Dan O'Shea - Penance

“So where do you want to go with this? I mean, you start rattling those cages, we both better get our Kevlar shorts on cause somebody’s gonna try to rip our nuts off.”

“I know. Don’t even know if there’s anything there. But what am I supposed to do, not look?”

“Nobody’s saying don’t look. Just look careful.”

Lynch nodded. “Slo-mo around?”

Shlomo Bernstein was a new detective in the district. Came from a rich family on the North Shore, decided he wanted to be a cop when he was six. Parents humored him. When he wanted to go to the academy out of college — summa cum laude from Princeton — his dad made him a deal. Do graduate school. Keep your options open. If you still want to be a cop, fine. So Shlomo took second in the MBA class at the U of C in about ten months and went straight to the academy. Made detective in record time. Probably be commissioner in another six, seven weeks.

Starshak called out into the room. “Slo-mo, my office.”

Bernstein was about five-six, needed his boots and winter coat to go to one hundred and fifty. Good looking guy, though. Very sharp dresser, like some junior-sized male model.

Bernstein walked in the office and looked at the plane in the case.

“Condor, right? Focke-Wulf 200?”

Starshak smiled. “Yeah. Just finished it.”

“You went with the Arctic markings. What, the Murmansk run?”

Starshak laughed. “Bernstein, why don’t you get your ass on Jeopardy , make a couple million? Say, what’s on your plate right now? You got time to help Lynch with this Marslovak thing?”

Bernstein’s eyes lit up like a fourteen year-old finding his dad’s Playboy stash. “Hell, yes. What do you need?”

“Couple of things,” Lynch said. “First, looks like our guy took the shot from better than seven hundred yards. Can’t be too many guys around can put a hole through somebody’s heart from that distance. Get me some background, see what you can find.”

“Like Wimbledon Cup winners, that sort of thing?”

“This ain’t tennis,” said Starshak.

“Wimbledon Cup is the national thousand-yard shooting championship,” said Bernstein.

“Jesus, Slo-mo,” said Lynch. “You got a long gun at home? I gotta put you in the mix for this?”

Slo-mo shrugged. “Just read it somewhere.”

Lynch shook his head. “OK, the other thing. Unlimber that underpaid MBA brain of yours. Take a look at MarCorp, last few years. See if something jumps out at you, somebody that might want to come back at Eddie Marslovak. Somebody that would know where to find this kind of talent.”

“OK. Am I gonna get in the field on this at all, or are you gonna keep my ass parked behind the computer all day?”

“Who knows, Slo-mo. Find me something nice, and I might take you out for ice cream later.”

“Yeah, yeah. Gonna get calluses on my ass. Could have done that at Merrill Lynch for another couple hundred grand a year. All right. I’ll see what I can get. Then I’ll go home, dust my gun.”

“Tell you what, Slo-mo. You get me something nice, and, after ice cream, how about we go roust some bad-ass homies, tune em up a little, maybe cap some nines on their asses?”

Slo-mo smiled. “Double dip, Lynch, with sprinkles. Then we go roust some goyim.”

Back at his desk, Lynch found a stack of messages. Mess of reporters. Two messages from crime scene, one from McCord, all three marked urgent. He called McCord’s cell.

“What do you got?” Lynch asked.

1971

Hastings Clarke lived in one of the older high-end buildings along Lake Shore Drive, just north from Oak Street Beach. Dark paneling, heavy furniture, thick oriental carpets.

“Nice place, Mr Clarke,” Declan Lynch said as Clarke ushered him in.

“Thank you,” said Clarke. “And please, call me Hastings. How can I help? I’m very anxious for David’s killers to be found.”

“Let’s start with the obvious, given the ugly nature of the crime scene. Was David getting any threats?”

“David could be very forceful discussing the issues — you’ve seen that. But he was also a very fair-minded man. You’ve heard what he’s had to say about his father’s politics, yet his father and that whole political machine enthusiastically supported him. I couldn’t have imagined anyone wishing harm to David — he devoted so much of himself. Still, something like this happens, and then you start to think…”

“Think about what?”

“Detective, you understand what a volatile issue race is in this city, hell, in this country. And David was one of the few honestly race-blind people I have ever known. Absolutely without prejudice. A close friend of Dr King’s, in fact. That was central, vital, to his campaign. I think that’s what gave him the moral authority to speak out against some of the more radical elements in the colored movement. There were a few people, a very small minority, on the fringes of that movement who resented him — some, in fact, who I believe find exacerbating racial strife to be in their best interests. We did get some ugly mail — calling David just another white massuh, that kind of thing — from those people.”

“Anyone in particular come to mind?”

“There’s a group called the AMN Commando, AMN standing for Any Means Necessary. A lot of its members used to be associated with Fred Hampton and the Panthers. And I want to make it clear, detective, that I am not equating the two. Hampton may have been a polarizing figure, but he did a lot of good for his community. His extra-judicial murder — and I know that may offend you as a policeman in this city, but that’s what it was, and David agreed with me on that — that’s driven some in the Negro community in dangerously radical directions.”

“So you think these AMN guys are worth a look?”

“I didn’t say that, detective. You asked about threats, and I wanted to be up front with you. My real fear, to be honest? The mayor, Riley, men like that, they’ll seize on this to push their agenda, solve their problems. I hate to inject race into David’s murder when he’s been such a champion of the colored community. That the bigot element might seize on David’s death for their own ends, that would be intolerable.”

“That why you’re thinking of running? I hear maybe you’re throwing your hat in the ring.”

“It is a consideration. I will wait and see who the Hurleys bring forward. But I am committed to seeing David’s ideals represented in this election. I am willing to make that sacrifice if necessary.”

Sacrifice, Lynch thought to himself. The bullshit you had to listen to out of these people. “OK, let’s change gears here a bit. Can you tell me what David was doing at Stefanski’s? Can you fill me in on the timing there?” Lynch watching Clarke, seeing a little tightening around the eyes during the question.

“The mayor wanted David to talk with Stefanski about some local political issues. Let’s face it, as much as David was committed to change, he understood he needed to be elected if he wanted to change things. He couldn’t ignore the Democratic machine’s ability to deliver votes. It’s my understanding that Stefanski was the connection to some of the city workers that drive turn-out efforts. As distasteful as David found some of the local politics, at least he grew up in this climate. He knew these men, even if he didn’t always approve of them. He had a way of pressing his concerns without damaging those relationships. So he met with Stefanski regularly. I did not attend those meetings. My presence in certain circles seems only to inflame things.”

“So David was spending a lot of time with Stefanski?”