Authors: Vanessa Skye
“You’re going to what, Tony?” Leigh asked, looking bored. “Tell your superiors you were outmaneuvered by a mere woman? Tell them that you were so busy with your election campaign that you didn’t do your due diligence before talking to the media? Tell them you were so dogged in your pursuit of a sound bite that you falsely charged one of your own female detectives for a crime any six-year-old could see she didn’t commit?” Leigh smirked.
Consiglio sat down so abruptly he almost missed the chair.
“And how will you explain the database mistakes? And the constant media leaks? You clearly can’t even control a single precinct.” Leigh paused. “Did you really think I was going to let you steal what I have worked so hard for, you misogynistic
pig
? Did you really think I was going to let you continue to come in here and tell me how to do the job I spent twenty years working my ass off to get?”
“I’m not going without a fight! I’ll tell everyone what you are!” Consiglio yelled.
“And what am I that offends you so much? A woman? Don’t you see? The more you point the finger at me, the more you prove what I’m saying is right. So go for it.” She picked up her desk phone and held it out to him. “Call up your boys and tell them that I refused to be controlled by you. I guess you could always beg the board to save your job. Except it’s my job now. I signed the contract today.” Leigh laughed as Consiglio aged ten years before her eyes. She put down the phone when he made no move toward it.
“You haven’t heard the last from me, Leigh.” But his voice was much quieter now.
“Come, come.” Leigh stood and clapped the now visibly shrunken man on the back. “The media’s waiting for your swan song.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Berg’s kicks squeaked on the floor as she walked up the hospice hall, back toward the front desk in search of the fountain. Someone had made a halfhearted effort at festivity, hanging old and dusty Christmas decorations sporadically, but if anything, they made the hospice even drearier.
Mary had inherited her husband’s money after his death, which Berg, as her only child and power of attorney, was now using to pay for Mary’s upkeep in the hospice. She was happy to do so. She didn’t want a cent of it when her mother died.
Not thirsty, but drinking from the old, stainless steel fountain anyway, she took her time, delaying the inevitable journey back to the room filled with painful memories.
“Well, hi there, Miss Raymond,” said a cheery voice from behind her.
Berg stood and wiped her mouth to greet her mother’s longtime caregiver, Helen Zameski. Despite her age, which Berg estimated at being up around eighty, the nurse was a robust woman with rosy cheeks and ice blue eyes, who still tucked her salt and pepper hair under a traditional white peaked cap.
Berg sighed. “Hi, Helen.”
Helen looked at Berg, sympathy etched on her features. As Mary’s nurse, she had been exposed to Berg’s shame, thanks to her mother’s snide, one-sided recollections.
Berg often thought that Helen was, in fact, the only one who had even a slight picture of her painful upbringing.
She patted Berg’s arm as they walked back to Mary’s room. “There, there now. Your mother loves you,” Helen said, patting her back.
Berg laughed bitterly, the sound coming out like a bark. “Really? I wonder what she’s like when she hates someone, then.”
Helen clucked. “The mistakes of our parents are not our fault. They are only human, after all, and did the best they were capable of. Don’t take it personally. All you can do is live your life and put the past where it belongs—in the past.”
Berg nodded robotically as they reentered Mary’s room.
Easier said than done
.
“And how are you, Mrs. Raymond?” Helen asked as she walked over to the still-seated, vacant woman.
Mary smiled, her nurse was a familiar face, even if she couldn’t quite place it.
“Let’s get you changed, shall we?” Helen helped Mary off the seat and toward the bathroom. “When we get back we’ll watch a bit of
Days of Our Lives
.” Helen chuckled. “Lucas shot E.J. Can you believe it . . .” Her voice faded as she and Mary disappeared into the bathroom.
Berg laughed to herself. Helen just loved her soap operas. But she didn’t mind watching the odd rerun when she came to visit. She was just grateful Helen was the one to change her mom’s diapers, because there was no way she would.
Berg sat back down and flicked on the television bolted to the wall near the bed. Surfing the channels, she settled on what looked like the one Helen was after: beautiful actors caught in a fashion time warp stared at each other vacantly in between scenes strewn with exaggerated emotion.
Not paying attention to the make-believe drama, she gazed out the window, lost in her own real-life dramas.
Jay.
A stab of desire accompanied the stray thought of her partner.
Her need for him was quickly interrupted by a familiar voice on the television. Consiglio’s arrogant phrasing and clipped syllables dragged her back into the present.
Consiglio was holding a press conference, his favorite pastime, outside the station about the latest murder. Except this time, he looked distinctly uncomfortable in front of the cameras, fidgeting and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“We believe this latest trucker murder is not related to the murders of the motorist, Melissa, or the rapist at this time,” Consiglio said, flanked by an obviously awkward captain.
Stella, microphone in hand, interrupted him. “Can you seriously tell us, given the new hitchhiker link, that all these recent murders are unrelated?” the reporter asked, vocalizing what the entire rest of the city was thinking. “Four truck drivers, Melissa Shipper, and two other male motorists have now been violently murdered within three months of each other. What is the CPD doing to stop this serial killer? Is the FBI going to be called in to assist the CPD?”
Consiglio paused.
Stella thrust the microphone in the chief’s face, eager for a sound bite. “Or is the city’s chief of detectives only interested in pleasing his political advisors and keeping the community in the dark to further his own career?”
You get him Stella.
