Violence (10 page)

The inner office door soon opened and Sister Beatrice, an aging nun with a soft face appeared.

“Yes, may I help you?” Sister Beatrice asked Anderson.

“I want to make a donation.” Anderson replied as he removed the two sheets of paper from inside the envelope that was delivered to him at the motel. He folded back the perforated section of each page and tore off the attached checks. He endorsed the first check and handed it to Sister Beatrice whose eyes instantly grew wide.

“Fifty thousand dollars?” Sister Beatrice gushed incredulously, holding the check out in front of her.

The sudden news of such an oversized donation instantly caught the girl with the piercings attention. She stopped her tapping, scooted up behind the nun and gazed over the nun’s shoulder with amazement at the check.

“Holy shit!” The girl with the piercings exclaimed as she stared at the check and confirmed its amount. “Sorry, Sister.” She added, instantly apologizing for her outburst.

Anderson promptly proceeded to endorse the second check and handed it to the nun who brought it up for a look.

The nun was staggered.

“Christ! Two hundred thousand dollars!” The girl with the piercings cried out disbelievingly when she saw the total of the subsequent check.

While her expression of astonishment mirrored Sister Beatrice’s sentiment the nun still sent the girl back to the copier with a stern look of disapproval, then turned forward to face Anderson again, asking for clarification, “Sir, I don’t know if I understand. You want to give us all of this?”

“Do you need to see my driver’s license?” Anderson quickly offered, taking out his wallet and itching to leave.

“A donation of this size… I don’t…” Sister Beatrice was clearly at a loss, fumbling for a way to deal with an issue that had no precedent for her. “I think you should talk to Father Cannova.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone.” Anderson assured her.

“I really think you should-” Sister Beatrice started to urge him once again.

“Just take the fucking money!” Anderson callously hissed, starting off and hoping the profanity would be sufficient as an indication the discussion was finished.

“Please, sir! Please!” Sister Beatrice called after him, stopping him with the genuineness of her entreaty. “Please. I can’t… “ She searched for words. “Help me understand.”

Father Cannova, seated in his rectory office, looked intently at the two checks on his desktop as Anderson sat impatiently across from him. Cannova was a broad-nosed man, a bit stout, probably the same age as Anderson. Young to be head of a parish.

Anderson, if he was giving thought to anything except leaving, figured Cannova might have been from the old country but his accent was American as apple pie.

“I’m really sorry.” Cannova offered finally. Anderson had already given him the gist of how he came into possession of the checks. It was the death benefit amounts for the life insurance Anderson carried on Karen and Tristan. Actually, it was Karen’s idea to get the insurance on each of them when the insurance agent suggested it at their kitchen table years earlier. Anderson was never comfortable with the thought of it, though once Karen became pregnant with Tristan it was he who immediately asked the agent to their house to up his half-a-million term policy on himself to two-million dollars.

“I wish you’d consider attending some of our services.” Cannova continued. “Right now you need support.”

Anderson had never started listening. His eyes just narrowed. He was expecting this kind of bullshit.

“Why us?” Cannova asked over Anderson’s petulant silence.

“Can’t you use the money?” Anderson darkly countered.

“Of course.” Cannova admitted. “We can do a lot of good with it.”

“Great.” Anderson replied as he got up to exit.

Father Cannova stood up quickly as well from his desk and held out the checks for Anderson to take with him. “Why don’t you come back in six months and we’ll talk again.”

“I won’t change my mind.” Anderson replied, not taking the checks.

“I know you’re sincere.” Father Cannova reacted to his reticence, looking for words that would hold Anderson in place. “Whether you realize it or not, you’re in a terrible state of mourning right now. And in the not too distant future, when you’ve recovered, you might find you want this money.”

“I don’t want it.” Anderson responded instantly, emphatically.

“It will happen.” Cannova asserted as he stared intently at Anderson.

“What?” Anderson angrily asked.

“You will recover.” Cannova avowed.

Anderson thought of making a sharp rebuke, but it would only have made the already strained exchange grow more heated. Anderson simply left the office.

