“So, you don’t think it was Wilkerson?” He asked.
“I’ve ruled him out from attacking Casey, and the murders as well. Wilkerson is too weak and soft. I pushed him against a van, and he wet himself. I took a photo of his wet trousers, just in case he ever wants to report me. That photo will make the rounds in the department pretty quickly.” I sipped the coffee again. It was like a party in my mouth. I savored the taste for a moment before I continued. “I couldn’t even imagine Wilkerson shooting a duck at a shooting alley, let alone a lawyer. He’s lucky he works out in Buffalo Grove. He wouldn’t last a week as a cop on the South Side.”
Williams nodded. “So, what does that mean? Where does that leave you?”
“It means we have two options left—Jonathon DiMarco or Jenny Carpenter.”
“‘Your’ two options, not ‘ours.’” Williams used his fingers to indicate the quotation marks. “I’m not involved in this.” The server delivered the coffee to the table, and Williams paused. He sipped his coffee and then nodded his approval. “There’s no active investigation, Jack. You’re on your own. I’m no active part of this investigation at all.”
“Casey was attacked. That’s a crime. That makes this the police department’s case as well as mine.” I pressed my finger into the table. “We’re in this together.”
“Nothing will come of Casey’s attack and you know it. They’ll take her statement, look at any surrounding footage and then forget about the case. You know that’s procedure. If there’s nothing found within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of solving Casey’s attack are just about zero.”
“Then maybe your department should look at increasing its commitment to solving crime.” I grunted. “Half of all homicide cases are never solved in Chicago. What are you guys even doing? Going out for doughnuts and beers? If you applied yourself, then we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”
Williams didn’t answer. I’d hit a nerve. He was a good cop, he worked hard in the department, but the stats didn’t lie. The number of cold cases in Chicago were growing year in, year out. From an outsider looking in, the numbers were embarrassing, but there were many external reasons why a lot of the cases went unsolved, including witnesses who refused to talk, gang members who refused to testify, and citizens who refused to trust the police.
Although the clearance rate for murder in Chicago was as low as fifty percent, the solved murder rate for African Americans in Chicago was as low as twenty-five percent. There was a fear that if a witness testified against another community member, then they would see the repercussions against their own family. They didn’t feel they had the protection of the police. But without witnesses, without members of the community helping, solving crime is just about impossible. And without penalties from the police, communities are left with street justice—one person is killed, then another is killed in retaliation. With a seventy-five percent chance of walking away from murder, the assailants had confidence that they could avoid prison time.
Williams was one of the good ones, someone with the trust of his African American community. He always was the good guy, and he took any attack on his department’s performance personally. We’d gone to high school together, and even back then, his career path was clear. He played football, but was also the hall monitor. He wrestled, but was also the library’s assistant. He played basketball, but also refereed the junior games. He was destined to be a cop.
“Why’d you call me, Jack? To tell me how bad the department is performing? Does that make you feel better about yourself? Is that why you called me here? To lay down some stats about crime in Chicago.”
“I called you because I’m going to go after Jonathon DiMarco.”
“And what do you need me for?”
“I need you to back me up. I’m going to force DiMarco into a corner, and I need you to make sure he doesn’t get out of it.”
“I told you, I can’t be involved. This isn’t an active investigation and if I go after DiMarco, then it’s my career. I have kids to feed, Jack. I have their college fees to pay for. I can’t risk my career on a hunch of yours. You don’t even have any evidence.”
“No wonder your department has so many unsolved crimes. This is staring you in the face. You have all the information, you’ve got all the facts, but still, you won’t investigate. There’s an active killer out there and you won’t do anything about it.”
“You’ve got no actual evidence. If you had something, anything, that could stand up in court, then I could look at opening a case, but you’ve provided me with nothing.” He looked over his shoulder as the first of the lunchtime office workers began to come in. He leaned closer to me. “And you want me to help you go after Jonathon DiMarco? You’ve got to be kidding. The guy is a former department captain who still knows a lot of important people on a first name basis. What about my kids? What about my family?”
“What about Casey?”
“I can’t help you.” Williams drew a long breath, then shook his head. “When are you going to do it?”
“Tonight.” I tossed a few notes on the table and stood. “And I’m going to make sure that DiMarco pays for what he’s done.”
Chapter 25
I hate hospital waiting rooms.
The rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs, the tiled floor, and the overbearing smell of disinfectant. The faint cries of people in physical pain, the subdued sobs of people in
