Lieberman's Folly (11 page)

Lieberman hung up and looked at the notes he had written. Some of it didn't make much sense. He told Hanrahan what he had, handed him the autopsy report, and the two of them moved through the squad room to the hallway and up the stairs to Hughes's office. Hanrahan did the knocking. Lieberman opened the door and Hughes looked up at them from the report he was reading. The office looked more like that of an accountant or a ward committeeman than a police captain. The furniture, donated by various grateful businesses in the area, was somber, dark, serious wood. The bookcases were filled with books on the law and weapons, and department regulations, along with a thesaurus, dictionary, and assorted reference books. One wall was a picture window looking out into the parking lot so Hughes could see his men coming and going. The other three white walls each held a single photograph. The one behind Hughes was of the captain shaking hands with the late Mayor Washington, who had his left arm around Hughes's shoulder and his right hand clutching Hughes's hand. The photograph on the wall to the corridor was of Hughes, Senator Ted Kennedy, and Adlai Stevenson III in black tie at a Democratic fund raiser.

The photograph directly across from Hughes's desk was a reduction of the front page of the Chicago
Sun-Times
, March 16, 1969. Patrolman Hughes's photograph was on the front page and the headline blared,
LONE POLICEMAN WINS GUN BATTLE WITH GANG MEMBERS, TWO DEAD, SIX INJURED
.

It was impressive. It was supposed to be. Lieberman and Hanrahan sat in the two chairs opposite Hughes's desk.

“I've read it,” Hughes said putting the report on his clean desk and tapping it with his finger. “There's nothing in it. Where's this Jules Van Beeber you mention? You got him yet?”

“No,” said Lieberman. “But we just got a report from a lawn service man who says he found someone fitting Van Beeber's description in his truck outside the victim's window this morning. The man in his truck was holding a lamp and claimed to have flown over a balcony. He told the lawn service man, Solomon Worth, a strange story.”

“You telling me this Van Beeber fell off of the Valdez woman's balcony and walked away from it?” said Hughes.

“Fell or jumped,” said Lieberman. “Landed in bags full of grass and leaves.”

“I've heard stranger,” Hughes said, looking at Hanrahan, who shifted uncomfortably. “Go nail him. Wrap it up. A homeless nut shouldn't be hard to pick up.”

“How's your wife taking it, Captain?” Hanrahan said.

“My wife is fine. My wife still wants to move. You get this guy and fast and we might still be able to sell,” Hughes said. “Get him fast with a solid confession and this piece of shit report gets my blessing and no recommendation for investigation for discipline. Fast means today. We understand each other?”

“We do,” said Lieberman. “We've got the prelim on the autopsy. Eight penetrating wounds to the abdomen. Blade was thin, about six inches long. Lab reports the murder weapon wasn't on the premises. Tony V and the evidence boys say there was no money in the apartment, no bank book, no address book.”

“I've seen the reports,” said Hughes: “Remember what I said last night? The case is yours. Go find this Van Beeber, ask him what he did with the knife or whatever it was, and nail him shut. Do it. I've got some work to get done.” Hughes picked up the phone and looked at the two detectives, who got up and went out the door.

“I don't think he likes us, Abraham,” said Hanrahan.

“I think he's that way to the just and unjust alike,” Lieberman said. “I got a call to make, then let's go find Jules the Walker.”

Lieberman called Maish and asked him to put together a dozen fresh bagels, some nova lox, and a tub of cream cheese with chives.

“Lisa and the kids are staying with us a while,” Lieberman said.

“Like that, huh?” said Maish.

“Who knows?” said Lieberman.

“I like Toddy,” said Maish. “I don't always know what that Greek stuff is he talks, but he's a good kid. I like him.”

“I do too,” said Lieberman. “Maybe all is not lost.”

“I don't know if I could take little kids anymore,” said Maish.

“I got a choice?” asked Lieberman.

“Rosen wants to talk,” said Maish.

“I've got no …” Lieberman began, but Herschel was on the phone.

“A bunch of Alter Cockers here want to know when you're bringing your girlfriend back for a visit,” he, said, a wave of ancient chortles behind him. “She picked up some limp spirits.”

“She's not coming back,” Lieberman said. “You'll have to settle for Gert Bloombach.”