Cannova somberly listened to Anderson’s footsteps recede down the linoleum tiled hallway.

CHAPTER 11

         A
l Ward sat across the table from Anderson in a cushioned booth in this unadorned greasy spoon of a restaurant. It’s one of those places that have eight thousand menu items, but one should stick to the breakfast selections to save your olfactory senses or taste buds from undue turmoil.

Ward was holding the “rap sheets” or what’s also known as “yellow sheets,” the arrest and conviction histories, for Derek, Gabriel and Ruben.

“Derek Lysander: deviate sexual assault, aggravated battery, released without charges. Burglary, first-degree, assault with a deadly weapon, charges dismissed. Unlawful restraint, two years, Stateville Correctional Center.“ Ward finished reciting from the first file, thumping his index finger at an attached booking photo of Derek before setting it aside and continuing on Gabriel’s folder.

“Gabriel Lysander: deviate sexual assault; stricken off leave.” Ward continued. “That means it’s basically dismissed, taken off the court docket. It gives the judge a chance to reinstate the case at a later date, but it’s not a conviction. Theft of Auto, felony drug possession, charges dismissed. Unlawful restraint, 2 years, Stateville.” Ward set that folder down and picked up Ruben’s file.

“Ruben Roney, a couple of misdemeanor drug possessions, charges dismissed.” Ward read. “Criminal trespass, court supervision. Theft of Auto, second-degree burglary, eighteen months, Cook County.”

Ward closed that folder, dropped it on the other two and tore open a packet of sugar, emptied it into his coffee cup as a waitress stepped up to freshen it.

Anderson hadn’t touched his coffee so the waitress simply moved off with the coffee pot after filling Ward’s cup.

“They’re not likely to get bail before trial…” Ward went on. “…or even if any of them did it’s going to be high so they’re not likely to post it. Prosecutor’s office will let us know if any of them are going to get a pre-trial release. For now they’re jumping all over the inconclusive nature of the autopsy report. It was lucky for them that they didn’t get the chance to rape your daughter. It would have blown their story and made it a living hell in jail because they would have found retribution. This way, unlike regular rapists who get beat on, they’re probably becoming jailhouse heroes in a way, because inmates love it when someone can game the system.“

“I don’t understand.” Anderson said, hanging on every word.

“Don’t look for them to change their not guilty pleas or look for a deal.” Ward explained. “They’re basically not going to challenge any of the evidence because it feeds into their story. They’re going to say your daughter came home from her school dance, went around back where it was dark, saw through the window what was happening, was so upset, she didn’t even realize she was backing away, hit her head, was knocked unconscious, fell in the pool and drowned. One of the guys then goes out to have a smoke and sees your daughter in the pool. Your wife gets the news about your daughter, sees it’s too late to save her, was so upset she gets the gun, tries to kill herself, but Derek, whose prints were found on the gun along with your wife’s, says he was trying to stop her, and the gun just went off.”

“They’re saying she was going to commit suicide?”

“Basically.”

“So how do they get past the raping of my wife?” Anderson asked, confused.

“They’re saying she invited them in, that it was consensual.” Ward stated matter-of-factly.

“Son of a bitch!” Anderson hissed with rage as he reflexively grabbed Ward angrily by the shirt.

Ward just as automatically threw Anderson’s arm off him, knocking some plates to the floor where one of the butter dishes broke into pieces.

A few nearby patrons tossed anxious looks in the direction of their table.

A manager quickly moved over. “What’s the problem here?”

“No problem.” Ward offered, adding a smile as he straightened his shirt collar.

“Just add the cost of the plate to the bill.” Anderson nodded benignly to the manager, using a napkin to soak up some spilled coffee.

The manager directed a busboy to clean up the mess and, after a moment, walked away.

Ward and Anderson waited in silence as the busboy swept up the debris.

Once the busboy finished and headed off, Ward leaned in close to Anderson and said sotto, “I’m not going to be a lightning rod for your anger. You called me, remember? You asked me for my expertise. You want me to tell you what I think, I’ll tell you. You want fantasy? Rent a movie!”

