Violence (21 page)

‘Got ‘em?’ ‘Got ‘em?’

“Derek Lysander they hit with second-degree murder…” Ward went on.

‘Murder?’ Sounds more like it!

“That’s a Class 1 felony that carries a sentence of 4 to 20 years.” Ward detailed. “There’s even an allowance for probation here, too, but I don’t see that happening. The jury didn’t go for any sexual assault or home invasion charges which were needed as forcible felonies. That would have kicked everything up to murder one. I have to believe the jury couldn’t get past the fact it wasn’t their gun. They had to have a problem with intent, pre-meditation. And like I told you there was always an issue with the fact there was no forcible entry.”

So what the hell is he saying? Did we get ‘em or not?

“Oddly enough, they did find Derek and Gabriel guilty of possession of a controlled substance so they will do more time because of that.” Ward added. “It’s a Class 4 felony because they were holding less than 15 grams, but it carries a sentence of 1 to 3 years, and since they were both on probation they’re subject to re-sentencing. The judge can make a bit of a statement because of it when he hands down the punishment. Actually, it’s Gabriel who is going to suffer on that one. The jury couldn’t have known it but that will keep him from getting released right away. The judge will probably give him a maximum sentence but again, with time served, he’ll be out in another 6 months, no more than a year. Derek will likely get 7 or 8 years. Maybe 10. Either way, if he behaves, he’ll probably do 4 or 5 years — max.”

‘Got ‘em?’ Who got who?

Anderson listened silently through all this, not because he was lost in thought, but really it was just he felt like his insides were kicked out.

Ward knew it was a royal reaming. He could see that every word he said inflamed Anderson’s indignation once Anderson began to sort out what was really happening.

“You can do a victim impact statement. It could influence the judge, help to add some time to their sentences.” Ward offered, knowing it was little solace and more of the “usual horseshit.”

“So one guy just walks free.” Anderson finally spoke, deadly deliberate. “And you’re telling me the two guys who raped my wife, killed her, and are responsible for my daughter’s death… that one of them will be out in another 6 months or a year, and the other one will be out in 2 or 3 years, and this is supposed to make sense. Does this sound reasonable to you?”

“No, but I see it every day.” Ward answered, secretly angry at himself for acting like the typical apologist.

Anderson noticed Henklin laughing with fellow prosecutors over some shared joke down the corridor.

“So it was for nothing?” Anderson asked as he looked back at Ward. “My wife and daughter, their lives mean nothing?”

Ward didn’t know what to say.

And Anderson didn’t know where to go but he walked away from Ward without another word.

Humpty-dumpty sate on a wall,
Humpti-Dumpti had a great fall,
Threescore men and threescore more,
Cannot place Humpty-dumpty as he was before.
—Gammer Gurton’s Garland

CHAPTER 14

         T
ristan waved to him from the living room window.

It was a sweet daydream in an ongoing nightmare as Anderson rolled up in his unwashed Mercedes, killing his headlights in front of his old house.

Anderson turned into the driveway in the encroaching darkness, and parked the car, concealing it in the long hanging untrimmed branches of a weeping willow. He exited the car carrying a cardboard box and walked up to the front of the house where many of the windows had been boarded up. Storms and rocks thrown by kids had knocked out much of the glass.

A tattered “For Sale” sign hung by a single hook & eye in a yard that was overgrown with weeds. Roman had kept the lawn mowed but dandelions and crabgrass now prevailed over the more pleasing bent variety of grass.

Anderson had a key for the padlock and deadbolt. The front door, the wood swollen from the excessive summer heat and moisture, caught a bit before he pushed it back. The storm door had been pilfered leaving the front door woefully exposed to the elements.

He walked trancelike through the graffiti-marred interior. Liquor bottles were strewn about as local teenagers had made this a haven of iniquity and youthful dares.

Anderson stopped, set down the cardboard box on the kitchen countertop. A kitchen drawer was half-opened, its track guides bent from someone trying to sit on it or smash it. He noticed something in there and pulled the drawer out, picked up Tristan’s trampled book “The Angel In Us” from inside and smoothed out its rumpled pages. Longing tore at his heart. This was the first time he had returned here.

