" . . . Sometimes
you gotta be dead before anybody knows you’re
alive."
- Gene Minues,
Talk Radio Caller
Prologue
The Partners
Run! That was all the Spode
could do. For those moments in the wee hours,
it was as natural as breathing and considerably
easier. He ran from the moment the back
windshield smashed beneath his hand. It
was a fist - his fist - that came down on
the Cadillac; a fist clinching a steel ingot,
just heavy enough to make sure the job was
done. Once done, the Spode ran.
The neighborhood, with its
alleys and hideaways, was a playground for
the running man. Arrested development, substance
and environmentally induced, kept the Spodiodi
Kid frozen in the worst of youth, while
his body aged and decayed. Some things still
worked. His long, matted hair knew where
to go, even before his feet could line up
on the varied wet and muddy surfaces. It
was fear and booze that made him so agile.
Rainwater streaked his face. Briny filth
flung from his hair and onto his lips. Walls
were climbed and repelled in one, sometimes
two surprising motions. The men in pursuit
- the police, the Hispanic bus boys, and
way back, barely able to climb the curb,
the owner of the precious car – had
no chance of catching the vandal. To them
the Spode was a semi-clever drunk and street
person, who long ago washed his brain cells
and humanity into the gutter. Still, he
was smarter than most, but it only served
to annoy those from whom he begged spare
change.
The run was more than halfway
down the block, but the Spode had not once
stepped into the glare of the streetlights.
The six unit apartment buildings were all
delineated by something; a fence, a row
of garbage cans, perhaps a dumpster, but
none stopped the Spode. With each opening,
he could see the cruiser spotlights flash
menacingly in and out of his path. More
than once, he stopped on his heels to avoid
the beam and then started again when the
cruiser moved on.
There was never a thought about his friend,
his best friend for the night if only because
the evening started with Ralphy's bottle of
gin. The Spode hated gin. It was what his
mother drank and the first drink on which
he remembered getting shit-faced. He was going
to have his first sexual encounter then, but
the bottle ruled the night. It started a trend
that continued to this heart pounding escape.
Sex gave him his nickname.
It was his girlfriend, his first physical
love, who code-named their encounters. "Want
to Spodiodi?" she would say, with the
conjured word running up and off her slight
under bite, a feature that became more pronounced
with the invitation. The mental image would
still sustain an erection, no matter how
many chemicals fought the process. The name
stuck, especially among the small group
of blurry men, and the young girls smelling
of patchouli and rebellion who were inexplicably
attracted to the brood. The Spodiodi Kid’s
real name was nearly forgotten. There were
few who cared.
The rattling sounds of his
breath pounded in his ears. His heart rate
must be through the roof, he thought. Ribs
broadcast screaming agony, and something
warm and sticky splashed into his eye, something
that was neither rain nor the foul whip
from his hair. It came from his hand - his
thumb - at first he thought it was sweat
or rain, but the liquid did not sting when
it landed in his eyes. Instead it seemed
to spread over his vision, giving the few
distant lights a blinding pinkish hue. Another
drop hit his mouth as he pumped his hands
in the dead run. It was blood. The bent
knuckle, held in front of his squinting
eyes, oozed red from a cut so deep that
there was a glint of bone. "Oh shit!"
The Spode ran faster and jumped higher.
He needed a place to hide.
The night started with the
routine bliss, gathering money from the
day's begging and minor theft and discovering
there was enough for at least a fifth and
a pint of alcohol. How much depended on
what kind. The Spode was not picky about
such things, he just did not want gin and
he told Ralphy as much. He told him more
than once as they bobbed to the Package
store. Spode had a way of walking in all
directions at once. Never in a straight
line, he would skip backwards to keep talking
and leap ahead to climb a fire hydrant or
swing on a street sign. His was an engine
of aimlessness that had two speeds: full
and passed out.
Ralphy was solid and big.
Scanning the streets for predator and prey
- his myopic gray eyes, behind thick glasses,
darting with the Spode’s bounce –
he kept up his side of the conversation.
Ralphy slumped into a nearly six-foot, four-inch
frame, while the Spode stretched to just
barely six-feet. They made their way to
the Package Store and Ralphy negotiated
the purchase: a fifth of Tanqueray and a
pint of Canadian whisky. The Spode called
it Rye.
When he saw the gin, Spode
was beside himself with anger and let Ralphy
know, until the larger man pinned the Kid
to a wall by the neck. "Okay, okay!
That limey piss is fine with me, if that's
all you could get!" Spode's voice,
munchkin-like, squeezed through a compressed
larynx, differed only slightly from the
rasping harmonic of death rattle and nasal
squeal that normally came out of his mouth.
The debate concluded, Ralphy
and the Spode made their way back to the
makeshift enclaves on a dusty playground
near Drexel Avenue. Spode jumped to one
of the net-less basketball rims and made
a dunking motion that fell well short of
the mark. They drank the afternoon away
and argued about everything from the Vietnam
War to the elaborate hoax Spode believed
to be the moon landing. It was not an hour
before Spode finished the contents of the
pint. His burned and damaged taste buds
did not mind the draws from the gin bottle,
once Ralphy acquiesced and carefully handed
the green, glass cylinder to his drinking
mate.
The two drunks laughed at
bad jokes, and the absurdity of it all,
until their sides hurt. Spode started breathing
hard; he stood, bent at the waist, and moved
to the minimum of human tolerance for what
he had to do. Ralphy barely noticed the
heaving and splatter of Spode's insides.
The blood and bile were becoming a daily
occurrence and difficult for Spode to ignore.
He tried to remember the song, an old Rolling
Stones song that pretty much summed up his
life to this day. He snatched and jerked
for every inch and maneuvered back to his
space in the dirt. Spode plopped down with
a throaty breath of someone twice his age.
"Just can't seem to drink her off my
mind…" The song formed in his
head and on his lips. Ralphy did not appreciate
the rendition, nor the accompanying gust
of foul air.