“You're going to keep the cutie all to yourself,” said Herschel, obviously playing to the chorus behind him.

“She's dead, Hershy,” Lieberman said.

“You're kidding,” Rosen said, suddenly sober.

“Would that I were. Put Maish back on,” Lieberman said and Maish's voice came back.

“What'd you tell him?”

“Give the Cockers a piece of chocolate cheesecake on me,” said Lieberman. “I'll be by later to pay you and pick up my order.”

S
INCE JULES THE WALKER
had last been seen by Sol Worth clutching a lamp, Lieberman decided to check the pawnshops within easy walking distance, starting on Devon and working his way north to Howard. Hanrahan would try St. Bart's Church on Granville six blocks away. St. Bart's had a walk-in for the homeless and about a dozen beds. They might know Jules or where he hung out. The detectives would meet for lunch at McDonald's on Howard near Western at one. If they had nothing, they'd try to think of another angle.

St. Bart's was close enough to Broadway so the homeless could find it without getting lost and close enough to Little Saigon so that many of the parishioners were now Asian. An editorial writer for the
Sun-Times
had been the first to note the oddity of a congregation of Vietnamese supporting an assortment of black and white homeless men and women.

Hanrahan parked in the small parking lot of the church and walked in. The door was open but the church seemed deserted. At the sight of the crucifix inside the door, Hanrahan crossed himself. His eyes found a stained-glass window above the door that let in blue-red light and cast a dancing image on the wooden floor in the open lobby. Hanrahan looked back and up at the vision of Jesus in glass being taken from the cross. His eyes followed the outline of dark lead that formed the crown of thorns on the head of Jesus. One of the four women in the glass looked vaguely like his wife Maureen.

“Can I help you?” came a man's voice and Hanrahan turned to see a young black man about thirty in a perspiration-stained grey University of Illinois sweatsuit.

“I'm looking for a priest,” Hanrahan said.

“You found one,” said the man, stepping up and holding out his right hand. “Sam Parker.”

“Father Parker,” Hanrahan said taking the offered hand. “I'm Detective Hanrahan.”

Hanrahan showed his badge. Parker looked at it carefully.

“Want to come in my office?” said Parker, pointing back the way he had entered. “I just got back from running. I don't dress like this for work, at least not usually.”

“None of my business, Father,” Hanrahan said. “I don't think we need your office. I just have a question or two.”

Parker wiped his moist brow with his sleeve and said, “Go ahead.”

“Man, homeless man named Jules Van Beeber, known as Jules the Walker,” said Hanrahan. “You know him?”

“Yes,” said Parker.

There was a slight echo in the hallway. Hanrahan knew that just beyond the wooden doors would be an aisle and down the aisle, a high ceiling overhead, would be an altar, and over that altar would be a crucifixion and …

“Officer?” Father Parker said.

“Sorry,” said Hanrahan, “I'm just … I didn't get much sleep last night. A woman was murdered not far from here.”

“Estralda Valdez,” said Parker. “Word travels fast. You think Jules had something to do with it?”

“We'd like to talk to him,” said Hanrahan.

“Haven't seen him for a while,” said Parker. “When it gets cold, he spends some time with us, shares a meal.”

“You know where I could find him?” asked Hanrahan.

“Let's ask Waco Johnny,” said Parker. “He was here last night. Still is, I think. Come on.”

Parker led the way down the corridor into darkness and down a short flight of stairs to a narrow basement. He stopped at a door at the left and pushed it open. A tired brown Salvation Army Store sofa sat in one corner facing two unmatched sagging chairs, one a blue vinyl, the other an orange tweed. Six beds lined the walls. Two battered Formica-top tables, one blue, one white, stood in the middle of the room with chrome chairs around them. At one of the tables, a man thin as a broom and wearing baggy denim overalls sat looking at a cup of what must have been coffee. The man was worn and wrinkled, his face a creviced series of canyons. His mouth was toothless, but his eyes were the brightest blue Hanrahan had ever seen.

“Waco Johnny,” said Father Parker. “This is Detective Hanrahan. He's looking for Jules. Can you give him a hand?”

Waco Johnny looked up from his coffee cup at the policeman.

