Calumet City (13 page)

But he’s neither. Roland Ganz is a monster.
And the motherfucker is alive
.

EASY, easy does it. But…beating someone to death with a shovel is new—
if
he’s the one who murdered Richey. And that’s not the Roland I know. Knew.

Good, be a cop, not a victim. Solve the crime. Be a cop. A truck passes on the left; a road sign appears just as his trailer clears my fender: "I-394/94, Highway 6, Indiana Border." Homecoming in twenty-one miles. Roland’s cotton underwear. Jim and Tammy Faye. Annabelle’s skeleton hand. My skin flashes hot. If there is a God, she needs to take over once I’m in Calumet City. Patti Black isn’t cop enough to do this one alone.

Sonny Barrett
.

I punch speed dial and he answers. His voice is…comforting, and no one’s more surprised than me.

"Patti?"

"In the flesh." I fake a smile.

"Jesus, P, what the fuck are you into?"

The smile fades and I change hands. "Meaning?"

"You still speak English, right?"

"Glad you missed me."

"No shit, what the fuck’s going on? We had the FBI up our ass all morning. And that was
before
the mayor found one massively fucked-up ASA on his lawn. The G’s sayin’ you’re the prince of darkness."

"Told you."

Sonny shouts at someone, then says to me, "We got bullshit here; the Ayatollah has the ’hood marching everywhere there’s a sidewalk." Sonny shouts another order, then, "I’m your pal, you know that, right?" He doesn’t wait for an answer he doesn’t need. "Meet me at Ricobene’s. We gotta talk."

God, do I want to. I want to say that Roland Ganz is back, but don’t. "Can’t. There’s this thing I—"

"You need to meet me, is what you need to do."

I reach for bricks instead of help and the wall comes together before I can stop it, not so much second nature as my only nature. "Can’t now, I’m on special assignment, but I will. Could you go by my neighbor’s, see that Stella’s okay? She supposed to be feeding the girls."

"Patti—"

"Gotta go." The longer I talk, the more impossible this trip will be to complete. "Tell Cisco, hey, and to back off the nurses. I’ll be in touch. And thanks."

I button off, then hide the phone where I can’t feel it vibrate. False cheer is not my specialty, nor is lying to my friends. Roland Ganz is back. And I warned no one. He has Gwen’s little boy. He tried to burn Gilbert Court and his wife’s body with it. It’s Roland Ganz—Gwen said,
"He wants us all."

I picture Richey gray-black and beaten to death on the lawn, and shiver till my spine pops. Man, all this is so fucking awful it can’t be true. It can’t.

The sign blocking the sun reads: "Calumet City Next Exit."

   In two weeks I’ll be twelve years old. I’m frightened and in a funeral home for the first time. It smells like church, the one my aunt Eilis Black took me to, but this place has hallways and small rooms, and the ceilings are much lower.

The stranger who has ahold of me is from Child Services, a silent woman with a school principal’s frown and hands colder than my mother’s. She has tight lace cuffs and tighter hair and won’t tell me it’s all going to be okay no matter how many times I ask. My parents are here too, in those brown coffin boxes. They burned to death in a car fire they caused, an afternoon DUI that killed them, my only aunt, and the driver of the other car too. No flowers separate my parents from the five empty folding chairs. No one knows or cares that I’m not in those coffins with them.

Twenty-six years ago. Calumet City. And now I’m back.

   The parking lot at Cal City PD is full of blue-and-whites, lots more police cars than a city this size should have. It’s modern too, way different than when I lived here on the streets, after I ran from the foster home into the jungle. Finding this windowless, brown-brick reincarnation took most of the courage and all the dashboard insults I could conjure. I only drove streets I didn’t know—no foster home drive-bys, no Salvation Mission visits, no State Street Sin Strip cruise by the Rondavoo and the Riptide Lounge. Just strange streets and sweat while I broke an ironclad promise that until now has saved me from drowning in an ocean of madness.

At the door, I add every ounce of cop game face I own. Be a cop not a victim.

Inside, Cal City PD is as faceless-modern as the outside and that helps. The second man who talks to me is a detective who has the Black Monday murder file and a message from my employer. "Call the superintendent’s office." He floats thick eyebrows like he has some idea that I’m in trouble. I notice a business card on a table next to the table he points me to. "FBI" is prominent on the card. No need to pick it up to know that it once belonged to Special Agent Stone.

