The Good Cop (11 page)

Tom looked embarrassed and quickly forked the last piece of cheesecake off his plate. Then he looked up and shrugged. “It wasn't anything much,” he said.

But his father wasn't about to let a choice story go untold…not when it concerned his son. Although Tom was reluctant to tell it, his father was not.

“Tom had stopped after school at the candy store across the street. He was…what, eleven?” he asked, looking to his son for confirmation.

“Around that,” Tom said, noncommittally.

“Anyway, Tom comes out of the store with a box of Cracker Jack: Tom loved Cracker Jack; and there's Joey Giacomino with a couple of his bully buddies. They see Tom with a brand new box of Cracker Jack, and Joey comes right up to him and says, ‘Gimme the Cracker Jack, Stupid.' He's standing right in front of Tom, and he's a good half a head taller. Tom just looks up at him and says ‘No, it's mine. Go get your own.'

“Well, Joey just stares at him, wide-eyed. No one except Joe Giacomino Sr. ever said no to Joey. Not ever—at least not more than once. Joey's eyes narrow, and he puts his face about two inches in front of Tom's and says ‘I told you to give me that Cracker Jack!' and Tom doesn't bat an eye and says ‘No.' Joey reaches out to grab it and Tom just punches Joey in the stomach with every ounce of strength he has in him. Joey goes flying backward, knocking over one of his buddies in the process, and just lies on the ground, crying like a baby. And Tom just walks away, with his box of Cracker Jack. Joey never messed with Tom after that day.”

I'm sure the older man embellished a little, but it was a story he obviously took great delight and pride in telling, and I was very glad to know that Tom had a father so proud of him.

Brady Sr. sat there, shaking his head in pleasure, grinning to himself.

“Yeah,” Tom said, “I ate so many Cracker Jacks when I was a kid, I can't stand to look at them anymore. Seems like a long, long time ago. And I haven't seen Joey since he left school.”

“Just as well. Although Joey hasn't forgotten about you. I ran into him today during a brief pre-talk meeting to lay out some of the details. Joey was there—he hasn't changed much since he was a kid, and he made some remark about ‘I hear you've got a cop son.' The Giacominos are like elephants: They never forget, or forgive.” Then a momentary look of sadness crossed his face as, I would guess, he thought of his dead son, Art. “But then,” he added, “neither do I.”

One of the things I found most interesting about the evening was that while Tom sat there wearing his arm in a sling, the one subject that was never brought up was the shooting. I knew full well the elder Brady was aware of what had happened, but whether he knew anything other than was reported in the papers, I had no way of knowing. And of course, Tom would never have brought it up. And so neither did the rest of us.

But all in all, it was a very pleasant evening. I really liked Tom's dad, as I had been sure I was going to. I'd forgotten what a great sense of humor Carol had, and she spent a good deal of time kidding with Tom's dad, who seemed to enjoy the attention. And I was greatly relieved that Mr. Brady made no open assumptions about Carol and me being a couple. I came away from the evening with a strong suspicion that Tom's father knew more about his son…and his daughter-in-law…than he let on.

*

I got to the office a little earlier than usual the next morning and was taking my time drinking my coffee and reading the newspaper when I heard what I thought was a knock at my door. “Come on in,” I called, but no one turned the knob. I thought I could make out a figure on the other side of the opaque glass panel in the door, but wasn't sure. Then it came again, softly, tentatively. I set my coffee down and got up, moving around the desk toward the door.

“I said ‘Come on in,'” I repeated, mildly exasperated by somebody afraid to open a damned door. I opened it rather swiftly and saw…nothing. Nobody. Then I stuck my head out the door and saw someone with his back toward me, leaning against the wall about five feet from the door.

“Jonathan?” I asked, and he slowly pivoted around, his shoulders against the wall.

