In the Drink (22 page)

I was expecting him to resemble Charles Manson, or maybe David Koresh, but he wasn't close to either. He was tall, lean, bald, handsome, dignified looking. I thought he might be wearing a robe of some sort or some other peculiar dress, but he was wearing khakis and a plain blue dress shirt beneath a gray parka. His feet were clad in black snow boots and his gloves didn't match; one was blue and the other was green. He looked more like your typical downtown cubicle worker than he did the leader of some fanatical religious group.

His nose was red from the cold and he sniffled and swiped at it with the back of one of his hands after he removed his gloves. One of the two detectives who entered the room with him offered him a box of tissues, but he declined with a smug smile and said, “No, thanks. I don't want to provide you with any unasked for samples of my DNA.”

I had met one of the detectives before, a balding, overweight forty-something guy named Arthur Cook. He was newly single on the heels of a divorce and came into the bar a couple of nights every week. Based on the flirtatious behaviors he displayed, I guessed that he was using the bar as a hunting ground in his search for a new woman. As far as I knew, he hadn't yet scored.

The second detective was a stranger to me. He was tall and thin—though his arms were well muscled—and looked to be in his mid- to late thirties. Both his haircut and his posture hinted at a military background, and I wondered if that was how he got the scar on his face that ran from his right eyebrow up to his hairline.

Arthur Cook started things off by introducing himself—though he used the name Arty—and his partner, whose name was Doug Farrell. I noticed that Arthur was the one wearing the ear bud, and after the introductions, he got right down to business.

“Mr. Treat, we asked you to come in today because we wanted to talk to you about the recent assault of a woman in a parking garage downtown.”

Apostle Mike sat slouched in his chair, legs extended out, wearing an expression of indifference. “You've asked me about other assaults and I keep telling you guys that I follow a philosophy of peace and tolerance, not violence.” His attitude made it clear that he wasn't worried about their claims. Either he was a damned good liar, or he was innocent. His voice was an interesting mix of tastes, beefy and spicy hot, like a bite of prime rib dipped in horseradish.

“Yes, so you claim,” Arthur said, “and yet we keep finding notes at the sites of these assaults that speak out against certain beliefs, beliefs that you have gone on record as saying are an abomination. Are you telling me it's merely a coincidence?”

“Either that, or an erroneous presumption on your part.” Treat shrugged. “You can pick. But I'm telling you I didn't assault any woman.”

The guy was irritatingly smug and that alone made me want him to be guilty. He had a way of getting under one's skin. I cautioned myself to remain objective and not let my feelings get in the way of my perceptions.

Doug took over at that point. “We don't think we're wrong, nor do we put much faith in coincidence,” he said.

Treat shifted his condescending gaze from Arthur to Doug and asked, “When, exactly, did this assault occur?”

“Saturday night, around ten
P.M.
,” Doug said.

“Ah, well there you go,” Treat said with the return of that smug smile. “I was preaching to a group of my followers that night in the church on my compound. The entire thing was taped. I'll be happy to provide you with a copy if you like.”

“The dates and times on videos can be altered,” Doug said.

“Yes, I suppose they can,” Treat replied in a tired voice. “But the video will also show a number of people who were there at the time, people who can vouch for when and where the meeting took place.”

“And why would we believe the word of your zealous followers?” Doug asked.

Treat cocked his head to one side and shrugged again. “You don't have to. You can ask the reporter who was there filming the entire thing. I believe his name was Woods, John Woods. He said he was doing an article for the
Tribune
.”

“The
Chicago Tribune?
” Doug asked.

“The one and only,” Treat said. He pulled his legs up and leaned forward, ready to get out of his chair. “So are we done here?”

“No, we're not,” Arthur said. “We're also interested in your whereabouts on Thursday night.”

“Thursday,” Treat said, wrinkling his brow. “Let me think. I believe I was home on Thursday evening.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?” Arthur asked.

“No, you got me this time,” Treat said, his eyes wide with mock fear. “May I ask what crime it is you're looking into for that night?”

“Murder,” Doug said, and Treat's smile faded a smidge.

“Murder . . . that's a very serious claim. Just who is it you think I might have murdered?”

“A man named Lewis Carmichael. His body was found downtown by the river's edge under the
Bronze Fonz
.”

