The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (53 page)

His heart felt as if it were playing the drum riff from The Ventures’ “Wipe Out” against his ribcage. His head spun. Every breath he took was shallow and inadequate.

Take it easy. You’re okay. Just breathe.

He tried counting to ten. He pictured the faces of his children. He thought of Linda.

The train slowed and pulled into the Adams Street station.

Berenger then recalled the voice of his army drill instructor, a man he had simultaneously hated and respected during those horrendous weeks at boot camp in 1975.

“Get your ass up and move, soldier! Where do you think you are, Camp Pussy?”

Berenger almost laughed at the memory. And it worked. He found that he was able to stand, take a solid, deep breath, and recharge.

“Are you all right, mister?” the passenger asked him again.

“Yeah.”

The doors opened and this time he was the first person out of the car.

The woman with the floppy hat was already running for the station exit and the stairs leading down to the street. Berenger drew his Kahr, assumed a Weaver stance, and did something crazy. He fired his weapon in the middle of a crowd of innocent bystanders. Everyone screamed and bolted out of his way. Many hit the floor and lay prone, scared to death.

He’d missed. The woman slipped through the turnstile and was already leaping down the stairs, three or four at a time.

“Police officer!” Berenger shouted, hoping it would ease the civilians’ fears. He took off after the shooter, burst through the turnstile, and lumbered down the staircase at a much slower rate than his prey.

He hoped that his gunshot would at least attract the attention of the Chicago PD. If he wasn’t arrested on the spot for firing his handgun in a crowded El station, perhaps they would help him apprehend the suspect.

Suspect, my ass. She’s guilty as hell! I saw the bitch shoot Zach right in front of me
!

Berenger reached the ground and spotted the woman running east across Wabash Avenue. Without thinking, he pursued her and ran right in front of an oncoming taxicab. The vehicle’s tires shrieked and the driver managed to turn the wheel to avoid a full head-on impact. Nevertheless, the left side of the front bumper hit Berenger’s legs. His body flipped up and over the edge of the taxi’s hood, and he landed hard on the wet pavement.

At first he didn’t know if he could move. Burning pain radiated up the outside of his left leg and into his hips. He cursed through clenched teeth and then rolled away from the taxi.

Get up! Get up! She’s getting away!

The angry taxi driver got out of the cab. “What’s the matter wif you, man? You tryin’ to get us killed? Did you fuck up my cab? Huh? Did you?” The man examined the front of the car before bothering to see if Berenger was hurt. The PI forced himself to stand and walk away, crossing to the other side of Wabash. “Come back here, man! You put a dent in my cab!”

The shooter had run east on Adams toward Michigan Avenue. If she merged into the herd of human cattle there, he’d lose her for good. Michigan was one of the busiest streets in Chicago.

Berenger held his left leg with one hand—as if that would ease the pain—and limped as fast as he could. He reached the intersection and was immediately surrounded by swarms of people on the sidewalk. He frantically looked up and down the avenue for a sign of the killer but he couldn’t see her. He hobbled north as he scanned the tops of heads for that distinctive hat. But the bright headlights on the street blinded him and he had to stop just to shake the noise and confusion out of his brain.

Then he saw her.

She was running on the other side of Michigan, past the Art Institute and toward Millennium Park.

Damn her
!
How can that bitch run so fast?

He darted into the traffic, waving his arms. Horns blared at him but drivers stopped to let him cross. Berenger made it safely to the other side and continued his limp-run after the killer.

One thing’s for sure—she’s no goddamned ghost
!

He sprinted past the Crown Fountain, which consisted of two 50-foot glass block towers at each end of a shallow reflecting pool. The towers projected video images from a broad social spectrum of Chicago citizens’ faces. Water flowed through outlets in the screen to give the illusion that it was spouting from their mouths.

Beyond the fountain was the McCormick Tribune Plaza and Ice Rink, backed by the Park Grill Restaurant. Parkgoers were dining al fresco under large umbrellas, despite the rain which had thankfully let up. Berenger was pretty certain the woman hadn’t dashed through the patio—she must have gone deeper into the park, where it was dark.

Behind the restaurant was Cloud Gate, the silver metal sculpture shaped like a gigantic bean. The 110-ton elliptical monument was forged with a seamless series of highly polished stainless steel plates, which reflected the city's famous skyline and the clouds above. A 12-foot-high arch provided a "gate" to the concave chamber beneath the sculpture, inviting visitors to touch its mirror-like surface and see their images reflected back from a variety of perspectives.

The space was surprisingly devoid of parkgoers, the rain having most likely driven them away. Berenger found himself alone, wet, cold, and in pain. And the woman was nowhere in sight. He moved to the impressive metal artwork and put his hand out to lean against it.

The crack of a gunshot split the night air and a bullet hit the sculpture with a resounding
ding
.

Berenger dived for the paved base and lay flat. He then crawled to the shadows beneath the sculpture’s arch and pressed his body against the metal.

The shot had come from the darkness, somewhere west of him. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do now. She had the entire park in which to hide. If he emerged from his cover, she could take another pot shot at him. He might not be as lucky next time.

He pulled out his cell phone and saw that Prescott had tried to reach him three times. The first thing he did was dial 9-1-1. He then returned his partner’s call.

