“I ordered you the usual,” I said, tossing back a few salt-and-vinegar chips and chasing them down with some ice-cold root beer. We were sitting in the back of a Potbelly Sandwich Shop on Roosevelt Road in the South Loop, just around the corner from my office. I could see Burke’s unmarked car idling on the street next to a fire hydrant. Gibbons, his driver, sat behind the wheel with his sunglasses on, watching a steady stream of young coeds from nearby Columbia College walk across the street.
Burke, who once was my commander when I was a lowly patrolman, might’ve ascended into the department brass, but the title and big office hadn’t changed a thing about him. He was a throwback, still the same cop who had ridden thousands of patrols in Englewood, a tough place to earn stripes when you were a big white officer with an Irish name stamped on your shield. He never cut corners and was as fair a man as you could find in a city built on backroom deals brokered in dark rooms and dimly lit bars. Burke was the one who had convinced me to settle my lawsuit against the city for constructively terminating me after I refused to go along with a cover-up. He told me that I was a good cop, but good cops weren’t always an asset to the department, and if I stayed, I would always have a target on my back.
Ten years later not a day went by that I didn’t think about the case that had ended my career. A call had come in about a suspicious teen in an alley off Eighty-Seventh and South Eggleston, acting erratically. Patrol car pulled up. Officers jumped out, screamed at him to stop running, then proceeded to empty five bullets in his back. They had tried to say that Marquan Payton had come at them aggressively and wouldn’t heed their warnings to stand down. But none of the forensics made sense. The kid was unarmed, and the officer who murdered him had a history of using excessive force when it came to young black men.
But it had also been an election year, the mayoral race was getting tighter each week, and the city was already a powder keg, given the increase in police brutality complaints over the previous year. Another suspicious police shooting would be like putting a torch to a heap of dry kindling. It also would be a disaster for Mayor Bailey’s reelection bid, the first time in a decade he had faced a real challenge from a well-liked alderman from Logan Square. The Fifth Floor sent the commander of the detective division the directive to bury the case.
I tried my hardest to fall in line, but when I refused to sign off on the incident report, my superiors came up with all kinds of phantom reasons to strip me of my authority to continue the investigation. So, I just leaked the details to a reporter friend of mine who covered the city hall beat at the Tribune. He wasted no time in exposing the attempted cover-up. The press leak circled back to me, and I was faced with either a demotion and years of watching my back or turning in my shield. I chose to do the latter and keep my integrity. My lawyer worked out an extremely generous package on my way out. Burke was the one who’d fought behind the scenes to make sure I was treated fairly.
Burke was a straight shooter who’d always taken his job seriously, but he was also a realist. Information was a commodity, and the ways you needed to acquire it in certain situations weren’t exactly taught at the academy. From time to time we traded favors. This time I needed one.
“What do you know about the missing Gerrigan girl?” I said.
“You might be in over your head on this one, AC,” Burke said, shifting his body with great effort. He was having trouble getting his large frame comfortable in the chair. The old wooden legs squealed like a dog whose tail had just been stepped on.
Our sandwiches arrived. I had a turkey with provolone, mayo, oil, and Italian seasoning. Burke had a double roast beef with the works. Most of it, except for his fingers, seemed to disappear in one bite.
“I’m in over my head is your official analysis?” I said. “It wouldn’t exactly be the first time you said that to me.”
Burke groaned a yes. He was already working on what little was left of the sandwich. He took a long pull on his cream soda, then said, “Lots of red flags on this one. The family dynamics are complicated, and the girl is a little out there.”
“Is that your way of saying ‘progressive’?” I said.
“In Catholic school we called it ‘out there,’” Burke said. “I’ll stick with that. Anyway, I think you want to stay as far away as possible from this one.”
“Your vote of confidence overwhelms me,” I said before launching into a healthy bite of my own sandwich. The bread was soft and warm, and a little of the oil mixed with mayo leaked from the corners of my mouth. Good sandwiches were meant to be served hot. Burke always got his cold and rare. “The way meat’s supposed to be eaten,” he liked to remind me.
“Something’s not right,” Burke said. “Mother walks into one of the districts to report her daughter missing. Desk sergeant has no idea who she is. Don’t add up that the father is one of the richest men in the entire state, and this thing isn’t even wired yet. Not a peep from the Fifth Floor.”
A case was considered “wired” when someone with big political connections and a direct link to the top office in city hall or the state legislature put in a call. Then word would quickly emanate from the fifth floor of 121