Detective Barnes says, "All of a sudden half of Illinois is hopped up over this?" and folds his arms over an evidence box like he’s hatching it. I don’t smell whiskey breath, but I’d bet my pension on it. He radiates Aqua Velva or Old Spice mixed with the Dutch Masters panatelas in his pocket and adds, "Been eighteen years. Don’t see why we should give a shit now." Obviously Cal City PD is unaware that former foster child Richard Rhodes was found dead minutes ago.

"They pay me, Detective; tell me to go here—I go; go there—I go there. Same shit, different day."

"
Hear
that."

He’s white, but
down, Jim,
like Sonny when he’s joking. Both arms stay folded on the box, his eyes stay on my chest. "I get off in an hour; be happy to run you by the scene, maybe catch a beer up to the Hollywood, show you around some."

I’m happy to think "cracker" instead of about the box, but Florida’s TV ads are too refined for Detective Barnes. "Thanks. Quicker I get to it, the better chance we have of you not working overtime." He gets the best trailer-park smile I can remember.

"My pleasure, Officer Black," and he slides the box to me greased with a wink and a toothpick leaving his lips. The box is just legal-size cardboard to him. And unless he’s made a career of the 1987 case, successfully breaking a number of Illinois laws, he has no idea what it means to me, what it may cause when I open it. He stares while I examine the outside. It’s hard to imagine that hell could fit in a box.

I feel Detective Barnes and his eyes lingering. Maybe he does know something. Or maybe he’s wagging his dick for my benefit. I pretend my phone vibrates and answer. "Patti Black. Yes, sir. No, sir." I shrug at Detective Barnes and show him the phone. "Could you give me a minute? It’s the superintendent, sorry."

He nods and uses the table to help himself up. "Yell when you’re ready."

The door opens and closes behind me. I’m alone with the box. I screw on my game face so tight my lips peel. Numbness creeps into half my left hand when it removes the box’s lid. Chief Jesse wants any and all information that might tie him, CPD, the mayor’s wife, Richard Rhodes, or Danny del Pasco to this 1987 murder. Chief Jesse is worried about political smear; I’m worried about…everything.

Deep breath: Think of it as folders, edges of pages, and evidence bags. My right hand pulls a folder, dog-eared and manila, the first one. It’s a contents-and-inventory list smudged with brown, just a sheet of paper, the keys to the kingdom, as it were. My eyes don’t want to focus but they do.

The list says File #1 is the General Offense Report—that would be the beat car, the first cops on the scene. It has a checkmark and would contain the "canvass" interviews of the neighborhood. File #2 is the Arrest Report; it has no checkmark. File #3 is the Homicide dicks’ report; it has several checks and makes me glance at the box. File #4—a thick one—is the transcribed interview of the one unnamed foster child found hiding in a garage a block away. Has to be Richey. File #5 is the M.E.’s Report. File #7 contains the photographs of the house. File #9 contains photographs of the crime scene.

Files #10 through 15 are evidence bags. This would be clothing or crime scene articles depicted in the photographs. If it was a head wound, the hat will be here; a chest wound, then it’s the shirt.

I’m sweating now and cold. My left hand pulls File #3—the detectives’ report. Closed on the table the folder doesn’t seem that frightening. After two minutes, I open it. It’s written in police speak, absent any colorful description, a style akin to reading gray type on gray paper. The pages are typewriter typed, the info boxes filled in slightly out of center like the paper went in late or early. The date is half in, half out: October 19.

My son’s birthday. October 19, 1987—four years to the day after he was born.

I grab the table.
Read it. Another boy’s life is at stake. One you can save.
I steady by staring at the wall. Having a child is as hard as they say, giving him away is far, far worse. Living with the decision makes the first two seem easy.

The second line of the report mentions the significance of the date: the
Wall Street Journal
dubbed October 19, 1987, "Black Monday." The stock market fell 508 points, 22.9 percent, double the crash in 1929.

Tracy said that too, but I don’t have 1987 memories, don’t want to remember.

The report mentions the next-door neighbor’s call to Cal City PD, then dispatch’s call to the detective, then gives the address and time of day, and the detective’s approach to the scene. It lists their names and begins to lull me with the dull rhythm—I’ve written and read a million of these. The weather, the house exterior, the well-kept lawn, the condition of the door…all bland, but not enough to be benign. I remember the house.

