Murder at Old Town

Murder at Old Town: A Wally Dopple Mystery

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Murder at Old Town: A Wally Dopple Mystery

Richard Radtke

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Murder at Old Town A Wally Dopple Mystery

All Rights Reserved © 2007 by Hilltop Press No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America

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-1This particular confusion starts on the October night a four-passenger plane goes down in Lake Michigan. It’s the same night the kitchen staff finds a body in the dumpster at the Old Town Serbian Gourmet House. At that moment there is no reason to see a connection between the two events. I am at home, sitting in my BarcaLounger and listening in on the police scanner, when the report comes in that a Cessna 180 has gone off the radar shortly after takeoff from Mitchell International Airport. That makes it the jurisdiction of the Coast Guard and maybe the Sheriff, Billy Mitchell being a County facility. As a city detective, there’s no need to get my undies in a bundle. Sit back and enjoy, I tell myself. I grab a handful of chips from the bowl by my side and resolve to make tomorrow the first day of my longdelayed diet. Reaching over the arm of my chair I shake Manfred by the scruff of his neck. He sighs, and rolls over on his back. Minutes later, the scanner relays a 911 call from the pilot of the downed plane. “Help!” the voice says. “I’m sitting on the wing, and the fuselage is starting to take on water. Somebody please help.” His tone of voice is strangely calm and controlled, given the circumstances. Almost like he is reading from a script. If it were me sitting on the wing of a sinking plane in the dark five miles off Cudahy, I’d be squawking like a chicken.

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But then I am not a testosterone-charged young man anymore. I value what’s left of my life on the planet. The 911 call from the downed airman ends abruptly. The Coast Guard has boats in the area within minutes, crisscrossing the coordinates the pilot gave on the radio, on the chance that the plane might still be afloat, or on the much longer chance that the pilot might be treading water in a life jacket. But on this particular night the lake is covered over by a fog bank, and it is needle-in-haystack time. As it turns out, I have little time to ruminate on these developments, because within minutes I receive my own call to arms. The phone rings and the dispatcher at the Second District Station tells me to get my butt over to Old Town Restaurant, across Lincoln Avenue from St. Josaphat’s Basilica. “They found a body,” my dispatcher says, a barely-controlled excitement in her voice. “Looks like a homicide.” Hell, just when I was getting comfortable in my sweats and slippers. After a big meal of chicken and dumplings carried home from the deli on Mitchell Street, topped off by a large slice of carrot cake, I was looking forward to dozing off while listening to the scanner. “It’s not on the radio,” I tell the dispatcher. “I’ve been listening.” “Word is that nothing is going out over the air,” the dispatcher informs me. “Must be some kind of big shot. The Chief himself put up a command post at the Safety Building downtown. Wants to keep reporters away until we get a handle on what happened.” Okay then. Not my idea of a fine night in the comfort of my recliner, but duty calls. “I got to change clothes,” I tell the dispatcher. “Be there in half an hour. Somebody must have seen it happen. Friday night at Old Town, bound to be crowds.” 6

“The body’s not in the building. They found it in a dumpster out back.” I wash the potato chip grease from my hands, slough into my shiny electric blue suit, pull a tie up around my neck, and go out to the back hallway of the two-flat I share with Julia Kramer. The widow Kramer is my landlady. We have lived in the house on 31st street for eight years, ever since Margaret left me for the Social Security administrator from St. Paul, claiming she could no longer live with a man who spent every waking hour chasing petty thieves and felons. Margaret and I still exchange Christmas and birthday cards, but beyond those Hallmark Moments we have lost touch. Our son Clifford lives in an artist colony near Santa Fe, New Mexico, and writes to me two weeks before his birthday each year in a gentle reminder to send a card with money. Calls himself a metal sculptor. I have yet to see the results of his labors, or even pictures. I climb the stairs to the second floor and rap gently on Mrs. Kramer’s door. At this time on a Friday night, she will be watching Tivo’ed episodes of The Young and the Restless. Mrs. Kramer claims she needs only three hours of sleep, and it takes plenty of programming to pass the other twentyone hours of the day. For her, soaps deliver the goods. “Coming,” a raspy voice calls in response to my knock. A moment later the door to her kitchen opens, and I am confronted by all ninety-seven pounds of Mrs. Kramer, a baseball bat in her hand. “Oh,” she says with a note of disappointment in her voice. “It’s only you.” “You were expecting Paul Newman maybe? What’re you doing with that?” I ask, pointing to the bat.

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“He’s at it again,” she announces as she backs into the kitchen and motions to me to follow. On her table is this morning’s Milwaukee JournalSentinel. “They buried the story on page twenty-eight. Paper’s gone to hell since they put the Journal together with the Sentinel.” “What’s on page twenty-eight?” “The patio burglar. He’s struck again, over on 29th street.” She thrusts the paper into my chest. “They hid it at the back of the paper. They’re trying to cover something up.” I follow Mrs. Kramer’s palsied finger to the bottom left corner of the page. “I guess the police don’t think home invasion is any big deal,” she says, thumping the baseball bat on her linoleum floor twice to emphasize her point. “Tell you what,” I say as I return the newspaper to the table. “I’ll give you personal police protection tonight, just in case the burglar comes around to lift your valuables. I got to go out, and Manfred would be better off here with you. He’ll keep an eye on things for you, and I’m hoping you might see that he gets a chance to do his duty before you turn in.” Just then, the big dog himself appears at the landing and shuffles on up to the top of the stairs. He glides past me into Mrs. Kramer’s flat, sniffing the floor from one end of the room to the other. Mrs. Kramer is famous for dropping bits and pieces of bakery onto the floor, which Manfred patrols diligently. Having found nothing worth his time and effort, he settles himself on the rug my neighbor keeps beside her refrigerator specifically for his convenience. He yawns and arranges himself on the mat, then drops his head to the floor and returns to whatever dream I interrupted when I left our digs. On most occasions I like to think of Manfred as my live-in partner in the crime-fighting business. He needs less maintenance than a human being 8

and gives as good as he gets in tracking down evidence. We travel together, even to places where canine presence is not ordinarily welcomed. But Manfred does not go for unnecessary excitement, and if the murder scene at Old Town turns out to be what I think it will be, then he will be better off at home. “You’d think we lived in some kind of ghetto,” Mrs. Kramer complains. Then she turns to Manfred. “Good thing I’ll have you here to protect me,” she tells him. “The police are no help in this neighborhood.” Manfred is a dog of uncertain ancestry, a pound puppy whose rescuers at the Humane Society reported as a cross between a Boxer and a Great Pyrenees. The vet I’ve been taking him to since he took up residence with me sees traces of both Mastiff and St. Bernard in his droopy jowls. He is the Fruehauf Trailer of dogs, long and tall and built to carry heavy loads. If Manfred were a person, he’d be swarthy-faced and whiskey-voiced. There are even times when I see a distinct likeness to the actor Edward G. Robinson in his face. Manfred washed out of police dog service a couple years back. He does not respond well to commands, scares the bejeesus out of people by galloping up to them like a mad bull, and suffers from selective hearing loss. Therefore, despite his fabulously sensitive nose, he has been judged unsuitable for police work. “Untrainable,” is the way Sergeant Sheila Wray put it when she wrote up his dismissal papers. I, on the other hand, see both the elegance and majesty of the Pyrenees and the even temper of the Boxer in him. The most subtle shading of the eyes and the folds of skin around them often tell me what is on his mind. Crazy? What is closer to an animal’s brain than his eyes? If sailors can

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communicate with semaphores and NASA can communicate with radio signals, why not Manfred and me with our eyes? “We’ll get the patio burglar Mrs. Kramer,” I assure my landlady. He’s no Albert Einstein. They’re none of them any smarter than a brass doorknob. Don’t worry about a thing.” “Hmmmph.” I reach down to pat Manfred on the head. He looks up at me with a quizzical expression, his eyes asking: “You going off without me, boss? We’re a team, aren’t we?” “We are a team,” I tell him. “But Mrs. Kramer needs you.” That seems to satisfy him, and he flops his jowls back onto the rug. Twenty minutes later I pull up on the side street alongside Old Town Serbian Gourmet House. The uniforms have already cordoned off the area, and the CSU team is collecting evidence. I see at first glance that my instinct to leave Manfred with Mrs. Kramer was correct, for the sea of flashing lights and intermittent howls of sirens would have made him a quivering wreck. Manfred is extremely sensitive to unfamiliar sights and sounds, especially the wail of emergency vehicles. He takes their whine as threats, and cringes in fear. At the entrance to the restaurant, two uniforms man the door. I flash my credentials and they give me the high sign to go on in. At the tiny bar just inside, a clutch of customers and staff is huddled together, talking in near whispers. The waiters, dressed in traditional black, lend an air of Eastern Europe to the place. Entering the dining room, the first person I come upon is the boss, Lt. Armand.

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“About time you got your butt over here Dopple,” he says. “Hope we didn’t mess up your Friday night.” Sarcasm is just the boss’s way of greeting his underlings, and I do not take his comments personally. I shrug. “No problem, boss. Must be some kind of VIP in the dumpster to bring you down here.” He motions to me to follow him. We pass through the dining room and kitchen, out the back door and into the alley. A city Fire Department Rescue Squad is backed into the narrow space behind the building, and the EMTs are moving a stretcher into the back of their vehicle. The body is encased in a black zippered bag. Lt. Armand gestures to the ambulance crew to stop. He pulls on the zipper and reveals the identity of the victim. “Holy crap!” I exclaim. “No wonder everybody’s got a knot in their knickers.” Lt. Armand nods. “First thing the news people find out about this, there’s going to be hell to pay. Wall to wall coverage. Count on it. They’ll be dogging our every move, right on down to following us into the men’s john.” The body is covered in blood, the face misshapen into a cruel, grinlike expression. Still, it is unmistakably the deputy mayor of the city of Milwaukee, Morris Richards. “And here’s the strange thing,” Lt. Armand says, leaning over the corpse. “Look here.” I move closer as the boss dons latex gloves and touches the yawning mouth. “No tongue. But that’s not where the blood came from. The killer took the tongue after he shot our esteemed deputy mayor.” “The killer cut out the tongue?” “After the victim was already dead.”

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“Why the heck would he do that?” I ask, expecting no answer and getting none. The Lt. nods to the EMTs and the body of the Honorable Morris Richards resumes its journey, first to the hospital for a post mortem, then to one of the city’s finer funeral parlors, and finally into eternity. I smack myself on the forehead in disbelief. “What the hell was he doing back here? A dumpster, for chrissake. What a way for a guy like Morris Richards to buy the farm.” “Exactly so,” the boss says. “And those are just some of the questions the boys from the media are going to be asking the minute they find out what’s happened. Pack of gossipy old ladies. They don’t have to come up with the answers, just ask silly questions. To say nothing of the grilling we’re going to get from the mayor himself.” A momentary silence falls as we watch the body disappear behind the closing doors of the ambulance. Morris Richards is the mayor’s point man on every important initiative, and a champion of hizzoner’s urban renewal policy. A big fish in our pond, one whose passing will create tidal waves of speculation. “And nobody inside the restaurant heard the shot?” I ask. The boss shakes his head and takes a pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Used a ghetto silencer,” he says, hooking the pencil into a twoliter plastic Pepsi bottle and holding it up for me to see. There is a neat round hole in the bottom of the container, presumable matching a twenty-two slug. “Cleaned up his brass, too. Very neat, our shooter.” Just then, Krystal Findley appears at the back door of Old Town, looking like a cover girl for one of those magazines on the rack at the supermarket checkout lanes. She is done up in a short black dress, high12

heeled shoes maybe half an inch short of fuck-me status, and a gold pendant that calls attention to her cleavage. A far cry from a police woman’s uniform, but I would not object if the department insisted on my partner dressing like this for duty. I am old, but I am not dead. “Sorry I’m late,” Findley says, glancing at Lt. Armand with a guilty smile. “We were at the Performing Arts Center, and I had to turn my cell phone off.” We, I wonder. Who would we be? Last time I checked, Findley was between boyfriends. It dawns on me that I’ve come to expect her to fill me in before she gets herself into new relationships. Next thing that dawns on me is that I have been bitten by the jealousy bug. “Come on back inside,” Lt. Armand says. “I’ll tell you what we’ve got so far.” We sit at a table at the back of the dining room, amid the fading odors of burek, dolmades and chicken paprikash that subsumed the place earlier in the evening. An old man with a fiddle on his lap sits across the room, waiting to be interviewed. Lt. Armand lays out the apparent circumstances. The deputy mayor came to the restaurant for a meeting with Radovan Lakic, don of the local Serbian mafia, to discuss certain unnamed business interests they have in common. Such a meeting would appear highly illegal if city business were discussed, flying in the face of both state and municipal open meeting statutes. But our deputy mayor was not one to stand on ceremony as he went on his rounds of deal-making. He had become oblivious to most niceties of the letter of the law, his mentor having racked up impressive majorities in each of the last three mayoral elections. ‘The people have spoken,’ the mayor is fond of telling his critics when questioned about municipal 13

business. The media, the Republican Party, even the state government attack him at their peril. ‘The people of Milwaukee want an action guy and I’m their man,’ he taunts the TV reporters. Tomorrow, the man who was the power behind the mayoral throne will be referred to in the past tense. As of tomorrow, the mayor’s chief policymaker will be making no more statements on matters of city business or on his private life. In recent years, that private life became more frenzied than an Arab bazaar. Half a year ago he fired his female chief of staff, Amanda Garcia Marquez, who immediately turned around and sued him and the city for breach of contract. In a news conference immediately after filing her suit, Ms. Marquez suggested that there had been more between herself and her boss than eight-to-five business. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Shirley Richards to file a suit of her own, for divorce; nor for a secretary in the city office of weights and measures to come forward with allegations of sexual misconduct. The entire can of worms was simmering in the pot of our judicial system, and barely one month ago the mayor himself announced that he would not run for re-election. That leaves an army of dependents out in the cold – alms-seekers who rely on largess from the office of the mayor. Developers, contractors, office seekers. It also leaves a political vacuum that Morris Richards was expected to gravitate toward like a bowler to a glass of beer. Radovan Lakic is just one of the individuals with a monetary interest in the fate of Morris Richards, if a rather conspicuous one. “How did it happen?” Findley asks, eyes wide in disbelief. “A shot to the back of the head,” Lt. Armand says. He gestures to the back of the room. “He said he was going to the men’s room, and never came back. Fifteen minutes later Lakic had his gofer check on where the hell he 14

had gone. The mutt found the men’s room empty. He started looking around the back rooms, and eventually one of the bus boys found the body in the dumpster out back.” The boss explains that it looks like a small caliber entry wound, from the type of gun that is the favorite of professionals. Nobody in the restaurant is admitting to having heard the shot. Many patrons of Old Town are silent witnesses to the blood feuds of the Balkans, and understand the consequences of becoming involved in tribal warfare. Merely living in America does not change the way they view the world. “Who would have the audacity to do such a thing?” Findley asks. “The deputy mayor of all people.” “The more important question,” Lt. Armand says, “is why? There’s a whole slew of characters who had it in for Morris or his boss, and any one of them could have pulled the trigger.” “Or paid somebody else to pull it,” I add. “Which makes your jobs all the more important,” the boss reminds us. “By the time we secured the place, most of the paying customers had beat a hasty exit. All that’s left are a few half-drunk hangers-on at their tables, Lakic and his henchman, and the kitchen staff. That’s your stock of interviewees.” “And him,” I say, nodding to the violinist, still sitting with his instrument on his lap in the corner. “Yeah,” Findley says. “Some romantic end to the evening.” “Enough conversation,” Lt. Armand says, rising from his chair. “About time you two get to work.” He motions to the clots of staff and customers waiting to be questioned. “Start earning your pay. I want you to take the lead in this deal.” 15

“Are you sure, boss?” All of a sudden I feel goose bumps rising on my arms and a shiver going down my back. This is not the kind of case I have become used to heading up. I do much better with small deals that do not attract the attention of the press and politicos, things like Mrs. Kramer’s neighborhood burglaries. Things like liquor store stickups and embezzlements at the local savings and loan. “A tired old war horse like me? Maybe for this one you’d do better pairing Findley up with one of the younger fellas, somebody fresh out of the academy with piss and vinegar in his veins.” Findley gives me a look that could melt the wax on the candles at St. Josaphat’s. As though she thinks I am abandoning her. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just don’t want to be an anchor on her career. The Morris Richards killing will be all over the front page, and if I screw things up it will be her career on the line as well as my own. Lt. Armand gives me the evil eye. “Dopple, we both know that you’re the loose cannon in the Second District Station. We agree that you’re a real piece of work from a department discipline point of view. But for some reason – I frankly don’t know why –you have a knack for getting to the bottom of things. Call it luck, call it providence, call it what you will: you’re a thorn in my side, but this case could finally be my ticket to a captaincy downtown.” A captaincy has eluded the boss for four years, and he fairly drools at the mouth when he speaks of it. “What you two have on your side is a balance of energy and experience,” the Lieutenant continues.” You’re perfect for the job.” I still think I’d be better solving neighborhood cases, like the mystery of the missing knishes at Krakow Grocery. Unfortunately, my opinion is not the one that counts. 16

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-2Findley takes Val the Gypsy Violinist into the bar for questioning. As they pass my vantage point, I realize that Val is the same Arnold Polanski I went to high school with, Pulaski, class of ’64. Arnold was one of the brains in our class, one of those expected to move on to some high-class technology college in the east and make his career in rocket science or medical research. Occasionally he let me copy homework assignments for Mr. Merbach’s physics class out of pity. Ultimately my deception was a failure, as I flamed out in Mr. Merbach’s final exam and took home an F on my report card. The failure did not surprise my parents, for they never expected me to amount to much, and I was determined to live down to those expectations. For Arnold Polanski, the slide from class star to Val the Gypsy Violinist must have been considerably more precipitous. My own interview subject is Radovan Lakic, who I find sitting at his usual table in the far corner of the dining room, his back to the wall for obvious reasons. He is flanked on his right by one of the shadowy men who are well acquainted with Milwaukee’s criminal justice system but whose records show nothing more than a series of dismissed charges, lack of evidence and recanting witnesses. We have met a few times before, Radovan Lakic and I, notably in the case of the branch bank robberies. Tonight Lakic appears to be in an expansive mood. As I approach his table he smiles, causing his dark, bushy eyebrows to crinkle and merge, and his hairline to all but erase his forehead. He is dressed in an expensive black 18

suit, a blue-and-white striped shirt and suspenders. He gestures to me and I take a seat across the table from him. “Terrible business,” he says by way of greeting. The smile disappears from his face as quickly as a dollar bill on the counter of the Lucky Seven Club. “He was a fine man, Mr. Richards. Could have been a great man.” I nod. “And I’ll wager you know nothing about what happened.” He raises a small glass filled to the brim with a clear liquid. “Join me in a glass of slivo, Detective Dopple. We haven’t talked together for what is it – three, maybe four years.” I wave the offer away. “On duty, Rado. Got to keep my wits about me.” Lakic was a prime suspect in the branch bank robberies, the case that ultimately turned up Judge Kurtis Skolnick as a criminal mastermind. We both know that in that case the top brass tabbed Lakic’s boys as being responsible for the heists, and it was only because I pursued another line of investigation and tracked down the judge that Lakic’s so-called enterprises escaped scrutiny by the state Department of Justice. “Every profession has its disadvantages,” he says. “Take mine, for example. I’m a businessman. That means I spend long hours in negotiations, haggling with prospective partners here at Old Town. You’d think that would be a benefit, but after thirty years it is more an encumbrance.” “A businessman, is it? I’ve always had trouble figuring out just what business you’re in.” “As you no doubt know, I represent many interests, both here in America and in Eastern Europe. My current focus runs to agricultural arrangements. Sunflower seed processing in the Ukraine, wholesale chickens here in the city.”

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“Right.” In fact, Radovan Lakic controls much of the chicken distribution to restaurants on the South Side, arrangements tied to security guarantees for the business establishments he services. The corner table at Old Town is his unofficial headquarters, although he also keeps an office in a small professional building next door to the Serb Memorial Hall on Oklahoma Avenue, where the city’s biggest and best fish fry is served every Friday night. “And what was your business with Deputy Mayor Richards this evening?” I ask, pulling out my logbook and opening it to a new page. “We have interests in common,” Lakic says, turning his hands palms up. “All very dull, very boring. He was interested in environmental issues. So am I. We were looking into opportunities connected to a free range chicken farm near Antigo.” Chickens. Just what two of the city’s high rollers would come together over. “I can’t help wondering what happened to the deputy mayor’s police detail,” I say. “The officer was supposed to be with him right up to the front door of his home.” “He sent the officer away,” Lakic says. “Told him he could take the rest of the night off. Our business was private. Apparently he saw no need for a bodyguard.” I shook my head. “The officer knows better than that. It’s not an option. He can’t take off just because his charge tells him to go home.” “It wasn’t a request, it was an order. He left the officer no choice.” “We’ll see about that,” I say. “See any recognizable faces in the room at the time?”

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“Oh, lots of recognizable faces,” Lakic says. “Jovan Derikanja and his wife over by the dessert buffet, Dragana Mirkovic at his usual table in the alcove, Aco Pevovic serving up the lamb and burek…” All of which is beside the point, we both know. “Anybody who might have followed the mayor out of the room and put a gun to the back of his head?” Lakic shakes his head. “These are peaceable people, Detective. They are not given to violence.” He shoots a wicked glance over his shoulder at the bruiser standing just behind his table, a man consciously unconcerned with our conversation. “Let me ask you this,” I say. “Are you yourself armed at this moment?” Lakic’s eyes widen in an expression of disbelief. “Me? Detective Dopple, I am a businessman. It would be uncivilized for a businessman to carry a firearm.” He opens his jacket to reveal his innocence. The bright red suspenders clash with the striped shirt. His girth rivals my own. I think for a moment that we might get a group rate at the bariatric surgery clinic, but the thought quickly passes. “What about him?” I ask, indicating his henchman. Lakic’s hand comes up in a gesture of surrender. “You got me there, Detective Dopple.” He turns to his underling. “Goran, show the detective your pistol. Also, show him your permit to carry.” He turns back to me. “Goran was on the force in Belgrade, you know. You two have much in common.” “How was your chicken deal coming along? Did you have it in for Morris Richards?”

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“Our deal was moving forward nicely, thank you.” A deep, rumbling laugh. “I had no quarrel with the arrangement. We were like this,” he says, crossing his fingers. “And why did you stick around and wait for us after the body was discovered? Weren’t you concerned that we’d tap you as a suspect?” Once again the big man’s arms unfold as though he is about to reach across the table and give me a hug. “Detective Dopple, I am not a stupid man. The most damaging thing I could have done would be to leave the scene. I am well known here. It would not have been long before you knocked on my door at home. I prefer to do my business in public, right here and above board.” What a swell guy. Oozing the milk of human kindness. Just another concerned citizen wanting to do his part in difficult circumstances. “And do you know anybody else who might have had it in for Deputy Mayor Richards? Anybody whose business dealings with him were not so hunkydory?” Lakic leans back, considering. “A man with the power and influence of Deputy Mayor Richards makes many enemies,” he says. “The position is not without its downside. For example, there is the contractor Michael Shea, whose bid for the new storm water project was rejected by the mayor’s office in favor of Boldt Construction. And there are the losers in the competition to design a new city administration building. Also, his political enemies on the right include many borderline sociopaths for whom a bullet in the back of the head might appear to be an appropriate solution.” He raises the demi-glass of slivovitz to his lips and throws it back, then offers a satisfied ahhh. “There are also the man’s personal troubles. A man sometimes forgets just where he got on in life, Detective. I fear our 22

deputy mayor may have fallen victim to such a disease. The women in Morris Richards’ life are both proud and wounded, and remember what the wise man says: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Unfortunately for Mr. Richards, there were many such women in his life.” I nod. The papers have been filled with titillating news of the deputy mayor’s marital troubles for many months. The Journal-Sentinel looks more like a supermarket tabloid every day. “Seems to me that he’d want to end one relationship before getting himself into another,” I say. “Why on earth would a man with as much to lose as Morris Richards get tangled up with all those women?” Lakic looks at me as though I am a ten-year-old boy. “You do not understand, my dear Detective Dopple. A man like Morris Richards is like a bull in a pasture. He does not want to have his way with just one woman. He wants to have his way with all of them. And when you think about it, who’s going to stop him?” I scribble a note to myself in my logbook. “Somebody obviously did.” “He knew the risks and was willing to take them. In politics, you got your winners and you got your losers, and after awhile the winners start believing that they are bulletproof. They walk the high wire, never thinking for one moment that they are working without a net.” “Some folks might put you in that same category, Radovan,” I remind him. “You’ve had a pretty good run in this town. Ever worry that you’ll end up like our friend the deputy mayor?” He laughs. “Me? I am a family man. I am a businessman. What’s going to happen to a simple businessman, short of being hit by a bus while crossing the street?” His eyes narrow, and he leans across the table. “You find the person who did this, Detective Dopple. Find him and lock him up. It 23

don’t look good for me, being about the last person to see the man alive. I got no fucking time to defend myself in the court of public opinion.” “If you’re not guilty,” I say, “you have nothing to worry about.” “We have all heard that bullshit before,” he says. “I remember a time not too long ago when I was put on the grill without cause. Saw my picture in the Journal-Sentinel along with a degrading description of my business. My family was – what is the term?” He snaps his fingers and looks over his shoulder. “Chagrined,” the tough behind him says. “Yeah,” Lakic repeats. “Chagrined. I don’t want that to happen again. I shift in my chair. “Give me a name,” I say. “Come up with a name that will move this mess forward.” “There are so many,” he says. “I would not rule out one of his women. But try this one: The deputy mayor has been pushing the council’s alcohol licensing committee to revoke the liquor licenses of four strip clubs in the city. All those clubs are owned by one Sonny Schultz. Now, I wouldn’t want it mouthed about that I was in the room when it happened, but the word on the street is that Sonny Schultz made threats against the lives of those responsible for the proposed revocation. Sonny is a hothead and when he gets into his moods nobody takes him seriously. But in this case…” He turns his hands palms up. “Who knows? We’re talking about the man’s livelihood here, and anything is possible.” As I rise from my chair, Lakic leans over the table and grasps the sleeve of my jacket. “Morris Richards was a good man,” he says. “He believed in the city and its people, and he knew the job was a big one. Clear this thing up, for everybody’s sake.”

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Half an hour later, Findley and I huddle up to compare notes on the night’s interviews. I report on what Lakic said, and she tells me Val the Gypsy Violinist remembers one young man who didn’t fit in with the other patrons of the restaurant earlier in the night. “He looked too American,” she quotes from her notes. “In this place, that makes a person stand out. He wore those Tommy Hilfiger kind of clothes, bright yellow, green and red. One waiter said he looked like a circus clown compared to the rest of the customers.” Findley says the Gypsy told her that the man sat in the bar for nearly an hour before going into the dining room to eat. Alone. That in itself is suspicious, for the bar at Old Town isn’t the kind of place where most folks dally. “Where do we start?” Findley asks, running a hand through her thick, chestnut- brown hair. “Like always,” I reply. “We make a list. Get yourself a big piece of paper.”

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-3In the narrow, dimly-lit space between the bar and the stage, the air is thick as the mucky waters of Muskego Lake. On stage a spotlight follows the bumps and grinds of a tall woman dressed in a G-String, black net stockings and four-inch stiletto heels. In time with the taped disco music, the dancer clasps the undersides of her breasts in a halfhearted invitation to the men seated along the bar to come up and tuck dollar bills into her costume. She gets only one taker, possibly because half the men in the audience are police officers. Zipper Strippers Gentlemen’s Club has been chosen for the operation by the Chief himself, in hopes that a raid might put enough pressure on Sonny Schultz to reveal what he knows about the murder of Deputy Mayor Richards. “Two birds with one stone,” was how Lt. Armand relayed the orders to us. “Shut down the club and hopefully get a lead on the Richards killing as well.” This morning’s paper announced the killing of Morris Richards in seventy-two-point type, and the thinking among my bosses is that if we can squeeze Sonny about his hard-on toward the deputy mayor, he might let something slip about what happened in the alleyway behind Old Town restaurant. All we have to do is sit here and wait until we witness what is technically an illegal act, then arrest their saggy asses. Hell, anyone can see that the club should have been closed by the city Health Department the day it opened as unsafe for human habitation. 26

Findley chats up Sonny at one end of the bar while a team of us cops filter into the place in plain clothes. My partner’s job is to create a diversion by putting in an application for employment at Zipper Strippers, a pole barn structure on South 13th Street near the city’s border with St. Francis. I turn my back to the bar, lean my elbows back, and let my mind churn with worry about my upcoming Department physical. Last week I went to see the weight loss doc at St. Luke’s hospital, the monolith across the street from the Sixth District station house on Kinnickinnic Parkway. The brochure on bariatric surgery was promising. It suggested that for those of us who can’t muster the will power to keep food out of our mouths, an operation might work magic. I was so confident this program would work that two days before my appointment with the sawbones I stopped by the Police Credit Union branch office to see about a loan to finance the procedure. Jean Pfafel, the perky blonde who works the desk behind the counter three half-days a week greeted me with a wag of her twenty-year-old leg. “What can I do for you, Wally? Here to deposit your paycheck, or just to give me a hard time?” “Naw,” I said. “What I may need is a loan. Medical stuff.” “Your cop insurance will cover, won’t it?” “Not this particular procedure. It’s elective” The last thing I wanted to discuss with a twenty-year-old girl was gut surgery, so I skated around it. “What I’d need is maybe eight thousand, and maybe four years to pay it back.” She gave me one of her best smiles. “It’s doable,” she said. “Got any other big debts?” “Only the car,” I said. “And that’ll be paid off by June.” 27

“No problem then. You’re a steady guy. That’s what the loan officers downtown look for.” Before she could become any more specific about the type of surgery I was headed for, I thanked her for the information and ducked out of the office. Now my attention is recalled to the smoky air of Zipper Strippers as a dancer with the improbable name of Laura Lust takes the stage, and a few of the dirtbag voyeurs hoot in anticipation. Laura Lust is billed as the star of the show, and the level of excitement in the hall increases proportionately with her appearance. Expectations are soon fulfilled when Ms. Lust strips to the skin, lays down on the stage and begins to pleasure herself with the largest dildo I have ever seen. Crumpled dollar bills are thrown toward the supine stripper in appreciation of her most unusual talents. That’s the signal for us cops to spring into action. We move in on the dancers and their patrons, then retrieve Sonny Schultz himself from his back office. We round them up and read them their rights. We arrest each of them on various charges of lewd and lascivious conduct, operating a bawdy house, and being a party to an illegal act. The only person to offer resistance is Bruno “Skinny” Zalewski, former local hero on the pro wrestling circuit and currently a bouncer for Sonny Schultz. When Skinny, who is anything but that, resists the officers placing him under arrest, he is handcuffed and loaded into his very own squad for transport to the Safety Building. The women are outfitted with blankets to cover their altogether and loaded into a police van out front as a crowd of gapers forms to get a glimpse. In the harsh light of day, the dancers are transformed from exotic to ordinary, pasty-faced and drawn. More sad than sexy, they wobble across the sidewalk in their

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spike-heeled shoes, out of their element and suddenly shy of daylight exposure. It is not quite dark when I join Findley in our cop car. Across the street from Zippers, the last remaining K-Mart on the south side is decked out in Halloween decorations. The long, languid days of summer are past, and the air is filled with the scent of burning leaves. A kind of haze hangs over the city, as though somebody has pulled the switch and plunged us into a kind of cabaret lighting. I enjoy the end of the steamy days of summer, but I dread the long nights of winter at the forty-eighth parallel. I sigh, and Findley gives me one of her mother-hen looks. “I want a lawyer.” The first words out of Sonny Schultz’s mouth, a mantra he’s had plenty of experience repeating. His mother ought to have named him Iwantalawyer Schultz. Sonny is the first of our long list of suspects to be interviewed. Construction magnate Mike Shea, architects in the firm of Bowers and Cates, and the women in the deputy mayor’s life are also on our agenda. Findley sits across from Sonny at the battered steel table in Interview Room Number Two, while I pace back and forth behind our suspect. Sonny is a beefy man with bleached blond hair that sweeps around his protruding ears, held in place by a massive application of hair spray. His cologne pervades the small interrogation room, powerful as the smell of a French whorehouse after a street carnival. Beyond the large, one-way mirror on the far side of the room, the boss and a couple of assistant DAs are positioned, listening as we talk. “It’s a load of crap,” Sonny says as we confront him with the details of his trespasses upon the legal system. “Soon’s my lawyer gets here, I’ll be 29

back at work. You two haven’t got the brains between you to make a case on me.” He pulls a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket and lights one with a gold Cartier lighter. I allow him to take one drag, then pluck the butt from his fingers and drop it into the cup of coffee we generously provided when we first sat him down. “No smoking,” I say, pointing to the sign over the door. “The roust is bogus,” Sonny says with a shrug. “I’ll pay the fine, and have the club back in business before dinner time.” “You may be operating under the wrong idea Sonny,” Findley informs our guest, leaning across the table. “This isn’t about a fine. It’s about murder.” “Murder? What the hell you talking about, honey?” “Officer honey,” I correct him. “What we want to know about is statements made by you and overheard by reliable witnesses concerning the deputy mayor of this city. The deputy mayor who turned up dead in a Dempster Dumpster down on the south side last night.” Sonny’s face goes south, the corners of his mouth nearly meeting his porcine chin. “Whoa,” he says. “Wait a minute here. You’re not saying I had anything to do with that piece of work, are you?” “Yeah Sonny,” I say, digging my thumbs into his shoulders and leaning close to his ear. “That’s exactly what we’re saying. We know you made threats against the life of Deputy Mayor Morris.” I pull out my notebook and read: ‘The son of a bitch will be buzzard bait before he yanks my liquor license.’ And here’s another one: ‘I’ll drill so many holes in the bastard he’ll put Swiss cheese to shame.’ You remember making those remarks, Sonny?” 30

