The Troubler

By Joseph A. McCaffrey

P.I. Bertrand McAbee, a former classics professor, has a knack for finding dangerous cases.  This time a misanthrope, with a satirical sense of humor, is discovered hanging under an Interstate 55 overpass.  Suspects seem to be almost infinite and the Chicago P.D. disengages.  As McAbee enters this labyrinthine affair, he begins to see that an extraordinary cast of groups with notoriously short tempers might have taken aim at this victim.  With the assistance of his team and the play of events his focus turns to the one group he didn’t want to encounter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2006
• ISBN: 9781452032894

Joseph A. McCaffrey

Dr. Joseph McCaffrey is a Professor Emeritus at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa. Years ago he was offered a job at a private investigation agency. He declined but the proposal renewed a long held objective of his to write a mystery novel around a character who actually took the offer he refused – thus, Bertrand McAbee. A Case of Agency is the 14th book in this series that began in 1997.

Book preview

Contents

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CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

AFTERWORD

CHAPTER I

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‘Roberta Chamberlin!!!! – 10 a.m.’

This is what Mark Hennessey saw when he opened his appointment calendar. He ran his left hand through his thinning brown hair, already speckled with whiteness. He shook his head back and forth a few times and said, Jeez.

After Roberta Chamberlin’s phone call two days ago, he concluded that she would be big-time trouble, a truculent know-it-all who would probably make outlandish demands on the Chicago Police Department. He would listen with feigned concern and send her on her way with hope, he hoped.

Homicide Detective Hennessey spent four full days looking into Regis Chamberlin’s murder. Every rock he picked up exposed a new cluster of smaller rocks that in their turn exposed more of the same, but smaller still. In his experience, a successful murder investigation was a matter of eliminating suspects until only one stood out; at that point it became necessary to concentrate all resources on that perp. Roberta Chamberlin’s son’s murder went the other way, every effort opened a whole new matrix of possibilities. It was a treadmill case, with an obvious start but no end. In just four days, Hennessey had decided that the case was pretty much a clunker. The entire file was headed for deep, deep burial, even if he had to go through the pretense of interest.

Whitey Bennett came trudging into the over-lit olive green office area that housed sixteen desks in what was once a six desk space. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved or changed clothes in a decade. What’s up, Hennessey? he said gruffly.

Bennett, through all the years that Hennessey knew him, had never used a first name. He wondered what he called his wife, ‘Hey, Bennett’ or when he was romantic, ‘Hey, Bennett dear.’ I’ve got this victim, Chamberlin; his mothers’ coming in at 10. She’s on a horse, let me tell you.

Whitey came over to Hennessey’s desk, pulled up a seat, and plunked down all of his 250 plus pounds accompanied by a hugh sigh. That’s a fucked up case.

You only know a fifth of it. I told you about it on, when, my second day? Here’s the problem – who wouldn’t want to kill the bastard? The list of suspects keeps expanding. Like the universe.

What?

Hennessey was going to explain an article he had read in the Chicago Sun Times. He caught himself before embarking on the useless voyage. After talking with mommy dearest, I can see why the son was screwed up.

Yeah, you know what they say. The tree isn’t far from the acorn. He gripped the arms of the chair and brought himself to a standing position. Whitey trudged back to his desk and picked up his phone.

Hennessey looked at him closely. Whitey was just two years from retirement. He wondered how addled Bennett’s brain was before he became a detective some 10 years or so ago. Or was he genetically dumb? Hennessey still had another eight years to go. He hoped he could leave the Department with his mind still reasonably intact. Whitey, however, was leaving the Department, genetics or not, dumber than a boulder.

The single ring of his phone indicated an inside call. He picked up the receiver, Hennessey.

Lieutenant Hennessey, this is Commander Miner. Do you have a few minutes?

Sure, sure I do.

Why don’t you come up right now … and bring along some of the info on this … Chamberlin case you’re working on. He hung up abruptly.

Commander Miner was a black guy who had been foisted onto the station three years ago by the Daley administration, anxious to muscle up its statistics on black advancement and opportunity. He had been brought into the Department, originally, as a consultant, having served in military intelligence and enforcement for 20 years. Hennessey detested him. He saw him as an uptight freak who sat up on the top floor of the stationhouse acting like he was in the papal palace. He was sure that the animosity was mutual.

Somehow his secretary, Elizabeth, was cloned from Auschwitz-administrator DNA. She was a tight-assed bitch with arrogance as her calling card. This 40ish black-haired woman with face too thin and face too long, was on the phone when he arrived. He waved; she looked away. He cursed himself. Why wave to her when there was only a one-percent chance of any kind of reciprocity?

I’ll pass it on to Commander Miner. I’m sure that he’ll be interested. Thank you, she said insincerely as she turned her attention in his direction. Lieutenant Hennessey?

I’m here to see Commander Miner.

His schedule is pretty tight. Try to keep it brief for me.

Not for him, for her. Like you could see the mutt, but don’t stay long. That’s his call, isn’t it? It came out wrong, churlish.

