Authors: Thomas Laird
‘We get too many people on the pile, somebody gets crushed,’ Doc said.
‘Let’s not make this political, Doctor,’ I told him.
‘I’m not. I just don’t want this to become the circus it can become when the United States Government gets its incompetent little feet in our sandbox.’
As I said, Doc and I both were not fans of the Fibbies.
‘They got the resources. We really can’t say no at this point, can we?’ Jack suddenly remarked.
Doc pointed to the junior partner.
‘Listen to the yuppie. He knows how to adapt.’
‘I’m just saying, Doc, that if we want to go through the Outfit, we’re going to need help. Expensive help.’
‘I’ll go along with the youngster.’ Doc finally smiled. ‘We’re not getting to shore on our own, are we?’
Egos. Politics. Gamesmanship. It was part of the trade, although few of us in the department wanted to admit it. No one wanted to ask for help. Sometimes it just came up to you and sat on your lap until you were finally forced to accept that there was this two-ton fucking ape sitting on you. And the FBI was that four-thousand-pound primate.
*
‘He doesn’t do it for the money,’ Dr Adamson told the four of us. It was Doc and me and Jack and Terry Morrissey in attendance, here at the FBI headquarters in the Loop.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘My cousin told me that he was coerced into the family business because he became involved with Fortuna’s sister. But it didn’t take any force to make him go along with what the business involves. I’ve tried to figure this guy by the woman he’s with. I’ve tried to tie him to his military record. And what I come up with is that he is particular about his victims. I don’t think his employers care much about the physical appearance of the victims; they just want saleable product. It’s The Farmer who makes the on-site choices. That’s his end of the operation. The Outfit sells the organs on the Internet. We haven’t been able to find their new listing after we lost the girl on that surveillance.’
‘I’d agree with your tactics, Lieutenant. Especially when it comes to finding out what provokes such rage at his targets. He fits the traditional serial profile, so we don’t have an argument about his color, his age, or his general physical appearance. I think you need to go after what it was that made him enraged with this type of female he’s pursuing. I’d guess that the original subject is either dead or is, to him, untouchable. Meaning that the trigger of his anger is beyond his reach, and unfortunately it also means that he can never satisfy his desire to strike at her. He’ll do it repeatedly and I don’t think his lust is going to be sated unless all of you stop him. So I’m saying you’re headed in the right direction if you get at the backgrounds of your three principal suspects.’
Adamson was the guy who wrote all the books. There have been a half-dozen movies that have fictionalized him as a character in the films. He has appeared on all the cable shows and the mainstream talk shows. I found him to be less self-important than I thought he’d be. He was direct and succinct, and we were out of his office in less than forty-five minutes.
Morrissey stopped me and my two partners in the hallway outside Adamson’s cubicle.
‘We’re putting out the nets for Fortuna. We’re going full-tech after him. Everything that can hold a wire will. If we need to use a satellite, it’s been okayed. The Farmer has hit the big leagues. I don’t know if he’d be likely to celebrate his new status.’
Morrissey smiled and walked down the hall, away from the three of us.
We eliminated Caroline Keady. She was Lake Forest. Her parents were legitimate. She was off the list.
Janice Ripley had no Sicilian in her background. She came from good WASP stock, just like Keady.
We got nowhere, at first, with Ellen Jacoby. Until we looked at the marriage record. Jacob Jacoby was the first husband. It lasted eighteen months. Then he disappeared and we found, also, that Ellen Jacoby’s maiden name was Fortuna — just like her brother’s last name. John Fortuna.
*
We were waiting for them to arrive at their North Side apartment. Another stakeout, another night of late-evening jazz for the Doctor. He was plugged in. He sat in the front seat on the passenger’s side. Jack Wendkos was parked a half-block down with Jimmy Johansen, another Homicide guy.
It was two a.m. We were getting stiff and weary. I was wondering if Karrios was going to show up with his partner. She was his way into the Outfit. He knocked up a sister of John Fortuna. Jackie Morocco explained his dissatisfaction with the way Karrios terminated Little Sister’s pregnancy, and so Marco Karrios took his lunch pail to Fortuna’s workplace every day thereafter.
Changing her first name slowed us down, as well. Apparently she chose ‘Ellen’ because of a favorite aunt. We found all this out from my cousin Billy when we told him her new name.
It crept toward two-thirty, and still no one was home. It got more and more likely that these two weren’t returning tonight. Which made me wonder if they’d got wind that we were onto them. How they’d found out about us was beyond me, but the CPD had paid informants inside it, just as any big-city police force does. It infuriated me to think we were not secure, but I’d been down this road before, and so had my partner.
‘These two wolves have sniffed us out, Jimmy P. They’re headed for the woods,’ Doc said after he removed his earphones.
‘It feels that way, doesn’t it? How could they’ve made us this fast? We just popped Fortuna’s sister yesterday afternoon.’
‘When you call up as much manpower as we have for tonight’s joint punitive action, Jimmy, people sit up and pay attention.’
‘We got moles in our holes.’
‘Yeah. We both knew that. Unfortunately somebody’s nose is attached to a Fortuna asshole ... You want to stay here until dawn?’
