Anatomy of Evil (2 page)

Chapter Three

The flat, impassive voice of Danita, Zone 11 dispatcher, lifted above the police radio crackle to alert Officer Rodney Martinez to a complaint on the 7300 block of North Paulina.
“Resident reporting a teenage male, gray-hooded sweatshirt, pulling on door handles of parked cars.”

Rodney acknowledged her. He pulled the squad car off Sheridan Road and headed up Jarvis, a street on the northern end of Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood. When he reached the location, he noted a skinny Hispanic youth, maybe 13 or 14, slouched alongside a Honda Civic.

When the boy saw the approaching police car, he stiffened and his eyes flashed fear. He turned, sunk his hands in his pockets and attempted a casual amble away from the scene, but his body language had already told Rodney all he needed to know.

Rodney lit up his lights and punched a short “bloop!” from the siren, a loud enough sting to cause the suspect to hop a step and freeze.

Rodney knew a major decision rolled through the boy's mind at this very moment: stay or flee.

The boy chose to flee.

With an abrupt jump, he darted away from the street and into an alley. Rodney accelerated the squad car after him.

“Wrong move, son.”

Entering the alley, he trailed the boy, keeping a measured distance to avoid running him over if he tripped and fell. As they reached the end of the alley, a pickup truck turned into their path. In the moment it took for the pickup truck to slam its brakes and reverse out of the way, the boy slipped around a corner and out of sight.

Rodney shifted into park. He kept the lights flashing and thrust himself out of the car. Still in excellent shape in the waning days of his thirties, Rodney broke out in a healthy sprint. He hurried down the sidewalk but did not see his young suspect.

Thick shrubbery decorated a stretch of simple, stately apartment buildings. Rodney slowed his pace. He searched the grounds until he spotted a glimpse of gray in the green.

“Stand up slowly,” said Rodney, arms elevated waist high, ready for anything. “Hands in the air where I can see them.”

The boy stood, emerging from the foliage, palms raised. He was a full-blown adolescent, a smattering of pimples across his forehead, and thin, sporadic hair above his upper lip. His eyes relayed the terror of a first-time offender.

“Don't shoot,” said the boy.

Rodney almost smirked. “I'm not going to shoot. Please step out of there.”

The boy advanced slowly, pulling his legs out of the branches.

“What's your name?” asked Rodney.

“Jamie.”

They stood a few feet apart now. The boy was a tall, scrawny frame of jitters. Physically, he reminded Rodney of one of his nephews, awkward and self-conscious, somewhere on the path between child and adulthood.

“What were you doing by those cars?” asked Rodney.

“Nothing.”

“There's plenty of nothing to do away from those cars. Step closer.”

Rodney patted him down. He extracted a cell phone. “Yours?”

The boy nodded.

Rodney handed it back. “We received a report that someone was pulling on car door handles. That's called vehicle prowling. It's a crime. If you enter a vehicle unlawfully with intent to take somebody's property, I can take you into custody and book you. You got that?”

Jamie stared at the ground and Rodney told him, “Eyes up.”

Jamie looked at Rodney. Rodney studied him some more. The eyes always told more than the mouth was willing to release. “What were you hoping to find in those cars?” asked Rodney.

“I dunno,” said Jamie, uncomfortably shifting weight between his feet. “Maybe…something to eat.”

Rodney read truth in the boy's expression. He felt some pity.

“You got someplace to go?” he asked.

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Then you got someplace to go. It's called school.”

Jamie looked away, then back. “Yeah,” he said.

“I'd like you to come with me into the car,” said Rodney. He saw the boy's jaw drop.

“But I, I didn't, I didn't, aw man, okay,” Jamie said, retreating from the start of an argument.

Rodney brought him into the squad car. They sat together in the front seat. Rodney reached into the back, took ahold of something and brought it forward. He held it out to Jamie.

“Care for some pretzels?”

Jamie stared at the pretzel bag for a moment, then accepted it.

“You go to Sullivan High?”

Jamie nodded.

“Why aren't you there now?”