“Jonathan! Jesus! What happened?” I asked as I moved quickly to him. His shirt was torn, all the buttons ripped off; he had a badly cut lip and a deep bruise on his cheek. His left eye was black and swollen. He kept his head down and to one side and he wouldn't look at me. I put my hand under his chin and raised it up. He still wouldn't look at me.

“Jonathan, tell me what happened.”

Finally, his good eye moved to my face and his jaw began to quiver and his shoulders shake in silent sobbing. He was trying very hard to be brave, but he couldn't keep tears from running down his face.

I grabbed him by his arm and guided him into my office, closing the door behind us, and led him to the sofa. I made him sit down, then sat down beside him, our thighs touching. There was blood on his pants.

He took little shuddering gasps of air, still struggling to keep from sobbing audibly, though his shoulders still made small jerks as he fought to suppress them.

“Now tell me what happened,” I said, calmly.

He kept his head turned away, but he shook it. I reached out again for his chin, turning his head toward me.

“I want you to tell me what happened,” I repeated, slowly.

His chin and lower lip quivered, but he took a deep, rasping breath and said: “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't mean to bother you. But I didn't know where else I could go. I don't know anybody here, and you were nice to me and…I'm sorry.”

I let him regain a bit more composure, then said. “Now tell me who did this to you.”

Actually, I didn't have to know who. He probably didn't know, either, but I knew perfectly well
what
had happened. I was equal parts anger and sorrow, and some small part guilt.

Guilt? For what?
my mind asked.

For letting this happen to him,
I replied.

You can't save the world.

This isn't the world, it's one poor kid!

Ah, Hardesty….

“Do you know who did it?” I asked.

He nodded. “It was that man; that man who gave me all the money.”

He looked at me now, hard, as if looking for an answer in my face. “Why did he have to do that? Why? I never did nothing to him.” Then he raised his right arm, as he had done at Hughie's to show me his new watch. But the watch wasn't there.

“He took my watch,” he said, his voice almost dry with disbelief. “Why would he go and do that? And he took my money, too. All of it.” He suddenly reached into his pants pocket and came up with a closed fist. “Except this,” he said, and opened his hand to show me a nickel and a penny.

JEEZUS!
My emotions were still in a close race, but the anger was surging ahead rapidly.

“He didn't have to take my watch or my money.” He said it more to himself than to me. “He's a rich man. He doesn't need it.”

I got up to get the coffee from my desk, and brought it back to him. “Here. Drink this. Have you eaten?”

He shook his head again. “I'm okay.”

“When did you eat last?” I asked, pressing him.

“Yesterday morning, I guess.”

I got up again, went to the phone, and called the diner downstairs. “This is Dick Hardesty in Six-thirty-three,” I said to whomever picked up the phone. “I want a breakfast to go: Three eggs, scrambled, toast, bacon, a large coffee, black, a carton of orange juice and two cartons of milk. I'll be down in five minutes. Thanks.”

Hardesty, for chrissakes…
my mind started to say.

Shut the fuck up!
I told it.

I went back over to sit down beside Jonathan, who was sitting quietly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded between his partly-spread legs, head down, looking at the floor.

“When did it happen?”

“Last night. Late. I went back to where he'd picked me up those other two times, and he came by in his van and we went where we went the other two times and we got in the back and then he went to get a rubber and he didn't have any and I told him I didn't either and that I couldn't have sex without him having a rubber and he told me yes I could and I damned well was going to and I told him no and that I wanted to go back to where he picked me up and I started to put my shirt back on but he grabbed it and tried to tear it off and then he held me down and he started to do it anyway and I pushed him away and then he just started beating on me and beating on me until I managed to get up and jumped out of the van and he stood there in the door and took all the money out of my pants and then he wadded them up and threw them at me and kicked my shoes out the door and then he slammed the door closed and just drove away. I didn't have chance to get my watch.”

“Do you have any idea where this happened?”

He shook his head. “It was in the woods somewhere. There was a sign I saw when we drove in—Prichert Park, I think it was. It was a long way.”

Prichert Park was a forest preserve about fifteen miles from downtown.

