Calumet City (12 page)

I run the light and turn; one block down I turn again and check the mirror for the SUV or the van. Nope. Better stop, regroup, and face the phone call. A badly flawed plan comes to mind, and I desperately want to shelve it in favor of just disappearing into the sunset.

   Armando’s Pizza has baked-oregano air and a phone. I order a calzone for lunch that I probably won’t eat and make the call from between two opposing bathroom doors. Above the phone there’s a U of Wisconsin football player smiling at me through two pounds of ’70s black hair. It’s signed "Gale." The phone answers on half a ring. "Smith."

"Officer Black, sir. I’m on a landline if you’re ready."

"Go."

Deep, deep breath. "The infamous Danny del Pasco was in the same foster home as Assistant State’s Attorney Richard Rhodes."

"Bullshit."

"As you said, sir, this is not a good time to bullshit the superintendent." Pause. "Bottom line, Danny D has no information on the kidnap or the ASA’s whereabouts."

"Why the meeting?"

My plan was to tell my story, most of it, and say it’s Danny’s, but now, standing at the starting line, I can’t seem to start, even as Danny. It’s not a surprise; this is a story I can’t mention to a mirror with no reflection or a window full of Chinatown lanterns. I couldn’t say it to a priest or the police back then, and I can’t say it to the dark now.

"Officer Black?"

Silence. Silence…Silence. Eyes closed, I plunge. "There appears…was…extensive child abuse of a violent sexual nature in that foster home." I’m channeling Joe Friday and realize I’ve now faced myself into the corner like a five-year-old. "Danny D will deny any of this took place if he’s put on record, but told me that Annabelle and Roland assaulted all four children in the household and that ASA Richard Rhodes was forced to participate…raping a teenage girl who was also there; the runaway you mentioned."

I hear Chief Jesse whisper, "Jesus," then tell someone to run Roland and Annabelle Ganz again, get it all. He comes back to me. "Who were the other children?"

I choke on the question. Try to speak but can’t. I drop the phone, shoulder into the bathroom and the wall mirror flashes: I’m fourteen, scared shitless and alone, assaulted every day by someone. I scream, stumble back, and fall to the tile. Tears pour out of my eyes; can’t breathe, suck a breath—

The door bangs open. A man. He stops mid-step.

I press back into a wall, hands on the floor.

He blurts something in Italian.

I catch three breaths, don’t look at the mirror, and wobble to standing.

Italian accent, "You’a fine?"

Slower breaths, slower breaths, then, "Thought I saw a rat, but didn’t. Sorry. Really, I’m sorry." He fixes on my pistol. I say, "Copper," and fumble out my star. "Chicago."

He nods, big-time confused.

"Really, I’m okay." I wave him out, pointing at the stalls like I’m about to use one. He nods again, embarrassed now, and exits. I use the sink and avoid the mirror. The cold water snaps me back to the superintendent of police—who may still be on the phone wondering how dead his officer is.

Outside, between the doors, I grab the dangling phone, say "sir" four times and he answers in his street voice. "What the fuck is going on?"

My courage fails once again. "A domestic. I’m in a restaurant, got it stopped, but it took a minute. Sorry."

"So? The names. Who’re the two children MIA?"

"Danny D didn’t remember. We’ll have to try to get the names through Cal City Juvy."

"That’ll take a month, if at all."

"Sir, there’s more. The FBI braced me and threatened you. Said I was obstructing justice and you were involved in corruption or collusion."

Long silence, then, "They said that, huh? And the agent’s name?"

"Special Agent Stone. Is there, ah…any news on Richard Rhodes?"

"News? Yeah, there’s news. State’s Attorney Richard Rhodes was found eleven minutes ago, roughly five hundred feet from the Jackson Park Yacht Club. As I’m sure you’re unfamiliar with the neighborhood, that’s approximately the front lawn of Mayor McQuinn’s mansion."

"Oh, shit."

"Yes. That would be accurate. Richard Rhodes had barbed wire restraints dug all the way to the bone, three fingers severed at the tips, and appeared to have been beaten to death slowly with a blunt object, possibly a shovel. My guess is the killers wished to know something."

Tell him the rest. Just say it…

"The bodyguard on the mayor and his family has been doubled. At this moment, we and the FBI are arguing at the crime scene, where they continue to accuse the department of incompetence and worse."

