Children of Chicago
CHILDREN OF CHICAGO
Cynthia Pelayo
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Cynthia Pelayo
Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark
ISBN 978-1-951709-20-4
eISBN: 978-1-951709-43-3
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First hardcover edition February 2021 by Agora Books
an imprint of Polis Books, LLC
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ
www.PolisBooks.com
To my sons -
Once upon a time there was a mommy who ruled over a fairy tale kingdom, and there she lived with her king and their little princes for eternity, and they were happy.
The Rose
There was once a poor woman who had two children. The youngest had to go every day into the forest to fetch wood. Once when she had gone a long way to seek it, a little child, who was quite strong, came and helped her industriously to pick up the wood and carry it home, and then before a moment had passed the strange child disappeared. The child told her mother this, but at first she would not believe it. At length she brought a rose home, and told her mother that the beautiful child had given her this rose, and had told her that when it was in full bloom, he would return. The mother put the rose in water. One morning her child could not get out of bed. The mother went to the bed and found her dead, but she lay looking very happy. On the same morning, the rose was in full bloom.
—Jacob Grimm & Ludwig Emil Grimm, The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales
CHAPTER 1
“You’re going to get blood in your coffee, Detective.”
“Hasn’t happened yet, Officer Guerrero,” Lauren said, digging her free hand in her black canvas messenger bag searching for her gloves. She brushed her fingers against the key to her father’s office she made sure was locked before she left the house. “Lauren is fine, by the way.”
He smiled, shook his head and lifted the yellow tape, POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
“A little late for coffee?”
It had been a few minutes past seven o’clock when she’d received the call. “It’s never too late for coffee.” She waved him away. “Thanks, I got it,” she said stepping onto the crime scene. The yellow tape separated her from the people gathering at the edges, watching her every movement as if she were on display. Others peeked out from house and apartment windows. The brave stepped outside of their homes, standing on their porches or taking a seat on their front steps covered in golden brown leaves. The chill did not bother them. A bite in the air never troubled Chicagoans.
Lauren finally pulled out a pair of plastic gloves from her bag, making a mental note to hide the key somewhere she would not touch it again. She slipped one on the fingertips onto her left hand and pulled the opening back with her teeth. Even though she had been on the force a short time compared to her colleagues, she had been assigned enough homicide cases to make her feel seasoned. Her father had been training her to do this her entire life.
Officer Guerrero gave a single dry laugh as he observed her balancing her coffee. She switched the cup to the other hand and pulled on the other glove.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” he said.
It was not sanitary, Lauren thought, but it was effective. “Didn’t even spill a drop.”
She stood over a white sheet on the concrete, crimson stains in the fabric around the head created a bloody halo. Red and blue flashing lights reflected on the canvas, adding to the glow from the streetlights that had just flickered on overhead. Calls to Humboldt Park had increased in recent weeks. Trouble was brewing.
“The hell happened here?” She asked.
“Male, seventeen-years-old. Wounded in the foot. Taken to University of Chicago Hospital. The other, sixteen-year-old female. Shot in the hip. Taken to Stroger.”
“And this one?” Lauren squatted down beside the body. “Let’s see who the ambulance is taking for a ride. No sirens needed.” With her thumb and forefinger, she pinched the edge of the sheet. She lifted it just a few inches so the crowd behind her could not see.
“You were the first one here?” She sensed him hovering.
“Me and my partner.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Rutkowski.”
“Where’s he?”
“Trying to keep the crowd away from you.”
She looked up at him and nodded. That was fair. A lot of people were mad at her. She was used to it.
She returned to the silent figure. The girl wore a gray long-sleeved sweater and a red lightweight jacket. Blue jeans. Black gym shoes. A gray backpack was tossed a few feet away on the ground.
Screams erupted from the crowd.
“Get her outta here!”
Lauren did not know if they were talking about her or the girl. She did not turn around. There was no need to upset them any further.
“Just kids playing at the park,” she said beneath her breath. She hated knowing that children risked their lives by being children in this city.
“One shot from what I could see,” Officer Guerrero said.
“One shot is all it takes.”
The bullet had torn through the girl’s neck. The blood on the ground congealed into dark clumps that looked like tar.
“Age? Name? Gang affiliation? Anything?” She asked.
“Nothing confirmed yet, but...”
“But what?”
“A lot of activity around here lately.”
“I can see that,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been complaints. Calls. Kids hanging out too late. Fights.”
Lauren looked back to the girl on the ground. Her unseeing eyes looked up towards something Lauren could not see.
“Witnesses?”
“Across the street. Behind you. Guy in the Bears jersey. Says his kid was looking out the window when it happened.”
