Random Victim
Authors: Michael A. Black
MICHAEL A. BLACK
RANDOM VICTIM
To Len Jellema, one of the finest men I’ve ever known.
“You know anything about this case?” Ryan asked, taking one more drag before stubbing out his cigarette.
“Not much. Lady judge disappeared about six months ago. Discovered her body in a pond recently, stuffed in some kind of trunk.
Never found her car anywhere. Shay made the incident into a campaign issue, saying it pointed to O’Hara’s incompetence.”
“You got it,” Ryan said. “This case is colder than Chicago in January. No way we’ll solve it. Ain’t gonna happen.” He hunched
forward, so close that Leal could smell the booze on the other man’s conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s just it. They expect
us to fall on our faces on this one. We’re getting set up to get hung out to dry, Leal.…”
Meeting at a Rest Stop
Waves of heat rose from the tapering ribbon of expressway, and Martin Walker could hear the distant rumble of motorcycles.
They appeared gradually on the horizon as three incremental dots shimmering in the midday sun. It had to be them. He studied
the sight momentarily before forcing himself out of the air-conditioned comfort of his Mercedes-Benz. It was insufferably
hot, even for early September. He flipped the alarm button on his remote and walked across the expanse of asphalt toward the
solid-looking brick building housing the rest stop toilet facilities so graciously provided by the Illinois Department of
Transportation. He could already feel himself starting to sweat.
As he got to the big metal door, scratched and painted with a myriad of graffiti, the stench caused his nostrils to flare.
Where the hell do all our tax dollars go to that they can’t at least keep these goddamn things cleaned? he thought. But the
unmuffled roar of the three Harleys was growing steadily louder, and as Walker grabbed the metal handle and stepped inside
he knew that the unpleasant smell wasn’t really what was causing his anxiety.
Several urinals lined the far wall opposite a row of toilet stalls and twin sinks. It was even hotter in here than it was
outside, and Walker continued to sweat profusely. So profusely he could feel the wetness of his collar and hoped it wouldn’t
seep through his shirt and into the jacket lining of his gray suit. Taking up a position at the urinal nearest the sink, he
leaned on the rectangular metal privacy screen, making his best effort at nonchalance. The sound of the motorcycles outside
ceased. Walker waited and moments later the door swung open, making a resounding thump as it hit the solid stone of the brick
wall.
Nuke strode in, clad in his usual dirty blue jeans, sleeveless Levi’s jacket, and engineer boots. Walker’s nod was ignored
and Nuke walked over to the far end of the enclosed stalls. One by one he kicked open each door, the metal making a sharp
clinking sound that hurt Walker’s ears, but he knew better than to say anything. Nuke’s dark hair hung in a mangy, unkempt
fashion, and reflective sunglasses masked his eyes. The huge, winged Harley Davidson emblem seemed stretched across the back
of the jacket, pulled taut by the oversized muscles. After he’d checked the last stall, the big man turned and went to the
urinal closest to Walker.
“How’s it going?” Walker asked, trying to coax the slight tremor out of his voice. The other man ignored the greeting, but
lowered the sunglasses on his nose.
“What the fuck you starin’ at, Marty?” he said as he began to urinate.
Walker bristled at the use of the nickname he hated. But he knew Nuke loved to bait him, and dealing with this big cretin
had become a necessary evil. Pursing his lips, he looked away.
Nuke shifted a wad of tobacco to the front of his mouth, just inside his lower lip. His head turned with the quickness of
a large jungle cat, and a loping stream of spit shot out, landing on the floor next to Walker’s shoe.
“Hey,” Walker said. “Cut it out, would you?” Stepping back from the sinks, he reached inside the pocket of his suit coat and
removed an envelope. He quickly laid it on the top of the metallic surface. “There it is.”
Nuke finished urinating, gave Walker a sly sideways glance, and grabbed the envelope with his left hand. At the same time
a huge buck knife suddenly appeared in his right. With a flick of his wrist he popped the blade open. Walker recoiled automatically.
Nuke smirked and used the finely honed blade to slice through the paper seal. Walker felt the shiver travel down his spine,
wishing Nuke would put the damn thing away. Knives disturbed him. Nuke disturbed him. He watched as the big man slipped the
bills out and counted them. Satisfied, he rolled them into his pants pocket and slowly unbuttoned the Levi’s jacket, providing
Walker a glimpse of the sculptured muscularity of massive pectorals and upper abdomen along with the black rubber handle of
a chrome pistol.
Nuke withdrew a plastic baggie of white powder and set it on the sink. Walker could see the bag was still wet with sweat.
