A Time for Secrets (22 page)

“I don’t need to think about it, Dad. You haven’t offered me anything I want.”

§ § § §

I ended up skipping lunch entirely. Instead, I got on the express bus and went down to the
Daily Herald
offices just off Michigan. My father was the last straw. Finnegan’s reach was too deep. If he could get my father to offer me a spot with the CPD and a spot back with my family, then he could do just about anything, and there was no way I was going to get any police officer anywhere to take a case against the powerful
A
lderman. I was going to have to do this another way.

Before I
got
to the
Daily Herald
offices, I popped into Water Tower Place and found a stationary store on the fourth floor. I bought a 9x12 manila envelope and a box of fifty pieces of onionskin typing paper. I shoved the paper inside the envelope, tossed the box in a trash bin, and wrote a fake address on the outside of the envelope.

When I hit the
Daily Herald
’s lobby, I walked with confidence passed the security desk to the elevator. Inside the elevator were three other people. They all pressed their floors. I had no idea where to find the writers. I figured I’d look at each floor as the doors opened and make a decision then.

There were six floors. Management was probably on six, so I didn’t need to go that high. We stopped at two, but I didn’t get out. The doors opened onto a factory-like hallway, and I could hear the loud hum of the presses nearby, probably taking up most of the first two floors. The other two floors that had been punched were four and five. One of my fellow riders was a man in his late twenties, dressed in a three-piece suit
;
he looked like he’d be good at showing businessmen the town. I figured he worked in ad sales. The other rider was a middle-aged woman with glasses and red eyes. She had to be some kind of copy person or editor. I decided to get off at her floor. She and I got off at four.

I found myself in a large room that took up most of the floor. Around the edges were a dozen offices with glass walls; in the center, rows of desks, many with computer CRTs sitting on them. On the far side of the room, I saw Christian sitting at a desk in front of a CRT. He was the only person in the room.

He cocked his head curiously when he saw me walking over to him.

“Working late?” I asked, though it was only about two-thirty.

“I told you I’m a freelancer.” That didn’t really answer my question, and he must have seen that on my face because he continued, “The paper goes to bed at two. I can’t use the computer system until the union employees go home. How’d you get in here?”

“I have my ways.
If I’d asked for you at the desk, they wouldn’t have known who you are, would they?”

“Freelancers aren’t in the directory.”

“So what are you working on?” I asked.

“Just an assignment they gave me.”

I stepped forward to look at the computer. There was a lot of fluorescent green type on an army green background. As I began to skim the article, Christian said, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

But I did. It read:

The apartment is well laid out with ample bedroom suites on either side of the living room. Each room boasts a simply spectacular view of Lake Michigan.

“What is that? A real estate ad?”

“It’s for a feature on the front of the real estate section. ‘Rehabbed Gold Coast Condo Shines.’ That’s the headline.”

“Catchy,” I said. Though it wasn’t.

“This is the features department. The city desk is on the other side of the floor.” He nodded his head in their direction. I turned and saw that on the far side of the floor there was a more populated department. That part of the paper probably went to bed much later.

“That’s where I want to get to,” Christian explained. “Are you ready to talk to me about the Bughouse Slasher?”

I tried to think back; he hadn’t been completely honest with us. At the same time, he hadn’t exactly lied, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised.

“I’m sorry. I made a mistake,” I said. I began to walk away, and Christian jumped out of his chair to run after me.

“I can get it published, I know I can.”

“They’ve got you writing about decorating. They’re not going to let you write about anything else.”

“Because I’m gay? The Slasher kills gay kids. Who better to write about him than someone like me? As long as I write something decent, something true, they’ll publish it. I promise.”

“This isn’t about the Slasher. It’s about something else. Something even bigger.”

Christian’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. Suddenly, I realized how foolish I was being. Even if Christian were a more experienced reporter, he wouldn’t have been able to get the story into the
Daily Herald
. Finnegan had power. He was able to have people killed, get me arrested on a trumped up charge, make my father speak to a son he never wanted to see again. Why wouldn’t he be able to kill a simple story in the
Daily Herald
?

