That was when he walked over to me and told me to take my shoes and shirt off. I did. I trusted and liked him. In fact, I admired him. He was olive skinned, handsome, athletic, and a favorite of all the girl campers and female counselors. He dated the camp owner’s teenage daughter, so that gave him even more status. He was a rule breaker himself, but he could do no wrong, because Robin Smyglar was his girlfriend, and her father owned the camp. Marco had free rein, because Mr. Smyglar treated him like he was his son.
Years of classes and free swim at the local YMCA and several years of camp had made me comfortable and agile. I had mastered all the strokes, even the difficult butterfly. I could dive forward and backward, flip and somersault—I was fearless. It made sense Marco had chosen me to demonstrate something to the other campers. It was an honor to be singled out.
I jumped in the water, then held on to the side of the pool. Marco told me to swim out to the middle and doggie paddle. I did as he had instructed, then waited. He took off his shirt, then told the other campers that he set the rules and we were to follow them. Not following them would bring consequences. That was when he dived in from the side of the pool. I could see the rage in his face before he hit the water.
I turned quickly and began swimming toward the other side of the pool. I was almost there, cutting the water as hard as I could with my arms. I could see the blue paint along the side of the pool under the water. Just a couple more strokes. That was when I felt the grip on my right ankle. I tried to kick but couldn’t. Instead of going forward, I was being pulled backward. I moved my arms, trying to thrust myself up on top of the water, but I couldn’t move. He was too strong for me. I panicked and did the one thing you shouldn’t do when struggling for air. I opened my mouth, and the water came rushing in. The flurry of arm movements and twisting exhausted me. I was losing. A place that had brought me my happiest moments had now become my hell. How was I going to make it out of the water before he drowned me?
The sound of my phone vibrating across the coffee table woke me up. The caller ID was blocked. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet.
“We got a body, and it ain’t good.”
It was Burke.
My shoulders fell forward. I immediately felt the sting of failure. I had taken too long to find her.
“Where did they find her?” I asked.
“It’s not a her,” Burke said. “It’s a him. And that him is Chopper McNair.”
“Did you just say Chopper, as in Ice’s nephew?”
“I didn’t stutter, hotshot. It was called in about an hour ago. We just identified the body.”
“Where is it?”
“Over in Englewood, in some alley underneath the train tracks. The street is called South Wallace. It runs north-south between Sixty-Ninth and Seventieth. Halsted is the biggest street to the west.”
“You sure it’s him?” I said.
“Face matches the photo on his driver’s license.”
I felt like someone had landed a pretty good shot to my gut. I had never expected something like this. I was angry as much as I was surprised.
“How soon can you get here?” Burke said. “The ME wants to get the body back to the icebox.”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
I heard a long sigh. “Hurry up and get your ass down here already. There’s real work to do.”
I WAS SEVERAL BLOCKS away from South Wallace, racing through the dark, quiet streets. I knew I was close when I saw the portable lights surrounding the crime scene. It was as if the entire district’s cruisers had responded to the call. There was an organized chaos to all the commotion. Three of the local news stations had their live trucks already set up on the other side of Seventieth Street, close enough to see the yellow tape but too far to capture the body. The overly made-up reporters talked seriously into the cameras, intermittently reading notes from their pads. I recognized the reporter from the ABC affiliate. Cheryl Britton.
I crossed the street, cleared a couple of checkpoints, then made my way into the alley. I spotted Burke’s hulking frame in the middle of a small crowd. He was in his crisp white shirt and the only one without a jacket. Those standing around him were listening attentively, and some were taking notes. I quietly took my place in the audience.
“The first question is whether the shooting happened here or was he dropped here,” Burke said. “Timing is also gonna be important. He’s stiff as a board and ice cold. He didn’t just get here.” He pointed to two plainclothes. “You guys work with the ME to get a time of death. Make sure you comb every inch of the alley. I need some of you to find a way to get up on the train tracks to see what’s up there.”
He turned and saw me and jerked his head away from the others. I followed him farther into the alley, where no one else could hear us. Several more unmarked cars pulled up. The canine unit had its dogs walking through the vacant lots on the west side of the alley.
“Might be gang related,” Burke said.
“How’s that?” I said. “This kid wasn’t in a gang.”
“No, but his uncle just happens to run the biggest gang in Chicago. Collateral damage.”
“There’s gotta be more than that to go on.”
“Markings on the body.”
“If this is gang, it could start a nasty war.”
Burke folded his thick arms across his wide chest. “With Ice Culpepper’s kin the casualty,
