Lieberman led Rozier down the cement path to the front of the station and into the lobby, where Sergeant Nestor Briggs was on the desk talking to a pair of women complaining in Spanish, a language that had successfully eluded Nestor in his almost thirty years as a Chicago cop. Nestor looked more than a little like Edgar Kennedy, the old-time bald actor who did a slow burn at the antics of every comic from Keaton to Abbott and Costello. Not only was Briggs trying to handle the complaint, he was also trying to deal with a phone call. He barely nodded as Lieberman and Rozier went by.
Tapes and mug books were kept in the 'library,' through the doors behind Nestor Briggs. Abe led Rozier to the small room, sat him at a table in front of a computer screen, and said, 'Gonna show you burglars, hundreds of burglars, but we'll try to narrow it down so you don't start forgetting his face.'
'I'll recognize him if I see him,' said Rozier.
'Right,' said Lieberman. 'The memory. Can I get you a Coke, coffee, something?'
'Coke, diet, with caffeine.'
Lieberman picked up the phone on the table and hit two buttons.
'Bobby, you got someone up there can bring a Coke, diet, with caffeine, and a coffee, black, with even more caffeine, down to the library?'
'You got Rozier down there?' asked Bobby Arango.
'Yes,' said Abe.
'Then I'll be right down. I want to get a look. Morbid, huh?' asked Arango. 'You think he whacked her, paid someone to do it?'
'Bobby, one Coke, one coffee, no questions,' said Lieberman.
'You got it. Guess who we got up here?'
'Maury Povich,' said Lieberman, looking at Rozier.
'Come on, get real, Abe,' sighed Arango.
'Wilma Rudolph.'
'Who's Wilma…?'
'Who've you got, Officer Arango?'
'Chuculo Fernandez,' Bobby answered.
'Charges?'
'Ghost rider on a Clark Street bus wreck. He was with a new girl, Leona something. Seems he wanted to play rough after the event. Celebrate his good luck. She didn't want to.'
'And?'
'They played rough,' said Bobby. 'She turned him in on the ghost scam when Fernandez put her in the hospital.'
'How badly is she hurt?' Lieberman asked, looking at Rozier, who was looking out the window at a rapidly graying day.
'Not too bad. She'll live. Want to talk to Fernandez? He asked for you.'
'Later. Coffee and Coke, Bobby,' Lieberman reminded and hung up.
Chuculo Fernandez was a member of the Tentaculos, a Hispanic gang headed by a madman, Emiliano Del Sol, who had a decidedly uncharacteristic fondness for Lieberman. Chuculo was stupid and quick with his knife. The Tentaculos were Mexicans, Guatemalans, and Panamanians led by the almost legendary El Perro, Emiliano Del Sol. El Perro was reported to have killed more than one manalways men-for looking at or seeming to look at the scar on his cheek for too long.
Even a turn-away judge like Mitgang would have trouble giving Fernandez less than two years plus, even with a crime like ghost riding.
Ghost riders are a big-city phenomenon-New York, Chicago, L.A., Detroit. Nothing new. A man or a woman with a criminal heart happens to be lucky enough to be on the scene when a bus gets in a wreck or four or five cars pile up. Our criminal heart joins the jolted passengers and claims he or she was on the bus and is dying of internal injuries. Four lawyers with police band radios are usually on the spot as fast as the police are, picking up clients. Sometimes, if they get there before the police, the lawyer will even join the jolted and claim he or she was on the bus. A felony. Not a big one, but a felony.
Lieberman turned to the computer and flipped a switch.
They went through two tapes with about eighty faces on each. Three times Rozier paused at pictures, all somewhat similar, thin white males in their forties. Each time he paused, Rozier asked the name of the person in the picture. None of the names rang a bell.
Bobby Arango came in with the drinks, gawked discreetly, and exited professionally.
Rozier stopped at two more mug shots in the thick book that Lieberman then placed in front of him, asked their names, and said they were close but he was sure they weren't the one.
It was a game now and it was over. The third picture on the videotape had been Gregor Eupatniaks, a.k.a. George Patniks, a.k.a. Pitty-Pitty Patniks. Rozier had asked for no more information than the name of the man who had seen him murder his wife.
'I'm sorry,' Rozier said an hour and another Coke and coffee later, when they closed the final book.
'That's all right,' said Lieberman. 'They come in all the time. We'll keep checking. He may be new at this or new in town.'
Lieberman had made a note of each man Rozier had considered.
'I think I'd like to go back home now,' said Rozier, rising and rubbing his forehead.
'Let's go, and thanks for your cooperation.'
'You're welcome.'
'We'll catch him, Mr. Rozier. I've got a feeling he made a lot of mistakes. You don't just break into a house, panic, murder, and run without leaving something.'
'I hope you're right,' said Harvey Rozier. 'I hope to God you're right.'
'I've got to make one quick stop upstairs before we go. Do you mind?'
'I'll just stay here if it's all right,' said Rozier. 'I wouldn't mind being alone for a few minutes.'
Lieberman nodded, went into the narrow hall and up the flight of steps to the squad room. Everyone called it the squad room, though there were no squads. It was just what you called the room where the detectives had their desks, took their calls, got their assignments, and brought suspects, victims, and witnesses.
Joe Wiznicki was at his desk, rubbing his mouth and pecking out a report on his computer. 'Black and White,' Applegate and Acardo, hovered over a skinny woman clutching her purse in her lap. Probably a victim. In the corner, near the windows that were designed never to open, sat a handcuffed Chuculo Fernandez, a thin, surly twenty- year-old with a long record of violence and the distinction of being one of the three craziest members of the Tentaculos.
Ernest Cadwell was talking to Fernandez, who, slumped in his chair, hat Sinatra style over his brow, was doing his best to look bored. Cadwell, a huge black man with a patience Lieberman admired but couldn't understand, was calmly asking Fernandez questions in a combination of English and Spanish.
'Viejo,' Fernandez said, seeing Lieberman.
'Muy lejos de su pais, Chuculo,' said Lieberman.
'Pues…'
'Digame, que pasa? In English,' said Lieberman.
'There was this puta, you know?' Chuculo said, slowly sitting up and tilting his hat back on his head. 'I pay her good. She say OK, Chico. We fuck. Then she call a cop and they pick me up in front of some bar a block away. That sound like someone running?'
'You hit the woman, Fernandez.'
'A little, maybe,' he shrugged.
'Broken right cheek bone, lacerations around the eye requiring suturing, bruised ribs, and a nasty bite on her left ear,' said Cadwell matter-of-factly.
'Hey, Viejo, you remember how it is,' Fernandez explained. 'Passion. You get carried away.'
'She says you were ghost riding,' said Lieberman.
'Nunca,' said Fernandez with indignation. 'Never in my life.'
'Battery and ghost riding, Chuculo. You're in for a long day. Mucho gusto de verle a usted, otra vez, Fernandez,' Lieberman said, turning his back.