Damn, he hated to touch it, but what choice did he have? Every time Walker protested to Connors about dealing with this unsavory
character, the other man would only laugh and make some facetious comment about how much Nuke liked Walker.
“Relax, Marty,” Connors would say. “Nuke’s spent enough time in the joint to be one of your kind of guys.”
My kind of guys, Walker thought. Shit.
“Wanna taste it?” Nuke asked.
Walker shook his head.
“No, I…I trust you,” he said, trying his best not to let his voice waver again. He knew that Nuke had probably diluted
the shipment at least twice before today, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Nuke sent another stream of dark spit into the sink next to the baggie just as Walker began reaching for it. Walker stopped
and looked at him, and Nuke raised the sunglasses from his eyes and winked. Then he moved with an easy stride toward the door.
Walker stared after him and grabbed the baggie, wishing he had some paper towels to dry it off. But the stupid place had one
of those electronic dryers. Good for the environment, the small metal tag on top said. What the hell do I care about how many
trees it takes to make a goddamn towel, Walker thought as he pocketed the baggie. Fumbling with his keys, he went to the door
in time to hear the percussive roaring of the motorcycles start up again. After a few intermittent bursts the sound grew progressively
fainter.
Walker stepped outside in time to see Nuke and his two stooges zooming toward the northbound lanes of the expressway. Walking
briskly, he went to his car, preferring to make a quick departure himself. It was then that he noticed it: a big smear of
brown spit dribbling down the side window of the Mercedes and onto the chrome strip.
Damn that bastard Nuke, thought Walker, wishing like hell that he didn’t have to put up with him. But he really knew better.
After he’d arranged for them to take care of the “Miriam problem,” what choice did he have?
He was in too deep now. And there was no turning back.
Twenty-sixth and California Avenue
Sharon Devain picked him out immediately from the description her supervisor, Steve Megally, had given her earlier that morning:
half-Mexican/half-Irish, tall, rangy build, dark hair, mustache. It was customary for the state’s attorneys to be randomly
matched with the police officers coming in to testify before the Cook County grand jury at Twenty-sixth and California Avenue,
but Sharon had been given specific orders to locate Sergeant Francisco Leal and prep him for his testimony.
“Lead him through it quickly, and make sure he doesn’t blow up at anybody,” Megally had told her. “I don’t want any more problems.”
The “problems” to which Megally had referred to were an allusion to Leal’s previous testimony at the Sixth District criminal
courts building in Markham during a combination bond and preliminary hearing. The incident, which had occurred three months
ago, had become known as “The Dark Gable Incident.” Leal, who had been recovering from a gunshot wound, testified at the warrant
arrest bond hearing of Marcus LeRigg, suspected drug dealer. After reading the complaint and hearing LeRigg’s prior arrest
record (seventeen arrests but only one conviction for possession dating back five years), Judge Edward Charles Gable issued
LeRigg a fifty thousand dollar I-Bond, which meant no money had to be posted and LeRigg was free on his signature until trial.
LeRigg smiled mockingly as the pronouncement was made and scratched his nostril, looking directly at Leal. Leal complained
to the state’s attorney in a harsh whisper, and Judge Gable, seeing this, instructed Leal to repeat what he’d said for everyone’s
benefit. Leal, who later stated that he did not want to commit perjury, said that he understood now why the judge was often
called “Dark Gable.”
“And why is that?” Judge Gable asked.
“Because your head’s so far up your ass it’d take a tractor to pull it out,” Leal answered, the anger rising in his voice.
“I’ll bet it is dark up there.”
After surveying the stunned silence of the courtroom, the judge held Leal in contempt and ordered him taken into immediate
custody. The situation went from bad to worse as Leal, who was being escorted away by the deputies, commended the judge for
freeing a drug dealer and locking up the police officer who had arrested him. “Can I at least have an I-Bond, Your Honor?”
Leal yelled seconds before the door slammed shut.
The state’s attorney requested to see Judge Gable in chambers and quickly apologized, claiming that Leal was still overwrought
from being shot and the recent death of his partner. The wound, the state’s attorney explained, was causing Leal to cough
up blood in the downstairs lockup. The judge said he would reconsider if Leal apologized, but hizzoner did recommend an immediate
psychological evaluation for the errant cop.
“To think that man is walking around with a gun is…troubling,” the judge said.