“Ah, yes,” Treat said, nodding slowly. “I remember seeing something about that in the news. Very sad.” Neither his tone nor his expression suggested he believed it was sad at all. “And why would you think I had anything to do with this man's unfortunate demise?”

“We found stuff in Carmichael's apartment that suggested he was into the occult and practiced the dark arts,” Arthur said.

“Really?” Treat said, pulling at his chin. His brows drew down in concern, but I got the sense that it was faked. A moment later, my suspicion was verified. “Well, to each his own,” Treat said. “Maybe the devil got him.”

I saw Duncan shake his head and then he said something into the microphone on his headset that I couldn't hear. Arthur glanced at the mirror in the room, the glass we were watching through, and gave a slight nod to indicate he had heard.

“There's one other thing I'd like to ask you,” Arthur said. “There was a double homicide that took place at a home in West Allis on Friday night around nine. Any chance you know anything about that?”

Treat laughed. “Really, gentlemen, you seem determined to lay the blame for every crime in the city at my feet.”

“Answer the question,” Arthur said, his face dark.

Treat's smile faltered. “No, I don't know anything about a double homicide in West Allis, okay? Now, I've cooperated fully with this inane line of questioning, and my patience is wearing thin. I'm a very busy man with places to go and things to do, so I'm going to leave now.” He started to rise from his chair but stopped halfway up and looked Arthur straight in the eye. “That is unless you have something you want to hold me on? Some evidence of some sort?”

The two men engaged in a stare down that lasted a good fifteen seconds. Then Treat straightened up the rest of the way and said, “I thought not. Good day, gentlemen.” And with that, he turned and left the room.

I took my headset off and looked over at Duncan. “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Tell me what your perceptions were, what you heard in his voice during all of that.”

“Well, clearly the guy is a smug bastard. He seems very sure of himself.”

“What about his voice? Did it change at all while he was talking?”

I shook my head. “No, the taste of his voice remained consistent the whole time. But since the guys didn't hit him up with a known lie, I don't know what his voice would taste like if he was lying.”

“Actually, they hit him up with a known truth. That double homicide they asked him about was the case Jimmy and I drew the other night. And we already have the culprit. It was strictly a drug-related thing and we arrested the killer only an hour ago. So we know that Treat wasn't involved in that crime. His denial in that case was an honest one. Did his voice change at all with that answer as compared to the others? Because we're pretty certain he is involved in the assault.”

Again, I shook my head. “No, his voice didn't change a bit. Besides, if his alibi holds out, it's clear he wasn't directly involved in the assault.”

“But he might have ordered someone else to do it,” Duncan said.

I thought back to the discussion that had taken place. “It's possible,” I admitted. “He said he didn't assault any woman, and if he had someone else do it, that is essentially the truth.”

“So we've got nothing,” Duncan said, a look of frustration on his face.

“It would seem so.”

“Head back to the bar and do what you would normally do for now.” He gathered up the manila envelope. “I'll get this evidence to Carrie and then I have a few other loose ends to tie up. But when I'm done, I'm coming over. Do you mind if I spend the night?”

“Mind? I think I might have to kill you if you don't.”

“Dangerous words to say around here,” he said, giving me a kiss on the forehead. “Let's use the same plan we did before. Meet me at the back door around ten to sneak me in. And be careful going back. Don't let anyone in the bar see you head upstairs to your apartment in that disguise, just in case your place is being watched.”

“I think I'll have Cora do for me what I'm going to do for you later. Though I have to say it irritates me that I've been forced to resort to sneaking into my own place.”

“Hopefully, it's only temporary.” He kissed me again then, a much deeper, longer, more satisfying kiss. Then he turned me around, patted me on the butt, and said, “Be gone. I'll see you soon.”

I headed out of the police station feeling rather chipper despite the disappointing results of the interview with Apostle Mike. As soon as I hit the sidewalk outside, I took out my cell phone and called Cora since I didn't have Mal's number.

“Hey, Mack,” she answered.

I'd given Cora a key to my office several weeks ago in case she ever needed to get in there to troubleshoot the Wi-Fi when I wasn't around. I explained to her what I needed, and requested that she turn off the alarm and meet me at the alley door.