“Do you know who Thomas Finnegan is?” I asked.

“Of course, I do. People are saying he’s our next mayor.”

“I know something about him. Something incriminating. Even if I gave it to you, they’d never publish it.”

He smiled. “I think they would. The
Daily Herald
endorsed Byrne in seventy-nine.”

“And they’ve ripped her to shreds ever since.”

“She sells papers. They’d miss her if she was gone.”

§ § § §

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in my living room with Harker. I’d filled Christian in on what I knew about all three murders while we were being bounced around the back of a Checker cab. Mrs. Harker was in the kitchen banging pots and pans around as though she was angry about something. We all struggled to ignore her.

“Do you think you have enough to prove Finnegan’s a murderer?” I asked.

“I’m not even going to try,” Christian said. My stomach sank. Then, he went on, “We can connect him to three murders. We can also prove the police aren’t investigating that connection. That’s the story.”

I wasn’t thrilled. I may have even pouted a little.

“You want him to go to prison, don’t you?” asked Harker.

“Of course I want him to go to prison. I want him to rot there.”

Christian shrugged. “The story might set that in motion. But I can’t guarantee it.”

I would have liked a guarantee, but knew I had to be at least a little bit realistic. “So what do you need?”

“You have a witness who will place Finnegan in a police car with Bill Maker?”

“Yes,” Harker said. “His name is Aaron Carlton. He’s a little tentative, but I think he’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow. And the guy at the nursing home, he’s definitely too far gone?” Christian asked.

“He remembers the murder, and he talked about it briefly with me,” I explained. “He’d never hold up on a witness stand, but he might give you something. The orderly said he was better in the morning.”

“An eyewitness
would
be better. I want to talk to him. Tomorrow morning?”

Harker had a worried look on his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked at Christian and said, “Finnegan is a dangerous guy. He’s had two men killed to cover this up. He’s tried to get Nick arrested. I don’t think he’ll try to kill Nick because of his family, but you’re at risk. Do you understand that?”

“My name will be on the piece. They can’t do anything to me, or it proves everything I’ve written.”

“What about before it’s in the newspaper,” Harker pointed out. “That’s when you need to be careful.”

Just then, Mrs. Harker entered the room. She had her purse hooked into the crook of her elbow and her cardigan sweater draped on her shoulders, which I thought was ridiculous given the heat. Her eyes zeroed in on me, and she said, “You take me home now.”

Harker and I glanced at each other with suspicion. Mrs. Harker would do just about anything to avoid being alone with me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The walk to the car and the ride were quiet. I knew she had something to say, and I waited patiently for her to say it. Still, she didn’t say a word until I pulled up in front of Harker’s condo all the way out in Edison Park.

“He is gay sick, isn’t he?” she asked.

The air in the car seemed to disappear. Harker wouldn’t like me talking about this with her, but it had taken him forty-some years to come out, so I didn’t know if he’d ever tell her the truth about his illness. It only seemed fair that she know for sure.

“Yes, he has GRID.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“I don’t think I have it.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. I d
id
n’t think she believed me.

“Is God’s punishment.”

“No, it’s not.” I said strongly. “Did God punish the Jews with Hitler?”

She shrugged like it was a strong possibility.

I tried again. “When a newborn dies, is that God’s punishment?”

“On the parents, yes.”

I sighed heavily. There was no convincing her and I knew it. There was something I wanted from her though, and I decided to make sure I got it.

“Bert is a good man, and if I ever hear you say anything like that to him, that’s it’s God’s punishment, that he somehow deserves what’s happening to him, then I’ll make sure you never see him again. Am I clear?”

She looked at me like a child who’d just been slapped by an unreasonable parent. When she didn’t respond, I asked again, “Am I clear?”

