The Bricklayer of Albany Park Read online

  Startled by the sudden clink of bottles against pavement behind me, I paused and released my grip on Henry’s waist, sliding my hand down into my pants pocket, ready to remove my folding knife and flip it open. I snickered when a large mutt appeared beside me, stopped, gave Henry a sniff, and then moved on. We made it to the back of the truck without another interruption.

  “Here, sit for a second,” I said, pushing him down gently on the bumper and opening the door to trap him between the camper, the door, the fence, and the alley wall. I’d backed the truck up to the fence so that when the camper door swung open, there wouldn’t be enough space for a man to squeeze through.

  “I’ll grab some towels to clean you up.”

  Henry glared at me. “I don’t wanna sit—I gotta get home.” He looked back at the alley. “I’m feeling better. I can find my way.” Henry pushed himself to his feet and tried to slip between the fence and the open door.

  “I don’t think so.” I grabbed his right shoulder and hooked my right arm around his neck, forcing his head into the crook of my elbow. With my left hand over his left shoulder, I clasped my hands together, and began to squeeze, applying just enough pressure to the carotid arteries on both sides of his neck to cut off the oxygen-enriched blood from the heart to the brain. I knew what I was doing. I had done it before. Thirty seconds later, Henry went limp.

  CHAPTER 9

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I was anxious to engage Foster one-on-one. I had dozens of theories I wanted put to the test. But as Foster’s GA had warned us that first day, he did not make himself available to students, and he didn’t answer any of my emails. I often ran to catch up with him on his way out of class, pelting him with questions as he walked across campus. He ignored me. Undaunted, I tried to corner him when he was with other faculty members, hoping that he would be too embarrassed to be disdainful in front of his peers. Sometimes that worked and he spat one- or two-word answers looking both bored and irritated at the same time.

  I finally got more than one-word grunts and dismissive scowls when, on the Monday after the fall break of my senior year, I followed him into NEIU’s administrative building. I stood in the lobby at the foot of the main stairway and watched as he climbed the winding structural glass staircase to the third-floor faculty offices. He carried a black leather portfolio tucked under his right arm, his camel hair overcoat was folded over his left arm, and in his left hand he clutched his trademark hounds tooth bucket hat. He had ascended only four or five stairs when I called after him and, instead of a question, I issued a challenge: “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster!”

  He stopped abruptly, turned, and sized me up. Squinting, he looked down to where I was standing. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He who fights with monsters should—”

  “Yes. And the rest of Nietzsche’s Aphorism 146 reads: ‘And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.’ A trite allusion, young man. What’s your point?”

  Refusing to be put off by him this time, I asked, “Does it take a monster to catch a monster?”

  He stood silent for a moment, then moved down to the bottom step and, with a look on his face that revealed equal measures of distraction and inquisitiveness, asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Vincenti.”

  “I asked your name, not part of it.”

  “Francis Angelo Vincenti. Everyone calls me Frank.” I never included the “Jr.” part.

  He stepped off the staircase, stood even with me, and said, “Interesting that you failed to include the suffix ‘Junior’.”

  Startled that he knew who I was, I just nodded.

  “Well, after all this time you finally figured out what to say that actually caught my attention. I am disappointed that it took so long.”

  Foster paused, presumably waiting to see if I appreciated the subtle quality of his statement. I did. “I have questions—”

  “I know you do. I presume, however, that by now you have refined your questions—those you emailed me last year were interesting but quite sophomoric.” He paused, no doubt to let his criticism sink in, and then he continued, “I might be able to make some time to listen, Francis.”

  I cringed at the sound of my first name—I hated it, but couldn’t bring myself to correct him. I replied, “Yes, Professor.”

  “No one calls me Professor. The university pays me as an ‘Instructor.’ It’s best that you simply address me as ‘Foster,’ as everyone else does.” He paused, looking me over a second time, and, apparently having made a decision, he added, “We can meet from time to time at the Starbucks at the Student Union, and I will listen to your questions. Can you afford to buy me a cup of coffee at our meetings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that will be the price of admission. No coffee, no meeting. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  “No. I asked if you understood. I am not interested in what you got.”

  “I understand.”

  He turned and resumed his ascent up the glass staircase and, looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Tomorrow, 8:00 a.m., at the Student Union. I’ll have the Columbian blend—a venti, in a double cup. Have it waiting for me.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Anthony

  Henry wasn’t dead. Not yet. Between the booze and the lack of blood to his brain, I figured I had at least forty minutes, plenty of time to drive to the safety of the garage where I stored the pickup and where Henry would pay for his sins. With my hands under his armpits, I positioned him so his back rested against the truck’s bumper, and then dragged him up and into the camper. I flipped him onto his stomach, brought his hands behind his back, wrapped duct tape around his wrists and ankles, and then taped his mouth shut. That would hold him until I was ready to deal with him. I moved around Henry’s limp body, down the steps to the alley, locking the door behind me.

