Dancing on Graves: The Nick Acropolis novels, #3

For

everyone at

the

Grafton Pub,

where parts of this book

were written.

Jennifer Dickson,

Stephanie Gohl,

&

Brooke Lautz,

might find

a bit

of themselves

in these

pages.

Dancing

on

Graves 

It was the winter of George Ryan. His single term as governor was about to expire and rumors were flying. One had him pardoning hundreds of convicted murderers. Another said he planned to close Death Row.

A week into the new year, I had visitors from the Center Against Injustice. This was one of the anti-death penalty groups whispering in Ryan's ear. But they hadn't come to deny or confirm rumors. They wanted to talk about Billy Mansfield. I'd helped put him on Death Row long ago, back in my days as a Chicago homicide detective.

Matthew Kellogg, a law professor, sat in a side chair asking questions while his digital recorder lay blinking on my desk top. Brooke, his student/assistant, was on the office sofa with her pen poised over a legal pad. It was a good interview technique and I'd used it myself from time to time. The person being interviewed was supposed to relax when the pen barely moved, and forget all about the recorder running just inches away.

Kellogg was 30 or a few years beyond. He was a bit below average height, a bit overweight, with pasty skin that was offset by the darkness of a five o'clock shadow. Whenever our eyes met, he looked away.

Brooke was years younger than her professor, but she wasn't afraid to make eye contact. Her eyes were brown. Her hair, long and blond. Her skin glowed with the brightness of youth. Her smile seemed genuine.

You know Catherine Traynor was in law school, too, I said. This was Billy Mansfield's victim.

That much we know, Kellogg said.

Traynor had been 31 years old back then, a single mom with a five year old. She worked full time at a Loop insurance company, then usually went straight to classes at John Marshall. Her parents, who lived one street over in suburban Oak Park, looked after her son on school nights.

She took the Congress line home one November night, riding with a classmate who lived in nearby Berwyn. They got off the train at Austin Boulevard, the dividing line between Oak Park and Chicago, then lingered for a few minutes, talking outside the station house. When they parted, the classmate went south, Traynor north.

A few minutes later, Billy Mansfield ran out of Columbus Park, straight into the path of a speeding taxi. The driver braked but not quick enough. Mansfield ended up unconscious and bloody in the middle of Austin Boulevard.

The paramedics were working on Billy when Catherine Traynor walked out of the park. She'd been stabbed more than 40 times. One eye was gone. But she managed to walk several hundred feet, to the edge of the crowd gathered around the flashing lights. Bystanders saw her coming and called for help. Traynor collapsed on the sidewalk.

The paramedics had already figured out that most of the blood on Mansfield wasn't his own. They left him where he lay, put Traynor in the ambulance and hurried up the street to West Suburban Hospital. It was much too late. It was a miracle she'd made it out of the park. But that was the last miracle Catherine Traynor ever got.

There wasn't much beyond that to tell my visitors. It didn't help that two decades had gone by. But even the day after the murder, they wouldn't have gotten much more.

You know what I liked about Billy? I said. He was one of the few guys never said he didn't do it.

We really don't know much about it, Brooke said. That's why we're here. But our director . . . Well, he pretty much said, we shouldn't even bother coming back if we hadn't talked to you.

We used to tell people, `The Lieutenant isn't going to like it if we don't get a statement,' I said.

This brought a lopsided grin to Brooke's face. So anything you can tell us would be a big help, she said, and she raised her eyebrows and the grin got a bit wider, then disappeared.

I shrugged. It was a paperwork case, I said. All we had to do was type up the report.

But you didn't have the murder weapon, Kellogg said.

No. I said. "And that might be a problem if the scene were indoors. Where could the knife have gone? But here we had this huge park with an interstate highway and a major thoroughfare running alongside. The knife could be up a tree. It could be on the top of a truck on the way to Montana. It could be down a sewer. Billy could have had it in his hand when he got hit by that cab. It could have ended up anywhere. Some punk could have walked away with it. It could be on a roof in Oak Park.

And we did have him fleeing the scene covered in the victim's blood. He carried a knife. The empty sheath was on his belt. He's a Vietnam vet so we assume he knew how to use it.

It was an upholstery knife, Brooke said. He used it at work.

A knife is a knife is a knife, I said. Plus, he had a previous rape conviction . . .

Statutory, Kellogg said.

The point is, he had a record. And there was stuff besides the rape. Yeah, most of it was penny ante if I remember correctly. But he wasn't any angel. And don't forget, the victim on the statutory rape was white, too.

"She was his high school sweetheart," Brooke said.

I shrugged. He had a thing for white women.

You're admitting that you didn't really investigate, Kellogg said.

Do you have any idea how many murders there were back then? They both shook their heads and I realized that I didn't, either. At one time I could have recited the grim statistics year by year. I'd been on the sidelines far too long.

Look, I said, Billy's answer to every question was `I don't remember.' That was his entire defense. But now our great governor decides he's got all these innocent men on Death Row, and just like that Billy's memory comes back.