He shrugs. “I don’t remember every word I ever said. It’s all bullshit. You bushy-tails don’t have a damn thing on me. As for the high-and-mighty Richards, a bigger hypocrite was never born. In public he’s spouting off about a bunch of working stiffs getting their jollies at my clubs. In private, he’s the biggest cockhound in the city.” “You got a pipeline to the deputy mayor’s private life, Sonny?” He hikes his shoulders. “Yeah, me and half the town. My girls let me know what’s happening under the sheets, and word is that Morris Richards couldn’t keep it in his pants. He’d make it with any female who had a pulse and a you-know-what.” He leers at Findley. I stick my face within half a foot of Schultz’s: “Just where the hell were you last night, Sonny? You got an alibi?” “Nowhere near that restaurant, you can bet on that. I was at my club, taking care of business.” “Business. Hah.” I turn to my partner. “Get a load of this guy, Findley. Here’s a man who turned his back on his family, his city, even his religion for a stripper who vanished into thin air after she decided he wasn’t man enough for her.” The color rises in Sonny Schultz’s face. “That’s got nothin’ to do with you, Dopple. It’s over and done with.” It is well known among the local citizens that Sonny Schultz is a kind of reverse born-again, having deserted a productive life as a community leader to go into the club business. At the time of his conversion he’d been married for more than fifteen years to his childhood sweetheart. He led a wholesome family life, raising two sons and a daughter, and he was a regular at St. Josaphat’s and the local Kiwanis club. Then, out of the blue, he took up with a twenty-one year old dancer, Tatiana Savoir, and left his wife and 31

family to live with her. Gave Tatiana jewelry, bought a car for her, and eventually paid cash for a condo in Bay View that was deeded in both their names. Speculation around the squad room is that somewhere along the way Sonny found out that Tatiana was seeing another man, and one day the girl disappeared like Dorothy going to Oz. We never found her, but my take on what happened is that when he found out he was being two-timed, Sonny bludgeoned his lover with a hammer while she slept, or strangled her with a dog leash, and loaded her body into the back of his pickup truck. I suspect that Tatiana Savoir is buried somewhere out in the county. Sonny insisted that he knew nothing about the girl’s disappearance. But one of these days we’re going to find her, and with the DNA tools we’ve got these days we’ll nail his hide to the wall. “I worshipped the ground she walked on,” Sonny says. “I would have crawled through nine miles of broken glass and dog shit to sniff the wheels of the truck that took her skivvies to the cleaners.” I move even closer to Sonny’s hairdo. “You took Morris Richards out just like you took Tatiana Savior out, didn’t you? Anybody who crosses you gets tagged, isn’t that how it is?” “Bullshit.” “You got a mean streak you never showed to the Kiwanis, don’t you Sonny? You did Morris Richards to save your clubs. If not you, then who?” “Hell,” Sonny answers my question with a snarl, “I could name a dozen guys wanted that son of a bitch out of the way. Two dozen. You come out to my club to make me a patsy when you should be starting right there where the deed was done.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” 32

“Lakic, of course. Christ, the guy was in the same building when the killing went down. Why isn’t he on this side of the table, I ask you?” “We’re the ones doing the asking,” I remind him. “And just because Radovan Lakic was in the restaurant when the thing went down doesn’t mean he’s the shooter. What makes you think he is?” “The chicken business, you weenie. Lakic and Richards were in partnership in the chicken business. Word is they were working out a sweet deal with King Henry Foods. You know King Henry, don’t you? Out of Jonesboro, Arkansas. Third largest processor of live chickens in the country. Something funny was going on there, Richards and Lakic elbowing the Gagliano brothers out. But the Gaglianos have a fair amount of muscle of their own, offering lower prices and those phony security arrangements to restaurants and mom and pop groceries. The situation was on edge. I heard there was big trouble between Richards and Lakic, and we both know how the Serbs handle their business problems.” I go over to the one-way mirror and scowl. Our investigation is turning into an exercise in finger pointing. Lakic says Schultz did it, Schultz says Lakic did it. Great. Now the door to the interview room opens, and Lt. Armand enters. He strides up to the table, puts his nose a couple of inches from Schultz’s face, and says. “Okay powder puff, you can go. We got better things to do than look at your ugly face.” Schultz beams. “You got it, Lieutenant.” He rises, gives me a vile smirk, then turns to Findley. “And you, honey, you come by the club and we won’t bother with no employment application. You got a job with me anytime.” He leers at her chest, then swaggers out the door like he is doing an impersonation of George W. Bush. 33

“What the hell’s going on here boss?” I ask as soon as Schultz and his aftershave have cleared the room. “I thought we were going to sweat this guy.” “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Dopple. But we got new information. And it seems our case is about to be closed.” Findley is at my side, asking her own questions: “You mean all of this was for nothing? I played up to that greaseball just to let him walk out of here?” Our Louie hikes his shoulders and glances back at the mirror on the back wall. “Looks like. Sorry, but we’ve got a new lead. You remember the kid your gypsy violinist talked about down at Old Town, the one in the flashy clothes?” “Sure I do. Didn’t ring any chimes with me, then or now.” “Maybe this will blow some wind up your skirt,” Lt. Armand says. “Turns out the kid was one Jeffrey Blount, a stepson of our good deputy mayor. His mother is the current Mrs. Morris Richards, one Shirley Blount Richards by name. Story is when the kid found out his stepdad was twotiming his mom, he lost it, and laid plans to get even. So he goes to the restaurant where he knows the old man is meeting with Lakic, hangs around until his target goes to the john, and follows him. There, he confronts Richards, sticks a gun in his back, and ushers him out to the alley, where he caps the victim.” I shake my head. “You can’t believe it’s that easy, boss. A kid with a thin motive like that, standing out like a sore thumb, just walks in and kills a major politico? And then what?” Lt. Armand raises a finger: “Then, Detective Dopple, the kid realizes what he’s done, hefts the body into the dumpster, and sneaks out through the 34

alley to 5th street, where his car is parked. He drives over to Mitchell Field, where the family’s Cessna 180 is hangared, and files flight plans for a jaunt over the lake to Kalamazoo, where he is a fourth-year student at Western Michigan University.” Now I’m all ears: “Don’t tell me. That was Morris Richards’ stepson calling from the wing of the plane? Well I’ll be damned. There was a connection after all.” “What are you talking about, Wally?” Findley asks. “What connection, and what plane?” “The plane crash. Last night. While you were at the PAC listening to Beethoven, I was listening to my scanner. Just before I got the call from dispatch to get my ass down to Old Town the discussion was about a small plane that went down in the lake. The pilot made a cell phone call to 911, asking for emergency help.” Lt. Armand nods: “The very same. Trouble is, we’re not likely to get a statement from young Jeff Blount. Sheriff’s Department has called off rescue operations. Now it’s a matter of recovery.” “Sounds fishy,” I offer. “Deputy mayor dead, big yellow sunflower of a stepson placed near the scene, and a dead suspect at the bottom of Lake Michigan, all rolled up in a neat package. It’s too good to be true.” “Dopple, the papers and the TV are all over this one. The chief, the mayor, everybody wants it to go away in a hurry.” The boss steps into my personal space and shows me his index finger. “I know what you’re thinking, and I want you to get that thought right out of your head. Last night you wanted nothing to do with this case. Now you got your wish. Let it lie.” “Last night I asked for somebody else to be put on the trail. I didn’t mean to wrap it up with a bow and drop it in the shitcan.” As I speak the 35

words, I know that Lt. Armand’s assessment is absolutely correct. There’s no percentage in chasing down leads that hold no promise. The mayor is happy, the chief is happy. Even my Louie looks close to happy, the corners of his mouth flat and the worry lines in his forehead smoothed out. It’s not in my job description to throw a wet blanket on all that joy. “At least we can be thankful for one thing,” I tell Findley as the boss heads back to his office.” “What’s that, Wally?” “At least Jeffrey’s mama had the good sense not to name him Richard.” Findley rolls her eyes and jabs me in the shoulder with a surprisingly powerful left.

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-4Before heading back to my desk, I amble past the bullpen where the last of the defendants in the Zipper raid are being processed. Bail bondsmen mill around making payments for their clients, handing paper work over to the desk sergeant and kidding with each other. The dancers appear tired, haggard, as though they’ve just finished an eight-hour shift on the pole. As I pass through the clutch of people, one young woman catches my eye. She is younger than the rest, still showing a hint of bloom on her face. As I approach, she averts her eyes, turns away. But there is something familiar there, something I do not immediately recognize. Although the woman is covered with a blanket, it slowly dawns on me that I am looking at a heavily made-up face that I spoke with just a few days ago. “Jean? Jean Pfafel, is that you?” The branch manager from the Police Credit Union nods slowly, still facing away from me. “Jean,” I say, going to her side. “I had no idea. What made you – I mean, how the heck did you get into the business of taking your clothes off?” She turns to me. The makeup around her eyes is running. “Oh Detective Dopple, I’m so embarrassed…” “But why did you do it?” 37

“Do you know how much a branch manager at the credit union gets paid? I earn more dancing at Zippers three nights a week than I do in two weeks at the credit union. Gee, Detective Dopple. A girl’s got to live.” So much for the American system of economic justice. I move on to the squad room, where Bernie Perelman and Dick Potts are attacking the tray of doughnuts Findley brought in earlier in the day. Close on my heels, Lt. Armand comes by and disappears into his office. “Not unless it’s an absolute emergency,” he says as he closes the privacy blinds and the door. We all know that the only circumstance that would qualify as an absolute emergency would be if the chief himself came looking for our boss. “You notice how the Louie is getting all secret with his time in that office?” Perelman asks through a mouthful of doughnut. “What do you suppose he does in there with the door closed and the blinds shut? Whatever happened to his open door policy?” I shrug, casting an eye over the poor leavings in the pastry box. “I guess that’s his business,” I say. “One of the perks of being the boss.” Potts pours himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the table. “Just the same, it’s odd. I could understand if he was interviewing a witness or something. But he goes in there by himself, sometimes for close to an hour. Hope it’s got nothing to do with, you know – “ “Sex?” Perelman asks. “One-handed magazines and all that shit.” “Internet porn.” I give the two of them a look and start back to my desk. “Leave it to you two to come up with the goofiest theory on the planet. Some detectives you are.” 38

“Hey Dopple, wait,” Potts calls after me. “We’re getting together at Dungy’s after work. Maigraine’s birthday. Bring a gag gift. I got him one of those Whoopy Cushions.” I give him the high sign. “I’ll see what I can do.” In fact, I have lost my enthusiasm for weenie welding at Dungy’s. Only in rare moments does it bother me to know that I no longer crave the company of my fellow cops. Could this be the onset of some kind of male menopause, I wonder? Or maybe my brain is simply overburdened with the prospect of facing Doc Sam Custer across the examination table for my annual Department physical. My interest in checking out bariatric surgery is not cosmetic. Oh, no. Doc Sam is on the warpath with me again. At my last examination he made me undress and look at myself in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. I was humiliated. Especially since Doc Sam himself, now well into his seventies, retains a flat belly and a lean, wolfish face. “What do you do for exercise?” he demanded. “To keep yourself fit?” I told him about my position as anchorman on the Tuesday five-man bowling team at Keglers, and the walks on Kinnickinnic Parkway with Manfred when our busy schedule allowed. “When your busy schedule allows?” he asked. “How many times a week, and for how long?” “Maybe twice a week, and heck, I don’t know, maybe ten minutes.” “Starting now,” the old Nazi medico demanded, “make that seven times a week for forty minutes. You can’t protect and serve when your body is on the verge of collapse.” In a previous life, Doc Sam was medical director for a unit of the 82nd Airborne, and now he expects the same standard of physical fitness from us cops. I am his biggest disappointment. 39

But on the other hand, I am thirty-five years older than the typical Airborne trooper. “I have a large frame,” I protested during last year’s mortification. “I can carry more weight than a skinny old scarecrow like yourself.” “Large frame my ass,” he replied. “Look at this.” He slid a sheet of paper with my test results across his desk. “Blood pressure high. Cholesterol high. Triglycerides high. Dopple, you’re a walking accident waiting to happen.” He threatened to report me as unfit for duty if I didn’t lose some tonnage by the time of my next physical. If he pulled that kind of stunt on me, it would have serious consequences on the size of my pension payments. I calculated that the bariatric surgery would cost $8,500 but return more than $100,000 in increased pension benefits when I retire. That’s what led me to the offices of Marcus Mauritius M.D. following the consultation with Jean Pfafel at the credit union. Mauritius explained in gruesome detail that a bariatric surgical procedure was a major gastrointestinal operation that would seal off most of my stomach to reduce the amount of food I could eat, and also rearrange my small intestine to reduce the calories my body could absorb. I’ve tried the majority of the more traditional weight loss plans, without success. Weight Watchers, the cabbage soup diet, the Calories Don’t Count Diet, even the South Beach Diet, and failed at every one of them. This surgical remedy was extreme, but I was convinced it would be the one that would take me from my present freight car status to something more closely approximating human standard. It stood to reason that with a smaller stomach, I wouldn’t be able to eat as much, and as a result, I’d lose weight.

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My hopes were dashed when Marcus Mauritius M.D. sat me down in his examining room and told me that I wasn’t fat enough to be eligible for his program. “Not fat enough?” I asked “The typical candidate for bariatric surgery is a morbidly obese individual,” he said with an oily edge to his voice, “which for a man your size would mean being overweight by one hundred pounds. You’re nowhere near one hundred pounds overweight, Mr. Dopple.” He went on to recommend some more conventional weight loss programs, most of which were already familiar to me. Scarsdale, Atkins low carb, Russian Air Force, Cave Man. You name it, I’ve been there. When I arrived back at the station house that day, Findley picked up on my dejection and asked what was sticking in my craw. “It’s a conundrum,” I told her. “For Doc Sam I’m too fat. For Marcus Mauritius M.D., I’m not fat enough. What’s a guy supposed to do?” As I leave Potts and Perelman speculating on the nature of the boss’s activities behind closed doors and return to my desk, the phone rings, breaking into my recurring weight-loss daydream like a cat burglar into one of those mansions up in River Hills. “Is that you, Walter?” the voice on the other end of the line asks. It is Mrs. Kramer. I suspect that she is on the subject of the neighborhood robber again. But no, it turns out to be more personal. “We got an emergency,” she says. “It’s Manfred.” The tremor in her voice brings my shoes off the desk and my mind to attention. “Crazy dog got into my pantry. Helped himself to a platter of prune-filled kolaches I was

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saving for the Ladies Aid meeting. It took me all day to make them, and him thirty seconds to gobble them down.” “What’s he doing now, Mrs. Kramer?” “Laying on his side and moaning,” she reports. “I think it must be the prunes.” “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” This is not the first time Manfred has overindulged himself in victuals not suited to the canine digestive system. His expert nose has led him to a variety of delicious but ultimately disagreeable rations that resulted in visits to the Bay View Veterinary Clinic, including two racks of leftover spare ribs, a half-eaten chicken left in a neighbor’s open garbage can, and a raspberry trifle intended for the District Christmas party. Manfred does not know the meaning of the word moderation. But then, who am I to judge him, having just recently consulted with Marcus Mauritius M.D. on the advisability of sewing up my stomach? Mrs. K. is waiting on the front porch when I pull up in an unmarked police cruiser. I find my wayward mutt on the floor of her kitchen, his muzzle a mask of congealed powdered sugar. Together we try to coax him down the stairs under his own power. No such luck. All he can do is utter an occasionally low, primal groan. In the end I am obliged to slip my arms beneath his massive chest and lift his ninety pounds of dead weight, hoping against hope that the strain will not rupture a disc in my low back. I stumble down the stairs and out to the car, and dump the big dog into the back seat. Now we are off to the vet, with Mrs. K. in the passenger’s seat. She insists on accompanying me, feeling marginally responsible for Manfred’s condition. Once we are settled and on the road, the first thing my landlady does is lay a hand on the shotgun between the seats. “Nobody 42

gonna mess with us on the road to Bay View, are they?” she says, and allows herself a small chuckle. I caution her about messing with the equipment in the squad. “It’s department regulations,” I explain. “Civilians aren’t allowed to handle police materiel, for their own safety.” She gives me a “Huh!” in return, and focuses on the road ahead. Soon we are tooling across the Harbor Bridge, one of the few Interstate-type highways that leads to virtually nowhere. The vast, six-lane span ends abruptly at Superior Street, where traffic is dispersed innocuously into the Bay View neighborhood. As we glide across the high bridge I look off to the southeast, where less than twenty-four hours ago young Jeffrey Blount put his Cessna into the icy waters of Lake Michigan. Talk about a man claiming his fifteen minutes of fame. Not only did his last day on earth make headlines in the morning Journal/Sentinel, but he also had the bad luck to be accused of murdering his stepfather. “What’s the latest?” Mrs. Kramer asks out of the blue. “The latest what?” I answer. “The latest on the Richards murder, of course. What else have you had on your mind today?” “We’re still investigating,” I say, holding my cards close to my vest. The more I think about this bucket of worms, the less convinced I am that the chief and my boss have the answer to what happened to the deputy mayor. Why would Jeffrey Blount call such dad-blamed attention to himself at a place like Old Town if he was bent on killing his stepfather? And why would he run like a rabbit afterwards, just begging to become the number one suspect in the killing? It didn’t make sense.

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“I’ll tell you who I think did it,” Mrs. K. offers. “It was one of those women Morris Richards was having his way with. I knew that Richards boy. Knew him his whole life, and this is just the kind of trouble he would find for himself. Never could keep his hands off the girls.” “You knew Morris Richards?” Once again, Mrs. Kramer surprises me with her knowledge of local history. “Morris Richards the deputy mayor? The one who was killed?” “Had him in my tenth grade English class,” she says impatiently. “Bright enough boy, and always sucking up to the prettiest girls in the class. Walked around the halls of Pulaski High with a permanent erection. I would have given two dollars and a half to know what he told those girls to lure them out back onto the parkway to sit with him in his Chevy Nova.” As Mrs. K. reveals the past of our revered deputy mayor, I am struck by the broken record of accusations leveled against the man by everyone who speaks of him. How the heck did he have time to conduct city business given his penchant for affairs of the heart? Then again, those activities may more properly be labeled affairs of the johnson. “At the junior prom,” Mrs. K. reports, “a chaperone discovered the little devil in the school nurse’s office with one of our student teachers, giving her the old heave-ho. Wasn’t a female alive that was safe from Morris Richards.” We pull up at the veterinary office and I open the back door. Manfred is able to drag himself out of the car and stumble toward his doctor’s place of business, none too stable. “I’m thinking he jilted the wrong woman,” Mrs. K. continues, “and she went to that Serbian restaurant to get her revenge. Like one of those female killers in the Anne Rice novels.” 44

For my part, I am still wondering about the plane crash. And, more important, whether it really has anything to do with the murder of the deputy mayor. “Too easy,” I mutter. “It’s all too easy. Nothing in life is that easy.” “Walter,” Mrs. Kramer reminds me. “You’re talking to yourself.”

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-5The dog doc gives Manfred a dose of the canine equivalent of Emetrol and keeps him under observation for an hour and a half before pronouncing him fit to go home. We load him into the back seat of the cruiser, where his moans are replaced by loud huffs of discomfort. As we retrace our route over the high bridge, the harbor waters sparkle in the sunlight of late afternoon, and sailboats flit out beyond the breakwater. To the south, the Sheriff’s Department rescue boats continue their search for remnants of Jeffrey Blount and the downed Cessna airplane. I tune in to WTMJ for the news just in time to catch the mayor’s press conference at City Hall. “This great city has witnessed a tragic event,” the mayor intones in his deepest radio voice. “A brilliant and hard-working member of the community and our administration’s management team was murdered in cold blood, and your Milwaukee Police Department” – Hizzoner pauses, and I imagine him turning to the chief of police, who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to be standing at the mayor’s side for anything – “your Milwaukee Police Department has worked to bring a swift conclusion to the investigation into his death. I am here to advise the citizens of our city that the identity of the perpetrator has been revealed, and that justice has been done as regards the guilty party. This is a city of laws…” The mayor goes on to explain that Morris Richards’ twenty-one year old stepson stalked his stepdad and took him by force to the scene of the

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shooting, where he fired one shot into the deputy mayor’s head. The culprit then fled, intending to fly the family airplane across the lake and make good his escape. However, providence played a hand, and the plane went down shortly after takeoff into the icy waters of Lake Michigan. The mayor turns the microphone over to Chief Kloss. In my mind’s eye I see the chief puffing up his chest and grabbing the mike as if it were a bratwurst on the Fourth of July. “A joint task force of city, county and state jurisdictions is continuing the search,” the chief reports, “but rescue efforts have now been terminated. A fog bank formed across the lake late last night, making it difficult and dangerous for rescue boats to continue their search until this morning. This department has worked hand in hand with the Sheriff’s Department to assure a satisfactory conclusion to the investigation.” “A load of horse pockey,” Mrs. Kramer says, craning her head as though she is addressing herself to Manfred. The big oaf has now rolled over onto his back and presents a pose of exhaustion after his encounters first with the prune-filled kolaches and then with the dog doc. The vet suggested it was only a matter of time before the sugary sweets pass through his overly-long digestive track. “But a neat job of obscuring the obvious,” I admit as I press the power button and the radio sizzles out. “Neat as your grandma’s kitchen on card club day. Dead victim, dead killer, no inconvenient loose ends left to fray.” When we pull up in front of Chez Dopple, we find a black-and-white unit waiting at the curb. “Where the hell you been?” Officer Terry Waite asks as I get out of the car and help first Mrs. Kramer and then my big mutt out.

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“Manfred had a medical emergency,” I reply. “We been at the canine sawbones over in Bay View.” “Geez Wally, didn’t you have your radio on?” Waite is clearly agitated, and his face is screwed up as though his shorts have shrunk a size or two. “We were listening to the mayor’s press conference. What’s up?” He nods, eyes big as billiard balls. “A situation,” he says. “Ninth and Lapham. Guy holed up in his house with a Marlin thirty-thirty, threatening to pop anybody who tries to take him in.” “Ho boy,” I say. “When it rains, it pours. What’s his story?” “Neighbors called in a complaint. Seems the guy stole a bike from their son and rode it home. Kid followed him, but when he tried to get the bike back the nut case came to the door with a rifle and fired a shot in the air. And when the officers pulled up at his house to look into the matter, the guy came to the door with the rifle in hand and waved them off. Next thing you know, the SWAT team was called in and now the whole block is sealed off.” “Got an ID on the guy?” “That’s the thing, Wally. Name of Peter Kacsynski. Says he wants to talk to you, and won’t say a word to anybody else.” Ho boy, I repeat to myself. Peter Kacsynski. Pierogi Pete. One of the gents who claims his own personal bar stool at the Lucky Seven Club on Tenth and Lincoln. A fixture at the far end of the bar from late afternoon until sometime after nine at night. Yes, Pierogi Pete knows me, but do I know Pete? I think not. Climbs aboard his bar stool as regular as rain on a tropical afternoon. In the unlikely event that some stranger has the bad judgment to occupy that seat before he arrives on the scene, Pete paces back 48

and forth muttering to himself until Rudy Jankowicz the barkeep politely asks the newcomer if he will please move to another place in return for a tap beer on the house. Then Pete assumes possession of his rightful place, and sits there conversing with himself in undertones until he has regained his composure. That’s the Peter Kascynski I know. “Lives alone,” I tell Waite, “at the family homestead. Yeah, I guess I know Pete. What I don’t know is why the hell he would want to talk to me.” Five minutes later I pass the Lucky Seven (forty foot bar and a party room in the back) on my way to a scene crawling with police carrying automatic weapons and wearing flak vests. Red and blue lights from patrol cars flicker across the clapboard of the modest one-and-one-half story house on Ninth Street, a very ordinary structure almost identical to its neighbors. There’s an old joke around here that the suicide rate on the south side is the lowest in the county because it’s hard to kill yourself jumping out of a basement window. A lone siren winds down with a deathly moan, and shouts ring out among the helmeted SWAT team members. Then there are the neighbors, out on their porches rubber-necking to see what’s happening to disturb the peace and quiet of their street. The cops are trying to evacuate them, but these folks aren’t going anywhere while the excitement lasts. Cardboard skeletons and ghosts twist from porch railings in a gentle breeze, heralding the imminent arrival of Halloween, and adding to the bizarre atmosphere of the siege. “Where the hell you been, Dopple?” The question of the hour. I turn to face Lt. Armand, who has slipped up on me from behind one of a dozen police vehicles as I take in the carnival-like atmosphere. “I swear I’m going to have to put an ankle bracelet on your leg to keep track of you.” “Medical emergency,” I tell him with a shrug. “Couldn’t be helped.” 49

The boss’s eyes roll back, and he takes me by the elbow. “If I could keep track of my people this job would be easier by half.” He turns to the row of houses behind him. “We got a situation here.” “Terry Waite says Pierogi Pete wants to talk to me. I don’t know why, boss. We’re not close. Haven’t had a conversation of more than six words…” “Never mind about that,” the Lt. interrupts. “The situation is going south. Come over here. We got to strategize.” Strategize? The boss is picking up the language of downtown, which means he must be getting ready to put in for the captain’s exam again. It occurs to me that that might be the reason the door to his office and his blinds have been closed at every opportunity. Potts and Perelman would jump to that conclusion, but I’m not going to be the one to float the idea to them. The Louie and I approach a gaggle of higher-ups bent over the hood of a patrol car. I recognize most of them from the department organization chart, but one man is a stranger. “Who’s the spook?” I ask, referring to a reedy looking fellow dressed from head to foot in black, and appearing to be claiming the center of attention. “Shrink,” Findley says, coming up on us with a clipboard in hand. This time she has beat me to the scene. That is not unusual, Findley being far more dedicated to the job than I. “Volunteered to help talk the target out of his house. Got down here with the first units.” “That would be more than half an hour before you showed up,” the boss says. Nothing subtle about the lieutenant’s approach. We join the group huddled over the hood of the car and I am introduced to Aiden Weizsaker, one of the city’s most prominent 50

psychologists. As we move closer, I recognize the name: Weizsaker has his own radio show on the local PBS outlet, and gives advice twice a week in the Journal/Sentinel. The locally famous therapist is a long-faced, lanternjawed man whose practice, Counseling Associates, LLC, is known throughout the city. At six-foot-one, one hundred and fifty pounds, he conjures up images of a character out of a Russian novel. Aside from advice given in his newspaper columns, his rates are high enough to weed out all but the very affluent from his client base. “Obviously a case of antisocial personality disorder,” the shrink is saying as we join the conversation. “Pervasive pattern of disregard for the rights of others that begins in childhood and continues into adulthood. Central features are deceit and manipulation.” Is the shrink talking about Pierogi Pete, I wonder? Pete wouldn’t know the first thing about deceit and manipulation. He happens to be the village idiot, but he’s our village idiot, and how he came to brandish a rifle at his neighbors and the cops is way beyond me. “His failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behavior shows a continued pattern of antisocial behavior,” Weizsaker continues. “The pattern of impulsivity is manifested by his failure to plan ahead. His decisions are being made on the spur of the moment, without forethought, and without consideration of the consequences to himself or others. Yes, definitely a case of antisocial personality disorder.” “Here’s Dopple,” Lt. Armand introduces me to the general company, and I get a perfunctory nod from the scrambled egg hat brims of the department brass.

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Weizsaker rubs his hands together and steps close to me, invading my personal space. “Excellent,” he says in a tone verging on the oily. “You’re the friend.” “Not the friend,” I correct. “An acquaintance. I knew his mother.” I note that the psychologist has an unnerving way of looking me directly in the eye and never changing his gaze, as though he’s trying to see what’s back there in my gray matter. I have heard that he specializes in some new type of hypnotism designed to bring out the patient’s deepest and most repressed thoughts. I’d hate to have him do that to me, particularly at this moment. “Have you talked to him?” I ask Weizsaker. “What’s he want?” “He won’t talk to Weizsaker,” the Captain puts in. “Keeps asking for you.” “Of course,” the shrink puts in, “it would take a thorough examination to confirm my diagnosis.” His eyes are dark as coal, and seem to be designed to look into rather than to look out with. Almost as though there’s a kind of hook there that makes it impossible to look away. “Heck,” I say. “I’m no negotiator. Wouldn’t know the first thing about talking a person out of a house or down from a building. This guy,” and I point to Weizsaker, “is a trained professional. He’s the one should be talking to Pete.” “What am I,” Captain Michelson asks, “talking some kind of foreign language? I already told you the guy won’t talk to anybody but you.” The captain turns to one of the uniforms hovering at his side. “Fetch that flak jacket from the car, Makowski.”

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The cop retrieves a bulletproof vest from the back seat of a cruiser and hands it over to me. “He’s all yours Detective,” the Captain says, adding a bullhorn to my load. I take a deep breath. It’s not as if I have any idea what Pierogi Pete wants from me, or what he’ll do with that damn Marlin rifle when I step into his line of fire. All I know is that Pete lived with his mom and pop in this house for as long as I can remember. The family business was cheese-and potato-filled dumplings, a business they operated out of the back rooms of the house. Mama was the cook, Papa was the salesman and Pete was the delivery man. About five years ago Pete’s father died, and shortly after that Pete announced that his mother had gone to live with her sister in Escanaba, Michigan. Since then, Pete has lived alone in the house, a place that has gained a reputation among the neighborhood kids as spook central. I refuse the captain’s offer of the bullhorn and pull my service revolver from its holster. I hand the gun over to Findley for safekeeping. She puts a hand on my forearm. Her pale eyes are even more mesmerizing than Weizsaker’s. “You sure you want to do this, Wally?” I nod, clear my throat, and turn to Captain Michelson: “Maybe we could start by getting all those guns out of sight.” He motions to his lackeys, and they pass the word. As I start walking across the street, Aiden Weizsaker says: “Keep him talking. The more he talks, the better our chances.” I can’t help wondering what chances the psychologist is referring to. The Kevlar vest is so heavy on my shoulders and chest that it feels as though I am walking through chinhigh water. I hope that the shaking in my knees is not visible to either Pete or Findley, who watches from behind as I approach the curb and call out: 53

“Pete! Pete Kacsynski! It’s me, Wally Dopple.” I hold my hands over my head in what I sense is a dumbass expression of innocence. “Let’s talk.” As I approach the porch stairs I notice the infamous stolen bicycle leaning against the railing, its handlebars twisted at a ninety-degree angle. Hard to imagine a bike being responsible for all this. Hard to imagine Pete with a rifle in his hands, warning off a pair of cops at his door. The peeling clapboards of the house could use a coat of paint. On the porch a swing stands idle. Even without the customary decorations, the Kacsynski place suggests goblins and graveyards, a model of Halloween fright. In the halflight it is apparent that the yellowed sheer curtains on the windows are in need of major attention. As I am thinking about this, Pierogi Pete appears at the screen door. His balding pate is shiny and his face is pink as a baby’s bottom. He holds the rifle in his left hand, and opens the door with his right. “This way,” he says in a shaky voice. “Quick Wally, before they come and get me.” I climb the stairs, wanting desperately to take a look back and make sure the cops are still there backing me up. At the same time I realize that I am beyond their help now, that whatever happens in the Kacsynski house will be between Pete and me. There is a strange feeling of inevitability about the moment, a sense that I am now in the hands of fate and there’s nothing to do but get on with it. The turbulence of the street is behind me, and all I hear is the squeak of my shoes on the hallway floor. The house is dark, shades pulled down over all the windows in the musty air of the living room. A floor lamp with a fringed shade provides the only light. A cat scurries across my path in the hallway and hides under a sagging upholstered sofa. Pete backs away from me, his rifle at port arms,

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and nods toward the living room. He brushes a wisp of combed-over hair out of his eyes and blinks. “Have a seat,” he says, his voice shaking. I move into the room and sit down on the edge of a wing back chair facing a blank television set. “Not there,” Pete says in a more authoritative voice. “That’s my chair.” “Okay Pete. Where would you like me to sit?” “Anywhere else. Just not there.” I move to the sofa under which the cat has taken refuge. “Look Pete, I don’t know what started all this, but it’s no good you know. The cops are not going to go away, and you can’t hide in here forever.” “I didn’t start it,” Pete says in a high whine. “It’s not my fault.” He stops to consider. “I guess it is my fault,” he corrects himself, “but I had my reasons for doing what I did.” He brandishes the rifle as though he would like to see it vanish from his hands. “Those kids are bad, those Baldwin kids. They play tricks on me, make trouble for me. They turn my garbage cans over, soap my windows, call names at me from the alley. When I saw their bike sitting at the park, I decided to get even with them. I took it.” “And the next thing you knew,” I say, “the uniforms were pulling up at your house. Is that what happened?” “They can’t come in here,” Pete insists. “They can’t go through my house. It’s my property, and they have no right to come in here.” “Pete, what if I gave you my word that they won’t come into your house? If I did that, would you give me the gun and go out that door with me?” The words lay like acid on my tongue, for I know there is no way the cops are going to let the place be when Pete comes out. There will be a top55

to-bottom search of the premises, and whatever they find will be used against Pete. In the circumstances, it wouldn’t take more than thirty seconds to get a judge to sign a warrant. At the same time, my job is to protect public safety, and I am sworn to do whatever it takes to keep the peace. Even lie to the poor sap whose only real crime is being afraid. “I don’t know, Wally. Can you do that? You’re the only one I can trust. You’re the only one I know. You’d make sure they didn’t mess up the place, wouldn’t you?” “Sure, Pete. I’d do that. We have beers together up at the Lucky Seven, don’t we? We take care of each other.” “What will they do to me? For this, I mean?” He holds the rifle up as if he expects me to inspect it. I shake my head: “Well, now. That’s something else again. The bike, I’m sure that’s no problem. But threatening police officers with a gun, that’s serious business. You’re going to have to deal with the district attorney on that one.” I remind him that the regulars at the Lucky Seven are counting on Pete to do the right thing, tell him they would be proud of him for standing up like a man and taking his medicine. Then I remind him that his mother, up in Escanaba, would certainly want him to put the gun down and come out without hurting anyone. She would be so happy if this were all over and her son came out of it safe and sound. Pete nods as if he’s just concluded a conversation with himself and walks over to the sofa. He lays the rifle across my lap. “I guess I’m ready now,” he says, holding his wrists out as though he expects me to handcuff him. I put a hand on his shoulder and guide him toward the door. As we 56

close the door behind us, Pete turns. “Hold on a minute,” he says, “I better lock up. May not be back for awhile.” The instant we reach the sidewalk the SWAT bullies are all over us, separating me from Pete and throwing him to his knees. “Down!” the cops shout. “Down and spread ‘em!” I try to intercede, but they brush me aside. As I stumble back, I see the look of betrayal on Pete’s face as he realizes that I have conned him into putting himself into the hands of a gang of official thugs. I believe it is at that moment that he also realizes that I lied to him about the cops not going into his house. He begins to cry. As a small consolation, Pete is already in the back seat of a cop car and on his way to the Safety Building downtown before a small army of police breaks down the front door of his house and begins searching the place. I walk back to the police lines on unsteady legs, and find Findley waiting. “You okay?” she asks. I shake my head. “Not exactly.” How is a person supposed to feel after turning in a friend to the authorities, I wonder. Sure, I’m a part of the force myself, but I’ve never considered myself to be the kind of person that would join a SWAT team. The older I get, the more I think in terms of us against them, and the funny thing about it is that them is sometimes me. Close on Findley’s heels is Weizsaker the shrink. “What did he say?” he demands. “What was his posture? Did he mention his childhood at all?” The cops are already combing through the Kacsynski residence like a colony of ants. Even from across the street we can hear thumps and cracks as doors are thrown open and possessions that have stood in place for years are

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upset. Some of the boys relish this part of their job, and don’t mind breaking a few eggs in order to make an omelet. “A remarkable performance Detective Dopple,” Weizsaker says with a nod. “I for one didn’t expect you out of there until well after dark.” I give him a sideways glance. “All in the wrist,” I say. The shrink cozies up to Findley and me. “I understand you’re the ones who investigated the Richards killing. You work fast. Tied it up in no time at all.” “Detective Dopple doesn’t think it’s tied up at all,” Findley says. I grimace, expecting what comes next. “Is that right?” Weizsaker asks. “I thought they had it down that his stepson did the deed, and put himself into the lake when he tried to escape.” I step away from the intruding presence of the psychologist. “That’s what they say, but there are some loose ends.” Weizsaker’s shoulders curl forward and his chest becomes eerily concave: “Could be there are larger forces at work here, Detective Dopple. If that’s the case, I would be happy to assist you in any investigations you choose to pursue.” Just then, Lt. Armand comes out of the front door of the Kacsynski house and motions to Findley and me. “You two, over here,” he says. “Got something you may want to see.” We follow the boss into the house, leaving Weizsaker with hands in pockets, paused in mid-sentence. “He gives me the creeps,” Findley whispers as we cross the street. The boss leads us to the kitchen, and down the stairs into the basement of the Kacsynski house. In a far corner under a bare bulb stands a freezer,

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surrounded by CSU technicians. “What we got here is a problem,” Lt. Armand says as we approach the chest. Findley and I take a look. There, encased in a block of more than an inch of ice, is what is unmistakably a body. A human body. “They’re on the phone to the State Crime Lab in Madison,” the Louie says. “Looks like our boy Peter has some explaining to do.” “Oh Christ,” I say. “Not another Jeffrey Dahmer.” Larger forces, indeed.

