Chicago Prime, 1931-v2
Old Illinois, 1:13pm
- Making Ili-noise
Sammy’s was bustling loudly with the sounds of idle conversations from the regulars mixed with actively forming theories from both cops and Temperance Society ladies.
Mrs. Allgood sat still as a statue, eyeing me as if she had the power to make me spontaneously combust. Her legs were down, covered entirely by her ridiculously puffy dress, and tucked back and to the side like any proper lady has been taught to sit.
Her hands were folded in her lap and the rest of her face carried a heavy air of presumption and entitlement. She had a bodacious display of different florals and gold and silver lace holding her hair in place like rebar.
I sat across from her. Sammy brought me a couple fingers of whiskey and set it in front of me. I pulled a small gold case from my inside jacket pocket, flipped it open, and pulled a Virginia fire stick and lit it.
For a woman in her sixties, Mrs. Allgood didn’t look half bad. That is, until she opened her mouth.
“This is a ghastly establishment. The fact that these people would serve such putrid poison to the masses—and to their very detriment—is entirely beyond all scope of reason!” And she lifted her chin with a small snort of derision.
I took a sip of some whiskey. Sammy kept it back there just for me. Everyone else got gin.
The Kentucky brown burned going down. I didn’t usually drink this early, but I knew this lady was going to be a headache.
“Mrs. Allgood—”
“Gloria.”
I blinked and didn’t speak for a beat. “Gloria. How do you know Stacy?”
“Who you call—so obliquely—Stacy, we call by her true name.” Mrs. Allgood rolled her R’s like some kind of pretentious socialite. “Anastasia Robinson is—was—one of our beloved sisters in our society. She was with us for around six years, starting when she was eighteen years old.”
“Did you know her prior to her joining, or just from the Society?”
“I knew her quite well. Our society is not one that people join as a social calling; we require them to renounce all immodest living and live in our community. Of course, they may venture out when approved, but we keep very strict rules and regulations. So, naturally, we all bond very tightly within our society.” She smiled her proudest smile.
I nodded in understanding, tapping off the ash from the tip of my cigarette. “So, you basically run a convent?”
She laughed a contemptuous laugh, rolling her eyes at the reasonable comparison. “We are not in the slightest religious, Mr. Jones. Our calling is one that comes from the great teachings of our foremother, Badelia Hammersmith Merryweather. She lived the simplest of lives, refraining from a life that included even slightly indulging in immodest drink, dress, and diction. We speak, dress, and socialize modestly. We do not dare mingle with the brutish sex of men who want nothing more than to contaminate our otherwise pristine existence!”
“Sounds more like a cult.” I said matter-of-factly.
“I will not have you befoul the name of our great society, Mr. Jones! Cults are for the desperate, the lonely, and directionless. Ours is a calling of the highest order: to rid the world of poisons that seek to destroy it.”
I could tell this bird wasn’t going to be nudged with my usual tactics. Time to change gears.
“Gloria, if I may, you and Stacy are roughly the same age, yes?” I leaned a little forward and met her eyes with mine. The whiskey might have been helping, but the Mississippi smooth was about to get laid on thick.
Mrs. Allgood gave me a suspicious, but utterly flattered smirk out of the side of her mouth. She turned her head slightly and avoided my eyes for a couple seconds before composing herself.
“Well, I’d say I’m at least a few years older than she was, but I have experience.” And for a split second, Gloria Allgood didn’t look like a cockatoo with a stick up her butt, but like a normal, kind of pretty woman.
“It has to be hard for these girls to constantly be compared to a woman of your….caliber.” I said, the drawl in my accent with a touch more emphasis.
“There’s a reason I am the head madam of our society. It is an elected position, one I have never lost.” The fingers on her left hand pressed into her chest, demonstrating that, in fact she was the one to whom she was referring.
“Eventually you need to step down, right? Who could possibly replace you?” I asked, fake admiration in my voice.
“I have done my fair share of grooming a replacement.” Then her eyes met her hands in her lap. “That’s what Anastasia was—my protégé.”
I paused a beat to let the moment sink in, “So, Stacy—”
“Anastasia. I will not correct you again.” Her head shot up, staring hatred into my soul.
And just like that, the charm wore off. Time to go for the kill.
“Anastasia must’ve been exactly like you. Right?”