Ward was right. Anderson had called him. This was after Anderson was informed of his “Victim’s Rights.” Anderson quickly learned he had the right to be treated with dignity, respect and sensitivity, he also had the right to communicate with the prosecutor who had been assigned to the case, the right to talk with the officer who was put in charge of the investigation, the right to be notified and present at all court proceedings, and even the right to appoint an advocate to act in his stead. There were many other rights but, as Anderson quickly discovered, it was problematic asserting them.

Anderson cooperated fully with Detective Crotty when asked at the end of the first week about the purchase of his .38. Crotty also asked where the gun was normally located in the house, and also inquired about Anderson’s wife and daughter’s demeanor when he left them that last day after lunch, and any details Anderson could recall about his initial contact with the “
three accused individuals.
”

It was the end of the third week, and after Anderson’s fourth call in as many days, that Crotty finally returned Anderson’s call requesting information about the case. Crotty was respectful, but he was not forthcoming, saying that as the lead investigator, while he has some authority to give out information, he always found it “
best for all concerned
” to let the evidence come out in court or after a final disposition had occurred.

It was also about this time that Anderson called the prosecutor’s office asking them if they had any particulars following the formal indictments. After a lengthy run around, and a long period on hold, Anderson was eventually put in touch with an associate who plied him with arcane technical terms and procedural specialized language regarding various pre-trial issues.

Anderson, in this initial contact, tried to slow the associate down and assert his “right to a non-technical explanation of matters.” This request was met with a deep sigh of irritation by the associate who then continued the explanation in the same manner as before which was a patent ploy to discourage any of Anderson’s further quests for information. Anderson said as much and the associate officiously and caustically cited the need to be “
fair to everyone,
” that it would be ideal “
if everyone had a personal representative
” but they, the prosecutor’s office, “
have to serve all the people,
” and while it would “
be nice to spend hours going over each individual case
” it should be clear that “
everyone deserves the same courtesy of a timely response.
” Which was no response at all. This was five minutes into the call.

Anderson understood inadvertent stone-wallings. He knew how government and judicial bureaucracy worked from personal experiences. He felt maybe Crotty and the associate from the prosecutor’s office simply skipped the online training module for bedside manner or merely had compassion fatigue, but whatever the issue, he was going to get answers. That’s when Anderson called Al Ward and hired him to act as his interpreter and howsoever temporary representative.

Anderson stared hard into Ward’s equally steely gaze across the breakfast table. Anderson knew he had made a mistake by flying off the handle and also was aware that taking out his umbrage on Ward was not going to advance his cause.

The waitress moved up with their breakfast orders of bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and skillet potatoes. Good timing. Her presence broke the tension.

“Anything else I can get you?” The waitress chirped gaily after distributing their plates.

“We’re good. Thank you.” Ward answered, sitting back casually.

The waitress moved away.

Anderson let the waitress drift from earshot and said, after the slightest pause, “What do you think?”

Ward, having had his share of dealing with the raw emotions of bereaved individuals over his years of private investigative work, instantly took Anderson’s retreat as an apology for his outburst and continued. “They said they ran away because they were scared, because it had gotten out of hand. They claim they didn’t try to hide anything after the cops pulled them over. And that’s true.” Ward decided to eat as he talked. “Another thing on their side, you’ve got a close contact gunshot wound to the head at an angle that would support suicide, not an execution-”

“What about the bruises on her wrists?” Anderson challenged.

“Could be a classic sign of struggle. Or inconclusive.” Ward commented. “Like he said, he was trying to stop her from killing herself.”

Anderson looked away from Ward, fought his anger again.

Ward let him have a moment to absorb the debilitating details, because there were more. Ward took a big drink of coffee before he carried on once more. “Normally, it would be lucky that we have the murder weapon, but it’s your gun. The rifling pattern on the recovered slug shows it came from your .38. The hand residue sample did show Derek Lysander had fired a gun in the hours just before the cops picked him up, but your wife also showed gunshot residue on her hands. Also, there’s no sign of forced entry and they were working at your house so any incidental fingerprint evidence is going to be ignored.”