Michael Harvey - The Chicago Way

Diane kept her eyes focused on Rodriguez.

“And it won’t be a death case,” she said. “No matter what.”

Rodriguez shook his head from side to side. Just once.

“Probably not.”

“So if you find him,” Diane said, “you want to kill him.”

The detective looked up. Slowly, inevitably.

“If the DNA comes back a match to Pollard, I roll on the arrest. Alone. Whatever happens, happens.”

Diane reached out and touched his knee.

“Can you live with it?”

Rodriguez nodded.

“Fair enough,” she said. “If that’s how it happens, no one will ever be the wiser. At least not from me. Story is big enough as it is. He was killed resisting arrest. Now, how do you plan on getting his DNA?"

Think this guy knows he’s being followed?” Rodriguez said.

It was just past eight o’clock at night. We were in my car, cruising north on Western Avenue. Pollard had just left a Capt’n Nemo’s, where he’d consumed a roast beef sub, chips, and a diet iced tea. At the end of the meal he’d smoked a cigarette and watched the traffic move by. Then he’d picked up the used butt, his sandwich wrappings, and the empty iced-tea bottle. Had taken the whole thing back to his scratched-up green Pontiac and dumped it into the backseat.

“I think he’s cautious,” I said.

“He’s our guy.”

The detective was getting antsy. We had been tracking Pollard for four days. Each was pretty much the same. A ten-minute drive to work at a local car wash. Lunch at the McDonald’s. Once again, Pollard would pick up all his trash and head back to work. At night he would leave his house just after eight. Then it was a careful dinner, followed by a slow cruise down one of the city’s prostitution strolls. Pollard would stop and watch but never buy anything. I was waiting for another dumpster dive. If nothing else, it would break the routine.

“Why don’t we creep his house?” I said.

On one level, it made sense. If this guy was never going to trial, how we got his DNA didn’t really matter. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure Rodriguez had the stomach for killing Pollard. In that case, a legally obtained sample of his DNA would be essential for court.

“Let’s try to keep it legal,” Rodriguez said. “For now.”

I shrugged. Pollard found his way south and jumped on the expressway.

“He’s headed south,” Rodriguez said and looked over. “Gotta be Cal City.”

We drove another five miles. Pollard got off the highway two exits before Calumet City and cruised through another industrial park. It was dark now. No hint of a moon.

“This isn’t right,” Rodriguez said.

“Maybe it’s the dumpster tonight,” I said.

The tail was harder here. No cars on the road. Nowhere to hide. I pulled back another hundred yards. Ahead, Pollard’s blinker indicated a left. I followed and almost ran right up on the Pontiac. Our suspect was outside of the car, sitting on his back fender. Smoking a cigarette. Enjoying the night.

“I assume you guys are cops.”

Pollard was talking before we even got out of the car.

“Picked up on you yesterday,” he said. “How long you been following?”

I held up four fingers.

“Four days, huh? You guys are pretty good.”

Rodriguez moved slightly behind and to Pollard’s left. He undid the clasp on his. 40 caliber and kept his hand there. Pollard kept talking.

“You know, the feds used to send guys out. For a week, first week of April. Never knew why. They’d follow me around, take pictures, video. One year I brought them out a pizza on the last day. You guys like pizza?”

Pollard’s face was cast in shadow by the arc of an overhead streetlight. He squinted a bit and angled his head to look at me. Rodriguez was just out of his line of sight. That bothered Pollard.

“By the way, my name is Daniel Pollard. Sorry, but I don’t shake hands.”

He laughed, a little too high, a little too long.

“Epithelial cells from the skin. All us bad guys watch CSI, you know.”

I brushed eyes with Rodriguez, who gave the slightest of nods. I slid down on the bumper. Pollard took another drag on his cigarette. I noticed his fingers were brown with nicotine.

“Don’t want anyone to have a look at your DNA, Daniel? Why would that be?”

“First name. Very good. Establish a bond with the suspect. You have a warrant?”

“You know we don’t.”

“Then piss off.”

Another laugh. The hand holding the butt was in a steady state of quiver.

Rodriguez came in from the side, pulled Pollard off the car, and pressed the gun under his throat.

“Maybe we’re the sort of cops that don’t need a warrant.” Rodriguez spoke softly. “Maybe we don’t even need any DNA.”

Pollard tried to get a look behind him, but Rodriguez kept the gun tight at his neck. Pollard’s eyes rolled back toward me. I avoided him and thought about Nicole.

“Go ahead,” Pollard said. “Do us all a favor. Then they can own you for a while.”

The gun shivered just a bit. If I waited, if I didn’t say a word, Rodriguez might do it. I thought that, believed it. Then I spoke.

“Who are ‘they’?” I said. “Who owns you?”

Pollard blinked, as if seeing me for the first time.

“Let me guess,” Pollard said. “He showed you his paintings, right? Then he showed you the Sun-Times clipping. Wrapped it up all nice and neat, did he? Well, they should have figured on it. That’s not my fault.”

“You still talk to Grime?” Rodriguez said.

“He’s there every time I turn out the light,” Pollard said. “How about you?”

The detective dropped his gun and released Pollard.

“Let’s go,” he said and walked away.

Pollard sat back on the hood of the Pontiac. He was still there as I put the car into gear and drove into the night.

“We don’t know it all yet,” Rodriguez said.

“No shit, Detective. We don’t hardly know half of it. That’s what I thought we were trying to find out.”

“Pull over here,” Rodriguez said.

I pulled well off the road and shut off my headlights. The car ticked softly as we waited.

“This looks like the only road out.” The detective’s voice felt tight, a current of uncertainty rolling just underneath.

“Let him come by,” he continued, “then we pick up the tail again.”

“Why?” I said.

“He talked about ‘them.’ Who do you think he was talking about?”

I thought I knew who Pollard was talking about. Rodriguez was smart. I figured he had an idea as well.

“Whoever killed Nicole somehow got into the crime lab,” I said. “If it was Pollard, he had to have help. Had to.”

“From inside the police department?”

“That’s one possibility.”

“There are others,” Rodriguez said.

Just then a set of headlights flickered behind us. Pollard slowed, gave us a wave as he cruised by.

“Know what I’m thinking?” I said.

“What?”

“We need a new car.”

“Yeah.”

“Then what?” I said.

“We creep his house,” Rodriguez said.

“For DNA?”

“Fuck the DNA. He did it. We need to find out who else is inside his head.”

Two hours later, we had traded my car for Rodriguez’s black SUV. Not as anonymous as a ’93 Olds, but then again, we weren’t working a tail anymore. Now we were simply breaking and entering.

“You ready?” I said. Rodriguez nodded.

We were sitting across from Portage Park, around the corner from Pollard’s house. His driveway was empty, lights off. Once Pollard was out, he usually stayed out. I figured we had a good hour or two to look around. The detective looked edgy.