Tradition of Deceit (20 page)

Thirty

Roelke was back at
the Kozy statue before dawn Wednesday morning, his off-duty revolver a comforting weight in his coat pocket. His determination to think through what had happened kept lingering willies at bay. He believed the shooter had been due north. It was easy to follow the footprints from his own crazy run, which ended when he belatedly dove for cover.

Now he walked on. A big old maple stood on top of the slope. Snow behind the tree was well trampled. Roelke studied the muddled prints—nothing distinctive. Then he picked up a stick, leaned against the trunk, and squinted down the impromptu rifle barrel toward the statue. Yep, a clean line of fire. And he, standing beneath the lights, had provided an easy target.

He poked around without finding a rifle shell casing. Well, he already knew the shooter was good. Roelke pictured him making the shot, drawing back the bolt, catching the shell as it ejected—all quick and quiet.

Roelke found a line of footprints leading straight north from the maple.
That's
why he hadn't been able to detect any movement the night before—the shooter had kept the maple between them, not veering right or left while retreating. Roelke followed the tracks until they ended at a shoveled walkway. No way of knowing where the SOB had gone after that. Roelke walked on toward the north border of Kozy Park, but he couldn't connect any tracks to the shooter.

He stopped by an old building used by park maintenance staff, staring at Becher Street, piecing together the likely scenario. The guy had tailed Roelke to the park. After Roelke stopped by the statue, the shooter had circled around and parked here on Becher Street, poised to hit the nearby interstate on-ramp for a fast getaway.

I, Roelke thought bitterly, might as well have put a neon target on my back.

He turned to head back through the park. While skirting the maintenance building, he noticed a deep disturbance in the snow. It looked like somebody had fallen. Probably too much to hope that the guy who shot at me fell on his ass, Roelke thought, and kicked angrily at the snow.

His foot grazed something. He found another stick, poked around, and … Holy
toboggans
. He'd uncovered a gun.

It was a Smith and Wesson .38, Model 60—similar to his own gun, but smaller. He hooked the stick through the trigger guard. This was not the gun that had been used to shoot him the night before, though. Whoever had shot Rick execution-style and took aim at
him
with sniper-style precision did not seem the type to accidentally drop a handgun in the snow. Probably some other bad guy had rid himself of a gun used in an unrelated crime.

Roelke glanced over both shoulders. A faint blue-gray light was creeping through the trees. He saw headlights, heard a commuter bus wheeze to a stop. If local cops were going to come beat the proverbial bushes at first light—which they surely would—they'd show up any minute. He had another choice to make, and he was out of time.

He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and dropped the .38 inside. He slid the bag into his left coat pocket. Then he walked away.

But Jesus, something was wrong. An iron band began squeezing his chest. Sweat dampened his shirt, his palms. Could he even make it back to his truck? He'd parked blocks away.

Very slowly, Roelke trudged to Lincoln Avenue and crossed the street. His chest grew heavier. The two guns, one in each pocket, thumped against him as he climbed steps and slipped inside the Basilica of St. Josaphat.

The main sanctuary was empty. He slid into a rear pew, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out. After a few minutes the pain in his chest eased a bit.

Roelke didn't really know what was freaking him out. He'd lied to the cops last night. Picking up the .38 this morning wasn't any worse than that.

Except, it kinda was. The gun was an actual thing, a weight in his pocket. Not only might it have nothing to do with Rick's death, it could be evidence in another crime. If he didn't turn it in, another bad guy might get away.

Roelke leaned over, elbows on knees, face in his hands. I don't know if I can see this through, he thought. All he'd wanted to do was help find whoever shot his best friend. Now things were spiraling way,
way
out of control.

On the one hand, he must be doing something right. Whoever murdered Rick was evidently getting nervous. I can't quit now, Roelke thought. Digging just a little deeper might let him nail Rick's killer.

On the other hand, digging just a little deeper might cost him his career. Or his life. Even if he took that risk, it wasn't fair to Libby, to Justin and Dierdre, to Chloe—

“Are you all right, son?”

The voice was so close that Roelke almost went for his gun. He jerked upright, but before he could draw, his brain identified the intruder as an elderly priest—black robe, white hair, thin face, intelligent blue eyes, surprisingly rosy cheeks.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” the man said. “I just wondered if you needed help.”

Roelke hiccupped a mirthless laugh. What would the nice Father say, he wondered, if I confess that I have a gun burning a hole in each of my coat pockets? “I'm sorry,” he managed. “I just wanted to sit here for a while, but I can leave if—”

“There's no need for that.” The priest stepped into the row and
sat down beside Roelke. “I often do the same thing. A place of
such beauty and peace encourages rest and reflection. Is this your first visit?”