The head madam had returned to form, speaking in elongated sentences with overly enunciated syllables, “Most certainly. She was the most pure. Other than me, of course.”
“And there’s no chance she would’ve even been curious as to what a normal life looks like for a girl her age?” I began leaning in as my questions started finding my target.
She was backing into a corner now, her neck exposed.
“I see to it personally that any such desires are thwarted and replaced with desire only to save people from such lewd and lascivious living.”
“Then explain to me, if you will, why was she dressed like she works the street corner and found in a bar?” I asked plainly.
She looked at me, stunned at my brazenness. I was licking my chops. Time to go for the throat.
“Because it’s apparent to me, Gloria, that Anastasia was no more interested in being your replacement or obeying your militant rules than she would’ve been about shaving her head and covering herself in hot tar. How else do you explain the fact that she’s lying–dead–in the restroom of a bar, dressed like she gives twenty-five cent handjobs down by the docks?”
I could feel her carotid artery pulsing in my maw. She began thrashing in my grip.
“You will NOT speak of her that way, Mr. Jones! You dare attempt to slander her name! Whatever it is you saw, or think you saw, is nothing even approaching the realm of truth in who she is—was! Someone tricked her! Some loathsome offensive brute of a man is responsible for telling her lies that seemingly undid all of the hard work I put in to making her the perfect woman! We may be of supremely greater intelligence than you neanderthals, but we are still human!” She was standing now, leaning over the table as if she was attempting to smell my breath from there.
The whole establishment was silent now, except for the jukebox still spinning away with Duke Ellington, staring at Mrs. Allgood screaming in my face.
Gloria Allgood realized the stillness in the room. She looked around sheepishly as she slowly descended back to her seat, flattening out her dress, moving her legs and feet back into proper position, and laying her hands back on her lap.
“Well, Gloria, I don’t think I have any other questions.” I polished off the two fingers of whiskey I had left and stamped out the last little bit of my cigarette.
My interaction with The Temperance Titan herself wasn’t the most fruitful one from an investigative standpoint, but I learned more about this little society of hers than I might have otherwise. Should be something I look into a little more. I feel like there’s more to this Ladies of Temperance and Good Behavior Society than meets the eye.
Likely, Mrs. Allgood didn’t know as much about her girls as she liked everyone to think. If Stacy was a bad egg among the rest, then surely there were more.
Gloria, her face overflowing with embarrassment, looked upon her darling minionettes from the society with sorrowful disappointment in herself about her own behavior towards me. As I stood she looked me up and down, noticing the lack of notepad in my hands.
“Mr. Jones, you haven’t written anything down. How will you remember anything I said?” She asked.
I winked at her, the whiskey and tobacco likely apparent from this distance as I responded, “I’m a smart neanderthal.”
- Solid Detecting
Stacy Robinson’s body was being combed over by the eyes of detective Raymond Johnson. His hair slicked back as normal, with a rogue strand cascading down the side of his face just outside his right eye. I stood at the doorway of the restroom watching him miss every important detail as he did his look-over, his pencil writing frantically on his notepad at everything he either saw or was trying to put together. Mrs. Allgood was huffing and puffing at the boys in blue for not letting her in the restroom, face still slightly red at her outburst.
Guys with glasses and pocket protectors were swabbing the scene with what looked like a woman’s makeup brush. The CPPD boys were using a new technology the US Federal Bureau of Investigation was pioneering called Forensics. The idea seemed good, but a good detective always fell back on the trinity of catching a perp: means, motive, and opportunity.
The problem with new tech was it needed time for other things to change. One of the forensic experts told me they were swabbing for fingerprints.
I decided to ask one of the glasses fellas with a white coat how those things worked exactly.
“Everyone’s gotta unique set of fingerprints. Meaning, if we can get a clean set, we can find our killer—assuming there is one, of course.” His voice was gravelly and light, like small rocks under a tire.
“You got some kinda file that has everyone's fingerprints you can compare against?” I asked.
“They got some kind of fancy thingamabob called a Digital Analyzer that scans the fingerprints under a microscope and runs it through all the known fingerprints we got stored in a database. It’s not a perfect system, but rarely do we find a print that doesn’t belong to someone who hasn’t been in our system before.” He said, not looking up from the area he was brushing.
“Does this sci-fi machine know how to differentiate between who’s innocent and who’s guilty?” I followed up.
