Authors: Michael A. Black
Hart gave him a sideways glance, which Leal detected as petulant. He realized that he must have sounded patronizing, although
he hadn’t meant to. But he had been somewhat troubled at being assigned with her, wondering if she was tough enough…
She’s so quiet, she doesn’t even talk the talk, he thought. How the hell am I supposed to know if she can walk the walk? She
hadn’t paid her dues on the street, hadn’t earned her right to be there. Still, she was his partner, and she had “passed”
his little test of surviving the trip to the morgue without getting sick.
He pulled out into traffic and headed for the expressway. Maybe it’s time to start giving her the benefit of the doubt, he
thought.
The stench of the dead still stung his nostrils, hanging in the car and on them, having silently seeped into their clothes
and hair. The light changed and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
Murphy’s Law
Ryan sent Smith to check at the civic center downtown, where Miriam Walker had presided over civil litigations. “Make sure
you call first,” Ryan had told him, “to make sure they’ll see you. You do know how to get down there, don’t you?” He’d been
somewhat surprised at Smith’s expression, like the guy was pissed off or something. Christ, Ryan thought. Another prima donna.
Next thing he’ll be calling Jessie Jackson on me. Ryan also wanted to check out that organization that Judge Walker had belonged
to, Women Against Domestic Violence, but he figured that it might be better to send Hart on that one considering that most
of the bitches in an organization like that probably hated anything with two legs and a penis.
After waiting until Smith was gone, Ryan lit another cigarette and dialed the number for the State’s Attorney investigations
section for the fifth time that morning. It rang several times before someone answered.
“Yeah, this is Sergeant Ryan in Administration,” he said, figuring the rank and the word
administration
would get the other person’s attention. “I’m trying to get ahold of Investigator Murphy. He around?”
“Sure,” the voice said. Ryan heard the man call, “Hey, Murph, phone.”
“Yeah, Murphy,” a voice at the other end said.
“Hey, Murph, Tom Ryan here.”
“Ryan, my boy, how the hell are ya?”
“I’m up to my ears in shit. How about you?”
Murphy laughed heartily, then said, “I figured I’d be hearing from you sooner or later. Heard you caught the Walker case.”
“Right. You available for a drink over an early lunch?”
“Always available for that kind of activity, as long as you’re buying.” Murphy said. “But the advice’ll be free. Be here waiting
on you.”
Ryan stood and slipped on his sports jacket, taking a long drag on the cigarette before stubbing it out. He knew this was
one assignment he had to handle alone, because old Murph wouldn’t open up to just anyone, and if Smith had been along, forget
it. He walked across the parking lot to the court building and flashed his badge at the deputies guarding the metal detectors
and the entrance. He went up to the State’s Attorney’s office and nodded to the middle-aged clerk behind the counter.
“Murphy in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, motioning with her thumb toward the back offices. Ryan went through the door and went down the
hallway. He could hear the distinctive rasp of Murphy’s voice even before he got to the doorway. The big man looked up quickly,
then winked as Ryan entered. Two younger white guys sat hunched in front of Murphy’s huge form, which was half saddling a
large metal desk. He was heavyset with brownish-red hair slicked straight back from an expansive forehead. Wire-rimmed glasses
with a slight tint rested on a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. He had a flaring mustache, and a sharp
chin that seemed to jut out from a doughy dollop of flesh above his collar.
“Hiya, Ryan,” Murphy said. His voice was husky and brassy-sounding. “Anybody else in the hall?”
Ryan shook his head.
Murphy swallowed and turned to the two seated men.
“So like I was saying, this pissant state’s attorney wants me to do a fucking lineup, even though the victim’s already seen
him when we picked him up. So I says all right, and goes to pick this broad up. We go downstairs in the lockup, but it’s Saturday
and we have to wait for all the bond hearings to end. They’re getting ready to load all the dogs on the bus to take ’em to
Twenty-sixth Street, and I gotta hold everything up for this damn lineup.” He paused to lick his lips. “But none of the other
assholes will stand in the lineup for me. They’re all afraid they’ll get picked out and blamed for something.” He lapsed into
a poor imitation of a black accent. “Not me’s, Officer. They’s might pick me.”
The other two men listening laughed appreciably.
“Time’s running short, and I still got a ton of work to do before I can get to happy hour, so I had to use one of what I call
Murphy’s Laws. I improvised.” He smiled broadly. “I got a couple of the deputies to stand in the lineup for me.” Murphy paused
for what seemed like a comedian going for dramatic effect. Ryan had heard the story before, so he knew what was coming. He’d
worked with Murphy when they’d been in Vice.