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-6It is a little known fact that many police officers do not like guns. We law enforcement types know first hand how dangerous they can be and the damage they can do even by accident, and even to innocent people. I include myself in the category of those who would rather see an end to all types of firearms, certainly on city streets. Hunting rifles? I guess that would be okay for those who feel the need to kill something once in a while, but keep those guns locked up at a club or a cop shop and use them only in the appropriate circumstances. One of the most unpleasant parts of my job is having to go down to the firing range at Oak Creek every so often and re-qualify with my thirtyeight police special. Just a few of us old men on the force still carry the revolvers, the overwhelming majority of younger officers having opted for Glock nine-millimeter automatics. All of which is by way of explaining why the incident at Pierogi Pete’s house leaves me rattled and seeking a place of quiet. I stop by the flat to pick up Manfred, and together we walk down to the boathouse at Kosciuszko Park, where I rent a rowboat and set out onto the lagoon. Manfred sits in the bow, testing the air with his big black nose and cranking his thick neck around each time he latches onto a particularly interesting scent he feels compelled to share with me. There is a nip in the air this last week in October, and the sun rides low in the sky following the end of daylight saving time. Half the trees surrounding the lagoon have lost their 60

leaves and the other half shout out in red and yellow that winter is just around the corner. While I do not resent cold weather, I have little enthusiasm for early season snow. Storms that pass in this latitude in November leave accumulations that are still with us in late April. If you had told me back in high school that I’d spend thirty years of midlife tracking down felons and petty criminals across the streets of the city I would have laughed. Back then, all I wanted to do was get out of this place, go somewhere exciting like California or New York City. I had my sights set on learning how to make movies, and nothing was going to stop me. Not even my mother’s scowls whenever she saw me with the super-eight camera I bought with Christmas money from my grandparents. ‘You’re old enough to start thinking about a real job,’ she would reprimand, clucking her tongue and shaking her head as though in her mind there was no saving me. Four years later I did get to California, but only as a stopover on my way to Nam, where my education was completed. Ask me what college I went to and I’ll answer, School of Hard Knocks. That’s the truth. Across the water at the Lincoln Avenue entrance to the park stands the proud statue of General Thaddeus Kosciuszko. A hero of the American Revolution, General Kosciuszko was a friend of Thomas Jefferson and helped to fortify Fort Mercer in Philadelphia on behalf of the revolutionaries. Even in this neighborhood where his likeness has stood for decades, not many people know that fact. Later, General K. supervised fortifications along the Hudson and planned the defense for Saratoga. George Washington presented him with two pistols and a sword as gifts for his service to America. General K. must have been quite a guy. And I’d wager not more than a handful of people in the whole population of Milwaukee know beans about 61

Kosciuszko – or about Steuben, or Lafayette either. History is not our long suit in these parts. Bring up the subject of your two-forty game at the bowling alley last week and folks take notice. Mention the Milwaukee Brewers or Green Bay Packers and you’re in for half and hour’s worth of discussion. But dig back into the past and you’ll get a blank stare. People who have done great things are forgotten in the blink of an eye. Here in the shadow of the General I try to find some order into what I need to do next. At the top of my list are interviews with Shirley Richards and Amanda Marquez, the leading ladies in Morris Richards’ life. I also need to visit with Pierogi Pete in jail and tell him why I coaxed him out of his house and turned him in to the cops before more damage was done. And I need to do something about this god-awful weight problem in order to pass my next physical. With a sigh, I lean on the oars and guide the boat back to shore, where Manfred and I return to the world of work. When I enter the Second District detectives’ squad room, Findley is waiting. “Wally, where were you? I’ve been trying to get you on your cell.” “Oops. Turned it off about an hour ago. Needed some mental health time.” I pull the phone from my pocket and turn it on. Six missed calls. Geez, what’s gotten into people? I haven’t gotten this much attention since I returned a fumble for a touchdown for the 1964 Pulaski high school football team. “I’ve got a favor to ask,” Findley says. Her voice has the tone of honey being poured over a dish of Michigan peaches. My partner looks me straight in the eye and continues. “I’ve got tickets to the ballet on Thursday night. A friend who was going to go with me got called out of town on business, and I’m left with an extra ticket. I was wondering if you’d be interested. It’s Swan Lake.” 62

“Ballet? You sure you got the right Wally Dopple, partner? You could fit what I know about ballet in the toe of one of those dancer’s shoes.” I feel sweat beginning to form under my arms and at the back of my neck. “Be a pal Wally,” she says. “You’ll like it. It’s one of the most popular ballets of all time, about a young girl who is turned into a swan by an evil spell. It’s Tchaikovsky. And it’ll give us a chance to mix with the big shots from downtown.” Yeah, just what I’ve always wanted. Mix with the big shots from downtown. “I’m more a big band kind of person myself: Les Brown, Glenn Miller, Bennie Goodman. Stuff from the forties. Also your basic country music, Johnny Cash and Willy Nelson.” Ballet is not in my field of vision. “It would be my treat,” Findley persists. “Actually, it’s his treat. He paid for the tickets and gave them to me.” “He? He who?” “He, my lawyer friend who’s going to Boston on a case.” She is being coy. Not like Findley to be coy. But here she is, keeping the name of her new squeeze secret. Withholding evidence. As I stall for time, my mind goes back almost a year, to the day the boss introduced us. K. Findley, the duty roster said. I was expecting some bigass Irishman with heartburn and hemorrhoids. Kevin Findley, something like that. Instead, Lt. Armand strolled in with this young babe, and said: “Dopple, meet your new partner. Krystal Findley.” There in the half-light of Lt. Armand’s office stood this woman. This young woman, not yet forty, not yet creased by time. A slim, chestnut-haired female in a dark business suit and a pleasant, open face, eyes the color of robin’s eggs, teeth as straight and white as the porcelain on Mrs. Kramer’s 63

kitchen sink. And a hand that reached out to shake mine as though she couldn’t wait for us to get on with the business of fighting crime. “Nice to meet you, Detective Dopple,” she said. “Good to be partnered with an experienced detective.” Her handshake was firm and professional. She’d been through the academy, and knew how to carry herself. My own hand was sweating. I remember wiping my palm on the seam of my trousers. “Likewise, Detective Findley. Excuse me, but I thought you were going to be a man.” Not that I didn’t want to work with a woman. I’d worked with women in the past. Hell, Sergeant Sheila Wray and I were an item of gossip around the station house not so long ago. It was more the shock of expecting one thing and getting quite another. Lt. Armand explained that Findley had been working in the DARE program, doing education sessions on drugs in the school system. I couldn’t help wondering how much different that must have been from what she was in for now, running down the scum of the city. On the other hand, having dealt with a bunch of eight year olds might be good preparation for working with guys like the squareheads in my squad, dunces like Potts and Maigraine who couldn’t dunk doughnuts without the instructions printed on the cup. We’ve come a long way since then, Findley and I. We solved the branch bank robberies, brought in the guy who popped his wife for the insurance money, seized a boatload of cocaine in the Fourth Street sting operation. But we have never socialized. This ballet business would be a first. I shift my weight, knowing that Findley is waiting for an answer, and equally aware that she will stand there like a Greek statue until she gets one.

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“Okay,” I say finally. “But let’s make this a business deal. I’ll go to the ballet if you’ll help look into a few loose ends in the Morris Richards killing.” “We’re supposed to be off that case,” she says. “I know. That’s why I need your help. There are a few things going on here that don’t add up. We need to talk to some folks. And with two of us sharing the load, the work will go twice as fast.” “What if Lt. Armand finds out?” “You know the Louie. He’ll rant and rave, but in the end he’ll hold me responsible. He knows you’d never go against orders, so all you’ll get is a slap on the wrist.” She smiles. “Comes from knowing how to work with the higher ups, Wally.” “Then you’ll help.” “If you pick me up at seven on Thursday.” The deal is made. “Now, there were two main women in Richards’ life. His wife, and his former chief of staff. Want to flip for it?” “I’ll take the wife.”

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-7An hour later I find myself at the door to Amanda Marquez’s apartment 5-G at the high-gloss Renaissance Arms in the Third Ward. Before we were pulled off the case, Findley Googled Marquez and found a couple of Journal-Sentinel articles indicating that she is the daughter-whomade-good of a family of immigrants who settled on the south side a generation ago. The parents still live in the old neighborhood, but Amanda has moved up to this ritzy place. ‘I have only one focus in life,’ Marquez said in the newspaper profile. ‘My job. I want to become as expert on the revitalization of cities as Deputy Mayor Richards.’ The reporter suggested in the story that Marquez was prepared to provide a few thousand well-chosen words on that subject at the drop of a hat. ‘She is as dedicated a public servant as you’re likely to find anywhere.’ The door opens in response to my knock, and I find myself facing a short, dark-haired woman wearing what looks to be a silk bathrobe and enough glittery jewelry to outfit a family of Romanian gypsies. “Yes?” she asks in a curt, formal tone. I show her my badge and explain that I’m here to ask a few questions about a case. Over her shoulder I can see that the apartment offers a nice view of downtown through a massive picture window, and that the off-white

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carpet on the floor must be hell to clean. Maybe that’s why she seems startled when I ask to come in for a few minutes, with Manfred at my heel. “He can’t come in here,” she says. “He’s a dog.” “Yes ma’am,” I agree. “He certainly is a dog. We work as a team. He’s very well behaved, and won’t give you a bit of trouble.” I do not mention the fact that Manfred tends to drool in high-stress situations, and that he has his own standards for what constitutes such a situation. After a long pause, Amanda Marquez steps back and allows the two of us in, but warns me: “Make it quick, officer. I’m just getting dressed. I have an appointment with the city attorney.” A heavy dose of what I presume to be very expensive perfume clings to her like body armor. “I’m sure all your appointments are important, Miss Marquez, but this is about murder and such. Just trying to clean up a few loose ends.” “Morris Richards? I thought that was all behind us,” she says. “They said it was Jeffrey who did it.” “Maybe so, but there are some details that are still puzzling me. For example, your suit against Morris Richards and the city for wrongful dismissal from your job.” “That’s history,” she says. “I’ve already instructed my attorney to withdraw the complaint. It would be – undignified, in view of what’s happened.” “The suit was about to come to trial, isn’t that right?” “Yes, it was.” “And it was Richards’ death that convinced you to call it off?” “That is correct, officer.” “It’s Detective, ma’am. Do you know anybody besides Jeffrey Blount who might have had it in for the deputy mayor?” 67

I sense that she is withholding something, and when I look down, that feeling is confirmed. Manfred is sitting in a lopsided position leaning up against my leg, a sure sign that our thinking is running along parallel paths. Manfred has sized up Ms. Marquez and has found her to be harboring secrets. “A man like Morris Richards makes enemies,” Ms Marquez informs me. “Political enemies. There are losers in the high-stakes game of city contracts. Morris was a reformer, and the powers that be do not take kindly to reform. They like things the way they are, with graft and corruption easy to take advantage of.” “You’re saying we’ve got graft and corruption right here in Milwaukee, right in this mayor’s administration?” “What I’m saying is that Morris Richards was one of this country’s boldest practitioners of urban regeneration. He disliked automobiles, shopping malls and suburban sprawl. He built a reputation for turning around cities considered beyond redemption, for being a free-thinking politician who challenged the endless growth of suburbs and championed the renewal of old neighborhoods with a mix of strong municipal intervention. That kind of philosophy makes powerful enemies.” I feel a cold breeze in the air, a sure sign that I am being given a snow job. “Can you name names?” I ask, pulling out my logbook. Amanda Marquez examines her raspberry-red fingernails as though she fears they will drop off her hand. “There was a boat out on Lake Michigan that night. A twenty-eight footer with twin screws. That boat never returned to its mooring. It disappeared, just like Jeffrey’s plane. That’s something you might look into, Detective Dopple.” “You’re suggesting what?” 68

She shrugs. “I’m suggesting you do your job as a detective.” “You think Jeffrey Blount may have planned the plane crash, and been picked up by confederates at the crash site? You think Jeffrey faked his own death?” She backs off. “Look it up, detective. Check out who profited from Morris’s death. Like they say in the movies, follow the money.” She slips a silver bracelet onto her wrist and checks her appearance in the hall mirror. “Have you any idea how much municipal construction work is worth? And what happens when firms that tie their future to government work are unable to compete? The principals in those firms might be tempted to try unorthodox methods to get city jobs. Might even use family members to influence the bid process.” “And what about the wife? Would Mrs. Richards profit from his death?” Her upper lip curls in something just short of a sneer. “You’re just about as paranoid as Morris was, Detective. He had the notion that Shirley was either stalking him or having him followed. A ridiculous idea, but that’s the price one pays for genius.” I turn my hands palms up. “I dunno. Looks like in this case the deputy mayor’s paranoia was pretty much total awareness. He’s dead.” “Look, you and your animal –” she gives Manfred a withering look “– are going to have to leave. I’m late, and the city attorney waits for no one.” She opens the door to show us out, and Manfred lowers his head as though she has given him a swat with a rolled-up newspaper. “Thanks for your help Ms. Marquez,” I say. “I’m hoping I won’t have to bother you again.” The door shuts behind us with a bit more force than absolutely necessary. 69

Back in the hallway, I give the big boy a scratch behind the ears. “Think nothing of it, partner,” I say. “There are two kinds of people in the world: dog people, and everybody else. I think it’s safe to say that Ms. Marquez falls into the second category. But in my book, you’re tops.” Just then, I notice that a Marquez neighbor has stepped into the hallway, and is looking at me as though I farted in church. Another one who doesn’t go for dogs. Out of idle curiosity I make it a point to tune in the Aiden Weizsaker radio show on my way downtown to pay a visit to Pierogi Pete. All the calls come from women, which I consider a fact of note. The ladies describe in excruciating detail their problems with husbands and boyfriends. “I’m a stay-at-home wife, and my husband expects me to be an obedient one, too. I guess I am, most of the time. He doesn’t let me work, even though I have a teaching degree. He says marriage is a contract and that love isn’t a factor. I worry that if I leave him it will hurt the children, but I also worry that staying will hurt them even more. What’s your advice, Doctor Weizsaker?” There is a soft hum across the airwaves, before the psychologist says: “Your husband has forgotten his marriage vows. I’d urge you to get a lawyer, then call the sheriff and throw the rascal out.” Manfred is riding with his head out the window, catching the wind in his jowls and keeping a close eye on the road ahead. Each time we pass a dog walking on the street he rubbernecks as if trying to determine whether he has met this particular canine before. Another caller to the radio show complains: “We’ve been married for eight years and I thought we had a happy marriage. But my husband came 70

home from a conference where I found out he spent every night with an old girlfriend. He lied about having known beforehand that this woman would be there and how much time he spent with her. He says nothing happened, but how can I believe him?” Weizsaker answers: “Sheila, you can’t. He knew what he was doing, and then he lied to cover it up. There’s too much deception here for a healthy relationship to continue. I’d say you’re better off single.” As I pull into a parking place in the Safety Building lot, another caller complains: “I’ve been dating Norm for five months. We meet once a week, usually for an overnight date. He says he’s not married, but doesn’t want to change our arrangement because he wants to take it slowly. When I ask him about himself, he gets angry. Still, when we are together he is very good to me. Should I be worried?” “Indeed you should,” Weizsaker replies in that velvety voice of his. “This man is obviously interested in only one thing, and that has to do with the overnights. My only question for you would be why are you hanging around? You can do better.” In other words, the Weizsaker solution to just about every problem is to dump the guy. His tone is as soothing as I remember his eyes to have been when I met the man in person. Like a spider, spinning a web. His callers have reason to be concerned, but his advice doesn’t leave a whole lot of wiggle room, either. Inside the jail, I find Pete being held in isolation, on suicide watch. One of the kids from Legal Aid has been assigned to represent him, which is about the same as if he were told to go ahead and represent himself.

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“My ass is grass,” Pete says when I sit down across from him at the visitation table. “Isn’t my ass grass, Wally?” I try a nonchalant approach. “Not necessarily, Pete. You did a bad thing, you know that. Well, you did a couple of bad things, but you made a clean breast of it in the end, and that’s when things generally start to look up. You have made a clean breast, haven’t you, partner?” He nods enthusiastically. “I didn’t know what to do was all. First my dad passed away, and when that happened Mom was there to take care of things. But then she got real sick, and there was nobody.” All of a sudden I get this sinking feeling in my stomach, realizing how alone a person can be. Here Pete is, needing help, and nobody, not even the boys at the Lucky Seven, stepping up to the plate for him. That includes me. “Tell me what happened,” I say. “One morning I got up and went back to Mom’s room to see how she was doing, and when I said her name there was nothing. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. I called her name again, and still nothing. When I touched her, I knew.” “You knew that she was dead.” “I knew that I was alone.” Pete cradles his head in his hands, his elbows planted on the tabletop, supporting the whole load. I reach over and rest a hand on his forearm. “What did you do then, Pete?” “I didn’t know what to do. I left her there all that day, and the next, with the blanket pulled up to her chin. Mom was the only person I could rely on, and I didn’t want to lose her. I just didn’t want to say goodbye.” “Did you think about calling an undertaker, Pete? Could you have talked to the neighbors, or a friend?” 72

He shakes his head. “I don’t know any undertakers. The neighbors won’t talk to me. They think I’m crazy.” “But you did know you couldn’t let your Mom stay there in her bed, didn’t you?” “Yeah, I knew that. She was starting to smell funny. That’s when I got the idea.” I push my chair back a few inches and lean over the table. “Tell me about your idea.” “I remembered the freezer in the basement where we used to store pierogis. Mom wasn’t a big person, and it wasn’t no trouble at all to carry her down there. I just didn’t want to lose her, Wally.” “Yeah. I see.” “It was nice knowing she was always down there, no matter what happened to me. I used to go down there and talk to her. I knew she couldn’t hear but it was nice to know that she was there. Now they’ll take her away from me, won’t they?” My thoughts return to my recent boat ride on the Kosciuszko Park lagoon. Even The General looked forlorn astride his horse, as though he knew he was a forgotten man amid the traffic crawling by on Lincoln Avenue. How quickly they forget, he might be thinking. How alone we all are. “Cops say you did it so you could keep getting her Social Security checks. That true?” “I couldn’t let on that she was dead, Wally. If I did, they’d come around and ask questions about where she was and all. So I told people she went up to Escanaba and I put the checks in the drawer in her bedroom. I never cashed them.” 73

I can only shake my head.

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-8“Who died?” It’s Mrs. Kramer, leaning on her cane at the hallway door and wanting to borrow a cup of sugar. I look down at myself, dressed in my best – and only – dark blue suit, along with a new red striped tie and polished brogans. Thursday, and I am about to leave for my date with Findley at the ballet, a fact I am reluctant to share with Mrs. K. Her idea of first class entertainment runs more to the Pride Fight Championships on her 500-channel satellite TV. Two men locked in a cage, and only the toughest comes out conscious. “I got to go out,” I explain. “Piece of department business. No set hours on this job.” “Hunh. Then poochie can stay with me the night, can’t you big boy?” Manfred waves his enormous tail like a wand, happy to follow Mrs. K. anywhere. She is famous for dropping bits and pieces of bakery onto her kitchen floor, which Manfred patrols like a vacuum cleaner. She shakes a tin cup half a foot from my face. “Now what about that sugar? Ran out after Manfred polished off the kolaches, and I had to make a whole new batch for the Ladies Aid.” Mrs. Kramer eats her own baked goods without gaining an ounce. Ninety-seven pounds of sinew and bone, stamina and determination. Me, on the other hand, I might as well apply her Danishes and tortes directly to my waistband.

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I retrieve the Tupperware container of sugar from the kitchen cabinet and hand the whole thing over to her. She turns on her heel and begins the tap-tapping rhythm of her cane on the stairs. I stand at the foot of the first flight, arms ready to catch her if she should lose her balance and tumble down the stairs, a possibility that seems increasingly likely with the passing of time. “And don’t kid a kidder, Dopple,” she calls from the landing. “You never in your life got so gussied up for Department business. You’re off to see some woman, aren’t you?” She cackles, and starts up the second flight of stairs with Manfred crawling close on her heels. A short twenty minutes later I find myself escorting Krystal Findley from her apartment building to the curb where my Buick is parked. Findley is wearing a slinky red dress that clings to her every curve, and her hair is piled on top of her head in a very glamorous do. The effect is heightened by unaccustomed makeup, never a part of her daytime dress as a detective. She moves with a grace I have not noticed during our rounds on duty, and when she smiles I feel my knees knocking against my pant legs. I open the car door for my partner and she ducks in, holding a tiny beaded purse close to her lap. Her legs, which seem to have become longer in the light of dusk, tuck at the knees and swing effortlessly into the car. There is something puzzling about this movement, about my partner suddenly exhibiting all the characteristics of a hottie. Why do these movements strike me like a rubber mallet on the middle of the forehead? Heck, we’ve been working together for a year now, and I’ve known all along that Findley is a beautiful woman. Why does her after-hours appearance come as a shock at this particular moment?

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I close the car door and walk around the back of the car to the driver’s side, thinking that I’m playing out a role in a Cinderella story where a fairy godmother comes along and turns a police detective into a fashion model. I get in, turn the key in the ignition, and then it dawns on me: this is the first time I’ve opened the car door for Findley in all our time together. The first time we’ve been out socially. Try opening a car door for your female partner down at the station and you’d be hooted off the lot. “I talked to Shirley Richards,” Findley says as we pull away from her place. “The grieving widow stands to get somewhere in excess of six hundred thousand dollars in insurance money.” “A sizeable sum,” I admit. “But nothing compared to the money the deputy mayor would have earned over his lifetime. There would have to be a lot more than money involved for her to cap her old man.” Findley reports that Shirley Richards is “a motor-mouth who just can’t stop talking about her husband’s failings. Makes me wonder why she’d married him in the first place,” Findley says. “When I pointed out that her late lamented husband was highly regarded as the intellectual driver of the city administration, Mrs. Richards said that was because most people didn’t have to live with him. “When I asked her about Morris’s extracurricular affairs, she tried to cover up and pretend that they meant nothing to her, but the color rose in her face the minute I brought the subject up.” We pull up onto the eight-ninety-four spur heading downtown. Out of the corner of my eye I see Findley’s knee protruding through the slit in her skirt. Tonight she looks even better than she did the night we met at the scene of the crime, out back of Old Town Restaurant. That alone makes this 77

excursion into the haunts of the upper class worthwhile. People might take us to be father and daughter, but what the heck. Maybe afterward we can stop by one of those fancy bars on the east side for a drink or two, and after that – who knows what might happen? At this point, I shake my head and tell myself to wake up. Who do I think I’m kidding? Nothing like that’s ever going to happen. Then again, who’s going to stop me from dreaming? I can’t resist a small smile as I turn my mind back to business. “What did she say about young Jeffrey Blount?” I ask. “Denied he would be capable of such a thing. Said the cops framed him just so the mayor could tell the media that the case was closed. Keep in mind, Wally. This is a woman who lost a husband and a son in the same night. She’s on some pretty heavy medication, and she’s seeing a shrink. She doesn’t speak in full sentences.” Amen to that. In yesterday’s Journal-Sentinel, Shirley Richards gave an interview in which she chided the mayor and the chief of police for carrying out a miscarriage of justice, and promised to clear her son’s name before this was all over. She said young Jeffrey was with her all night until he went to the airport, a claim that is patently untrue. He was seen at Old Town a short time before the murder. But then, who can blame a mother for trying to protect her son? “Where do we stand with Amanda Marquez?” Findley asks. “She was about as evasive as the widow Richards. Claimed not to give a fig about getting even with the guy now that he’s bought the farm. But I got the impression that she wasn’t laying all her cards on the table, either. And this woman knows exactly what she’s saying. No confusion in her mind.” 78

Findley furrows her brow. “Anybody could have done it, including one of the women. Hell, the boss could even be right about what happened that night.” “Not likely. Look what we’ve got here: Radovan Lakic, right there on the scene when the crime went down. Sonny Schultz, with a head too big for his body, a man with water on the brain. Amanda Marquez, suddenly not interested. The Marquez woman did say something that bears looking into, though. Said people in business might use family members to pressure the bid process. I think she was talking about Morris Richards’ family members. Makes me think we ought to look at the contract records down at city hall, see who she might be talking about. Then there’s Shirley Richards, with grief, and possibly guilt, on her mind. No lack of suspects here.” As we join the queue at the Performing Arts Center parking ramp, I remember Amanda Marquez saying that a politician makes enemies, even more so a politician whose past is littered with the bodies of people he’s stepped over on his way to the top. The Marquez dismissal from the staff of the deputy mayor seems to be more about her dalliances with the boss, and less about her job performance. Richards’ wife was divorcing him. He backed the current police chief over two more senior candidates. And he was the mayor’s liaison with the special prosecutor investigating allegations that the city’s Public Works Department was rigging bids for school and municipal construction projects. Richards was also a vocal opponent of expanded Native American gaming rights at the Potowatami Bingo parlor, his rationale being that casinos attract people who can least afford to lose their money. It’s remotely possible that somebody in the tribe did the deputy mayor in.

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The lobby of the PAC is mobbed with local glitterati, women showing off their jewelry and men showing off their trophy wives. Findley guides me through the crowd, and an usher shows us down the aisle to our seats. Looking at my program, I see that the performance will be in four acts, and wonder if my butt can take the strain. As we wait for the show to get underway, I feel the light touch of Findley’s hand on my arm. She leans over so close to me that I get a whiff of her perfume, and whispers: “Thank you for doing this, Wally. You know you’re one of the few people I can trust.” I hunch my shoulders, not knowing what the heck to say to something like that. A kind of frog croak comes out of my mouth. She says: “Do you know how important it is for a person to have someone she can really trust? You’re my partner, and there’s no closer bond than that.” The hubbub in the hall is nearly palpable, like the vibration set up by an inboard engine on a big motorboat. I respond to Findley’s confidence with a dumbass smile as the lights dim and the orchestra strikes up its first tune. The curtain rises to a dazzling palace scene with women in hoop skirts and men in high heels and fancy vests. Prince Siegfried is wearing the tightest tights I’ve ever seen and more makeup than a streetwalker on West Wisconsin Avenue. It’s really the tights that catch your eye, however. Those things would make the Lycra pants of an NFL quarterback look like droopy drawers. Everybody dances around in couples to the tunes of P. I. Tchaikovsky, which are familiar even to my rusty ear. Apparently this is Prince Siegfried’s birthday, and the whole castle is celebrating.

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Then Prince Siegfried takes center stage. His quads are the size of telephone poles, the crack in his butt is clearly visible, and it looks to me like he’s wearing a steel cup. For just a moment I imagine how I’d look in that getup, and the image brings me to within a hairsbreadth of laughing out loud. The story is that the Prince’s mother gives him a crossbow to go hunting. I reflect that nobody in my neighborhood would ever be seen hunting in such a getup. White tights and a shiny blue blouse that even my former wife would say is overdone. The party continues with a slew of dancers dressed in the most fantastic costumes and thumping about so that even out here in row L we can hear their landings. It’s one hell of a party, and the main thing a person is bound to notice is the guys’ cranks, which may explain why women find the ballet so attractive. A sort of Chippendales show with culture. Now the lights go dim and the Prince prances around in the near dark by himself. Before you know it, a henchman comes along and gives him the crossbow, which he aims out over the audience. That’s Act One. As Act Two begins, Siegfried is still holding his crossbow when along comes this girl in a white tutu, and they dance around together. She is a swan, and she brings with her a whole passel of other swans, all of them enchanted by the evil wizard Rothbart. The main swan is Odette, and she can’t become a girl again unless she wins the undying love of a prince. The swans dance around together in what P.I. Tchaikovsky must have thought swans do, all white against this dark gray stage. The curtain comes down, the lights come up, and we’re at intermission. Findley suggests we go to the lobby for a sparkling water. I am more in the mood for a pint of beer, but I agree. This is her night, and I am 81

merely her escort. The lobby is once again filled with hundreds of gussiedup women, all talking at once. As we mingle, I wish my ex could see me now, escorting this young woman to such a cultural event. Since Margaret left, my only fling was with Sergeant Sheila Wray, which had little feeling on either side except for making the beast with two backs. Our lovemaking was awkward, rehearsed, inevitably a failure. We saw each other for three months, tried our damnedest to make a go of it, but in the end decided neither of us wanted to wake up to just any warm body. It had to be the right warm body. Findley and I stand at the edge of the crowd, sipping bubbly water and watching. Then Findley hands her plastic container over to me and excuses herself to go to the ladies. I stand there feeling like a Minnesota Vikings fan at a Super Bowl party until my eye falls on a peculiar twosome standing shoulder to shoulder at the far end of the lobby. I take a few steps forward to get a better look, but just at that moment the lobby lights flicker to announce the end of intermission. The two women who are the object of my attention turn and walk together toward the entrance to the auditorium. I bolt forward in order to keep them in sight, weaving through the mass of high-priced fabric. “Wally,” Findley calls to me from behind. “Over here.” I turn, acknowledge her hand signal, but keep my eye on the target of my concern. “Go ahead,” I call to her. “I’ll catch up with you.” She gives me a perplexed look, but nods and heads back to our seats. I follow my quarry to the far aisle, still uncertain what to make of it. Ten minutes later I jostled my way through the row of knees and laps to my seat. The dancers have already taken to the stage. My fellow ticketholders grumble as I disturb their concentration on the show. 82

“What was that all about?” Findley says in a stage whisper as I settle into my seat. I lean over, and speak into her ear: “Shirley Richards and Amanda Marquez are here. Together.” My partner blanches. “I got the impression those two were rivals for Morris Richards’ affections. What do you suppose they’re doing together?” “That’s exactly the question I’m asking myself.” “Shhh!” The patrons of the arts around us do not appreciate our sudden interest in Morris Richards’ female companions. I turn my attention back to the story on stage just as things are getting complicated. Back at the castle, the royals are still partying and Siegfried’s Mom is demanding that he pick a wife. But now comes the evil wizard Rothbart, who has disguised his own ugly daughter to look like Odette, and passes her off to Siegfried as the swan he loves. Since princes in these stories are never overly bright, Siegfried is taken in by the sorcerer’s daughter and swears his love to her. At that, Odette the swan crashes through the window, but the damage has apparently been done. Siegfried has picked Rothbart’s daughter as his wife, god forbid, forever. All this enchanting is so confusing that I’m about to get a headache. By this time, Prince Siegfried has changed into a new shirt, and a good thing too, because with all that bouncing around in the first two acts the old one must be soaking wet. And out of the blue, we get a troupe of Spanish dancers in flamenco costumes, doing a hat dance. Where they came from I cannot tell. Must be an out of town act or something. In any case, these people sure know how to celebrate. So what’s the Prince’s reaction when he learns he’s been duped? He draws his sword and tries to attack Rothbart, who simply stirs up a storm of 83

wind and thunder to deflect Siegfried’s blows. Looks like the prince has bought himself a peck of trouble. Back at the lake, Odette returns to human form, and she’s not exactly dancing a jig. She’s doomed to be a woman by night, a swan by day forever. Seems nobody is happy except Rothbart. Odette rushes toward the water determined to drown herself. Here’s where the story gets a little hazy for me. A swan that can’t swim? That’s like a second story man who can’t climb. While Odette is getting ready to do herself in, Siegfried, still in his tights, is searching the woods for her. The rain and wind is crashing all around, but he finds her at the lake. They hug and kiss, but they know the mess can’t be unraveled. All they can do now is die together. They plunge into the lake. As we take our place in the queue of cars leaving the parking ramp, Findley asks me what I thought of the ballet. “Quite a production,” I admit. “Now I see why tickets go for an arm and a leg. And the dancers, they must exercise eight hours a day to stay in that kind of shape.” “It’s a beautiful story,” Findley says. “The noble prince and the enchanted swan.” I think that one over for a minute. “But the ending is kind of a downer, isn’t it? Both of them dying in the lake? I couldn’t help thinking of young Jeffrey Blount at that point, screwing the family plane into the lake.” “Oh, Siegfried and Odette don’t die. They are set free. The evil spell is broken. The swan maidens become human again, and Siegfried and Odette go to a place between the earth and the sky to live in bliss forever.” I turn to Findley. “Guess I missed that part. What I saw was Siegfried drowning in the lake, and Rothbart, mad as hell but free to cast spells as long as he likes. Seems to me that the bad guy came out better than anyone.” 84

What a way to check out, I think to myself. Why couldn’t Siegfried and Odette have lived those perfect lives right here on earth? After dropping Findley off at her place, I head home, sans drinks at one of those tony downtown bars, and share my review of the evening with Manfred. “There was nothing improper going on,” I explain as the mutt lays his head on my lap in the living room. “We came straight home, and I dropped her off at the door to her apartment.” I do not mention the light kiss she planted on my cheek after opening up her door and thanking me for accompanying her. Nor do I say anything about the handkerchief I found on the seat next to mine on my way home, an article I decided to put into the glove box and keep as a memento of our evening. I do not mention these things because in the past Manfred has shown signs not exactly of jealousy, but of wounded pride when I mention such dalliances with women. He himself is neutered, and may not understand the workings of hormones in a human fellow’s body. Now he gives a large, hound-dog kind of sigh. My explanation of a perfectly proper evening has been accepted. “Findley.” The word escapes my lips without my realizing it. “Probably would have been less trouble if she’d turned out to be some bigass Irishman.” I fall asleep in my chair in front of the Sony, and dream of Rothbart the evil wizard. He is a most terrible creature, a man made into a bird, black as coal and big as a linebacker. His beak is dark yellow, and sharp as a boning knife. In my dream, Rothbart flings himself about just as he did on the stage of the PAC, threatening everything in sight, placing sinister spells on people and animals alike. His wickedness knows no bounds. He is the enemy, and as his eye falls on me I wake with a start. I gather my dress 85

clothes together and make for the bedroom, but after that dream I cannot get back to sleep. My mind keeps squirrel-caging about the extraordinary sight of Mrs. Richards and Ms. Marquez together at the ballet.