“Spike! Where the hell are you?”

“Millennium Park. I already called nine one one. I think I’m just gonna lie here and wait for the cavalry.”

“I’m on my way. Where exactly are you?”

“Under that silver bean thing.”

“Are you all right?”

He groaned. “I’ve been better. I lost her. Damn it, Suzanne, I lost her!”

“Spike.”

“What?”

He winced, for he knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“We lost Zach, too, Spike. He’s dead.”

T
he day after Zach Garriott’s murder, the Chicago Musician Shootings, as the press had dubbed it, had become a heater case. The previous killings had been more or less ignored by the media on a national basis, whereas the death of superstar guitarist Zach Garriott was international news. He may not have been as famous as someone like John Lennon, but the incident was just as notorious as the 2004 onstage slaying of Pantera’s “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott.

Berenger was told to attend a meeting at Area Five Detective Headquarters. Chicago was split into five detective Areas; each Area contained five Districts. The shootings of Charles Nance, Dave Monaco, and Hank Palmer all took place in the Fourteenth District, which was under the jurisdiction of Area Five. Garriott’s murder took place in the First District, which was a part of Area Four. Since the Area Five detectives had already begun the investigation—and it was now acknowledged that the incidents were related—the Area Four Commander had gladly handed over the case to Area Five.

The building was located on Grand Avenue and Central. It was also the headquarters for the Twenty-Fifth District, which wasn’t involved in the investigation. Berenger brought Prescott with him, even though she wasn’t ordered to attend.

The Rockin’ Security team only had three hours of sleep. Once the police had arrived at Millennium Park, Berenger was taken to the First District at 18
^th
Street and South State. He had refused to go to a hospital to be checked out, despite Prescott’s badgering that he do so. For four hours, he had told and retold the story. He described the events of what had happened at Reggie’s, on the El trains, and in Millennium Park
ad nauseum
. He provided the best description that he could of the female shooter. At five o’clock in the morning, he and Prescott were released. His Kahr was confiscated temporarily because it was standard operating procedure that all weapons fired illegally be taken. Berenger was promised that he’d get the gun back at the Task Force meeting. He and Prescott had gone straight to the Drake Hotel and crashed for what little time they had before having to be at Area Five HQ.

An officer escorted Berenger and Prescott to the conference room on the building’s second floor. Mike Case was already seated, as were a number of other police officers and detectives. Sergeant D. B. Doherty, the head detective in the investigation, gave them a curt nod. Apparently he hadn’t had much sleep either. A female officer pointed at the coffee, which was dispensed from a cafeteria-style pot with a spigot. Berenger pounced on as if it were the Fountain of Youth.

After pouring a couple of cups, they sat next to Case, who whispered to Berenger, “You look surprisingly awake.”

“I feel like one of those potholes you have on State Street.”

“I noticed you limping. How’s the leg? I heard you were hit by a taxi?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. The guy was in the process of braking.” He snorted wryly. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, you could’ve been shot to death.”

“There’s that, yeah. Mainly my entire body is one big sore muscle. Don’t touch me or I’ll yelp like a wounded puppy.”

Prescott whispered back, “The fifteen minutes a day of treadmill walking isn’t enough to keep you in shape, Spike. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Yes, ma.” To Case—“She’s pissed off because she didn’t get to meditate this morning.”

Before Prescott could deliver a retort, Doherty stood and spoke in a hoarse, but commanding, voice. “All right, listen up. Let’s get started.” He looked at Berenger and said, “First of all, what the
hell
do you think you’re doing,
Mister
Spike Berenger, firing a weapon in a crowded El station?”

Christ, didn’t we go over this last night?
Berenger thought.
The guy just wants to dress me down in front of the Task Force.

Berenger stood, fighting the ache that dribbled down his leg. “I explained all that in my statement, sir. It was a judgment call. If it was the wrong call, then I apologize.” Berenger nodded to the rest of the people in the room and then sat.

Doherty hadn’t expected such acquiescence. Nevertheless, he couldn’t let it go. “You’re not one of us, Berenger. You’re a goddamned private
dick
from New York City. You’re not a police officer and you falsely identified yourself as one. I should have you arrested and spanked! You just better be damned thankful that your private investigator licenses are in order. Oh, but I’m afraid your handgun is still being
processed
so I can’t let you have it back just yet. After the Task Force meeting, you’ll fill out some paperwork. I know you have a license to carry it in Illinois, but you don’t have the Superintendent’s permission. He’s got to okay it from now on. Now, I normally wouldn’t allow you to attend a meeting like this, but since you’re the only one in the room that’s actually
seen
our offender, and since you are unfortunately already heavily involved in this case, then we welcome you with goddamned open arms.”

“Thank you, sir.” Berenger grinned and fluttered his eyelids.

“Are you giving me shit?”

“Sir?”

“You were giving me shit!”

“I said ‘thank you, sir.’ Sir.”

Prescott nudged him with her knee—
Cut it out!

“You made funny eyes at me.”

“Sir?”

“Are you deaf, Berenger? You made a stupid face.”

“I didn’t mean to, sir. I’m in a lot of pain this morning.”