Lieberman's Law (9 page)

She said, looking at the photo, “They brought it with them and dumped it on those white scarves.

“Talliths,” Lieberman corrected. “Prayer shawls.”

Rene Catolino looked at the other pictures slowly, carefully, and passed each picture on as she finished. “Not very creative,” she said, looking at the racial comments on the walls in the photographs.

“But effective,” said Lieberman.

“This is a mess,” said Kearney, moving to the board. “Late last night a call came in to both the FBI and to this station. The call came before the public was informed about the attacks. The caller talked like a neo-Nazi. Suggested we hadn't heard the last of his group. He added the usual anti-Semitic remarks. We've got tape. You can all listen.”

“Same call to the feds and to us?” asked Catolino.

“Same caller. Same message. Seemed to be reading it,” said Kearney. “You can judge for yourself. At two of the sites, the one on California and the one in Skokie, bald men were seen leaving the attacked sites. One was definitely identified as wearing a jacket with Nazi markings. The other was also wearing a leather jacket with markings but the person who saw the possible suspect could not say for sure if there were any Nazi markings.”

“Skinheads,” Tony Munoz sighed. Tony was the youngest person in the room, a cynic at twenty-eight, and a little more reckless than Kearney liked. Tony, whose parents were born in Puerto Rico, was particularly interested in all hate crimes and participated willingly in his own brand of hate directed toward skinheads, neo-Nazis, overboard militias, the Klan, anti-Semitic groups, terrorists and, above all, anti-Hispanics. It was suspected that Tony, who had a nice wife and a two-year-old boy, had shot and killed a Nazi during a confrontation following a demonstration. Nothing was ever proved. Nothing was ever charged. Tony's weapon had been checked and proved to be clean, but many cops, especially ones like Tony, also carried an untraceable weapon they could throw away or put into the hand of a dead or half-dead suspect.

Kearney wrote the name of each defiled temple on the white board. He wrote in red. The marker squeaked. Lieberman was surprised that Kearney spelled each one correctly. At the right of the board, he wrote: “Call from supposed perp. Claims responsibility. Racist reasoning.”

Below this, in the center of the board, he wrote: “Possible sightings of skinhead at two locations. Sighting at one location of a young woman; white; long, dark hair. Witness says she may be able to identify the woman.”

“There was also an early a.m. shooting of a suspected Arab terrorist which may be connected,” said Kearney. Kearney turned to see what effect the last item would have on his squad.

“Who?” asked Lieberman.

“Howard Ramu,” said Kearney without referring to his notes. “Cheesed in his apartment in Hyde Park. A part-time student at the University of Chicago and a member of a radical Arab group on campus, the Arab Student Response Committee. The killer or killers used automatic weapons. They killed Ramu and his two Arab roommates, neither of whom appear to have any ties to anti-American or anti-Semitic organizations. They were just in the wrong place.”

“Anything else?” asked Hanrahan.

“Howard Ramu's head was shaved,” said Kearney. “There was a jacket in the front closet with a swastika on it.”

“Skinheads don't let Arabs in,” Munoz said knowingly.

“But Arabs can make themselves look like skinheads,” said Catolino, still looking at the photographs and passing them on.

“Maybe they shaved his head before they killed him,” said Munoz.

“Take too long,” said Buel.

“Forensics says his head had been shaven at least twelve hours earlier,” said Kearney. “It was already growing back.”

“The Torah?” asked Lieberman.

“No sign. Nothing more than the jacket and shaved head and the fact that he was murdered to attach him to the attacks. Killers escaped. No sign but one item that appears to have been left by the killers or fallen from the head or hand of Ramu, a yarmulke, inside of which were the words ‘Temple Mir Shavot.'”

“You think a Jewish radical may have killed Ramu?” asked Lieberman. “The vandals could have taken a dozen yarmulkes from the box at Mir Shavot. It just sits there for people who forget their own or don't own them. But a militant Jew would have his own yarmulke.” Lieberman's dresser drawer was almost full of yarmulkes, ones he had forgotten to return to the box, a blue, one from the Temple Brotherhood, several of many colors from weddings, bar mitzvahs, and one a gift from his granddaughter with his name painted on it in Hebrew.