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-9The offices of Shea Underground Systems, Inc. are sequestered among the maze of industrial firms that populate the Menomonee River valley, a no-man’s land that separates the north and south sides of the city. In the acre of land behind the pole-barn building that serves as Shea’s headquarters is a yard stacked high with red clay sewer pipe. Mud-encrusted backhoes punctuate the grounds, arranged in no particular order. Overall, the place has a worn look, as though it has just put in a fourteen-hour day without benefit of a lunch break. As we approach the entrance, Manfred is seized with a fit of sniffing over the litter-strewn asphalt parking lot. After considerable investigation, he latches onto a Big Mac wrapper and hides it in the pouch of his cheek as we enter the building. A yellow-haired receptionist interrupts the application of polish to her long fingernails to escort me to the office of Michael Shea, whose name and position – President and Chief Executive Officer – are etched on a brass plate over his office door. Shea looks like he could have played linebacker for the Green Bay Packers a couple of decades ago. He’s all head and shoulders, and no neck. At the same time, his face betrays the beleaguered look of a man under great stress. He wears a white shirt and double-knit pants, no tie, Wolverine work boots. Blueprints are scattered around the office.

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Unlike our reception at the Marquez apartment, Shea welcomes Manfred with a tousling of the dog’s ears and neck. “What kind of breed is he?” the contractor asks. I fill him in on my assistant’s uncertain bloodlines, and add that although he’s not particularly bright, Manfred does have redeeming qualities that earn him his daily ration of Purina One. “Besides,” I add, “I wouldn’t want a dog who’s smarter than I am. Your border collie, for example. He’ll outwit you every time. With Manfred, we’re evenly matched.” Shea beckons to the drawings he was examining when we came in. “This is no easy business,” he says, turning from a drafting table and taking a seat behind a large oak desk. “Try estimating a twenty million dollar job some time, and see how many little holes in the road the specs throw in your path.” He gestures to me to take a seat opposite him. “Go too high and you lose the job. Go too low and you find yourself in bankruptcy court.” He runs a ham hand through his thick brown hair. “I should have gone to dental school like my mother wanted me to do.” I nod. “My own mother always told me to get into the civil service. Must have said so a hundred times while I was growing up. Maybe that’s why I ended up where I am.” “There’s security where you are,” Shea says. “You’ll get a pension.” As though the main object of working thirty years is to grow old and collect a pension. Mom didn’t have a clue about what it takes to hang in as a cop for thirty years. For her, evil was something Father Walz talked about in church, referring to the works of Satan and the Republican Party. For me, evil is alive on the city streets every day of the week. There is no end to the vile acts a city detective comes across, from baby murders to corruption in

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high office. My Satan is a whole lot different than the one Father Walz drew for my mother, a whole lot more tangible. “I’ve got a few quick questions for you, Mr. Shea.” I pull out my pocket logbook and turn to a blank page. “It’s about the Morris Richards case.” “Morris Richards? The big shot from downtown? What would I know about Morris Richards? I’m a contractor, not a politician. Take a look around this place. Think the big shots downtown would be seen dead in a place like this?” His face contorts and he apologizes: “Sorry, wrong choice of words.” I page through my notebook. “I get to ask the questions, if that’s all right with you. You get to answer them. I’m wrapping up a few details that have been nagging at me, and in going through the records down at city hall I found that your company bid on four jobs for the city in the past nine months. None of those bids was successful.” “We do quality work here,” Shea snaps. “When we bid a job, the materials are A-one, not the PVC crap the others use. Vitrified clay pipe. It’s the best material by far for underground. You want to know why?” Before I can answer, he continues: “Strength and life expectancy. Nothing outlasts clay, plain and simple. We guarantee our product for one hundred years. That’s tops in the sewer pipe industry.” He huffs, and pulls himself out of his chair. “PVC? They only guarantee that crap for twelve months. PVC may not even make it in the ground before the warranty expires. Then you got to do deflection tests for installation. All kinds of reasons to specify clay.” “Mr. Shea, I’m sure clay is a great way to lay sewers. I saw a whole football field of the stuff out there on your grounds. But right now I’d like to 89

talk about your relationship with a certain Jeffrey Blount, who you probably know has been fingered as being responsible for Morris Richards’ death.” That stops Mike Shea and his promotion of vitrified clay. “Who told you that? Where you getting your information, detective?” He comes around the desk, takes a step toward me. I brace myself for what could be the impact of a slam by a middle linebacker. But the collision doesn’t come. Shea shakes his head and backs off, turns away from me and rests the heels of his hands on a drawing table littered with blueprints. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We been losing jobs left and right. Not by much, mind you, but that makes it all the harder. Each of those four jobs, the winning bidders haven’t left a whole lot of money on the table and we’ve been right behind them, like the second place horse in the Kentucky Derby.” “You think there were shenanigans going on? Somebody tip somebody off about your bid before the opening?” Shea turns to me and shakes his head. “I ain’t accusing anybody. Just seems awfully funny how those jobs were parceled out around us, and we were left sucking hind tittie. Somebody had somebody on the inside. So I decided to get my own inside man.” “Jeffrey Blount.” “He promised he could tilt the scales in my favor. The little shit was the deputy mayor’s son. I may have threatened to slice off one of his balls when I lost the job anyway, but it was just talk. I expected him earn his keep, and he fucked up.” “The thing is,” I remind Shea, “Morris Richards wasn’t in the procurement department. He was a whole lot farther up on the food chain.” “And that’s Jeffrey Blount pointed that out to me. But he said his stepdad could influence what went on in the purchasing department, and at 90

least make sure everything was on the up and up. What a load of crap that was.” “He didn’t come through for you.” “Next job came up, and went to Tri-State Construction. I paid Jeff Blount a sizeable consultant fee, and now look what’s happened. Jeff and his pop are both dead, and I’m left holding the bag.” Shea goes on to explain that when he lost the Kilbourn Avenue project, he read Jeff the riot act. “For him it was just a quick buck. For me it’s a business that’s taken three generations to build. I gave him both barrels.” “When was that?” “Last Friday morning, after the bid opening. But hey, wait a minute detective. You’re not suggesting I had anything to do with Jeff’s plane wreck, or what happened to his old man? I chewed the kid out, but that’s all I did.” “And where were you on Friday night, Mr. Shea?” “Me? Hell, I was at Karl Ratzsch’s, retirement party for our senior job superintendent. I was the master of ceremonies. And yeah, I was there all night, from seven until midnight. I have an outsize Visa bill to prove it.” That could explain why Jeff went to Old Town on Friday night. He may have thought he’d made a deal with his old man, but when Mike Shea dressed him down he learned a little bit about city politics. “Karl Ratzsch’s, huh? A step up from Old Town. Business can’t be all that bad.” “The kid had zero pull with his old man. I would have been better off throwing my money away at the Potowatami bingo parlor.” I slip my notebook back into my jacket pocket and thank Mike Shea for his time. As I turn to go, he calls to me. 91

“Hey, detective. Remember, there are a hundred and fifty rock-solid reasons to spec clay, beginning with the 150 corrosive chemicals that will degrade PVC.” I give him a thumbs up. “I’ll remember that, Mr. Shea. My next underground project will be clay pipe or nothing.”

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- 10 I drive south on 13th Street with Manfred sitting in the back seat and persistently resting his big chin on my shoulder to beg for a Milk Bone. Crocus Restaurant, where we stop for lunch, is situated across from two cemeteries where some of my own relatives are buried. Uncle Jerry Dopple bought the farm during the great cryptosporidium epidemic of 1993. Hundreds of others died during that invasion by the tiny microbe, and I myself thought I was going to lose every organ south of my equator and north of my knees. For me the danger passed, but for Uncle Jerry, who already suffered from irritable bowel syndrome, the crypto attack was fatal. He now rests under a basswood tree along with others of the Dopple clan in St. Adalberts, directly across the street from Crocus. My mother’s mantra had always been that Milwaukee is the best place in the world to live because the water was so pure and plentiful. Mom was already interred in Arlington Cemetery up on 27th Street and Layton Avenue when the crypto plague struck. Good thing too, because if she’d learned the truth about the city’s water supply the news would have killed her. As always on weekday noontimes, the Crocus dining room is sparsely populated with customers even though the parking lot is full of cars. That means there’s a post-funeral party going on in the hall downstairs, which accounts for the majority of the restaurant’s lunch business. “Friends are

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invited to join the family for a buffet in the meeting hall of Crocus restaurant,” the officiating clergy tacks onto the end of the burial spiel, as though the restaurant is part of a Bible passage. Veterans of these ceremonies make sure they are first in line at the buffet table, before the deviled eggs run out. As always, I am welcomed with a firm handshake by Andy Wasielewski. Andy and his wife Ela have owned this last Polish restaurant in the city for decades, the ethnic population having slowly migrated to the suburbs and left the near south side to a new wave of Hispanic residents. Now you’ll find names like Conejitos taking the place of Krakow on the restaurant scene. Crocus is able to hold out only because it retains its lucrative funeral business. I start with the near-famous dill pickle soup, followed by a plate of steaming sauerkraut and polish sausage. Beneath the table I occupy several times each month, Manfred sighs heavily, looking up from time to time to beg a morsel of the fragrant sausage. “Later,” I remind him. “Dogs are not allowed to eat in people restaurants.” In fact, dogs are not allowed in restaurants period, unless they are service dogs. But Andy makes an exception for Manfred, whom he regards with the same reverence as he would a golden retriever helping a blind man around. “What you been up to detective?” the voice of my host booms as he settles onto the edge of the chair opposite me. “How’s the crime fighting business?” I twist my wrist back and forth a couple of times in a so-so manner. “One thing about this line of work,” I say for the hundredth time in the long history of our overworked joke, “you never run out of customers.”

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And for the hundredth time, Andy laughs heartily at my wit. “I should be so lucky,” he says. “Look around. Maybe a dozen customers at noon. Whatever happened to the three-martini lunch?” “Went the way of the buggy whip when the drunk driving laws were passed. But you’re doing all right with the crowds in the basement. Don’t think I didn’t see all the cars in the parking lot.” “Ah, Dopple,” he says, laying a finger aside of his nose. “That’s why you’re a city detective and I’m just a struggling restaurateur.” He laughs again. “I may be a detective, but so far I’ve struck out getting the recipe for Ela’s dill pickle soup. This stuff is perfect for the diet I’m planning to start tomorrow.” “You want the recipe?” he asks, as if he doesn’t remember my asking for it three times in the past. “You wait. I’ll get it.” A few minutes later, Andy is back with a half-sheet of paper, neatly folded. He slips it under my plate and disappears into the bar room, as if we had just concluded a drug deal. I open the sheet of paper. Crocus Restaurant Famous Dill Pickle Soup 1 pound beef neck bones 1 cup raw mixed vegetables (diced carrots, celery, onion, leek, savory cabbage) 2 cups diced kosher dill pickles 2 quarts water 2 cups diced raw potatoes 3 tablespoons flour 1 cup milk salt to taste 95

In a large pot, place neck bones, vegetables and pickles. Add water and cook over medium heat 45 minutes. Add potatoes and cook until soft, about 20 minutes. Increase heat to medium-high. Combine flour and milk in small bowl and gradually add to soup, stirring regularly, until mixture boils. Season to taste with salt. Remove neck bones and discard. Makes 6 to 8 servings. This soup tastes best refrigerated and served the next day. After the sausage and sauerkraut I suffer a mild attack of guilt, having pushed aside Krystal Findley’s fancy for the world-class cheese blintzes Ela Wasielewski’s kitchen serves up. I’d thought about calling Findley to join me for lunch, but decided against it because she would be sure to roll her eyes when I ordered the polish sausage. Polish sausage is not on the Weight Watchers approved foods list. But as Manfred and I step back out onto the street I give my partner a call and ask her if she can meet me at City Hall. It’s time to step into the tiger’s den. We make our connection at the Wells Street entrance to the building and take the elevator up to the deputy mayor’s office. There we are greeted by Rita Swain, a thirty-year veteran of city employment and fellow habitué of The Lucky Seven Bar. We exchange pleasantries, and Rita shows us back to the office of the deputy mayor, where a young woman in a summer frock sits idly contemplating a display of playing cards on her computer screen. “Bridget dear,” Rita says as we approach the desk, “this is detective Dopple from the police.” The young woman reacts instantly, hitting the escape key on her computer and turning to us. I should have such reflexes. “Detectives,” Rita continues, “this is Bridget Schnapps, Mr. Richards’ executive assistant.”

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I open my wallet to show Bridget Schnapps my badge, and Findley does likewise. “We’d like to ask you just a few questions about the deputy mayor. You, uh, worked for Mr. Richards?” Bridget Schnapps is in her mid-twenties, bright-eyed and eager. Maybe not quite so eager since what happened to her boss, but filled with the bloom of youth. In response to my question, she simply nods. “How long did you work for Morris Richards?” Findley asks, a note of gravel in her voice. Ms. Schnapps hesitates. “About three years,” she says. “Ever since I graduated from Marquette.” “You were his personal assistant?” Findley has taken over the questioning, apparently seeing that I am reluctant to press too hard with such a delicate flower. Findley has no such reservations. Bridget Schnapps nods again. “Executive assistant,” she says. “This wasn’t the easiest place in the world to work, you know.” “Oh,” Findley says. “Looks pretty cushy to me. What made it so difficult?” Ms. Schnapps squirms in her chair and looks away from us. “Mr. Richards. He said things to me.” “What sort of things?” “Rude things. Things I can’t even repeat.” She pauses, takes a handkerchief from her desk drawer, wipes her nose and continues. “I was going to file a complaint with the EEOC about him. I just hadn’t gotten around to it…” “Sexual harassment?” “Look,” Bridget Schnapps says, “the man is dead. Can’t we let it end there? Do we have to bring up that business?” 97

“I’m afraid so,” Findley says. “You see, there are some holes in the official story that’s gone out about Richards’ death. We’re trying to plug those holes.” Another nod. “And you’re sure it was harassment?” Findley continues. “I was humiliated,” Bridgett says, her face turning red. “He talked about it all the time, what we could do with an afternoon off, where we could go. Hotel rooms and all like that. He said what I needed was an experienced man, someone who would, well, do things like – like suck my toes. He looked at me in a way that…” I take out my notebook and begin writing. Findley continues the questioning. “You weren’t the only one, were you?” Bridget Schnapps hesitates, as if to say she doesn’t know what Findley is talking about. “He was having an affair with Amanda Marquez, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that the real reason behind Ms. Marquez’s unlawful dismissal suit? And wasn’t the reason she was fired in the first place some kind of lover’s quarrel?” “I really wouldn’t know anything about that, detective. I’m the executive assistant here, and what the deputy mayor and his chief of staff did on their own time was none of my business. All I know is that he said some terribly crude things to me, and my friends finally convinced me to take it to the EEOC.” “Your friends.” She nods. “It would be on the tapes you know, what Mr. Richards said to me.”

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“The tapes?” That’s me getting into the act now, for suddenly I am all ears. Findley and I trade puzzled looks, and there is a pause for reorientation. “What tapes?” I finally ask. “His meeting record tapes,” Schnapps replies. “He kept them on all his business meetings for future reference. The tape drive is in his desk.” “We’re going to need to take a look at that desk,” Findley says, gesturing to the door to the deputy mayor’s office. The nameplate indicating Morris Richards as the occupant of the office has been removed, but the title Deputy Mayor is still there. “I don’t know,” Bridget Schnapps says. “The police who were here before told me not to let anybody in there. The door is locked.” “But you have the key,” I say. “Don’t you?” The same innocent nod. Then Bridget relents, retrieves a ring of keys from her desk drawer, and shows us to the deputy mayor’s office. The office is about the same size as the entire squad room at the Second District, big enough to handle a volleyball match. On the far side of the room a large window looks westward past the Bradley Center where the Milwaukee Bucks play basketball, to the courthouse and the Safety Building. What appears to be a very expensive oriental rug fills the space between a free-standing bookcase and a desk that could land Navy planes. Three arm chairs are set on the visitor’s side of the desk, and one of those Herman Miller Aeron chairs is tucked into the kneehole behind the desk. “Keys to the desk?” Findley says, holding out her hand to Bridget. The young woman fumbles with the keys for a moment, then selects one from the collection and hands it over to my partner. She points to the upper right desk drawer.

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“That one,” she says. “Like I said, it would have been on the tapes, what Mr. Richards said to me. I could have proved that I wasn’t making it all up.” Sure enough, when Findley opens the drawer we find a high-end Marantz sound system with a mini reel-to-reel recorder, neat as a dowager’s underwear drawer. A bit of sleuthing reveals a microphone nestled in the base of the Stifel lamp on Richards’ desk. The next question may be the most important one. “And where did the deputy mayor keep the recorded tapes?” Findley asks. “I think they were behind that bookcase.” She indicates the shelves on the opposite side of the room. “A safe?” “No, just a false front. I’ve seen him over there when I came into the office a time or two, and he pretended there was nothing there, so as to keep the hiding place secret.” “So he didn’t know that you knew.” Bridget nods. Stands to reason that a man whose sexual harassment episodes were recorded on magnetic tape would not let the subject of that behavior in on where the evidence was stored. “Did you tell the police about the tape system?” Young Bridget shakes her head. “Why not?” Her face flushes. “They didn’t ask.” Findley starts across the room. “Hold on a minute, partner,” I call to her. “Let’s not get ourselves in Dutch with the district attorney. Let’s get a warrant before we start tossing 100

the place.” I turn to Ms. Schnapps: “How many people knew Morris Richards was doing a Dick Nixon on his visitors?” “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean…” “Did he let people know their conversations were being recorded when they sat down across the desk from him?” “Oh, I don’t think so. He was pretty secretive about it. I don’t think some of the people he met with would have liked having their every word on tape.” We amble back to the outer office, where Rita Swain stands guard. “How about you, Rita?” I ask. “Did you know about the deputy mayor’s penchant for recording his conversations?” “Me?” she says in a tobacco-impaired voice. “I’m just the receptionist here. What would I know about that kind of thing?” Her eyes refuse to meet mine, a sure sign that after thirty years service to the city there is little of which she is not aware in the trappings of the office. Complete bullshit is what I’m been fed here. Findley’s cell phone rings, and she steps out into the hall to take the call. “Then the taping was Richards’ insurance against…what?” “I wouldn’t have any idea about that, detective. I’m just an employee here, and Mr. Richards’ didn’t share his business with me.” Findley comes back into the room, her eyes glazed over like a deer in the beam of headlights. “Detective Dopple, can I see you for a minute?” We move back out of the office. She holds up her phone: “That was the boss. It’s Sonny Schultz,” she whispers. “He’s been shot.” “Schultz? Shot? Where?” “In the head.” 101

“No, I mean where’d it happen?” “In his office at Zipper Strippers. The place was closed, but Schultz was still using the office to do his business with the other clubs he owns. They found him twenty minutes ago. The boss wants us down there to take a look.” “I assume the mope is dead.” “As a battery at twenty below. And Wally?” “Yeah?” “The boss wanted to know what we’re up to. I gave him the runaround, but it won’t take him long to find out we’re where we’re not supposed to be.” She’s right. On the other hand, we’ve finally got something concrete to follow up on in the Richards case, and I’m not about to let go of the string just as the kite is up in the air. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll split up. You use Bridget’s office to put together a search warrant, and fax it to a judge for signature. I’ll head on over to Zipper Strippers and check out the other thing. Try to use Judge Angelus for the court order. He’s a soft touch, not too particular about upholding the constitutional rights of dead people.”

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- 11 I run into Bernard Bathory in the parking lot of Zipper Strippers. Bathory is the veteran medical examiner whose claim to fame is expertise in blood spatters. The sun is setting over the Cancun Tan Parlor next door to the club, and the parking lot is littered with cigarette butts, chewing gum wrappers, and empty Miller High Life bottles. The rush hour traffic from the Interstate sets up a high whine as the ME and I hurry to the faded purple doors of the club. I have not seen Bernie and his black medical bag since the case of the branch bank robberies, where three people were gunned down at the Southgate shopping center. In that case, Bernie determined conclusively that the shots were fired from a large barreled shotgun, and that the victims fell backwards against a walnut check-writing table. That diagnosis was confirmed by the dozen eyewitnesses who saw the crime going down. Bernie’s job today promises to be a bit more difficult, there having been nobody present except the shooter and the victim when Sonny Schultz bought the farm, and therefore no independent pair of eyes to confirm a diagnosis. But Bernie is customarily enthusiastic about the work at hand. “Looks like a good one Dopple,” he greets me as I open the door to the strip club for him. “Tough guy gunned down in his own club. Took a couple right between the eyes the way I hear it.” He gives Manfred a dismissive glance that says don’t expect any liver treats from me, and steps into the dimly lit bar. 103

I follow Bathory to the back room where Sonny Schultz keeps his private office, while Manfred sniffs around the bar and the stage out front, taking in a whole array of exotic scents. At the door to the office Bernie turns to me: “Keep that mutt out here, Dopple,” he commands. “We don’t want him contaminating the scene.” My canine collaborator stops in his tracks, raises his head, and gives Bernie a short, low growl. Just one more proof that dogs understand the spirit of spoken language, if not the specific words. “Hey,” I call after Bathory. “He’s part of the team. He’s a police dog.” “Past tense,” Bernie reminds me from inside Schultz’s lair. While his observation may be technically true, the fact is that Manfred has not lost his detection skills since he left the official ranks of the Department. And he is the member of our team most qualified to check clues below knee level. The crime scene in Schultz’s office is right out of a Mickey Spillane story: the brutish kingpin of the city’s skin clubs lies slumped forward in his high-backed zebra-striped swivel chair, his head twisted at an unnatural angle and resting on his desk, his arms splayed out before him. Most folks think that victims are blown back by a gunshot wound, but most people are wrong. The victim of a shooting crumbles forward, as Sonny Schultz did when his killer popped him above the right eyebrow. A second wound is visible in the throat area, above the heavy gold chain the victim wears around his neck. Dried blood is streaked on his forehead and down his nose, creating a Halloween-like mask on the lifeless face. Bernie Bathory circles the desk, then leans over and examines the wounds more closely. Bernie likes people to call him Doctor Von Bathory, as if he is heir to a line of Prussian barons, but I know better. His old man worked thirty years in the Ladish foundry in Cudahy to put Bernie through 104

medical school, then took it on the chin with emphysema and went to the big cope and drag factory in the sky. Bernie’s grandma Bertha took in wash during the Great Depression. Bernie’s lines are about as royal as my own. Still, he outfits himself for the role he has chosen, wearing tweed hunting jackets with leather elbow patches in all but the hottest weather, and sporting a narrow waxed mustache that he has occasion to twirl between thumb and forefinger when pondering a question from a police detective. “Where was the killer standing?” I ask as Bernie starts a second circling of the body. The ME comes around to the front of the desk and positions himself near the door. He twirls the mustache. “About here I’d say, judging from the pattern of blood on the wall behind the victim.” He assumes a shooting position, then moves behind the desk again and pulls out a small magnifying glass. He examines blood spatters on the wall closely, then concludes: “See how the teardrop pattern moves off to the right and slightly downward? That means our killer was above and to the left of Mr. Schultz when he pulled the trigger.” “Any idea how long ago?” Bathory shakes his head. “Won’t know that until I examine the body. No rigor yet, from the looks of things.” He lays the back of his hand along the side of Schultz’s neck. “Body’s cooled down though. And there’s some corneal clouding in the eyes. Maybe a couple of hours. One thing’s for certain. Our shooter was a damned good marksman. See here: there’s no burn, no soot, no gunpowder on the body. The shooter was standing away from the victim, as far away as seven to ten feet. That may not seem a long distance, but it takes both nerve and good aim to pop a man the way this was done.” 105

“He came in the door, found Schultz at home, and pulled the trigger without the benefit of discussion,” I offer. “Could be. I’ll take a look at the angles of entry and check the pictures of the blood evidence. Then I’ll let you know for sure.” I don’t need an opinion from Bernie Bathory to tell me that the same type of gun was used in this attack as in the killing of deputy mayor Richards. A twenty-two or twenty-five caliber. The bullet enters the body, bounces around inside the skull, does a heck of a lot more damage than a larger bore would. And the slug gets so beat up inside that cranial pinball machine that ballistics is virtually impossible. The only difference this time is that the bullets entered the victim’s forehead and throat, not the back of his head as they did in the Richards killing. I sidle up to Bathory: “Take a look inside his mouth,” I suggest. Bernie screws up his massive eyebrows and gives a quick curl on the left side of his mustache. Then he hunches his shoulders and leans over the body. “No tongue,” he reports upon completion of his exam. “How’d you know?” “You weren’t at the Morris Richards shooting, were you Bernie?” He shakes his head. “Talbot was on call that night. Same deal?” “Same deal. Now we’ve got two missing tongues.” All of which throws a monkey wrench into my theory that Schultz killed Richards. It looks like we’ve got a lunatic on our hands, picking what seem to be unrelated targets just for the fun of it. This has become personal with me. The killer is trying to make me spin around like a top trying to figure out who he – or she – is. How in the heck could sleazy Sonny Schultz and the respected deputy mayor Morris Richards be connected, that’s what I’d like to know. 106

I turn to the uniform standing guard at the door. “Who found him?” I ask. The young officer snaps to a kind of attention: “Bartender.” He takes out his notebook and consults a page. “Louise Mankewitz. She’s in the room next door, lying down. Took it pretty hard. Nine-one-one operator said she was screaming through the whole call.” I pull on a pair of latex gloves and go down on my hands and knees, looking for brass. “He cleaned up after himself,” one of the CSU techs tells me. “We checked the room already, and except for a partial shoe print it’s clean.” As I lurch back to my feet, my cell phone rings. I check caller ID. It’s Findley. “I thought you said Judge Angelus was a cream puff,” she huffs. “The man practically made me leave the deed to my condo on his desk before he agreed to sign the search warrant.” “Sorry about that, partner. Probably because of whose office we’re dealing with down there. He wouldn’t want to get his privates in a vise with the chief judge.” “Anyway,” she says, her tone making it clear that she is frustrated, “we finally got to look the place over. And there’s nothing.” “No tapes?” “Not only no tapes, but nothing else, either. The office was cleaned after hours Friday night, and Friday is the day the crew does its weekly hosedown. Dusting, vacuuming, polishing, the works. We’re holding an empty bag on this end, Wally.”

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“And a conundrum on this end,” I report. “The modus here is so close to the way Richards was killed that it’s a lock the same moke did the job. But he’s no dummy. Cleaned up pretty well after himself.” “What next then?” she asks. I step out of Sonny Schultz’s office, the phone still pressed to my ear, and into the darkened den of iniquity over which our late goombah presided for the past eight years. I slip my right cheek onto a bar stool and note that Manfred is still snuffling across the floor like a carpet sweeper. I can only imagine the heady variety of aromas his black nose must be picking up, for my own olfactory sense is bombarded by a mixture of body odors and alcohol. What a life this must have been. What a death for Sonny Schultz. Sin lurks in the shadows, hiding like a cockroach at the back of a kitchen cabinet. “I think another visit with Mrs. Richards,” I finally answer Findley’s question. “A couple of things about her – and her son – don’t add up.” “I interviewed her already,” Findley says. “Are you sure you want to go on with this, Wally? Seems as though every line ends up at a dead end.” I nod. “We’re going to turn this one, partner. Stick with me. I came into some new information. Let’s just stop in on Mrs. R. unannounced this time. How long will it take you to wrap things up on your end?” “It’s about over right now.” “Good. Give me an hour. I need to stop by the harbormaster’s office at Jones Island on my way over there. Let’s meet at the Mickey D’s on North Port Washington Road.” As I move through the tawdry bar room that is Zippers, I meet Skinny Zalewski, the bouncer. “Hope you’re satisfied copper,” he greets me. His face is a roadmap of pimples, doubtless the result of massive doses of 108

steroids. His head sets on his neck like a bobblehead doll, and his sleeveless T-shirt reveals muscle groups one would normally find only on a great ape. I stop and face up to the bouncer. “Made bail, did you Skinny? Could be we’ll be looking at you again, for what happened here.” “My name’s Bruno,” he corrects me. “And there’s no way you’ll make me for what happened to Sonny. Maybe you should be doing your job instead of rousting honest citizens, huh?” I shake my head and move on. There’s no reasoning with a brain as addled as Skinny’s.

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- 12 – The Richards home is situated on a wooded street in Bayside, just a block from the Lake. It’s a sprawling two-story brick house with Tuscan columns set on a large wooded lot. The two marble lions flanking the vaulted entrance attract Manfred’s guard dog attention as we pull up to a parking place. I hear a rumble from the goofy dog’s throat as we pass the statuary, and then a quick bark to warn the stone cats off. The circular driveway features a large central pool with a fountain at its center. Findley rings the bell, and after a considerable wait we are greeted by a sixty-something woman holding one of those feather dusters that are normally seen only in movies. Her housedress is hardly what I expect of the grieving mistress of this mansion. As it turns out, this is not the mistress of the mansion, but an honest-to-gosh maid, the first such person I have ever met. “Mrs. Richards please,” Findley says, flashing her badge. “Detectives Dopple and Findley.” The woman nods and disappears. While we wait, I speculate about how many south side families could live comfortably in a layout like this. Seems like the rich are determined to prove their financial virility through the size of their lodgings, much like the boys at the station house like to brag about the size of their private parts. Call me a communist, but it seems like 110

the whole bunch of us would be better served if there were limits on ostentation. About thirty seconds later a smartly dressed woman twenty years younger than the maid appears in the anteroom. “Oh,” is all she says when she sees Findley. “It’s you again.” “Mrs. Richards, this is my partner, Detective Dopple.” “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I say by way of introduction. “There are a few things we’d like to clear up concerning your husband’s death.” Shirley Richards gives Manfred the old evil eye, and he leans into my leg for support. “I told the young lady everything I know about Morris’s murder,” she says, moving away from the doorway to allow us to enter. “I wasn’t with him the night it happened, and Morris didn’t share his business affairs with me.” “Detective Findley filled me in on your earlier conversation,” I say to remind Mrs. Richards of my partner’s rank. “But some additional developments have come to light that we’d like to go over with you.” She rolls her eyes to let us know that we are a major inconvenience in her very important day before she leads us through an expansive hallway and into a high-ceilinged living room that looks out onto a swimming pool at the back of the house. The most startling feature of the room is the man reclining on a sofa in the middle of the room. It is our psychologist friend and noted talk show host, Aiden Weizsaker. He does not move to get up when Findley and I enter the room, but merely nods acknowledgement of our presence. “Dr. Weizsaker?” I say. “What a surprise. I thought it was the patient who got to lay back on the couch.” 111

He unfolds himself from the sofa and stretches his lanky frame. “That would assume that I am here in a professional capacity, wouldn’t it, Detective?” “You show up in the most unlikely places,” I say. “First at Pierogi Pete’s house, now here.” “I could say the same about you, Detective. Still chasing phantoms in Morris’s death, are we?” I ignore the jab. “When we talked at Pete’s house you said you knew the deputy mayor, but I had no idea that you meant…as well as all this.” Manfred leaves my side, nose to the ground, and pads across the room to where Weizsaker is standing. He sniffs greedily at the psychologist’s shoes, then up and down his trouser leg, leaving a string of slobber in his wake. He persists in his investigation even when I call to him, and I am forced to take him by the collar and pull him away from Weizsaker. I make a mental note to reprimand him later. “Not that it’s any of your business,” Shirley Richards puts in, “but both Morris and I were seeing Aiden for counseling on issues relating to our marriage. And with what’s happened, I need his help now more than ever.” “One thing’s for sure,” I say. “The subject can’t be marriage counseling anymore.” Weizsaker waves a hand. “That would come under the heading of patient confidentiality,” he says. If anything, Weizsaker appears even more gaunt than he was when we met during the standoff at Pete’s house. I imagine him living on brown rice and water. How else could he maintain such a spindly body structure? “You seem to keep yourself slim as a breadstick, counselor,” I say. “I on the other hand have a devil of a time dropping a few pounds. Like they say, I can 112

resist anything but temptation. There have been times when I’ve been mistaken for Lou Costello, the comedian.” The shrink nods. “I know the pitfalls of mistaken identity, Detective. I myself am often mistaken for a somewhat younger version of Robert Redford.” “How do you do it? Any tips on how to shed a few pounds?” Weizsaker produces a self-congratulatory smile. “Hypnosis,” he says. “Self hypnosis. It’s the key to changing a person’s behavior, the golden cord to self-fulfillment. Call my office for an appointment and we’ll explore the possibilities.” But he’s looking at me as if to say that he has doubts that anything can be done to salvage this terminally overweight body. Mrs. Richards steps between the psychologist and me. “Could we please take care of whatever business you have with me and be done with it? Doctor Weizsaker and I were in the middle of a session.” “A couple of things, Mrs. Richards. First, your son.” “My son is gone,” she says, turning away. “On the night his plane crashed a twenty-eight foot Catalina boat, the Magnum Opus, left the War Memorial marina, and hasn’t been heard from since.” The craft in question was registered to one August Blount, a real estate speculator with the Blount Group. The boat left port at eight-thirty that evening, sent up some chatter with the fishing boats working the near shore for Coho salmon, then went silent at about nine-thirty. That was about the time the fog rolled in. “You wouldn’t know anything about what that boat was up to, would you, Mrs. Richards?” The widow makes a show of arranging a large vase of flowers on the side table next to the sofa. “What would I know about boats, detective? I’m not a sailor.” 113

“But you do know something about August Blount, isn’t that right? Isn’t he the fellow who once lived with you in this house? Isn’t August Blount, in fact, the man you married twenty-two years ago, the father of your only child?” One thing leads to another is what I always say. The records of the harbormaster revealed the name of the owner of the Magnum Opus, and that in turn led my feeble old brain to remember a rather scandalous divorce hearing some years ago in which property was divided with all the rancor of a case in King Solomon’s court. The current Mrs. Shirley Richards was, at that time, Mrs. Shirley Blount. And she came away from the divorce with the house and a fair chunk of her first husband’s fortune. Also with custody of their fifteen year old son. “I haven’t seen August since our divorce,” Shirley Richards says, a sharp edge in her voice. “That was years ago. Now if you have nothing else…” I nod to Findley and we prepare to make our exit. At the door, I stop and turn to Mrs. Richards. “One more small thing,” I say. “I saw you and Amanda Marquez at the ballet the other night. How’d you like the performance?” The color rises along the widow’s neck and up to her cheeks. She hesitates. “I – you were at the ballet?” As though that’s an inconceivable notion in her high-cultured mind. “I was. And I saw you and Amanda Marquez. Tenth row center, wasn’t it? Kind of odd to see you two out socializing together.” Mrs. Richards steps over to the enormous fireplace mantle on the far wall, as if to get away from me. “Not at all,” she says. “We have a shared grief, a trauma in common. Amanda and I knew each other before she went 114

to work with Morris. We were deceived by the same man. Now, it would make me very happy if you would please leave my home.” As Findley and I cross the circular driveway to our cruiser, my partner says: “God Wally, they’re all wrapped up in a web together. They’ve got more secrets than Victoria.” “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s downright incestuous.” Findley raises an eyebrow. “Incestuous? You been staying up late nights reading the dictionary, Dopple?” “Very funny.” I change the subject. “Did you hear what the shrink said about himself? Does he really remind you of Robert Redford?” Findley gives a very feminine snort. “More like Mr. Ed than Robert Redford.”