“How did you get here?”

“I walked,” he said casually.

“All the way?” I asked, incredulously.

He nodded. “I didn't have any other way. There weren't many cars out, and I didn't dare try to hitchhike looking like this. It took me from the time he drove off 'til now to walk here. I got kind of lost for awhile until I got to the top of a hill and I could see the buildings downtown here, so I knew which way to go.”

“Didn't you try to get help?”

He shrugged. “While I was walking, just when it was starting to get light out, a police car pulled over to me and asked what I was doing and I told them what had happened to me and they just laughed and said ‘Well, maybe you'll know better next time' and then they rolled up the window and drove off. And later on I came to a gas station that was closed but the outside bathroom door was unlocked and I went in there and washed myself off and I laid down on the floor for awhile and I think I went to sleep for a little bit, but I'm not sure.”

Then he looked at me and asked, again: “Why would he do that to me? What did I ever do to him?”

I didn't have an answer for that, of course, but I vowed that if I were ever able to find that scumbag, I'd make damn sure he never did it again, to anyone.

I glanced quickly at my watch and got up from the couch. “You stay right here. I'll be right back.”

Just as I reached the door, I had a sudden thought, and said: “Since you were with the guy three times, did you by any chance find out his name?”

Jonathan looked down at the floor and shook his head. I reached for the doorknob and had the door halfway open when I heard him say: “I do remember his license plate number, though.”

Chapter 5

While Jonathan was eating—and watching him made me wonder if it could only have been one day since he'd had any food—I dialed City Annex and asked for Lieutenant Richman's extension. I'd been going to call him anyway, to let him know about the community meeting. But my main thought was of Jonathan. I knew what had happened to him happened a lot more than anyone knew, and that with everything else going on, Lieutenant Richman probably wouldn't have time for the problems of one unlucky hustler, but he was the highest ranking police officer I knew other than Captain Offermann and I was really, really pissed.

When Richman came on the line, I first told him about the meeting, and he seemed greatly relieved to hear it. Then I told him about Jonathan and about the police car that had just driven off without trying to help him. When I mentioned that Jonathan had gotten the license plate number of the van, and that I intended to find out who it belonged to, Richman asked for it and said he'd check it out. He didn't have to do that, but it was really nice of him to offer.

“And tell your friend I apologize on behalf of the department for how he was treated. He had every right to expect help from the police, and I will personally have the duty rosters and report sheets checked to see which cars were in the area of Prichert Park around dawn. If I can find out which officers might have been involved, would your friend be willing to come down to the Annex for a personal apology from them?”

“I'm sure he would, Lieutenant.” Richman had definitely moved up another rung in my admiration. “Is there anything else I can do right now on…this other matter?”

“Not at the moment, I don't think. Just keep your ears open, and please call me right away if you hear anything we might need to know.”

“I'll do that. And thanks again.”

“Thank you, too, Dick.”

Jonathan, who had been sitting across from me using my desk as a table, had almost polished off everything on his plate—well, Styrofoam tray—and had paused with plastic fork in midair to stare at me as I replaced the receiver on the hook.

“Wow,” he said, with a look of little-boy admiration on his battered face. “You know some important people, huh?”

“I know some very
good
people,” I said, and watched him finish eating. When he had taken the last morsel off the tray and finished the second carton of milk he got up, looked around for my wastebasket, and very carefully went over to put the empty containers in it.

“That was really good. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

He just stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do next, and I motioned him back to the chair.

“So where are you staying?”

He looked a little embarrassed and he glanced up idly at the ceiling as though there were something of interest there. “Nowhere, really.”

“Nowhere?”

He shook his head.

“If I'd had a place to go, I never would have come here and bothered you. Usually when a guy takes me home I'll ask him if I can spend the night there. Sometimes they let me. I keep my stuff in a locker at the bus station. Sometimes one of the other guys from Hughie's lets me crash at his place. I went there first, but he wasn't home.”