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Overview
The dead man is found spread-eagled on the top of a box car on an abandoned rail siding. He’s dressed in a $2000 suit, yet half his teeth are rotten and his skin is bad. Who was he … and how did he end up there?
When he’s offered an exorbitant fee to photograph the scene, PI Dek Elstrom doesn’t ask many questions. But his photos reveal something surprising: there’s a witness to the murder, a tagger who’s returned to the scene to paint what he saw. His work quickly disappears. What is it that the mysterious graffiti artist wants the world to know?
Then a second body shows up – and the case takes a shocking new twist …
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781847518873 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House Publishers |
| Publication date: | 03/01/2019 |
| Series: | A Dek Elstrom Mystery , #7 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Sales rank: | 690,271 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Only Keller, of the gamy Argus-Observer, thought to write that the man found dead on top of the railcar, the end of that February, had died in a leap year. Chicago's more responsible newspapers were more circumspect and more precise. Likely, the murdered man spotted from a traffic helicopter hadn't leapt at all. He'd been dropped, thrown or pushed, found splayed spread-eagled on the roof of a blue boxcar, legs out, face down, victim of blunt trauma to the head and torso. Dead as a June bug, come July.
Corpses found lying about the Windy City haven't been a rarity since well before Capone. Chicagoans expect news of fresh ones to come with their granolas, chilaquiles and kielbasas every morning. This victim, though, wasn't the usual greased-up gangbanger dead from a drive-by shooting or worse, some innocent kid caught by a stray bullet while hopscotching or bouncing a ball in a park. The man found at the abandoned Central Works was somewhere between thirty and forty, dressed expensively in a two-thousand-dollar suit and a finely woven white shirt. Fine attire, and confusing. The duds didn't match his mouth. Half his teeth were rotted down to nubs. And his skin was bad, marked by the bites and nicks of someone homeless, though that could have come from lying too long neglected on top of a boxcar.
Nobody knew who he was. He had no wallet and he fit no report of a missing person. Nor could anyone be sure how he'd ended up on the top of the railcar. There was no ladder mounted to its side, and the car was at the end of a rusted rail spur, a hundred yards from the only building from where he might have been dropped. The cops had to wonder if he'd even died there. The railcar had been on that spur for days, but the corpse could have perished elsewhere and been carried, frozen to the top of the boxcar by the snow and the rain of a frigid February, to the derelict old Central Works.
It was a muddle. The cops said that their investigation was ongoing, but those were the knee-jerk words cops learn to say in Chicago. New murders demanding new attention would come in multiples the next day and the day after and all the days after that. Even if there were enough cops to deal with them all, there would be few, if any, witnesses willing to risk their lives by coming forward. That February was at the start of what already promised to be a record year for killings, following the previous new record set the year before. That February, in Chicago, folks didn't so much want to talk to cops as scream at them.
For a man found dead on a railcar, dressed fine but probably in cast-off clothes and likely homeless, it meant oblivion. He'd be forgotten soon enough.
Or so the thinking went.
CHAPTER 2
A guy whose fast voice I couldn't quite place called at ten o'clock the morning after the man on the boxcar was discovered.
'Dek,' he said.
'Indeed, this is Dek Elstrom,' I answered agreeably, because I am most agreeable when there's been a doughnut, even one so stale, for breakfast.
'Herb Sunheim.'
Herbie Sunshine, most called him, not because he was a sunny-seeming fellow but because he was exactly the opposite, a morose man in a worn shiny suit, suited to gloom. The man's clothing fit his enterprise. He ran a tiny commercial real estate brokerage, catering to small businesses looking to grab or to unload distressed properties at distressed prices. He occasionally tossed me background investigation work on his clients when he couldn't find anyone to work cheaper. Nickels mattered to Herbie.
'Long time,' I said.
'Got a job. Accident.'
Herbie always spoke in a sort of thug-staccato, like each word cost him a dollar he didn't have, but that morning he sounded anxious to fire them out even faster than usual.
'You OK, Herbie?' I asked.
'Right away on this.'
'Great,' I said. I was between jobs, as had been my norm for too many years, and was primed to pounce on anything that would cough up a buck.
'Just property photos,' he said.
'No backgrounds, no write-ups?'
'Pictures only.'
'Give me the address.'
'Central Works. Boxcar in back.'
'Where they found that stiff yesterday?'
'Views of the building, boxcar, vicinity neighborhood. Pays half a large.'
'There are pictures online,' I said, despite my poverty. It didn't make sense for a nickel-rubber like Herbie to pay five hundred dollars for pictures he could download for free.
'Pronto, confidential, to me only,' he said, instead of answering my question.
I let it go, thinking he must be representing deep-pocketed property owners, paranoid that their negligence had contributed to the victim being dropped, splat, on top of the railcar. Nowadays, people sued everybody for everything, and any lawsuit could impede a development, slow a sale, or even wipe out an owner's equity. Spending large for an investigator to take photos might well have been an owner's way of showing partners and lawyers he was doing all he could to avoid disaster.