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- 13 Back at the ranch, I am working on my incident report on the Schultz killing when I am summoned into Lt. Armand’s office. Before I can take a seat he tells me to close the door. That, plus the blotchy red complexion of his face is a clear signal that the hurricane warning flags are up. Manfred leans against my leg. He sees the signs, too. “Let me ask you a question,” the boss says by way of opening. That alone tells me two things: first, it’s not going to be a question at all; and second, if it were a question he would already have the answer. “I hear you been running around town bothering citizens about the Morris Richards case,” the Louie says. “The word from downtown is that this bullshit has got to stop. Chief Kloss wants to know if we haven’t got better things to do than harass taxpayers about a case that the mayor and the chief himself says is closed. You know how to spell closed, Dopple?” Then he spells it for me. “Boss, how can the case be closed?” I ask. “Did Jeffrey Blount come back from the dead to murder Sonny Schultz? The modus is the same, right down to the missing tongue. We’ve got a murderer on the loose, and if we don’t track him down he’ll kill again.” The boss holds his hands, palms up, and nods. “I know, I know. It’s a tough situation. But the mayor went on TV and said the case was closed. A politician lives and dies on the strength of his public statements. His enemies 116

would hang him out to dry if we all of a sudden came up with an alternative theory of the crime. “Tell me about it boss. I could write a book…” The Louie’s head swivels around and for the first time since I entered the office he looks me square in the eye: “What did you say, Dopple?” “Nothing boss. Just that I’ve seen it happen a hundred times, what you said about politicians. You have too. Remember the time they found the body in the vat of chocolate down at the Ambrosia factory, and the district alderman said something about chocolate-covered Armenians?” The boss waves me off: “Never mind about that, Dopple. You don’t have to write any books. Just listen to what they’re saying at the Kremlin on Kilbourn Avenue. The official word is that the Schultz killing is the work of a copycat. And that’s what we’re ordered to say too.” “A copycat? Balls. We didn’t mention the business about Richards’ missing tongue to the media. How could it be a copycat?” “It’s a case of CYA, Dopple. You been around long enough to know that. When the boys downtown say jump, we say how high. And you sure as hell can’t go out there like the Lone Ranger and make trouble for the powers that be. They’ve got the weight, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. This is not a Sam Spade private detective agency. It’s a city police force. We’re expected to live by the rules. Besides, it’s both your pension and my promotion on the line.” I decide to throw myself on his mercy. “It’s true. I shouldn’t be sticking my nose in. But you know as well as I do that something doesn’t smell right. There’s the scent of a skunk here boss, and I’m just trying to protect and serve the best way I know how.”

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“Forget about your nose Dopple, and use your brain for a change. The Richards case is off limits. Now, what’s the story on Sonny Schultz?” I fill him in on the basics. “The CSU report should be ready by tonight, and Doc Bathory is doing the autopsy later today. I’ll be at the morgue when he finishes.” “Here.” The boss tosses a manila file folder across the desk. “I had Watson do a history on Schultz. Take a look, and keep me posted on what you find in there.” “Sure boss. Will do.” I start for the door. “And about the Richards matter? Findley had nothing to do with what I’ve been up to. I did it all on my own hook.” He looks up from his desk. “Oh yeah? Well, if I were you I’d be careful about what went on between Findley and me. Wouldn’t want to start any office gossip about you two.” Now my face is the one turning red. “Me? And Findley? Boss, you got the wrong idea here.” “You were seen, Dopple. You and Findley. In what we call a fraternizing situation.” “By who?” I ask. Who among the Second District cops would be at Swan Lake, which is the only place Findley and I could have been seen together? Not a one of those knuckleheads would let their wives drag them to such a cultural event. “All I’m saying is, remember to act your age,” Lt. Armand says. “You’re old enough to be her father. We wouldn’t want anything to distract the boys from their duty. Get my drift?” “Yeah boss, I get your drift. You needn’t lose any sleep worrying about what’s going on between Findley and me. Like you say, I’m old 118

enough to be her father.” A fact that I understand only too well. Like they say, born twenty years too soon. “Now get back to work,” the boss says, waving a hand at me. Manfred takes offense at the boss’s gesture, and gives Lt. Armand a guttural bark. The fur on his back comes up and he barks a second time. Being several kinds of guard dog, Manfred will bark at any sight, sound or smell he takes it into his head as threatening. Plastic bags caught in the branches of trees around the neighborhood are one of his favorite targets. At the moment, however, a barking dog is the last thing I am prepared to tolerate, given the boss’s already testy temperament. I give a pull on the big boy’s collar, and he looks up at me. “And take that mangy mutt with you,” the Lt. says. “I’m allergic. He’s not supposed to be in the building in the first place.” I consider reminding the boss that Manfred is a retired member of the force, which should give him the same privileges as a human detective. Under the circumstances, I decide to button my lip. As I skulk back to my desk I hear the door to the boss’s office close with a click. When I look back, I see the blinds on his windows being closed. “What d’ya think he’s doing in there?” I feel a presence at my side, accompanied by a faint odor of sweat. I turn to find Dick Potts invading my personal space, his chin leaning over my shoulder while his gaze fixes on the Louie’s office. “You noticed it, didn’t ya?” Potts continues. “Last couple of months, he spends hours back there with the blinds closed.” I move away from my curious colleague and sit down at my desk. “That probably falls under the category of none of our business. Maybe he just wants to get away from a pack of halfassed tecs for awhile.” 119

Now Bernie Perelman sidles up beside Potts. “I think he’s got a girlfriend, and that’s why he pulls the blinds. He’s afraid one of us will be able to read his lips when he’s on the phone with her.” Potts screws up his face. “Maybe, but if that were so why wouldn’t he just face the wall? Be a lot easier than pulling the blinds.” Perelman gives Potts a smack on the back. “Potsy, you got about as much romance in your soul as a fire plug. A guy’s got some hot babe on the phone, he wants privacy. In his mind, he’s seeing things that he wouldn’t share with his best friend, much less a bunch like us. I tell you, what goes on behind that closed door has something to do with s-e-x.” I shake my head. “Could you two please take it somewhere else? You’re making me sick to my stomach.” “What?” Perelman says. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious about what’s going on with the Loo, Dopple. We’re cops. We unravel mysteries. It’s what we do for a living. And this,” he points to the closed blinds, “this is a mystery.” “It’s one mystery I can do without,” I say. When they finally drift over to Potts’s desk to continue their speculation, I open the Schultz file. My brain is still squirrel caging on the matter of how folks are coming to the wrong conclusions about Findley and me. My index finger flips over the pages of the Schultz record. I stop at page that brings me back to the job at hand. Sonny Schultz, it says here, was a suspected gunrunner.

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- 14 On my way home from the cop shop I make a stop at the supermarket to pick up baking supplies and a tabloid newspaper for Mrs. K., and a pack of Krispie Kreems for myself. It is dark outside by the time I pull into the garage and make my way to the house. Although I do not want to be a participant in the squad room speculation about what our boss is doing behind his pulled shades, I myself confess to wondering just what’s up in the corner office. When a person as grounded as the Louie changes his pattern of behavior, folks are bound to ask why. Potts and Perelman aside, my instinct tells me there’s a simple answer to the riddle. I put the grocery bag on the kitchen table. A lemon cake sits like a ring of sunshine in the middle of the table, beckoning to me. Compliments of my upstairs landlady. I sort out my own stuff from the items to go upstairs to Mrs. Kramer, check my phone messages, and change into my sweats. Ten minutes later I hear the tap-tap of a cane on the floor of Mrs. K’s kitchen, a signal that WWF Unforgiven has begun, and I am to get my rear end up there. Manfred follows me up the stairs, his big shoulders rising and falling like pistons under his shaggy coat. I knock twice, and the door to the flat swings open to reveal an altogether unfamiliar woman inside. The person who greets me has Mrs. Kramer’s face, but the face is framed by a mop of

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straight, gray-white hair that cascades to her shoulders. I squint, as though a better look will help me tune in to what is going on here. “How do you like it?” she asks. “It’s my new wig. I got it from the Mary Kay lady on a close out deal. She says it takes ten years off my looks. What do you think?” I pass the current issue of the National Enquirer to her and smile. “It’s very” – I wrack my brain for the right word – “becoming.” In fact, I thought in that first minute that she’d sheared off the business end of her mop and plopped it onto her head. “You look different.” She takes my forearm in her hand. “And he’s been here.” “Who’s been here?” “The burglar. Two o’clock this afternoon. Lucky thing for you I was around to keep watch on the place. I heard him in the downstairs hallway, fiddling with your door.” “You saw him?” “Didn’t need to see him. These ears,” and she sweeps the wig aside to show me the evidence, “are as keen as an outhouse rat’s. He thought he could sneak in and loot the place, but I was on him like that.” She snaps her thumb and forefinger. “Mrs. K, exactly what did you hear?” “A noise, just as I was settling in to take my nap. A noise in the back hall. I got up and went out to the landing. ‘Who’s there,’ I yelled. ‘Is that Detective Dopple down there?’ That must have scared the bejeesus out of him. I kept yelling for Detective Dopple, and he took off like a rabbit.” “Did you get a look at his face?”

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“How could I? I was up here on the landing. I wasn’t going to go down there and put myself into the clutches of a desperado. It wouldn’t be a fair match.” “You were right to stay up here, Mrs. K. You were certainly right about that.” “While you were eating doughnuts and throwing cards into a felt hat at the police station, the robber was trying to break into your own house. If I were you, I’d think twice about my priorities. “Now,” she says, taking my arm again and dropping the subject of my dereliction of duty like a hot coal, “come on into the living room. “I’ve got popcorn on the stove, and Vern The Vigilante is about to take back the Championship belt from Mad Dog Murchison. Sunshine Sally is at ringside, and you should get a load of her outfit.” Mrs. K takes her place on the couch, lifts her feet up and pulls an afghan across her lap. I settle into the large wing back chair that belonged to Max Kramer before he passed into the great beyond, and hoist my feet onto the matching ottoman. Mrs. K points the remote controller at the TV set, increases the volume to fifteen on the Richter scale, and the room is bathed in wild cheering from ringside in Dallas, where thousands of rabid fans await the drama of the ring. It would be a mistake to ask Julia Kramer if she believes the WWF is for real. Wrestling is not sport for Mrs. Kramer; it is the other religion in her life. Sundays she joins the parishioners at Layton Park Lutheran church, where she is active in the Ladies Aid Society. The other six days of the week she is a practicing Wrestletarian, surfing the channels in search of the ritual that is missing from the Lutheran Church’s Missouri Synod.

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On the screen, Vern the Vigilante and Mad Dog Murchison stalk each other, moving in counter-clockwise circles. Mad Dog attacks, grabbing Vern at the back of the neck and tripping him over an outstretched foot. Vern falls, tumbles, ricochets off the corner post and slams a forearm into Mad Dog’s face as he rockets back across the canvas. “More popcorn?” Mrs. Kramer asks as she struggles to find her cane in the darkness. “I’ll get it.” I push myself up from the chair. “Have another beer, too. Bring me one. There’s a twelve pack of PBR in the fridge.” She adjusts the wig on her head and settles back in. When I return to the room, Vern is desperately holding off the attacks of Mad Dog, whose head is encased in a leather muzzle intended to inhibit the biting that was his trademark early in his career. At ringside, Sunshine Sally shouts encouragement to Vern, leaning forward over the canvas to expose the fullness of her pendulous breasts to the TV camera. For several seconds the camera holds on her, abandoning the action in the ring. The offcamera commentators trade double entendres about various species of ripe fruits. “You’re not paying attention Sherlock,” Mrs. K. says out of the blue. “No, I’m watching.” “You’re looking at the TV, but your mind is not on the match. I can tell, Dopple. You’re a million miles away.” “Sorry. You’re right. I was thinking about a case.” It’s a lie, of course. But I wouldn’t admit to Mrs. K. that I was gawking at Sunshine Sally’s hooters even under threat of having my fingernails pulled out. “Still chewing over the Morris Richards thing?”

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I nod, grateful for the deflection. “It’s got me tied up in knots. And I may have gotten my partner in Dutch with the Lieutenant as well.” Mrs. K lurches forward in her chair and mutes the TV momentarily. “What’ve you got so far?” “So far? For starters, we have the deputy mayor of the city shot to death in the back room of Old Town restaurant, and a whole peck of likely suspects, none of whom seem to have caught the attention of the department higher-ups.” “You never know where the truth lies until you turn over all the rocks in the pasture. In last week’s Enquirer there was a case where aliens abducted a woman and held her hostage for eighteen years before bringing her back to earth. When she got home, she hadn’t aged a day since she’d been grabbed. Her husband saw the space ship, the bright lights and all when the aliens brought her back, so there’s no doubt about ufos.” I take a handful of popcorn and continue. “We also have the king of the Serbian mafia right there at Old Town restaurant, holding court while the deputy mayor was being shot in the back room. And we’ve got a contractor who’s lost a string of projects to low-cost competitors, and who hired Morris Richards’ no-good son to go to bat for him with the old man. And a wife who, it turns out, was once married to a fellow who owns a boat that went missing on the same night his natural born son put the Cessna into the drink. On top of that we have a former mistress and protégé who had it in for the late departed, and a secretary who was about to sue him for wrongful termination and now can’t find the tapes he made of his business dealings.” “Sounds like an episode from As The World Turns,” Mrs. K says. “Such goings on in a respectable city like Milwaukee.”

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“The stepson scenario is too simple. What really happened to Jeffrey Blount that night? Where is his father’s boat, gone into the fog like the Mary Celeste and not heard from since? And what about the late, unlamented Sonny Schultz? Someone had the balls to walk into his office and without even a discussion, put a bullet in his forehead.” “Who’s Sonny Schultz?” Mrs. K asks. “Nightclub owner. Shot in his own office with the same kind of weapon that killed Morris Richards. Turns out he was also a big time gun dealer. In his file jacket I found a record of a couple of earlier arrests for selling automatic weapons with the serial numbers filed off. He kept a storage locker out on 27th Street loaded with everything from pea shooters to machine guns. And now he’s dead.” “Serves the rascal right,” Mrs. K says. “Too darn many guns on the street. He should have been arrested.” “This is America, Mrs. K. You can’t arrest a person because he loves guns. Nor because he deals in them. Chuckie Heston says so.” “Chuckie Heston is a damn moron. I doubt if he knows his own name anymore. Going the way of Ronnie Reagan.” She pronounces the thirtyninth president’s name Ree-gan, as he himself did during his time as host of Death Valley Days. “Anyway,” I continue, “a gun dealer. A man like that must have gotten a peek into a whole lot of secrets. People buy firearms for all sorts of reasons, not all of them legitimate. The gun that killed him? They’re running ballistics on it now. Only a fifty-fifty chance we’ll be able to ID the slugs by their lans and grooves, but whatever the outcome, I have an itch that tells me it’s the same weapon that did in Morris Richards. Suppose – just suppose –

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that Schultz was popped by one of his own customers? Wouldn’t that be a turn of events?” “I can’t believe you cops let a man like that keep a warehouse full of guns. And to sell them to every thug who shows up on his doorstep. He should have been in the slammer a long time ago.” “You’d be surprised at what’s legal, Mrs. K. Not a whole lot of restrictions on buying and selling firearms in this country.” “I’ll tell you who to go after for the deputy mayor thing,” Mrs. K says. “Carl Doheny, at the Daily Breeze.” “Mrs. K, why in the world would the editor of a newspaper want to harm the deputy mayor?” “He’s more than an editor, Dopple. He’s a landlord, too. Wants to take that whole block of Lincoln Avenue down by Winnebago Street, knock down what’s there and put up one of those high rise senior apartment complexes.” “And this connects to Morris Richards how?” “You’re the detective around here. Go figure it out. Follow the money, like they say in the movies.” “I’ll try to do better,” I assure my neighbor. On the TV screen Mad Dog catches Vern up by the neck and crotch, lifts him high into the air, and throws him against the corner turnbuckle. Stunned, Vern shakes his head while Sally exhorts him to get up before Mad Dog rushes him with his deadly Flying Wedge. Vern rolls under the Wedge at the last instant, and Mad Dog snaps off the ropes like a wad of paper in a slingshot. Before Mad Dog realizes it, Vern is on his feet, a forearm outstretched at eye level. Mad Dog slams into the steel beam of Vern’s forearm and drops to the canvas like a three hundred pound sack of spuds. 127

As Mrs. K and I talk, Manfred mops up the shards of popcorn that have fallen to the floor. It is a mystery to me that the dog retains his muscular build despite his poor eating habits, while I continue to put on pounds like a heifer in a Kansas City feed lot. It’s got to have something to do with metabolism, but it doesn’t seem fair. “Ever tried self-hypnosis?” I ask Mrs. K as Mad Dog does a flying wedge on Vern. The match is turning ugly, and the referee has left the ring fearing for his own safety. “Hypnosis? What’s hypnosis got to do with the price of long underwear?” “I was thinking that it might be a way for me to take off a couple of pounds. Department physical’s coming up, and I need to get in shape.” “Hypnosis. Hummph. Where’d you get an idea like that?” I make a stab at an indirect answer. “A guy I ran into on a case. Says self-hypnosis is the answer to changing behavior. Wants to teach me how to do it, but I have a hunch the price would be pretty hefty.” “Hypnosis, my left cheek,” Mrs. K. replies. “It’s a load of horse manure. You want to lose weight, just stop eating. It’s as simple as that.” Easy for a person with the metabolism of a racehorse to make light of other people’s problems. Easy for Aiden Weizsaker to write Pierogi Pete off as a case of antisocial personality disorder. Easy for Lt. Armand to sic me off the Richards case. None of them are afflicted, so those problems are easy to solve. Now the character of the wrestling match changes. Vern takes charge. He lifts Mad Dog in a perfect Loop the Lasso and smashes him to the ground. Mad Dog heads for his corner, but Vern pulls him back by the boot heels. At the skirt of the ring, Sunshine Sally jiggles her breasts joyfully. 128

Her whole body quivers as Vern pulls Mad Dog to the center of the ring and puts him out of his misery with a quick, three-count pin. I find myself imagining the skimpily clad woman at the edge of the ring to be Krystal Findley, and myself to be the victor parading around inside the ropes, flexing biceps and pectorals for her benefit. I banish the thought from my mind and sneak a look at Mrs. K, wondering if she can guess what is going on behind my eyeballs. As roman candles fire skyward around the perimeter of the arena, I slouch into Max’s chair, my belly full of popcorn with melted butter, my thirst slaked by three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I close my leaden eyelids for a moment. The announcers talk about next week’s Battle of International Champions, the Megalith Monsters vs. the Devil’s Undertakers in a tag team match made in hell. Across the room, Mrs. K is snoring peacefully, her new wig pulled over her forehead so that she looks like one of those English sheep dogs. Next thing I know I see myself in a ring, round as a full moon, with a rope tied to my ankle. I can move only so far inside that circle before my leash tightens and I am restrained like a dog. When I look back, I see Lt. Armand holding the other end of the rope. The buttered popcorn and the WWF work to fill my dream with evidence that there is tangible evil in the world, and it’s not going away. The premise of WWF is not far from the truth: we live on a planet infested with black-hearted rogues, and there aren’t nearly enough heroes to go around. The forces of corruption are everywhere, and the forces of good need to remain ever vigilant if wrongdoing is to be kept at bay. We are all either predator and prey. The predators in my little world are Lakic, Marquez, Schultz and whoever killed Richards and Schultz. In the ranks of prey I 129

include Pierogi Pete, Mrs. K and myself. The predators across the line from me are Doc Sam Custer and Lt. Armand.

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- 15 Tuesday night at the Lucky Seven, and business is a quarter-turn from stop. I take a seat on the short side of the bar and go over my football picks with Rudy Jankowicz, the bartender. Manfred finds a place in the corner where he tucks his tail around his face and falls into the kind of heavy breathing that reminds me of my father when he used to nap in his easy chair after dinner. Five regulars from the AARP generation are playing sheepshead at the corner table, and at the other end of the bar a couple of laborers from Boldt Construction are having a last beer and smoking a last cigarette before going home to the missus. “What’s going to happen to Pierogi Pete?” Rudy asks, stacking pint glasses in a rack to dry. “Don’t seem right for him to get put away.” I shake my head in resignation. “I wouldn’t expect to see him back in here anytime soon. Depends what the shrinks say about his state of mind. If he’s competent, he’ll probably end up at Columbia County or Waupun.” I make circles on the bar with my bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, considering the other possibility. “If not, they’ll put him in a mental facility, which may be even worse. Either way, Pete’s looking at serving some time. A fellow can’t dump his mother in the freezer and then go around waving a gun at his neighbors without taking it on the chin.”

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In the silence that follows, I curse the unfairness of it all. Pete is no predator, yet he is cooling his jets in the county jail while the person who shot Morris Richards and Sonny Shultz might well be sitting down to a lobster dinner at the Pacific Rim restaurant on Third Street. “Don’t seem right,” Rudy repeats as if he is reading my mind. “Guy’s half a bubble off plumb, but he’s not dangerous.” I am about to put in my two cents worth on that subject when Rudy holds his hands up in defense. “I know, I know. The business with the shotgun. But Pete wouldn’t have used it. He’s a puppy dog.” I wish I could have been that certain about what Pete would have done with the gun a few days ago when I went into his house. Talk about loose bowels. That would be me as I crossed the street to Pete’s front door. Still, I have to agree with Rudy that on balance, Pete doesn’t pose a threat to the community and will probably get harsher treatment than he deserves. “Gnats,” I say as Rudy slops the Boldt guys’ glasses in the wash water. “Gnats?” “Yeah, that’s what drove Pete to go over the cliff. There was a show on PBS last week Tuesday where a swarm of gnats drove one of those big African water buffaloes mad, until he just laid down and died.” I think the same kind of thing happened to Pete. He put up with a thousand tiny wounds inflicted by neighbors and their kids. No single bite would be enough do him in, but together they drove him first to store his mama in the freezer, and then to take up arms against the boys who had taunted him. It’s not so much that Pete suffers from an antisocial disorder. More like society is anti-Pierogi Pete.

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Freddie Glickman, the retired funeral director from Howard Avenue, steps up to the bar and orders another round of beers for the sheepshead players. “Gnats? Hell Wally, why didn’t you say something? Tony Marchesi over there had a pest control business. He can help you get rid of gnats.” I lay a hand on the old man’s back. “Not the kind of gnats I was talking about, Freddie. I was talking about a type of human gnat.” Freddie frowns, picks up the tray of beers, shakes his head and returns to his game. The door opens, and in walks Rita Swain from the deputy mayor’s office. Without looking up, she shuffles to the bar and sits down kitty corner from me. When she looks up, I get the notion that she’d like to move as far away from me as possible. But it’s too late now. Her rump is firmly planted on the barstool. “Uh, how you doing Wally?” she greets me. I twist my wrist back and forth. “Taking nourishment. Still not sure we’ve got the answers to what happened to your boss.” She orders a brandy old-fashioned sweet and studies the bar rail. “Terrible thing. They’re saying the Marquez woman has put in for the job. I can’t see the mayor going for that one, though. A little too stuck on herself.” “You wouldn’t happen to know what happened down at city hall the night Morris Richards was shot, would you Rita? Wouldn’t have been there after hours, for instance?” She takes a sip of her drink before answering. “I’m a nine-to-fiver. Don’t know what goes on in that office after closing time. I’m just a hired hand.” “Did you know about the tape system in the boss’s office? More to the point, did you know where he kept the spools of tape?”

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Rita gives me a quick glance, then returns her attention to the glass before her. “I heard rumors. But I’m the last person he would confide to about secret tapes. I was his receptionist, not his confidant. You want to know about tapes, talk to Miss America.” “Bridget Schnapps?” “Yeah. She’s still young enough to have the kind of legs that would catch Morris’s eye. Me, I’m just an old civil service crone with varicose veins.” “But you worked in that office for what, twenty years? And I’ll bet you have a pretty good idea of what went on behind the scenes.” Rita’s head swivels on her neck, back and forth. “Nothing of the kind,” she insists. She rearranges her butt on the bar stool and takes a bigger slug of her drink. “Look Wally, I didn’t come in here to be grilled about Morris Richards. Can’t we just have our drinks and leave each other alone?” I pick up my change from the bar, count out a dollar’s worth of coins to leave as a tip, and throw back the last of my Blue Ribbon. “Sure Rita. I was just about to leave, anyway. Didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I’ve got this itch about what happened to Morris Richards, and it’s begging to be scratched.” I walk around to Rita’s side of the bar and take a business card from my wallet. Manfred rises, stretches mightily, and shakes his body like a mixmaster. “Here,” I tell Rita. “If your memory improves at all give me a call. You already got my number, but just as a reminder.” She reaches out slowly and takes the card from my outstretched hand as if it is laced with anthrax. Looks at the thing before setting it on the bar next to her old fashioned. Her eyes do not meet mine, a sure sign that she’s holding something back. Her hand comes up, index finger extended, and for 134

a moment I think she is going to fill me in on what she knows. But the hand settles back onto the walnut bar and she shakes her head. I give Manfred a click of my tongue and he follows me across the room. As my hand reaches for the doorknob, Rita calls me back. “Wait,” she says. “I can’t live with this anymore. I do have something to tell you.”

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- 16 Retreating from the doorway, I give Rita the high sign to join me in a booth at the rear of the tavern. She follows into the half-light, carrying her drink in both hands. We slide onto the hardwood benches facing each other, she studiously avoiding eye contact, me hoping she will provide the crack in the dike that will spill out the truth of the Morris Richards case into my lap. “I needed the money, you see.” Rita opens her purse and withdraws a pack of generic cigarettes. She holds the pack up in a gesture seeking permission, and I nod. She strikes a match and looks off into the middistance, as if trying to remember the sequence of events that brought her to this particular turn in life. “It was Cybil. She came down with a urinary tract disorder, and only a very expensive regime of surgery and medications could save her. If it had been my own self, I’d have said the hell with it and put the outcome into the hands of God. But Cybil is my darling, and shouldn’t be made to suffer for lack of money.” Cybil is Rita Swain’s Lhasa Apso dog, a twelve-pound bundle of fur and nerves resembling a floor mop without a handle. On all but the coldest days, Rita spends hours on the front porch of her house on Becher Street, talking baby talk to the pooch while brushing out her long, snow-white fur. Cybil responds to this kindness by barking furiously at pedestrians passing 136

by on the sidewalk. I am not one to look askance at a person who has bonded with her dog, my relationship with Manfred being what it is. Still, I find the idea of devoting all that time to a yappy pocket dog mystifying. Might as well have a cat as a Lhasa Apso. “So what you told Findley and me about not knowing about the boss’s tape recordings, that was a load of goat manure, wasn’t it?” My confidant lays her cigarette on the rim of the ashtray: “The night that it happened? I heard about the boss being shot, on the ten o’clock TV news.” She nods reflectively and returns to the cigarette to take a deep drag: “Sure, I knew about the tapes. Knew just where he kept them, behind the false bookcase front in his office. And I knew there must be some very valuable information on those tapes, judging from the expressions on the faces of the big shots coming out of his office over the years. Mad as hell, whipped to a pulp, or staggering like a lush they were, all beat up by Morris Richards’ and his tough guy style of negotiating. I figured having the tapes would be like having money in the bank.” “So you made it your business to lay your hands on them before anybody else found them.” “Oh no! I wouldn’t dare go up there myself. The cleaning crew and the night watchmen all know me. And I’d be scared out of my wits to do such a bold thing. But I did figure out that there were people who would pay money to know about those tapes and where they were hidden. The more I thought about it, the more I saw that this could be the little miracle I needed to save my Cybil.” “So if you didn’t retrieve the tapes yourself, what did you do?” “I had a pretty good idea about one particular person who might have a use for them, and who also had the money I needed for Cybil’s treatment. 137

All I had to do was pick up the phone and let him know where he could find the tapes in the boss’s private office. It would be a simple thing, and as I rang up this particular person on the phone I told myself that what I was doing was a mission of mercy for my little girl.” I raise an eyebrow. “And exactly who was this particular gent?” She hesitates, takes another pull on her cigarette. Then, without ever looking me in the eye she says: “I called the Old Town Restaurant.” “Radovan Lakic.” She nods. “He was a regular visitor to Richards’ office, maybe once every two weeks. But he was different than the others. Full of smiles and good cheer both on his way in and on his way out. Did little things like bringing bunches of posies for Bridget and me. Little boxes of candy on Yet Kossovo Day, the most important Serbian holiday. Never lost his composure in that office, one of the very few that was able to stand up to the boss.” Now Rudy Jankowicz approaches our booth with a PBR for me and an old fashioned for Rita. When I try to object, he says: “Thought you two could use a refill. It’s on the house.” I give a thank you nod and return my attention to Rita. “So Lakic had business dealings with Richards. What kind of funny business were they cooking up together?” “That I wouldn’t know. I can’t imagine the boss having an interest in the wholesale chicken business, but then I never thought I’d see him murdered like a common thug, either. I don’t know what’s on those tapes, Wally. Honestly I don’t. But I’d bet there must be something to point a finger at the killer. All I know for sure is that Cybil needed her treatment, and Lakic offered five thousand dollars just for telling him where they were and whose conversations were on them.” 138

“All it took was one phone call to the capo of the Serbian mafia.” She nods. “Monday morning, when I went back to work, I checked the hiding place where Morris kept the tapes, and sure enough, they were gone.” “And in the process you broke about half a dozen laws. You know that, don’t you?” She looks away from me and raises her glass to her lips. “Yes Wally, I know.” Now her eyes meet mine, and she continues: “Why do you think I’m telling you all this? I can’t stand the guilt anymore. When I called Lakic that night, I told myself that what I was doing might be a little over the edge, but I convinced myself that it was necessary to save the life of an innocent animal. Who cared about a few reels of magnetic tape, anyway? How could they be more important than my Cybil?” I can’t help but wonder if, under similar circumstances, I might do what Rita Swain did if Manfred ever needed help. I reach down and scratch the old boy behind the ear, and he looks up at me with his dubious, questioning look, as if to ask what he’s done to deserve this bit of affection. I conclude that, given the right state of affairs, I could be sitting on Rita’s side of the booth confessing just such a sin to some other copper. “I didn’t realize at the time,” Rita continues, “that when you do something that you know to be wrong it eats away at you. It wakes you up in the middle of the night and reminds you that what you did was an offense to God. I went to confession at the basilica, and Father Dombrowski told me Jesus would not approve. He gave me Hail Marys and Our Fathers for penance and told me to search my soul. And still I carried the secret around with me, knowing that I could not be forgiven until I made a clean breast of things.” 139

“That’s good, Rita. You’re doing the right thing now. Morris Richards is dead, and you and I need to do whatever I can to find out the true facts about how it happened.” “I was scared, Wally. You don’t know what it’s like to be by yourself in the world and to be told that your only companion has a disease that might take her from you. When you get that kind of news, you do whatever it takes. You don’t think about legal niceties. A policeman like yourself wouldn’t understand, but the thought of being without Cybil terrified me.” I reach down and give Manfred another pat on the top of the head. He sighs, and returns to whatever dream he was dreaming before the interruption. “I’m pretty sure I know what you mean, Rita. I’m pretty sure I know.” “What’s going to happen now?” she asks. “Am I going to jail?” I shrug. “That’s a question I can’t answer. But for now, let’s keep this little conversation between ourselves. I need to look into a few things before we let everybody know what went on that night at the deputy mayor’s office.” Tears well in Rita Swain’s eyes, and she digs around in her purse for a handkerchief.

