The Bricklayer of Albany Park Read online

  CHAPTER 4

  Anthony

  Murph’s customers drifted out in twos and threes, having to get up early the next day to repeat the monotonous cycle that always led them back to the same old ratty booths and same old beat-up barstools. Many walked north toward the Damen ‘L’ station. Others headed toward the church lot down the block. A few stumbled toward their cars parked in the alley that ran alongside the building.

  About fifteen yards from Murph’s side door, the alley dead-ended at a chain link fence with green privacy slats. Topped by barbed wire, the fence surrounded a ComEd electrical substation housing transformers emitting a low-pitched buzzing hum that would act as concealing white noise. Where the rusted bottom of the chain link met crumbling pavement, an assortment of plastic garbage bags, grease-stained fast food wrappers, and empty beer cans were strewn about on a carpet of rain-slicked autumn leaves. It was there, at the end of the alley, where I had parked my camper and where I would guide Henry and lead him to a just punishment, as the apparition had demanded of me.

  Adrenaline started to flow, I forced myself to be patient.

  Finally, Henry staggered into the alley through Murph’s side door. Alone. After a few wobbly steps, he steadied himself against one of the city’s dumpsters lining the alleyway. When his weight caused the dumpster to slide away, he lost his balance and stumbled.

  Time to move. I tugged my hood down so its edge hung over the bill of my baseball cap, shadowing my face. I surveyed the street and then crossed with deliberate strides, avoiding fresh rain puddles that looked like shiny black holes on the dark pavement. And then I stopped. The talkative, uniformed stranger emerged from Murph’s front door. He paused, lit a cigarette, and headed toward the church parking lot. He caught sight of me and stopped, flicking his cigarette into the street.

  “Hey you!”

  Shit.

  “Hold on a minute!” He walked straight toward me, but as he got closer, I breathed a sigh of relief. His uniform hat did not have the distinctive black and white checkerboard trim of the Chicago PD. He was nothing more than an aging, unarmed security guard—a rent-a-cop.

  “Murph says you short-changed him.”

  Really? That’s what this was about? I glared at him. Taking more crumpled singles out of my pants pocket, I threw them on the ground where they landed in a small puddle at his feet. “Here, now fuck off.”

  He froze. He peered at me and then slowly picked up the wet cash, wiped it on his pants and, without counting it, turned and walked toward the ‘L’ station instead of Murph’s without another word. Asshole!

  I resumed moving toward the alley and toward my prey, my pace still deliberate but more determined, faster. Again, I came to a sudden halt just outside the mouth of the alley. The side door had swung open, splashing light on the pavement where Henry was bent over, his hands on his knees. A tall, older man emerged from the doorway and approached Henry. I recognized him as one of Henry’s drinking buddies from the crowded booth. He walked over to Henry and muttered what sounded like a question, but I couldn’t make it out. Without looking up, Henry shook his head and shouted, “No! And, I don’t give a fuck that it’s raining!”

  Henry’s companion shrugged and went back inside, slamming the door behind him so hard that it bounced open leaving a sliver of light piercing the dark alley.

  Relieved, I took a deep breath and slid into the darkness and isolation of the alley with its mixed odors of damp pavement, fresh vomit, and over-flowing dumpsters. The apparition had guided me here, guided me to Murph’s. Guided me to Henry.

  22

  CHAPTER 5

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I didn’t have an easy time of it freshman year. I’d hoped college would provide a fresh start, that I could finally make a friend or two to replace Tony, and I thought I could handle the academics. Turned out, I was wrong. About everything.

  After Christmas dinner at my aunt’s in De Kalb, I casually mentioned I might drop out and get a job. Without looking away from the NBA game on television, my father said, “I’m not surprised; you’ve always been a quitter.” He took his eyes off the game just long enough to look at me. “And, don’t think for a minute that you’re moving back in with me.”

