Violence (31 page)

“The nurses at the hospital named me.” Anderson rigidly responded.

“And your last name, Anderson, was-” Burke indelicately barreled on with his questioning.

“I was told it was the last name of the doctor who delivered me.” Anderson divulged.

“You never knew your parents?” Burke asked, fully enjoying it when he had rattled guests.

“No.” Anderson replied brusquely again.

“Have you ever looked for them?” Burke wanted to know.

“Yes.” Anderson nodded. “But no one there had a good recollection of my mother. The hospital had no records whatsoever of her. I wouldn’t have even known where to begin after that.”

“And in those days…” Burke surmised. “…there weren’t any closed-circuit cameras, surveillance video…”

“No.” Anderson concurred.

“Maybe she’ll see this and contact you.” Burke submitted hopefully.

The audience applauded this prospect.

“Obviously, if she were still alive, she’d be much older now.” Anderson commented. “And whether or not she had family or told anybody what she had done, I don’t know.”

“Well, we’re here to make connections. So even if that possibility doesn’t pan out…” Burke cryptically remarked, his voice rising and reverberating like a prize-fight announcer. “…it doesn’t mean we can’t put people together!”

Anderson stared hard at Burke. Something else was coming. But what?

“That’s right, we have a little surprise for you!” Burke revealed much to Anderson’s increasing irritation and bewilderment.

Anderson remained stock still, and fought the urge to shift nervously in his chair. He wondered what could Burke possibly ambush him with now that was more unexpected than the circumstances surrounding his birth.

“We have someone here who cares very much about your well being…” Burke continued, the volume of each of his words rising to a crescendo as he sidled over to personally escort a guest who was about to emerge from off-stage. “…and wants to be with you here today! Jeannie, come on out!”

An assistant director immediately sent Jeannie out on to the studio stage where she was greeted by thunderous applause, along with collective “ooohs” and “ahhhhs” from the studio audience.

“Jeannie works at a vintage record and clothing store here in Chicago.” Burke read off a teleprompter while the audience continued to applaud Jeannie as she waved and walked across the stage. “She and Noel have been dating for some time. Let’s welcome her to the show!”

Jeannie was dressed adorably in jeans and a blouse. She smiled at the audience as she sat down next to Anderson who showed genuine shock and uneasiness at her appearance. She joyfully threw her arms around Anderson and kissed him which prompted even more audience applause.

“Awwww. Didn’t expect this, did you, Noel?” Burke fawned as Anderson turned crimson red which everyone, including Jeannie, mistook for blushing.

Anderson was raging underneath but he was careful to cover up his irritation.

“Jeannie, how do you feel?” Burke asked, stopping in front of her, putting two hands stylishly around the portable studio microphone.

“Fine. Really excited.” Jeannie squealed.

“That’s great.” Burke said. “Now, you work at a vintage record and clothing store. Is that where you two met?”

“No, we met through our church…” Jeannie disclosed.

Anderson, with Jeannie in tow, stormed down one of the inner corridors at Protect The Dreamer Studios. The taping for The Byron Burke Show was over.

“Wait here!” Anderson stopped Jeannie, ordering her to wait in the hallway once he found Glen Steig’s office.

Hearing animated voices in Steig’s office, Anderson burst in to find Byron Burke, Steig and a number of other producers in the midst of a mini-celebration. Anderson’s segment (which they felt was sensational) was the last of three tapings scheduled for the day.

“You have to take her out of the show!” Anderson railed at Burke.

“Sir, you can’t come in here.” Steig immediately protested the intrusion, acting as though Anderson were a complete stranger now, quickly stepping in front of him.

All the producers protectively got in front of Burke, forming a defensive cordon. One assistant producer picked up a phone.

“Take her out!” Anderson seethed.

“Who?” Burke asked, mystified.

“Jeannie, the girl you brought on the show!” Anderson fumed.

“We got a problem here.” The assistant producer muttered into the phone, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Why do you want me to take her out? She did great.” Burke asked, mystified.

“I don’t care! She shouldn’t be here!” Anderson raged.

“We can’t take her out.” Steig interrupted, “We tape our show to the exact time we need.”