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- 17 Next thing I know, the boss calls a meeting in the squad room to hand out assignments for the Sonny Schultz shooting investigation. The mood among my fellow detectives is almost festive, there being a consensus that the strip club czar got what he deserved. The Louie holds to the official line that all murders deserve the same level of scrutiny and commitment by this ragtag pack of mouth-breathers, regardless of the character of the victim. He arranges the crime scene photos on the corkboard in the center of the room and postulates theories about what happened on the afternoon Schultz was done in at Zipper Strippers. “The bartender who found him says she’d just arrived for work and didn’t hear a gunshot,” the boss says. “Went to his office to get the keys to the liquor storeroom and there he was, bleeding all over his desktop.” He points to an eight-by-ten glossy of Schultz slumped over his desk, his head resting in a pool of blood. “The ME is doing his autopsy this morning. Perelman and Potts, you be down there to pick up any information Bathory comes up with. Knowles and Watson, you work with the organized crime strike force, see if they have anything on Schultz’s known associates. Maigraine, you and Albrecht take the gun dealer side of things. Let’s get moving on this.” I raise my hand. “What about Findley and me, boss? What’s our assignment?” 141

“You two ride the desks. I want you somewhere where I can keep an eye on you, Dopple.” A chorus of laughs fills the room at the putdown. But then the Louie adds: “Oh yeah, and I might as well mention it now. Our man Dopple is getting a department commendation.” That puts a quick end to the braying. “I got word this morning that Dopple is being recognized for bravery beyond the call in the matter of the standoff at the Kascynski house. Went into the place knowing there was an armed man inside, and talked him out. Police psychiatrist says it was a potentially explosive situation, and our boy here defused it single-handedly.” Now another round of cheers and jeers from the squad, some genuinely congratulatory, some poking good natured fun at the idea that one of their own is being singled out by the higher-ups. We all know that the purpose of these commendations has more to do with giving the Chief face time with the media than it does with praising the performance of grunts on the force. For us, being the focus of such notice creates more self-conscious embarrassment than personal satisfaction. “Now all I got to do,” the boss concludes, “is find a way to put a leash on our hero to keep him working on the cases I assign him to.” All in all, it is a most unsettling morning. After the other teams have gathered up their gear and left the premises, Findley looks at me across our facing desks and says: “Don’t let them get your goat, Wally. They’re jealous. It’s an honor, and well deserved. What you worked out with Pete may have saved one of their worthless butts.”

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“It also put the poor dumb cluck in the slammer. I don’t know if he blames me, but I blame myself. And I’m thinking about what I can do to square things with him.” She looks at me with the expression of a mother with children who refuse to accept the benefit her life experience. Then she shakes her head. “And what might that be, Detective Dopple? Planning a jail break?” “I was thinking about doing one of those fundraisers. You know, like they have for kids with leukemia and homeless families. Sort of a Pierogi Pete Defense Fund event.” Findley extends her hand across the desk as if inviting me to take it in my own. I survey the room with my peripheral vision to see if anybody is watching us. The blinds in Lt. Armand’s office are closed. Just as I make my move, Sergeant Sheila Wray comes through the door looking for Potts. We two quickly withdraw our hands. It is well known in the department that Sheila Wray and I once had a torrid but short-lived affair in the aftermath of my marriage going south, and it is also well known that Sheila has a mouth as big as the 12th Street tunnel when it comes to office gossip. She is the last person in the world I want to see Findley and me holding hands across our desks. After a quick sweep of the squad room, Wray satisfies herself that Potts is gone, and turns on her heel. The sound of her heels on the tile hallway floor echoes like gunshots as she retreats to the front desk. Findley says: “Wally, what happened to Pete is not your fault. He’s a sad case for sure, but you are not responsible for the bind he’s gotten himself into.” That may be right in a way, but news of the commendation brought it all back to mind. I feel like I’m getting this attention on the back of a guy 143

who’s going to have one hell of a time getting used to jail. I can only imagine what Pete is going through. He was barely able to make a go of it in the neighborhood where he lived, and now he’s behind bars in the company of a bunch of goons who thrive on bully tactics. “I can just see Pete wondering what terrible things are around the next corner,” I say. “He’s all alone in that hell hole. I feel like I ought to do something for him.” “Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t gone into that house and talked him into giving himself up? Remember what happened in Adams County last year? Turned into a bloodbath. Ordinary guy holes up in his trailer, cops come in with guns blazing, and before it’s over three people are dead. The same thing could have happened here if not for you.” “I’ll bet the regulars down at the Lucky Seven would be willing to pitch in and give me a hand. Get a band, put out flyers, maybe even get some politician to speak on Pete’s behalf. I know a guy who does a great Elvis impersonation, always draws good crowds. Whatever money we collect could go toward Pete’s legal bills.” “I thought they’d already assigned a public defender to represent him.” I wave a hand at that. “Aw yeah, but that’s not A-One legal advice. Probably some kid just out of Marquette law school. What I’d like to see Pete get is a real defense attorney.” “Johnny Cochran is six feet under, and F. Lee Bailey must be a hundred and one years old by now.” “I was thinking of one of our local mouthpieces. Somebody on the upper rungs of the legal food chain.”

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“Wally, Pete can’t afford a real defense attorney, even with money from a fundraiser. He’s got his public defender and that’s about as good as it’s going to get.” I twirl a pencil between my thumb and forefinger, thinking. “What about your friend who couldn’t make the date for the ballet? Didn’t you say he’s a lawyer? Does he do criminal defense?” She looks down at the papers on her desk. “Oh, him,” she replies. “He’s corporate. And I don’t know if I’ll be seeing much more of him. We’ve had…issues.” My heart rises up in my chest at the news. I myself may be old enough to be Findley’s father, and I use that as an excuse to give me the right to pass judgment on her choice of partners. At the same time, I wonder if I would give the old thumbs up to anyone in pants as a boyfriend for Findley. My train of thought goes back to the multitude of little hurts that pushed Pete over the edge in the first place. “What we need around here is a whole flock of blue-gray gnatcatchers. A little late in the year for blue-grays, but anyway…” Findley gives me a look that suggests she is about to pick up the phone and call the men in the white coats. “Gnatcatchers?” “They’re small warblers, and they keep the insect population in check. They eat three times their weight in gnats every day. And besides that, they have a lovely song.” “Sure, Wally. Anything else?” “We also see golden-crowned kinglets and ruby-crowned kinglets in this neck of the woods, but only during their migrations.” “When did you get to be an expert on gnatcatchers?”

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“Spend enough time in Kosciuszko Park and you’ll meet a surprising number of birds. After awhile, you can’t help but take note of them.” To get my mind off the subject of Pete’s predicament, I move on: “I wonder if my commendation will cut any cheese with Doc Sam.” “I don’t get your drift.” “Do you think the doc will make allowances in my duty status now that I’m a commendable character? My physical is in two weeks, and I’m on the verge of being declared unfit for duty because of my weight. He’s warned me, and Doc Sam is not one to make idle threats.” The squad room is empty, silent. Findley and I shuffle through the case files from previous run-ins Sonny Schultz had with the law. I return to my ruminations on poor Pete, cooling his heels in the holding cell in the Safety Building, scared as a kid in a haunted house. And Findley, terrific person that she is, losing a prospective boyfriend for god knows what reason. And Mrs. Kramer, with nobody but the Mary Kay lady to talk to since her Max cashed in his chips. I am surrounded by solo drivers on the road of life.

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-18 But there is work to do, and mulling over dark subjects will not get the job done. I look around the squad room once more to make sure that Findley and I are alone, then motion to her to come closer. “I got some very interesting information last night, maybe a breakthrough. But I need your help with the computer system to check out a few things.” Findley is my own personal IT department. Her skills in navigating the Internet compare favorably to Columbus’s skills in finding the New World. She blinks. “You intend to keep at it? Still chewing on the Richards case even after the Lieutenant’s threats? One of these days, Wally…” “Yeah, well the copycat theory holds about as much water as Mrs. Kramer’s colander. We never made it known that the killer in the Richards case took a tongue. How would a copycat know about that? You and me both know that Sonny Schultz was popped by the same person who took out Morris Richards, and if that person was Jeff Blount our lad would have had to come up from Davey Jones locker to do the job. Anyway, I didn’t go after this new information. It came to me.” I fill her in on last night’s conversation with Rita Swain. The trail now leads undeniably to the front door of Radovan Lakic, who Rita claims paid five grand for information on the Richards tapes. A hefty sum for a man who claims he has nothing to hide and has no reason to want to harm the dearly departed deputy mayor. I recall Lakic’s bland expression as we talked on the 147

night of the Richards killing, how he denied all knowledge of the crime as easily as if he were a young boy singing in the choir at St. Sava’s Eastern Orthodox Church on Oklahoma Avenue. In a way I admire that kind of nerve. There have been times in my life when I wished I had the ability to varnish over the truth and tell an easy lie. But on the other hand, it makes it difficult to believe anything the man says from now on. Findley strikes the keys on her computer board like a concert pianist playing Beethoven. “Okay, tell me what you need. But keep a sharp eye out for the boss. He sees me checking out anything connected to the Richards case and I’ll be as deep in the dumpster as you are.” For the next half hour Findley delves into the complex workings of the city’s purchasing system while I stand lookout across her desk, keeping watch for signs of life in the boss’s office. Despite the wild speculation of his underlings, the fact is that Lt. Armand may be drawing his blinds for something as innocent as leaning back in his big leather chair for a midmorning snooze. I’m hoping that’s what’s going on back there right now. As I work half-heartedly through the files on Sonny Schultz’s previous run-ins with the law, Findley utters a high-pitched “Aha!” Her gaze is locked onto her monitor, moving back and forth across the screen as her eyebrows rise up in perfect arches. “What?” I ask. “You got something?” “Look at this, Wally. Looks like Lakic and Richards did have a connection in the wholesale chicken business. These blog postings at the GovCleanup site are a pretty good indication that Richards introduced Lakic to the chief purchasing officer for Milwaukee County. Do you know how much chicken that outfit buys every year?” “More than all the Colonel Sanders outlets in town?” 148

“In excess of half a million chickens each year.” The county’s consolidated food service facility buys all the provisions to feed the prisoners at the jail, the patients at the hospitals, and the inmates at mental health facilities. All in all, the county is the single largest buyer of chickens in the state. The contract for the county’s consolidated food service facility must be worth millions over time. So now we’ve got the connection, the business deal that Lakic would only hint at the night Richards was killed. But what if his patron got cold feet and threatened to back out of the deal between Lakic and the county? What if the seemingly imperturbable Serbian got his dander up and decided to end his association with the deputy mayor permanently? All of a sudden Radovan Lakic has moved back to the top of my suspect list. “What’s his name?” I ask, leaning over the desk to get a glimpse of Findley’s monitor. “Whose name?” “The purchasing agent. The county man.” She scrolls down. “Ulrich Hemlock,” she answers. “Works at the county institutions offices on Watertown Plank Road.” I slide away from my desk. “Cover for me,” I tell Findley. “I’ll be back ASAP.” “Wally, don’t do it. The Lieutenant is ready to string you up by your heels. I know where you’re going, and if he finds out it’ll be World War III around here.” I nod. “If he comes out of his cage, tell him I went to the men’s room. Tell him I got an attack of loose bowel syndrome. Say the news about my commendation got me so excited that I had an emergency.” She shakes her head. “And if I need to get in touch with you?” 149

“I’ll turn on my cell phone.” I pull the contraption from my shirt pocket and demonstrate to her that it will be ready to receive her message. Then I turn my attention to Manfred, now curled up in a ball inside the kneehole of my desk. “You stay here with Findley,” I instruct him. “And if the boss gives her any trouble, bite him in the ankle.” It’s a joke, of course, for the big lug wouldn’t harm a flea if it bit him on the nose. My first impression of Ulrich Hemlock is about as positive as my first impression of the mud puppy I caught as a ten-year-old at Okauchee Lake. “Come in and have a seat,” the unctuous chief purchasing agent offers. He extends a small hand and I note when I shake it that his palm is not exactly sweaty, but somehow slippery. “How may we be of service to the city?” Hemlock combs his thin hair back with the palm of his hand and fairly slides onto his chair, which swallows him like a guppy. I guess him to be in the one-forty to one-fifty pound weight range, territory I have not seen since I was sixteen years old. “It’s about the county’s contract for chickens,” I say, realizing as the words come out of my mouth how strange that sounds. “Chickens, and a character named Radovan Lakic.” Hemlock leans back in his chair and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Of course one knows Mr. Lakic,” he says. “One could not be in the procurement business without being familiar with the man. As to the chickens, I’m afraid I can’t discuss specifics related to pending contract matters. A case of records confidentiality, you understand.” I blanch. “Is that something like doctor-patient confidentiality?” He smiles, and adjusts the lenses of his rimless glasses on the bridge of his nose. 150

“Let me fill you in on what we’re talking about here,” I say in my most serious copper voice. “This isn’t about a purchasing contract. It has to do with getting to the bottom of two murders. I don’t think your confidentiality trumps a murder investigation.” That gets the little guy’s attention. He rocks forward in his chair and plops his forearms onto his desk. His beady eyes lock on mine like a rat finding its way through a sewer pipe. “Murders? Did you say murders, detective? Please fill me in, and spare no details.” I shake my head. “Hemlock, you got it backwards. I’m the one who asks the questions, you’re the one who gives me the answers. Now, exactly how did deputy mayor Richards figure into your business relationship with Radovan Lakic?” Hemlock squiggles out of his chair and walks to the door to his office. He peeks outside, then closes the door and continues pacing back and forth across the carpet. “There’s really not much to tell,” he says. “I first met the deputy mayor at the Junior League’s fall gala about a year ago. We discovered that we share Lakeland College as an alma mater, and he as chair of the development committee was interested in adding my name to the letterhead. I met twice – no, three times with the committee over a period of about nine months. Then, about six weeks ago, Morris Richards called to talk about chickens.” “He put the squeeze on you to sign up with Lakic?” Hemlock stops in mid stride and turns to me. “Oh no, nothing like that. There was no pressure, no exchange of anything of value. The deputy mayor simply informed me that the Lakic interests would be submitting a bid on the county’s poultry contract, and asked that I take a good look at the offer.” 151

“And in your mind that’s not coercion? A highly placed public official calls to ask you to take a good look at one particular bid? Seems to me it’s a heavy-handed attempt to influence your decision.” Hemlock waves a hand. “Happens all the time, detective. Doesn’t mean I look at anything other than the objective facts of the case. I wouldn’t be sitting in that chair if I were subject to pressure of any kind. Oh, no.” “And what happened to the wholesale chicken contract, anyway? Lakic get the order?” “The bids are scheduled to be reviewed by the purchasing committee next week. So you see, the contract has not yet been awarded.” “I won’t bother to ask which way you’re leaning. What with the confidentiality issue and all.” Hemlock’s thin lips arc into the smile of a Cheshire cat as his eyes refocus on the ceiling. “Come to think of it,” he says, “I’m very much attracted to your simile about it being like a doctor-patient relationship. I’ll keep that in mind.” I heft myself out of my chair. All of a sudden my whole body feels itchy. “I’ll let myself out,” I say as a way to avoid having to shake hands with the man a second time. My visit to the office of Ulrich Hemlock has turned out to be as useful as a rubber crutch.

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-19The aroma of burek and Sarma overwhelms my olfactory sense as I walk past the small bar area and into the dining room of Old Town Serbian Gourmet House. As I walk across to Radovan Lakic’s corner table, I pass a group of customers digging into bowls of goulash, lamb shanks and roasted red pepper salad. Glasses of red Dalmatian wine accompany the meal, which is being attacked in near total silence as the diners concentrate on devouring oversized servings of food. I am reminded that in the heat of my investigation, I’ve completely forgotten to have lunch. “Detective Dopple!” Lakic calls in a Rotarian-like greeting as I approach his table. Before him is a half-eaten phyllo dough pastry with a ground beef filling. His henchman is nowhere to be seen, although I suspect that some kind of security is close at hand. “Sit down, my friend,” the object of my attention says. “Have a seat. Join me in a bit of burek. Maybe a glass of wine?” I decline, even though the very sight of the burek has roiled my gastric juices. “I’m here on business,” I announce. “We need to talk.” “Still beating the same dead horse, are you?” He laughs, and takes a large swallow of wine. “I’m onto you, Lakic.” I lean forward over the table and the tantalizing aroma of the burek fairly singes the inside of my nose. “Your 153

secret is out. I know what happened in the office of Morris Richards during the hours just after his murder. And I’m here to claim the items that were taken from that office.” “Let’s don’t be mysterious, detective. What particular items are you referring to?” “You know damn well what items. The deputy mayor was either smart enough or paranoid enough to have a sound system installed in his office. He made tapes of his meetings, tapes that went missing on the night of his death. When the Department went looking for those tapes, we found them missing. You and I both know what happened to them.” Lakic fiddles with his silverware, brushing crumbs of phyllo dough from the tablecloth with his knife. “Once again, detective, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ask me anything about the wholesale chicken business and I’ll be happy to give you my best answer. But murder? And tapes? Those subjects are way beyond me.” “Last night I had a very interesting conversation with Rita Swain, the deputy mayor’s receptionist. You do know Rita Swain, don’t you?” Now I’ve got the big man’s attention. He removes the large linen napkin tucked into his collar, wipes his mouth, and lays the cloth next to his plate. “So,” he says, raising his hands palms up. “You know about the tapes. I guess that’s why they call you a detective, Mr. Dopple.” A broad, engaging smile creases his face. “Detecting is what I do for a living.” My eye goes to the unfinished half round of burek resting majestically on his plate. “So you admit you have the tapes?”

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“I admit to nothing. I merely acknowledge that each of us have certain information that might be relevant to an investigation of the death of Deputy Mayor Richards.” “I need to listen to those tapes. They’re a key piece of evidence, and they were lifted from a city office. That’s what we call felony theft, and it puts whoever has them in more than a little hot water.” “I can appreciate your concern, but as for proof…” “I also had a nice conversation this morning with the chief purchasing agent out at the county. He filled me in on a few facts about your partnership with Morris Richards.” In fact, Ulrich Hemlock told me no such thing. I am banking on being able to slide this one past Lakic in order to pry his jaw loose. “I know that you and the deputy mayor had a scheme to rig the purchase agreement out at the county for a very lucrative return.” That stops him. The smile disappears from his face. “So now what, detective Dopple? It would appear that we are facing each other in what is referred to as a Mexican standoff. You have certain information, and I have certain information. We are both reasonable men. Is a compromise in the cards?” Involuntarily, my fingers reach out and close around a small bit of errant phyllo dough from the tablecloth. “No reason we can’t work something out. That is, if the tapes don’t implicate you in the murder of Morris Richards.” Lakic emits a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Detective Dopple, how can you live in such a constant state of suspicion? Didn’t we sit at this very table the night of that tragic event, and didn’t I swear to you that I am as innocent as a newborn lamb in the matter of Mr. Richards’ misfortune?” 155

“Have you listened to the tapes? Do you know what’s on them?” Lakic leans back in his chair and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders. Then he wags a finger at me and says: “Just a minute, my friend. We have not yet established that I am in possession of these tapes. Any agreement would depend upon my receiving what the lawyers call immunity from prosecution.” I reach for another schnible of burek. “Immunity from prosecution for trying to manipulate the county’s chicken contract, maybe. But not from murder.” Now Lakic takes a fork and a serrated steak knife in hand and cuts a larger piece of burek from the pie. He places it on his coffee saucer and passes it over to me. I nod in thanks and embarrassment. “Okay,” he says curtly. “How are we going to handle this? I of course cannot be put in such a position that my integrity could be called into question. But if I have your word that nothing about chicken business with the county will find its way into the press, then I believe we have a deal. I am above all a responsible citizen, eager to see justice served. You understand, Detective Dopple?” “I understand, Citizen Lakic. The county chicken business is between you and me, but I need to go over those tapes to bring my investigation to a close. You know what they say: an innocent man has nothing to fear.” Now the Serbian folds his hands together in a prayer-like position. “One thing before we proceed. What would your superiors do when they got their hands on the merchandise of which we are speaking? Certainly you cannot speak for them.” “This deal is just between you and me. Deep research. I’ll make sure the tapes never leave these two hands.” 156

“You would defy your bosses to protect me?” I nod. “I am already defying my bosses by continuing my investigation into the death of the deputy mayor. Besides, if you think my superiors in the Department would take the time to go through hours and hours of audio tape you don’t know them. They’re more interested in rubbing elbows with the guys above them on the organizational totem pole than in sifting through evidence.” A long silence follows, as Lakic considers the odds. Finally, he slaps his palms on the tabletop and smiles: “Then it’s a deal. How can we arrange a transfer of this property without my personal presence?” “You know the boat dock in Kosciuszko Park?” I reply. “Have your people meet me there at five o’clock this afternoon, with the tapes in hand.” At that, the big man snaps his thumb and middle finger, and a loutish man in a black suit rises from a table halfway across the room and approaches us. “Slobo,” Lakic says to the man, “this is Detective Dopple. Take a good look at him. You will meet with him later today. We will discuss details later.” The man nods and returns to his station. Lakic takes hold of my wrist in his meaty paw. “Be careful, Detective Dopple. There are things in the world that are beyond your knowledge. Dark things.” I tilt my head. “What kind of things, Mr. Lakic? Crime things?” He leans closer. “For example, my friend, word is that a certain fellow wanted for war crimes in Bosnia is hiding out in West Allis.” He nods, as if to confirm a fact known only to himself and God. “Bosnian war crimes?” I ask.

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In response I get only a barely discernable nod. As I rise to leave, Lakic motions to the waiter. “Milo, wrap this up for Detective Dopple.” He gestures to the leftover burek on his plate. “And bring us a bottle of slivo and two glasses, please.” He holds the plate with the remaining burek out to the waiter, then turns back to me. “Now we will drink to our agreement. I think you are in for some surprises, Detective Dopple. I think you will be a very busy policeman from here on in.”

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- 20 As I step out onto Lincoln Avenue heading for the unmarked cruiser, my cell phone buzzes. “Your absence has been noted,” Findley says in a stage whisper. “The Lieutenant just went down the hall to the men’s room to check up on you.” “Was his neck blotchy?” After a pause, Findley says: “Was his neck blotchy? How the hell should I know if his neck was blotchy?” “Hey, it’s part of the business of detecting,” I explain. “If his neck was blotchy, it’s a sign that he’s seriously pissed. If not, he’s just out to break my balls, you should pardon the expression.” “Blotchy or not, I’d advise you to get your butt back here pronto. I don’t know what to tell him when he comes back from his rounds. Which reminds me: where are you?” I slide behind the wheel of the cruiser and turn the ignition key. “Just on my way back. Won’t take but a few minutes. And I’ve got some news for you.” I plant the red/blue light on top of the car, flip on the siren, and do a U-Turn across Lincoln Avenue, heading back to the Second District. I arrive back at the squad room before Lt. Armand has returned from his search of the facilities. I ease into my chair, still trying to catch my 159

breath after a dash from the Department garage, and give Findley what I judge to be my most engaging smile. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she says. “What’s going on? What’d you find out?” “Plenty.” I fill her in on the broad outlines of my conversation with Rita Swain the previous evening, and go on to describe my meetings first with Ulrich Hemlock and then with Radovan Lakic. I am careful to skirt around the specifics regarding my date to take possession of the Richards tapes. It would not be a good thing to involve her in what promises to be a breach of Department policy. “We’re making progress partner,” I assure her. I hold my thumb and forefinger up, an inch apart: “We’re this close.” Just then the Lt. returns to the squad room. “Well, look who’s back,” he says. “Our wandering policeman. Where the hell you been, Dopple?” I feign embarrassment. “It’s not something I like to talk about, boss. A health issue. I’d feel more comfortable telling you about it privately.” I cast a glance at Findley, indicating that the issue is too sensitive to discuss in mixed company. “Oh, bullshit. You are the worst damn liar in the Division. Findley said you were in the can, but I checked there. And I checked in the break room as well. You think all I got to do is be a nursemaid to your antics, Dopple? If so, you’re wrong. I got an entire squad of detectives to run, and I can’t be sidetracked by the shenanigans of one nutty loner.” With that, he stomps off to his office and slams the door behind him. I note with satisfaction that as he disappears behind the blinds, the boss’s neck is smooth as a baby’s butt. Not a bit of blotchiness there. When the coast is clear, Manfred unravels himself from his hiding place under my

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desk and draws himself out in an exquisite stretch. As he does so, he utters a long, low grunt, letting me know that he too is on to my shenanigans. I turn to Findley. “Do me a favor, partner.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Every time you call me partner it means you’ve got something up your sleeve.” “This is perfectly legitimate. I’ve decided who I want for Pierogi Pete’s defense. John Pinsky.” “Pinsky? Wally, you’re dreaming. He’s the most expensive defense lawyer in the city. And, I might add, the most sleazy.” “Also the best. He has a way with juries. He could talk a juror into letting Jack the Ripper off. And at this point, I don’t care much about his professional ethics. What I’m interested in is getting the best possible deal for Pete.” “And what’s my part in this scheme?” “I’d like you to go with me when I plead my case with the great man. In addition to being sleazy, Pinsky is also quite the ladies’ man. A pretty face has been known to turn his head and addle his brain. Having you by my side would sure improve the odds of getting Walter to take Pete’s case.” As I speak, the color rises in Findley’s face. She compresses her lips into fine, taut lines. When she speaks, her voice is gravelly: “Do you realize what you’re asking me to do? I’m not some bimbo at one of Sonny Schultz’s clubs. I’m a trained police detective.” “Sorry. Sorry.” I hold my hands palms out, seeking forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to offend. I got carried away. Pete’s sitting in jail and I can’t get over the feeling that I put him there. Forget what I said. I’ll go see Pinsky by myself.”

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She gets up and leaves the room. I go back to studying the stacks of paperwork relating to Sonny Schultz’s legal history. There’s a ringing in my ears, brought on, I suspect, by the shame of what I’ve proposed to Findley. I slide back from the desk and address Manfred: “Now look at what I’ve gone and done,” I say. “What a terrible thing to ask my partner to do. I need to learn to keep my big trap shut. I was only trying to help Pete.” Manfred gives me that canine stare of his, as if to say he’s waiting for the point of my story. Then he rises and shakes violently, tossing off my excuse as if it were a pesky flea. Five minutes later Findley returns. She appears composed, in control. She sits down at her desk and looks me straight in the eye. I wait for another round of much-deserved disapproval. Instead she says: “Okay then partner, when do we go to see the old sleazeball? And what should I wear?” The offices of Pinsky, Pinsky, Krueger and Wessel are ensconced on the very top floor of the U.S. Bank building. An entire forest of mahogany trees gave its life to panel these rooms. John Pinsky has come a long way in thirty years of practice. He began his legal career chasing ambulances and mesmerizing accident victims into believing that the pain in their necks was as good as legal tender, transferable to big bucks in court. Later he switched to criminal law, taking on the cases of wives accused of killing their wealthy husbands. He was a friend of the court in the O.J. case, and parlayed the notoriety gained from that fiasco into an hourly rate shared by only the highest echelon of defense attorneys. Now he surrounds himself with office space that looks like it ought to house the chairman of General Motors, or the president of Exxon-Mobil.

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“Come in, come in,” Pinsky calls to us from behind a desk the size of the U.S.S. Forestall. He sports a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed to a length of about two inches. His eyes are deep-set and rimmed over by an unbroken length of unruly eyebrow. Even I can see that his suit is of the thousand-dollar variety, probably something Italian from one of the exclusive men’s stores east of the Milwaukee River. As we approach his desk, his eye falls immediately on Findley, and he comes around the desk to offer her a chair. “Sit here,” he says, sliding the chair under her bottom with an unabashedly lecherous stare. “What can I do for the Milwaukee Police Department, detectives?” I explain the situation Pete has gotten himself into. John Pinsky nods as I describe the circumstances, all the while sneaking furtive glances at Findley, who is wearing a business suit over a blouse that reveals a tantalizing patch of cleavage. I suspect that the farthest thing from Pinsky’s mind right now is Pete’s sad story, and that he is engaged in some lawyerly fantasy involving himself and the woman sitting across the desk from him. After I have laid out the details of Pete’s case, Pinsky finally looks at me and asks: “What sort of resources does the defendant have?” He puts the emphasis on the last syllable of the word defendant. “Resources? You mean bank accounts?” “Yes, bank accounts, as you so quaintly put it. I’m sure you know that a trial is an expensive undertaking. There are briefs to file, motions to be made, evidence to be gathered. A criminal proceeding is no simple matter.” Now we’ve come to the core of the matter. “Your fee,” I say, averting eye contact with the legal beagle. “That’s kind of what we’re here to talk about. We know you don’t personally do pro bono work, but we thought

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maybe you had a sort of non-profit rate that Pete could take advantage of. A kind of public service fee schedule.” Pinsky spews a short, explosive laugh, as though he’s just choked on a chunk of beefsteak. “Detective Dopple, I mean no disrespect when I say this, but can you imagine the kind of practice I’d have if I offered a public service rate to every deserving defendant that crossed my threshold? Do you have any idea of the overhead I support in these offices? Why, if I cut my rates for Defendant Kacsynski I’d set a precedent that would place the entire practice in jeopardy.” It is a not-unexpected response. I find myself slouching in the oversized side chair, my head bowed nearly to my chest, like a boy who has asked his teacher a dumb question in front of the rest of the class. “There are exceptions in every business,” Findley puts in. “You could decide each case on its merits, and I think you’ll agree, Mr. Pinsky, that this particular case has great merit.” Pinsky brightens at the sound of Findley’s voice. “That’s quite true, my dear. Quite true. But just as you in the law enforcement field have your policies and regulations, we in the private sector have ours.” Pinsky drums his fingers on the desk pad, then looks up at Findley. “What I would consider, however, is contributing the services of a junior associate to the effort. I would do that for the favor of having you call me John.” His unibrow rises up briefly, then settles back to shade his eyes. The expression is as suggestive as if he has asked Findley to spend the weekend at the American Club up in Kohler. “We were hoping for more experienced representation,” I say. “We were thinking you might see this as an opportunity to show a personal commitment to defending the little guy.” 164

“But Detectives, defending the little guy is exactly what I do day in and day out. Our worthy opponents over at the District Attorney’s office have a massive staff and vast resources. We, on the other hand, spend our intellectual capital on those cases most likely to bear fruit, if you get my drift. Of course I’ve read about the Kacsynski matter in the papers, and it seems to me the defense will be hard pressed to do anything but throw itself on the mercy of the court.” “We’re planning a fund raiser,” Findley says. “An event to raise money for Pete’s defense. Wally – Detective Dopple – has a commitment from a number of locally popular groups to perform. Singers, dancers, bands.” That gets Pinsky’s attention. “And will you be among the performers, my dear? If so, I believe I might come by to see the show myself.” Still playing her part, Findley wags a finger at Pinsky: “Why Mr. Pinksy, I do believe you’re out of order. I’m a police officer, not a performer.” “More’s the pity,” Pinsky says, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together across his stomach. “Indeed, more’s the pity.” I figure it’s time I jump into the conversation before it gets out of hand. “Just for the sake of discussion, Mr. Pinsky, what would your services cost? We’re prepared to raise whatever it takes to hire your services.” “Ordinarily I leave the financial arrangements to my administrative assistant. However, since you two have taken the trouble to come up here and plead the case of our friend Mr. Kacsynski, I’ll quote you a rock bottom rate of three hundred fifty dollars an hour. That’s bargain basement, you understand.”

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A short, unintended whistle escapes my lips. Pinsky appears most satisfied by the shock value of his quote. He turns to Findley again, as though he is hoping the figure he’s quoted has impressed her. From what I can observe, it has fallen short of the mark. We leave the offices of Pinsky, Pinsky, Krueger and Wessel with as much satisfaction as a dinner guest who’s been served up a bowl of bulgar wheat. “So much for that,” Findley says. “Hundreds of hours of Pinsky’s time at three-fifty an hour? You’d have to rent Miller Park for your fundraiser to get a crowd big enough to make a dent in his bill.” “It’s a leap,” I say. “But I’ve got to try. Any money we bring in is money Pete doesn’t have now. I’m going to talk to the folks at the Lucky Seven first chance I get.” Findley checks her wristwatch. “Meanwhile, how about grabbing a sandwich and a beer? It’s after six.” Ordinarily I would take my partner up in a minute on that kind of offer. But I’ve got business to attend to. “Can’t do it today,” I say. “Got a quick stop to make, then probably a long night of going through some new evidence.” “No problem,” she says. “I’ll go with you and lend a hand.” The elevator doors open and we step out into the lobby of the U.S. Bank building. I take her elbow and steer her into an alcove around the corner. “I need to keep you out of this, Krystal. If the mooks at the Safety Building knew what I’m up to, they’d have my badge. I don’t want you to get skinned along with me if anything goes wrong.” “What is going on, Wally?” she asks. “You ought to give this whole Richards business some serious thought before you go any further.”

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“You’re probably right. But I’m so close I can almost taste it. By tomorrow I’ll know for sure whether it’s worth the effort. And thanks for your help with Pinsky. I know it bothered you to do it, and I’m grateful.” I leave her shaking her head. I suspect that in my partner’s estimation I have just been lumped in the category of stubborn old men. Time to meet with Lakic’s courier.

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-21 As the sky darkens over the modest two-flats of 9th Street, I pace back and forth on the dock at the Kosciuszko Park lagoon. The meeting with Pinsky was a bust, and Pete’s hopes for quality representation are fading. Pinsky’s offer to assign one of his interns to the case in exchange for a dinner with Findley was insulting to my partner and discouraging for me. A third year law student would be about as much help to Pete as one of those newfangled iPods would be to deaf man. In our legal system, the haves get first class defense while the have-nots go begging. Without warning, Lakic’s man appears as if out of a fog at my side, looming over me. He is dressed in black from the soft workman’s cap on his head to the oxford shoes on his feet. In one hand he holds the stainless steel case containing the tapes, while the other hand is tucked into his jacket pocket, presumable fingering a small caliber firearm. My own off-duty piece is back at the ranch, secreted in my underwear drawer. If it comes to gunplay, I am a dead duck. The hooded eyes meet mine with a stare I’d expect to see in a confrontation between a mongoose and a snake. Wordlessly, he hands over the attaché case, nods, casts an uncertain glance at my canine companion, and disappears back into the shadows from which he appeared. In these few brief moments I have committed half a dozen acts that are subject to

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discipline or dismissal by the Department, a development of which I am acutely aware. Wavelets lap the dock and now and then an oarlock squeaks in the evening air, bringing Manfred’s ears to attention and a small growl to his throat. I take the case in hand and signal my companion to follow me back to our lodgings. I unlock my back door entrance and turn on the overhead kitchen light. I rub my hands together like a safecracker about to attack a top-of-the-line Mesa safe, and unsnap the clasps on the briefcase. Inside are twenty-two neatly arranged cassette tapes, each labeled with dates and numbers, each bearing secrets known only to former deputy mayor Morris Richards and, presumably, to the wily Radovan Lakic. After pouring twoand-a-half cups of Purina into Manfred’s bowl, I retrieve a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a crock of Kaukauna cheese from the fridge, and a sleeve of Ritz crackers from the cabinet. Then I sit down at the table with my tape player and my duty logbook. The first several tapes in the Richards collection reveal only how tedious city business can be, even at the highest level. On those tapes the deputy mayor discusses broad and varied issues with other city and county officials, ranging from urban revitalization and police protection to point spreads on upcoming Green Bay Packer football games. Much of the material is way beyond my feeble ability to understand, focusing on maneuvers involved in slicing up the city budget among more than one hundred separate departments, divisions and sections. My attention peaks when I hear references to public safety programs and salaries. Curiosity runs at high tide when a person overhears conversations about budget matters that may effect on his own personal life.