“What we're supposed to think,” said Kearney, “is that a bunch of skinheads vandalized five Jewish temples and then a radical Jew went after a known Arab activist and gunned him down in his apartment in revenge. It stinks.”

“What now?”

“We set up a task force,” said Kearney. “We work this, even the bad smelling leads, and we keep up with our other cases and whatever new comes through the door. But we do have some help.” He looked at the thin, dark man at the end of the table. “Detective Said, Ibraham Said from downtown,” said Kearney, putting the cap on his marker with a ‘pop.' “Detective Said is … he can speak for himself.”

“Thank you,” said Said, looking around the room at the less than welcoming faces. “Yes, I am an Arab and Muslim. I'm also an American and a specialist in Arab terrorist and hate groups in Chicago. I've been trained by the FBI and have spent time in Iran, Iraq, Syria, the Sudan, and Ethiopia. I speak Arabic and passable Hebrew, have since I was a child. There are Arabs who consider me a traitor and there has been at least one attempt on my life. Most of my friends are Muslims and Americans, far more of them than there are terrorists and fanatics. If you have questions, shoot.”

“He heading the task force?” Hanrahan asked.

“I'm heading the task force,” said Kearney. “It could all blow up. The Commissioner can take it all away from us. Depends on how he can handle the press and public when the six o'clock news figures out the connections and starts making screwy conclusions. The FBI liaison is an agent named Triplett, but my guess is he'll make a token appearance or two for television and leave us alone for a few days. If we don't come up with something, the FBI will take over.”

“Where is he?” asked Munoz. “He know about this meeting?”

Kearney shook his head and said, “Agent Triplett told me that he would check with us to see if we can turn anything up. Triplett worked the Oklahoma City bombing. Meanwhile, he's working on his own with his own leads. We'll put it all together later.”

“When?” asked Munoz.

“When Triplett and the FBI are fucking good and ready to feel like humoring us,” Kearney said, slapping the red marker on the tray at the bottom of the board. “Everybody start checking your sources. If you come up with anything, bring it in, clean or dirty, and pass it on to me. More questions? Good. Go to work.”

Kearney left the room with the door open behind him. The photographs were collected by Lieberman as the squad members filed out one at a time. Munoz and Catolino stayed back when the others left.

“Sorry about what they did to your temple, Lieberman,” said Munoz. “If they did something like that to St. Anne's, I'd … I don't know what I'd do.”

Lieberman nodded and said thanks.

Catolino simply touched his arm and gave a very rare supportive smile before she left. And then all that remained were the white board with red markings, a pile of photographs, an Arab, a Jew, and a Catholic.

“The man who was murdered in Hyde Park was known to me,” said Said, looking at the other two men across the table. “He was not normally bald. I did a preliminary examination of the body. I agree his head had been shaved within the last day.”

“So,” said Lieberman, “you think all this might have been done by an Arab terrorist group, not skinheads, in spite of the call.”

“A good terrorist, an adequate hate monger, takes credit only when it suits his cause,” said Said. “When it does not suit his cause, he blames others, spreading more hate, fear. The goal of Arab terrorists is an ideal state of Arab unity and the death of those who have been their enemies. When they bother to envision a distant future, it is an Arcadia of Islamic perfection, a Utopian state which I have long been convinced is unreachable for any group. I would prefer to be tracking down renegade militias, Nazis rather than Arabs, but I have special qualifications and so …”

“Any ideas?” Lieberman asked.

“Ramu,” said Said, putting his hands together as if he were about to pray. “There is to be a rally in his honor this afternoon at three. The Arab Student Response Committee will meet at the University of Chicago on the quadrangle steps of the Administration Building to swear revenge and probably blame the Jews or the police for Ramu's death. They have already circulated leaflets, put up signs, and called those who would not normally be part of their folly. There will be more of them than usual, the active members are few. I will be there. I believe that as a group the Arab Student Response Committee might well vandalize a house of worship and carry on marches and rallies, but they are not killers.”