“Two white deputies, two black deputies, all in T-shirts and black uniform pants, and one nigger defendant in funky-ass blue
jeans. The witness didn’t have no trouble picking the son of a bitch right out.”
The two younger guys began laughing, and Murphy was, too, but he held up his hands. “And that ain’t the best part of it. Get
this. At the prelim, this little faggot of a public defender asks me if I conducted a lineup, so I says, ‘Yes, sir, right
in this very building, sir.’ The asshole don’t say nothing, either, leastwise not with me standing there glaring at him the
whole time. He ended up copping to a plea and is now doing six years at Stateville. I thought about calling Guinness to list
the first racially balanced lineup in Cook County history, but figured I’d better let it ride. After all, I’m just here to
serve and protect.”
He stood up and brushed his hands together, as if expelling a coating of dust, then extended an open palm at Ryan.
“How you been doing, Tommy, my boy? And, more importantly, what can I do you out of?”
“I need some of your advice and expertise,” Ryan said.
“Murphy’s Law: If you can’t fuck it or eat it, piss on it.”
His two straight men laughed again, as if on cue.
Ryan realized he had to get Murphy away from his audience or he’d be in for a long afternoon.
“You eat yet?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Murphy said, walking around to the chair. He grabbed a garish glen plaid sport coat that could have been
powered by a battery from the rack and slipped it on, pausing to wink at the other guys. “In fact, I just might be tied up
on an important investigation for the rest of the afternoon, boys.”
At Heaven’s Gate, Ryan waited until Murphy had downed his shot and was working on the beer chaser before asking about the
Walker case. The reflection of the big man’s face soured visibly in the mirror behind the bar.
“Anything you can tell me?” Ryan asked. “I’d like to avoid covering any dead ends.”
Murphy snorted as he shook his massive head and set the mug of beer down on the bar.
“That whole case is a dead end,” he said.
“You and Roberts like the husband for it at all?”
“We checked him out,” Murphy said, after taking a long, slow drink from the mug. “His alibi checked out. He was at some kind
of meeting bullshit, or something.”
Ryan lit a cigarette and signaled the bartender for a refill. His own shot glass was still half-f.
Murphy smiled. “Trouble was, we had to run everything by the brass before we could make a move. Like they was afraid we’d
step in some shit or something. Who you got in charge of you guys?”
“Paul Brice.”
“I always got along with him good, until that case, that is.” The bartender set another mug and shot in front of Murphy. The
big man smiled and sipped the new beer. “Ahhh, nothing like the foam when you first get it from the tap.” After licking his
mustache, he continued. “He was directing us, too. Me and Roberts wanted to check out different angles, but all Brice wanted
to do was keep checking on chop shops and carjackers.”
“Because of the car disappearing?”
Murphy picked up the shot glass, held it to the lights, then nodded. He swallowed half of the amber liquid, exhaled heavily,
then took a second more copious sip. “That’s one thing I never knew about Brice. He’s like a fucking bulldog once he gets
something set in his mind.” Murphy set the glass down and held up his open palms on either side of his temples. “Like he was
wearing blinders. Only could see one angle. We was running down leads on every fucking Caddie recovered in four states. Never
found the damn thing. Like it disappeared off the face of the earth, or something.” He picked up the shot and finished the
rest of the whiskey.
“How about the insurance angle?” Ryan asked. He sipped his own drink gingerly. He still had to report back to the office for
a final check before he left. “The lady judge have anything other than the standard policy?”
Murphy shook his head, sloshing some beer around in his mouth.
“Just the usual hundred grand,” he said. “And her old man donated half of it to that domestic violence thingamajig that she
belonged to.” He squinted at Ryan through the smoke. “Of course, what’s a measly hundred g’s to some rich, fucking CEO? He
probably farts more money than that.”
Ryan smirked, then leaned closer.
“So tell me, Murph, how did you see it?”
Murphy took a long swallow of beer, holding the mug up so that the last bit of the foam drained into his mouth. After setting
it down on the polished surface he forced a loud belch, then grinned at Ryan.
“Shit, I been on the job long enough to see it the way your boss tells you to see it,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if Brice seen it as a carjacking gone bad, then that was that.” One of the older regulars was at the jukebox and
selected “One For My Baby (And One More For the Road).” Sinatra’s voice filled the bar area. Murphy smirked and pointed to
the empties on the bar. “They’re playing my song,” he said, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
Ryan rolled his eyes, then motioned for the bartender to set Murphy up again.