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On side number nine, I am surprised to hear the voice of Chief Kloss himself, proposing that he put his personal driver in charge of the downtown vice unit. “Merle Waydick?” Morris Richards asks. “The vice unit is a Lieutenant’s job. Waydick is a sergeant. And from what little I remember about him, a relatively inept sergeant.” After a pause, the chief says: “The thing is, I owe Waydick for some personal favors. He’s loyal, and for me that’s the bottom line.” “It’s your department,” Richards says. “Do what you have to. But you can bet there will be some raised eyebrows if you put that putz in charge of the vice unit, both inside and outside the family.” Remembering only too well the announcement three weeks ago of Merle Waydick’s promotion, I shake my head at the confirmation that loyalty, not ability, is the deciding factor attending a policeman’s career. And I feel a trickle of sweat run down my back at the very thought of what would happen if my big boss learned I have this information. Now I hear a familiar staccato tapping on the back stairs. Manfred’s ears perk up as he lopes over to the door, sniffing up and down the jamb in anticipation. I quickly punch the stop button on the recorder and close the lid of the silver briefcase as the butt of Mrs. Kramer’s cane pounds sharply on my door. “You in there, Walter?” she demands. Without waiting for a reply, she tries the doorknob and walks into my kitchen. Manfred wags his whole body in greeting to his sometime benefactor, sniffing the back of her hand and curling around her as she makes her way to my table. I suspect he has vivid memories of the tasty kolaches he snagged from her pantry counter, and is hoping for an encore. I am quite sure that the dumb dog doesn’t make a 170

connection between those tasty confections and his later visit to the veterinarian’s office. “It’s the Ultimate Fighter Marathon on Spike TV,” Mrs. K. announces. “Best martial arts fighters in the world. It’s a combination of jiujitsu, judo, karate, boxing and wrestling. They fight in a steel cage, like the gladiators did in Rome. We gotta get ready.” Mrs. K. is wearing her Mary Kay wig and sporting a pair of Doc Marten boots. She stoops to give Manfred a chuck under the chin, then leans forward to get a better look at the array on my table. “What’s going on here, Walter? Looks like you’re bringing your work home with you.” I sidle along the edge of the table in a vain attempt to hide the briefcase and recorder. “Just some unfinished background,” I say. “Unfinished background, my butt. You’re up to something. What’s in the briefcase? Looks like some kind of spy kit. And what are you listening to there?” She points to the tape recorder and moves closer. “Mrs. K, this is very confidential stuff. I can’t let you know what I’m doing here. And you’re about to miss the martial arts guys on TV.” With a deft feint to her left, she darts around me and punches the play button on the recorder. The voice of Deputy Mayor Richards drones on as Mrs. K’s eyes widen. “You’re onto something in the Morris Richards case, aren’t you? Something big I’ll bet. Dopple, how could you keep this from me? I thought we were in this together.” She plants her hands on her hips and snarls. “I thought we were joined at the hip.” Now my landlady walks around to the other side of the table and helps herself to a chair. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she says as she reaches for the knife, scoops a dollop of Kaukauna cheese from the crock and spreads it 171

onto a Ritz cracker. “Go on, get to it. You got your notebook there, I see. What particular kind of dirt we looking for?” “Mrs. K, I can’t let you listen to these tapes. They’re evidence. And you’re a civilian.” She plants her gnarly fists on her hips: “And what if something should happen to you, Walter? What if the bandits run you down in the street?” She thumps her chest with a knuckled fist. “I’m your backup.” “This is police business, and my job is on the line. It’s away out over the edge, if you know what I mean. You don’t want to know what it’s all about.” “Bullroar,” she says. “You seem to forget that when my Max passed away and you came to live with me you were broken-hearted about Alice having run off with the man from the Social Security. We made a deal when you moved in, a deal that we would take care of each other. We’re partners, you and me, and I’m here to give you a hand with your investigations. At the police station you’re in charge. But under this roof, I make the rules. And I say I ought to hear those tapes.” I consider my options: we can get into a knock-down, drag-out about whether Mrs. K is in on the deal, or I can surrender. Having dealt with my landlady for many years now, I choose the latter course. “Okay then, get yourself a glass of milk from the fridge. But please leave the work to me.” She’s up and heading over to the cabinet to fetch a glass in no time flat. “I won’t say a word,” she promises. That’ll be the day, I think. I fire up the tape player once more, feeling like a man reading his newspaper on a bus with a fellow passenger looking over his shoulder. To 172

her credit, Mrs. K keeps silent as I fast forward through the cassettes, arriving eventually at a conversation that has little to do with city business and includes a now-familiar voice. I rewind to a point where the discussion begins, and both Mrs. K and I stare at the recorder as though it is a television set. What we hear is a story of love that cannot be spoken, a very personal tale of people caught in a web of deception and jealousy. It is the stuff of which daytime soap operas are made. “It’s up to you,” the voice on the tape declares in a basso profundo tone. “We can work together on this, or I can open Pandora’s box and let the whole thing out. What would your public say about that, Morris? You’d be a laughing stock. Morris Richards, the Don Juan of the city administration, revealed as just another cuckold.” There is a silence before the deputy mayor says: “You of all people. You are the one person who should understand the sacrosanct nature of personal confidences. You’re a damn disgrace. Selling out not only me but your profession for the sake of a few dollars.” “Oh,” the second voice counters, “not for just a few dollars. I have a pretty good idea of your net worth, Morris, with your extracurricular activities and your investments; it’s a nice piece of change. You can afford to share. For that kind of money I’m willing to take a few ethical shortcuts.” “Why not call it what it is? Blackmail.” “Blackmail is such a tawdry word, my friend. Couldn’t we just call it a business arrangement between two world-wise men? The alternative is to hang the laundry out in the public press. And that’s all right with me as well. Might even get a network talk show out of it.” Mrs. K and I are so intent on listening to the tape that when Manfred suddenly lets out a long, loud howl and springs from his bed beside the 173

refrigerator we both jump in our chairs. Manfred runs to the dining room window and continues his deep-throated bellows, the hackles on his back standing up and his posture stiff as a board. Mrs. K holds a hand over her heart, breathing heavily and looking at me with eyes wide. We both follow Manfred to the window, me trying unsuccessfully to shush him and Mrs. K pinching the sleeve of my shirt, following close behind. “Manfred!” I call to the dog, my voice barely audible over his hoots. “That’s enough, big boy. Thank you.” “It’s him,” Mrs. K declares, peering out into the darkness. “It’s who?” I ask, knowing full well who she’s referring to. “The neighborhood burglar, of course. He’s stalking us. I’ll bet he’s one of those cat thieves who sneak into a person’s home while they’re asleep and take their money right out from under their mattress.” I shake my head. “He’d have to be a pretty lame cat to come in here with the two of us sitting at the kitchen table and the dog howling at the window. Manfred!” I command once more. “Knock it off.” The dog has fogged up the window where his snout is pressed against the glass. He stops barking, lopes into the kitchen, then to the front door where he gives another couple of whoops at whatever it was he thought he saw. Now Mrs. K. tugs at my sleeve. “You got to go out there and check things out, Walter.” I put my hands on the old lady’s shoulders and try to steer her back into the kitchen. “Aw Mrs. Kramer, you know how Manfred is. Chances are it was just a passing car throwing a shadow on the wall. Or some kid down the block calling out to a friend. Manfred thinks he sees and hears sounds all the time. You know that. It’s probably nothing.” Even as I speak the words, my GI system is roiling. The last thing I need is a frightened woman giving 174

orders. But on the other hand, I share Mrs. K’s alarm at what could be lurking outside our little two-flat. The boys from Internal Affairs might be on my tail, put on the scent by Lakic or one of his gang. There’s also the long shot that the perpetrator himself has discovered I have the tapes, and has come to take them off my hands. “Maybe it is the neighborhood kids,” Mrs. K says. “But are you willing to take that chance? Here we are in the middle of an important investigation and your furry burglar alarm goes off. Are you going to stand there and tell me that a policeman is willing to pass it off as just a kid yelling in the street?” I release my hold on her shoulders and hitch up my pants. “Tell you what: I’ll take a lap around the house, see what I can see. Keep the porch light off. It’ll be easier to find my way out there.” “Take Manfred with you Walter,” Mrs. K advises. “No burglar wants to come face to face with this brute.” “Not a chance,” I reply. One of Manfred’s less agreeable characteristics is an intense curiosity to investigate the most appealing scent he happens to find at the end of his nose. That means he’d be off on his own the minute he came onto the trail of another dog or cat. There’d be nothing I could do to get him back until he finished with his explorations. He’d come back half an hour later, huffing and puffing like a freight engine, quite satisfied with himself and unconcerned with the pedestrians he startled on his circuit of the area. Manfred is an independent contractor and I don’t want to have to go chasing after him, given the other issues I have on my plate tonight. I explain all this to Mrs. K as I retrieve a flashlight from the kitchen closet. 175

“Well then Walter,” she cautions. “At least take your revolver.” I hesitate, uncomfortable with carrying a sidearm into the dark of night, yet spooked by the intensity of my dog’s antics. “Good idea,” I finally agree, moving toward the bedroom and my sock drawer. I open the back door and step outside into the gangway between our house and the Osewski’s bungalow next door. There’s not much to see as I walk along the sidewalk to the front of the house, then around the front porch and down the Martin’s sidewalk on the south side of our house. I play my flashlight left and right, then turn it off to let my rods and cones adjust. As my eyes become accustomed to the dark, I hear Manfred raising the alarm once more from inside the house. Now he thinks I’m the intruder. Sometimes I think I should have gotten a smarter dog. Finding nothing on my round of the property, I return to the back door of the house. Just as I am about to open the door, I notice what the lab boys call an anomaly in the space between the house and the sidewalk where Mrs. K tends to her lilies-of-the- valley. Just under the kitchen window there is an area where the plants have been crushed down, as if underfoot. I flick the flashlight on and look more closely at the spot. There appears to be at least one impression of a shoe or a boot in the soft dirt. I scratch my head, turn off the flashlight, then scuff up the disturbed area with my shoe. The impression was evidence, but the need to keep my landlady on an even keel trumps the need to preserve the footprint. When I open the back door, Mrs. K is standing in the hallway. “Well? What did you find?” I shake my head. “Nothing there. Like I said, Manfred must have been having a nightmare. You know that just about anything can set him off.” It would serve no good purpose to call her attention to the damaged plants 176

under the kitchen window, at least not tonight. The information would only get her going on the neighborhood burglar again. “You weren’t out there very long,” she huffs. “Are you sure you did a thorough job?” “I’m a detective. This is what I do for a living. If there was something out there, I would have seen it.” That seems to satisfy her. She turns and walks back into the kitchen, folding her arms around her body as if there’s a cold draft coming up the hall stairs. As we take our seats at the table I try to reconstruct what we’d discovered before the interruption. There was the deep bass voice on the tape, and the word blackmail spoken by the deputy mayor. There was the talk of big money, and a threat. Mrs. K and I regard each other over the table, each waiting for the other to comment. When that doesn’t happen, I press the play button on the recorder, and the tape continues to spool out. “Morris, we both know the consequences if this gets out. Why not just make it easy on yourself and play ball with me?” “I’ve played your brand of ball for too long,” the deputy mayor replies. “It’s time to lay the facts on the line and let the chips fall where they may. Amanda Marquez’s employment suit comes to court in three days and if nothing else I’m going to come out of there with a clear conscience. That means you and your ambition are all through.” Mrs. K leans over the table. “That’s some damn fine evidence, Walter. Where in the world did you pick up this stuff?” I lurch for the stop button so as not to miss anything on the tape. “I thought you weren’t going to say a word.”

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She blanches. “I wasn’t going to, and I didn’t until the burglar came and upset the applecart. After that, I thought the deal was off. I’m just trying to help.” Realizing that arguing the point will take us into the wee hours of the morning, I shrug and continue playing the tape. As I listen to the conversation between Morris Richards and his visitor, my attention is divided between the revealing words that drift through my kitchen and an image from my evening at the ballet with Findley. Mrs. K has calmed her fears of a burglar breaking into her flat, at least for the moment. But since discovering the footprint by the kitchen window the hair at the back of my neck has been standing on end, realizing the possibility that the disturbance is connected to my investigation. I have uncovered the identity of the person responsible for two murders, but that’s just the first step on the road to closing the case. The second train of thought that makes its way through my mind has to do with good and evil: I can only hope to be more successful in rounding up this villain than Odette and Siegfried were in dealing with the evil wizard Rothbart.

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- 22 “Won’t be long now,” I announce to Lt. Armand when I arrive at the squad room the following morning. My mood has been buoyed by last night’s revelation of great personal importance. “Tell me you got a break on the Sonny Schultz case,” the boss says, putting on his tone that says he’s surprised that a knucklehead like me could solve anything more complicated than the crossword puzzle in this morning’s newspaper. I hesitate. Perelman and Potts look up from their desks, curious as a couple of cats at the back door of an Italian restaurant. After attending the Bathory autopsy these two mouth breathers had practically nothing to add to our knowledge of the case, but they now consider themselves the stars of the force for having kept their breakfasts down during the procedure. “Sure,” I report. “That too. But the Shultz case isn’t what I’m talking about. What I mean is that I’m on my way to passing my Department physical with that nattering old sawbones, Doc Sam.” When I got out of bed this morning I went to the bathroom and stepped onto the scale, and was flabbergasted by the numbers on the readout. It seems that since the killings of Morris Richards and Sonny Schultz hit the fan I have lost six pounds. The stress of following leads, the worry about how Pierogi Pete will be represented in court, and the footwork required to dodge the boss’s criticisms have combined to give a boost to my metabolism

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in some mysterious way. I have come to the well-reasoned conclusion that worry burns calories. Now that very load of worries has been lightened by the news that not only have I not gained weight, but actually lost a few pounds. When I looked at my naked body in the mirror after my morning shower I didn’t see any measurable change, but the bathroom scale does not lie. I even stepped back onto it a second time to make sure the contraption was not playing games with me. Then I got dressed, pulled my belt one notch tighter, and headed off to Bev’s café for breakfast. As Bev poured me a second cup of coffee and marveled at my order of rye toast and yogurt, I realized that from now on the briefcase containing the deputy mayor’s tapes would have to stay within my reach twenty-four seven. I needed to guard it as closely as if it were the gold in Ft. Knox. I could hide it in the flat, but suppose – just suppose – that Mrs. K’s neighborhood burglar turned out to be more than a figment of her imagination. Hide it under the bed and I’d worry about it all day long. Uhuh. So I took it with me to the garage and put it in the trunk of my car, realizing that even there it could be subject to a hundred different kinds of theft or destruction. As I sipped Bev’s high octane brew I recounted in my mind the details of the August Skolnik case, which involved a Fagan-come-lately family court judge who recruited a band of teenage hoodlums to pull stick-ups at local branch banks, and later to plant a bomb in my 1984 Oldsmobile. Desperate characters are capable of all sorts of mischief, and the villain I am currently chasing has a good deal in common with those I have known in the past. In the Skolnick case, Mrs. K and I were having a snack at her kitchen table one evening when Manfred sounded the alarm. A moment later the 180

house was rocked by a concussion that knocked china from the dining room plate rail and shook the very linoleum under our feet. It was as though a tornado had come out of a clear blue sky, picked up our house and carried it off its foundation. Through a cloud of smoke and ash, we saw only a concrete pad where our garage had been just a few moments earlier. Through the haze reams of Mrs. K’s memorabilia floated, everything from family photo albums to love letters from her husband, all stored in the garage for god-knows-what reason. They fell like snowflakes, onto the patch of lawn out back. Old Life magazines, bits and pieces of clothing destined for the St. Vincent de Paul, rag rugs returned to their original form. Along with Mrs. K’s belongings, pieces of my Oldsmobile were scattered through neighbors’ phlox beds and tomato plants. The destruction was total. The Skolnick gang had planted a wad of plastic explosive on the frame of my car. I’d smelled that stuff twice before, once during my service at Fort Benning and a second time at the scene of the John Benedetti bombing, at the height of the great gang war downtown. The Crime Scene Unit sifted through the remains of what used to be our garage and concluded that the bomb was meant to go off with me behind the wheel. Luckily, the dang thing was put together by Skolnick’s young whack jobs, and the fuse proved to be as reliable as they were, allowing me get out of the garage before the explosion. In the end I put the cuffs on the corrupt judge, and solved the rash of branch bank robberies in the process. I got a commendation for my work. All of which proves that when the criminal mind loses touch with reality, it is capable of pretty near any kind of violent act. Even in the trunk of a car parked in a police station lot, I know that the Richards tapes are not

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perfectly safe. But the trunk is the best option I can think of short of cuffing the briefcase to my wrist. Now the boss comes around to my desk and stands over me. “You’re putting me off Dopple,” he says. “I give a shit about your physical. What I need around here is production. Investigation. Crime solving.” “But Lieutenant, I’m the guy with a commendation from the chief himself. I’m an asset to the Department. You wouldn’t want to lose a guy like me on Doc Sam’s freight scale, would you?” The boss runs a hand across his balding pate. “You know a lot more than you’re telling, Dopple. Out with it. What’s going on with the Sonny Schultz case?” “Well, it all goes back to the night Findley invited me to join her at the ballet. Something I saw there that didn’t quite ring true…” Lt. Armand pulls his eyebrows down like window shades and curls his mouth into an ess shape. “What the hell you talking about, the ballet? You were ordered to go through the records of Schultz’s past offenses to find leads, and all you can report is a tale about your night at the ballet. I should have partnered Findley up with Knowles or Watson. With you, all she’s learning is how to do an end run on regulations. By the way, where is Findley? She usually reports for duty half an hour ahead of your sorry ass.” I hike my shoulders. “Boss, it was just that one night at the PAC we kept company together. I wouldn’t know what Findley does in her off hours any more than Knowles knows what Watson does. Remember what you told me about fraternizing? I took that advice seriously.” “Sure you did. One word from me and you go off and do whatever the hell you please.” He turns and stomps off into his office, muttering under his breath. 182

When the boss is gone, Albrecht saunters over and plants his butt in Findley’s chair. “Hey Wally, it’s Knowles’ twentieth year with the force. We’re getting together at Dungy’s Dugout for a pop after work. Come on over and bring a gag gift.” I pull the top right drawer of my desk open and take out a bottle of Tums. “I dunno Marty. I got a couple of things to do tonight.” Albrecht leans across the desk, a scowl on his face. “What’s up with you, Dopple? You ain’t been yourself. Used to be you’d be the one organizing a twenty-year party. Now you don’t even have time to show up. Since you partnered up with that woman you been hard to reach as jailhouse keys from behind cell doors.” I raise my hands in surrender. He’s right, I know. Once upon a time not too long ago I would have welcomed a break in the routine and a chance to talk smart with the boys. Now all that seems juvenile, hanging around a watering hole with the same people I see all day and rehashing complaints we’ve already made a hundred times about our bosses and the courts. Without ever knowing it was happening, I’ve let a certain amount of distance come between me and my cronies. “I’ll try,” I tell Albrecht. “I’ll really try to be there. About five?” All the while I am chewing over Lt. Armand’s comment about Findley being late. It’s left me wondering. Traffic was light on my way in, and Findley doesn’t have to fight the backups on the freeway to find her way to the Second District. She’s as reliable as the face on the Polish Moon clock atop the Allen-Bradley factory. I reach for the phone and punch in her cell number. “This is Krystal,” the honeyed voice responds. “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” I do not leave a message, and spend the next few

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minutes speculating on where she could be. Then I get up and go to the break room for my third cup of java of the morning. I find Potts and Perelman in a close huddle at the far end of the room. When I enter, they lean closer to each other for a moment, then signal to me to join them. I fill my mug and saunter over, wondering what’s on their pea brains now. “It’s solved,” Potts says in a stage whisper, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me close. “I went ahead and figured out what’s been going on.” I scratch my head. “You’re a detective, Potsy. Figuring out what’s going on is your job. But it’d be nice to know just what in particular you are referring to.” “The Louie,” he hisses, as if I should have known what he was talking about. “The Louie and his closed blinds.” “Ah, that.” Perelman nods knowingly, a man who is already in on the secret and therefore holds a position superior to mine. “Care to take a guess, Wally?” Potts finally lets go of my arm and I smooth down the sleeve of my shirt. “And,” Perelman says by way of a hint, “it’s got nothing to do with Internet porn sites. Hell, I wouldn’t have come up with the answer in a million years.” An extended pause follows, as Potts milks the suspense he’s created. Then: “He’s writing stories. Hard-boiled detective mysteries.” Now Perelman’s head begins bobbing like an apple in a bathtub, and a broad smile spreads across his pockmarked face. “Potts sneaked into the office last night and went through the scraps from the boss’s wastebasket.”

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“Found three sheets of paper,” Potts says, “with scribbling on them in his handwriting. He must have been editing his work before he tossed out the earlier version.” “And this evidence,” I say, “proves what?” “It proves that when the Louie closes his blinds he gets on his computer and writes Mickey Spillane type stories. It was all right there on the pages, Dopple. I saw it with my own eyes.” “What in particular did it say?” “On the first page there was this tough guy chief of detectives, trading shots with a gang of toughs in some kind of waterfront warehouse district. He blasted them all to kingdom come except for the big cheese, who got off one last shot and put a bullet in the cop’s shoulder. Then all of a sudden a car arrived on the scene and this blonde ran to him and cradled his head in her big jugs. She sobbed and begged him not to die on her.” Potts stops there, and takes a long slurp of coffee. “What happened next?” I ask.” “I dunno,” Potts replies. “That was the last sheet of the story. “Our own Ed McBain,” Perelman says with a snort. “So the mystery is solved,” Potts says with a prideful wink. “Don’t pull your shoulder out of whack patting yourself on the back,” I say. “It would have been better,” Perelman adds, “if he had been checking out hot chicks on the Web. That would have given us some real excitement around here.”

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- 23 By mid-afternoon, Findley’s continued absence weighs heavily on my mind. If it were me who had not shown up at the squad room for most of a day, nobody would think a thing about it. I am, as Lt. Armand likes to say, as reliable as the weather in a Wisconsin spring. But Findley is the soul of promptness, and would never miss work without a legitimate reason. And even then, she’d be sure to call in and let us know what was going on. As the clock on the wall ticks past three I make one final trip to the break room to drain the last dregs from the coffee pot. As I amble back to my desk, my cell phone buzzes. I check the caller ID: another cell, with a number I do not recognize. “Dopple here.” “Detective Dopple.” The voice is familiar, but not welcome. “I think you know who this is. And I think you know why I’m calling. You have something I want. And coincidentally, I now have something you want.” I feel lightheaded, as though the blood has drained past my neck, pulled by gravity to my size twelve shoes where it pools like concrete. Twenty-four hours ago the sound of this particular voice on the other end of the line would have caused no concern. But after listening to the Richards tapes these bass tones send a chill down my spine. There is a pause on the phone, then an obviously recorded voice says: “Wally, whatever he wants, don’t give it to him. He’s a murderer. He’s a monster – “

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Findley’s voice is cut off in mid-sentence and psychologist Aiden Weizsaker, the same voice that threatened Morris Richards on the tapes, informs me: “I’m sure you get the drift, Detective Dopple. I’m proposing a business deal, a trade. Your partner for the Richards tapes.” “You son of a bitch,” I say. “What have you done to her? Where have you got her? If you’ve harmed her…” “Cool your jets, Dopple. Your partner is quite safe at the moment. But that could change if I don’t have the Richards tapes in hand by this evening. You get my drift?” “I don’t make deals with murderers. What’s more, the Milwaukee Police Department will put your nuts in a vise if any harm comes to Detective Findley.” My threats have little effect on Weizsaker’s bravado. “And how will you explain to your leaders how you came into possession of the tapes, Dopple? How will you explain that you yourself are in large part responsible for our present circumstances? Seems your own nuts are in a vise over there, and the first thing the Milwaukee Police Department is likely to do if you confess your sins is to relieve you of duty.” “What happens to me is not important. You’re going to let Krystal Findley go, or I’m going to come down there to your place and teach you a lesson you won’t forget.” “My professional training tells me that you’re distraught, Detective Dopple. You’re experiencing a fight-or-flight response. But take a moment to reflect. Take a couple of hours. I’ll call back. When I do, we’ll talk specifics concerning the transfer of property. Keep your phone line open.” There’s a click, and he’s gone. Aiden Weizsaker, noted therapist and radio talk show personality, has kidnapped my partner. He has also killed 187

twice in a brutal manner. He cuts out his victims’ tongues and takes them as trophies. And now he has my partner. The devil has me cornered. If I go to the brass and let them know what’s happened, they’ll move as slowly as an Aldabra Tortoise out at the county zoo. They’re famous for covering their asses, putting more stock in procedure than on results. I’m on my own here, out on a limb, as my father would have said. I return to my phone pad and punch in the number from which the Weizsaker call originated. No answer. I try his office number with similar luck. Then I call the radio station where he does his talk show and learn that this week’s shows are taped reruns of past programs, and the man is not expected to return to the studio until next Thursday. In desperation, I give a short wave to Manfred and go out to the parking lot, heading first for my own digs and then for Findley’s place. The burglar’s tools in my closet are a memento from a case some twelve years ago, when my then-partner Ernie Maigraine and I closed a very famous case of B&E in which the city’s churches were being robbed of valuable icons. The little black bag of picks came into my possession inadvertently, and in time it became awkward for me to turn them in as evidence. So they lay undisturbed on my closet shelf until today. I park a block from Findley’s high rise apartment building and walk the rest of the way, as though I am just one more resident out for a stroll with his dog. Manfred is uncomfortable being placed on a leash, but I assure him that it is necessary to protect our cover for the assignment. We enter the building and I punch the doorbell of a resident three floors distant from the Findley apartment. A moment later the buzzer sounds and the occupant inquires over the tiny speaker who is calling. Without responding, I move into the hallway and take the elevator to the third floor, where I release 188

Manfred from his lead and go to the door of my partner’s apartment. As a matter of habit, I knock three times before going to work with my burglar’s tools. The job is surprisingly simple, and a moment later I am inside. It occurs to me that cops are the worst protectors of their own home security, there being no deadbolts or chains to bar my entry. It is clear at first glance that Findley did not leave without resisting. Whoever took her must have overpowered her. Chairs lay overturned in the small dinette space, and a painting in some abstract modern style is knocked off the wall. Manfred sniffs through the clutter as I search for clues to the identity of the intruders and where they may have taken Findley. Looking into the bedroom, I find it apparently in order. I am reluctant to enter there, it being the private boudoir of a woman I am linked to professionally. If it were anybody else’s bedroom I would not hesitate to snoop through every last dresser drawer and nightstand. But Findley? I can’t bring myself to do it. I return to the living room and continue looking, careful not to disturb any latent prints on furniture surfaces. Now my phone buzzes, and the number on the display pad is the same as the one I received back at the station. “Weizsaker,” I spit, “tell me you’ve come to your senses. Let Krystal Findley go.” After a long pause, the voice on the other end says: “You know that’s not going to happen, Detective Dopple. Not until I get my hands on those tapes. Let’s not play games with each other. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” “Those tapes are going to hang you, Weizsaker. It was pretty clear all along that Jeffrey Blount wasn’t our man. He didn’t have the ice to put a gun to the back of his stepfather’s head and pull the trigger. And when you

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popped Sonny Schultz the deal was sealed. If Jeff Blount went down in the lake in that plane, how could he have killed the king of the strip clubs?” “But your higher-ups are insisting that the Schultz killing is a copycat crime, isn’t that right? Your higher-ups are more concerned with their reputations than with who did the community the favor of putting an end to that slimy toad Schultz. You could have taken their lead, Dopple. But you thought you were the brightest light in the chandelier. You had to go on with it, and now look at the mess you’ve made.” As my nemesis talks, I hear a distinctive sound in the background. A bell ringing, not a school bell but something deeper, more resonant and eerie. “You were treating both the Richards,” I say, “Morris and Shirley. Counseling them on their marriage. You knew everything about their private lives, and you used that information against them. What a scum you are, Weizsaker. When this comes out, you’re through.” “If this comes out we’re both through, Dopple. Think about it. A rogue detective goes off on his own against Department orders, gathering evidence of a murder and then keeping it to himself instead of turning it over to his superiors. A man who allows his partner to be taken hostage as a direct result of that mischief. Oh, we’re in this together, Detective. In a sense, I’m your new partner. And in this partnership, I’m on top and you’re on the bottom.” “There is no bottom after you, Weizsaker. Under you there’s nothing but mud.” “Enough talk,” Weizsaker says. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to fetch those tapes and bring them to my office. You’re going to do it now, as soon as we end our little conversation. Once I have the tapes in hand I’ll tell you where you can collect your partner.” In the background, 190

the ringing sound of a bell continues off and on. A church bell, I wonder? But somehow this is a different pitch, low and long. And if it is a church, it could take weeks to check out places to search. “Is that where you are now, counselor? Are you calling from your office?” “It’s none of your business where I’m calling from, my friend. Don’t worry your vapid policeman’s head about it. I’ll be in my office by the time you get there. And you had better have the tapes with you.” “Do I strike you as some kind of halfwit, Weizsaker? Do I sound like a man who would turn over evidence to a killer without assurances that you’ll keep your part of the bargain? Before I take one step toward your office I want to know that Findley is alive and well at this moment. And I want her to be there when I come through your office door.” There is a short pause, a shout, and then Findley’s voice on the phone. “Wally, we’re in some kind of warehouse – ow!” There are muffled sounds indicating a scuffle, and Weizsaker’s voice comes back on the phone. “Brave girl, Dopple. Beautiful as well. But not very smart. Doesn’t understand what’s in her own best interests. Get that big butt of yours down to my office or there may not be a Krystal Findley to talk to ever again.” “Listen Weizsaker – “ “No, you listen Dopple. This conversation is over. Be there within the hour, or I’ll be adding another tongue to my collection.” The phone goes dead. I am left amid the rubble of Findley’s apartment, holding my cell in one hand and the nape of Manfred’s neck in the other. Both hands are shaking with rage. This is not a good mental state in which to pursue a killer. I release Manfred and slip the phone back into 191

my pocket. A warehouse and some kind of hooting or clanging sound. And there was something else in the background. What, I ask myself, straining to identify the sound. Then it comes to me. A TV, tuned in to the Pride Fight Championships. Enough to give me a few slim leads to Findley’s whereabouts. That, and the information that Weizsaker is closer to his office right now than I am. That narrows the search area to a radius of about five miles. Fives miles in which there are literally hundreds of warehouses and a thousand sounds that go clang in the night. At my side, Manfred gives a low grunt. When I look into his eyes I see a light that is evident only for brief periods, and only on rare occasions. It is the light of canine intelligence. All at once it comes to me: I’m pretty sure I know at least approximately where Weizsaker is holding Krystal Findley. “Buddy, you’re the best,” I inform Manfred. Stooping down, I ruffle the fur around his neck and pat him on his massive chest. “Let’s go partner. We’re on the case.”