  I slipped between the truck’s rear fender and the brick wall and opened the driver’s door just wide enough to slide in. Large raindrops bounced onto the front seat of the truck cab as I pushed back my hood and took off my baseball cap. Shaking the rain off, I set my cap on the towel covering my .38 Special tucked into the cup holder, and then I stopped, staring at the cap.

  “Shit.”

  I pictured Henry lying on the floor of the camper and realized his gray tweed cap was missing. I peered through the rain-spotted windshield, but couldn’t see it. Should I go get it or risk leaving it there? What difference does it make? No, it’s the small things that lead cops to killers. No, go get it.

  I got out and slid between the front of my truck and the rear of the van parked in front of me. The alley was still empty. Walking briskly toward Murph’s side door, I spotted the cap lying in a shallow puddle about ten feet ahead. Just then, the bar’s door banged against the dumpster. I froze. It banged again and light snuck out into the alley. A man swore and tried to push the door open, but the dumpster didn’t budge. One more time, the door banged against the dumpster’s steel frame, sending the sound echoing off the opposite wall. Finally, the door closed, and the alley grew silent. I snatched Henry’s cap from the dirty puddle and turned back toward the truck. Tempted to break into a run, I forced myself to walk casually, my slow pace belying my fear of being discovered, even though I knew my fear was unfounded. Stupid really. No one would suspect I had an unconscious man bound and gagged in my camper. I slipped back into the cab, started the engine, and flipped on the windshield wipers to their fastest setting. I sat in the dark and took several deep breaths trying to regain my composure. I closed my eyes and pictured what I had in store for Henry. The only noise was the pinging of heavy raindrops against the truck’s roof and the swish and thump of the wipers. And Henry’s screams. But they were only in my imagination.

  CHAPTER 11

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I met Foster the following morning. He had taken the chair facing out toward the dark tinted window. I sat opp
osite him. I had already placed his coffee on his side of the table, to his left, far from his bucket hat. I started to ask a question, but he stopped me. “I’ll let you know when you may ask your questions.”

  He removed the coffee cup’s plastic lid, placed it on the table, and pushed it aside. I waited. “Francis, a young man and woman are sitting at the table immediately behind me.”

  He was looking over my shoulder. I assumed he saw their reflection in the window behind me. “What are they talking about?”

  “Well, I can’t really hear them.”

  “Francis, what are they talking about?”

  It took me a couple of seconds to comprehend the meaning of his question. Looking over Foster’s shoulder, I took a moment longer to study the couple. “They’re breaking up.”

  “And who is initiating the break-up?”

  Trying to be inconspicuous, I took another look. “She is.”

  “The basis of that deduction?”

  “He reached across the table. She didn’t take his hand. She came without books. He has a laptop, a notebook, and a textbook. His coat is hanging on the back of his chair. She still has her coat on, although she has removed her hat and gloves. She seems to be all business. He is showing some stress.”

  “I don’t see a hat. Nor do I see gloves.”

  “Her hair is matted down and there is a circular ridge or indentation in her hair.”

  “What about the gloves?”

  “It’s too cold for her not to have worn gloves.”

  Foster shook his head slightly. “Her hands would be red if she did not wear gloves. What do her hands look like?”

  “I can’t see her hands. She has them in her lap under the table.”

  “Then you have no basis to conclude that she wore gloves, true?”

  “But it’s freezing outside—can’t I assume that?”

  “No. There is a difference between assumptions and deductions. You make deductions based upon what you see or know, not what you assume.” He took a drink and continued. “Otherwise, acceptable observations. Now, Francis, which one is capable of murder?”

  “What?”

  “You heard the question, did you not?”

  I sneaked another look at the couple. Reluctantly, I shook my head. “I don’t know—how can I tell?”

  Foster took out a small slip of paper from his pocket on which he had scrawled his phone number and slid it over to me, saying, “When you determine which of them is capable of murder, call me, and we will schedule another session.” He got up, slipped on his overcoat, and left, waiting until he was out of the shop to pull his houndstooth hat firmly down above his ears. The first session lasted less than ten minutes.

  Two days later I called him, explained my theory that both were capable of murder, and described the circumstances under which each could resort to violence in the relationship. He seemed satisfied with my answer. “Tomorrow, 8:00 a.m.,” and hung up.

  For three days a week over the next month, he continued testing my powers of observation and deduction, assigning homework, and requiring a phone call to schedule the next session. In late January, at our first session of the week, he approached the table without removing his coat, hat in hand. He didn’t sit down. He set a thick Redweld folder file on the table, pointed to it and said, “Read the file. Prepare a memorandum no longer than two pages, single-spaced. Summarize only the relevant evidence and list your conclusions. Call me when you are done.” He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and headed for the door.

  It took me a week. The organization of the file, the many technical terms, and the report’s format were foreign to me. I felt like I had been thrown into a maze and wondered if I’d ever find my way out. I went through at least a dozen drafts before I produced a memo I thought Foster would find acceptable.

