True Crime

“That’s interesting.”

“Someone who’s seen him on the North Side.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Someone with a police agency. An out-of-state agency.”

“Really.”

“East Chicago, Indiana, as a matter of fact.”

“No kidding.”

“A Sergeant Martin Zarkovich and his captain, a man named…it escapes me…”

“O’Neill,” I said.

Cowley, feigning surprise, said, “You know of them?”

“I know Zarkovich. I don’t believe I’ve met O’Neill, but I’ve heard of him.”

“Do you have an opinion of, uh, the East Chicago police?”

“Generally, or specifically?”

“Either. Both.”

“Generally, corrupt. Specifically, Zarkovich.”

He smiled a little and leaned forward in his seat. He held the hat in one hand, now, and seemed to be offering it to me.

He said, “Then you know why we can use a corroborating source. As a matter of fact, if I could handle this through you entirely, I’d feel more comfortable. So would Chief Purvis.”

That surprised me. “Really?” I asked. “What makes me such a sterling character?”

“Being compared to Zarkovich,” Cowley said, deadpan.

That made me smile. “You’re going to have to go with Zarkovich. He’s a cop. Why don’t you bring Stege in, while you’re at it?”

Cowley didn’t answer at first. “There’s little love lost between our office and the Chicago police. Precious little mutual respect or cooperation.”

“I take it this state of affairs predates your coming aboard.”

“I haven’t been here long, Mr. Heller. You know that. Just since April. But it doesn’t take very long to realize the Chicago police are lacking in certain respects.”

“So instead you deal with East Chicago? Look, there are a few good Chicago cops around—and Stege is one of ’em. I know, I know—you’ve heard he doesn’t think much of me. Granted. But you could do with him in your corner, on this one, believe me.”

Cowley rose. He wasn’t leaving: he was just restless. Quietly so. He went over to one of the windows and looked out at the El. Without looking at me, he said, “I hear you’re an honest man, Mr. Heller.”

“More or less,” I said.

He smiled, again without looking at me. “That’s high marks in Chicago. We, uh…have a mutual friend, you know.”

“I know.”

Eliot Ness.

“So,” Cowley continued, “if I say some things off the record, you’ll keep them there.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“If a reporter asked you.” He looked over at me sharply. “Or even a judge.”

I nodded.

He walked back and stood by the chair. Said, “Zarkovich and O’Neill have made some conditions. One of them is that Stege and the Chicago police not be involved in Dillinger’s…capture.”

“Why do you pause before the word ‘capture’?”

He hesitated. “It has to do with another of their conditions.”

“I see. Have you agreed to these various conditions?”

“Not yet. That’s where you come in, Mr. Heller. Why not help the federal government avoid having to rub up against something as dirty as the East Chicago police? Why not tell us what you know, and keep us from having to deal with the likes of Zarkovich and O’Neill?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well,” Cowley said, with an air of finality, “think it over. But think quickly. Because this is liable to come together quickly.”

“And go down the same way?”

He nodded slowly. He put on his coat, his hat. “Your help would be appreciated. By tomorrow, say.”

“I’ll be thinking it over.”