"Man, you better get
over to the clinic, you been chuckin' blood
all over the place."
"Just marking my territory."
The evening wore on. The two
friends started telling stories with redundancy
that even the drink could not disguise.
After a short nap, the darkness became inviting
and the park became increasingly dangerous.
Drunk-rolling was more popular than baseball
in the South Chicago neighborhood. The Spode
felt sicker than usual and knew he had to
put something in his stomach other than
ethanol. They stumbled from the tattered
shelter on the back lots of Houston Playground,
heading south to East Hyde Park. There were
still a few diners that allowed them a seat
and a shared meal. Fewer still where the
cigarette smoke was so pervasive that the
ambient shroud of carcinogens masked the
smell the pair brought to an establishment.
The spot was simply called
Irv's, and it was a cross between a classic
kosher deli and greasy spoon. No Rabbi in
the modern world would verify the claim
that Irv's maintained a kosher kitchen,
but many of the old Jewish couples who frequented
the deli had little choice but to trust
the owner. Irv himself was anything but
Kosher. At five foot ten and over four-hundred
pounds, he waddled through the narrow aisles
of his restaurant, squeezing sideways and
often rearranging the place settings, in
use or otherwise, with his massive midsection.
The patrons either did not mind, found it
charming or, while in various stages of
altered consciousness, did not notice. The
Spode hated this practice. The plate flew
from the table, held clear in the Kid's
hands while the lumbering proprietor rubbed
by. The thought of Irv's belly coming into
contact with his food was one of the few
things the Spode found disgusting. It became
clear that Irv was wedging past the table,
in part, to harass the unwanted diners who
had overstayed their welcome by several
hours. A pair of french-fries on the scratched
china plate and the refills of water were
the only things between Spodiodi and Ralphy
and the door. They had enough money to pay
the five ninety-five, they just had no place
else to go. The next adventure would not
take place until eleven, when Ralphy's girlfriend
left work at the local pizza parlor to join
the boys for a nightcap. Ralphy saved the
bottom inch and a half from the Tanqueray
bottle for her. He knew it would not go
far, but she usually had a pocketful of
tips and Ralphy thought of it as priming
the pump until she would treat them at the
bar.
"Time for you boys to
finish up." The voice came from behind
Ralphy and drew closer, accompanied by the
scrap of stiff cotton and hairy flesh against
Formica. "You been taking up space
and fouling the air long enough. Pay up
and go!" Irv was approaching the booth
at a fast pace, fast for him. Spode picked
up the plate again. This time Irv snatched
it from his hand. The grease, layered from
several meals, lubricated the dish enough
to slide freely from Spode's fingers.
"Hey, man, we wasn't done with that!
I still got fries there!" Irv did not
look at the plate, it was doubtful he could
have seen its contents below his mounds of
fat. Still, he flipped the pair of fries into
Ralphy's lap.
"Now
you are finished! Pay your bill and get
out!" Irv's glimmering comb over and
gold-filled grin burned in Ralphy's eyes.
Spode could see his friend begin to lose
control and prepare to go into action. He
was one of the few who could stop Ralphy
from committing any number of felonies.
"Why you fat, vat o'
human slime-soap, don't you know I'll slit
your throat with a plastic spoon and feed
your carcass to the hogs at high noon?"
Ralphy lunged at Irv and got one thumb pressed
into his triple chin. Spode held the other
arm, just in time, as he tried to wrestle
the powerful attacker away from the fat
man. "Let me go, Spode, I'm through
with this gargantuan pig turd!"
"Ralphy! C'mon, man,
let go! You go back to jail you'll do a
quarter at least, you got priors, man!"
Ralphy thought about the time he spent inside.
He had seen it all, from a delinquent boy's
farm to county time. There were even nine
forgettable months in Joliet and he was
not about to let Irv send him back there.
His grip loosened and Ralphy fell back to
his seat.
"That's it! I'm sick of you stinking,
drunken Hitlerjugend! Leave my restaurant
and if you return, I call the copper, you
hear me!" Ralphy stood and stared the
fat man down. He squeezed down the isle until
he cleared Spode’s side of the booth.
Spode pulled his body out of the booth and
pushed Ralphy toward the door.
"Fuck you, you old beheyme!" Ralphy
spat at the restaurateur.
"You call me an animal?
It is you and your kind that ruin the neighborhood.
You and all the rest of the schwartze, the
shikers, the shaygetz! The whole lot of
you! You think you know my language, then
I know yours…go to hell, fucking assholes!"
Spode held onto Ralphy's arms and worked
him toward the door.
"You better watch yourself,
Irving, that's all I got to say." They
left the diner, but Ralphy's slow burn was
just beginning.
Jesse was in a foul mood. The last thing
she wanted to see was Ralphy and the Spode
sitting on the stoop of her apartment building.
Tips were low on this night and her boss
- a man in his thirties who still lived
with his mother and retained the youthful,
splotch filled face of an adolescent on
a diet of potato chips and chocolate - played
grab-ass with her all evening. Even the
bottom of the bottle of Tanqueray, reduced
by half and thick with backwash, was not
enough to convince her to join the fun.
After a screaming match that traversed three
flights of stairs, the couple compromised
and Ralphy stuffed Jesse's gift twenty in
his shirt pocket. Spode was happy with the
outcome. The last thing he wanted was another
night of witnessing domestic warfare just
so he could continue drinking whatever booze,
and consuming whatever drugs Jesse would
buy for the party. Spode found the couple
more than interesting: Jesse, a barely five-foot
tall strawberry blonde, and Ralphy, a hulk
with characteristics of both his white father
and Jamaican mother. In spite of the size
difference, Spode never saw a time when
Jesse was not on the dominant side of a
fight. Their confrontations were never physical,
but rather a twisted form of foreplay. They
were not shy about letting Spode stay in
her small apartment as the argument escalated
into serious sex, with Ralphy manipulating
his lightweight girlfriend in ways worthy
of Cirque Du Soleil.