I was happy to comply. I told Herbie to write the check because I was already headed out the door.
Along with killers and corpses, Chicago has always been chock-full of pie-eyed, commercial real estate optimists. Seemingly blind to the gang wars stacking stiffs in record numbers, massive municipal pensions demanding ever-increasing property taxes, and the city's tanking financial status, developers seemed to be scraping and building faster than ever that February, frenzied as if to suck the last of the loot out of Chicago before the whole caboodle collapsed.
The bit of blight on the west side where the boxcar man was found was typical of the times. It was the former site of the Central States Electric Works, a once-huge manufacturing complex that produced telephones back in the day when folks used such things to talk mouth-to-ear and not to play games, thumb texts, or watch movies. Most west side Chicagoans had a relative or two who'd worked at the Central Works.
Its vast acreage sat on the northeast corner of a six-lane highway to the south and a four-lane street to the west, and had once held a dozen sooty brown brick factory and office buildings. All of those buildings, except one, were now bulldozed away, no doubt in preparation for redevelopment. Just a mile to the east, closer to the city, several new ten- and twelve-story apartment buildings had already sprouted up. Slab-sided in beige precast concrete, black windowed to mute the absence of anything green growing outside, hundreds of units beckoned hundreds of hipsters. A new micro-brewery was plopped in the center of the residential canyon, a simple crawl to even the farthest of the apartments. It was idyllic, for those that enjoyed cement.
Except occasional gunfire could be heard there. Just a mile to the north or south were blocks of weed-choked, disintegrated sidewalks and burned-out buildings, worthless bloody turf where gangs shot at each other over disrespect and imagined slights because there was nothing else left to fight over. They'd lost their monopoly on marijuana, those bangers. Weed, it was joked, was now being sold cheap by grandmothers in lacy living rooms who got their stashes with medical cards. And the gangs had been edged out of the rougher trades as well. Big operators from outside the country had taken over the peddling of crack cocaine, heroin and the burgeoning synthetic concoctions markets, considering Chicago prime not only for its immense population, but also for its location. It was a convenient way station for breaking down big loads for reshipment to the east coast. Those operators, from Mexico, Central America and other places, used their own people to sell and ship; they didn't want to risk control by hiring local. And so it went. Chicago's once-mighty big gangs crumbled, devolving into smaller and smaller groups, until at last they fragmented into block-based, murderous little boys' clubs, having nothing much to do except shoot at each other.
I parked along the highway and walked north across two hundred yards of sparkling shards of glass, damp dirt and shallow puddles of snowmelt, snapping phone pictures as I went. The blue boxcar rested at the west end of a spur of rusted tracks that ran at the back of the last standing building. It was wrapped once around with yellow cop tape and appeared to be exactly where it had been when photographed by news photographers.
Two of Chicago's finest sat in a squad car parked on the side street a hundred yards west. I couldn't imagine what they were watching for, a day after the body had been discovered and removed, and decided they were simply taking a break. There'd been much press recently about bad-acting Chicago police, real and those falsely accused. That resulted, many said, in cops going fetal, responding only to calls that could not be avoided, and only when there was certainty they'd come out alive. So, more and more, cops were sitting in cars idling on safe streets, maybe like the ones to my left. I couldn't quite blame them for that.
The news reports had been accurate. There was no ladder mounted on the side of the boxcar. The victim must have fallen, or been dropped, or he'd jumped from some place higher up.
I snapped more pictures of the railcar and the surrounding area, the wasteland Herbie called the 'neighborhood vicinity,' concentrating on the spatial relationships of everything surrounding the railcar. The only building that remained on the property, a boarded-up, four-story former factory, lay on that same rail spur, a hundred yards to the east. The likeliest scenario was that the body had come out of one of its windows, and that the railcar was then moved to the end of the spur. That would not offer comfort to Herbie or his client.
Still, there'd been rain and snow and freezing temperatures earlier that February. I'd text Herbie with the pictures, telling him his client's best shot was to contact the railroad in the hope that the boxcar had been shuttled about enough times to make it possible that the victim had ridden in from somewhere else, stuck frozen to the top.
I walked along the tracks and around to the front of the building. In the style of old Chicago factories, the main entrance was ornate. Fluted beige cement pillars, striped black with soot from back when Chicago's factories made things, surrounded the entryway, as if in testament to the importance of the work that was to be performed inside. The building's massive doors, likely ripped away decades before, had been replaced by the same thick, weathered plywood that covered all the windows.
One of the window boards was loose enough to pull back and see inside. A fast glance revealed a place likely popular with drug users and dealers. They were the only ones who'd have the stoned courage to linger in such a place long enough to smoke the hundreds of cigarette butts that lay crushed on the scorched floor. Some of the stubbed-out smokes looked fresh, and that explained the loose board. Almost certainly, the building, like many vacant properties in Chicago, was still thriving as a dusk-to-dawn drug hostel for teens driving in from the suburbs.