“What's the Walker done?” asked Waco Johnny.

“Don't know that he's done anything,” said Hanrahan. “We need his help.”

Hanrahan considered a lie that would get Waco Johnny talking, but remembering he was in a church he couldn't bring it to his lips.

“You got a buck you can lend me?” asked Waco Johnny.

“Hey,” said Father Parker. “Tell the man or don't tell the man, but don't put a price on it here.”

“I got thirty pennies,” said Hanrahan. “Thirty pieces of copper. You want 'em.”

Waco Johnny flashed his blue eyes.

“I ain't no fool, Mr. Cop,” he said. “I'm not selling the Walker out. And what the hell kind of cop are you anyway? You want something from me and you insult me royal.”

“A tired cop,” Hanrahan said. “Why do they call you Waco Johnny?”

“Don't remember,” he said. “Something to do with something I used to do. Circus maybe. I think I rode a horse or shot a gun at something.”

“Jules,” Father Parker reminded him.

“Jules hangs out near the beach on Chase, under the breaker near the rocks, when the weather lets him,” said Waco Johnny. “You know where the playground is? Nights sometimes he sleeps inside the pipe thing in the playground looks like a truck. Cops can't see him and boot his ass. That's all I know.”

“Thanks,” said Hanrahan. “I'm giving Father Parker five bucks in your name for coffee or whatever.”

“Good enough,” said Waco Johnny. “I'll put it down on my income tax as a charitable donation.”

Father Parker laughed and Waco Johnny grinned toothlessly, his blue eyes dancing bright. Hanrahan didn't feel like smiling. He turned and went out the door and up the stairs with Father Parker behind him.

“Can I ask you something?” the priest said when they got back to the church lobby.

“I gotta get going, Father,” Hanrahan said, uncomfortably checking his watch. It wasn't too early for a beer.

“You're Bill Hanrahan, right?” said the priest.

“Right,” Hanrahan said.

“Come with me,” the priest said. He turned and opened the double doors.

Hanrahan hesitated and then followed. Father Parker genuflected and crossed himself. Hanrahan did the same, though an abbreviated version. They walked down the aisle and turned right at the altar. Jesus looked down. Jesus wept.

There was a door to the right of the altar. Parker went through, holding it open for Hanrahan.

“My office,” said the priest.

The office was large, cluttered. Hanrahan thought it looked more like what Lieberman probably had expected Hanrahan's house to look like that morning.

“Over here,” the priest went on.

The walls were filled with photographs, mostly football players. Most of the photographs were signed. Hanrahan looked at the photos while Father Parker found the one he was looking for.

“Here,” Parker said and Hanrahan looked. It was a shot of four men, three white, one black. Hanrahan recognized himself. He didn't recognize the others.

“That's you,” Hanrahan said. “You're Whiz Parker?”

“I was Whiz Parker,” the priest said. “Bad knee like yours. You told me about it the day that picture was taken. Homecoming 1978.”

“I don't even recognize those other guys,” said Hanrahan looking closely at the picture.

“I don't either,” said Parker, “but I remember you.”

“Long time ago,” said Hanrahan.

“Not so long,” said Parker. “You're a Catholic, aren't you?”

“I dropped enough clues,” Hanrahan said with a smile. “My name for instance. I gotta go, Father. Maybe I'll drop by we can talk football again some time.”

“You look tired, Hanrahan,” said Parker.

“Things on my mind,” Hanrahan said. “Gotta go. I can find my way out.”

He turned, opened the door, and went out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a few seconds, sighed, turned, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said Parker.

Parker was sitting at the desk in front of the cluttered table, wiping his face with a crumpled towel.

“Father,” said Hanrahan, “I want to confess.”

“Give me a few minutes to shower and change and I'll meet you upstairs,” said the priest.

Hanrahan nodded and went back through the door and through another door into the church. It was still empty. He walked up the aisle. He almost kept walking. His knees were shaking the way they'd shake when he was a kid and his mother told him to confess. He sat in the back row and tried to put his thoughts in order, but images, names, anger, sorrow came in waves. The dead woman, Maureen, his sons, Lieberman, even the Chinese woman last night, who had, he was sure, seen through his blustering and looked at him with understanding.