The forensics guy turned and looked at me, his right eyebrow raised, “Look, guy, I just collect ‘em. I don’t know how they find the people, but they always do.”
I took a drag of my cigarette.
Johnson and his slick hair looked up from his inspection and saw me. How he didn’t see me on the way in was no surprise to me, but the look on his face said something different.
“This is my crime scene, Jones. Law enforcement only. This is of no business to you or any other civilian, now scram.” He smiled as he said the word civilian with slow, syllable-by-syllable emphasis.
“Then consider me just that, Raymundo: a concerned citizen.” I hit another drag off my cigarette as I leaned against the doorframe, unmoved. “I see you got that stain out of your shirt. Congrats.
“What’s your take, Ray? Murder? Or wait, was it another suicide? I hear those have been popular lately. Did you check a pulse? Maybe she’s not dead.”
The color in his face went from skintone to red hot as the smile burned off his face in seething anger. “You watch who you’re talking to, Jones! You’re lucky I don’t have you locked up!”
“What’s my crime? Curiosity?” Johnson was my height, but with me leaning, he was a couple inches taller than me, so I looked up at him under the brim of my hat. “If that’s a crime, you better lock everyone else here up.” My hands and arms spread indicating the massive presence of other civilians nearby that hadn’t moved.
Ray continued searching for justification to have me thrown out, “You were seen in the restroom by Mrs. Allgood. Tampering with a crime scene is a serious offense.” The volume of Johnson’s voice was controlled, but full of rage.
I nodded in agreement at this.
“True, but that was before it was considered a crime scene. And until y’all showed up, it was just in the restroom with a dead girl in it. I live upstairs, I came down to chat with Sammy, and needed to hit the head. He handed me the key, and here she was. Then these ladies arrived along with you fine gentlemen.”
Raymond stared daggers into me,his slicked hair less maintained now, now silently considering arresting me in front of all these people. I’m sure he and Mrs. Allgood would team up if they could.
“Then I guess we’ll have to arrest your old pal Sammy, now won’t we?” Ray had a vindictive smile on his face.
“Why? It’s his bar, he can let anyone he wants to use the bathroom. Is using the bathroom a crime now?” Johnson might have had a good point, but I wanted to protect my friend more than I wanted the letter of the law enforced.
I spoke to redirect Johnson in a way that only he could hear me, “Tell me, Ray. How’d she die?”
Johnson’s jaw and fist clenched, “Clearly she drank herself to blacking out, passed out in the restroom, vomited, choked, dead.”
Honestly, not his worst theory. To be fair, I hadn’t figured it out either, but alcohol poisoning wasn’t even remotely a possibility given the staging.
“Case closed then.” I said
Imagine if I told him we might be dealing with a serial killer.
“The ME will confirm. You bet your stupid ass on it, Jones. Now, get out of my face before we have two murders.” He said.
It was easy to see that Johnson was a terrible detective, but what I couldn’t tell is if he was incompetent or had an agenda. I knew he was practically owned by Gabridone, but he wasn’t always a sellout. Part of me wanted to believe that he still believed in justice, even if he had sold his soul along the way.
A beat cop came busting in the front door and running up to me and Johnson. He was a young cop, decent shape, still had the passion for police work shining in his eyes.
We both turned and looked at him as his shoes click-clacked across the hardwood of Sammy’s floor.
His voice was a little shaky as he spoke, “Detective Johnson, we got another body.”
- Two Murders
“Where?” said Johnson, a sense of total shock on his face.
“Around back by the garbage, covered under the pile of trash.” The cop said, pointing back out the door with an arching motion to the left.
Johnson’s chest poked out as he assumed control of the situation, “Ok, get the captain on the horn and call it in. I’ll go take a look. Make sure no one else comes back there.” He shot me a glaring look as he said it.
“Yes, sir!” The cop scurried off.
Johnson ran his hands through his hair, thoughts apparently racing through his brain on what the next move is.
“I swear, Jones, if you so much as come within fifty feet of the crime scene, I’ll personally see to it you’re locked up.”
A voice came from the door that led to the apartments above the bar, “Mercury Jones, detective extraordinaire, in the flesh.”
Captain Jackson Mahoney arrived on scene, Lieutenant Delaney trailing right behind him.