Anderson pushed open a portion of a plywood barrier that used to be the sliding glass doors of the family room, and looked out over the neglected backyard. He stared into the pool that had beer cans floating at its bottom in shallow rain water made murky by windblown dirt. He was barely breathing. It took all his energy to fight recollections.

Minutes later, Anderson finished emptying a gasoline container in the interior of the house that he retrieved from inside the cardboard box he had carried in from the car. He lit a match and tossed it on the family room floor. The blaze spread quickly.

Anderson picked up the box off the kitchen countertop that now contained the only possessions he cared to take: Tristan’s book and some trampled photographs. He watched the fire spread throughout the rooms.

Moments later, back in his Mercedes, Anderson took one last look at his former home as flames began to visibly lick and leak out the edges of the plywood barriers. He rolled into the street in neutral, started the engine and drove away without turning on the headlights, unseen.

It was an hour later when Anderson had completed emptying out his desk at the office. He had a phone cradled against his ear as he placed the collected personal items in the box with the other things he took from his house.

“Al, how are you?” Anderson said into the phone. “It’s Noel Anderson…”

“How are you?” Ward asked, surprised that Anderson was calling, especially so soon after the verdict. Ward was sitting at his desk in his modest-sized office that was inundated with organizers and files. The space was also stuck in a kind of time-warp. Everything screamed the 1960’s or 70’s, from the cheap fake wood paneling to the brown shag rug, to the hanging lamp of a nude Grecian goddess seemingly bathing in the rain to the DayGlo Jimi Hendrix poster. Another peculiar accoutrement, in addition to the miniature medieval knight figures scattered about the room, were the displayed trappings of an actual knight which included a conical helmet, a chain of fealty, and a cruciform sword.

“I’m good.” Anderson answered automatically. “I was wondering if you could put something together for me, a sort of report on the guys who murdered my wife. I’d like to know where they live, that sort of thing. I’d feel better in the coming weeks, months, years, whatever, if I knew where they were.”

“Well, two of them are behind bars, but you know that.” Ward answered Anderson, trying to tug the knots out of the tangled phone cord.

“I understand, but one is out and the other is going to get out soon.” Anderson continued. “I’m a little worried about them coming after me.”

“My advice is don’t be.” Ward snorted confidently into the mouthpiece. “Criminals don’t usually revisit victims. Unless they knew them beforehand. Hell, they make enough enemies when they’re in jail or just plain livin’ to give any thought to you.”

“You’re probably right, but I don’t want to pass these guys on the street.” Anderson answered as he stared at a framed family studio photograph of himself with Karen and Tristan. “Depending on where they are, I might want to move.”

“The easiest way to track them is to put a GPS tracking device on whatever vehicle they’re driving.” Ward stated matter-of-factly. “You can follow ‘em wherever they go. All you need is an internet connection. Hell, you can do it over a phone as long as you can get on the web. That’s assuming these losers get a car. They’re not public transportation types so they usually get their hands on some type of vehicle, either through shacking up with a lonely heart and using her car or finding a junker and driving it without insurance or anything until they get pulled over for something and have to give it up. If you want me to, I’ll find out if the one guy has a car already and slap a tracker on it if he does, if it adds to your piece of mind.”

“Nah, just a report is good.” Anderson assured him, after giving it some thought. “I just want to know the general area where they’re living. Where they might be working.”

“I understand.” Ward stated as he eyed a framed photo of his own (circa the early to mid 1970’s) of himself in Marine dress blues standing with a pretty, shiny-faced young woman next to a Camaro. It goes without saying Ward cut a lean mean figure in those days. “Shouldn’t be too hard to locate the guy who’s out. The other guy who’s looking at parole soon, since he was in on a drug charge he will have to be set up with a halfway house or other re-entry location in advance. There’s also counseling he has to attend, and most of those offices are located downtown. I’ll find out what facility he has to release to. He’ll have to go there for at least a little bit of time. I’ll write you up a risk assessment, any known addresses, situations they’re likely to gravitate to, you know, where they hang out when they’re not in church.” Ward finished by attempting some levity.