“What do you know? You are Godless. You are a bad man.”

I was angry, barely able tolerate this kind of ignorance, so I said something I shouldn’t have. “If I’m so bad then why is God punishing you by taking your son?”

She paled and looked at me as though I was truly evil, and I suppose in that moment I was. A moment later, she got out of the car and walked across the short lawn to the apartment building. I sat for a moment, trying too cool down. I could feel that my face had gone red, my blood pressure spiking. I lit a cigarette to calm myself.

As I pulled away from the curb, the car backfired. Twice. I didn’t think anything of it, until a thwacking noise told me I had a flat tire. I circled the block until I found a spot on Normandy to pull
over. I got out and looked at the rear tire on the driver’s side. I found a small hole on the wall of the tire. I was wondering what might have caused it when I noticed a similar hole in the fender. These were bullet holes. The car hadn’t backfired at all. I’d been shot at.

I looked up and down the street. All I could see w
ere
little brick story-and-a-half houses, and a lot of trees. No one was walking. There was no traffic. I didn’t see anyone who might have shot at me. And yet, I knew they were there. They had to be.

Popping open my hatchback, I poked around until I found the spare tire behind a piece of cardboard felt tucked in the back fender. It wasn’t an actual spare tire either. It was some kind of half-spare with a canister to inflate it. Oh goodie, I thought. This was going to be fun.

I would have called for a tow truck, since I didn’t want to dick around with that silly inflatable spare, but I was blocks away from a payphone. Yeah, I could have gone back to Harker’s condo and asked his mother if I could use the phone, but after our confrontation, I’d rather get shot changing the tire.

So, I wrestled the jack out of the spot where some Detroit autoworker had tucked it several years before and proceeded to lift the car a few inches off the ground. They didn’t want to budge, but I finally got the lug nuts to screw off. I had the blown tire removed and was rolling it around to the trunk when I saw a CPD squad
car
coming slowly down the street.

The blue-and-white crawled by on the other side of the street, the driver’s window down and a young, freckle-faced cop behind the wheel. As he eased by me, he threw me a big smile. This was the guy who’d shot at me. I wondered if he was the same guy who’d killed Ronald and Vernon? And did he smile at them before he shot them?

As quickly as I could, I got the spare onto the car and drove over to Milwaukee Boulevard to look for a gas station. It didn’t matter if they sold tires, I wasn’t going to worry about that just then; all I needed was a payphone. I found a station just above Devon and pulled in. There was a phone hung on the backside of the building. I rifled around my pockets for a dime. I dialed my apartment.

After two rings Harker picked up.

“I just got shot at.”

“What happened?”

“As nearly as I can tell, a CPD officer took a couple of pot shots at me. Hit my back tire. In front of your condo. Your mother had already gone in.”

“They’re just trying to scare you.”

“It’s working. Is Christian still there?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Don’t let him go anywhere.”

§ § § §

A couple months before, I’d come home to find a small Smith-Corona electric typewriter sitting on the desk in my living room. It was baby blue and had a matching case. I guessed it was the kind of typewriter you’d send your kid off to college with. Harker had ordered it from the Sears catalogue and was using it to work on the murder book he kept on the Bughouse Slasher.

I figured I’d set Christian up there, and he could write the article at our place. I’d stopped at my office on the way back from Harker’s condo and collected a couple of legal pads, a few stray pens, the copy of the police report I’d gotten from my aunt, and Ronald Meek’s journal. I made a few notes about the people I’d spoken to and what they said and put that on the top of the pile. I expected Christian to jump in and get to work. Unfortunately, that
wasn
’
t
how things went.

“I work best in the morning,” he said when I showed him the stuff I’d brought. I must have scowled at him, because he added, “It’s my process. Don’t you have a process?”

I shrugged. “I do one boring thing after another until I get somewhere.”

“He
stubbornly
does one boring thing after another until he
stubbornly
gets somewhere,” Harker corrected me.

“Very funny.”