  I called him and arranged a session for the following day. This time, he removed his coat, his bucket hat, and a pair of leather gloves, laying them all on the empty chair at the table. He eyed the cup of coffee I had placed on the table, sat down, and picked up my memo. About thirty seconds into his review, he looked up at me with a slight smirk, took a sip of his coffee, shook his head, and resumed reading. Using an expensive-looking pen, he wrote comments and questions in the margins. He pushed it back across the table. “Your writing skills need considerable work. Call me when you have addressed my substantive notations.”

  That type of session continued throughout the winter. Foster would stop at “our table” just long enough to pick up the previous week’s Redweld file and my latest memo, hand me a new file, along with the previous week’s memo full of corrections and questions, and collect his coffee. Slowly, my memos were returned with fewer edits, but with more questions scribbled in the margins. As winter turned to spring, his questions became increasingly disturbing.

  CHAPTER 12

  Anthony

  “Dammit!” Still rattled, I’d put the truck in reverse and, without using my side view mirror, backed up too far, hitting the fence and scraping the rear fender against the brick wall. My mind raced. What if someone heard the scrape of metal against brick? It was loud enough. What if some nosy s.o.b. came to investigate? I could say no, of course. Unless it was a cop. What would I do then? I couldn’t just pull away and make the cops chase me. The damn camper was too slow for that. I looked down at the towel covering the .38 in the cup holder. My last resort.

  I shifted into drive and pulled out into the center of the alley. As I passed Murph’s side door, I noticed that the dumpster was still where I’d left it. I eased the truck out toward the street, pausing just beyond the sidewalk to eye the foot traffic in both directions. To the left, the street was empty, and to my right, beyond Murph’s, a few pedestrians, umbrellas up, were making their way to the ’L’ station.

  I pulled onto Damen, drove the mile or so to Irving Park Road, and headed west. At the first intersection on Irving I stopped as the traffic light changed from yellow to red, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and picturing what Henry would look like in a few short hours. Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the flashing blue light in my driver’s side mirror.

  The blue and white Chicago PD cruiser pulled up alongside me and stopped even with my truck. When I realized they were looking at me, I slid my right hand from the steering wheel and slipped it under the towel, wrapping my fingers around the grip of the .38. The police officer on the passenger side of the squad car lowered his window and signaled that I should do the same. I grasped the .38 tightly and complied.

  “There a problem, officer?”

  The officer called over, “You must be in a hurry, sir.”

  I shook my head. I had been watching my speed—that couldn’t be it.

  “No, officer. In this weather, I was bein’ extra careful. I’m sure I was goin’ the speed limit.”

  “Sir, your headlights aren’t on. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that in your rush to get out of the rain, you forgot to turn them on. Are they operational?”

  I looked down at the truck’s panel. “Now that was stupid,” I said to no one in particular. I flipped them on and looked over at the officer.

  The officer gave a thumbs up and turned off the flashing light bar. As the cruiser pulled away, my thoughts returned to Henry and a long forgotten lesson from my childhood parish priest: “Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.” He was wrong. It’s mine.

  CHAPTER 13

  Detective Frank Vincenti

  I waited for Foster outside Starbucks at a table on the brick patio that was crowded with students taking advantage of the first spring-like day of the season. Warm weather had surprised Chicagoans during the first week of March when the sun reappeared after another long winter of gray skies and mounds of snow. It was only a tease. I knew Chicago weather. Bone-chilling days would surely return, and we hadn’t seen the last of the snow.

  Foster arrived only a few minutes after I had placed his coffee on the opposite side of the table, where he had a view
of the Student Union’s courtyard. Surprisingly, he came empty-handed—no Redweld file, and no memo. He nodded but said nothing as he eased into the patio chair. He was in his usual attire: a blue blazer, a light blue pinstriped shirt with a red tie, and gray slacks with pressed creases that you could cut yourself on. For the longest time, Foster and I sat there in silence, each of us holding our coffee, taking an occasional sip, and enjoying the temporary respite from bone-chilling winds.

  “Francis, tell me about your parents.”

  I didn’t even try to hide my contempt for his question. “There’s nothing to tell. Mom was killed in a car accident when I was four. I hardly remember her.”

  “And your father?”

  “He lives on the northwest side near Grand and Oak Park Avenue, in the same cramped house where he was born.”

  “And you grew up in that house?”

  I nodded.

  Foster pursed his lips and squinted, looking down at his coffee cup. “That’s a working-class neighborhood. Old houses—classic Chicago brick bungalows—originally populated by European immigrants in the years before World War I. Mostly Catholic, mostly Italian, Polish, and Irish, but changing now with a steady influx of Hispanics.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You could take the CTA from there to campus, but you live in a dorm. Your father’s choice or yours?”

  “Mine.”

  “Did he approve?”

  “Never asked. He was anxious to be rid of me, and I was just as anxious to leave.” I was trying to find a way to move onto something else.