“It's the first time I've been inside.” Roelke had scarcely noticed his surroundings when he entered, but now he took in the glory: soaring arches, gilt paint, magnificent murals, marble columns. The altars looked to be carved of marble too, as well as the pulpit and the stations of the cross. Morning sun streamed through stained glass windows, bathing the sanctuary with warmth.

“St. Josaphat was named a Minor Basilica in 1929,” the priest said with quiet pride. “That honor is awarded only to the most lovely and historically significant structures. And it's on the National Register of Historic Places.”

“I know what that is,” Roelke said. Chloe had told him about it. God, how he wished she was sitting beside him, chattering incomprehensibly with the priest about the basilica's architecture.

“A century ago, poor Polish immigrants donated their pennies and built this church as a testament to their faith.”

“That must have been a whole lot of pennies.”

The priest laughed. “Yes, indeed. Those good Poles made enormous sacrifices. The basilica is a monument to their faith and their hope of better times to come.”

Roelke wouldn't mind a good dose of faith and hope right now. He was running on empty.

“Are you a religious person?” the priest asked.

“No,” Roelke said. His faith had faded somewhere between altar boy and cop.

“I won't invite you to the confessional, then. Still, perhaps it would help if you talked about what's troubling you.”

“The police officer who was killed in Kozy Park was my best friend,” Roelke heard himself say. “And I've discovered that he had kept some important things secret.”

“So you are carrying a sense of betrayal as well as grief. I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive your friend his secrets. Maybe he had good reason.”

“Maybe.”

“I will say a prayer for you both.”

“Thank you.” Lapsed or not, that actually made Roelke feel a little better.

Suddenly he realized he was overlooking the obvious. He reached into his coat pocket—carefully, not showing the gun—and found the envelope holding Erin's photograph. “I've also been looking for another friend of mine. She might have attended services here a few years ago.”

The priest studied the photo carefully before shaking his head. “I'm sorry.”

“I think she needs my help, but she's disappeared. I can't figure out why she needs to hide from me.”

“Ah.” The priest nodded pensively. “More secrets. Well, perhaps she's stronger now. Perhaps she's reached a point where she is more interested in giving help than receiving it.”

I wouldn't mind getting a little help from Erin right now, Roelke thought. He realized that he was angry at her, too.

“I'll leave you now, but please, linger as long as you wish,” the priest said. “May you find solace.” He paused before adding, “
I consecrate this house you have built, I place my name here forever; My eyes and my heart will be here for all time
.” He smiled. “First Book of Kings, ninth chapter, third verse. It's written in old Polish at the base of the dome.” He pointed overhead. Then he squeezed Roelke's shoulder in farewell and left him alone.

When Roelke stood sometime later, he knew that he would not turn the gun he'd found over to the police. At least not right away. He'd see what happened in the next day or so. He had also decided not to show the gun to Banik or Bliss. He couldn't drag either of them down with him.

Bottom line: A cop had taken the weapon used to kill Rick from Evidence. A cop had pulled Rick's records. There was at least one bad cop in the district, and he didn't know who it was. He would see this thing through to the best of his ability, alone.

Roelke found an alcove where votive candles were arranged in rows. Several were already burning. Roelke lit four more: one for Rick, one for Erin, one for Libby and the kids, and one for Chloe. Then he left the basilica.

He kept a basic evidence kit in his truck, and after looping through traffic for fifteen minutes, he found a quiet parking lot and checked the gun he'd found for prints. Not a one.

“That's suspicious right there,” Roelke muttered. Then he hid the gun beneath the seat and squared his shoulders. It was time to go to Waupun.

Thirty-ONe

From the warm depths
of her sleeping bag, Chloe became aware of Ariel tiptoeing to the front door. “What time is it?” Chloe mumbled. It was still dark.

“Six-thirty. Go back to sleep.”

“Did you eat breakfast?” Chloe rose on one elbow, rubbing her eyes. She was developing a new appreciation for Roelke, who had been known to observe that she didn't eat well enough. He should try keeping a stressed ballerina fed. “At least take some fruit with you.”

“Okay, okay.” Ariel darted across the room and grabbed an or
ange from the bowl on the breakfast bar. “Call me at work if you
need anything.” She let herself out the door.

To her annoyance, Chloe found herself too awake to stay in the sack. Might as well get to work, too. The more she accomplished, the better Ariel would feel.

