I shake my head, my heart racing again.
As if he really jumped off the fuckin’ bridge. If he wanted to kill himself, why didn’t he do it at Kim’s? I close the journal, which goes back three years. There are other girlfriends listed too, with more explicit details. I add the journal to the box of materials we’re taking.
We’ve answered the question why, although why isn’t important to a homicide detective. Why is only important in Sherlock Holmes stories and to the news media, which struggles to determine why everything occurs. In homicide, the who, what, when, where, and how of a murder is what leads us to the killer. But sometimes it helps to know why, I guess.
I slip on my extra-dark Ray Ban Balorama sunglasses as I sit at my desk in the bureau, the early-morning sun burning through the withered tint on the wall of windows while Jodie explains the case to the assembled cops. It’s 10 a.m. now and I’m worn out. That’s what I get, being thirty.
Yes, there was blood inside the Wolf’s SUV. No, no one saw him jump. No one saw him walk away either. The ever-alert bridge operator didn’t even notice the abandoned SUV until a passing Harbor Police car almost ran into it. Yes, we checked cabs and buses, but no one picked up anyone close to the Wolf’s description.
The ever-efficient Harbor Police are dragging the Industrial Canal, only they’re not optimistic. The canal’s deep enough for ocean-going ships and they can’t keep the locks closed for long. I feel myself dozing off.
No one in the room believes he jumped, so we set up a routine. Lt. Merten takes over, handing out assignments, sending detectives to cover all the Wolf’s known haunts, houses of his relatives, places he’s worked, whatever they’ve come up with from the computer.
I’m slipping now, my regular breathing lulling me to sleep.
I feel someone shaking me and raise my sunglasses to Juanita Cruz’s eager face. “I’m going with you tonight. You want me to meet you here, or what?”
I pull my feet off my desk. “Come again? What did I miss?”
“I’m assigned to work with you.” She sounds apologetic.
“No problem there.” I stand and stretch. “What are we supposed to do?”
Juanita points to Jodie standing next to the coffee pot, waving us over.
“You two go sit on his ex-girlfriend,” says Jodie. “The one he went out with just before Kim.” She takes a sip of coffee. “We’ve notified everyone from his journals to be careful.”
On our way out, Juanita remarks, “Everyone wants you to be the one to catch him.”
I don’t have to ask why.
Shortly after sunset, following some needed sleep and a thick burger and fries at my favorite haunt, Flamingos Café in Bucktown, I sit parked in my unmarked car with Juanita. We’re outside the Wolf’s old girlfriend’s apartment house on Constance Street just down from Howard Avenue, only three blocks from Kim’s apartment. The building is three stories tall with a security front door and a gated garage out back.
Juanita and I both wear dark, short-sleeved dress shirts, unbuttoned and open over black T-shirts, black running shoes, and black jeans, with our 9mm’s in nylon holsters on our hips. She wears her hair down and looks different. Even with only a hint of makeup, a brush of red on her lips, she’s very pretty, with those sultry Latina looks.
“So what’s this girl’s name again?” She has her note pad open.
“Bessie Cleary, white female, twenty-three, five-five, thin, light brown hair. Went out with the Wolf for over a year. Lived with him. Jodie talked with her and Bessie doesn’t think the lovely Mr. Ahern Smith would ever hurt her.”
Juanita looks up from her notes. “You sure he can’t get in the back way to this place?”
“I’m not sure. But the security guard’s retired N.O.P.D. and he’s just chomping for a shot at the Wolf. Carries a Glock 35, 40 caliber, seventeen rounds. Itching to shoot.”
I stretch out my legs as best I can. Even with the windows down it’s still steamy, not even a breath of wind. The only smell is Juanita’s light perfume, which is kind of nice actually.
“So, your girlfriend’s mad at you?”
I’d mentioned it when I picked her up. “Yeah. Another night alone. She said it’s getting old all these hours I put in.”
I don’t tell her how many girlfriends have given up on me. Don’t want to sound pathetic. Heartache’s part of the job, I keep telling myself. Suddenly, the Wolf’s words, heart’s death, come to mind, and I brush them away. Fuckin’ bastard.
“Kim thought the Wolf was the one.” Juanita’s voice is husky with emotion. “Soul mate, you know.” She takes in a deep breath. “I remember the first time I saw Kim, all bright-eyed and eager, right out of the academy. She smiled all through that first shift.” Her voice cracks.
“You were her training officer?”
She nods, catches her breath, and continues in a staccato voice filled with emotion. “Her family’s rich. She was an athlete. Played tennis in high school. Had two college degrees. Was going to go to law school, but went to the academy instead.”
I watch a man enter the building, but he’s too short and too old to be the Wolf.
“She became a cop because she was tired of being a victim.”
I turn to Juanita, my eyebrows rising.
“Kim was mugged twice, once in an evening gown coming from her debutante ball. It scared her and she didn’t like the feeling and wanted to do something about it herself.”
A cab parks in front of the apartment house and an elderly lady gets out and enters the building.
“I’ve never known anyone with a clearer definition between right and wrong,” Juanita goes on. “She was a problem solver at scenes, running a guy in for hitting his wife, running a woman in for neglecting her kids, making peace between people more often than not.”
I’m not much of a peacemaker.
Juanita readjusts herself, leaning against the door, facing me more as she says, “Why is your middle name Raven?”
“I’m half Lakota.”
She’s confused, so I explain: “Sioux.”
“Oh. Anyone ever call you the Raven?”
“No.”
She comes right back with, “I looked up the word in the dictionary this morning. Raven has other meanings, besides the bird. It also means to be predatory, to seek or seize prey and to plunder, and—”
I raise my hand. “I know. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“How many men have you killed?” Her eyes are narrowed, her pouty lips set seriously, and for some reason I can’t tell her it’s none of her business.
“I quit counting at five.”
I figured I’d get a raised eyebrow, but her face remains set.
“The Grand Jury decided all were justifiable homicides. They did cite me, however, for scalping two of them.”
“Scalping?” Her eyes go owly. She’s so gullible, I have to play it out, so I reach my left hand around and pull out my black hunting knife from its sheath on my belt. It has a nine-inch blade, a Sioux instrument, sharpened on one side only, a proper knife for a plains warrior.
She folds her arms. “You never scalped them.”
Shrugging, I put my knife away. I don’t bother telling her I hadn’t much choice in shooting the men. Truly. But most cops never shoot anyone and Juanita doesn’t have to explain her curiosity. I’m an aberration, either the unluckiest Cajun or a predatory Sioux taking revenge on the white eyes.