FORTY-TWO
Sleeplessness was my curse, and just a matter of minutes after finally entering dreamland, my cell phone started ringing.
I took a quick glance at my watch and found that it was seven o’clock and that I’d been asleep for nearly three hours.
“It’s Buddy,” I said.
“We’ve got another one,” Wilma Hansen announced.
“Another one what?”
“Just like the other three. Dead in the car. This time it’s a man.”
“Where?”
She told me.
“Who’s there?”
“Kennerly and Lincoln.”
“Buzz Farmer?”
“Day off.”
“I’m on my way.”
“You’re sure you’re awake enough to drive?”
“Yes.”
“How can you tell?”
Once again we were downtown, this time in a low-rent neighborhood. Strip malls interspersed with two- and three-story apartment buildings. Street parking was ample, and undeveloped lots served as repositories for all sorts of debris, including automobile parts and tire remnants.
As in the earlier killings, a late model Volvo had been attacked as it pulled away from a metered parking space, its front end sticking out into the road. The driver’s side window had been shattered and, once again, we were looking at an unholy mess of shattered glass and bloody matter.
No visible clues presented themselves. No spy cameras were in the vicinity.
“Another zero burger,” Johnny Kennerly said as we examined the scene.
“And the victim’s family will express astonishment as to why this event occurred.”
“What do you want to do, Buddy?”
“You mean aside from making it all go away?”
He gave me his not funny look.
“Run all of the forensic drills. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“And maybe buffaloes will fly, too.”
When I finally arrived at the office, having wended my way through a burgeoning crowd of shouting reporters, there was a message from Marsha Russo. I was a bit surprised she hadn’t called my cell phone, but when I checked my phone holster, I realized I had left it at home. Remembering to carry it is one of life’s great challenges. Once a Luddite, always one.
I caught her at O’Hare Airport, preparing to board her return flight to L.A. “You heard,” I asked.
“About the killing?”
“Yes.”
“Wilma told me.”
“Did you see her?”
“Of course I saw her. I’m Wonder Woman, remember?”
“What did you learn?”
“He had been behaving strangely.”
“Meaning?”
“They had been high school sweethearts and soon after his graduation from the University of Illinois Police Training Institute, they married.
“Following a year spent as a consultant to Hamid Karzai’s personal security force in Kabul, Afghanistan, he returned home and joined the Rockford Police Department.
“She interpreted his noticeable stress level as a sign, not only of post-warfare anguish, but also of his anxiety over having to readjust to life in America and at the same time, make both a living and a name for himself.
“Apparently the stress worsened when they relocated to Chicago, a move they made in the hope of building a better life in a larger pond. She attributed the distance that was growing between them to the strain of starting a new job in a strange city where the level of violence was redolent of what he experienced in Afghanistan. She claims she made every effort to help ease the pressure, but he became even more withdrawn.
“After their first child was born, she said Buzz became obsessed with an imagined image of him being shot in the line of duty and leaving the baby fatherless.”
“Nothing too far out of the ordinary for a young cop,” I interjected.
“They quickly had a second child and that rattled him even further. That was when he began searching for police work elsewhere. By the time they arrived here, she felt completely cut off from him emotionally. Her words.
“Instead of welcoming the change from big city to small-town life and the reduction of his stress level, he worsened. She said he was rarely home and when he was, he was moody and uncommunicative.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Buzz Farmer we know.”
“If, indeed, we know him.”
“And she left him because of that?”
“She left him because he throttled her.”
“He choked her?”
“Once.”
“And?”
“Once was enough for her. She’d had her fill of him. Her parents came out from Rockford and when he was at work, they packed her stuff, gathered the kids and the dog, and returned home to Illinois.”
“And he never told anyone?”
“He certainly didn’t tell us.”
“And this was how long ago?”
“Three months.”
“Around the time the killings began.”
“But not necessarily connected to them.”
“True.”
Neither of us spoke for several moments.
“Anyway, I’m on my way back.”
“Okay.”
“Did you miss me?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember whether or not you missed me?”
“Yes.”
“You know something, Buddy?”
“What?”
“You’re a total dickhead.”
“Thank you.”
No sooner had the call ended when Buzz Farmer appeared in my doorway. “You busy?”
I looked up at him. He was unshaven and out of uniform. I motioned for him to come in. He sat opposite me.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he began. “I just heard it on the news.”
“It’s your day off.”
“It is. But I want to help. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so, Buzz. Johnny and Al are on the scene, which is not a whole lot different from the other three.”
“The location?”
“Not in Freedom center. Close, though. Working-class neighborhood. Mostly apartment buildings and small businesses.”
“Car sticking into the middle of the road?”
“Yes.”
“I’m available if you need me, Buddy.”
“Enjoy your day off, Buzz. Spend it with your family. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
“They would if they were here.”
“They’re not here?”
“They’re in Illinois. Visiting Kelly’s parents.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. I’ll survive.”
“I should hope so. But I still have nothing for you to do. Go home. Get some rest. It’s been a long week.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. Thanks, Buddy.” He headed for the door.
“When are they due back?”
“Excuse me?”
“Kelly and the kids. When are they coming back?”
“Sometime next week.”
“And you’re okay with them gone?”
“Yeah. Pizza and Chinese takeout. Lots of TV.”
“Well, don’t get into any trouble.”
“I never get into trouble.”
“Lucky you.”