Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (26 page)

“We know it was other kids?” I ask, bile rising in my throat.

“Yeah. We got three witnesses. We’ve got ‘em inside the church for now,” he says, pointing to an art deco structure that is still impressive even if it has seen better days.

The front steps have been patched but are crumbling. Street level windows are protected with wrought iron grills that are rusted where the bolts attach to the building. The front is dark gray with black streaks from years of smog and dirt. It probably hasn’t been sandblasted in twenty years. Heck, maybe never. It probably used to be almost white.

The twisted wreck of a cheap bicycle is sprawled by the front door. An EMT van is parked in the middle of the street. A small array of medical techies have formed a circle and are working like ants carrying crumbs to the opening of an ant hill.

If the witnesses are right, kids beat a kid and left him for dead in front of Peace Lutheran Church. I’m too numb to let myself speak of the irony of the situation, even inside my head.

The three of us walk over to the hub of activity. O’Donnell nods at another uniformed officer who steps forward. I know him. Chuck Gibson. He’s got to be around sixty, about the same age my dad would be if he were alive. Gibson worked the Gigi Baker murder when I was on the Cutter Shark case.

“Hey, Conner,” he says. “And—”

“Squires. Don Squires,” my partner says, holding out a paw for a handshake.

“You’se two wanna take a look I suppose,” Gibson says.

“Doesn’t sound like we want to,” Don says, “but yeah, we better take a look.”

Gibson pushes back a sawhorse barricade and we enter the inner sanctum.

“Hey, make some room and let the detectives have a look,” he shouts.

Three techies are conferring next to the body that is covered by a weather tarp. They look to be comparing notes scribbled on clipboards. A white-haired gentleman nods to the youngest who turns to us and gives a hand motion for us to come closer. He doesn’t say anything, just kneels down beside the body and draws back the tarp.

Oh, dear God.

His head is turned at an awkward angle that can only mean his neck was broken. What once might have been a handsome face or an ugly face or a sweet face is bloody purple pulp. His shirt has been cut away. His arms and chest have been savagely kicked as well. One of his ribs pokes from the skin on his side.

“What do we need to hear that we aren’t going to read in the reports?” Don asks.

His voice is strained. His eyes have misted over. He might be fighting back tears. Don has a son. I think Devon is nine or ten. Close enough in age to make the broken body in front of us even more visceral.

The young man straightens up and looks at the white-haired gentleman.

“I’m Lou Fazzoli with the Medical Examiner’s office,” the older man says. “This is my assistant, Kenny Smith, and April Collins is interning with us from UICCC.”

“Kristen Conner,” I say with a nod.

“Don Squires.” Ditto on the nod.

April Collins looks like a Goth holdover. She might have been a Marilyn Manson fan—she kind of looks like him. Jet-black hair. Black nails. Tongue stud. A green dragon tattoo is climbing out of her black shirt and onto her neck. She is pale white. No sun for her. Why do I suspect she read the Stieg Larsson novels or at least saw the movie?

She’ll have a hard time getting hired by CPD without a makeover, I think to myself, but there I am being judgmental again.

“You two worked the Cutter Shark case, didn’t you?” Fazzoli says.

“KC was the hero,” Gibson interjects. “She’s Mikey Conner’s kid. Remember Mikey?”

Mikey?
Never heard my dad called Mikey.

“Of course I do,” Fazzoli says crossing himself. “Good man. Good cop. And it appears the nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree. So that was you that gave that whack job a beat-down. I’m impressed, KC.”

I hate the nickname KC. I have fought it since grade school. About the time I think I have eradicated it once and for all, it pops back up.

We need to cut the chitchat and look at the body. Fazzoli has been on the job long enough to compartmentalize. All business one minute;
hey, how is the family?
the next.

“What do we need to know?” Don asks, getting us back on track.

“You’re going to get a lot more details from us,” Fazzoli says. “We’ll tell you how many times he got kicked. We can tell you what blow caused the most damage. But you aren’t going to learn anything you don’t see with your own eyes. Bad case. Bad. I’m an old geezer and this is as bad as it gets.

“Kid gets pushed sideways right by the curb over there,” he says pointing. “Looks like his attackers were running at him from the other side of the street. We got a lot of cigarette butts and a few blunts over there, so we think they were in the recessed doorway. I’m no detective, but the kid on the bike was probably peddling as hard as he could and got the bike as close to the curb away from his pursuers as possible. He wasn’t fast enough. He got pushed and was flung on the sidewalk a couple feet further than the bike landed.”

“We moved the bike,” Gibson interjects. “But we have all the photos to document forensics reports.”

“If you look at his right arm closely, you can see it’s broken,” Fazzoli continues. “Compound fracture. Might be from the fall. Might be from a kick.”

“Any ID? We have a name?” I ask.

“No ID, but one of the witnesses thinks she knows the kid,” Gibson says. “We’ve sent a detail over to find a family member and confirm.”

“Kids killing kids. What is that about?” April asks. Good for her for speaking up. But she isn’t going to like the answer.

“We’re on a dividing line between neighborhoods,” says Don. “And gangs stake their territories based on race. Blacks don’t cross the street and go north. The Hispanics don’t cross it and go south.”

“But he was on the dividing street,” she protests as if that might change something.

“Might have cut through the alley down there,” says Gibson, pointing. “A lot of times no one bothers with turf if it’s a kid. But sometimes they do. If I was a betting man I’d say the kids who did this are junior members of
Diablos Santos
. If you’se take someone out, even if it’s a kid your age, you’re a lot closer to becoming a full member.”

April looks like she is going to be sick. Maybe it’s her preternaturally white skin and she has a nutritional deficiency. Maybe I’m projecting. I feel sick to my stomach too.