“Mr. Mahoney.” I said in acknowledgement, lightly fingertipping the brim of my hat.
“When I got word that you were down here, I had to come see for myself! It’s not often I don’t get to meet the man responsible for so many cases being solved.” He extended his hand towards me. I replied in kind.
Captain Mahoney was a short man, somewhere around five foot five, but the man was a pitbull. He once took on a gang of thugs unarmed by himself. The man was a wrecking ball of fury and muscle in a scrap.
He had a keen eye for detail. He was a formidable detective in the world of homicide and vice. The criminal defense attorneys were effectively declawed and untoothed from the evidence Mahoney would turn up. It’d almost be a shame that they made him captain, if the captain before him hadn’t been the worst bought-and-paid-for Gabridone pawn I’d ever known. Even in a rigged system, the vote was undeniable. Every good cop in the precinct practically ran the other guy out on a rail.
Mahoney had intrigue mixed with skepticism hiding behind his eyes. His pale skin and blue eyes were hard not to stare at, but I kept my best poker face on nonetheless.
“How come you’ve never applied for a job at the CPPD?” The short man asked me.
“Detective work was never the plan for my life. Besides, not much of a team player.” I replied. I kept the smokes out of my mouth while talking to Mahoney, but after my altercation with Johnson, I was craving one of those little fellas.
Mahoney turned to Ray, “Detective Johnson, I assume you have been a gracious host to Mr. Jones here?” You could hear the slight Irish in Mahoney’s voice.
Mahoney gave Ray a slap on the shoulder and winked at him.
Ray gave a wolfish smile at Mahoney, his face reddening slightly as he turned and looked at me, putting on his best performance of the day.
“Absolutely! Always a pleasure to have Mr. Jones around to provide much appreciated consultation.” He lied.
What a kiss ass.
Mahoney smiled and let out a laugh that shook the glass behind the bar. Which, coming from a man of his stature, was surprising. For all the poor detective work that Johnson did, it paled in comparison to his acting ability.
Captain Mahoney placed both hands on his hips, looking at me and Johnson, “Well, you don’t have to like each other, but I need all hands on deck. Yes, that includes you too, Mercury. If you’re ok with that, of course.”
I didn’t let my gaze leave Johnson’s as an ear-to-ear grin spread across my face.
“It’d be my pleasure, Captain Mahoney.”
“Please, call me Jacks. Not you, Johnson.” Mahoney replied.
- How Cavalier
We all left out the front door of Sammy’s and headed to our left. The street was bustling with cars passing by, pedestrians making their way back to work from lunch, and birds fluttering out from the alleyways and rooftops as the breeze came tearing past them.
The beat cop—who I found out was named Stu Phillips—led us all to where the second body lay, followed by an eager and irritated Ray, then me, Jacks Mahoney, and Lieutenant Delaney side-by-side behind him. Some of the forensics guys started following after us as we rounded the corner of the building towards the back.
“I found him over here!” Phillips said, pointing over the trashcans scattered on the left side of the alleyway.
The sound of each of our footsteps echoed off the walls of the alley as we hurried to see the body. Johnson quickly grabbed his tie to cover up the smell of the trash and rotting corpse. I lit a cigarette for the same reason. His slicked-back hair was having trouble staying put in the hustle and bustle.
A body about six feet and one inch tall lay like a discarded ragdoll among the trash in the corner. It was a man, nice tan, looked like what had been slicked back hair now in shambles–what is it with these yankees and slicking back their hair?--and a suit that probably cost somewhere north of a grand.
“Real shame for the suit,” Captain Mahoney said. “This guy must’ve been a high roller somewhere. Any ID, Phillips?”
Phillips pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and handed it to Mahoney. “Yeah, his name was Christopher Cavalier. Twenty-eight. Lived in uptown Atlantis in The Silver Slipper penthouse.” Phillips replied, quoting the details of the ID.
“Do you think these two could be connected, Ray?” Delaney asked.
“Not sure. Seems awfully coincidental though.” Johnson replied while using a separate plastic baggy to open the deceased Mr. Cavalier’s jacket, “No stab wound on the front I can see. No blood anywhere.” Ray was clearly looking for an angle to dismiss that theory.
I spoke, “Sammy the bartender and owner said the girl was with someone matching this poor fellas description. I think we might have a double homicide here, Lieutenant.”