The police psychologist subsequently noted that Leal was indeed suffering from delayed stress syndrome brought about by the
recent traumas, both physical and emotional, and recommended a period of rest and relaxation while Leal recovered his full
health. It was then decided that he would be granted a month’s leave from duty, in addition to the two months medical leave
for which he was already scheduled. He would also receive a letter of reprimand and a five-day suspension without pay for
his improper conduct at the felony bond hearing. The entire incident, naturally, would go in his personnel file. At the end
of the three months, Leal’s present duty assignment, as an undercover drug enforcement agent with the Metropolitan Enforcement
Group (MEG), would be reevaluated.
But now, instead of risking the volatile officer at a preliminary hearing, where LeRigg’s high-priced lawyer might press the
right buttons to create another incident, Leal was subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury. It would just be him, a state’s
attorney, and twenty-three civic-minded citizens who were on jury duty.
“Are you Sergeant Leal?” she asked tentatively.
He nodded.
“I’m Sharon Devain, with the State’s Attorney’s office.” She extended her hand. “Let’s sit over here and I’ll prep you.”
She led him over to a pair of chairs behind the counter and went through the sequence of questions she was going to ask him.
She noticed that his expression never seemed to change, even though she smiled frequently at him, just trying to be pleasant.
God, he looks so grim, she thought. Enough to scare the hell right out of those poor pissy jerks sitting in the next room.
I hope to hell he holds it together.
“We should be pretty much set. I read the reports this morning,” she said, gathering up the file and giving him one more high
voltage smile to try and relax him. His eyes seemed to soften slightly, she noticed. But she also noticed that his gaze moved
up and down her body with a surreptitious sweep, lingering slightly on her breasts.
Looks like his libido’s fully recovered anyway, she thought.
Leal took time out from his brooding to assess her as she sat in front of him. He estimated her to be in her late twenties.
The mane of blond hair cascaded down around her shoulders in soft waves, but was probably lightened a little, judging from
her eyebrows. Her skin had a pale creaminess to it that told him she didn’t spend too much time at the beach. Or in the tanning
booth at the health club. But her figure looked pretty good. Softly feminine rather than angular. He wondered what she’d look
like without the lightweight brown women’s suit coat and matching skirt. The dainty gold serpentine chain bounced lightly
on the front of her white blouse when she turned her head, explaining the questions that she’d be asking him in front of the
grand jury. He wondered about the blouse, too, and what she’d look like without that.
She crossed her legs and he glanced at her knee as it protruded through the slit in her skirt.
“Like I said, it seems pretty clear cut,” she said, pausing to take off her jacket and drape it on the back of a nearby chair.
To Leal’s delight her blouse was sleeveless and showed him a glimpse of her soft shoulder and smooth underarms.
“Everything’s clear cut when you’re testifying before the grand jury,” he said, cracking a smile for the first time.
Sharon smiled back. He noticed a slight tobacco stain on her front teeth, but it was still an attractive smile. Too many cigarettes,
too much coffee. Not enough time to relax in the sunshine. Sounded like him a few months back.
“Why don’t you go wait in the anteroom and I’ll call you when it’s your time,” she said. She hiked up her skirt in back as
she turned to retrieve her jacket.
Leal went through the doorway and took a seat in one of the sturdily built oak chairs. They had armrests and the deep rich
polished look that reminded him of the kind in his uncle’s dining room when he was a kid. The floor was carpeted in a dark
tan, but failed to hide the dirt from the shoes of all the police who came there to testify. The room itself was small, but
filled with variations of the same theme: Chicago coppers in blue, suburban cops in darker blue, plainclothes policemen in
polyester sport coats. Leal’s own sports jacket was light brown. He owned better ones, but it wasn’t smart going to court
looking like you just stepped out of
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
. Especially if you worked undercover narcotics. Sean O’Herlieghy had told him that when Leal was just a rookie and Sean had
been breaking him in.
“It’s too easy to plant seeds of doubt in a juror’s mind if you come in looking like a million bucks,” he had told him. “Then
the sons of bitches start thinking that you look too damn good to be an honest copper.”
Leal had internalized virtually everything Sean had told him, considering it a lesson from the master. O’Herlieghy had gone
up the ladder and was now a captain. And Leal had received orders to report in to see him as soon as he was finished at the
grand jury. He wondered what Sean would say about “The Dark Gable Incident.” Leal figured he already knew the answer to that
one. It was one meeting that he was not looking forward to.
The brown, leather-padded door to his left opened and Sharon Devain stepped partially in and glanced at him.
“Sergeant Leal,” she said, giving him an encouraging little wink as he got up.
The grand jury room had three enormous windows against the rear wall that displayed the expanse of blue sky over the factory
landscape to the east. The rest of the room seemed unnaturally dark by comparison. Three consecutively elevated rows of theaterlike
chairs were set behind curving wooden tables, the fronts of which were skirted to the carpeted floor. The twenty-three people
sequestered for the grand jury for this month sat in various sections of the arena, some in clusters, others off by themselves.