Back on Drexel Avenue, Ralphy and Spode
decided that twenty bucks would not go far
at the bar. The Package store was closed
and the only options were diluted liquor
or high proof wine from the all night C-store.
Ralphy lobbied for the Mad Dog. Spode wanted
no part of it. He knew what Ralphy was like
on the chemically supplemented grape, as
he called it. But the big man insisted and
soon three bottles of wine and three Mounds
bars were in their hands. The topic of Fat
Irv would not go away. Ralphy drove himself
further into rage with each tip of the bottle.
"You know the only thing that fat fuck
cares about, don't you?"
"Just drop it, Ralphy. I ain't got
enough time to catch a train down to Joliet
to see your sorry ass in the lock up again."
Spode spoke through sickly sweet swallows
of the purple liquid. Some coconut stuck
in his diseased gums and he used a coke
spoon-length pinky fingernail to dig it
out.
"It's that fucking deVille, that's
all he cares about. You ever look inside
that barge? The front seat's almost in the
trunk, he got it pulled back so far. Probably
the only thing that'll fit his greasy tonnage."
Ralphy jerked the bottle to his mouth without
taking his eyes off the restaurant. They
were seated on the asphalt risers of an
empty parking lot behind the dry cleaner.
Spode was getting blurry-eyed. He started
laughing and coughing at the same time.
"The S.S. Fat Fuck! All aboard for
our nightly cruise, featuring 48-D man-titties
and a smell that'll melt lard!" He
barely got the insult out before leaning
over and throwing up.
"One good thing about drinking wine.
Can't tell how much blood's coming out of
your gut."
"We better move. Don't think I cleared
the parameter." Spode used his sleeve
to wipe away some of the black-red film
from his lips. Ralphy did not budge. His
gaze was fixed on the candy apple red Coup
deVille blocking the alley behind Irv's
diner.
"I got just the thing for that Buchenwald
bait." Ralphy reached into his denim
overalls and pulled out two, six-inch steel
ingots. Spode, swiveling slightly at the
waist, tried to focus on the items in his
friend's hand.
"What the fuck are those?"
"A little somein' somein' I keep
nearby, you know, in case I need to heavy
up a fist." Ralphy moved the ingots
closer to Spode's drifting line of sight.
"What are you going to do with those?"
"Not just me…
we." Ralphy jumped up on the heels
of his cowboy boots and grabbed the Spode
by the upper arm. Before he could object,
the Spode was on his feet, thick-lidded
and sloppy, looking in the general direction
of the Cadillac, but completely uncertain
what he was seeing. Ralphy pulled him straight,
using the loose waistband of his jeans like
the choke-chain on a stubborn, old hound.
"We gonna show him who he can push
around and who he can't. You ready?"
"Ready? Ready for what?" Spode
jerked his arm away and fixed wobbly legs
beneath him. "What are we going to
do?"
It started to rain.
There was not
much to the action. The two walked straight
to the car, Ralphy hunching his shoulders
against the light rain, Spode wavering,
weaving and watching for oncoming traffic.
The Cadillac was nearly wedged into the
alley; much like Irv shimmed his way through
the aisles of his restaurant, Ralphy thought.
The corner of the building gave Ralphy cover
until his partner made his way across the
street. When Spode was in place at the rear
windshield, Ralphy nodded his head and mouthed
a three count. Spode squinted and the reality
of what he was about to do sobered him,
almost immediately. He looked at Ralphy
and raised the tightly held steel ingot.
Spode turned his head and grimaced at the
thought of exploding glass and piercing
automotive alerts. Ralphy dropped his hand
and punched the ingot into the driver side
of the front windshield. Spode did the same,
but the ingot slipped from his hand and
fell through the window onto the back dash
of the luxury car. He turned to run, but
his hand was caught beyond the plane of
the conflated smashed safety glass. The
alarm sounded and Spode ripped the skin
of his thumb as he pulled his hand from
the window.
The next thing the Spodiodi Kid knew was
running, jumping and bleeding.
He knew many of the people who lived in
the three-story apartment units. Most wanted
nothing to do with him.
The rain was heavier; falling rods of painful,
cold liquid smacked the Spode's flattened
hair on the top of his head and gaunt facial
features. The act of running gave the rain
more power and aimed the projectiles into
his eyes and open chest. The pounding acted
as bronchial percussion, and actually made
breathing easier for the fleeing vandal.
Spode didn't care that he had committed
a crime. That was a part of everyday life.
He was concerned that the damage to Irv's
precious vehicle was an act of vengeance,
designed specifically to hurt someone and
nothing more. There was morality somewhere
inside the sodden soul of the man who had
children he never knew and parents whom
he had not seen in years. His survival on
the street was often articulated in a variation
of the golden rule: make do for others and
they'll make do for you.
Once more, he had broken that rule and
it was all because of Ralphy. Again. There
was no doubt in the Spode's awakening mind
that the meaningless crime would exact its
own form of retribution. He was not worried
about getting caught, though avoiding the
police spotlights and pursuit was his immediate
goal. The larger concern involved the good
favors he will miss because of the weakness
he showed four minutes earlier. Spode believed
in Karma and was certain that the only reason
he survived on the street was because he
seldom, if ever, broke the rule. This was
a test, he thought, and he failed.
The street was coming to a break in the block
of row apartments. There was a permit-only
parking lot at the end of the block. Spode
stopped and thought about how he could traverse
the open space. A glimmering black fire escape
provided the last refuge before the lot, but
it was no shelter from the rain. More water
collected on the thin iron strips and grates
of the building's exoskeleton and it poured
on the cowering Kid. There were plenty of
cars in the lot. The chest-high barriers could
provide cover, but he knew from experience
that the patrolman had the upper hand. He
wondered if they called out the K-9 unit.
The parking lot was full, as predicted, but
there was already activity in one of the forward
aisles, away from the upper floor windows
and out of sight from the street. A cruiser
was stopped, doors open and lightbar quiet,
except for the spotlight that illuminated
the two patrolmen standing fifteen feet away.