After her own breakfast, Chloe settled down to type up the list of primary interpretive themes. Ariel's portable typewriter was electric and even had a backspace function that transferred mistakes to a thin band of correction tape, so that task was accomplished quickly. Between now and Friday, she and Ariel needed to type up a longer narrative summary of each theme.

Just for kicks Chloe started with Marketing, a topic she wouldn't have thought interesting until she delved into flour milling history. There are a zillion ways to look at this, she mused. There was brand development to consider. Advertising. Promotional giveaways. Competition between Gold Medal and Pillsbury. The pioneering use of radio. The meteoric rise of Betty Crocker.

She was sitting on the sofa with feet tucked up, scribbling away, when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Ariel Grzegorczyk's home.”

“Chloe?”

“Libby?”

Libby laughed. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I was reading about Betty Crocker. She was an invention, which sort of duped a lot of people. But the staff behind the name really helped homemakers figure out how to feed their families, and how to cope with shortages during the Great Depression and World War II.” Chloe sighed happily, then remembered that Libby hadn't called to discuss Betty Crocker. “How are things down there?”

“I saw Roelke last night. He helped Justin with a school project at the Milwaukee Public Museum. I think it was good for everybody.”

“I heard a bit about that,” Chloe said. “Roelke actually called me after. Not that he said much. I know he's doing what he feels he needs to do, but I worry about him. He holds too much stuff inside.”

“No kidding,” Libby said. “God only knows what mood he'll be in after visiting Patrick today.”

“Who's Patrick?”

The line went silent. Finally Libby muttered, “Oh
, hell
.”

Chloe untucked her feet and sat up straight. “Libby? Who is Patrick?”

“God, I'm sorry, Chloe. It never occurred to me that you didn't know. But I shouldn't be the one to—”

“Who—is—Patrick?”

Libby's sigh echoed through the wire. “Patrick is Roelke's brother.”

The sun warmed the truck cab so well that Roelke rolled down his window as he drove into the city of Waupun. Just your everyday Wisconsin town, he thought. A main street with a variety of shops, many housed in historic buildings. The sound of geese flying overhead, probably heading for nearby Horicon Marsh. Schools, churches, playgrounds. And, oh yes, a maximum-security prison tucked away in a residential neighborhood.

He parked near the Waupun Correctional Institution. As he
plugged the meter a jogger called, “Just so you know, the meters here have a two-hour limit. If you go down a block, you'll get an extra hour.”

“Thanks, but this should do it.” Roelke profoundly hoped he'd be in and out in twenty minutes or less.

He studied the facility. Some of the limestone buildings inside the compound were well over a century old, with castle-like turrets. Despite the razor wire topping the fence, the prison had an antique look to it, and a plaque proclaimed its status on the Wisconsin Register of Historic Places. I've probably been to more historic sites today than Chloe has, Roelke thought. It seemed safe to assume that she had not visited a basilica and a penitentiary.

Okay. Time to focus.

He left the guns in the truck. At the first gate he showed his police ID and explained his reason for visiting. Ten minutes later he passed through the second gate and on to the building.

Corrections Officer Detrie was waiting. He seemed like an upright guy—mid-forties, direct gaze, good command presence. “What can I do for you, Officer McKenna?”

“I'm working a case that may involve someone recently released from here. The man is known as Lobo. Latino guy, maybe in his thirties.”

“The name doesn't ring a bell, and we've got lots of Hispanics in here.” Detrie cocked his head. “Let's go check the records.”

Roelke tried not to get his hopes up. Good thing, too. “Sorry,” Detrie said some minutes later. “No record of a Lobo. It's probably a nickname. We know a lot of 'em. Hell, half of the guys have their gang name or whatever tattooed in big letters. But evidently not your guy.”

“Thanks for checking.” Roelke beat a tattoo against his thigh with one thumb. That was about what he'd expected. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “I'd like to visit one of your inmates, if that's okay.”

“Visiting hours don't begin until two, but we can make an exception. Who do you want to see?”

“Patrick McKenna,” Roelke said. “He's my brother.”

Detrie passed him off to another CO, who escorted him to another building. Roelke signed in on a clipboard and emptied his pockets for the guard at the admittance desk. He deposited a quarter in a little locker and stashed his coat and gloves. The guard stamped his hand and gave him a slip of paper with his name and a table number on it, then buzzed him through a locked door. On the other side, an
other CO checked Roelke's stamp before ushering him into the
visitation room. “Table Six,” he said. The room was empty, but Roelke dutifully found Table Six and sat down to wait.

