or is this just more federal agency bullshit like the informants? You people seem to be pretty good at blowing up houses and beating up innocent people but are you really out to
touch
the trade? Sounds to me very doubtful.”

“I resent your attitude,” Wilson said. “And I don’t like your representations. If there’s anything to discuss it can be handled in a more direct context.”

“You know what I think, Wilson?” Williams said.

“Frankly, Mr. Willman or whatever you said your name is—”

“Williams. I’m a New York police officer.”

“Williams. Frankly, Williams, I don’t give much of a damn
what
you think.”

“I figured that out. I really did now. But I’m going to tell you anyway. I think that if Wulff actually comes to you people he’s got at least half a chance of being turned right over to the organization.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yes sir,” Williams said softly. “I really have come to that tentative conclusion,” and he held the phone then, waiting for the prosecutor to hang up. He sat there, his breath in his throat, waiting for the signatory click which would tell him that Wilson had definitely hung up on him. But strangely it did not come. It was as if Wilson was as stunned as Williams by what had just been said. After a little while Williams got tired of this and hung up the phone himself. He did so gently, not to injure the delicate ear of the delicate federal prosecutor and he lay back on the sheets then with a sigh, feeling soiled by the contact, but vaguely cleansed as well.

At least, he thought, at the very least, this would put Wilson on notice not to try funny stuff as he might have otherwise done.

What he wished, what he really wished was that there was some way in which he could reach Wulff and call him off. Keep him from going to Patrick Wilson. Keep him after all, from any involvement with the system.

He had been wrong. He had been dead wrong.

Wilson and the people against whom he was allegedly fighting were interchangeable.

The system was the enemy.

He wished that he could tell Wulff that now.

Wulff came out of the wrecked van feeling like little bits and pieces, testing various parts of himself, deciding that he had survived the accident in good repair. A man picked up a certain resiliency sooner or later. Superficial bruises, a pain in the left thigh, nothing that he could not work out. The van had overturned, he had made it out through the side door. Not a moment too soon. Lying on its roof, the surfaces had already started to impact and crumple. The Cadillac way down the road, of course. Doubtful if the driver had even looked back. Why should he? It was out of his hands.

A police car pulled to the side of the road. Cruising, they had seen what had happened, were coming to investigate. Wulff thought for a moment of trying to make some escape through the bushes that were over to his right, leading into another warehouse district but decided not to. He couldn’t move that quickly. Also the Chicago police would never let him get away. In addition, he decided, it was just as well to be picked up by the cops now as later, wasn’t it? He was headed right into the arms of authority anyway.

The police got out of the car, walked down the little depression toward the van. Big, clumsy men dangling clubs and guns, pointing at the van. Wulff stood there, his arms apart, his hands open. It was doubtful if the police would shoot him simply because he had been in a one-car accident but on the other hand the Chicago police had something of a reputation. They did indeed.

“What happened?” one of them said, leaving the other standing at a distance of some ten to twenty yards back, arms crossed, looking in the distance. Standard technique. Two men to a car but one would do the work, the other stand by. Halve the effort. Next call they might switch. Two to a car, Wulff thought, was the biggest waste of manpower possible but all of the large cities worked that way. Patrolmen’s unions; “Two men to a car were necessary for protection,” they stated but it meant for all practical intents and purposes that all of the time, half the team was not working. “Lose control?”

“I got cut off,” Wulff said.

The cop looked at him with interest. Wulff for the first time in some hours became aware of his appearance; the marks of the struggle with Versallo had really not been sponged off by the quick washing he had done. Spatters of blood were on his clothing; his face was probably ringed by it. The cop’s eyes flickered.
Bad news,
Wulff thought.

“Who cut you off?” the cop said.

“A man in a Cadillac. I didn’t get his license number, didn’t get anything; I was having too much trouble trying to control this thing.”

The cop looked over at the van, resting on its roof, already beginning to settle upon it. One of the wheels like a finger stroked at the air. “Let’s see some identification,” he said.

“Identification?”

“License,” the cop said, “registration. Credentials. Proof that you had a right to drive that thing.” In what was obviously an unconscious gesture his hand reached down, caressed the police revolver, then went up to his chin as if in a gesture of denial. His partner now was watching the scene intently.

“Don’t have it with me,” Wulff said.

“You don’t look like you have any injuries to me.”

“I don’t. I was lucky.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you in, friend,” the cop said. “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m from out of state.”

“I gather you are. I gather you’re from
way
out of state. You still haven’t answered me though.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Wulff said quietly.

The cop was completely involved now. Any indifference that had been in him as he had walked over had been burnt out by curiosity, and what Wulff saw was just a trace of fear. He motioned to his partner who came over slowly, trying to show Wulff how little concerned he was, but Wulff noticed that this one curled a hand around his club.

“No identification, no license, no registration, won’t identify himself, won’t go into any of the circumstances of the accident,” the cop said.

“I told you about the accident. I got cut off.”

“Stands mute. Looks to me like he’s been in one hell of a fight too. Whose blood is that, friend?”