Leal went to the wooden booth and sat in the chair. The clerk, a middle-aged black woman, approached him and said with rote
precision, “Do you swear by the ever-living God that what you’re about to say is the whole truth and nothing but?”
He replied in the affirmative.
“Officer, state your name and duty assignment,” Sharon Devain said.
“Sergeant Francisco Leal, Cook County sheriff’s police. My current assignment is with the Metropolitan Enforcement Group.”
“That’s also known as MEG?” Sharon said. “And what is your primary function in this unit?”
Keep it simple, he thought. “We buy illegal drugs in an undercover capacity.”
“And in May of this year did you have occasion to be working on an investigation concerning the purchase of illegal drugs
from one Marcus LeRigg?”
“Yes.”
“Please, tell us, Sergeant Leal, in your own words how this investigation came about.”
Leal began a cautious explanation of the tenuous process of buying drugs undercover: the arrest that leads to an informant,
the informant who leads to a supplier, the controlled buys, building a relationship with the supplier, the arrest of the supplier,
and then beginning the process all over again, trying to catch a bigger fish the next time. It was like working your way up
the food chain. LeRigg exemplified a major step upward for his team of undercover agents, and maybe, although he didn’t say
it, that was why they got a little careless.
“And you spoke with Mr. LeRigg to set this deal up?” Sharon asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Leal said. Always be polite in testifying. Another O’Herlieghy maxim.
“So tell us, Sergeant, what exactly happened on the night of May nineteenth of this year?”
Leal took a deep breath. The darkened superstructure of the abandoned factory snapped into place in his memory as it had done
so many times since that night.
Patches of misty fog obscured most of the surroundings except
for a radius of about fifty feet. It was chilly for spring, and
a dampness had seemed to settle over him. Two halos sprung
around the headlights of LeRigg’s Caddie as he flashed the lights
twice. Leal’s partner, Bobby Hilton, his long dark hair pulled
back into a ponytail, returned the signal and drove forward
slowly. They were off the radio, not wanting to risk getting
picked up by an errant scanner. But Leal knew that Johnny De
Wayne and the rest of their backups would be spreading out
through the factory now.
“We had just started the exchange of money for the two kilograms of cocaine,” Leal said, his voice suddenly cracking slightly,
“when we were interrupted.”
Sharon appeared to notice this and paused to glance at him. “When you say ‘interrupted,’ what exactly do you mean, Sergeant?”
The darkly tinted rear window of LeRigg’s Cadillac lowered
with electronic precision, and he looked up at Leal.
“Ready to do the do?” LeRigg said.
LeRigg and two other men got out of the car, each wearing
long leather coats that no doubt concealed heavy weaponry.
Leal felt for the comfort of his own Beretta on his right hip.
“After we showed LeRigg the money, he was in the process of opening the trunk to allow us to sample the cocaine, and then
we made the final exchange,” Leal said, speaking slowly and clearly. He was hoping the accompanying tremor he felt in his
voice wouldn’t be audible.
“And then what happened?” Sharon asked.
“As we were in the process of placing the gym bag with the drugs in our trunk, we came under fire.”
The screech of tires as another car seemed to come out of
nowhere. Bobby had been watching LeRigg and the two flunkies,
and Leal barely turned in time to see the huge gun flashes tearing
through the night. You see the flash and then hear the sound,
someone had always told him. But he felt the sound instead. Like
a brick had smacked into the left side of his chest. This wasn’t
supposed to be a “buy-bust” and they weren’t prepared. More
gunshots…Or was it thunder? Leal didn’t know as he felt his
legs going weak, twisting underneath him, the strength pouring
out of his body as the blood seeped between his fingers.
Gunfire again. Bobby running, firing, then abruptly stopping.
Leal looked up and saw his partner’s head jerk to the side
as if recoiling from a massive punch, his eyes having that vacant,
glassy look when his head snapped back…
“Officer Hilton was killed,” he heard himself say. “And I was wounded.”
The world retreated into a velvety silence. Leal’s head lolled
back, and he saw Bobby falling toward him. More flashes lit up
the darkness. Suddenly Johnny DeWayne was kneeling next to
them. Leal could see Johnny’s lips moving, but couldn’t understand
the words. He followed the other man’s gaze down toward
his chest, seeing the bright red, bubbling froth expelling steam
with each of his breaths. Each one feeling like someone was
twisting a knife into his chest.
“So Officer Hilton was killed, and you were wounded?” Sharon said.