“Christ, Murphy, I got an ex-wife and two kids to support.”
“Here’s to the wonderful institution of marriage,” Murphy said, lifting the new shot glass in an exaggerated toast. He drained
it in one protracted swallow.
Ryan looked at him carefully.
“Jesus, and I thought I could drink.”
Murphy laughed and picked up the beer. “Every copper thinks he can until he comes up against the master. It’s one of Murphy’s
Laws.”
“Why’d Brice play it so cautious?” Ryan asked.
“Ah, you gotta remember that we were dealing with a bunch of judges and lawyers to begin with,” Murphy said. He gripped the
mug, but didn’t drink. “I think Brice was afraid somebody’d step on his dick. He wanted to feel out every move, and it just
worked against us, that’s all.”
Ryan considered this.
“So did you check out the husband real close or not?”
“Yeah,” Murphy said, holding up his hand and wiggling it slightly. “Me and Roberts liked that angle, but like I said, the
guy had an airtight alibi for the night of the disappearance. We tried to do some backtracking, but you gotta remember that
it first came in as a missing person case. Plus we never even got to check the original crime scene. By the time we got handed
it, the damn thing was colder than a dead mackerel.” His voice sounded defensive. “So all things considered maybe Brice’s
approach wasn’t so wrong after all. He’s methodical, I give him that.” He drank from the mug and leaned his arms on the bar.
“As it turned out, Roberts had a heart attack, and they switched me outta dicks because we couldn’t get nowhere. And then
they ended up shelving the damn case anyway until all this stink got stirred up by that Shay asshole. Vote for me and I’ll
solve the fucking Walker case,” he said with a mimicking lilt to his voice. Murphy turned and leaned forward, so close that
Ryan could smell the other man’s boozy breath.
“Now let me give you some real advice,” Murphy said. “Southside Irish to Southside Irish. Don’t make no waves. Just ride it
out till we see how this election comes out.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed.
Murphy snorted. “Just remember you’re dealing with fucking judges and lawyers here, my boy. So if the brass don’t want to
smell any stink, don’t go stirring things up in the shitter.”
“Lemme guess,” Ryan said, reaching for a cigarette. “That’s gotta be another one of Murphy’s Law’s, right?”
The Box
Joe Smith had gotten downtown a little past eleven, and since then had searched up and down the massive Daley Center for anybody
who’d known or worked under Judge Walker. Deputies, clerks, secretaries, even a few of her fellow judges had consented to
talk to him, but none of them had provided anything that Smith felt could even remotely be considered a lead. Not that I’d
know what a lead was, he readily admitted to himself. At the end of over four hours of interviews, he knew nothing more than
what he had already gleaned from the case file: that Miriam Walker had been, in life, a rather attractive, intelligent, pleasant,
and strong-willed woman. But each person punctuated his or her statement with the same question: Did they have any new ideas
about who killed her?
Frustrated, Smith went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. He thought of calling home to check on Helena, but decided against
it. He had to make some kind of sense of his notebook. He had things scribbled everywhere. Plus she would have beeped him
if anything had happened. And she could always call her mother if she needed someone to stay with her at the hospital until
he arrived. Smith looked up at the ceiling and blew out a long breath through pursed lips.
Why did all this have to be happening at once? he wondered.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind him.
Smith looked up and saw a short white-haired deputy in a starched white shirt standing over him. The man appeared to be in
his early sixties, and had a courtroom captain patch on his left sleeve.
“You the officer who’s been asking about Judge Walker?” the deputy asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, still in the habit of automatic politeness from his patrol work.
“I’m Scotty,” the older man said, extending his hand. “I was in charge of her courtroom before. I’ve since been promoted.”
Scotty pulled a chair out and sat across from Smith.
“Right. I was meaning to talk to you. People said you was the man to see,” Smith lied. But what the hell, he figured. A little
flattery never hurt. “Can you remember any particular cases that might have caused someone to hold a grudge against her?”
Scotty shook his head. “That’s what I couldn’t figure out. Most of the stuff she presided over was small potatoes. All civil
hearings, small claims court…Nothing really to cause any waves.”
Smith scribbled down more information as he asked the same standard questions that Ryan had told him to ask: How well did
you know her? Had she been having trouble with anyone? Did she seem upset or distressed before her disappearance? To Smith’s
surprise, Scotty said that the judge had never seemed happier.
“Like she’d come into fresh clover,” he said.
“How was she getting along at home? She ever talk about that?”
“Like I said, she never seemed happier.”