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- 24 “It’s all my fault,” I tell Manfred as we lock the door to Findley’s apartment and make our way down the hall to the elevator. “If I’d just minded my own business she wouldn’t be in this pickle, and we’d both be down at the station booking some whack-job liquor store robber. But no, I had to go ahead and swim against the current, and now my partner is paying the price.” As we leave the building I shudder, hoping against hope that Findley’s luck will hold until I’m able to get to her. But what if? What if…” The idea is too terrible to pursue. Last night, as I heard the unmistakable radio voice of Aiden Weizsaker threatening to blackmail Deputy Mayor Morris Richards on the tapes, I nearly peed in my pants. The psychologist managed to fly below the radar of my suspect list, something that has happened only rarely in my career. Hell, even Judge Skolnick provided more clues to his shenanigans as the master criminal in the case of the branch bank robberies than this devious mental therapist. On the one hand, I have to take responsibility for having overlooked my opponent’s access to the secrets of Morris and Shirley Richards. On the other hand, this devil is about as slippery as a water snake in a vat of Mazola oil. He plies his trade under cover of a respected profession, using the personal information he collects in counseling sessions as leverage to achieve his sinister ends. 193

“What a world,” I say as I open the car door to let Manfred into the back seat. “What people won’t do for a couple of bucks or a few minutes of notoriety. Weizsaker has a going business, a radio show, clients among the big shots in town. He has all that, and yet he wants more. Now look at the mess he’s made.” Manfred woofs in agreement and settles down on the seat like a millionaire waiting for his chauffeur to drive him to his next appointment. The therapist did indeed have it all going his own way until he decided to cross over the line that separates simple greed from criminal acts. He went over the edge the night he packed his twenty-two handgun and confronted Morris Richards in the back hallway of Old Town Restaurant, made a mockery of his own profession and sealed his own doom. “You’d think that a person educated and working full time in mental health would pay more attention to what was going on in his own head,” I tell Manfred. “Maybe folks who are attracted to that field need help themselves. Maybe they get into the business in order to understand their own scrambled brains.” We drive north and east from Findley’s apartment building. As we come down off the bridge at the east end of Lincoln Avenue, we make the turn onto Jones Island and the Port of Milwaukee. I am reasonably certain that the bell I heard ringing on Weizsaker’s end of the telephone was a ship’s bell, and this is the only place in town where such a sound could have come from. Add to that Findley’s shout that she is being held in some kind of warehouse and the psychologist’s remark that he will be able to get back to his office before I do, and I conclude that the hideout must be somewhere on this narrow strip of land where the city’s sea borne commerce is

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conducted, between the south fork of the Menomonee River and Lake Michigan. “Get your equipment in order,” I tell Manfred, referring to his famous olfactory sense. At that, the dog pulls himself up into a sitting position and passes a blast of gas noxious enough to break up a political demonstration on the streets of a Middle Eastern city. I quickly roll down the rear windows to allow the fumes to dissipate, and rebuke him for his antisocial behavior. “Was that really necessary?” I ask, waving a hand in front of my face to drive the odor away. At the same time, I know that my partner is cursed with a nervous stomach at times of high stress, and stress is never greater than when he is asked to answer the call of duty. Like many policemen, his insides tense up at the prospect of confrontation with society’s lawless elements, and in Manfred that tension produces flatulence. It was this very condition that provoked the Department weight to drum him out of the service. Yet I know that it is a small price to pay for a talent that is my main weapon in helping to rescue Krystal Findley from the clutches of the mad psychologist. On the north end of Jones Island, abutting the entrance to the harbor, lays the Metropolitan Sewage District’s disposal plant. As we drive down Harbor Drive I am momentarily reminded of my conversation with Mike Shea, the underground contractor and champion of vitrified clay pipe. Could he be a player in these shenanigans? I discard that idea when it occurs to me that Shea’s firm has lost several recent contracts to providers of PCB, and would have precious few secrets to protect. No, this is Weizsaker’s dance, and I need to focus my attention on getting a rope around his neck. I turn my head to the right and explain the situation to Manfred. “If Lt. Armand had let me speak up back in the squad room this morning, he would 195

have learned that the clue I picked up during my evening out with Findley at the ballet was the key to this case.” Manfred pulls his head in from outside the window where he has been drooling into the wind. He rests his cheek against the seat back, waiting for me to continue. Seeing Shirley Richards and Amanda Garcia Marquez moving arm-inarm through the throng of arts lovers to their seats in the loges got me onto a train of thought that eventually provided the answer to this mystery. I followed them and stood in the back of the theater watching their body language. The wife and the alleged mistress were not just on speaking terms. The way they whispered to each other convinced me that they were very good friends. Naturally, my first inclination after observing this performance was to move the two women to the top of my list of suspects. If they were somehow more than friends, it would not be unreasonable to assume that they had chosen murder to remove the primary obstacle – namely, the deputy mayor – from the path of their relationship. But it turned out that Shirley and Amanda were just as surprised by the death of Morris Richards as anybody else. The real culprit was the man who held the secrets of both Shirley and Morris Richards, the sly Aiden Weizsaker. The tapes confirmed that Weizsaker had, through his counseling sessions, learned all there was to know about the Richards’ private lives, including the fact that it was Shirley, not Morris, who was having an affair with the deputy mayor’s chief of staff. He also learned the size of Morris Richards’ family fortune, and recognized a golden goose when he saw one. A nice quiet blackmail scheme could vault him into the ranks of the Pulichers, the Bradleys and the

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Fitzgeralds in the city’s economic hierarchy. He apparently decided to go for the brass ring. “Imagine what would have happened to Morris Richards if the secret got out,” I confide to my canine companion. “Here he was, a man whose reputation as a ladies’ man was well established through the halls of the city bureaucracy. He’d be the butt of a hundred jokes if people found out that he couldn’t even satisfy his own wife, and that she had taken up with another woman in favor of her husband.” In the swamp of high level politics, even the smallest deviation from sexual conformity is likely to explode on the front pages of the newspapers. A person doesn’t have to go back very far to find examples of the traditional set of the American mind: a stained blue dress from the oval office brought a presidential administration to its knees, you might say. Likewise, half a dozen TV preachers were taken off the airwaves when their congregations discovered they were playing Spank the Novice behind the altar. Weizsaker threatened the deputy mayor with a similar fate. Richards would become a laughingstock among his testosterone-driven cronies, each of whom prided himself as much on satisfying his women as on satisfying his political constituency. Appealing to Morris Richards’ sense of machismo, Weizsaker threatened to make public the affair between two women who were seen as being in the deputy mayor’s thrall. At first that strategy seemed to be working. Richards balked at having his personal and sex life paraded across the city’s TV screens. But later, in an admirable show of what might be termed morality, he changed his mind and decided that it was not worth his reputation to give in to Weizsaker’s demands. He told the therapist that he himself would go public with the

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information at Amanda Marquez’s wrongful dismissal hearing. The threat was too much for Weizsaker, who went to Sonny Schultz to buy a gun. Now, in the gathering gloom, I pull the car over onto a strip of gravel at the side of the road, and Manfred rises up in the back seat, ready for action. We are parked amid a phalanx of warehouses where the goods brought by Great Lakes freighters are stored until they are ready for distribution. In the darkness, the structures loom over us like giants from some science fiction movie, powerful and threatening. I kill the engine and lean over to open the glove box and retrieve the handkerchief Findley left in the car after the ballet, the one I kept as a memento of our evening together. I take the lace-edged cloth in hand and climb out of the car, then open the back door to let my partner out. He looks up at me with his trademark quizzical expression, a sign that he’s ready for duty. I fasten a homing device to his collar, then give him his instructions: “Take a good whiff of this, boy.” I hold the handkerchief up to his patent leather nose and he takes several short sniffs, planting the scent in the corners of his brain. Then his head goes to the ground and begins snuffing from side to side, while his long legs crouch and dart forward to find a match to the handkerchief’s smell. As he moves erratically toward the first of the buildings, I grab the homing receiver from the front seat of the car and follow. For the next quarter hour we wend our way through the gangways and parking lots of the warehouses. Manfred moves faster than I, and I find myself unable to keep up. I curse myself for having gained all this weight. If I’d kept in shape I would be in a better position to follow my canine tracker. The homing device tells me where he is, but does little to reveal whether his

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talented nose is picking up evidence. Winded, I stop and place hands on knees for a moment to catch my breath. What if Manfred is not able to find a scent, I fret. What if my calculations are all wrong, and Findley is being held far from this godforsaken place, with no more support than a broken down old man and an overgrown beast to find her? What if – again I force the dark possibilities from my mind. Suddenly Manfred is back beside me, his muzzle resting on the back of my hand. Then he sprints away once more, in the direction from which he appeared. As he does so, the same ship’s bell I heard on the telephone peals once and again, confirming my suspicion that we are close to the place where Findley is being held. As Manfred keeps his nose to the ground, I scout the rooftops of the warehouses we pass, looking for satellite dishes. The Pride Fight Championships are available only on the Dish Network, which narrows the search considerably. I follow Manfred to a smaller building tucked in between two massive warehouses. As we approach, he becomes more agitated, his muzzle darting back and forth along the ground as though he is closing in on a pound of ground round. The trail leads us to a loading dock with a corrugated steel overhead door, flanked on the right by a smaller pedestrian door. I look up and see a welcome sight: a satellite receiver mounted on the corner of the building, presumably picking up the signal of the Pride Fight Championships from Atlanta. Now Manfred is nearly beside himself. He whines softly, alternately pushing his snout against the door of the warehouse and looking up at me to help open it. I bring my finger up to my lips to shush him, then try the doorknob. It is locked. I pull the burglar tools from my coat pocket and go to 199

work. In less than a minute, the pick springs the lock and we sneak in, me holding onto Manfred’s collar lest he charge forward and give up the element of surprise. The place is dark except for a light on a second-floor loft, where the sounds of ringside commentary can be heard. On the main floor of the building are large rolls of newsprint, presumably destined to become part of a future issue of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel. Manfred and I wend our way through the maze of bundles toward the loft, skulking like the B&E men we have become in the service of public safety. I find the stairway to the loft and ever so carefully start to climb, worrying at each step that a creaking board or misplaced step will warn our adversaries of our presence. As we come to the top of the stairs we see Findley, sitting in a large wooden chair on one side of the loft, her arms handcuffed to a radiator behind her with what I assume are her own cuffs, and a length of duct tape across her mouth. Her head is held high though, and it is a good bet that she has defied her captors with the courage I’ve come to expect. Across the room is a small man in a navy jump suit and a knit watch cap. A pencil line mustache and narrow shark fin nose give him the look of a cartoon villain. He is watching the wrestling on TV with half-interest, twirling a set of keys in his hand as he passes the time. At the far end of the loft is a door that leads to a second room on this level. Removing the thirty-eight police special from its shoulder holster, I motion to Manfred to stay where he is. Then I gather my substantial frame and leap to the top of the stairs. “Hold it right there pal,” I call out to the kidnapper, who jumps as though the devil himself has discovered his hiding place. “MPD. Get your 200

hands up and assume the position.” Startled, the keys fly off the perpetrator’s finger and land on a grease-stained sofa across the room. He gives me a big-eyed stare, as though I am the grim reaper here to put an end to his miserable life. Then he obediently spreads his legs wide and props himself up against the wall. I approach cautiously, mindful of the kinds of tricks felons are likely to use in desperate situations. I pat the little weasel down, then order him over to the radiator where Findley is trussed up. “Face the wall,” I order in my roughest cop voice. “Eyes straight ahead.” Holding the gun in my right hand, I unclip my handcuffs from my belt with my left and secure him to the radiator opposite Findley. As the cuffs click into place I breathe a large sigh, feeling safe for the first time since Manfred and I entered the building. I move quickly to Findley’s side and unlock her cuffs. Then I ever so gently remove the duct tape from her mouth. As I do so, her eyes widen and she grunts urgently, her head bobbing back and forth. I mistakenly assume that it is the pain of removing the tape that causes this reaction. But as the gag comes loose, I discover my mistake. “Wally look out,” Findley cries as the tape clears her mouth. “Behind you!” I turn in time to see my old nemesis Skinny Zalewski standing in the doorway on the far side of the room, pointing a nine millimeter Glock at my partner’s head. “Get rid of the gun Dopple,” he orders, starting toward us across the room. “Drop it now or the girl gets a major facelift.” My hand wavers, then drops the police special to the floor. Seems Skinny Zalewski, the bouncer from Zipper Strippers, has been recruited by Aiden Weizsaker to assist in Findley’s abduction. That would explain the shambles in Findley’s apartment. She would have struggled, and he 201

wouldn’t have the brains to handle the situation any way except to strongarm her into submission. The result of that encounter is visible on Findley’s face: a long red welt runs across her right cheek, and dried blood is caked to the side of her neck. As Skinny Zalewski advances on us I move between him and my partner, and raise my arm as if to fend him off. “Stay where you are Skinny,” I warn. “Don’t do anything stupid. You take out a couple of cops and your life won’t be worth a dime beer.” “Listen to the big shot detective,” Skinny says, a grotesque smile forming on his acne-ravaged face. “Who the hell’s going to know anything about what happens here except the four of us? Who’s going to care how a worn out dick like you disappeared in the city’s sewage system?” “You think I came here on my own?” I ask. “You’re dealing with the Milwaukee Police Department here, not some drunk at the strip club. The squads from the Second District will be here any minute, and they better find the two of us in perfect working order.” At that, Skinny steps forward and swings his gun hand, catching me on the side of the head. An explosion of white light arcs across my field of vision, and I go down on one knee. Skinny stands over me, pointing the Glock at the top of my head: “How’s that for perfect working order, copper?” I shake my head and groan. “Findley, you hear sirens out there on the island?” But it is not the nonexistent squads that save our bacon, Findley’s and mine. At that instant, a primeval roar issues from the staircase, and a blur of brown fur hurdles at light speed across the space separating it from our enemy. While Manfred may appear to be a slow-moving freight train of a dog, his muscled body is capable of remarkably quick sprints, and I have 202

never seen him move as fast as he is moving at this moment. Before Zalewski can swing his gun hand around and fire, Manfred launches himself across the room and knocks the big man off his feet. One hundred pounds of canine fury tears into Zalewski as his gun goes flying over the railing of the loft, into the warehouse below. Now Manfred is on top of his prey, pinning the gun hand between powerful jaws while Zalewski twirls around on the floor in agony, recalling a Michael Jackson break dance performance. Zalewski’s partner, meanwhile, is groping for my gun, which is just out of his reach on the floor. I kick his hand away and snatch the weapon up. Manfred continues to snarl as Skinny screams for mercy. Then, for no reason I can explain, I fire a shot in the air and call for order. “Manfred, back! Come on boy, you’ve done your job.” The dog releases Skinny’s arm and the kidnapper immediately curls into a fetal ball on the floor, holding his right wrist in his left hand and sobbing. Manfred stands over him, growling and drooling, warning his prey not to try any false moves. In my mind I hear the dog’s challenge in the distinctive voice of Edward G. Robinson: “Tough guy, huh? Well, make a move and see what happens, tough guy.” “What’d you do that for?” Findley asks, nodding toward my gun. “I don’t know. It just happened.” We drag Skinny over to the radiator and secure him with Findley’s handcuffs. With the two kidnappers locked to the heating system, Findley throws her arms around my neck and utters a high-pitched squeak into my collar. “I didn’t think I’d make it,” she says. “I was scared to death that this would be my last day on earth.” We move apart, still holding onto each other’s arms. I look at the damage that has been done to my partner’s elegant face and am momentarily inclined to put some new grooves in Skinny Zalewski’s own features. But 203

that would likely be an improvement, and the rage passes. Meanwhile, Findley touches the place near my ear where Skinny pistol whipped me, and blanches in sympathy. I pull out my cell and call dispatch. I give a brief recap of what’s gone on here, and instructions on how to find our two desperados. When the duty sergeant tells me to stick around and guide the uniforms to the spot, I turn him down. “We got business to attend to,” I say. “Wait a minute,” he persists. “Where will you be?” I punch the End button on the cell and turn to Findley. “You need to get checked out. I’ll drop you off at St. Luke’s. Then I’m going after Weizsaker.” She huffs. “Not a chance, Wally. I’m going with you. From now on, I’m sticking to you like a barnacle to the bottom of a boat. And while we’re at it, you can fill me in on every damn secret you’ve been keeping from me.” I gesture to her cheek. “You ought to have that looked at, Krystal.” At this moment, it seems perfectly appropriate to call her by her first name. “You know where that black-hearted Rasputin Weizsaker is?” she asks. “Oh yeah. He’s expecting me.”

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-25 “I’m your partner, damn it. We’re supposed to be working together.” Now it’s not just the welt on Findley’s cheek that is red: her whole face is burning with outrage in the wake of my confession about my secret investigations. I am behind the wheel of the cruiser, and she is turned fortyfive degrees to her left in the passenger seat, the better to chew me out for what she sees as my unconscionable behavior. We do not disagree on this subject. I am contrite as the boy whose baseball crashes through the neighbor’s front window, and take the scolding with a series of nods. “The plan was,” I try to explain, “to keep you out of what I was up to so that the department higher ups would give you a pass if they found out about it. Seems like ignorance is a good defense with those guys.” She huffs, and turns forward in her seat. “Ignorance is right, Wally. But the ignorance was on your part. My god, when those two nitwits turned up at my door I had no idea what they were up to. The big one grabbed me and the little one slapped a strip of duct tape across my mouth. It all happened so fast that it was all I could do to keep breathing.” “It’s my fault, and I couldn’t be sorrier. I’d do anything to turn back the clock and do it all different. Since I got the phone call from Weizsaker I’ve been wishing I’d never heard of Morris Richards, or Sonny Schultz, or

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Amanda Garcia Marquez. But having got myself into this mess, I plan to do whatever it takes to make things right.” With that, I fill Findley in on further details of my investigation. “My theory of the crime is that Weizsaker realized that he could not afford to let Richards tell about the blackmail threat when he went to court on the Marquez wrongful dismissal suit. The psychologist had tipped his hand, and when his cards were revealed he’d go down along with the deputy mayor. The only way to avoid exposure was to make sure Richards didn’t get the chance to talk.” The ever-resourceful Weizsaker went to the prominent local gun dealer Sonny Schultz to purchase a handgun small enough to be easily concealed. When Schultz asked him how he planned to use the gun, Weizsaker probably told him he planned to do some target shooting. But Schultz was just as wily as his customer when it came to gaming the system, and must have reckoned the psychologist had a darker purpose in mind. Then, when Schultz heard about the Richards killing and read how Weizsaker was the deputy mayor’s therapist, he put two and two together and turned the tables on his victim, demanding a large cash donation to keep his mouth shut. But Schultz didn’t count on the lengths Weizsaker would go in order to keep his secret. He was sitting in his office doing the books the afternoon that Weizsaker calmly walked in, pointed the twenty-two automatic at him, and pulled the trigger. It must have taken no more than five seconds. In short, when Weizsaker was threatened with exposure, he simply killed the person that threatened his plans.

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“But you were right about Jeff Blount,” Findley says. “If Weizsaker is the culprit, then Jeff Blount is simply another victim who died when his plane crashed in the lake.” “Not exactly,” I inform her. “Jeff Blount wasn’t exactly a spring lamb himself. No, he didn’t shoot his stepfather, but he did owe big money to our local loan sharks, and needed an out. He went to Old Town that night to beg his stepfather to help him, but Richards turned him down flat. Failing that, he called up Blount, his biological father, and got him to agree to meet him with his big ass Catalina boat at prearranged coordinates on Lake Michigan. He had no idea that Weizsaker was close behind him at the restaurant, with more extreme plans in mind. The plane crash was an idea that must have come to Jeffrey on the spot, to escape his creditors and get even with Richards at the same time.” “But a person doesn’t fly an airplane into Lake Michigan on purpose…” “Jeff Blount did. He recruited August Blount to help him slip the noose with his creditors. Blount was only too happy to see Morris Richards lose an airplane in what for him was nothing more than an elaborate game. The father and son plotted to set Jeff up with a new identity once the disappearance was complete.” “So where is Jeff Blount now? And what happened to August Blount?” “I’m pretty sure Jeff and his father are both at the bottom of the lake, playing poker with Davey Jones. Remember that on that night, the Magnum Opus left the War Memorial marina, and hasn’t been heard from since. I’m pretty sure that what happened, like I said, was that young Jeffrey and his

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pop concocted a scheme where they would meet just far enough out in the lake to make a quick rescue difficult.” “So Jeff ditched the plane on purpose! Talk about screwing up your life.” I nod, and from the back seat I hear Manfred moan agreement as well. “The one thing the father and son did not anticipate was the fog. Oh, they hooked up on schedule, but then fate added a twist to the situation. Blount and son didn’t count on meeting up with the coal boat Tanaka Maru as they made their getaway. The Tanaka Maru is an eight hundred foot long behemoth that logged into port just after midnight, and in the fog it must have run over the Magnum Opus like an elephant running over a fly. In the fog neither boat would have been aware of the other until the last minute, when it was too late for Blount to take evasive action. The caption of the Tanaka Maru probably didn’t even feel the collision, and no report was ever made. The Magnum Opus disappeared like a phantom in the night, never to be heard from again.” “Funny, isn’t it?” Findley says. “If what the Blounts wanted to do was disappear they certainly got what they asked for. Only it didn’t happen in exactly the way they’d planned.” “You got that right, partner. And by giving the Department brass a convenient suspect, the boy also gave Aiden Weizsaker a pass on having his name added to the suspect list.” “Weizsaker is a monster,” Findley says. “He would have killed me too if you hadn’t showed up. Tapes or no tapes, he would have done it simply to keep me quiet.” “Yeah, well his killing days are over.”

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We pull up in front of the Knickerbocker residence hotel on East Juneau Avenue, where Weizsaker keeps his office. We check out our weapons. I can still smell the cordite on the barrel of my revolver. “You sure you’re up to this?” I ask. “I’ve got more than twenty years and a hundred pounds on you Dopple. If the son of a bitch tries to run, which of us is in better shape to go after him?” The comment cuts me, but I know that I deserve that and more from the woman I placed in such terrible danger. Still, I put on my wounded look to let her know I have feelings, too. Findley does not appear to take note. I call in to dispatch and ask the duty sergeant to send backup to the Knickerbocker, informing him that we are on the trail of an armed felon. “What the hell are you up to now, Dopple?” the sergeant asks. “You got a death wish or something?” “I’ll fill you in as soon as we get this piece of business taken care of. Oh yeah, and give Lt. Armand a call at home and let him know that we’re about to crack the Morris Richards and Sonny Schultz killings. He’ll be happy to hear.” We get out of the car, open the trunk and remove the tapes from the silver case, placing them in a large plastic evidence bag. I take the empty case in hand and we prepare to enter the den of the beast. We ride the elevator to the top floor and step gingerly into the hallway. Findley follows closely behind me, her nine millimeter at port arms. As we approach the door to Weizsaker’s office, I motion to her to remain hidden in the darkened outer office while I go in to confront the psychologist. Weizsaker’s private office can only be described as sumptuous. The wall behind his rococo desk is draped with a massive tapestry, and the 209

furniture is reminiscent of a movie set from the Arabian Nights. A single floor lamp with a fringed shade lights the room. On one side of the room, a divan and a straight-backed chair suggest the site where Weizsaker plies his trade. The opposite wall is taken up with shelf after shelf of books. I enter without knocking, and my prey looks up from his work, his dark eyes flashing. “Dopple.” “Counselor.” He remains seated at the desk and beckons to me to take a seat opposite. “I see you brought the goods. Excellent.” The word rolls off his tongue like a hard-boiled egg disgorged from the mouth of a snake. I cannot remember a moment when I have felt such hatred for a fellow human being. “Women are your specialty,” I tell him. “I’ve been wondering all along why you limit you therapy pretty much to the distaff side. Now I think I know.” “Ah, the detective turns therapist,” Weizsaker says. “I can’t wait to hear your two-bit analysis.” As he speaks he reaches into the top drawer of his desk and removes a twenty-two-caliber pistol, placing it gently on the rosewood surface. “The way I figure it, you have trouble getting it up. As the kids in the old neighborhood used to put it, you’re a limp dick. And failing the balls to have a real relationship with a woman, you mess with the minds of the women who come to you for help. ‘Ditch the loser,’ that’s your advice. The part you leave unsaid is ‘put yourself in my hands, and let me play with you like a puppet.’ Weizsaker snarls, and motions to the briefcase in my hand. “Well thank you Doctor Freud. To think that I could have gone to my grave 210

without your expert take on the subject. In actual fact, it’s merely the case that women find in me a trusted friend. There’s an unspoken connection that overrides our gender differences.” “Or is it that men can see through your bullshit and know you for what you are?” “Enough of this,” Weizsaker says, motioning to the briefcase. Let’s have the tapes. You do want to see your lovely partner again, don’t you?” I move the briefcase behind my back. “One more thing: whatever possessed you to cut out the tongues of your victims? They were already dead. The ME established that beyond doubt. What kind of ghoul are you, Weizsaker?” Still standing, I heft the briefcase onto the desk. He rubs his hands together and reaches for the clasps. I slam a fist onto the top of the case. “Not so fast, Weizsaker. We had a deal. You get this case when you produce my partner.” He takes my hand in his and removes it from the case. “As soon as I examine the merchandise, Dopple. As soon as I’m sure you’re not trying to put one over on me.” He flicks open the locks a raises the lid of the case. “What the –“ I nod. “Will you look at that? The merchandise is gone. Vanished. How about that? Looks like your time as a murdering scum sucker is over.” The psychologist’s hand wraps around the pistol on his desk. “What the hell you trying to pull, Dopple? You think I’m kidding with you? You’re playing with your partner’s life here.” I turn to the darkened doorway behind me. “Partner, does your life hang in the balance?”

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From the recesses of the outer office, Findley’s voice replies: “What hangs in the balance is a life prison sentence for our shrink friend here.” She steps to just within our vision, the nine-millimeter automatic pointed at Weizsaker. But the murderer is not so easily cowed. He continues to point his gun at me as he moves around the desk and out into the Byzantine-appointed room. He turns to Findley. “You shoot me, and before I hit the floor I shoot the old cop. I don’t think you’ve got the brass to do that, honey.” With his gun he motions for Findley to move away from the door. Still holding her weapon, she slides sideways to let him pass. Weizsaker fairly slithers past Findley and disappears into the darkness. Before I can call out to her, my partner is on his heels, running through the outer office and out into the hallway. I follow as quickly as my old legs will carry me, urging Findley to be careful and not get herself shot before our backup arrives. All of which, I know, falls on deaf ears. Weizsaker’s trail leads to a stairwell at the back of the building, where he has apparently decided to climb up to the roof instead of taking his chances with cops in the lobby. As I follow the chase I hear Findley calling to the psychologist to stop and give himself up, that escape is impossible, and that she will have his head on a spit when she catches up with him. There is a shot, and an interval of quiet on the stairs before the chase resumes. “Findley, you okay?” I call. “Yeah Dopple. This desperado can only hit a standing target, somebody who can’t shoot back. He’s pathetic.” Another shot echoes through the hallway by way of response.

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“Be careful up there,” I call again, my lungs feeling like they’re about to burst. I can feel every one of those three-egg omelets and rashers of bacon served up at Bev’s diner over the past many years, plastered to my gut and butt as I struggle up the stairs. A flight and a half above me a door opens, slams, and opens again. I grit my teeth and put on a finishing kick. Seconds later I burst through the door to the roof, where I find Findley crouched behind an air conditioning unit and Weizsaker slowly backing toward the edge of the roof. “Throw down the gun,” Findley commands. “It’s the end of the line for you, Weizsaker.” The psychologist’s head jerks frantically left and right, looking for a way out. Finding none, he crouches and fires another shot at Findley, which careens off the steel frame of the air conditioner. When he sees me come through the doorway he fires a wild shot in my direction. I hear the whine of the bullet as it passes several feet from my head, and drop to one knee. Now the killer goes to the two-foot stone parapet surrounding the rooftop and looks over. The building next door is nearly butted up against the Knickerbocker, close enough that he decides to take his chance. He takes a run at the parapet and launches himself into the air, arms and legs windmilling in an attempt to will himself through space to the adjoining building. He lands with a thud on the tarpaper roof. For a moment he lays in a crumpled heap, motionless. Then he raises himself up onto his knees and looks back across the chasm at Findley and me, head nodding in victory. When she sees this show of arrogance, Findley starts toward the lip of the Knickerbocker roof. “Krystal!” I shout. “No. Don’t.” 213

She turns back to me, puts up her weapon, and begins running toward the stairway to the roof. As she passes, she says: “What? You didn’t think I was dumb enough to follow him, did you? Come on Wally, he’s getting away.” I skid down the stairway behind her and we commandeer the elevator. When the doors open on the first floor, we dash out the entrance of the Knickerbocker and turn left, toward the apartment building next door. Weizsaker is already out on the street, heading south down Astor. As we give chase, Findley pulls out her automatic and fires a shot into the air, shouting: “Stop! Police?” “Why’d you do that?” I ask, huffing like a steam engine. “He knows who we are.” She gives me a look and darts ahead, slowly closing on our target. As he approaches Kilbourn, Weizsaker looks back and sees Findley gaining. Without slowing down, he dashes into the road and slams into the side of an eastbound Lincoln Navigator. His sinewy body bounces back across the median, and is caught up on the undercarriage of a westbound Hummer. The driver, apparently unaware of the additional load on his bottom side, continues to drive down Kilbourn toward the civic center and the County Courthouse. Meanwhile, I have doubled back to the Knickerbocker, where I jump into the Crown Vic, turn on the siren and lights, and give chase. I come upon the Hummer at a stop light at the intersection of Kilbourn and Plankinton Avenue, where the driver has finally realized that something is amiss with his vehicle. Findley arrives on foot half a minute later, her eyes wide in terror. The driver is obviously shaken. “I didn’t realize…” he blurts. “My God!” 214

Looking at the maimed body of the shrink caught on the underside of the Hummer, I am reminded of his comments when I first met him across the street from Pierogi Pete’s house. Weizsaker diagnosed Pete with an antisocial personality disorder. Huh. If Pete has an antisocial personality, what of Weizsaker himself? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Now we hear the sirens of the backup squads racing eastbound from the Safety Building and circling up around the scene. Findley turns to me. “The spookiest thing of all?” “What’s that?” “I didn’t hear a sound from him as he was dragged down the pavement. Almost as though he was incapable of pain. Or even human emotion.” I nod. Seems a lifetime ago that Weizsaker made his bogus offer to help with the investigation of the Richards killing. Turns out that all he wanted was to be kept abreast of any evidence we uncovered. Probably had plans to plant red herrings in our path, the better to divert suspicion from himself. I shudder to think that it may have been Weizsaker who Mrs. K and I heard prowling around our back door last night. What a piece of evil he was, I think as the cops surround us and turn their heads away from the gruesome scene at the stop light. I am still gasping for air, but I offer a eulogy to the killer: “Superman’s last flight,” I say, and Findley gives me a look of reproval. In my own defense, I say: “Another couple of blocks and he would have been delivered to the front doors of the county courthouse. Talk about your justice.”

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-26 – I sit on the end of the examining table waiting for the smug old sawbones to make his entry. A crinkly modesty shield, something akin to an oversized paper towel, is wrapped around my substantial girth, and my shoeless feet hang idly, flexing from time to time to work out the aches sustained in the chase after Aiden Weizsaker and his strong-arm goons. That little piece of business has also left me with a pulled hamstring and a glitch in my right shoulder, which I dare not report to Doc Sam or the nurse who took my weight and blood pressure. Sam’s office is downtown at headquarters, a place that gives me the creepy-crawleys under any circumstances, the more so when the most private parts of my body are about to be poked and prodded. Finally the medic comes into the examining room, half-glasses propped on the end of his nose, examining my chart. As he does so, his tongue clucks disapproving noises. Now he raises his head and peers at me over the spectacles as though this is the first time we’ve ever met. “Still playing Russian roulette with our habits are we, Dopple?” His voice is high and thin, like number three sandpaper grating over a porch railing. His attention turns back to the chart. “Blood pressure, cholesterol, triglycerides all edging up to the point of self-destruction. You must be packing away double-cheeseburgers like a fifteen year old kid.”

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I fiddle with the modesty shield, which gives a crepe paper crinkle in return. “Take a look at what it says about my weight there on your sheet, you old tyrant. That’s one place where I’ve got you. I’m lighter now than I was last year.” His eyes dart to the clipboard. “Four pounds? You call that progress? Hell, I’ve got patients who’ve lost four pounds in a single gym session.” “Doc, you don’t have patients. You have victims.” He clucks his tongue. “There’s no saving those who will not be helped,” he says as though he is speaking to a misbehaving child. That is probably the thing I dislike most about these annual sessions with my tormentor. He plops me on the edge of his examining table half naked, then proceeds to run down everything about me short of calling my mother nasty names. Sam takes the small rubber hammer from his side table and stands in front of me. “Relax your legs,” he commands. Then he taps twice to check the knee-jerk reflex. Only a heroic self-control keeps me from giving him a swift kick in the groin. Next he drapes his stethoscope around his neck and orders me to take a big breath and hold it. “Oww,” I mutter as the cold medallion touches my back. “Big baby,” he chides. “For your information, you’re dealing with a detective who’s in line for a commendation from the chief himself for bringing Pete Kacsynski out of his house.” “Sure,” Sam says, “and one who was reprimanded for going it alone on the Morris Richards and Sonny Schultz killings.”

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“You ought to go into the counseling business,” I respond. Around Doc Sam my mind runs inevitably toward sarcasm. “Make everyone you meet feel better. And I hear there’s a place open at Aiden Weizsaker’s practice. Former owner took a ride under a Hummer. You could relate to that.” He ignores the barb, so I continue my baiting: “You’d be good at taking tongues,” I say. “The last guy kept them in a strongbox in his desk, wrapped in Glad bags can you believe? My theory is that the tongues were a ploy, to put us onto the wrong scent. As though some deranged maniac from the county home did the killings. Turned out that it was a deranged maniac, only not from the county.” I stop and consider what I’ve just said. “We had another Jeffrey Dahmer in our midst after all. Now there’d be something for the Lieutenant to write stories about.” Doc Sam takes half a step backward: “Now what makes you think I need the gory details of your meanderings, Dopple? You enjoy rehashing it all?” “I thought you being a medical man and all…” “What’s the word with your rifle-toting friend over in the county jail? The one who kept Mama in the frozen food locker? Looks like he’ll be spending time up at the Portage Hilton.” The project to get Pierogi Pete top-drawer representation is a sore subject with me. Three nights ago we held the fundraiser at the Lucky Seven, a lively event that attracted a mixed crowd of residents, criminal justice wonks and music freaks. Rudy Jankowicz put a keg of tap beer in the back room for anyone who forked over the ten-dollar cover for the evening. Lute Olson and his band, an all purpose six-piece outfit whose regular gigs are weddings and retirement parties, provided the entertainment. A major 218

disappointment came when I learned that Danny Hirsig, the Elvis impersonator, had left town to find his fortune in Reno, and we had to settle for a fellow from New Berlin who did Roy Orbison. All in all, the event pulled in a mere seven hundred and twelve dollars, not enough to pay half a day of Attorney Pinsky’s time. The old ambulance chaser repeated his offer to put one of his interns on the case at one seventy five, but I decided to give the proceeds to Pete’s public defender instead, figuring he has lower overhead and the bucks are more likely to go toward actual defense costs. The net result of my efforts is sure to be that Pete will spend time inside. Nobody ever said that system was fair, but we accept our losses and live with them. Pinsky will continue to obtain more favorable treatment for the well-heeled while folks like Pete will continue to cool their heels at maximum security facilities. The flush of success I felt when Weizsaker went down lasted only a short time, replaced almost immediately by the realization that evil continues to lurk on the streets of the city, and that only those with the means to pay get a better than square deal. Just like in Swan Lake, Rothbart is the one who wins out in the end, and small victories by the good guys come along seldom and are quickly overshadowed by some larger corruption. Back at the ranch Findley is waiting to hear the news of my annual go around with Doc Sam. I share some of the gruesome findings with her, omitting the part where Doc Sam takes a cheap feel of my prostate. She comes around to my side of our adjoining desks and sits down in my side chair. “Something’s come up,” she says, giving me a look that could melt glass at three hundred yards. 219

I hesitate, wondering what the heck I’ve done now. “Might as well spit it out, partner. You know how sorry I am about the way things turned out with Weizsaker.” She shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. I got a call from downtown this morning. There’s a new position being created there, public information specialist. Reporting directly to the chief. They want me to apply.” “They saw you on the news reports about the Weizsaker thing. Figures.” “What do you think I should do, Wally? It’s a big opportunity. “The people downtown say it’s a direct line to a Lieutenant’s bars. But I don’t want to turn my back on you.” I make a sweeping motion to indicate the cramped squad room. “Who could leave all this?” I move my mitt to the corner of the desk and give my best imitation of a Dutch uncle. “Go for it. Don’t think about it for a minute. You got the talent, the brains to go far in this department. I knew the day you walked through that door over there that this would be one stop on your road to the top. Now you got to prove that I was right.” She puts her hand atop mine: “Trouble is Dopple, you’re something of a lone wolf. Being a partner to you is being left in the dark most of the time.” “Can’t argue with that. And opportunity knocks but once.” She shuffles through the papers on her desk: “One more thing. Looks like Weizsaker wasn’t the only one going around killing people. They found Sonny Schultz’s girlfriend in a landfill in Sullivan. Looks like one murderer was killed by another one.” It gives me small consolation to learn that we were right about Sonny Schultz all along, the strip club king no longer being available for 220

trial. With the demise of Weizsaker the court schedule has been lightened considerably, but I know for a fact that evil will rear its ugly head somewhere else just as surely as Manfred will beg a bull stick treat from me the minute we walk in the door tonight. On my way home I swing by Old Towne restaurant, then head west past Kosciuszko Park. There, the General continues his lonely watch over Lincoln Avenue astride his majestic horse, sword drawn in defense of American liberty. I give the old boy a quick salute as I pass, and turn my thoughts to food and a good night’s sleep.

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