Spode could tell they were looking at something
on the ground, something or someone. Clacks
and plops of rain bouncing through gutters
and smashing into open pools obscured the
sound coming from the officers. They were
clearly yelling at the area around their feet.
Spode started to shiver uncontrollably. Equal
parts fear and cold from the rain jangled
every nerve and muscle in his body. One of
the patrolmen bent at the waist and with a
violent tug, returned straight in a fit of
rage. Water dripped from the brim of his cap.
The other uniformed officer - a much taller
man with a moustache - said something to his
partner. "Kill him…" The Spode
wasn't sure. He tried to process it again:
"You're gonna kill him…" was
more like the words competing with the rain.
"You pig mother fuckers!" Spode
shot straight up and into the light. The
last sound was unmistakable. It was Ralphy!
"Nigger, shut the fuck up!"
The smaller man threw his hip forward. Spode
did not need to see the leg, the foot, the
shoe go into his friend's ribs to feel the
pain. "Your ass is mine. I'll teach
you to run out here in this mess and get
me all wet. Now where is that slimy little
shit you hang with?"
"Fuck you!" The words pushed
out from convulsive agony. Spode saw the
scene grow larger and he felt the fire escape
retreat behind him. He didn't know what
was happening until the words left his mouth.
"Leave him alone!" He wondered
who was speaking. He knew the voice. It
was his! "I said leave him alone!"
The surprises kept coming, the newest one
being the heaviness in his right hand. There
was something there, he didn't know what
it was, but it felt menacing. Then, the
vibration, the sound and the fierceness
of his intent came clear. It was a steal
bar, five feet or longer, the kind used
to secure dumpster lids. Spode had no idea
from where the weapon had come, or what
force propelled it, denting the trunk of
one of the cars as he passed. He was still
not sure who was holding it. He was not
convinced it was he who confronted the two
armed men. Only when the service revolvers
left their holsters in leathery gulps, and
were trained on him did he realize what
was happening. It was too late, he had committed,
and there was no turning back. "You
gonna fucking shoot me, over a goddamn broken
windshield? Is that what you gonna do?"
"Put the bar down and hit the deck,
Spode. We don't want to hurt you?"
The taller man lowered his weapon and raised
an open palm.
"Come on, you greasy little puke,
come to papa. I'll get you real high."
The shorter patrolman placed the front sight
on Spode's upper right chest. He moved in
an exaggerated skip, throwing and scuffing
one foot along the wet pavement, accentuating
the threat.
"Come on, Marquette, the guy's out
of his mind, let's hook 'em up and get out
of the rain." The taller patrolman
moved closer to his partner, but not close
enough. Not soon enough.
"You want to put this pile of shit
on the back of the beat car? Don't think
so!" The round pierced Spode in the
neck, exploding through and mauling his
brain stem into wet potpourri. The sound
echoed and as quickly muffled in the rain,
but the Spodiodi Kid never heard it; he
was instantly free of pain. Marquette's
gun smoked from the bore and cylinder. Drops
of rain pinged from the barrel of the weapon,
as he watched the dead man jerk back and
fall. The pipe fell from the Spode's hand
to the ground with a hollow thud, then rolled
through the dirty water with a progressive
sparkling cadence.
"No!" Ralphy, leaning gingerly on
one elbow, screamed from the wet pavement.
The tall patrolman put a foot on his neck
and the prisoner dropped back prone, silent.
"What the fuck'd you do that for,
Marquette! He was no more threatening than
this lub here? What the fuck!"
"What's the story, Mick?" Marquette,
weapon still raised, watched the dead man's
legs unfold on the ground.
"What's the story? You fucking shot
an unarmed man, that's the story!"
Patrolman Molnar looked down at his prisoner
to make certain that the stress on his neck
was manageable. Ralphy’s head was
sideways in the flowing drain; water was
collecting with his labored breath.
"C'mon Mick, it's a righteous shoot.
The perp came at us with a fucking iron
pole. There was nothing I could do, protecting
ourselves. Right?" Marquette looked
back at his partner. The droplets bounced
from his Patten leather visor and splashed
into his nose and mouth, the checkered pattern
below the flared crown was stained with
rain. "Nothing else I could do, right?"
The words sputtered through the flow.
"We got a problem, Marquette."
Mick pointed at the man on the ground.
"Nobody gonna believe a fucking nigger
street scum." Marquette knelt down
and pressed the .38 hard up and in Ralphy's
nose. "Besides, you didn't see a fucking
thing, did you Ralphy?" Ralphy had
lost his glasses in the scuffle, but Marquette's
face was within his myopic range and he
could see the wild-eyed expression clear
as day.
"You one sick, crazy mother fucker!
You killed Spode!" Ralphy started to
cry. "You had no call to do that, sick
fuck, you killed Spode!"
"See, Mick, we got nothing to worry
about. Ralphy knows who his friends are,
don't you Ralphy?"
"You better put this on him."
Molnar pulled a .22 revolver from his ankle.
"An iron pole might not cut it with
the OIS team."
"Good idea, and just for good measure…"
Marquette put Ralphy's cuffed right hand
on the butt and trigger of the handgun.
"Make sure old Ralphy gets proper credit
for drawing down on a couple of cops. Officer
Involved Shooting team will have a field
day." Marquette moved to the body of
the Spodiodi Kid, wrapped his fingers around
the gun and stepped back. He took a survey
of the area and looked at the apartment
building closest to the parking lot to make
sure no one was watching. It appeared safe.
He stepped back to the other officer and
Ralphy, who had been lifted to his feet.
The two men towered over Marquette and he
did not like it. He took a knee and rammed
it into Ralphy's groin, buckling him over
and bringing him down to Marquette's level.
"You remember that, when they start
asking questions, Ralphy, and you remember
something else. No cop in this town's gonna
let some overgrown lawn jockey take down
one of their own. You say one word, other
than what we tell you, and you are just
another oil slick on the Calumet River."