  Move back in with him? Hell, that’s the last thing I’d ever do. I’d live on the street before I set foot back in that house. Calling me a quitter? He was the walking, talking definition of the word. As a child I was eager to gain his approval; but at that moment, I was eager to prove him wrong. I decided then and there that I’d earn my degree just to spite the bastard.

  I remained on campus during the summer between freshman and sophomore years, enrolling in two classes so I wouldn’t be required to move out of the dorm, and worked in the university cafeteria to have beer money. I wasn’t interested in much and was angry about everything. I drank a lot and often, something I had started in high school. For me, alcohol wasn’t something to drink—it was a place to hide.

  During the fall semester of my sophomore year I continued to just get by. I’d wake up some mornings with no memory of the night before, and was plagued by unrelenting headaches. Was I drinking too much? Probably. I didn’t have trouble with drinking—it had trouble with me. I stumbled my way through the fall semester in a hazy dream state.

  Back then, I was a habitual procrastinator. I waited until the last week of the fall semester to log in to the university’s registration website to select classes for the spring semester. I chose classes based on what time they met—the later, the better—and how short the reading list was. I always looked for shortcuts and ways to avoid work. I was almost finished filling out my schedule, but I wanted to enroll in at least one more “A/B” class—one that required minimum work and in which the professor had a history of awarding a grade no less than a B.

  My most reliable sources for academic counseling were the basketball players who lived in the dorm. At Northeastern, basketball was king, and its players were princes. I found a couple of them in the third-floor study hall where they were “studying” the latest edition of Madden NFL. I asked about an easy class that would guarantee a good grade. Without looking up from their controllers, and in almost a single voice, they recommended a criminal justice course taught by Thomas Aquinas Foster.

  I returned to my room and brought up the course synopsis on my beat-up laptop. It was perfect! There was no reading list. The syllabus listed movies and “instructor-supplied materials,” whatever that meant, and the final grade was to be determined by attendance and a take-home final exam. I really didn’t care that I had no interest in the subject matter—just as long as it required minimum effort on my part and there was a B in my future. I registered for the last spot. Then I shut down my computer, grabbed a beer from my mini-fridge, and popped it open. I toasted myself, satisfied I could coast through another semester. I couldn’t have foreseen that after taking Foster’s class, I would never again take the easy way out or look for short cuts of any kind.

  CHAPTER 6

  Anthony

  I leaned over Henry and put my outstretched hand on his shoulder. In a voice slightly louder than a whisper, I said, “Hey, mister, you don’t look so good.”

  He had his back to the street, and was bent over at the waist. Wiping vomit from his chin with the back of his hand, he twisted slightly and looked up. “Huh? What do you want?”

  Looking at his sallow features and then down at the puddle of vomit, I shook my head. “That piss Murph calls whiskey would make anyone sick.”

  Speaking slowly, apparently trying not to slur his words, Henry asked, “Do I know you?”

  “Nah, I’m just tryin’ to be a Good Samaritan.”

  “Be a Good Samaritan somewhere else.”

  “Look. I’m offering to lend some help, buddy—by the looks of you, you need it.”

  He ignored me. Obviously disoriented, he took a step toward the back of the alley but stopped suddenly and leaned over, readying himself to retch again. When he fini
shed, he straightened up, removed his cap and tilted his head back, letting the light rain act as a cold shower against his face.

  “Buddy, you’re in bad shape. You need to get in out of the rain.”

  Without looking over at me, he growled, “I’m fine. Lemme be.” He blinked several times as if clearing his vision then grabbed his crotch. “Gotta piss.” He unzipped his pants and a trickle ran down his pant leg. “Damn it—gotta go, but can’t!”

  Don’t worry my friend, I’m going to fix that for you. I surveyed the area again. Light spilled into the alley from Murph’s partially opened side door, so I took a couple of steps back and eased it closed. A full recycling dumpster sat to the left of the door; I rolled it to block the door and locked its wheels in place. There was a single floodlight atop the boarded-up grocery store across the alley, but it illuminated only a small portion of the top of the brick wall where a billboard used to be. Otherwise the alley was dark, which suited me just fine. Darkness was my ally.

