Big Silence (11 page)

“Father Parker?” said Hanrahan, holding out his hand.

Guttierez had fled for a ringing phone and a shout from one of the detectives across the squad room.

“I know that’s not a question about my identity,” said the priest. “I’ll assume it’s a sign that you didn’t expect to see me here.”

Sam “Whiz” Parker had been a star running back at the University of Illinois and could, unlike Bill Hanrahan who had bad knees, have been drafted within the third round when he graduated. Instead, he had received the calling and now was in charge of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in Edgewater whose parishioners were primarily Vietnamese, Korean, and poor whites. St. Bart’s was well within the province of the Clark Street station in which they were now standing.

“Can I get you …?” Hanrahan began.

“Nothing,” said Father Parker. “I heard about what happened in Ohio.”

“Yeah,” Hanrahan said, looking around the squad room.

“Thought you might like to go out for coffee or something and talk about it.”

“I don’t know,” said Hanrahan.

“We both remember last time,” said Parker.

“Vividly.” Hanrahan rubbed the back of his left hand with the palm of his right. “It won’t happen again.”

Actually, Hanrahan had suffered major losses of faith in his job: his sobriety, his family, and his religion. He had gone to St. Bart’s during an investigation and met “Whiz” Parker, who knew instantly who Bill was. Bill Hanrahan had been one of his football heroes. Together the priest and the cop had begun to work things out, to put Hanrahan’s life back together. It was gradual, no push to rejoin the Mother Church, but he was headed well back in that direction. At least he had been until he saw the woman with her head blown off in a Dayton motel.

“A coffee,” Hanrahan agreed. “Maybe a burger. After we finish with the guy we’re working on.”

“Clark Mills,” said the priest.

“What?”

“The uniformed officer took me into the little room with the one-way mirror. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never been behind one. Strange feeling. Like the confessional.”

“You said …”

“Clark Mills,” said Parker. “Left Michigan State his third year to go into the NFL draft. Great lineman. All-Big Ten. Came out about five years before I graduated, between you and me. As I recall, he was injured in some kind of car crash before he even signed with the Packers, who drafted him second round.”

“You sure that’s Mills?”

“I’m sure,” said Parker. “What’s he done, if I can ask?”

“You can ask,” Hanrahan said. “Maybe you can even help if you want to.”

“If I can,” said Parker. “Mills was a great player.”

“Now he’s homeless and harassing people over on Lunt.”

“Mills?” Parker looked at the interrogation room door. “He’s the one who’s been doing that? I’ve heard about him. Has he hurt anyone?”

“Not yet,” said Hanrahan, “but it’s just a question of how long if we don’t do something, and he doesn’t show any sign of cooperating. He scared the hell out of a woman last night. She’s more than just shaken up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go back in the room with the one-way mirror and come in the interrogation room if I call.”

“That’s it?”

“That’ll do,” said Hanrahan.

“Then coffee and talk,” Parker reminded him.

“Coffee, a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts, and talk,” said Hanrahan.

Parker headed back to the little room with the one-way mirror and Hanrahan opened the door to the interrogation room where Lieberman was saying “… a one-way bus ticket to a destination of your choice. And you don’t come back.”

Hanrahan closed the door and moved to the chair he had been sitting in. Mills didn’t even look at him.

“Not interested,” said Mills.

“Well,” said Lieberman. “Maybe we can persuade you.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe we can, Clark,” said Hanrahan.

Lieberman turned slowly to his partner. The big black man across the table stood up suddenly, his chair falling back against the wall.

“Behind that mirror is a man who recognized you,” said Hanrahan. “He used to respect you. He’s watching to see how you handle this.”

“Who?” said the huge man, leaning forward toward the detective.

“I don’t feel like telling you right this minute,” said Hanrahan. “Not till you sit down, behave like a reasonably sane human being, and we come to some agreement.”

“No.” Mills looked at the mirror.

“Pick up the chair, Clark,” said Lieberman. “Sit in it. Do you know what happens now that we know who you are?”

Mills looked down at Lieberman.

“Pick up the chair and sit down,” said Lieberman.

There was a long pause while the sound of voices from the squad room came through the door and into the small room. Two people out there were crying at the same time. It sounded like a contest to determine who could be more annoying.

Sullenly, reluctantly, Clark Mills picked up the wooden chair, sat, and crossed his arms.