“How long will you be?”

“I need to find a cab,” I told her. “So I'm not sure. I'll text you once I secure a ride. Stand by the door and let's agree on a secret knock. One knock, a pause, then two knocks, another pause, and then three knocks.”

“Ooh, just like real spies,” Cora said, sounding excited.

“I hope no one can hear you.”

“Give me a little credit, Mack. I'm on the stairs and no one is anywhere near me at the moment.”

“Okay, I'll see you shortly.” Then I explained to her how my appearance had been altered.

“And by the way, I figured out where that section of map you sent me is located.”

“You did? Where?”

“It's in St. Paul.”

“As in Minnesota?”

“The very one.”

I frowned at this. Was I supposed to go to St. Paul for the next clue? That seemed a bit outrageous. “Good work, Cora,” I said. “Now all I have to do is figure out what the hell it means.”

I arrived back at the bar forty minutes later. It took me ten minutes to get a cab after I called for one, and I had them drop me off a block away from the bar. I walked the rest of the way, looking to see if anyone was watching me when I entered the back alley. Minutes later I was at the door and used the secret knock, but nothing happened. I waited for a minute, and then knocked again. This time the door opened before I could finish the sequence.

“Sorry,” Cora said. “There was someone in the hallway the first time you knocked so I didn't want to open the door until they were gone.”

“Good thinking.” I had my key at the ready and I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped inside so I couldn't be seen if anyone came down the hall. “Can you go turn the alarm back on?” I said to Cora. “Lock my office behind you when you're done and I'll meet you upstairs with the Capone Club group once I'm back to being me.”

Cora nodded and shut the door.

Once I was back upstairs in my apartment, it took me a good half hour to remove all the makeup and latex pieces that Isabel had put on me, and after donning the same clothes I'd been wearing earlier, I gave myself a final check in the mirror and headed back to the bar.

Business was still slow. No doubt the weather had kept a lot of folks busy shoveling themselves out during the day, leaving them too tired to go out and party. It took more than a little snow to slow down the Capone Club members, however, and most of the gang was there: Joe, Frank, Cora, Tad, Carter, Holly, Sam, Alicia, and of course, Mal.

“It's about time, Mack,” Mal said, as if he hadn't seen me in forever. He got up, walked over to me, and kissed me on the cheek. “Did you finish up your interior design plans?”

“Interior design?” Holly said. “What are you up to now? Wasn't the bar expansion enough for you?”

I smiled and said, “It probably should have been, but all the new stuff here has reminded me of how old and tired my apartment is. So I've decided to make some changes.” Not wanting to dwell on the subject since it was basically a lie—a lie I could hear in my own voice—I switched topics. “Where's Tiny?”

Cora said, “Unlike Mal here, he had to work today because his current job site is indoors. He should be here later.”

“Anything new with his case?”

Carter shook his head. “We're waiting to hear back from Tyrese and Dr. T. Tyrese should be here any time, but Dr. T won't be back until tomorrow.”

Sam said, “I have no plans this evening if you want to go back to visit Schneider.”

“Might as well,” I said.

“You should wait for Tyrese to get here,” Mal said. “That guy could be dangerous.”

As if on cue, Tyrese walked into the room. “Did I hear my name?”

“We were thinking about taking Sam and paying another visit to William Schneider,” I told him.

“Sure, I'm good with that. But first let me tell you what I found out from the warden at Waupun about Lonnie Carlisle.”

“Anything interesting?” Carter said, scooting up and sitting on the edge of his seat.

“Maybe,” Tyrese said. “He's had visits from three people other than his lawyer. One is his mother, who lives in Steven's Point and makes the trip down once a year. Another was a man named Hal Yeager who has visited four times in the past two years, and after a little research I found out he's a law student working on a PhD. According to the warden, Yeager is doing his thesis on Carlisle. The third visitor was a man named Harvey Aldrich who visited two years ago. The warden said Aldrich claimed to be a friend of Carlisle, but he also said that Carlisle was very upset after Aldrich visited, and wouldn't say why. So I did a little digging around. It took me a while because it turns out Harvey Aldrich is dead. He died just over a year ago of a heart attack. But here's the interesting part. Listed among his survivors in his obituary were a wife and daughter, so I looked up the wife and called to see if she could shed any light on the matter. Apparently, she didn't want to talk because she hung up on me. I moved on to the daughter, but it turned out she isn't going to talk either, because she can't.”