She pursed her super thin lips and caught him nastily with her squinty gray eyes. She didn’t respond except for that unmistakable body language that held Hennessey in disdain. She got up, positioned her right hand outwards motioning him to freeze in place, and entered Miner’s open doorway. He’s here, sir. Are you ready to see him?

He heard a muffled, Send him in. She did so with a forward wave of her fingers, that directed Hennessey to advance into Miner’s office.

It was a sun-bathed corner office on the top floor of the three-story building. Miner stood up and pointed to the seat in front of his gargantuan desk. They sat at the same time. Miner made no effort to close his office door.

He began, You know, he looked down at a piece of paper in front of him, you have a real stinker on your hands.

Sir?

This Chamberlin affair. Come off of it, Hennessey. You know what I’m talking about. I asked you to bring your notes. We’re having a conversation for God’s sake. Don’t play stupid with me, sir.

He wondered if Elizabeth heard the exchange. If she did, she’d love Miner for what he just did to Hennessey. Chamberlin – a real stinker? It’s a tough case if that’s what you mean, sir.

His mother is coming to see you this morning. What are you going to tell her? Miner, small faced, had a tiny, toothpick-like mustache. His brown eyes were both intense and judgmental.

It’s a tough case, Hennessey knew that he was being a disingenuous jerk with Miner.

Miner let the insipid comment just lie there for about 15 seconds. He finally said, You should know that she has huge connections in the State of Illinois. She could hurt you and the Department.

Oh?

Hey. You know Illinois better than I do. You know the score. Don’t give her a hard time when you see her today.

Who said I was going to?

I didn’t need a rat on this one; your record of obnoxiousness is long enough to let me guess. I’m sure that I wouldn’t have to go far to confirm, would I? Like your personnel record.

Commander Miner, I’ll be as nice as I can with her. Is there anything else, sir?

Give me a synopsis of the case – clear and to the point Hennessey.

He was drugged and hung underneath I-55 on Cicero Avenue.

Suicide?

No, crime scene gave it away. If anything, it was a showcase killing.

Tell me more.

The victim was 350 pounds of sheer piss and vinegar. He ran what might come out to be hundreds of websites, every one devoted to tearing down a group, an individual, or an institution, you name it.

You know this for a fact?

Hennessey opened up his folder. Ben Ross – one of our go-to computer specialists did the work. All sorts of correspondence in Chamberlin’s computers and his files. Answer – affirmative.

Suspects?

Yeah – sure. Each group or individual he screwed with. Start working the groups – talking thousands, millions I guess to be accurate.

There was a long pause. Any hot prospects?

No. The next inquiry always looks better than the last one. It’s like the universe – it keeps expanding.

What? What the hell does the universe have to do with this case?

Excuse me sir, just a manner of speaking. Unlike Whitey, who was just plain dumb, Miner was a literalist. He probably knew all about the expanding universe, but he was unable to connect one idea, the expanding universe, to another, the murder case. Hennessey decided not to read any more stories about the expanding universe. He clarified, The list of suspects is extensive.

So, go through this again. What exactly are you going to tell this man’s mother, an influential and powerful mother?

I’m going to try to explain that this case is very difficult because her son was so deeply involved in the political process and wasn’t afraid to take on tough issues. How’s that?

Miner tried it on for size, or at least his eyes indicated such as they swiveled up to his right. Well, that’s better than what you might have been inclined to do, I guess.

Excuse me, sir?

You heard me. You don’t have a reputation for delicacy, after all.

I guess I don’t. Doing homicides is not like AWOLs or shop-lifting from commissaries, Hennessey said sarcastically, while wondering whether this military dig scored.

That’s enough of that, Lieutenant. I’ll just give you fair warning. Get your job done on this quickly, and treat her carefully. If it comes back to me that you’ve been an ass, I’ll make your life difficult. Believe me. Keep me informed; you are dismissed.

Hennessey got up quickly and walked out. Elizabeth caught him with a disdainful stare. I made it easy for you. It was a short meeting, wasn’t it?

She rose and headed for Miner’s office. She didn’t respond to him.

Hennessey wasn’t sure about what to share with Brunhilde, AKA, Roberta Chamberlin. In his occasionally sympathetic heart, he felt for her. A son was a son, a huge loss by any standard. Regis, the youngest of the family, was the only son. She also had two daughters, the eldest in Istanbul with the American Embassy. Her name was Iris. The other, Sybil, was a local who lived in Aurora, Illinois, employed as a buyer for Nordstrom’s Department Store. Roberta was married for 30 years until her husband died nearly two years ago. No one in the family was hitched up at this time. The murdered 29-year-old Regis had attended Harvard University, but he dropped out after his sophomore year. From there his history became rank; and his personality, always somewhat problematical, started its descent into hell.

Surely the mother was onto all of this. But he did wonder how she might massage it. Parents were frequently aware of general problems but unknowing about the ocean of specifics.

What Miner said about the mother’s political influence was noteworthy. His relatively unobtrusive checking on Roberta came up with her being associated with the democratic party in the State of Illinois. She lived at a downtown address – town home, probably she and it worth millions. So far, no connection with the Daley machine came up, but the call to Miner hinted at some extensive connections to someone, somewhere. The worse that could happen, he thought, was that he’d be pulled from the case. He would consider that a blessing, provided that it wasn’t done in a disrespectful way. He’d try to be civil, but he wasn’t about to take a lot of crap from her. He had already taken too much when she called two days ago.

