Now I was in Corktown, the old Irish neighborhood. It felt like a mistake now, as I gunned it down Church Street, lights flashing, siren off, residents out on their porches, watching me go by. A young black man wouldn’t run down this street if he had others to choose from. I slowed down as I came up to Trumbull.
Then I saw him. Or at least I thought I did. A young man running. The right size, the right jeans and gray shirt. No black hat, but then losing the hat would be the smart play. He was heading north, moving fast. I made the left on Trumbull and tried to keep my eye on him as I came to Michigan Avenue.
Then I stopped dead at the police barricade.
The Tigers game had ended. All of the people filing out of the stadium clogged the streets. I picked up my transmitter.
“Suspect heading north on Trumbull, just past the stadium. Jeans, gray shirt, no black hat now. All units in the area, please respond.”
The officers working the intersection spotted me and did their best to hold off the crowds for a moment. The barricade was moved and I made my way through. But now I had lost sight of him.
“Okay,” I said out loud, “you see me coming after you. So do me a favor and try something stupid. Make a break for it. And if you’re gonna turn off this street, go right.”
I knew that would be a dead end for him no matter which street he took. Everything ended when it came up to the Lodge Freeway.
But now that I was north of the stadium, I was starting to hit the traffic. Everybody walking back to their cars, many of them parked in lots up and down this street. I still had my lights flashing, but when the streets are full enough, there’s just nowhere for the cars to pull over.
I picked up my transmitter again. “I’ve lost touch with the suspect, last seen heading north on Trumbull. Any luck out there?”
An agonizing silence, as I hoped against hope that he was already being arrested by another unit. I pictured the handcuffs slapped on his wrists, a hand on his head as he was put into the back of the squad car.
Answer me, damn it. Somebody out there. Say something.
“Negative so far,” I finally heard someone say. “No sight of him.”
The cars were lining up to get off the street and onto the freeway. I pulled my car over and got out, locking it and leaving the lights flashing. There were thousands of people on the sidewalk, walking away from the stadium. I started running through them, looking down every side street. Until finally, there, up ahead, a young man’s face looking back, then turning away.
I keyed my shoulder radio. “I’m on foot now, in pursuit of suspect. Still on Trumbull, passing over I-75. I need a unit on the other side to intercept. Repeat, I need a unit on the north end of the street as it crosses over I-75.”
We’ll catch you, I thought. As long as the unit gets there in time, you’ll have nowhere to turn.
I kept pushing my way through the crowds as the street and the sidewalk took the long span over the freeway, cars zooming by beneath us. I didn’t see him, but I knew he had to be there in front of me.
“Come on,” I said out loud, panting as I ran. “Somebody get to the other end so we can head him off.”
That’s all I was thinking about. That’s probably all I could think about and still stay functional. I couldn’t let my mind go back to that scene in the train station. I kept moving, kept watching for my suspect, and kept hoping we’d catch him so that at least one thing in the world would make sense tonight.
Halfway over the bridge now, which seemed to go on forever. Police lights ahead of me, finally flashing on the other side. Two cars, then three. Blocking off Trumbull now, not just the cars but a great mass of people backed up on the sidewalk going north. I ran between the cars, and as I finally got close to the other side I saw a figure assuming the position against the side of a squad car. Jeans, gray shirt, legs kicked out, hands on the hood. An officer on either side, going through the guy’s pockets. Something being taken out and put on the hood. The handcuffs being slapped on and the young man put in the back of the car. Just as I had hoped would happen.
I slowed down to a walk, tried to catch my breath. The scene in the station already coming back to me, fighting its way back into my head now that the chase was over. The process would begin now. The booking, the arraignment, the visit from the public defender. It would take weeks to get to the end of it. Maybe months. But it wouldn’t change what had happened. It wouldn’t undo the violence or bring back a woman who didn’t deserve to be left for dead in the dusty corner of an abandoned balcony.
I’d probably never understand why it happened, but I’d have the rest of my life to think about it. For right now, I just had to finish my day’s work. Go up and thank my fellow officers for the assist on the collar. Take a look at the suspect and confirm he was the same person I saw running from the train station. Then go back and get my vehicle. Find Franklin, make sure the crime scene was secure. Wait for the specialists to arrive, and be glad that part of the operation isn’t my job. Go home, maybe get drunk. It sounded like the right kind of night for it.
A sergeant approached me. Not Sergeant Grimaldi, but another man from another squad. He was probably on his way in for the afternoon shift when he heard the call, and he was close enough to be the first supervising officer on the scene.
“I’m Sergeant Schuman,” he said, shaking my hand. “I believe we’ve met before. You okay?”
I nodded. I still didn’t quite have my voice back yet.
“We’ve got a Ronald Jefferson in the backseat,” he said, looking at the driver’s license in his hand. “We found a few rocks and a fair amount of money on him as well.”
I looked over and saw the evidence on the hood of the vehicle. A handful of small Baggies, each one containing a marble-sized chunk of white powder. Next to that was a thick roll of currency.
“Wait a minute,” I said, going over to the vehicle. “Why would he still have this on him? I saw him throw something on the tracks.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time to get rid of it.”
“He did,” I said, thinking back to the sight of him standing on the other side of that fence. The look of utter calm on his face when he realized I couldn’t catch him. “He had all the time in the world. For that matter, why even bother throwing away drugs if he just killed somebody? Unless it was something else entirely…”
I think I already knew what I was going to find when I opened the back door to that squad car. A two-bit dealer who just so happened to be wearing jeans and a gray shirt that day.
I opened the door. I grabbed the kid and turned his face to me.
“Hey, what are you doing, man?” Attitude all the way, even now that he was in handcuffs. Especially now that he was in handcuffs.
He was around the same age, same build, and wearing, as I had already figured out, the same clothes. Although this kid’s shirt was a slightly different shade of gray now that I looked at it. And he didn’t have a torn sleeve like my suspect.
I let go of him. I slammed the door shut.
“It’s not him,” I said.
“McKnight,” the sergeant said, “are you sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s not him.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
I took a quick scan through the other people still milling around on the sidewalk. Then I came back to the car and looked north, up the street. It went up to Pine and Spruce and Perry and a dozen other side streets. He must have gotten across before these cops closed off the bridge.
“He could be anywhere by now,” I said. “Pretty much goddamned anywhere.”
“Come on,” the sergeant said. “Get in my car.”
I got in the passenger’s seat. He flipped on his lights and headed north on Trumbull.
“Give me a guess here,” he said. “Use your gut instinct and tell me where he went.”