“Many will die anyway. He’s not going to stop.”
“I’m only the messenger,” Herb said. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
I’m not a person who spits, but I was angry enough to.
“Will you be there?” I asked.
Another pause. Then, “No.”
“Herb-”
“We’re not partners anymore, Jack. I’m not Homicide. I’ve got another case I’m working on.”
“And what case is that?”
“Last week, someone stole a semi full of portable toilets.”
“Well, that’s a lot more important than tracking down the mass murderer who’s terrorizing our city. What do you call that? Grand theft potty?”
“Good-bye, Jack. Be safe.”
Herb hung up.
I had no right to be mad at Herb. The secret to reaching old age in our profession is knowing when to call it quits. If he felt he couldn’t do it anymore, my goading him wouldn’t help either of us.
But Herb was Violent Crimes to the bone. If you cut him, he bled Homicide. Robbery was a waste of his time and talents. He must have known that. He just needed someone to remind him.
I called him back. I was going to open a line of honest communication to get to the bottom of his fears and intentions instead of resorting to blaming and name-calling.
The first words out of my mouth were, “Don’t be an idiot, Herb.”
He hung up on me. I thought about calling his wife, remembered she was in on his silly plan to stay alive until retirement, and instead called Rick.
“I’m glad you called, Jack. I heard about what happened. I wanted to visit you in the hospital, but I figured…” He trailed off.
“No problem. Did you hear what the mayor said?”
“I was at the meeting last night.”
“He wants to give the guy his money without trying to catch him.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re not going along with that, are you? The federal government doesn’t make deals with terrorists, right?”
“Not as far as you know.”
“Are you saying-”
“I’m saying that this guy has the means to kill more people. If we pay him off, there’s a good chance he’ll stop. I talked to some special agents on the Behavioral Science Team, and the profiling computer says-”
Great. I’d been down this route several times, and it never led anywhere worth visiting. Was I the only sane cop left in this hemisphere?
I interrupted his profile-speak. “What do you think? You personally?”
“I think he’s got something big planned, and if we bring him in, he’ll let people die.”
“So we just let the guy go?”
“The case won’t be over, Jack. We have a mountain of evidence we haven’t even sifted through. We’ll catch him eventually. And we won’t be risking the lives of civilians.”
It was tough to talk while biting my tongue, but I managed. “So we run away to fight another day.”
“You sound pissed off.”
“I am pissed off.”
“Not to put a price on human life, but it’s only two million dollars, Jack. That’s nothing.”
“You’re wrong. It’s two million too much. Tell me about the profile. Let me guess-starts fires, wets the bed, tortures animals, abused as a child…”
“Not even close. Single white male, between thirty-five and fifty-five, college education, white-collar job, lives in Chicago, possibly a leader in the community, does volunteer work, bi-polar-”
“You think? Maybe his problem is he ran out of Zoloft.”
“-above average intelligence, minor criminal infractions in the past, single, some background in theater-”
“Sure, he did Arsenic and Old Lace in summer stock.”
Rick sighed. “This is a decent profile, Jack.”
“Where’s the part about dressing up like Snow White and collecting Donnie Osmond lunch boxes?”
“Actually, the profile says he probably collects something, like comic books or baseball cards.”
“Or poisonous plants. Look Rick, letting this guy go is a bad idea. Does the profile say he’ll stop if he’s paid?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he won’t. I’ve talked to him. This is all a big game, and he’s enjoying it way too much. Once you give a bully your lunch money, you have to keep paying him forever.”
“What are you planning on doing?”
I thought about the.38 in my purse.
“I’m going to be a bigger bully than he is.”
“And what if more people die?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? If I caught him, and people died, I’d never forgive myself. But if I let him go, and people died, I’d never forgive myself.
Burglary/Robbery/Theft was looking better and better.
I bid adieu to Rick and spent the remainder of the drive going over scenarios, trying to find one with a decent outcome.
None sprang to mind.
I parked in front of a hydrant on Randolph, kitty-corner to the Daley Center. It looked like a scene from The Blues Brothers. Twenty members of the SRT were there, in formation. At least forty cops. Some brass, including the super. Eight squad cars. Four motorcycles. Two scooters. Four horses. Two mountain bikes. The Mobile Command bus. And a Segway.
The Daley Center served as Chicago’s main courthouse. It was an imposing six-hundred-foot-tall structure, all steel and glass, bounded on all four sides by streets. The area around the Picasso-an impressive metal sculpture in rusty brown that resembled a horse mating with a harp-had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, and onlookers as well as media had gathered around the perimeter to watch whatever was happening.
I popped the trunk, dug out my spare shoulder holster, and put it on under my jacket. I also strapped on an ankle harness that held a five-inch AMT Backup II. It weighed about eighteen ounces. I loaded five 9mm short rounds into the clip, jacked one into the throat, and added one more. My boot-cut jeans covered it easily, plus the wider bottoms made my hips seem slimmer. A win-win jeans experience.
I went back to the front seat and removed my Colt Detective Special from my purse, along with a speed loader, and a roll of antacid tablets. I chewed four antacids while strapping the.38 and the speed loader into the Velcro webbing of my holster.
Then I opened the glove compartment and took out a balisong, a Filipino butterfly knife. It had a four-inch stainless steel blade, which stayed hidden between two halves of the handle. With a few flicks of the wrist, the handles would separate, the blade would come out, and the handles would rejoin. I’d taken it off a suspect last year, and often played with it while driving. I’d gotten pretty good, and could open the blade in less than a second.
The knife went into my back pocket. Then I stuck some Ray-Bans on my forehead, locked the car, and jumped into the fray.
I pushed my way through the crowd, past the SWAT guys, sidestepping the horses and a manure mound that looked disturbingly like Richard Nixon, and sashayed up to Superintendent O’Loughlin. She wore what appeared to be a man’s blazer, which pinched her waist and made her shoulders look like a linebacker’s. The slacks were even less flattering. Someone needed to take away her Macy’s charge card, because she was wasting it.
The omnipresent Davy Ellis, attired in gray Armani, offered me a big smile and a wink. Captain Bains didn’t seem to be around.
“Lieutenant,” the super boomed, “I’ve gotten word that you don’t want to play by our rules.”
Who ratted me out? Herb or Rick? Had to be Rick. Herb would never do that. Right?
“I don’t think we should let the Chemist go,” I said.
“I’m sure your personal opinions won’t interfere with your ability to do your duty.”
“My duty is to catch bad guys.”
“Your duty is to serve and protect. Engaging this guy won’t do either.”
“Neither will letting him go.”
O’Loughlin was hard to read. I knew that somewhere, deep down, she had to agree with me. But her face was granite.
“I’d like you to relinquish your weapon, Lieutenant.”
I blinked. Then I blinked again.