It's a bit more complicated than that, Kellogg said.

I'm listening, I said.

I can't really . . . He stopped mid-stream then started again. I can tell you this. Our investigation was not initiated by William Mansfield.

Okay. So who did?

I'm afraid we can't divulge that information.

Why am I answering your questions if you're not gonna answer mine?

Let me ask you this, Kellogg said, and our eyes met and there was an edge to his voice. If Billy Mansfield had been white, do you think you would have investigated a bit more thoroughly?

Okay, that's it. I stood up, crossed the room and opened the door. Interview's over.

Brooke slipped her legal pad into her extra-large purse but Kellogg just sat there with a confused look on his face. I don't understand, he said.

Play that tape back, I said. You'll figure it out.

Look, I apologize . . .

I walked into the hallway, leaving the door open behind me. Nicholas Acropolis, Private Investigator, was written in black on the pebbled glass.

Brooke was the first one out. She gave me a friendly smile. It was nice meeting you, she said.

Kellogg came out with his briefcase in hand. I really am sorry, he said. I guess I . . .

I cut him off. Something I learned a long time ago, you can't insult people and expect to get answers out of 'em. You gotta pick one or the other.

I watched them walk away. Kellogg lugged the briefcase as if it were loaded with paving bricks.

They followed the bend in the hallway and disappeared beyond it and, before the elevator bell chimed, I regretted sending them away.

Every cop, or ex-cop, gets accused of being a racist now and then. It's as much a part of the job as a badge or a gun. I was surprised I'd let it bother me. Probably just showing off for the pretty college girl, I decided, and went back to my cave.

TWO

The next morning, I drove out to the Northwest Side—armed with coffee, pastries, and the morning Sun-Times —and parked across from the local 7-Eleven. The sun was shining but the cheerful man on the radio said if we were lucky it might reach 20 degrees.

My car was a battered wreck from rent-a-dent. The passenger seat was a mess of yesterdays' newspapers, crumbled fast food wrappers, and discarded coffee cups. The heater blew lukewarm air that came with a whiff of exhaust. The windows were open just enough to let the fumes out and a touch of crisp January air in.

Nothing was happening at the 7-Eleven. That was my entire report after three days on the job. Cars pulled into the parking lot. Cars pulled out. Traffic passed on Irving Park Road and on Central Avenue. Beyond the intersection, Portage Park was dotted with patches of snow. A fat squirrel trotted along the archway above the entrance, then leaped to a tree and disappeared.

Back in high school, I'd frequently transferred buses at this very corner. But I couldn't remember what had predated the 7-Eleven. I could barely recall that old city. So why did I keep telling myself it had been so much better?

Trolley buses had once run on both streets. You could close your eyes and listen for the distinctive whine of the vibrating power line, which preceded the actual bus by blocks.

Of course, anytime I closed my eyes back then, if I wasn't dreaming of girls, I was dreaming of having my very own car. What could be better than not waiting for the bus? Well, maybe taking a pretty girl for a ride and then pulling over somewhere to park and talk.

I doubt that I ever imagined spending days on end, sitting all alone in a rented mess, poisoning myself with cigarettes, coffee, and junk food. What kid could dream up a life that odd?

Before I could get too far in my reminiscing, the radio buzzed with excitement: And now we go live to DePaul University and Governor George Ryan. The 7-Eleven was so boring, I actually boosted the volume.

Three years ago I was faced with startling information. The governor spoke with a bit of a downstate twang. We had exonerated not one, not two, but 13 men from Death Row. They were found innocent. Innocent of the charges for which they were sentenced to die. Can you imagine? We nearly killed innocent people. We nearly injected them with a cocktail of deadly poisons so that they could die in front of witnesses on a gurney in the state's . . .

The phone rang and I snapped the radio off. You believe this shit? my old partner John Casper said. Once-upon-a-time we'd been homicide detectives together. Now he was a Lieutenant in charge of an entire unit.

The sound of his voice always got me lonely for the old days. But I never let on. Oh, who cares? I said. I could still hear George Ryan in the background on Casper's end of the line.

Hey, I worked my ass off to put those cases together. You did, too.

Innocent Project stopped by yesterday, I said.

You're kidding, he said. Over who?

"You're never gonna guess.

Bowden?

Cold.

Perkins?

Colder.

I give up.

Billy Mansfield.

Oh, come on. We had him dead bang.

That's exactly what I told 'em.

I'm drawing a blank on the victim, Casper said.

Catherine Traynor.

Oh, right. What a beautiful girl, and now George fucking Ryan . . .

I barely heard Casper as he went on and on about our lame duck governor's swan song. I was remembering the photograph the newspapers had run: long brown hair, great smile, eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Catherine Traynor had reminded me of all those poised and polished Oak Park girls who I could never quite impress back in the days of sock hops and hula hoops. `They're just girls,' my friend Zack told me over and over again. But I never believed him. As far as I was concerned, sophistication started on the far side of Austin Boulevard. Usually when I crossed back over, heading home to the West Side, it was with nothing but regrets.