He paused, apparently for effect. He had the rapt attention of everyone in the room and it didn't take long for someone to jump in. Frank said, “Why can't she talk?”

“Because she's in a vegetative state and has been for the last eleven and a half years.”

Mal was the first one to make the connection. “She's the girl who Lonnie supposedly attacked.”

“You got it!” Tyrese said.

Carter said, “No wonder Lonnie was upset after the visit. I can only imagine how that meeting went.”

“I wish he had talked to us,” I said. “I got a definite sense of fear from him when we were there.”

“Well, he is up for parole in a few months, so maybe his lawyer was right and he just doesn't want to do anything that might jinx that.”

“Maybe,” I said, though I wasn't totally convinced. “Not much we can do about it now anyway. So let's go visit Mr. Schneider again.”

It took ten minutes for everyone to fetch their coats and decide who was going to drive. Tyrese ended up behind the wheel again, and this time Sam got to ride in front while Mal and I shared the backseat.

“Tell me as best you can exactly how your first visit went,” Sam said once we were under way. And for the duration of the ride, Mal, Tyrese, and I filled him in on what had happened, each of us remembering different parts of the encounter.

When we were done, Sam said, “Here's what I'd like to do this time. Tyrese, I want you to take charge of talking to and questioning the man, and I want you to do it in as authoritative a manner as you can. Act like you're his superior officer commanding him to provide you with intel the way someone in the military might do.” He turned and looked at us in the backseat. “Mal and Mack, I want the two of you to hang back and simply observe. Don't say anything.”

We both nodded our understanding. “I'm going to act like Schneider's advisor and direct him on what questions to answer and how to answer them. I have a feeling he will react better to a more formal type of inquiry than mere conversational type of talk.”

“I'm fine with that,” Tyrese said. “Do you think I should word my questions a particular way?”

“Not necessarily. Be firm, but not aggressive. And don't mention the incident with his wife and daughter at all. I want to keep him as focused as we can and on topic.”

We arrived at Schneider's house and all four of us piled out of the car. Per Sam's suggestion, Mal and I hung back and let the other two men take the lead. They climbed the porch and rapped on Schneider's door. After waiting a minute or two with nothing happening, Sam nudged Tyrese.

Tyrese nodded and knocked again, harder this time. In addition, he called out to Schneider. “Open up, Schneider,” he said in a firm voice. “We need to debrief on an incident.”

Sam gave Tyrese a thumbs-up and we all waited for something to happen. When it didn't, Tyrese yelled through the door again “Schneider, your refusal to cooperate in this matter may result in your court martial.”

Ten seconds later we heard the locks being thrown. Finally, William Schneider poked his head out. Tyrese didn't give the man a chance to question or object to our intentions. He pushed the door open and marched inside. Schneider looked startled and a little intimidated. Sam extended a hand to him and said, “Mr. Schneider, I'm here to represent and advise you in this debriefing. Let's go have a seat, shall we?”

I half expected Schneider to explode, or at least call foul, but all he did was nod, shake Sam's hand, and head back into his house. Mal and I followed, shut the door once we were inside, and then stood by it while the other three men settled onto seats in the living room.

Tyrese sat ramrod straight perched on the edge of his chair. Sam settled onto the couch beside Schneider.

“Mr. Schneider,” Tyrese said, still using his booming voice, “we need to discuss the matter of two girls who were killed. Their names are Lori Gruber and Anna Hermann. Do you recall them?”

Schneider nodded but said nothing.

“What do you know about the incident?”

Schneider looked over at Sam for a second, then back at Tyrese. “Nothing, sir,” he said.

“I need the truth, Mr. Schneider,” Tyrese said. His tone remained stern, but his expression was caring, understanding.

Sam reached over and put an arm on Schneider's shoulder. “Tell the truth, soldier,” he said in a gentle voice. “What happened to those girls?”

Schneider looked over at Sam and tears brimmed in his eyes. “I didn't mean to hurt her, sir,” he said.