Marquette put the heel of his black-gloved
hand against Ralphy's face and pressed his
chin into his jaw. "Do we read each
other, Ralphy?"
"I hear you…you sick mother
fucker."
Patrolman Mick Molnar and Patrolman Ray
Marquette were cleared of any wrongdoing
and found to have used appropriate deadly
force in apprehending the carjacking suspects.
Irv testified that he was in the vehicle
at the time of the assault. Ralphy was subject
to parole violations as well as his conviction
and began serving a full 25 years in the
State Penitentiary at Joliet.
Mick Molnar put in for a transfer and
was moved from the 2nd Wentworth district
to the 4th South Chicago police district,
where he later made detective. The transfer
was approved on October 1, 1986.
2:27am August 10 – 850
Crawford Circle,
Hyatt, Indiana
The Present
Before the nightmare began, Peter Janich
was ready for something else. Had he been
asleep, even soundly so, the strange noise
might have alerted him; might have saved
him. His eyes might have opened, and even
in his large and well-built home, a little
out-of-place sound would have signaled those
ancient, animal responses. But it was one
of those nights when he made a promise to
both people who shared this bed. Tonight
he would be a husband. More often than not,
lately, it was a shattered promise that
ended in either a less than enthusiastic
performance or abject failure. His wife,
Lani, had changed. So had he, but Peter
Janich was convinced that his change was
an improvement. One of the many lies with
which he lived over the past fourteen months.
Her change - by all accounts – was
for the better. She changed her appearance,
her habits and even the way in which she
caressed English with the inflective ballet
of her central European accent. She was
becoming a striking beauty and Peter secretly
appreciated the efforts, even if he suspected
it was not totally for his benefit. Peter
Janich learned early in life that an advantage,
no matter its origin or intended purpose,
was for the exploiting.
A footfall, soft in the darkness, at the top
of the stairs, went unnoticed.
Even before the nightmare, their sex was perfunctory.
There was no blaming the birth of their youngest
child, a son named Kyle; his birth was just
a silent convenience that lessened the dimming
intimacy. Six years is a long time for the
libido to take postpartum leave. Peter loved
his son, but hated the name. The choice was
Lani’s attempt to fit the wedge of upper
Middle America in which she and her family
were deposited: Family, Inc. That is how Peter
ran his home, as a subsidiary of the business
that made him comfortable. The family was
a microcosm of his life’s flowchart.
His wife was the comptroller; his older daughter
was the VP and heir apparent. In the beginning,
only Lani knew the charter and the mission
of the collection of offspring. Later, as
Peter’s business life shrank, the dictatorship
grew more oppressive. Naming his son Kyle
was a concession Peter offered his wife for
nothing special in return, just the thrill
of the negotiation. He lobbied for Abraham.
Not for the obvious tribute, but so that he
could shorten it to Bram while the child was
too young to protest. Peter Janich read few
books, and none that were not written by corporate
superstars or behavioral scientists. But he
did have one author who, from the time he
was a child, sent him to dark and wonderful
places. His name choice was an honorific nod
to that writer: the creator of The Vampire.
Lani objected to the name without knowing
her husband’s motives. She thought it
sounded too Jewish.
The door opened. Was it the kids? They know
better, Peter thought. It was the beginning.
Odd and colliding thoughts ran through his
head. Peppered with the expected response
- fight or flight, anger and fear - was an
amusement park ride that his oldest child,
Sue, begged him to take when she was younger.
It was a simple straight shot up and down,
more than two hundred feet in the air. The
stranger with the gun, standing in their bedroom
door, was like the climb to the top. The fact
that the man would use the gun, and kill them
all, was the plunge to the bottom. During
that treasured memory, that father-daughter
outing, Sue was both elated and terrified
alternating in a thirteen-year-old’s
randomness. This night, Peter mirrored that
range of emotion; elated in the anticipation
of drug store sex with his wife, and then
dropped, speeding and screaming toward certain
death. Figures!
Other odd thoughts steered Peter Janich from
the challenge of the moment and on to sex
and money. Why does nature play such tricks?
Peter’s dysfunction was not just while
in the arms of his wife. He had clear proof
that the problem, as cliché as it seemed,
was his. If anything, his closely held secret
should have fueled an erection for the prerequisite
twenty minutes and perhaps even a bonus of
additional surges that could, as once was
the norm, keep them active until dawn. Peter
stood on the edge of a perfect life. All he
had to do was step into it. He was even excited
to take his family to that fabled place. Perhaps
even his lover, if she would have him back.
He tried once before, but all he got was a
nickname, a tabloid headline and exile from
the business world. No! This was different.
This was brilliant. This was a sure thing.
But life was not supposed to be perfect, he
conceded. The threat in the doorway proved
that with so much silent awe as to freeze
the man, melt his erection and loose his bladder
all in one terrifying moment.
"I am not a killer, but I will kill.”
The couple, crumpled together in their king
sized bed, held sheets and blankets up to
their throats; held as a bulwark, as though
the soft fabric could stop a bullet. Urine
spread to her side and into the under bedding.
Their unblinking eyes were locked on the dark
figure just inside the doorway. Thin rectangles
of gray light streaked the bedroom walls,
slicing through the darkness from streetlights
lining the quiet cul-de-sac. The neighborhood
seemed anything but quiet in Peter’s
immediate thoughts. It was a personal horror
that was still unclear. All they saw was the
vague outline of a large handgun, held barrel
upward at the intruder's shadowy shoulder.
"I don't mean to cause you any trouble.
I'm not a killer." He spoke in hushed
but firm tones. "I'm just a little desperate."
Desperate? Peter found the word oddly out
of place. Desperate men snatch purses, or
smash car windows - the images of inner city
chaos slipped through his torquing consciousness
- they don’t walk into a man’s
bedroom in the middle of the night. Not in
Hyatt, Indiana!
