“Fitzy must be chained to his toilet.”
Kevin Fitzpatrick was the superintendent of police. He was already hanging on to his job by a thread. Several cop beatings of young black boys had created a backlash that cut through the city like a hot razor. On a weekly basis Jesse Jackson and his army of civil rights activists were demanding that either Fitzpatrick step down or the mayor do the right thing and fire him. So far neither had happened. A full-blown gang war with lots of casualties could force some action in city hall.
“Timing couldn’t be worse for Fitzy or Frenchie,” Burke said. Frenchie was the nickname everyone called Mayor Bailey, but never to his face. It had to do with his obsession with everything French that had developed several years ago after a trip he and his wife had taken to Paris. He wanted Chicago to look clean and beautiful and European like Paris. Millions of dollars had gone into renovating and restoring the lakefront, downtown, and the parks. Slowly, this sleepy midwestern city had been transformed into a breathtaking network of open gardens, sweeping vistas, and artistic ambition.
“This is an election year,” Burke said. “You know how it works. All they’re worried about right now is saving their own asses come November. Nothing takes a chunk out of your poll numbers like a spike in violent crimes.”
“If this was a direct message to Ice, somebody will have to answer for it,” I said. “Who found the body?”
Burke nodded toward the scrum of police cars at the south end of the alley. A small dark-skinned man with a matted Afro and tattered clothing stood next to a shopping cart stuffed with boxes and plastic bags. He gestured wildly to the officer asking him questions. The second officer took notes.
“He sleeps in the third building,” Burke said. “Was heading out to collect cans. Says he does it early in the morning to get a jump on the others in the neighborhood. He normally doesn’t come down this end of the street, but he wanted to get something from the convenience store over on Seventieth.”
A helicopter from one of the news stations buzzed us and Burke looked up angrily. We both knew that more would be on the way.
“C’mon, let’s take a look at the body,” Burke said.
Chopper’s body was about seventy-five feet into the street, which was no wider than an alley. He was sprawled out closer to the viaduct at the corner of Seventieth and South Wallace. The embankment of the elevated train track was to the east, and directly across to the west was a line of vacant lots with knee-high grass and a few dilapidated buildings unfit for anyone to live in. What most struck me was the remarkable isolation and how the area was completely devoid of any indications of active human life. A body could be here for weeks before anyone found it.
Several techs walked around in circles, looking and pointing at the ground. A web of police tape had been carefully hung to create as wide a perimeter as possible. Two uniformed techs were on their knees, searching for shell casings. Chopper was lying on his back. His shirt had been pulled up over his head, exposing the sinewy muscles of his athletic build. He wore a pair of deep-burgundy jeans and a pair of sneakers that were so white they looked fluorescent. His gold bracelet still hung on his wrist. His eyes were softly closed as if he had gotten tired and just fell asleep.
Burke took out a Maglite and flashed it on the body. It wasn’t until he stopped on the head that I saw the bullet wound. It was but a small dot perfectly located in the center of his forehead, almost as if someone had drawn it with a marker. Probably a 9 mm.
“Execution style,” Burke said. “In close. The kid didn’t have a chance. He knew he was gonna die.”
I looked at the body for any signs of struggle, maybe a scratch or cut, anything that might indicate he’d fought back. I couldn’t see anything. “It’s also possible he knew the person who did it,” I said. “He let them up close, and they surprised him. No time for him to fight back or run.”
I looked at how peaceful his handsome young face looked and couldn’t help but wonder what his last thoughts had been before the bullet hit. Did he beg them to let him live? Did he think of Butterfly?
Burke flashed the light on Chopper’s left hand. I thought maybe it was the way his hand was lying on the ground that made his fingers look strange. But then I moved around to get a different angle. His ring finger was definitely missing. The bone where his knuckle had been had turned grayish. It was a very clean cut. Whatever tool they’d used, it had an extremely sharp blade. What struck me as odd was that there wasn’t any dried blood covering his hand or pooled in the street. A cut like that would’ve bled like a fountain, especially if the person was alive when it happened. Why was everything so clean?
“Turn him on his right side,” Burke ordered.
Two techs in sterile uniforms carefully turned the body over. Burke flashed the light along the flank. There was a mark on his side just underneath the left side of his ribs. It was about the size of a poker chip and very flat. I knelt next to the body to get a closer look. It was a three-pronged crown. The letters LW had been drawn in red marker in the middle of it. I looked for dried blood or other bullet wounds. Nothing. The waistband of his Hilfiger underwear rode up on his narrow hips above the belt line of his jeans. If he had been dragged here or assaulted on the ground, I would’ve expected to see scuff