I remember the oak leaves on the lawn, once green like the gabled roof’s asphalt shingles, now the leaves would be brown, dead, and shriveled. The mottled red bricks, and an attic with one dormer window. It had curtains, thick ones tacked top and bottom; the sun and moon and streetlights only glowed at the edges. I don’t have to read the report to know about the garage or the fenced backyard, or the basement.

I remember the basement. I’m glad I haven’t eaten today and remember what we ate. And I’m doing great not crying or screaming. I’m doing great, remembering…I remember the carpet. What it smelled like, how it tasted. How Roland tasted.

I drop the page and cover my face with both hands. Try to breathe, be a cop, someone he didn’t conquer, someone who will see this through to the second page—the door behind me pops and I look. It’s a uniform who says, "Sorry," and closes the door.

Back to the page—it’s stiff-armed now. And the house. This Homicide detective is describing the crime scene; this part’s easy because it’s not part of my life. He moves on to the victim:

VICTIM:
Unknown M/W, 35–45 yrs., 5’8"–5’11", 145–175 lbs., brown eyes, brown hair, no distinguishing marks, scars or tattoos noted. The victim was clad in a pair of black-colored rubber panties. No other clothing was on the victim. A quantity of what appears to be lipstick was applied in an irregular pattern around the victim’s lips and what appears to be a cosmetic makeup was applied to the entire face.
INJURIES:
1) Victim sustained a single GSW to the upper right chest (Embedded) (Fatal) Tattooing and powder burns were noted around the entrance wound.
2) Trauma was noted to the groin area, cause or origin unknown as of this writing. A baseball bat was recovered six feet northeast of the body and submitted to the crime lab for analysis.

The report moves through the rest of the house and carries me with it.

The deceased was lying on the dining room floor, approximately 15 feet southeast of the basement stairway with his head facing northeast and his feet facing southwest. The body was encircled by a white powdery detergent-like substance in a heart-like pattern. There were four piles approximately three feet to the left of the body also made from a powdery detergent-like substance. Two feet north of the four piles was an empty box of Tide.
There were no apparent signs of a struggle.
A tickertape and 1929 stock certificate collection cut up into confetti-sized pieces littered the 1st floor. In the kitchen, the cabinets are divided into shelves. Under one shelf is the name "Gwen" printed on a piece of masking tape and under another shelf is the name "Richard," also printed on a piece of masking tape. There is cat and dog food on these shelves. No pets were on the premises. Further inspection of the premises failed to reveal the presence of any items associated with pets such as bowls, collars, leads, etc.
There were no items of clothing recovered from the closet in the largest bedroom located on south end of the 1st floor, designated as Bedroom #1 in the diagram of the scene. Two dressers were located on the south wall. All drawers were empty.
There are two bedrooms located on the second floor of the home. The first bedroom is located at the top of the stairs and will hereinafter be referred to as Bedroom #2. It has no door. The floor is wood. The single window on the north wall has heavy curtains. There are seventeen framed religious pictures, each measuring 11 x 14, hanging on the walls: five on the east wall, five on the west wall, five on the north wall and two on the south wall where the entrance door and a closet are located. An inspection of the closet revealed boy’s clothing, slacks hung on hangers were all on the left side of the closet and boy’s shirts were all hung on hangers on the right side of the closet. A single dormitory-style bed is located against the west wall. There is a wooden desk-dresser against the south wall with a baseball glove on top of the desk. No other items were noted in the room.

The report continues to Bedroom #3 saying it has no door and is a repeat of Bedroom #2 except for:

An inspection of the closet revealed girl’s clothing. A single dress lying on the floor. A dormitory-style bed is located against the north wall and a wooden desk-dresser is situated at the south wall. The mirror above the dresser has what appears to be smudged "kisses" on it, made with what appears to be lipstick, either made by pressing one’s lips against the mirror or possibly hand drawn.
Page 3 of the report goes to the attic, I don’t want to read that and don’t. Page 4 goes to the basement. I don’t want to read that either. I know what’s in the basement.
I pull the M.E.’s report. Cause of death is the gunshot wound. Time: approximately 4:00 p.m. The groin was smashed postmortem, either by the repeated stomps of a heavy boot or by the baseball bat found at the scene. The victim’s box in the M.E.’s Report is somewhat of a shock:
ROLAND A. GANZ.