‘We might as well. This is probably going to be the quietest hood in the city tonight.’
Doc plugged back into his bebop, and I turned my attention to the middle apartment our two killers were supposed to be infesting.
I
wal
k
i
n
fro
m
th
e
cornfiel
d.I
clos
e
th
e
doo
r
slowl
y
behin
d
mysel
f
Elle
n
i
s
stil
l
i
n
th
e
bathroo
m,
takin
g
on
e
o
f
he
r
fort
y-
fiv
e-
minut
e
ho
t
shower
s.
Sh
e
tell
s
m
e
the
y
ar
e
therapeuti
c,
bu
t
I
repl
y
tha
t
I
don’
t
understan
d
th
e
meanin
g
o
f‘
therapeutic
’.
Sh
e
groan
s
whe
n
sh
e
think
s
I’
m
bein
g
difficul
t
.
S
o
Bill
y
Cheec
h
ha
s
pu
t
the
m
ont
o
u
s.
Th
e
co
p
Paris
i
i
s
thi
s
hal
f-
wit’
s
cousi
n,
an
d
Cicci
o
ha
s
pointe
d
the
m
i
n
ou
r
directio
n.
Joh
n
Fortun
a
hear
s
they’r
e
abou
t
t
o
clam
p
u
s,
an
d
w
e
escap
e
b
y
th
e
hair
s
o
n
ou
r
asse
s.
W
e
misse
d
the
m
b
y
abou
t
si
x
hour
s.
Ver
y
clos
e
.
Bu
t
no
w
they’v
e
mad
e
m
e.
I’
m
effectivel
y
ou
t
o
f
busines
s.
They’v
e
go
t
m
y
phot
o
circulate
d
o
n
televisio
n,
newspaper
s,
an
d
t
o
ever
y
squa
d
ca
r
i
n
norther
n
Illinoi
s.
I’l
l
eve
n
hav
e
t
o
mov
e
fro
m
m
y
farmhous
e
her
e
becaus
e
th
e
sheriff’
s
polic
e
migh
t
attac
h
m
e
t
o
th
e
rap
e
o
f
tha
t
colleg
e
teache
r.
The
y
ha
d
m
e
hooke
d
int
o
tha
t
crim
e.
Th
e
newspaper
s
connecte
d
he
r
assaul
t
t
o
th
e
killing
s,
s
o
I’
m
no
t
saf
e
wher
e
I
a
m
an
y
longe
r
.
An
d
I’
m
no
t
saf
e
attache
d
t
o
ol
d
acquaintance
s
eithe
r
.
Elle
n
come
s
ou
t
o
f
th
e
bathroo
m
wit
h
onl
y
a
towe
l
wrappe
d
aroun
d
he
r
drippin
g
hai
r
.
‘You’l
l
we
t
th
e
floo
r,’
I
tel
l
he
r
.
‘It’
s
oka
y.
We’r
e
no
t
stayin
g
her
e
muc
h
longe
r,
ar
e
w
e?
’
Sh
e
sit
s
i
n
th
e
chai
r
acros
s
fro
m
m
e,
o
n
th
e
couc
h.
Sh
e
let
s
he
r
knee
s
separat
e
.
I
wal
k
ove
r
t
o
he
r,
an
d
the
n
I
knee
l
betwee
n
he
r
opene
d
knee
s.I
touc
h
he
r
an
d
sh
e
quiver
s
gentl
y.I
ben
d
dow
n
an
d
I
bit
e
he
r
thig
h.I
bit
e
s
o
har
d
tha
t
th
e
bloo
d
rise
s
t
o
th
e
broke
n
fles
h.
Sh
e
slap
s
m
e
.
‘So
n
o
f
a
bitc
h!
Yo
u
don’
t
kno
w
whe
n
t
o
—’
1
sla
p
he
r
bac
k
muc
h
harde
r
tha
n
sh
e
cracke
d
m
e.
He
r
hea
d
flie
s
backwar
d
an
d
th
e
towe
l-
turba
n
come
s
of
f
.
Sh
e
reache
s
u
p
an
d
rub
s
th
e
wel
t
o
n
he
r
chee
k
.
‘Jesu
s
Chris
t,
Marc
o!
Yo
u
fuckin
g
hur
t
m
e!
’
I
ben
d
ove
r
quickl
y
an
d
bit
e
he
r
o
n
th
e
othe
r
thig
h.
Sh
e
squeal
s
i
n
pai
n
an
d
trie
s
t
o
las
h
ou
t
a
t
m
e
agai
n.
Bu
t
I
catc
h
he
r
fis
t
an
d
the
n
I
tur
n
he
r
wris
t
unti
l
she’
s
i
n
mor
e
agon
y
tha
n
th
e
shot
s
t
o
he
r
fac
e
gav
e
he
r
.
‘Please ...’
‘You
r
fuckin
g
famil
y
go
t
u
s
her
e,
Elle
n.
Al
l
thos
e
fuckin
g
guinea
s.
The
y
go
t
n
o
ide
a
ho
w
t
o
kee
p
thei
r
lip
s
tigh
t,
s
o
her
e
w
e
ar
e
tonigh
t.
’