“Mine,” said Wulff, “I got cut when it rolled over.”

“I don’t think so,” the cop said and then turned to his partner. “Think we got to take him in?”

“I think we’d better do just that.”

“All right,” Wulff said, “let’s go then.” It was a strange feeling being on the other side of a process that he had gone through hundreds of times, feeling the control of the situation shift completely away from him, feeling now as if he were merely an object which these cops were manipulating, manipulating quite protectively of course. It was always interesting to see things from the other side.

The odd thing was that he still felt like a cop and he wanted to tell them that their procedure was all wrong. In light of this situation; the wreck, his appearance, the complete absence of credentials, they should not be standing here idly discussing his disposition, telling him of their planned move. He could be any kind of a felon. They should have had their guns out and already in the process of handcuffing. But the Chicago police were hesitant. Probably their public-relations department was still working to bring back a sense of confidence in them. They had had a rough time, no one believed in them anymore.

“Let’s take him in then,” the partner said. He still had his hand on his club, reconsidered this, went at last for the gun and took it out slowly as if he were plucking a grape, showed it to Wulff. “There doesn’t have to be any trouble,” he said, “all you have to do is cooperate.”

“I’ll cooperate,” Wulff said, “don’t worry about that. I want to cooperate to the fullest extent of the law.”

“This man is funny,” the partner said. “This man has an original and delightful sense of humor. Should we show him what we think of his sense of humor?”

The cop who had made the original approach looked discomfitted. He looked for the first time, in fact, as if he had no idea of how to proceed. “I don’t want any difficulties,” he said to Wulff, “there don’t have to be any problems—”

“There aren’t any problems,” Wulff said. “I want to see Patrick Wilson. That’s the federal attorney’s offices.”

“I don’t know nothing about federal attornies,” the cop said, “I don’t know anything about Patrick Wilson.” He extended a hand. “I can cuff you,” he said, “but if you’ll cooperate it won’t be necessary.”

“I told you I’ll cooperate.”

“Let’s cuff him,” the partner said. He looked at Wulff in an unpleasant, sidewise way, his eyes suddenly squinting. “Come on, we’ve got a man who won’t identify himself, has no credentials, looks as if he’s been in a violent episode of some sort.”

“All right,” Wulff said. He extended his arms. The partner stopped in mid-speech, looked at him dubiously. People who assumed the position of being handcuffed were obviously a rarity to him. Either that or he did not particularly like the idea of bringing in Wulff in cuffs and had used this merely as a threat. He seemed to be calculating one thing against the other in his mind: what would they think of this in headquarters? The only thing demonstrable so far was that the perpetrator had been involved in a one-car accident.

While he was thinking about this, Wulff pushed past the two of them, walked toward the police car. He kept his hands up all through this to make clear that there was no attempt to flee. His stride was measured and regular. Comforting. In a way it was comforting to be back in police hands again. He had never realizeduntil this moment how it must look on the other side of the fence, why many wanted apprehension, why there were some cases that literally ran toward you begging to be taken in. It was easy; it sure as hell shifted the responsibility. And that was what he wanted right now. For the moment, he did not want to think.

He moved steadily toward the police car. Traffic on the expressway had not halted although cars tended to slow down as they neared the police car with its rotating blinker, drivers peering out to see if they could catch a glimpse of a corpse or two without holding up commuting schedule. They could hardly be blamed for that, Wulff thought, it broke up the routine. A spectacular highway accident was fun for everyone except the victims: it gave the cops something to do, the insurance companies things to investigate, motorists the chance to feel how lucky they were. He opened the door of the police car, wedged himself in in the center and, folding his arms, waited for the police to come.

They showed up in just a minute, the heavier one slightly out of breath from the climb up the incline. One got into the back with Wulff, the panting one became the driver. Doors slammed and the car came out of the pit at forty miles an hour, accelerating. Within the insulated surfaces, spilling out behind them Wulff could hear the sound of the siren.

“I just want to tell you that we don’t like any of this,” the cop next to him said, “the whole thing stinks. Why don’t you give some identification?”

“I’ll give it when I’m ready,” Wulff said. “I want to see Patrick Wilson.”

“Nobody knows who Patrick Wilson is here.”

“You tell them at the booking. Patrick Wilson, do you hear me?”

The cop leaned forward, said something to the driver which under the sound of the siren was inaudible. Probably, Wulff thought, he was trying to find out who the hell Wulff was talking about. Then again, maybe he thought that Wulff was crazy and wanted to split this confidence in the way that cops did every so often.

Either way, it didn’t really matter, did it? It was a good feeling to be back in custody, to let the sense of all of this shift from him. He had had enough of coping, let them cope for the moment. Let the agencies worry about the problem; they were well-paid enough. With a sigh, with a felon’s sense of gratitude Wulff sank back into the slick material of the rear seat (shiny, cheap and uncomfortable but you could bet that it would resist any attempts to scar it with a knife) and let them take him where they would. The bastards.