“Then I don’t want to be on it!” Anderson declared.

“You signed a contract.” Steig snarled nasally.

“I’ll sue you!” Anderson threatened.

“Be my guest. The show airs next month.” Steig sniffed.

“Listen, you fucking weasel-” Anderson started forward to get in Steig’s face when a pair of muscular security guards raced into the room and descended on Anderson.

“Get him out of here!” Burke commanded the guards from behind his human barrier of subordinates.

“Sir, I’ll have to escort you off the premises,” the guard, who was the larger of the two, officiously informed Anderson.

It was only moments later when the guards, hands on their hips, impassively watched Anderson enter his Mercedes in the studio parking lot with Jeannie.

“What happened?” Jeannie asked bewildered as she sat back in the passenger seat of his car.

“Nothing… nothing.” Anderson answered, putting the key in the ignition. He thought to himself for a moment, then settled down, knowing it was useless to try to stop the show from being aired. “Thanks for coming.”

Jeannie smiled.

Anderson started the Mercedes and they drove away into the busy Chicago streets.

CHAPTER 28

         A
n empty tequila bottle sat on the dresser in Jeannie’s apartment bedroom. Stripped off clothing was strewn about the floor leading to the bed where Jeannie was laying naked, her face buried in a pillow.

Anderson was next to her. He opened his eyes and looked over at her.

She was fast asleep and snoring.

He swung himself out of bed and got dressed.

Minutes later, Anderson pulled himself into a leather jacket that Jeannie had picked out for him, and stepped out of the apartment into the chilly night air, locking the door behind him.

Anderson descended the apartment building staircase outside. It was one of those foggy, warm nights in early spring where the last of the snows had only recently melted and the sidewalks were all damp as if it had just rained. Anderson was surprised you couldn’t even see the condensation in your exhaled breath and unzipped his jacket.

He exited the complex through the metal security gate and disappeared around a corner.

After a moment, a cluster of tall evergreen bushes shook across the small apartment complex courtyard and Jack Trax stepped out of their midst. He stared off after Anderson.

The amiable portly bartender extended his hairy arm and prepared to pour Anderson a shot of whiskey. “The usual?” The bartender asked only half-sure.

“Yeah, thanks.” Anderson nodded.

“You’ve been comin’ in a lot lately.” The bartender said as he filled the small shot glass to the rim. “Work near here?”

“Nah.” Anderson offered, throwing the shot back. “My girlfriend lives in the neighborhood. Been having trouble sleeping.”

“You or her?” The bartender inquired.

Anderson snickered, and answered, “Me.”

“I haven’t slept in thirty years. It’s overrated.” The bartender said as he held the spout of the whiskey bottle over Anderson’s empty shot glass and gestured questioningly.

Anderson laughed genially again, nodded the go ahead and the bartender refilled the glass.

Gabriel Lysander’s head was sitting back against the floor, his mouth gagged with a rolled-up bandana. His eyes were wide with terror as he stared up at the ski-masked man planted atop his chest.

The man in the ski-mask was dressed in a running suit. His clenched teeth were bared and visible through the mouth hole in the mask. He held a large butcher knife which he raised back in his gloved hand.

Gabriel’s scream was muffled by the gag, but his eyes were horror-filled and riveted as the ski-masked man brought down the knife viciously, again and again, into Gabriel’s hog-tied upper arms, torso and neck.

Blood spurted everywhere.

On the walls.

The ceiling.

Gabriel’s mouth filled with blood from the inside, bubbling over the bandana restraint. Gabriel choked and heaved, spewed a crimson mist.

Blood splattered across the mouth of the man in the ski mask.

A ghastly sucking noise emanated from Gabriel’s perforated chest as he expired at last and his body bled out on to the floor of the seedy, run-down room.

CHAPTER 29

         J
eannie threw back the curtains and let the sunlight pour into the room. She crossed to the bed where Anderson just awakened and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Good morning.” She sweetly cooed as though she had said it to him a thousand times.

Anderson sat up, and took a sip of the coffee.

“Perfect.” He muttered.

She kissed him and traipsed off towards the kitchen to finish making breakfast.