"Chief, I—"

"Once again, Officer Black, why did Mr. del Pasco ask for you and only you? Think before you answer."

I do think, but my jaw bites shut. A half-lie allows me to answer. "He’s a fan, showed me a picture of his cell—a wall that’s all about me, who knows why. He says there’s money out on me, but didn’t know who, just that it’s out there in the crystal meth crews." I shut my eyes and add the lie, "Probably the GDs. He used the Richard Rhodes kidnap so he could tell me in person."

"That’s it?"

Shit, that’s not enough?
I want to tell him about the twenty-something whiteboy from Idaho-Arizona shopping for arson accomplices and my particulars. And I want to tell him those torches probably tie me to Annabelle’s crypt and that she could tie me to…history I don’t want to remember, let alone admit. Instead, I answer, "Yeah. That was it."

Silence. Too long to be good, then,

"Calumet City PD has already informed us that they cannot produce the names or juvenile records of the children in the Ganz foster home even if they wished to, which they don’t. Unlike our mayor’s political opponents and the FBI, I now believe we have only two cases here, not three, but they remain definitely
unrelated
. Case one is the assassination attempt on the mayor and the kidnap-torture-murder of his task force attorney Richard Rhodes. These two events are somehow connected to the casino license vote or the mayoral election—most likely both. Case two is the Annabelle Ganz body and the building in District 6. This case also ties to Richard Rhodes, but indirectly. His connection is eighteen years ago in a Calumet City foster home and, I still believe, completely incidental."

I start to say that the arsonists and I are almost certainly the bridge between Richard Rhodes and the building. But don’t.

"Case two has tremendous smear potential. Associating the Black Monday murder at the Ganz foster home with either the mayor’s wife or me is, according to His Honor, worth several thousand votes in a close election. I believe it would be accurate to say that he is currently more worried about that than he is about avoiding another bullet."

"Yes, sir."

"I’ll call Calumet City and tell them you’re coming. Review the Black Monday murder file, all of it, everything you can find that could remotely tie me, the department, the mayor’s wife, Assistant State’s Attorney Rhodes, or Mr. del Pasco to case one or two. Any questions?"

There are only a few things I want to do less than go to Calumet City. One would be to look at pictures of my former foster residence and the murder that took place there.

"Is there a problem, Officer Black?"

"Huh?"

"Do you have a problem going back?"

Back?
Did he say "back"?

"Patricia, I know you have history in Calumet City—it’s in your file, which I reread last night and kept away from the State’s Attorney’s Office, the FBI, and Internal Affairs."

"I, ah—"

"Upon closer review, it’s a file with more than one gap. These gaps likely didn’t matter to anyone before, but they will now. Since this conversation has included nothing marginally believable that supports why Danny del Pasco, biker-hitman, would warn you instead of celebrate when another cop died, I have to figure that these gaps and Mr. del Pasco’s history have something in common."

Suddenly it’s very cold in Armando’s Pizza.

"All I know for certain is that you and Mr. del Pasco were both in foster homes in Calumet City, Illinois, in the 1980s. Best I can tell without much investigative effort, there were only twelve such homes in a town of less than thirty thousand. Since all the records have yet to be unsealed, I only have your word that you weren’t in
the
foster home. But if you were, I better know every fucking thing you know and right now."

I only have enough breath to say, "Call you back."

   How long has Chief Jesse known? What does he know? I’m alone in my car, fingers tight on the wheel. How far can I get before they…"Screw that, Patricia, you didn’t kill anybody."

Right
. So my file has gaps, I fudged on my application. So what?

"Sure, just fill in a gap or two—Roland’s
PTL Club;
raped every way possible and pregnant at fifteen; alcoholic-runaway life on the street for forty-nine months."

So?
I’m the only teenage alcoholic with a badge?

My knuckles are white.

"But what did you do out there? How’d you keep going, pay the rent? Tell ’em about the blackouts, the hospital stays, your baby…Patti Black, hero."

I realize it’s me answering myself out loud, a sure sign that I am really, truly losing it. My cell vibrates. The ID is Chief Jesse’s number. Another mile and it vibrates again; this time it’s Tracy Moens and I don’t answer her call either. Calumet City—I’ll be there in less than an hour. Seventeen years, and now I get to face it all over again. The Old Crow bottle on my keychain says what it says every Friday night when it’s time to go to Chinatown: You don’t have to.