Quiet little sobs started coming from Lani,
heaving against her husband's hip. Peter started
hyperventilating. It was an involuntary response
that embarrassed him, if only by the weakness
it displayed. Lani became aware of her husband’s
symptoms and the possibility that he could
succumb to the event with a medical emergency.
To her, that was the greater danger.
"Mister, you better calm down. This is
no way to show your woman how brave you are.
Like I said, I don't want to hurt you. We
have work to do and you can make it easy,
or hard."
"Take it easy, Peter, slow breathes…"
She was stroking his lower thigh and sniffing
back the tears. Lani Janich did not take her
eyes off the gun as she tried to relax her
husband. Peter Janich had a history of high
blood pressure. Doctors warned them that without
a change in habits, it was only a matter of
time. Peter worked his personal Zen to slow
his breathing and, he hoped, his heart rate
and blood pressure. It was a practice he learned
as a manager and master negotiator. It saved
his life once before and it would do it again,
at least for the moment.
The story
was not exactly the act of a desperate man,
as Peter suspected, but it was important
to Lani that it so appeared. Every action
had gelled in her mind twenty-four days
before this nightmare began. Every detail
was as vivid as the cup of coffee she stared
into on that quiet morning, the day the
final draft was completed and the events
set in motion. How could this be anything
but a serious crime? How could this be anything
but a desperate stranger picking their home
from the half dozen or so on the quiet cul-de-sac?
How could anyone suspect that we were anything
other than unfortunate victims of a sensational
abduction and armed robbery? She continued
to predict, to form the details of that
night in her mind and on the yellow legal
pad in front of her.
As the episode went, really went, Lani
stuffed the urge to cry as far inside as
she could. The man in the door was firm,
but somehow not as threatening as when he
invaded their sanctuary mere moments before.
"How did you get in here? Who are you?
What do you want?" Peter's voice was
hoarse, but determined.
"Keep your voice down!" The shadow
spoke with a jerk.
Lani knitted her brow at the command. Not
'Shut up!' or 'Shut the fuck up!' but an almost
polite request. Would this be a problem? He
should be meaner! "Please, take what
you want, but leave us alone." Lani pleaded.
She sniffed the air, half to draw in the fluids
coming from her nose and half instinctively
sensing the danger. The stranger in her room
brought an unexpected clean smell, a new smell
of a fresh shower and clean clothes. It was
just out of place enough and powerful enough
to mask the slight ammonia vapor rising from
beneath them.
"I’ll take what I’m here
for, don’t worry about that. But you
two are gonna help me." Again, he was
almost polite, too polite.
"Help? Just take the money, the jewelry
and get out of my house!" Peter was feeling
emboldened by the intruders initial lack of
hostility. His training supplanted his fear.
Outrage supplanted submission. The experienced
manager of people, places and things was rising
from the shadows to confront the armed intruder.
The sudden motion toward the edge of the bed
startled Lani.
“Peter, don’t! He has a gun…the
children. Think of the children.” Another
crinkle in Lani’s yellow pad plans from
days previous, but this one was expected,
even anticipated, if not by everyone who had
previewed the play.
Peter thought of his children, those little
people he hardly knew. It was the work, the
joy of the hunt, that had taken him away from
their growth and silliness.
"Mister, I read somewhere that you can
get more with a simple prayer and a loaded
gun than you can with a simple prayer alone.
What I have here is cocked and locked and
capable of scrambling you and your wife's
brains in about a half a second. Trust me,
I will if I have to." Peter let out a
labored breath, but somehow he believed the
voice coming from the darkness. It did not
matter.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Peter forced a rapid recovery. “What
are you, some kind of movie bad guy? Get the
fuck out of my house!”
"Who-ah you? What do you want from us?"
Lani realized it was a stupid question; it
almost did not escape her throat. Fear brought
back her mother tongue and it required her
decades old Serbian to English mental translator.
Svetlana Janich, Lani to anyone who knew her
longer than a few seconds, was not easily
frightened. It was her show, but she was still
frightened. Lani tried to see the intruder
as her husband saw him: not very tall, maybe
5'7" or 5'8". The hood on the black
sweatshirt was pulled tight with a drawstring
and covered much of his face. His black pants
had bulky pockets mid thigh. A type of cap
further obscured his features. Every detail
of the actual event was important. Believing
was the best way to disguise a lie.
She became lost in the self-cast role and
felt real fear, real panic and very real danger.
"Now." The intruder lowered the
weapon, but still did not point it at the
couple, "lady, I want you to slowly crawl
out of the bed…"
Lani did not move. She remained frozen in
the same panicked position she was thrown
into when the event began. She blinked back
tears and whispered, "You want me to
get up?"
"That's right, slowly get out over here.
And mister, I don't know if you have a weapon
over there or not…"
"I don't… just don't hurt her!"
Peter's tone softened with the realization
that his wife had been ordered closer to the
danger. It was not concern for her so much,
but he knew if something happened to her,
he was next.
"I said no one gets hurt if you do what
I say. Let's go lady." The figure made
a slight side-to-side movement with the handgun.
Lani Janich pulled the cover up above her
body and slid a leg toward the edge of the
bed. She did not take her eyes off the deadly
weapon in the intruder's hand. Once she was
on her feet, he slowly moved his free hand
toward her. "Easy. I know you're scared."
Lani found herself beginning to trust the
voice just a little. She moved away from the
bed and allowed the gloved hand to guide her
by the shoulder.
Facing her husband, she could see his face,
a pallor of pale blue in the filtered outside
light. She tried to look calm. "I'm okay,
Peter…"
"Listen to me carefully, Pete."
Janich bristled at the intruder’s presumption;
no one ever calls me ‘Pete’.
"I want you to slowly, I mean inch by
inch climb out and come around to the foot
of the bed." The figure rested his gun
arm on Lani's shoulder, still not aiming the
weapon, but increasing the threat.