He looked after her, thoughtfully. A loneliness hit him. He dismissed the notion as quickly as it surfaced.

He walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, locked it. He turned the water on at the sink full blast. He quickly kneeled down at the toilet and threw up. Another rough night.

The Roosevelt Transient Hotel sat in a squalid neighborhood pinched between the main train lines and a major expressway that fed into the south side of the city.

Gawkers and hotel occupants loitered about the area outside where a couple of detective sedans and several police cars were parked, their light bars pulsating. There was already a detective taking notes and doing some possible witness interviews.

A Crown Victoria was directed to a parking place by a uniformed officer and skidded to a stop just short of a morgue van that was backing up to the entrance. Detectives Wayne Crotty and Gene Peterson got out of the Crown Victoria and entered the hotel.

The third floor room was active with investigators. It had already been secured as a crime scene. The last photos were being taken of Gabriel Lysander’s tied-up and bloodied naked dead body. A couple of evidence techs were dusting for prints.

Crotty and Peterson showed their identification to a cop keeping a record of crime scene visitors at the door.

Peterson reflexively drew his arm up to his face and Crotty put his aftershave soaked handkerchief up to his nose as they entered the blood-splattered, stench-filled room.

“Nice, huh?” Jerome Davis, the supervising detective commented as he greeted them. He was already there long enough to acclimate to the smell.

“Thanks for the call.” Crotty said as he held out his identification.

“No problem.” Davis told him. “Saw you put a notification number on this guy’s file.” Davis continued, indicating Gabriel. “Why the special interest?”

“He was involved in a messy homicide a few years ago with his brother who’s still doing time for the murder downstate.” Crotty informed Davis as he scanned the room. “Another guy who was involved in the murder has already shown up dead. The husband of their victim might be on a crusade.”

“This ‘husband’ some gangbanger or ex-con?” Davis presumed.

“Naw.” Peterson chimed in. “Regular guy.”

“Seriously?” Davis asked, intrigued.

Crotty nodded and shrugged.

“Whoever did it left the door wide open. Another tenant walked by this morning and saw the body.” Davis continued, scrutinizing a memo pad. “Time of death looks like it was between midnight and 3 a.m. last night.”

Davis stepped further into the room to get near Lysander’s lacerated body. Crotty and Peterson followed his path, careful not to contaminate the scene or step in any of the fluids already secreted by Gabriel’s corpse.

“Whoever did it…” Davis indicated, using his pen to point to Gabriel’s head. “…cut off this Lysander’s penis and genitals, and shoved them in his mouth. Also rammed a lamp rod up his ass.”

Davis angled around, squatted and directed their attention to the rod and the insertion point on Gabriel’s derriere.

“We got about thirty stab wounds to the upper body.” Davis went on. “There’s also a ton of prints around. It’s an SRO but my understanding is this Lysander lived here awhile, several months anyway. And we have a good impression on the perpetrator’s shoes.”

Crotty and Peterson stared meditatively at the bloody sneaker prints visible about the tiled floor.

“If you ask me…” Davis offered. “…I’d say it was a homosexual killing. See elevated violence all the time with those kinds of murders. Probably some guy he pissed off when he was in the can. No pun intended. Whoever did this obviously really hates this guy. They didn’t even take the money.” Davis remarked, finishing his initial appraisal and gesturing across the room.

Money? What money?
Crotty and Peterson exchanged a look. They turned to gaze over at the spot in the room Davis indicated where a thin, bookish-looking evidence technician was currently very busy hunched over a dresser dusting for prints.

At this same moment, the bookish tech called out to Davis, “Jerry?”

Davis stepped to the dresser. Crotty and Peterson followed him over.

The studious-looking tech picked up a pair of disposable polystyrene tweezers and used the ends to move aside some large denomination bills, 20s and 50s, from a stack of currency on top of the dresser. The studious-looking tech then extracted a business card from the bottom of the money pile.

Davis took the tweezers, inspected the card and then handed it to Crotty. “Mean anything to you?” Davis asked.

Crotty scanned the card with keen interest. It was from the “Heart O’Mine Motel”, and it had Anderson’s room number - “26” - written on it.