“Right.” Anderson chuckled but he didn’t really think it was funny.

Ward didn’t think it was all so humorous either, he was just anxious talking to Anderson. He felt really bad about what had happened to him.

“Just don’t worry about it.” Ward assured him. “I’ll get on it right away and get something over to you.”

“I appreciate it.” Anderson thanked him. He told Ward he’d talk to him soon and hung up.

CHAPTER 15

         M
usic emanated from a dance club that had its main entrance down-market chic style in an alley. Ruben Roney exchanged a bag of ecstasy pills for a hundred-dollar bill from a fidgety college kid who stood in the shadows with a short-skirted long-legged girl.

“Thanks, man.” The college-kid said, trying to sound cool as he led the leggy girl back to a BMW where another couple was waiting expectantly.

“Thank you! I aim to please!” Ruben retorted, giving them a deep bow and a hand flourish, trying to act even cooler. He grabbed his crotch, gawked at the leggy-girl’s ass as she climbed into the BMW. “Sweet thing!” Ruben muttered to himself.

Ruben pulled a whiskey bottle out of his coat pocket. He took a swig, watched the BMW speed away. It was a decent night, money-wise, so he decided to head for his dilapidated GM Saturn parked a short distance away.

He had only just started off when the sound of footsteps made him turn. It was even darker away from the lights of the club, and he was buzzing a bit, but whoever it was didn’t jingle-jangle like a cop and Ruben sure as hell wasn’t going to refuse another customer.

“How ya’ doin’? Lookin’ to score?” Ruben breezily asked the approaching figure. “You’ve come to the right place.”

* * *

Squad-car floodlights illuminated the interior of the Saturn where Ruben’s motionless head was slung back against the front seat headrest.

5-inch tubing fitted over the muffler ran all the way to an end piece wedged through a crack in the front driver’s side window. A rolled up towel jammed in the remaining window opening made sure no fumes could escape.

Chicago police and detectives were already on the scene going methodically through a death investigation. Photographs were being taken from all angles on Ruben. Yellow police tape had been strung across both ends of the alleyway. An investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office was stepping out of a protective “bunny suit” as a wagon backed up to collect the body.

A detective, with a distinct upper-body brawny build discernible under his dress shirt, finished interviewing a couple of club employees.

The detective’s partner, a 40-ish Irishman with reddish-brown hair, also in a dress shirt and tie, leaned back out of the front passenger side with Roney’s wallet in one of his latex-gloved hands, cell phone cradled against his ear. “All right, thanks.” He muttered to someone on the phone and closed it up with his free hand.

The two detectives, handguns and badges visible on their hips, met up next to their unmarked cruiser.

“No one saw anything.” The well-built detective reported to his partner.

“M.E. said he’s not dead long.” The Irishman nodded, relaying his news, bored with it all already. “Looks like he was drinking. There’s also some pills, money in the car.” He gestured with the wallet, flipped it open to show the deceased’s identification. “His name is Ruben Roney. Just got out of County not long ago after beating a murder rap.”

CHAPTER 16

         A
nderson climbed the stairs outside the Our Lady of Sorrows rectory. He stopped a passing nun on the steps.

“I’m looking for Father Cannova.”

“Father is over in church.” The nun answered him and continued on.

The church itself was built over a hundred years ago by Polish parishioners and had survived many changes in the vicinity. It now served a hearty mix of nearly every ethnicity in this working-class neighborhood.

Anderson walked up to the imposing front staircase. He could hear the thumping of music booming from behind the doors of the church.

Anderson found it odd there would be any late services or the music would be so loud for a wedding rehearsal. It was after dinner and he was just hoping to get a minute with Father Cannova. He was unprepared for what he was about to encounter as he swung open one of the entrance doors and found himself instantly a part of an intense new world…

The place was rocking, filled with swaying people who were clapping, singing to the thundering beat of “Heaven Is In My Heart.”