Delaney looked at me with reluctant acceptance of my involvement. He had gone out on a limb hanging by a thread asking me to investigate Jessica Callahan’s body without expressed approval. Telling me about these bodies before they arrived was also a risky play. Johnson was already on to me, but thankfully Mahoney had given me the formal invite for this one. Either way, I needed to play it cool and not overstep. Bringing up Callahan as being a likely connection was going to be tricky. I was going to need some stone cold evidence.
Delaney and Mahoney turned and conferred with one another on the next move. The short captain spoke, “Ok, cordon off this alleyway and close down the bar. This went from a possible alcohol poisoning to a double homicide. Mercury, do your magic.”
Johnson stood with a turn in objection, “Sir, with all due respect, this is my—”
“Mercury is invaluable to us, Detective Johnson. You will play nice, or I’ll make sure the only thing you detect is the smell of your own farts on your couch at home! Do you understand?”
“He’s not even a cop!” Johnson had one hand on his hip and the other palm up pointing directly at me.
“And yet, he’s ten times the cop of half our precinct! And he’s been officially consulted. Now I’ll hear no more objections. That’s an order.” Mahoney turned and pantomimed to Delaney that they were headed back inside.
“Well, Raymundo, looks like we got a playdate.” I tossed my cigarette and got to work.
“Can it, Jones.” Ray replied in disgust.
- The Strongest Memory
The body smelled like expensive cologne mixed with mid-tier perfume and trash juice. The perfume would be something a middle class gal might buy for herself after saving up just enough money after a few paychecks at a decent paying job. Probably belonged to Stacy.
“How could they think murder? There’s no weapon to be found, no stab wounds, blunt force trauma, or bleeding of any kind to be found!” Johnson said. “The guy and gal very easily could’ve gotten hammered. She stumbled into the bathroom, he came out here, they both died of alcohol poisoning.”
I didn’t even look up at Ray as he spoke. I’ve learned the best thing to do with ignorance is just ignore it.
Johnson continued unprovoked, “You’re wasting your time, Jones. You won’t find anything. There’s nothing to find!”
“Ray. Just hush up, will ya? Let the grownups work.” I said using my adult voice.
“Whatever. I don’t need this. I don’t know what that midget captain sees in you, anyway. I’m gonna hit the head. Mahoney can kiss my ass!” And Johnson stormed off.
Good riddance.
I looked at the body more closely now that Detective Johnson had excused himself.
With the aid of Phillips I rolled the body over to look at his back.
Nothing remarkable.
I checked his shoes.
No note.
I looked around the body and a five foot perimeter from it.
No toy rats. Nothing but concrete stained by years of God-knows-what and more loose trash.
Why would he kill him? Was he collateral or planned? Why out here and not beside Stacy? “Hmmm.” I breathed.
“You say something, Mr. Jones?”
“Talking to myself. You want to be a detective someday, Phillips?” I said to the beat cop. I wasn’t a huge fan of small talk, but it beat him just yammering.
“One day! That’s the goal at least.” His accent was thick Chicago Prime. Probably raised just outside of White Socks stadium.
“Ever been to The Silver Slipper?” I checked the nail beds. Nothing unusual.
“Yeah, one time my pops took us there as a family. We had a great time. Saw my first pair of boobs there! I’ll never forget it.” He crossed his arms and his head turned upward in the reminiscence.
No unusual cyanosis, no signs of any necrosis, and no discoloration around his wrists, throat, or ankles.
“Oh yeah? How old were you? Eighteen, nineteen years old?” I asked to keep him busy.
“Sheesh, what do you take me for, some kind of prude? I was twelve.” Phillips said, almost like it was a good thing.
If my father had let me be exposed to breasts at twelve, I never would’ve lived to see thirteen. Which, ironically is when I kissed my first girl. Jessica Tew. I’ll never forget that curly hair reflecting the golden rays of the sun under the oak tree at the back edge of our property in Yazoo, MS.
I checked under his eye lids. His eyes were empty. The soul and light that once had resided here had vacated the premises.
I peeled back his lips to look at his teeth. Pearly white. The smell of jasmine and ginger seeped out.
My head flew backwards at the impact of the smell. Not because it was a bad smell, but because I’d smelled it on Jessica Callahan.
I needed to find Mahoney and Delaney. More people were going to die before we could do anything about it.
