He then stood up, encouraging me to do likewise, and wandered slowly toward the door, talking as he went. “I’m assigning you one of my men, primarily as a contact and resource person. If you feel the need, you can have him accompany you on your rounds, but from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you can do most of the legwork on your own. It’s your choice, though.”
I saw where he was headed. “I don’t mind going it alone.”
“Fine. You armed?”
“Yes-it’s in my luggage right now.”
“Okay. We’re pretty relaxed. Donahue tells me you’re your department’s chief of detectives?”
“That’s right.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, then. ’Course, if your nosing around goes beyond just that-if you think you’re onto something that might interest us-we’d like to know.”
“Sure.” The door opened and a tall, stooped man with a full beard and glasses stepped in. He reminded me instantly of some disheveled English professor who’d just been interrupted in mid-chapter. I guessed, both from the gray in his beard and the bags under his eyes, that he was somewhere in his mid-fifties.
Jeffers introduced us. “Lieutenant Gunther-Detective Runnion. The lieutenant is chasing after a twenty-year-old metal kneecap from Vermont. Here’s the file. Right now, he just needs a liaison man.” He handed Runnion a thin folder I hadn’t noticed earlier, welcomed me to the department once more, and closed his door in our faces.
Runnion looked down at the folder in his hand without opening it. He then stared at me for a moment and gave me a wan, bushy smile. “Looks like you’ve been reduced to a couple of pieces of paper. Follow me and I’ll read about you. You can tell me later what they fucked up.”
I trailed him through part of the building, until we came to a large room with a dozen desks scattered about, each one looking like someone’s private camping place, with decorative postcards, assorted memorabilia, and the usual piles of paperwork. About half the desks were manned by people either typing or talking on the phone. One man was leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and slowly, meditatively scratching his balls.
Runnion motioned me to a chair and slumped into his own, already reading the file. After a few minutes, still reading, he grunted and muttered, “’67 ammo-I’ll be damned. Too bad there were no prints on the shells.”
I’d never mentioned the absence of prints, which made me suddenly realize that the merry-go-round I’d been following with Donahue, Jeffers, and now Runnion had been far less arbitrary or bureaucratic than I’d thought. Runnion was reading about my case-with details only Brandt or I could have supplied-on a fax-paper flimsy, which presumably had originated in Brattleboro and been passed along by Donahue. Apparently, while both Jeffers and Donahue had played ignorant, they’d already read what was now in Runnion’s hands. I’d therefore been given the official once-over… twice. That Jeffers had ushered me out the door with such little concern obviously proved that I’d come up to snuff, but it still made me feel somehow processed, like a side of beef passing inspection.
Runnion finally tossed the file onto his cluttered desk, his face and demeanor noncommittal. “You got yourself a real mystery. How’re you going to solve it?”
I pointed at the folder. “Does that mention the Articu-Tech angle?”
He nodded.
“Well, they apparently sold the three knees with that particular lot number in Chicago sometime in early 1969. So I thought I’d start with the major hospitals around here-the ones that were doing that kind of operation back then-and see if I get lucky.”
Runnion grunted again but didn’t react with Donahue’s dismissiveness. “That’s probably why they put you here. Area 6 includes Northwestern. They’ve been doing hotshot procedures for years.”
“Who else?”
“Right offhand? University of Chicago. In fact, I would’ve thought of them first. There’s also Cook County Hospital, Rush Presbyterian, and a bunch of others.”
“What area is the University of Chicago in?”
Runnion looked surprised. “One, but that doesn’t matter-you can work out of here regardless of where you’re poking around, unless you and I develop marital problems, of course.”
“What is this area thing, anyway?”
Runnion brushed it off. “Oh, it’s like precincts. Chicago has twenty-five police districts for the patrol division and six detective areas, with each area covering several districts, but that’s all organizational. If you need me to help you out on any of this, it won’t matter where it is, as long as we’re within city limits.”
I nodded and checked my watch. “Great, then I guess I’ll start with Northwestern tomorrow morning and see where I end up.” I stood up. “And as for us developing marital problems, I won’t throw the first dish if you won’t.”
An appealing grin appeared through the thick beard. “Deal. Where’re you staying?”
“The La Salle Motor Court.”
He nodded and smiled. “Tight budget, huh? It’s an okay place.”
He got up and walked me to the building’s lobby, handing me a business card at the door, his earlier reserve replaced, I thought, by relief that I wasn’t going to be much of a burden. “Enjoy yourself. Normally, I’d have to babysit you, so they obviously think you’re okay on your own. But don’t get lonely, okay? If you need help, whether it’s pushing a bureaucrat around or something bigger, call me. This city can get a little unruly sometimes-real quick.”
I shook his hand. “Thanks. Shouldn’t be too tough.”
Runnion gave me a long, quiet look, his soft brown eyes world-weary and wise, which made me half regret my cynicism of a moment ago. “Don’t go in thinking like that.”
The drive back into town on Lake Shore Drive-an impractical, roundabout route I chose out of pure prejudice-was considerably less enjoyable the second time around. Rush hour had kicked in, and while the heaviest traffic was headed north, for the great suburban escape, the combination of quitting time and an inordinate amount of road repair work-with the attending barricades and single-lane detours-made my side of the street just as slow. For well over an hour, I crawled along, still enjoying the sights, especially as the sun set and the lights came on, but by the time I arrived at the hotel-located within a long walk of the Northwestern campus, as it turned out-all I wanted to do was to grab a sandwich and turn in.
The La Salle Motor Court was not as bad as I’d feared from Runnion’s lackluster endorsement. It was a standard-issue motel-two floors, flat roof, exterior staircases, all wrapped around an open-sided parking lot. Although it was old and slightly battle-scarred, it was clean and, for the moment at least, relatively quiet, barring the expected traffic noise. Given my personal habits, I was as happy here-especially with the fast-food restaurant I’d noticed at the corner-as I might be in downtown Brattleboro.
Much later, unable to sleep, I stood by the window, with all the lights off, looking down across the parking lot at the street. There was no view to speak of-just the traffic and the buildings opposite-but the activity was impressive. At a time when most people in Brattleboro were either heading for bed or groping for a midnight snack, this street was humming with twenty-four-hour, round-the-clock energy.
I’d read in some old guidebook that Chicago had 3 million residents-six times the population of Vermont. It made me wonder just how many of them were out there now, walking, driving, working, partying, breaking and entering, or just breaking-the law and each other’s heads-and how many of those I might get to meet personally.
Norm Runnion’s parting words of caution came back clearly to mind.
17
Northwestern’s Memorial Hospital was half a block away from the city’s flamboyant old Water Tower, a bright yellow stone survivor of the famous 1871 fire, and at one point, the tallest structure around. That distinction was downright quaint now, since the tower had all the impact of an overdesigned Lego castle next to its flashy, looming, monstrous neighbors.