“I’m sure,” said Lieberman, “my partner has already asked that your records be sent to us by e-mail or fax immediately.”

Lieberman was less than sure, but he said it anyway. They could probably handle Mills without expense to the department, and it was doubtful even if they tried to get it that they could get much information that day.

“That’s confidential,” said Mills. “I want a lawyer.”

Hanrahan folded his hands on the table. Lieberman slipped his .45 into the right pocket of his trousers, out of sight of anyone who might be looking.

“We will inform your college, Michigan State, about what you’ve turned into,” said Hanrahan. “Your coach. Your teammates. Probably they’ll publish a little article asking former fans and teammates to kick in twenty cents each to send you. A fund for a homeless bully, a former MSU All-American.”

“You’re shittin’ me,” said Mills, not at all sure if Hanrahan were telling the truth. “Who’s behind that mirror?”

“You have family, Clark?” asked Lieberman. “We’d better find out who they are and where they are and tell them what you’ve turned into. They may want to help. Then again, they might just be humiliated. They still might want to help. Your parents alive?”

“Don’t know,” said Mills. “My mother was last time I knew.”

“Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, high school coach and teachers, friends?” asked Hanrahan.

Mills was sweating now and breathing deeply. Hanrahan was ready to stop him if he came over the table at the two detectives. Hanrahan wanted him to come over the table.

“Want to tell us where you’re from?” asked Lieberman. “We can still stop the people back home from finding out what happened to their hero.”

“Albany, Georgia,” Mills said with a sigh.

“How’d you like a ticket back there?” asked Hanrahan.

Mills was silent. He unfolded his arms, didn’t know what to do with his hands, and finally placed them nervously on his lap.

“No,” said Mills. “You bastards think I got a family living in some shack with dirt floors. My father’s a professor of economics at Albany State College. My mother’s a lawyer. My sister manages a doctor’s office in Albany. My brother … There are no failures in my family but me. I’m not going back. But I’ll think about going somewhere if you stop those calls to Michigan State and you keep this away from my family.”

Hanrahan and Lieberman looked at each other.

“How about Dallas?” asked Lieberman. “Warmer there. Know someone there who could try you out on a job. Not much of a job, but …”

“I’ll think about it,” Mills said, looking at the mirror again.

“About Dallas or the job?” asked Hanrahan.

“The job,” said Mills, defeated.

“We’ll take you down to the Greyhound station and put you on a bus. We’ll even give you twenty-five bucks,” said Lieberman. “You don’t come back to Chicago. Never. I don’t care if you become governor of Texas, Georgia, and Arkansas combined.”

Mills nodded and said softly, “I gotta pick up a few things I’ve got stashed.”

“Whoever takes you to the bus will stop with you,” said Hanrahan.

“Want to go alone,” said Mills. “I … I got a cat I’ve got to do something with.”

“Take him to Dallas,” said Lieberman.

“Her,” said Mills.

“Her,” Lieberman conceded.

“I want to think about that and I’ve got some things to pick up. I can’t run. I don’t want my people to know about me. They think I’m a regional sales manager for Budweiser. Probably wonder why they haven’t heard from me in … I don’t know how many years.”

A look between the two detectives and Hanrahan said, “Okay. But not overnight. We pick you up with whatever you’ve got in the park on Lunt and Sheridan. You have three hours. Find a bench near the street and wait. You’re not there, we find you and make those calls.”

“I’ll be there,” said Mills. “I gotta know. Who’s behind that mirror?”

The truth was that Lieberman was almost as curious as Mills. He looked at Hanrahan, who said, “Come in, Father.”

No more than five seconds later Father Parker came into the small room. Mills looked up without immediate recognition though something in his eyes seemed to …

“Whiz Parker,” said Mills.

“Father Samuel Parker,” Hanrahan amended.

“You recognized me?” said Mills, looking up at the priest.

Parker nodded and said, “You were a pleasure to watch play.”

“I didn’t think anyone would recognize me, not ever,” said Mills.

“You a Catholic?” asked Parker.

“I’m nothing. Family is Baptist, but mostly for show. Small college town. I don’t think my mother and father believe in God. Don’t know about my brother and sisters. They go to church.”

“I saw your last game,” said Parker. “Michigan State, Illinois. Never saw a quarterback protected so well by one lineman.”