   I take I-80 east, hoping for traffic. There’s plenty, but not enough. Each exit looks better than the last—all point to a better future drowned in Old Crow. My phone vibrates again. The caller ID registers a strange number so I answer.

It’s a girl. "Patti Black, please?" Maybe a woman trying to sound like a girl.

"This is Patti."

"Officer Patti Black?"

"Yeah."

She yells, "
Oh, God
. Thank heaven. Thank heaven." Static. "This is, is Gwen…"

"Who?"

"Little Gwen. Your sister. Don’t you remember?"

I miss the car in the next lane by paint thickness. "What!"

"From Calumet…I’m sorry, but there’s no one else to call. Please help me, Patti. Please. He has my son."

She’s crying now. Sobbing. I see this blond ten-year-old huddled almost under the sofa while Annabelle and Roland hover. My eyes squeeze shut, then snap open.

"Please help me. Don’t hang up."

"Calm down, honey." I try to pat comfort through the phone. "Who’s got your son?"

Now it’s a wail. "
He
does. He has my son!"

"Who, Gwen, who?"

She’s stuttering; I can’t understand her. "Calm down, okay? If we get cut off, call back. Who has your son?"

"ROLAND!" She screams it, "ROLAND HAS MY SON."

"Roland Ganz?"
I say it and don’t melt down. "Roland Ganz has your boy?"

"He’s here! He wants us all."

"
What?
Gwen?" The phone’s dead. I punch the Talk button. Nothing. I’m somewhere in a Will County dead zone.
Roland Ganz—this is not happening
. Horns blare. A Camaro loops me, the driver jamming his finger. The phone vibrates in my hand. Cars speed past.

"Gwen? Gwen?"

"Please don’t hang up again, please—"

"I didn’t, honey. Listen to me, okay?" Heartbeats hammer my chest. "I’m out of the city on my way in. Call 911. Tell ’em the whole story; give ’em my number. Where are you?"

"Will, will they arrest me?"

"
No
. For what?" That was strange. Then I realize she’ll tell my story too, whatever part she knows. Before I can balk and build the walls, I imagine her son, like my son. Fuck it, I’ll lie, run, Old Crow my way though the repercussions. "Where are you?" Silence and no static. I fake calm, "C’mon, honey, I’m here to help."

"I got away in Arizona, but he found us, found my boy. He’ll hurt him if I don’t come back. No police, Roland said so."

"
Do not
go back. Call the police. We’ll help, I’ll help. Where are you?"

"Can the police kill Roland?" She sounds almost retarded, so scared her sentence has spaces that I feel in my throat. "Can they? Would that be all right?"

"Probably, honey. But they, we, need to find you and your son first. We’ll keep Roland away."

"Forever, this time? They didn’t before. He said no po—" And instead of telling me where she is, she cuts out again.

"Hello? Gwen?"

I punch "Talk." The line rings twenty times. I do it again. Ten more and a woman answers, she says it’s an Exxon station on Highway 30 across from St. Margaret Mercy Hospital in Lake County, Indiana, and no, she didn’t see a girl using this pay phone.

I cock to smash my cell.
Fucking Roland Ganz is not dead
.

I’d long since decided that Roland was old and had to be dead by now. He couldn’t still be walking the same ground that I did. But not only is he
not dead
, he’s still doing to others what he did to me.
The absolute piece-of-shit motherfucker
is still out there for real. And my Celica is heading to Calumet City, Roland’s hometown, to look at pictures of his house, his furniture, his basement, his…

I’m doing 105 when the engine screams me conscious; both hands vise-grip the wheel, shoulders pinned into the seat. The car’s starting to sail, losing its track. A truck’s rear doors charge at me. I slam the brakes, skid across both lanes, slide the left shoulder spitting gravel. STEER—too much, slide across and off the other shoulder—SHIIII-IT—then back on. Hold, hold, hold! On the pavement, all four tires. Straight.

Straight and narrow. One lane.

Okay, okay…Deep breath, tongue over the teeth, touch the pistol. We’re okay. Cruising now, just us and I-80…I’m talking to me like a five-year-old. My back and shoulders relax, then my hands. I add another big breath. Be a cop. It’s safer; be a cop. Work. Work has saved you. Roland’s a perp, not a person.