His knee was working like a piston once again and he felt wound tight. Calm down, he told himself. It wasn't so bad in here, really. With its rows of institutional tables, the room was vaguely reminiscent of a school cafeteria, except the tables were really low. A carpeted square in one corner marked a children's play area, with a couple of playpens and bins of battered toys. There were vending machines, flyers advertising various programs and services taped to the walls, a couple of bubblers, and shelves holding books and board games and packs of playing cards.

After maybe fifteen minutes the door buzzed again. A CO escorted Patrick to the table and left.

Roelke stared at his older brother while a big wall clock ticked noisily away. He hadn't seen Patrick in over five years. He looked older, oddly subdued. He was thinner, but his chest and arms were more muscular. The standard blue jumpsuit looked strange. The dark hair and eyes, the strong chin, cheekbones curved just like his own—those hadn't changed.

Finally Patrick said, “It's good to see you, Roelke.”

“You too,” Roelke lied.

“Libby comes every once in a while, but I gave up looking for you a long time ago.”

“I guess I never knew what to say.”

“You didn't have to say it. I screwed up. Well, I'm paying for it.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick shifted in his chair. “So, how are you doing?”

“Good,” Roelke lied.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No,” Roelke lied. No way was he even mentioning Chloe's name in this place. “So, are you … um … doing okay?”

“As okay as somebody can be in a prison,” Patrick said. “I went into the hole a couple of times after I got here, had to start over on earning privileges and stuff, but I've been doing good for a while now. I don't know what Libby's told you—”

Not much, Roelke thought, because I never let her.

“—but I am trying. My social worker got me into AA and an anger management group. And I go to church services.”

“That's good,” Roelke said, although he was pretty sure that most of the inmates who found Jesus on the inside left Him on the inside when they got out.

“I earned my GED two years ago. And I got into a production welding training class. I like it.”

“That's good.”

There was another pause. The CO circled casually past, took a drink at one of the bubblers, finished his circuit.

“It was the booze, you know,” Patrick said. “Just like dad.”

“Yeah. Just like dad.”

Anger glinted in Patrick's eyes, but he kept his voice level. “It could have been you, Roelke. Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think that maybe we both had issues with alcohol and anger management—”

Issues with alcohol and anger management? Roelke was tempted to ask this guy who he was, and what he'd done with Patrick.

“—and that maybe you were just luckier than me? I got caught up in some bad shit, I know that, but I might have straightened myself out. I might have been like you.”

“You're not like me.”

“It must be very comforting to think that,” Patrick said, “but we're more alike than you want to believe. Can you honestly sit there and tell me you've never lost control? Made mistakes? Done something that you regretted?”

Roelke flashed on the stolen gun hidden under the seat in his truck, the lies he'd told the police the night before. Last summer he'd kicked a handcuffed prisoner. Still, not
quite
like Patrick, who had lost control for the last time in a tavern, with a knife in his hand, in a tangle that included several cops.

But Roelke had more than once worried that he was exactly like Patrick. That scared the absolute shit out of him. He used that fear as a deterrent, doing his best to get through life without self-destructing like Patrick and their father had.

Patrick sighed. “Why did you come here, Roelke?”

“Libby told me once that I need to make peace with you,” Roelke said, which was astonishing, because he hadn't planned to say anything like that. Until this minute he hadn't even remembered that.

Patrick thought that over. “I guess all I can ask for is a second chance. You're still my kid brother.”

“Okay.” Roelke scrubbed his face with his palms, desperate to move on. “I was also hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me.”

“What about?”

“A guy who, I'm told, was released from here not too long ago. A Latino guy named Lobo. You know who that is?”

Patrick shifted uneasily in his plastic chair again, and looked over both shoulders. “Yeah, I know who that is. He got out maybe three weeks ago. Why do you ask? Is he in trouble again already?”

“He might be. I'm looking for him.”

“Better you than me, then.” Patrick shook his head. “He's not somebody to mess with. Lobo didn't like one of my cellies, and the guy ended up with a shiv in the back. Needed thirty-three stitches.”

“The CO didn't know who I was talking about. Lobo must be a nickname, right?”

“His real name is Alberto Marquez. The COs are decent guys, mostly, but there's a lot they don't know.”

Roelke didn't doubt that. “So what was Lobo in for? Drugs? Still calling the shots, so everybody in here had to pay him respect?”

“Drugs had nothing to do with it.” Patrick sat back in his chair, looking surprised at Roelke's ignorance. “Lobo got sent to prison after some guy hired him to kill his wife.”