Peter looked to the spot where he was directed,
then back at his wife. He took a deep breath
and began to raise the covers. “Can
I put my pants on?” The gunman remained
silent, but waved the weapon again. Peter
slid his pajama bottoms over wet thighs. Without
taking his eyes off of the threat, Peter made
slow, deliberate steps toward the foot of
the bed. A deep breath helped him square his
shoulders. “Don’t call me Pete,
you little shit.” Peter Janich stood
and waited.
Hyatt Police Detective Gregory Flowers
arrived at 830 Crawford Circle, the address
found on Lani Janich. Sue Janich was freshly
showered, but still in her nightclothes
and robe. Not unusual for the early hour,
what was odd was her reaction to a police
detective ringing the bell just after dawn:
there was no reaction. He asked for Mrs.
Svetlana Janich, knowing the lady of the
house was not at home. The technique was
intended to avoid alarming the teenager.
"Miss Janich, can we sit down for
a few minutes?" Detective Flowers tried
to hide his boredom with the call. He was
equally bored with first blush of the case:
rich housewife, too much free time and a
friendly doctor with a liberal prescription
policy. The stifled yawn was certainly suitable
for the early hour. Maybe I can get a cup
of coffee in a designer kitchen. Still,
there was a problem with this family and
his experience dictated the necessary steps.
One of the more important procedural imperatives
was to determine as much as he could about
the family before revealing too many facts.
"Sure. And I'm Sue…everybody
calls me Sue. And my mom is Lani, but she’s
not here right now." She motioned toward
the breakfast bar in the kitchen.
Coffee! Flowers leaned his forearms on
the salmon colored stone counter, fingers
knitted; he took in as much of the room
as he could. The Janich home was a large,
five-bedroom Normandy style house, with
a gray slate roof and khaki colored stucco
inside dark brown half-timbering. The kitchen
was especially large with vaulted ceilings
and two cream colored ceiling fans. Through
a six panel French door, just beyond a bleached
oak dinette with seating for six, was the
family room with pale oak trim and durable
patterns on over-stuffed sofa and love seats.
A large burgundy leather recliner was positioned
so that a rainbow of light from the beveled
bay windows would stream over the shoulder
of anyone seated. There was a small Playskool
desk in the corner. Everything hinted the
same pale oak, a deliberate feng shui that
flowed from family room to kitchen. Flowers
thought about some of the discussions he
and his wife had about decorating. Cindy
was big on wind and water concepts. He was
glad she hadn't seen this place.
"You want some orange juice? I would
offer coffee, but I'm not too good at making
it yet.”
No coffee! Flowers did not disguise his
disappointment.
“Dad usually leaves some in the
thermos for mom if he goes out early. I
really don't know why he didn't today. Maybe
because he knew she would be going out early,
too. Maybe they went out together…"
The young girl stopped milling around and
stood at the sink looking out on the backyard.
Flowers could see the uniformed officer
through the wide deck doors, kneeling near
the driveway that terminated with a large
carefully planted perennial garden. "It's
not like her to leave without waking us
up, I mean we don't have to get up early
for a couple of weeks, when school's back
in but, like, shaa! There are little kids
here. Am I supposed to do everything?"
The detective let the teenager vent. With
one famous exception, his first case, Greg
Flowers' experience as a detective in the
quiet suburban village routinely involved
delinquent teens and abusive spouses, but
he kept up with investigative techniques.
Once a monologue had begun, deception was
very difficult to maintain in the free flow
of consciousness. Sue Janich stopped talking
when she noticed Officer Ken Johnson, who
accompanied Flowers on the call, looking
in the garage door windows. The Janich house
had a four-car garage that was hidden from
the street.
"What's he doing out there?"
Sue was annoyed and curious, fueled by her
protective nature. She was the adult of
the house while her parents were away. "I
mean, do you guys want me to open the garage
or something?" She directed the question
over her shoulder to Detective Flowers.
"Oh! I can do it if you show me where."
The detective stood. I’m from the
government; I’m here to help.
"Right through that door. Hey! You
want to tell me what's going on? Cops at
the door… my folks not home…what’s
up, anyway?"
Sue Janich stutter-stepped behind Flowers.
The detective seemed to know where to go
and found the door that connects to the
garage. Sue tipped-toed and jumped little
jumps to see inside the garage. She gave
out an abbreviated yell before covering
her mouth.
"Something wrong?" Flowers looked
back at the teen as he pressed the doorbell
style button. The large vinyl and wood door
began to rise.
"The cars! They are both here! Daddy
always drives if he has someplace to be
in the morning. And mom wouldn't go anywhere
without driving." Sue Janich looked
at Flowers' profile. They stepped into the
spacious garage occupied by a Lexus 400
sedan and a Lexus SUV, both black. A chin
motion toward Officer Johnson prompted the
patrolman to check the vehicles.
"Maybe we'd better go inside."
Sue Janich's wide, hazel-green eyes clouded
with tears. She still had her hands cupped
together just below her bottom lip.
"What is happening?" She whispered.
"Where are they?” The young voice
went to full volume. “Why are you
here!"
7:14am: St. Margaret's Trauma Intake Ward
Hammond Indiana
The emergency room staff was accustomed
to psychiatric trauma being the rule rather
than the exception. An otherwise normal
white female in her 40's, brought in by
EMS and the Hyatt Police wearing only her
nightgown and a man’s blazer, was
like someone announcing cake in the break
room. The patient, found despondent and
non-communicative in the town square, had
the appearance of a person caught in an
instant of contemplation and contentment.
Lani Janich drew a small crowd.
The results from routine tests were already
coming in. Mrs. Janich's tox-screen was
negative for most drugs favored by the middleclass.
Doctors observed the patient and the cluster
of lights, digital readouts and electronic
waveforms on the array of machines that
lined her curtained queue. All the monitors
indicated a perfectly normal woman, healthy
and active. The psychiatrist pulled a penlight
from her white smock pocket and checked
Lani's pupils for a second time. "Mrs.