Smith sighed. This was turning out to be more of the same. A wasted trip. He swished the last bit of his coffee around in
the cup before he drank it.
Scotty was watching him, as if waiting.
“I was wondering how come they switched investigators?” he asked finally.
“New blood, I suppose,” Smith said.
“I gotta tell you, I didn’t think much of those other fel-las,” Scotty said, scratching his ear. “They came by, asked a few
questions, made a big show about acting real interested, then they never even come by for the box after I called them.”
“The box?”
“Yeah. I called them and said I’d found the box of stuff that we’d collected from her chambers. I was holding it for her husband,
but he never came by for it, either. And that damn Murphy told me on the phone that he was definitely coming back, but he
never did.”
“You still got it?”
“Yeah, down in evidence storage,” Scotty said. “Finish your coffee and we’ll go find Big Fred to dig it up for you.”
Locating Big Fred proved almost as difficult as finding a parking space on a downtown street. Finally, after Scotty had called
him on the maintenance frequency for the third time, Big Fred answered.
“What’s your twenty?” Scotty demanded, his knuckles whitening around the radio. “I’ve been calling you for fifteen minutes.”
“Sorry, Captain,” the voice said. “I was in the washroom.”
“Well, get down to evidence storage on the double,” Scotty said. He led Smith over to some elevators and they rode down to
the basement. Big Fred, an immense man clad in a navy-blue uniform, slowly shuffled forward and grinned, his light-brown hair
sticking out from under his cap.
Scotty glanced at his watch, his other arm cocked on his hip.
“Sorry I took so long, Captain,” Big Fred said. “I got diarrhea real bad.” He rubbed his palm over his expansive stomach.
“Might have to call off tomorrow if it don’t get no better.”
“Never mind your bowel problems,” Scotty said. “We need that box of Judge Walker’s personal effects that was logged in here.”
“Oh yeah?” Big Fred turned to Smith. “You working that case now?”
Smith nodded.
“Yeah, them other guys never came back for that stuff, did they?” Big Fred pulled a cluttered ring of keys out of his pants
pocket and opened a solid metal door set against a wall of thick steel mesh. Beyond the mesh were row after row of shelving
with boxes piled high on each level. They stepped into a small anteroom on the other side of the door and Big Fred went to
a desk that was covered with papers, magazines, coffee cups, pop cans, and numerous other items. He deftly plucked a black
bound ledger book from the heap and paged through it, running his thick fingers down each column.
“I distinctly remember telling you to hold it for the investigators,” Scotty said.
“Yeah, Captain,” Big Fred said. “I know I got it in here somewheres.” He paused. “Here it is.”
“What did I tell you?” Scotty said in a triumphant tone. Then to Big Fred, “Go pull it for Detective Smith here. He’ll be
taking it with him. And make sure he signs the log for it.” As Big Fred ambled off, the smaller man turned to Smith and extended
his hand. “I sure hope this helps in some way. I’d like to see whoever killed her caught.”
Smith shook Scotty’s hand and thanked him profusely for his help.
When Scotty had gone, Big Fred came back carrying a cardboard box about three feet long, sealed with duct tape and written
on with black Magic Marker. He set the box heavily on his desk and patted his pockets.
Smith began to hand his pen to Big Fred, but the other man shook his head, extracting a packet of cigars with the plastic
tips. He held out the package to Smith, who declined.
Big Fred shrugged, peeled off the cellophane wrapper, and began fishing around in his pockets once again. Smith wished he’d
brought a lighter, but spied a book of matches among the sea of papers on the desktop. He pointed to them and Big Fred smiled,
the cigar dangling from the middle of his lips.
“Thanks, I been looking all over for them,” he said, striking one and holding the flame to the end of the cigar. After a few
seconds of copious puffing, he shook out the match and exhaled a plume of gray smoke. “So you think this’ll help catch who
done her?”
“Don’t know right now,” Smith said.
“Yeah, I figured it might be important. Them other guys seemed real interested on the phone, then they never came back. The
captain was calling and bugging them, I guess.” Big Fred tapped the page. “Just sign right here and it’s all yours.”
Smith scribbled his name, collected the evidence sheet, and hoisted the box onto his shoulder. It was heavier than it looked.
“Want me to get you a cart or something?” Big Fred asked.
“No thanks, I can handle it,” Smith said. But by the time he’d waited for the elevator he’d switched shoulders two times and
had the beginning of a crick in his back. He could also feel himself perspiring through the underarms of his shirt.
I sure hope this damn thing amounts to something after all this, he thought.