'Hey!' A younger man with slick, gelled dark hair had come up behind me. He was lean and fit, about five foot ten, and wore a carefully knotted narrow red necktie. His charcoal suit looked to be as fine as the one worn by the man found dead on the railcar, though likely the young man had better teeth.
'You can't read?' he asked. He pointed to the blue-and-white but mostly rusty No Trespassing sign attached to the bricks.
'Who are you?'
'Not your business,' he said.
'Then smile,' I said, taking a picture of him pointing to the sign.
He didn't smile. 'What are you doing here?'
I held up my phone. 'Taking pictures,' I said, enunciating slowly as though for an idiot.
'News or insurance?' he snapped.
I had a deliciously evil thought. 'I'm stringing for Keller at the Argus-Observer.' I'd hated that columnist since he trashed me and, by association, my ex-wife Amanda, in his fish wrapper of a scandal sheet several years before.
'The sign says "No Trespassing,"' the gelled man shot back.
'I did notice that,' I said, and took another picture of his scowl. I asked if he'd like it for his mom, but that only made him scowl even more. He yelled for me to leave.
I had enough pictures. I left.
CHAPTER 3
'But it's not Thursday,' Amanda said mock-seriously, coming up to the table I'd snagged by the window.
'Thursdays, schmursdays,' I said, standing to give her a kiss. Thursdays were our designated days to rebuild our relationship, but lately we'd been bending the protocol, seeing each other two and even three times some weeks. We were mattering again, more and more.
I'd called her office from the Central Works grounds, suggesting a late lunch because I was momentarily employed and soon to become momentarily flush. We arranged to meet at a trendy grocery in Chicago's Loop, owned by a New York chef who sold his own spaghetti sauce for the price of perfume. The grocery had been all the rage for hipsters and wannabes for over a year because it also offered what were termed 'multiple dining options.' Until I'd become hip to the new lingo, 'multiple dining options' meant, to me, a KFC, a McDonald's and a Taco Bell strung close along the same potholed street.
'You look splendid,' I said, and she did, even in a conservatively cut blue business suit and small-collared white blouse.
'You look, ah ...'
'Usual?' I suggested, because I always did, dressed usually in khakis and blue button-collared shirt.
She laughed, kissed my cheek, and we sat down. The chairs were clear plastic and undulated – unwise seating, I thought, for a place that encouraged copious consumptions of pasta.
The windows were also clear and overlooked Erie Street. It was a mesmerizing perch for observing one of the city's newest and most ingenious kill zones, the newly reconfigured traffic lanes down below. The two center lanes had been left as traditional stretches for automobiles. But now, running on either side of them, were newly striped lanes for cyclists, some of whom wore helmets. Others, less veteran, merely adorned their heads with the confused grins of the soon-to-be-dead, for the outermost stretches of pavement, along the curbs, remained reserved for automobile parking, as always.
Thus was mayhem ensured.
A car driver desiring to park would stop, as usual, in his center automobile lane. But now he'd have to angle back across a new bicycle lane to get to the curb. If, by some miracle, he struck no cyclist charging up from behind, he was afforded a second chance when he swung open his car door to get out. Looking down at the swerving and horn honking along Erie Street, I could only marvel at how Chicago's ruling class kept coming up with ways to thin their herds.
'Dek?' Amanda prodded.
I turned away from the impending carnage below and offered the world's loveliest woman a smile.
'You've got work?' she asked.
I told her about Herbie Sunheim's assignment to photograph the Central Works grounds.
'Isn't five hundred excessive for snapping phone pictures?' asked one of Chicago's richest women.
'Particularly for a mega-tightwad like Herbie. I can only think that both he and his client are too petrified to go near the grounds themselves, for fear of being spotted showing concern.'
'If that's true, their reasoning is thin.'
'For five hundred dollars, I can cater to the thinnest of reasoning.'
She managed only a small laugh.
'And you, today?' I asked. 'What are you catering to?'
'I've been thinking about kids killing kids,' she said.
'Ouch,' I said.
'Chicago,' she said.
I waited.
'I've come to what you always call an "inspiration,"' she said. 'I think people like me can do something about it. No ...' She shook her head. 'People like me must do something about it.'
'Now we're on familiar turf.'
The Amanda I'd fallen in love with viewed teaching others to appreciate fine art as her life's mission. She'd lived in an almost totally unfurnished multimillion dollar mansion in a gated community solely to safeguard the valuable artwork she'd inherited from her grandfather's estate. She loved art. She loved curating it and writing about it in large books. But teaching classes at Chicago's Art Institute, preaching the gospels of Matisse, Monet and Manet – that was her purpose, her life.
Until her long-estranged father, the CEO and majority shareholder of Chicago's largest electric utility company, had made her an offer she couldn't refuse. He'd offered to appoint her to direct philanthropy in his company's name. She'd accepted. It was an offer to do good things on an enormous scale.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Tagged for Murder"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jack Fredrickson.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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