. . . and now some pharmacist—and that's what Ryan is, Casper said. He's not even a lawyer. He's a pharmacist, for christsake—and he's gonna pardon half of Death Row?

Well, thank Jon Burge. This was guaranteed to get a rise.

Oh, fuck Jon Burge, Casper said.

Burge, the disgraced Commander of Area 2 homicide, had probably done more to tarnish the reputation of the Chicago Police Department than anyone since the infamous burglars in blue, and they'd done their burgling-while-on-duty way back in the Stone Age.

Burge had been fired for supposedly torturing confessions out of an assortment of suspects. But he'd never been charged with a crime. He was relaxing on the beach, collecting his pension in sunny Florida. Many of the men Ryan was expected to pardon were Burge's victims.

But anytime his name came up, I found myself thinking, Thank god for Jon Burge. As bad as my present career might be, at least I'd never tortured anyone. I'd never sent an innocent man to Death Row. But I didn't share these thoughts with my old partner.

It's only gonna be a handful of guys, I said. The rest are gonna end up with life, no parole.

Where'd you get this?

Reporter I know. He says there's talk of Ryan getting a Nobel Prize.

What he's gonna get is indicted in that truck driver scandal. That's what this is all about. He wants to make sure his cell mates treat him nice and . . . Oh, my god. Now he's comparing himself to Lincoln.

I turned the radio up. The governor was still talking: "President Lincoln reviewed one such case with a senior Army officer and noticed that there were no letters or pleas for mercy or pardon from anyone on behalf of the accused soldier. `It's true,' the officer said. `He has no friends.'

"To that President Lincoln replied, `Then I shall be his friend' and signed the pardon request.

Today, I shall be a friend to Madison Hobley, Stanley Howard, Aaron Patterson and Leroy Orange. All four had been interrogated by Jon Burge. Today I am pardoning them of the crimes for which they were wrongfully prosecuted and sentenced to die . . . .

Unbelievable, I said.

You busy? Casper asked.

I'm watching a 7-Eleven for Shelly. It seems like I've been here a month already.

Don't tell me. A shoplifter?

Shelly was Shelly Micholowski, my favorite lawyer. Most of her practice was defending cops brought up on department charges. That's how we'd met. Once-upon-a-time I'd been her very first client.

You sure you want to know? I asked.

Sure, I need an amusing story.

A carpenter from Carpentersville . . .

Oh, come on.

Swear to God. Anyway, one day he gets in a beef out on the tollway. The couple in the other car flash badges and try to get him to pull over. He says they were drunk and waving guns around. So, first chance he gets, he makes an exit at the last minute and they can't get over in time.

But he got their plate number, Casper said.

No. But he made a police report, anyway. The only thing he had was the make, model and color.

Not much to go on.

No. But a few months later he gets a letter from the city, says he didn't pay a parking ticket and now the fine's doubled. Funny thing is, he hasn't been in the city in years. He calls downtown and they transfer him to Internal Affairs and guess what?

The guy who wrote the ticket drives . . .

Bingo, I said. A gold Explorer.

Another genius in blue loses his job, Casper said.

Except they're a two-cop family and it was the wife who wrote the ticket. Which is good because she's only a patrolman and he's a sergeant. So they've still got the bigger paycheck to help pay her legal bill.

I don't get what you're doing at the 7-Eleven.

That's where the ticket was written. For parking in the handicapped spot, I said.

That doesn't explain what you're doing there, he said.

I'm waiting for something to happen. I'm just not sure what.

In other words, a setup.

Ours not to reason why, I said.

I don't know how you do it.

Believe me, it ain't easy. Every time I get bored I go over and buy more junk. I think I've put on another ten pounds.

Casper wasn't letting me off the hook that easily. How's your conscience?

It's fine, John. Just fine. But I had a quick flash of doubt. Could I really justify my present career just because the police department had been ungracious enough to fire me?

Look, the reason I called, Casper said. Andy's dad died and he's coming in. Can you pick him up?

He's out? This was our old partner, Andy Kelly. The one who'd gotten me thrown off the force on his way to prison.

They gave him a furlough for the funeral, Casper said. Then in three months he's out for good. Unless he fucks up, which is why you gotta help me keep him on the straight and narrow.

Hell, I want him to fuck up. Say another ten year's worth.

Would you stop that!

What time?

3:30.

Tell me he's coming in at O'Hare. I was already halfway there.

Greyhound.

This brought a smile to my face. I had a vision of Andy wedged in a middle seat between a couple of low-life gangbangers, each blasting an extra-large boom box.

Serves him right, I said.

THREE

The Greyhound station was on a quiet stretch of Harrison Street southwest of the Loop. It was a block west of the main post office, a couple of blocks from Union Station, across the highway from the University of Illinois, and not too far from