Mills shook his head, remembering. “Wanted to impress the scouts.”

“No,” said Parker. “That was the only way you knew how to play. You take care of yourself and trust these two policemen.”

Mills nodded, sitting up a little straighter as Parker left the room.

It was Lieberman’s turn to get up. He went out into the squad room in search of a uniform to take Mills back to his neighborhood. Father Parker was looking at the madness of the squad room, his hands in his pockets. Lieberman went to his desk where he found four messages. One was from Bess saying call immediately. One was from someone who called himself Aztec, one of the many names of Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol. Aztec had left a number. The third call was from his daughter, Lisa, who was at the house and wanted to talk to him soon. “Soon” was underlined. So she hadn’t left for Los Angeles yet. The last message wasn’t a phone call. It was from Captain Kearney telling him to come to his office as soon as he could.

Lieberman called the uniform division assignment desk and asked Lieutenant Gibson if he had someone who could make a brief run. Gibson said, “Sure. We’re running slow this
A.M.
Four car accidents. Two bar fights with one in the hospital. The issue was Notre Dame football. Pawn shop robbery. Four drug pickups. Slow. Bring your man down. How’s the Gornitz business coming?”

“I’m getting back on that right now,” said Lieberman. “Thanks, Mike.”

“We serve and protect,” said Gibson as he did at the end of every conversation with a fellow officer and had for more than twenty years.

Lieberman ignored his messages for a while and went into the interrogation room where he told Hanrahan that everything was ready. A definitely defeated, slouch-shouldered Clark Mills came out and looked at Sam Parker.

“I was good that day,” said Mills.

“You were
great
that day, Clark,” said the priest. “If I had a photograph, I’d ask you to autograph it.”

“That’s my desk,” said Lieberman, pointing to his desk near the window. “Go have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

Mills made his way slowly through the crowd and maze of desks and chairs and sat next to Lieberman’s desk.

“Father Parker wants to go out for a cup of coffee and some talk,” said Hanrahan. “So do I.”

“Enjoy,” Lieberman said.

“What about Stashall?” asked Hanrahan.

“I’ll go pay him a visit,” said Lieberman. “We’ll talk later.”

His partner and the priest worked their way to the squad room door and out. Lieberman ushered Clark Mills down to the uniformed assignment room and turned him over to Gibson.

“Three hours, Clark,” Lieberman reminded him.

“Three hours,” the big man repeated. “I’ll be there.”

Lieberman went back upstairs checking his watch. It wasn’t even eleven and he was starving. The memory of chopped liver in front of his partner suddenly came over him. It was almost worth the damage to his cholesterol count. Fortunately, there wasn’t enough time to fall off the wagon. He made his way back upstairs and knocked at Kearney’s office. Kearney called “come in,” and he did. Kearney sat at his small conference table along with Assistant State Attorney Eugene Carbin, who wore a frown and greeted Lieberman with a nearly disgusted shake of his head.

“Have a seat, Abe,” Kearney said.

Lieberman sat. Something was definitely about to happen. There was an open box on the desk. Next to the box was a rolled-up paper towel that looked as if it had come out of the box. Next to that was a piece of paper with printing on it.

“Message was in the box. It’s for you,” said Carbin, looking at the piece of paper.

Had the lawyer been white, Lieberman thought, his face would be bright red.

“Box came to me,” said Kearney. “Delivery service. Already checked. Sender paid cash, dropped the package at the delivery office. Left enough money. No one saw or remembers seeing who left the package.”

Lieberman sat silently as Kearney turned the sheet of paper toward Abe so he could read it.

“I already touched it,” said Kearney. “It was addressed to me. Don’t touch it. We’ll check it for prints when we’re done.”

Lieberman considered trying to read the note without his glasses. Carbin wore glasses. What the hell. He took his glasses from his pocket and read the note without touching it.

TO DETECTIVE ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN: THIS IS A WARNING ABOUT WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. GORNITZ DOESN’T TESTIFY. TELL HIM WHAT YOU’VE GOT IN THE BOX. THERE’LL BE MORE LITTLE GIFTS TILL GORNITZ PROVES HE DOESN’T PLAN TO TALK. HE KNOWS HOW TO PROVE IT. THE BOY WALKS WHEN WE KNOW GORNITZ ISN’T GOING TO TALK.