The air smelled of gun smoke and iron, and something else she could not place. Lauren’s eyes stopped at the girl’s hands. The concrete beneath her glimmered, silver and gold.
“That look like paint to you?”
Guerrero stepped forward, pulled out a small flashlight and aimed the light.
Lauren stood up and backed away, taking in the position of the body, a single orange and yellow leaf floated from above and came to rest on the sheet.
“That’s spray paint. It’s fresh.” She took another step back, and now she saw the colored markings that stretched beyond the position of the girl.
“They’re tagging the sidewalk now?” Officer Guerrero shrugged.
“Billboards and garage doors aren’t enough for them, I guess,” Lauren said.
“That her backpack? Check it for spray cans,” Lauren said. “Ask her friends if they were out here tagging.” Lauren could easily see if these kids had been out here marking this park it could have upset another gang or neighborhood crew.
“What are witnesses saying?” She asked Guerrero.
“Just that a group of kids was on the swings tonight when shots rang out. They ran. They were hit.”
She raised her coffee cup to her lips. Her sixth cup that day. She took in the crowd. More people had gathered outside of the police barrier. The man in faded blue sweatpants and a Bears jersey stood beside who looked like his son, a boy younger than him, taller than him, wearing a white t-shirt, basketball shorts, socks, and black sandals. He was skinny, all arms and thin legs.
Guerrero nodded. “Lauren,” he hesitated “...you should probably wait for Washington.”
“Why?”
“People...they’re upset.”
“They should be,” she said and then moved towards the crowd. Someone immediately recognized her and began screaming “Killer!” But they were quickly approached by several other officers on the scene.
Lauren ducked under the police tape and approached the witnesses. Before she could ask anything, the man stared her down.
“Folks out here aren’t real happy with you right now. A cop who’s a little too loose with the trigger. You should’ve been fired.”
Lauren pulled down the collar of her shirt, exposing a pink-white scar that ran from her left collar bone toward her shoulder. Though she did not need to say anything—her words had been quoted in the local and national news for months—she told him exactly what she told everyone else. “I feared for my life. The suspect lunged at me with a knife. I engaged my weapon as I had been trained.”
The man took a deep breath and motioned towards the boy. “I want him to see what happens out here,” he said.
“Did you see any of them?” She addressed both.
The young man shook his head no first.
“I walk my son to and from school every day. If he’s not at school, he’s in the house.”
Lauren removed a small black notebook and pencil from her bag. “Were any of them in school with you?”
The boy shook his head. “I couldn’t tell who it was. It was getting dark.”
Lauren looked out the corner of her eye. There were people on either side of her now. The crowd was growing. Officers Guerrero and Rutkowski stood at either end of the perimeter.
In the distance, the rising and fading wail of emergency vehicles approached, the city’s mourning song. Two more police cruisers appeared.
“Did you want to give me your name?”
The boy looked to his father.
“Johnny Sharkey. My son’s Johnny as well. Junior.” He pointed at the swings. “They were out there. Swinging. I saw them when I looked out the window.”
“Why’d you look out the window?”
“It was getting late. I heard a bunch of kids outside. I looked to see if there was any trouble. I saw them just hanging out and told Junior I was going to bed.”
“Where were you?” Lauren asked Junior.
“Living room. I was doing homework. I heard the shots. Waited a few minutes and then looked outside.”
“Did you hear anything before the gunfire?” She asked. “Shouting? People fighting?”
He shook his head. “They were just laughing, and then I heard shooting.”
“When you looked outside, what did you see?”
“Kids running and then some on the ground. Then I yelled for dad.”
She looked at the words she had written and hoped they would carry some meaning later, something to unlock what had happened here tonight. Lauren put her notebook and pencil away. “I’m sorry you and your son had to see this.”
Johnny Sr. placed an arm around his son.
Lauren handed him her card and told him to call if they remembered anything else.
As she turned her back to return to the park Johnny Sr. shouted, “I’m sorry any of us have to see this, day after day, after day!”
There was nothing she could offer. There were no reassurances that this would end tonight or any night soon. There was no saying, “This will never happen again,” because this story would happen again, like it did last week and the week before that in this city.
Would they catch the shooter? She hoped, and that is what kept her up at night, sipping on cold, bitter coffee so much so her doctor warned if she did not take a break from it she would burn a hole through her esophagus. She imagined her stomach acid eating away at her, consuming her until there was nothing left, as if she had never been.
“Kids can’t even play out in a damn park.” A gruff voice said just behind her.
She spun around.
“Shouldn’t you be planning your retirement party?” She asked.
“Shouldn’t you be planning a funeral?”
