Dying in the Post-War World

16

Cops in uniform, and plainclothes too, were waiting at the hospital when I deposited Lapps at the emergency room. I didn’t talk to the kid after that, though I stuck around, at the request of a detective from Rogers Park.

The word spread fast. Dickinson, when he called it in, had spilled the Lipstick Killer connection. The brass started streaming in, and Chief of Detectives Storm took me off to one side and complimented me on my fine work. We decided that my visit to Lapps’ dorm room would be off the record for now; in the meantime, South Side detectives were already on the scene making the same discoveries I had, only with the proper warrants.

I got a kick out of being treated like somebody special by the Chicago police department. Storm and even Tubbo Gilbert were all smiles and arms around my shoulder, when the press showed, which they quickly did. For years I’d been an “ex-cop” who left the force under a cloud in the Cermak administration; now, I was a “distinguished former member of the Detective Bureau who at one time was the youngest plainclothes officer on the force.”

It soon became a problem, having the emergency area clogged with police personnel, politicians, and reporters. Lapps was moved upstairs, and everybody else moved to the lobby.

Dickinson, when he’d gone home, had taken time to get out of his trunks and into uniform, which was smart; the flashbulbs were popping around the husky, amiable patrolman. We posed for a few together, and he whispered to me, “We done good.”

“You and your flowerpot.”

“You’re a hell of cop, Heller. I don’t care what anybody says.”

That was heartwarming.

My persistent pal Davis of the News was among the first of the many reporters to arrive and he buttonholed me with an offer of a grand for an exclusive. Much as I hated to, I had to turn him down.

From his expression you’d think I’d pole-axed him. “Heller turning down a payoff? Why?”

“This is too big to give to one paper. I got to let the whole world love me this time around.” Most of the reward money — which was up to forty grand, now — had been posted by the various newspapers (though the city council had anted up, too) and I didn’t want to alienate anybody.

“It’s gonna be months before you see any of that dough,” Davis whined. “It’s all contingent upon a conviction, you know.”

“I know. I can wait. I’m a patient man. Besides, I got a feeling the A-1 isn’t going to be hurting for business after this.”

Davis smirked. “Feelin’ pretty cocky aren’t you? Pretty smug.”

“That’s right,” I said, and brushed by him. I went to the pay phones and called home. It was almost ten, but Peg usually stayed up at least that late.

“Nate! Where have you been... it’s almost...”

“I know. I got him.”

“What?”

“I got him.”

There was a long pause.

“I love you,” she said.

That beat reward money all to hell.

“I love you, too,” I said. “Both of you.”

I was slipping out of the booth when Lt. Kruger shambled over. His mournful-hound puss was twisted up in a grin. He extended his hand and we shook vigorously.

He took my arm, spoke in my ear. “Did you take a look at the letter in Lapps’ billfold?”

I nodded. “It’s his spare tire of an alibi. He told me ‘George’ did the killings. Is he sticking to that story?”

Kruger nodded. “Only I don’t think there is a George.”

“Next you’ll be spoiling Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny for me.”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s up to.”

“Oh? What is he up to, lieutenant?”

“I think it’s a Jekyll and Hyde routine.”

“Oh. He’s George, only he doesn’t know it. Split personality. There’s a post-war scam for you.”

Kruger nodded. “Insanity plea.”

“The papers will love that shit.”

“They love the damnedest things.” He grinned again. “Tonight they even love you.”

Chief of Detective Storm came and found me, shortly after that, and said, “There’s somebody who wants to talk to you.”

He led me back behind the reception counter to a phone, and he smiled quietly as he handed me the receiver. He might have been presenting an award of valor.

“Nate?” the voice said.

“Bob?”

“Nate. God bless you, Nate. You found the monster. You found him.”

“It’s early yet, Bob. The real investigation has just started...”

“I knew I did the right thing calling you. I knew it.”

I could tell he was crying.

“Bob. You give Norma my love.”

“Thank you, Nate. Thank you.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I just said, “Thanks, Bob. Good night.”

I gave a few more press interviews, made an appointment with Storm to come to First District Station the next morning and give a formal statement, shook Kruger’s hand again, and wandered out into the parking lot. Things were winding down. I slipped behind the wheel of Plymouth and was about to start the engine when I saw the face in my rearview mirror.

“Hello, Heller,” the man said.

His face was all sharp angles and holes: cheekbones, pock-marks, sunken dead eyes, pointed jaw, dimpled chin. His suit was black and well tailored — like an undertaker with style. His arms were folded, casually, and he was wearing kid gloves. In the summer.

He was one of Sam Flood’s old cronies, a renowned thief from the 42 gang in the Patch. Good with a knife. His last name was Morello.

“We need to talk,” he said. “Drive a while.”

His first name was George.