Janich?" She leaned forward against
the aluminum guardrail. "Mrs. Janich
can you hear me?" Nothing.
A notation was made. The evidence matched
the trauma specialist’s instincts:
For reasons yet determined, the early morning
admission was hiding in plain sight.
Detective Flowers and Sue Janich were seated
at the large dinette table while Officer
Johnson sat behind the detective at the
breakfast bar. There was still a chance
that this was nothing but a series of family
miscues, but there were questions unanswered
and a despondent mom in the trauma center
at St. Maggie's.
Sue’s pleading eyes locked on the
man in the suit. Flowers scratched his head
and padded the breast pocket of his jacket.
No notebook, some cop you are!
"Are your brother and sister upstairs?"
Flowers reached an arm to his side and made
a moving pencil motion to Johnson. The officer
pulled his logbook from his back pocket
and began taking notes.
"Yes, I'm sure Kylie is up…"
She threw a half closed hand toward the
family room directly behind her. "He's
probably in there watching us right now."
Britny could be still asleep, but I doubt
it. She takes forever in the bathroom, I
have to share it with her, it's a pain…"
Sue could not muster much enthusiasm for
the complaints about her kid sister. Summer-tanned
arms folded across the brown and pink ‘Hello
Kitty’ tee shirt. Flowers looked past
her and spotted her baby brother’s
listening post.
"Hi, there. You must be Kylie."
Flowers grinned at the little boy. He reminded
him of his son Gerrod, who was just turning
five and a half.
"Kyle!" The little boy's voice
shot out of the family room.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Kyle it is…"
Flowers’ daddy instincts kicked in.
"You know, I have a little guy about
your age at home."
"I'm six! I turn six on…"
The little boy looked at his sister. Sue
was turned sideways in the kitchen chair
watching her little brother.
"Sunday. You'll be six on Sunday,
we're going to have a big party, remember?"
"Yeah! We're gonna have cake and
hats and magicians and I’m getting
a bike, huh, Suzy?" Kyle stepped from
his hiding place, sending the expectation
of a child’s party halfway across
the room with a wide smile.
"Sounds like lots of fun! I have
a little boy about your age, maybe we can
come to your party?" Kyle watched his
sister.
"If Suzy says it's okay, it's okay
with me." He puffed out his small chest.
"Kylie go watch TV in my room."
Sue Janich intervened, "and tell Nee-Nee
to stay with you for a while. Kyle stood
frozen for three seconds, then broke into
a dead run, shouting all the way.
"Nee Neeee! Sue said you have to
watch TV with me!” The first grader's
voice trailed off up the stairs and into
the interior sections of the spacious home.
"You probably help out a lot with
your brother." Flowers said.
"I should be paid for all I put up
with from those two." Sue saw Johnson
writing something in his book. "I mean,
mom is in charge and everything, but I'm
the oldest and they think they have a built-in
baby sitter."
"I had little brothers and sisters,
I know what you mean." Johnson, studying
the detective’s skill, wrote the words
'show empathy' in the margins of the page.
"So, tell me about last night. Was
there anything out of the ordinary?"
Sue Janich used three crooked fingers
to pull the hair from her eyes and hook
it behind an ear. "No. I was on the
computer 'til about eleven when Dad came
upstairs and told me to get off." She
formed the memory with annoyance. "Mom
was already in her room. I think she was
reading or something." She dropped
a hand hard to the tabletop. "You know,
I should call Billy…Uncle Bill, that's
my mom's brother. He might know something."
"Why's that?" Greg raised his
eyebrows slightly.
"I don't know, he's like, part of
the family. He usually knows if something's
up." The policemen shared a knowing
glance. Johnson slid his logbook across
the table.
"What's your uncle's name and phone
number?" Flowers tapped the book and
handed her a pencil.
"It's Bill, I mean Bilos Kradich."
She pronounced her uncle's name as she wrote,
'Beel-Osh Kra-deech,'. The central European
accent seemed to come from nowhere.
"Bill 'Crash’ Kradich? The
talk show guy on KCI?" Johnson caught
himself sounding like one of the familiar
slogans for the Chicago evening talk show.
"That your uncle?" Flowers reserved
his opinion until he could gauge Sue's reaction
to the officer’s approval of her uncle's
celebrity.
"Yeah, I never listen to him, it
is sooo boring, all they do is talk. He’s
got these lame voices and bogus stories.
I mean who wouldn't know that's him pretending
to be all those creepy people?"
"That's him! All of them?" Ken
Johnson was genuinely surprised.
"Most of them. I'd like it better
if he'd play some Pink sometimes. He actually
did that for me once, play a song. I think
he got in trouble." Sue perked up.
"I swear he and my mom are like best
friends. How weird is that? I can barely
stand the kids in this house, let alone
consider them my friends!"
Flowers smiled at the reference to her
sister and brother as 'the kids’.
It was clear she already identified more
with her uncle, who Flowers guessed was
younger than her mom. The connection reminded
the detective of why they were there.
"Sue, we found your mom this morning.
Now she's alright…" Flowers saw
the news was a shock to the teen, as expected,
so he quickly completed the thought. "She
wasn't hurt as far as we can tell."
"Mom! But,
where?" Sue Janich barely got out the
beginnings of each word.
"She was in the square by the gazebo,
but she's okay, she wasn't injured."
"Then where is she? Why didn't you
bring her home?" Tears welled in Sue
Janich's eyes.
"Has your mom been worried about
things, maybe taking something to help her
sleep?" The detective’s voice
was calm and low, in case the younger kids
were within earshot.
"No! She's fine, I mean she takes
vitamins and supplements, but that's to
help her with her workouts and stuff around
the house." Sue spoke through streams
of tears and a runny nose. Flowers grabbed
a napkin from the lazy Susan in the middle
of the table and handed it to her. She wiped
her eyes, then her nose, and then blew her
nose in two little puffs.
"Has your mom ever been known to
sleep-walk?" It was one of those stupid
questions they had to ask, Greg Flowers