Jamie mumbled, “I dunno. It's just not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too much head stuff. It's not, like, real. Out here, this is real. School, it's just, you know, geometry and social studies and science papers and a lot of busywork.”

“You have a favorite subject?”

Jamie thought about it for a moment. “I dunno.”

Rodney reached over and took a few pretzel sticks for himself. “When I was your age, do you know what my favorite class was? World History.”

“Huh,” said Jamie.

“I grew up just a few blocks west of here. My family didn't have a lot of money. I was like you, the city streets were my reality, it was all I knew. But I daydreamed about other places. Different countries, faraway lands. I couldn't get enough of that. I wanted to know about Europe and Africa and Asia… You ever get curious like that?”

“A little, I guess.”

Rodney reached into the back seat again. He pulled out a colorful travel brochure. He handed it to Jamie.

“This will be my first vacation in five years. I'm going with some friends. It's an island in the middle of the ocean.”

Jamie opened up a glossy photo collage of marine life, white beaches, exotic birds and lush wilderness. “What is this place?” he asked.

“Kiritimati Island.”

“Sweet.”

“A vacation like that, you can't steal it from the back of somebody's car. You work hard. You do good. You pay your dues. You give something to society, you earn your keep, you get a little something back.”

Jamie folded the brochure and returned it to the police officer. “I'm not that into the ocean.”

“So what's your passion? What do you want to do? Name it.”

“I dunno,” he said in the same tone as his other non-responses.

“There's got to be something you really like. You into sports? You like to read…?”

“Comics,” said Jamie.

“Cartoons?”

“No. Comic books. Superheroes.”

“All right. What's your favorite?”

“I got a lot of favorites. Wolverine. Batman. Thor. I like the Justice League.”

“What do you like about them?”

“They get to do a lot of cool stuff.”

“They're fighting for justice,” said Rodney. “Just like cops, in a way. They're like super cops.”

Jamie wrinkled his nose and gave Rodney a funny look. “No. Not really.”

“Okay. Maybe that's a stretch,” admitted Rodney. “Do you think it would be cool to live your life like a superhero?”

Jamie smiled for the first time of their encounter. “No. Nah. That's just crazy shit. That's not me.” Then he paused and added, “But you know, it would be cool, to, like, make it up. Those stories, I mean.”

“You like writing?”

Instead of his frequent “I dunno,” Jamie grew more talkative. “Yeah. Writing stories. Not essays and stuff. But I like making up stories. Like that lady that does Harry Potter.”

“So maybe one day you'll write for Marvel or DC Comics.”

Jamie grinned. “That would be cool.”

“Gotta tell you, Jamie, to write those stories, you need imagination, but you also need to know a lot more about the world. Science and history and biology. You can't write about mad scientists without the science. You need English class too so your writing can be the best it can be.”

“I'm pretty good in English. I'm better than my brothers.”

“So you got a knack,” said Rodney.

“I could totally write comic books,” said Jamie.

“You ever been to Chicago Comicon?”

“The big one? No, that costs a lot. Maybe someday. I bet it's awesome.”

“I'll cut you a deal,” said Rodney. “You finish a semester with a B average and I'll hook you up with a ticket to the Chicago Comicon. I'll get you a full-day pass. You can hear from the pros, get the latest scoops, it's comic book heaven.”

“Really?” said Jamie. “You can do that?”

“Yes,” said Rodney, adding, “Not bad from a guy you initially thought was going to shoot you.”

Rodney gave Jamie his card with his phone number. “Don't lose this. You ever need me for anything, I want you to use it.”

He drove Jamie to Sullivan High School, dropped him off and waited to depart until he saw the boy go inside the building.

Within minutes, another alert murmured on the police radio, this time a disturbance at the Morse Avenue train station, a purse snatching on the elevated platform. Rodney headed to his next destination still reflecting on his encounter with Jamie.

Did I make a dent?
Rodney asked himself.
At least a small step forward in making the city a better place?
It was so hard to know. Sometimes people chose the right path and settled inside the rules. The young held so much promise, not yet set in ways that would become much harder to change later on.