“Everything’s ready, Washington,” she took another sip. “Just be on time.”
“Your dad was my partner for twenty-six years. The least I can do is be on time for him.”
“I’ve been your partner for a year, and you’ve never once been on time.”
He shook a finger. “Trainee. Not partner.”
“Whatever gets you through the night.”
Washington looked tired. He wore the years of this job on his face, and she hated knowing that it was almost time for him to go.
“I worry about you. You didn’t have to come out here. You know that,” he said.
“I told you. Everything’s ready, and I’m not taking any time off. There’s just too much going on.”
“You can’t save everyone,” he said, and to that she did not answer, because in her own way, she believed she had to save everyone.
“And when did you have time to plan a funeral?” He asked. “You’ve been working fourteen-hour days.”
“Bobby took care of a lot.”
“That’s a nice husband you’ve got there.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Real nice husband.”
She ignored him.
“I’m going to tell you again,” he pointed at her coffee, “all that coffee can’t be good for you.”
“It’s not good for you if you load it up with sugar and cream and all that crap. Real coffee doesn’t need that junk. It just masks the flavor of the bean.”
“What about Cuban coffee? That’s pretty sweet?”
“Café con leche? Fine,” she shrugged. “Depends where you get it.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this...” he started.
“I don’t want to hear it.” She knew what he was going to say, and she didn’t want to hear him say it.
If Lauren could cover her ears and shut everyone out right now, she would. Their commander had just told her Washington would be retiring this upcoming Friday. He had put off his retirement an entire year to train her.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
Lauren laughed to herself. “I’m not exactly everyone’s favorite around here.”
“Not true.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “I found my chair out in the parking lot this morning.”
“They did that again? Look, fine.” He placed a hand on his hip. “You’re not exactly a lot of people’s favorite around here. They don’t like you because you’re young. They think you got this job because of your dad, and because...”
“I’ve made mistakes.”
He hung his head, and then looked up at her. “Yeah, that you have. Maybe you just had some bad luck. Maybe you just did what you had to do.”
“And Van?”
“Now,” Washington put a hand up. “You’ve got to let that go. He asked you about your sister one time...”
Lauren did not want to be asked about her sister, ever. Lauren did not even want to think about her sister, because every time her sister came up it was a bad omen. The beginning of the end of something. “And if he asks again?” She rubbed the back of her neck.
“Ignore him, Medina. The case is cold.”
“Detectives...”
Alderman Suarez approached, nostrils flared and eyes wild. “What’s going on in my ward?” It sounded like an attack.
“Alderman, you and your community would be best to answer that,” Washington said.
“That’s bullshit, and you know that.” Suarez removed his glasses and wiped them on the bottom of his shirt.
“I know you’re concerned and all, but this is an active crime scene,” Washington said.
“Four,” Suarez flashed four fingers
inches from Washington’s face. “Four shootings this past week. Now a dead teen in the park. How are you going to fix this?”
“Fix this?” Lauren interrupted. “We’re going to do everything we can to solve this, and the others, but community policing is the answer. Your people have to be proactive.”
“That’s what you said at the last few shootings.”
“It’s what I told you before,” Washington said. “Community policing. Block clubs. Neighbors talking to neighbors. We’ve got a gang tactical team already assigned to this ward, but if the community is not talking, if people aren’t telling us what’s going on, then you’re going to keep seeing us. Well, not us, her and her new partner because starting Saturday I’m retired.”
“Washington, congratulations. I’m happy for you, really, but you’ve worked in our ward for years. We need someone who knows our community.”
“Medina lives and works here. You’ll be fine.”
“Figure this out,” he said to Lauren as he pointed to the body on the ground and then stomped off towards a collection of news cameras.
“He’s an asshole,” she said. “And I don’t forgive you for leaving me alone to deal with all of this.”
“Oh, you won’t be alone. You’ll have Van,” Washington laughed.
“Van hates me.”
“Van hates everybody.”
Lauren watched as paramedics wheeled a stretcher over to the young woman. As she was lifted and placed on the padding, Lauren got a better look at the graffiti on the ground where the body had just been.
“What does that say?” As she started to read the words aloud, her breath became trapped in her throat. It had been a long time since she had seen those two words. She backed away. “Pied Piper.” She forced herself to say it.
“Who is that?” Washington asked.
She coughed, took a sip of her coffee to clear her throat and then said what she thought would make sense. “Don’t know. Maybe some new tagger’s name?”
The back door of the ambulance slammed shut, and the driver gave her a wave, signaling their departure. The crowd began to thin, moving back into their homes, except Junior who remained standing alone in the same spot.