Strangely, Berg noticed Consiglio glare at Captain Leigh before continuing. “It is now clear, thanks to new evidence, that the trucker murders were, in fact, the result of a
spree
killer,” Consiglio said. “We believe the victims were targeted specifically and were known to the killer, and that the danger period is now over. Chicago has nothing to fear.”
“What about the other murders?” Stella asked.
“As I said before, there is no firm evidence linking the other murders with the trucker crimes—”
“That is not what I hear. I have also heard that your DNA database has been compromised, possibly resulting in convicted, violent offenders being given the right to appeal. What do you have to say about this?” Stella asked.
Consiglio was momentarily speechless. “I . . . I have no comment on that. Remember, under my care, Chicago’s crime rate has dropped sharply and will continue to do so when I am elected alderman . . .”
Disgusted, Berg dragged her attention back to her mother, who was freshly changed and making her way back to her favorite recliner with the help of Helen, who was still chattering.
“And it looks like Sami is falling in love with him, even after he raped her,” Helen explained to Mary, who nodded, seemingly amazed.
Once settled, Mary resumed her blank stare out the window, ignoring the television that was still focused on Consiglio.
“Terrible thing, rape. I once saw what rape did to a woman, a few decades ago now. She was so badly hurt. He’d even burnt her with cigarettes, stabbed, and beaten her. Never forgot it,” Helen muttered to Mary as the press conference came to a close.
Berg forced herself to stay until her mother was sleeping the peaceful slumber of the heavily medicated before creeping out of the room and down the quiet corridor.
It was past eleven, and Berg headed out to her car, intent on heading home and trying to get some sleep.
Her heart raced at the thought, her beautiful white bed had become a place to dread.
At that moment, her cell shrilled, causing her to jump at the sudden noise. The caller ID showed the number was blocked. “What?” she barked into it, irritated.
“Is this Detective Raymond?” a withered voice asked.
“Who’s asking?” Berg asked, still walking.
“Name’s Eddie,” the voice replied. “Vets Unified said you were looking for someone who’d served in ’Nam with Shipper and Hamilton?”
“Yes,” Berg said, her heart rate picking up with excitement. “You knew them?”
“Yes.” He sounded unsure again.
“Can you tell me if they knew each other? If they were friends?”
“This is for a crime, right? That’s what the president of the Vets Against War said,” Eddie said, seeking reassurance. “ ’Cause I don’t like to talk about fellow vets unless there’s a real good reason. Gotta stick together when we’ve been through what we have.”
“I understand, but this is really important, Eddie. The CPD would be very grateful; people are dying here.”
Silence.
“Yeah, I heard about those trucker killings, yeah, they were friends. Hamilton was the only guy that would give Shipper the time of day. Shipper was a total whack job, and most of us avoided him. But Hamilton, he was a nice guy and musta felt sorry for Shipper or something. Used to follow him around like a puppy. You ask me, those killings you got there sure sound like Shipper’s work. He loved the torture . . .”
Berg felt her dread returning, and she stopped dead outside the glass doors of the hospice, trying to absorb Eddie’s words.
“This was the Hamilton who was shot in the leg and sent home?” she asked, hoping for a mistake in identity.
“Shot? Nah.” Eddie coughed with suppressed laughter.
Berg felt her dread ease. He was evidently mixing Hamilton up with someone else.
“Shipper stabbed Hamilton in the leg with his hunting knife one day out of nowhere. Says Hamilton didn’t carry out his orders. The rest of us called it a love bite. Shipper was court-martialed, and Hamilton was given a medical, lucky SOB.”
Berg swallowed back her rising nausea. “Thanks, Eddie,” she said. “What’s your last name and where can I reach you in case I have more—”
But Eddie had already hung up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She scrolled through her call log and pressed redial.
Hamilton knew what would happen if he lied to us again
. She dialed Hamilton’s home number and waited as it rang. She cursed as his machine kicked in. Killing the call, she dialed the number again. Nothing. Now in a fully fledged panic, she dialed his cell, voice mail answering after four rings.
“Fuck!” She ran to her car parked in the now deserted lot.
Gunning the engine, she sped south to Hamilton’s house, the trip only taking thirty minutes thanks to the light evening traffic.
Berg jumped up the front steps two at a time, drew her gun, and hammered on the door with a clenched fist. Shrouded in darkness, the house was silent and deserted. She banged on the door again, knowing it was futile. Hamilton had run.
I had both of the killers and let them go.
Sighing at her own stupidity, Berg stowed her weapon and dialed Jay. His voice mail kicked in and she left a message explaining the situation. She stumbled down the steps to her car. Switching on the engine and the much-needed heat, she used her cell once more.
In what she felt was one of the lowest points of her career, Berg put out an all points bulletin on her friend and fellow officer, Tony Hamilton.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Very early the next morning, Berg sat at her kitchen table, sipping her coffee while wondering if there was a way she could somehow intravenously introduce caffeine directly into her bloodstream and bypass her nauseated stomach. She wasn’t sure if the nausea was from lack of sleep or Hamilton’s disappearance, but the bitter brew churned evilly in her body.
She had been unable to sleep for most of the night, thoughts flying through her head like a flock of pterodactyls, until she felt like she might go insane and wind up in the same hospice as her mother. She had never been a good sleeper, and often felt like kicking those lucky people who could fall asleep anywhere, anytime.
But lately, the nights she lay awake, heart pounding for no reason, outnumbered the nights of sleep. Now the days felt like she was trying to operate an aircraft in increasingly thick fog.