“
No-o-o-o-o-o!
Not my baby!”

A scream pierces the air and drives like an arrow into my gut. I can barely breathe.

Two police officers, one female and one male, are flanking a young black woman who doesn’t look old enough to be a mother, but probably is.

She breaks free of their grasp. Gibson stops in front of her as she races toward the broken body. He looks to Fazzoli.

“We got what we need, let her in.”

Gibson releases her and then holds her shoulders from behind to steady her as she begins to wobble. She sinks on all fours. Her face is inches from her son. All crime scene activity has stopped. I think the world has stopped. Her head is rotating slightly. She is looking for a sign of life. Any sign. Her eyes are wide open. She is willing her son to open his. Her lips are moving quickly and silently. I think she is praying.

She looks heavenward. Her eyes clench shut tightly. The night is shrouded in an eerie silence. I realize I am holding my breath and make myself breathe in and out.

I kneel down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. I hear the softest purr coming from somewhere deep inside of her. Her head arches back fully. Her eyes are still shut. A wail rises from her chest and goes straight to the gates of heaven.

“Nooooooooooo.”

She lifts off her hands and turns to me and clutches me ferociously. Her nails dig into the back of my shoulders as her scream continues to pierce the silence. Her head drops on my shoulder and she begins to sob. I feel her shoulders shake and heave. I hold her awkwardly. She is purring again. Faintly I can hear her voice between the sobs,
No God, no God, no God, no God, not my baby. Not my baby.

I will not forget this moment for as long as I live.

• • •

I sit listlessly on my couch in the dark. I’ve been back in Chicago two weeks. Two mothers have lost a son.

One son was a lost soul; the other was full of promise. Doesn’t seem to matter. If you brought a child into the world, how do you cope with the gaping wound in your heart?

I want to be a mother some day. But looking at the broken body of Keshan makes me wonder.

Dear God, why?

I stare at the blank screen of my television.

40

“YOU’RE QUIET TODAY,” Mom says, leaning over her plate and looking down the table past James and Kendra at me.

We always sit in the same seats. Jimmy gets head of the table. Mom to his left, Kaylen to his right. Klarissa sits to Kaylen’s right. Kendra and then James are to the left of Mom. I am not only seated at the end but I’m also the only one who doesn’t have someone sit across from me, unless there is a guest or two. No guests today. I am face-to-face with the wall. Suppose my family is trying to tell me something?

“Tough week,” I answer. “Except for yesterday’s soccer game with Kendra.”

“My team won too!” five-year-old James shouts. I think NASA satellites are scanning Chicagoland for earthquake activity after that outburst. Jimmy gives him the parental dirty look—a little judgmental if you ask me—and James immediately returns to his mashed potatoes.

I get lost in the shuffle myself, so I understand wanting attention, James.

“I was at your game King James and you were incredible.”

He smiles sweetly and then opens his mouth as wide as he can so I can see his mashed-up mashed potatoes. That’s my King James.

They don’t keep score at games for five-year-olds—even though most parents and coaches know exactly what the score is. But by my count James’ team lost about 12-1. It’s possible I blocked a few extra goals for the other team out of my mind. But even in loss James truly was incredible. Just not at soccer. He pushed and shoved. He tackled. He laughed. He cried once.
Big baby.
He even missed scoring a goal three feet away from an open net. He kicked at the ball hard. He just didn’t make contact with it. He ended up on his backside. But the kid bounced right back up and pumped his arms like he got the game winner for the USA in the World Cup.

Your resiliency will take you far, young man.

Age five is too young to separate sheep and goats in sports and life, but there will come a day down the road when I suspect King James will make the switch to tackle football or something else that requires a spirit of reckless mayhem, with fine-motor skills optional. His dad is a great guy. I love my brother-in-law. But Jimmy doesn’t have a clue about sports. Yours truly will have to break it to him and Kaylen.

I smile at the thought. It is my first smile since I held Keshan’s mother in my arms.

I look at Princess Kendra and King James, then down at my sister, their mommy. Kaylen is almost full term with Baby Kelsey. What would I feel . . . what would I do if something ever happened to my angels? I shudder. I look up. Everyone is staring at me expectantly.

“Huh?”

“Where’s your mind, Big Sis?” Klarissa asks me. “I just said this should be a good week. You arrested the Durham killer. That’s a good thing. You’re still Chicago’s hottest female crime fighter. I saw you on a date with one of Chicago’s wealthiest bachelors. I might be jealous.”

“You had a date?” Mom asks.

She didn’t have to sound so surprised.

“We arrested the killer but Durham is still dead,” I say to Klarissa. “And you already know I didn’t have a real date.”

That lightens the mood of the table.
Not.
I have a gift.

“You’ve got a tough job Kristen,” Kaylen says. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how Dad did it either.”

“You still have to feel at least a little good to wrap up a case and put away a killer—don’t you?” Klarissa asks.

Of course I do. Penny Martin is the murderer after all. Isn’t she?

“It does,” I answer. “My mind is just wandering. I’m already working another case. A twelve-year-old kid got killed. This one punches you in the gut a lot more than Durham.”

“What happened?” Jimmy asks.

“I really can’t say right now.”

“No leads?”

“No, we have plenty of leads and the killers have been taken into custody.”

“More than one person killed a twelve-year-old?” he says with surprise.

“We’re running with it tonight,” Klarissa says, looking troubled. “I didn’t know you were working that one. I have to say it does sound awful with kids killing kids.”

“Kids present,” Kaylen says with a cough and stern look.

“What happened Aunt Kristen?” Kendra asks innocently.