I heard Mal suck in his breath beside me. The room grew deathly quiet.

“We know you didn't mean to hurt her,” Sam said, still talking in a soft voice. “But we need to know the truth.”

“It was an accident,” Schneider said. His eyes were focused on Sam and his expression was pleading, as if he needed Sam to confirm this for him. “I loved her. I didn't mean to hurt her.” Schneider dropped his head and began to sob.

Tyrese started to say something but Sam held a hand up to stop him. “How did you hurt her?” Sam asked Schneider, massaging his shoulder. “Tell us what happened.”

Schneider gathered himself and looked over at Sam. “Things got too heated,” he said. “But I didn't mean for it to happen.”

Mal leaned over and whispered in my ear, “That's it. He went after her and tried to seduce her. She fought back and he killed her.”

I shook my head. “There were two of them, Mal,” I whispered back. “Lori and Anna.”

Sam had apparently made the same connection I had. He leaned in close to Schneider and said, “The fire wasn't your fault.”

Schneider looked at Sam with this sad, appealing expression, wanting to believe him. But in the end, he couldn't. “Of course it was my fault,” he said in an angry outburst. “I killed her. I didn't know the rags . . . the fumes . . . They said . . .” He buried his face in his hands and started to sob again.

The four of us stood there watching him, and while I can't speak for the others, I know I felt like an unwanted interloper, intruding on this man's private moment, his terrible grief. I felt tears burn in my eyes and Mal shifted uncomfortably beside me.

After a few moments, Sam said, “You knew Lori Gruber, didn't you?”

Schneider nodded, his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

“Did you ever talk to her?”

Schneider nodded again. Then he said, “She was nice to me, not like them other kids. She was like Mary. My Mary.”

“Mary,” Sam said. “That was your daughter's name?”

Schneider nodded.

“Thank you for telling us the truth,” Sam said, and then to my surprise, he got up and said, “We're done here.”

Mal, Tyrese, and I exchanged puzzled looks. But Sam merely walked out the front door and indicated for the rest of us to follow. We did.

Once we were outside, Tyrese said, “What the hell, Sam? You just got him talking. Why are we leaving?”

“You guys were right when you said he's likely suffering from PTSD,” Sam said, “but he didn't hurt those girls. The man is racked with guilt over the death of his daughter. And think about it. His daughter died twenty years ago. I looked into the case and discovered that she was six at the time. Fast forward eight years to when Lori and Anna were murdered and how old would his daughter have been?”

“Fourteen,” Tyrese said.

“The same age as Lori and Anna,” I said, starting to see the light.

“Exactly!” Sam said. “And look at this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a printed copy of an old newspaper obituary. Mal and Tyrese hovered around me, looking at it over my shoulders. On it was the name Mary Schneider, age six, along with a picture. I looked at the face of the little girl, saddened to think that her life ended so soon and so tragically. I started to read the article, but Sam said, “Look at Mary's picture and then look at this.”

He handed me another page, this one with a picture of Lori Gruber on it. I made the connection right away. “Same hair color, same basic facial shape, same shape eyes,” I said. “Lori looked like Schneider's daughter.”

Sam nodded. “And you heard what he said in there. Lori was nice to him, not like the other kids. And remember what Tiny said about how his sister was always bringing home strays? To her, Schneider was one of those strays. She was nice to him, and if Schneider is to be believed, the only kid who was nice to him. To him, she was his daughter, reincarnated. There's no way he would have hurt her.”

“Are you sure?” Tyrese said. “What if the guy went off like he did on us the other day and thought Lori and Anna were some kind of Viet Cong spies or something?”

Sam shook his head. “His daughter's death and his grief over it are such a huge part of his psyche that he wouldn't do that, especially since Lori looked like Mary and was the same age Mary would have been. Remember how Tiny said Schneider used to try to lure girls inside with promises of cookies and milk? He was trying to resurrect his daughter. The man is ill, I have no doubt. And I plan to speak to a friend of mine at the VA about getting him some help. But I'd stake my career on the fact that he didn't kill those two girls.”

With that, we were back to square one, or maybe square two, since we had finally managed to eliminate one of the suspects, assuming we bought into Sam's analysis. I did, but I wasn't so sure about Tyrese and Mal.