  Earlier in the evening, I’d spotted two surveillance cameras that might later provide an incriminating image, and I’d seen a city traffic camera at the corner down the street, but it hung by a single cable and was clearly inoperable. Although there were cameras mounted on 180-degree swivels at the ‘L’ station, the entrance to the alley, like the storefront across the street where I’d stood waiting, was a blind spot.

  Henry zipped up and steadied himself, one hand against the alley wall.

  “Look, like it or not, you’re going to need help gettin’ home.” Without waiting for a response, I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  Henry turned away and shrugged off my hand. “I told you, lemme be. I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are. That’s why you got puke drippin’ off your chin and you’re headed for a ComEd station you think is the ‘L’.”

  “What?” Henry peered down the alley and saw that I was right. “I just got turned ’round, that’s all.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  It was rumored Foster was forced to take an early retirement from Chicago PD; in other words, he was a loser and, like others who could not make it in the “real world,” had sought refuge in academia. At the time, I didn’t know much about him, nor did I care to. Eventually, however, I came to know him like few others knew him, and over the years, I was allowed rare glimpses of his troubled soul.

  Foster dispatched his graduate assistant the first day of class to explain the ground rules. She arrived late and explained that our grades would be determined by attendance and a one-question, take-home final exam, adding, “Unless you are a complete dolt, you will receive at least a B.” She continued, “Foster has his own set of rules. Never ask questions in class; instead, send him an email and don’t expect an answer unless your question interests him. And he doesn’t hold regular office hours and doesn’t generally make himself available to students outside of class, either.” With a touch of sarcasm in her voice, she wished us luck and dismissed the class.

  During the first two weeks of the semester, the entire fifty minutes of class were consumed with short clips from movies that Foster’s GA projected against the beige cinder block wall of the classroom— scenes from Deranged, Badlands, and In Cold Blood. Foster provided no comments, shared no insights, and gave no lectures. While the movie clips ran, he positioned himself in the shadows near the front corner of the classroom. He stood rigid, his arms folded in front of him, and with a scowl on his face. It was difficult to gauge his age—late forties, perhaps. His full head of dark, thick hair was slightly graying at the temples. His brow was wrinkled, and he always seemed to have dark circles under his hazel eyes, but his tailored suits highlighted a youthful waist, a barrel for a chest, and wide shoulders on a six-foot frame. Occasionally, my eyes wandered from the movie images on the wall over to where he stood, and although he was perfectly still, his eyes were constantly searching the classroom—studying our faces.

  On Monday morning of the third week, Foster’s GA arrived early and set up a slide projector connected to a laptop, and then sat silently waiting for Foster. As he entered the classroom, Foster flipped the classroom lights off and nodded to the GA. Without explanation, she began to project crime scene and autopsy photos of bloodied, and sometimes mutilated, corpses on the front wall. Each time she pressed the Enter key on her laptop, the image on the wall faded to black and a new, equally horrific, photo splashed on the wall.

  All the while, Foster continued his silent vigil in the front corner of the dark classroom, watching us from the shadows with an increased intensity, but never revealing his impression of our reactions to the grisly images. Foster and the GA repeated this show for the remainder of the week.

  Then, Foster began telling his stories. He recounted violent crimes, explained the manner of death, and posed rhetorical questions regarding motive, pausing only to take a drink from his ever-present Starbucks paper cup. He entertained no questions, ignored raised hands, and glared with disdain at students foolish enough to offer an unsolicited comment. He alternated between his stories and a routine of teasing the class with more graphic crime scene photos, gauging our reactions. He explained the behavioral habits of sociopaths and psychopaths, putting the photographs in context.