“We'll all be at the rally,” said Lieberman.

Said held up his hands in acceptance and went on, “A photographer would be helpful. There will probably be several news photographers and television crews. We may get a photograph of the dark-haired girl or another pseudo-skinhead wearing a wig. They have already called the media to alert them to the meeting and the murder of one of their members. There will be a crowd.”

“You're sure?” asked Hanrahan.

“I'm sure,” said Said. “A little more than a decade ago I was a graduate student and a member of the Arab Student Response Committee. Actually, I was one of its founders. Militancy diminished our number. I was one of the first to leave. Many others followed. One who stayed with uncertainty keeps me informed.”

“You'll be recognized,” Lieberman said.

Said was smiling. “Those who walked away are still my friends. Those who stayed have all graduated, gone home, changed their minds. This is a new group, a far more dangerous group, but not killers.”

“Lunch?” asked Hanrahan, getting up.

“Yes,” said Said.

“I know just the place,” said Lieberman.

T
HE MAN WATCHING THE
softball game looked Chinese, at least to Barry Cresswell. The man sat alone on the bench. He wore a raincoat, which made sense considering that morning's rain and the dark sky and distant thunder. What didn't make sense was the man's sunglasses.

Barry almost always stopped to play after school at the softball fields behind the Jewish Community Center on Touhy. His grandparents' house was only a few blocks away and like his grandfather, but unlike his father, softball and baseball were almost the meaning of Life.

There were only six on a side this afternoon. The weather was keeping some of the less committed away, but the die-hards had been known to play with as few as three or four on a side with an infield of mud. With six or less, right field was usually “out.” Hit the ball to right field and you were out even if it was a grounder. With five or less on a side, the batting team had to supply a catcher. The batting team also supplied the umpire. There were no called pitches. You kept getting pitches till you hit one or till you struck out swinging. The umpire called plays on the field.

Barry adjusted his Cubs cap as he stood waiting for the next pitch. All was forgotten. Homework. Bar mitzvah lessons. He watched the pitcher. He watched the ball. Since he batted left-handed, Barry had to be particularly aware of hitting to the opposite field.

He couldn't help himself. He glanced again at the Chinese man who sat, arms folded. Now, Barry was sure that behind those glasses, the man was looking at him.

The ball went by and the pitcher shouted, “What the hell was the matter with that one?”

Barry shrugged apologetically. The pitcher had the ball again and lobbed it toward the plate. It was outside and high, but Barry swung and the ball sailed up and out into left field. Barry dropped his bat and ran for first. His team was shouting at him to go for second. The other team was shouting at the left-fielder to catch the ball. The left-fielder, Jerry, Barry didn't know his last name, tried to keep from falling on the wet grass as he moved under the ball. He had time to think about catching it, too much time. When it came down in his hands, Jerry bobbled the ball. It went into the air in front of him. Jerry lunged, caught it, and fell in a patch of grassy mud.

Barry walked in from the base path and stood at the sideline not looking at the Chinese man. Barry tried to concentrate on the game, cheer on the batter, a fat, slow kid called Mike, though his name was really Meyer. Mike could hit the ball. The muddy outfielder backed up and Barry glanced toward the Chinese man. He was gone. Barry was relieved. He looked to his right to see if the man was still in sight. He was, no more than a foot from Barry. It was like magic.

“Hit straight across,” the man said. “Level. Line drives. Forget the long ball. It will come on its own.”

The man was watching the game. He adjusted his glasses. He had no accent. Barry didn't answer. “You're a Cubs fan?”

Not hard to figure that considering the cap on his head. Barry nodded.

“I like the Sox,” the man said. “Less colorful, but steady. I figure the Sox for the pennant this year. What do you think?”

Mike fouled a ball down the left field line or where a line would have been. The team was urging him to tear the next one.

“Don't know,” Barry said. “I don't want to be rude, but my grandfather told me not to talk to strangers.”

The man nodded.

“Good advice, but your grandfather and I are not strangers. I'm really here to give you a message for him.”