Rodney knew that creating a safer world didn't happen overnight. It took one person at a time. A daunting task for sure, but with the right beliefs and commitment, Rodney knew anything was possible.

Chapter Four

Gary Burton stepped back to admire the eight years of his NFL career laid out in a neatly framed succession of football cards hanging proudly above the register counter of his sporting goods store, Gary's Game Day.

His sports memorabilia friend, Max Spatoli, had presented the collection a few weeks earlier as a gift for Gary's fiftieth birthday, and Gary vowed to hang it in a prominent spot in the store. Today he had finally gotten around to it, taking advantage of a slow spell in customer traffic to position and install the mini profiles, replacing a faded poster promoting a sports drink.

Gary looked across the timeline of cards, each one featuring a different portrait and pose, a humbling progression from fresh young rookie to broken, weathered veteran. For most of those years he played on the Chicago Bears, with the bookends of his professional career in Baltimore and Cincinnati. The MVP seasons sat smack in the middle.

Those were the best years of his life.

“Sweet,” said Tonya, his hand-selected assistant manager, also a former athlete, with notable achievements in Big Ten volleyball and track and field. Twenty years his junior, Tonya remained active as a high school volleyball coach, and she spent her off-season and extra hours working for Gary's Game Day. Her sunny disposition and easy laughter brightened the store and she seemed to truly enjoy interacting with customers, especially children, to help them pursue their own sports dreams. She also served up splendid eye candy for the male customers: long-limbed, perfectly toned and eternally tan, with long blonde hair dropped neatly on her shoulders. She flirted ever so slightly with the men and boys but never crossed a line that drew the ire of wives and girlfriends. She had mastered the art of being personable and nonthreatening across ages and genders.

“Some of those pictures aren't the best,” Gary acknowledged, studying the card fronts. “Look at the one where I'm holding my helmet, down on one knee, like I'm proposing.”

“I think it's cute,” she told him.

“Football players aren't supposed to look cute.” He walked over to where she leaned against the counter, studying a website on her iPad. “How's the online dating going?” he asked.

She swiped a finger to scroll down a column of candidates. “Just requires patience,” she said.

“Are you limiting yourself to athletes?”

“No. A doctor or lawyer would do just fine. They have longer careers anyway.”

“True. They're not washed up by age 35 and forced to open a sporting goods store.”

“Cut it out,” she said. “You're still successful. You got a brand. You're Good Guy Gary. You made it big without pissing off the fans or taking steroids.”

“It's Chicago,” he responded. “They love their sports teams.”

“Here's someone,” she said, attention returned to the dating site. “Athlete and a doctor. A pediatrician who runs triathlons.”

“Go for it,” said Gary. “What's he look like?”

“Good from the photo, but you never know. Did I tell you about that guy who used his brother's picture? He claimed he did it by mistake. Then he proceeded to tell me a hundred other lies, like where he worked and where he went to school. He kept trying to impress me with BS, one thing after another. It was like he was trying to find the right key to get inside my bedroom. He never made it to first base.”

“Struck out swinging?”

“He's lucky I didn't bean him.”

The front entrance jingled, and a middle-aged man entered with his adolescent son. “We're here to get a first baseman's mitt,” said the dad. Then he told his son, “That man there is Gary Burton, he was a star running back for the Chicago Bears, two-time MVP. He's a
real
sports hero. They don't make 'em like that anymore.”

Gary grinned. “Thank you for the kind words. You're also in the presence of another great athlete. This here is Tonya Rettig. She led the Illinois volleyball team to national finals and also broke records in track and field.”

Gary transitioned the customers to Tonya, who greeted them warmly and led them to the baseball equipment. Then he headed across the store to the fishing section for one more look for gear for his upcoming vacation. He gathered a few extra bonefish jigs and other fly lures, confident he had the poles, weights and line he needed. The flight for Kiritimati Island left the next morning, and he felt a rise of excitement contemplating the next few days. Finally he was breaking away from the constant churn of retail to get together with friends for a fantastic getaway.