  I studied the photos that filled the front wall of the classroom and thought: This is what the killer saw, just before he turned and walked away, flush with the rush of adrenaline and indifferent to what the carnage would mean to others. What else did the killer think? What else did the killer feel? And if, as Foster claimed, every crime scene photo was like a jigsaw puzzle, then I saw in bold contrast the outlines of every tiny, oddly shaped, interlocking piece. I got an adrenaline rush with every new photo, every new story, every new killer.

  As if he was speaking to me, and only to me, he told stories of both the victims and the killers, some of which were stories of torture and murder beyond what any human should have to bear. Foster reveled in relating tales of what he described as “monsters come to life, disguised as your neighbor who works in the mall or your cousin’s friend who repaired your furnace late one night last winter.” He tried to make his stories real for us by splashing gruesome crime scene photos on the front wall and, with a faraway look, asking how we would react if the victim was a loved one, maybe even a spouse.

  By spring break, my odd fascination with the world of killers, their motives, and psychological afflictions had became addictive. The “why and how” of my fascination were lost on me. I couldn’t explain it then, and I cannot fully explain it even now, but I knew that Foster was responsible for planting the seeds. Energized, my perspective on almost everything and everyone I encountered was different. I was different.

  My fixation on my father’s taunts and drunkenness faded, and by the time I started my senior year, I had changed my major to Justice Studies and had taken every course Foster taught. I enrolled in all of the criminal justice classes and seminars Northeastern offered. I even enrolled in psychology courses that focused on bio-physiological afflictions and abnormal psychology.

  During the summer between my junior and senior years, I participated in a four-week extern program at the Cook County morgue, where I indulged my imagination as I witnessed autopsies of homicide victims. Classmates were puzzled, and asked what about the morgue intrigued me so much. I didn’t have a good answer.

  CHAPTER 8

  Anthony

  I’d parked my beat-up camper in the last spot in the alley, closest to the fence. It was a fifteen-year-old Toyota pickup that had been converted into a makeshift camper using a small homemade fiberglass slide-in topper. It had seen better days: cracks in the weather-worn fiberglass were mended with duct tape, rust stains wept from the two small painted-over windows, and its wheel covers were missing, victims of potholes. The pickup had been repainted a drab green that had faded and needed a touch-up—a project started but never finished, leaving the passenger door with a dark orange primer spot just below the win
dow.

  The camper stood only seven feet off the ground, which allowed me to park in most public multi-story lots and fit easily into a garage with a standard size door. There was a five-foot access door at the rear of the rig, and the bumper had been extended to provide a step up to the truck bed floor. I could hardly stand upright inside; it was cramped and always smelled of mildew and sweat. A five-foot long couch sat along one wall, and a bench with a full-length, pull-down cot above it sat opposite. The bench doubled as a storage bin for tools and gear. Dark, carmine-colored streaks had stained the mangy carpet.

  The rain picked up. Lightning flashed silently over Lake Michigan. Henry tried to regain his bearings but slipped on the wet pavement, shooting a hand out to grab the now-stationary dumpster. His tweed cap landed in a puddle. When he reached down for it, he swayed, struggling to regain his balance. Without looking up, Henry surrendered. “OK. OK. Jus’ help get me to the ‘L’.”

  That was easier than I thought.

  “Sure, but you should sit down for a few minutes. Clear your head. And we need to clean you up. You’re a mess. Passengers on the ‘L’ will throw you back on the platform with that slop all over you and smellin’ like you do. I have some towels in my truck.” I nodded toward the back corner of the alley. “It’s right over there.”

  Bleary-eyed, Henry looked back at the pickup. “OK. OK.”

  I moved to his side, lifted his arm, and placed it over my shoulder, then circled his waist with my other arm. I felt him shift his weight to lean against me as thunder rumbled in the distance followed by a silent burst of sheet lightning. A storm was coming. I knew better than to hurry though. Haste always led to a blunder, and the cops loved it when a guy like me made a mistake. I was too smart for that, too careful to make a mistake. I glanced back at the mouth of the alley. We were still alone. Walking slowly and almost in unison, we moved deeper into the darkness.