He checked his watch and knew he needed to head home soon to join his wife and finish packing. After the father and son left with a new mitt and tube of glove oil, Gary yelled “heads up” and fired a football at Tonya in a perfect spiral. With quick reflexes and steady hands, she snatched it out of the air.

“All right!” said Gary. “Sign her up.”

They played catch for a few minutes more, until a wobbly throw by Gary crashed into a rack of golf clubs.

“I'm losing my touch,” said Gary, running over to pick up the mess. “I'm trashing my own store.”

He flipped the ball over to her. “I need to head out. You want to go over the alarm system again?”

“Nah, I got it,” she replied.

“Confident,” he smiled.

“You only explained it to me six times.”

“So there's nothing else you need to know? You're good to run the show for the next week?”

“Ready, willing and able.”

“I expect you to double sales while I'm out.”

“I just might,” she teased back. “Who needs you?”

“You need the brand name over the door,” said Gary. “Maybe not the person, but the name still holds some marketing value for at least a few more years.”

She turned sincere. “Come on, don't underestimate yourself.” She smiled and in that moment, she looked so sweet, so youthful, so engaging that he couldn't resist jumping the gun and blurting some good news.

“Listen, Tonya, I was going to wait until I got back, but you might as well know now…” he started.

She looked at him, concerned. “What is it?”

“Nothing's wrong. It's all good. It's this—you're being promoted. You're manager of the store. I'm looking to expand into a second location in Lakeview. I haven't said anything about it because it's been iffy, but now it looks like it's going to happen by the end of the year. It'll take up a lot of my time, and you've done such a great job here… I want you to run this store, not just while I'm on vacation, but going forward as your new job.”

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes lit up with surprise. Then she beamed, smiling at him. “Oh wow. I am so excited. This is awesome. Oh, Gary, thank you.”

“We'll make it work so you can still coach volleyball. You can hire your own assistant manager.”

“You're the greatest. I won't let you down.”

“I know you won't.”

The door jingled and a young woman entered. Gary stepped aside. Tonya greeted the customer and joined her on a search for a new racquetball racket.

Gary couldn't help watching Tonya as she headed down the aisle with an extra spring in her step. He felt happiness for her.

Turning away, he transferred his focus to the upcoming trip and his wife, Emma. He pulled out his cell phone and gave Emma a quick call to see if she needed him to pick up anything on the way home.

“Ibuprofen,” she told him without hesitation.

“Still in pain?”

“You know it.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It sucks getting old. That and bad genes. I mean, really, hip replacement at 49? I'm going to need a walker.”

“I promise not to call you grandma.”

“You do and I'll slug you.”

“Hey, I just told Tonya the good news.”

“I thought you were going to wait until you got back.”

“I know. I just felt the time was right. She's going to be in charge while I'm out, she might as well know it's being rewarded.”

“What if she screws up while you're out? You said this was going to be a test, and if she performed well, then she'd get the job. You never know what could happen. She's dealing with the day's receipts, the bookkeeping, opening and closing…”

“She'll be great,” said Gary.

“I suppose,” said Emma, followed by, “God damn it, I'm sore. Please get home soon, you need to help pack, I'm in no condition to do a lot of bending and lifting.”

“Absolutely,” said Gary. “See you real soon. Love you.”

“Love you.”

He disconnected the call. Tonya returned and gestured in the customer's direction. “She's browsing. I gave her some suggestions.”

“Great. Listen, I'm going to head out.”

“You have an awesome trip,” Tonya said. “And thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't wait to tell my mom the good news.”

“We'll talk salary and accountabilities when I get back.”

“Got it.”

Then she did something that surprised him, but was totally in character. She reached out and hugged him. It was a quick embrace, a solid squeeze and then she sprung back with a grin.

“Safe travels,” she said.

Gary left the store with his bag of lures. On his way out, he couldn't resist looking in through the window at her and feeling pride, remembering when she had started working for him as a goofy young girl with little retail experience and bouts of self-doubt. Her growth in confidence and professionalism was a joy to watch unfold. It brought out a wonderful lift in feelings that hearkened back to his playing days and could be summed up in a single word. Victory.