By the time she showed up, the desks and noise level of the second-floor detective area were at full throttle. The call from the desk sergeant on the first floor came through at 10:05. You expecting a visitor, Hennessey?

Yeah, a woman, Roberta Chamberlin.

The sergeant lowered his voice, Well, this is your lucky day, buddy. She has enough airs about her to win an Oscar. I put her in C. Do me a favor and get down here. I don’t want her on my ass.

You owe me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.

It must have cost her a fortune in cosmetics to be so severely overdone as to affect such an underdone look. She was probably in her sixties, although she was desperately hanging onto a below-fifty look. She had short, blonde hair, at least three layers of makeup to create a slightly faded tan look, pale red lipstick, and impeccable grooming around her eyelashes and plucked brows. When she stood, her two-inch heels barely brought her over the five-foot mark. She couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds, maybe 10 lighter. Her brown eyes held him and they both sat.

Mrs. Chamberlin, I’m Detective Hennessey. I’m the lead investigator into your son’s death.

Up close her mouth was infiltrated by tiny wrinkles. They got more noticeable as she spoke, giving her a touch of meanness.

Detective, I know about you.

Whatever the hell that meant. He let it go. I’m pleased that you came down here. You’re on my short list for an interview. I waited for the funeral to be over. But, of course, there was your call.

Oh? Is that right? I guess that makes us alike.

I’m sorry? he said querying.

You’re on my short list also.

I see, he said as he opened up his casebook. She was trying to make him feel uncomfortable. Do you know of anyone who would try to murder your son?

She looked at him with a slight smirk before saying, Detective, such a question. Isn’t it beneath you? Regis may have had a few unfriendly acquaintances. Who doesn’t? But murder? Hardly the same thing. He was politically active, but what serious adult isn’t?

The woman was wrapped in questions. Already Hennessey was concluding that she was ignorant of her son’s proclivities to mix hatred with the Internet. So, his murder was a complete shock?

Are you kidding? Why wouldn’t it be? Her probably once pretty lips were now coiled tightly, the many small mouth-lines fully visible. Her eyes manifested a mixture of disdain and, was it, surprise? She continued, I loved my son very much. Get that straight. I will not sit back and watch this case get swept under a rug. Do you understand?

Is that your impression? he asked carefully.

More than an impression, Detective. It’s a hard cut assessment on my part. I have three places, Detective. I usually split my time in all three: Chicago, Naples, Florida, and Davenport, Iowa. Three very different environments. I have very few good impressions of your city and how it operates. You are overworked and underpaid, aren’t you? As far as I can make out, you’re no exception. She stopped abruptly, glaring at him as she gave a once-over to his wrinkled and too worn clothing.

Hennessey wanted to slap her across her pessimistic, opinionated face. Instead, he let a silence come between them. You know, Mrs. Chamberlin, this is not an easy case. I need all the help you can provide, for example, those acquaintances your son had – those who might have disliked him. I need names.

Conjecture on my part. I have no names, I know of no individual who hated my son. Do you understand? Furthermore, he was not into making friends. Too smart by half for almost everyone.

Very well. He held out the palms of his hands. He decided that it was time to toughen things up. When was the last time that you saw your son?

Three weeks ago, we had lunch, three weeks to the day.

Your son had a weight problem, he said flatly.

There was a delay. Hennessey waited for the coming blast. I see your observational powers are really attuned, Detective. Do you want a gold star? Is this your idea of good police work? she said bitterly.

He held fast. Not in itself. But a number of fat people are dealing with issues such as self-love, self-hate, and assorted psychological problems. Don’t you agree?

No, I don’t. Are you some kind of psychologist? Are you telling me, Detective, that you’ve come up empty, and that’s where you’re going with this case? Because if that is your best theory, I demand someone other than you on my son’s case.

I’m asking for your cooperation. All I see is someone in denial. It won’t help me solve this case.

I’m being fully cooperative. All I see, to echo you, is some amateur psychologist, as off the mark as can be. All I have are the details of my son’s murder. A gruesome death. What a terrible way to die. And, you, what do you have? Nothing. My son was overweight. Gee – Detective! Is this supposed to impress me?

Her undraped, upper arms showed some loose-hanging flesh as her arms became animated. He stared at them, hoping to get her on the defensive. He said, Anything else you want to say?

Whom do you suspect? Why is this so hard for you? she said, slightly mellowed.

Mrs. Chamberlin, you do know that your son was involved in politics. You said as much. Are you aware that he was very active on the Internet? That he had a number of devoted sites?

As I said, he was politically active.

Would you say mainstream politics?

She allowed a slight smile, inward as it were, as she reminisced. Well, yes and no. I’m a rare species, among my friends, I’ve been a lifelong democrat. I don’t fit the profile. But my son, given his youth, was a bit more, let’s say, pointed than I am. What’s your angle here, Detective?

Hennessey was baffled by this woman. Insanity, if it was genetic, clearly issued from this crackpot whose own obnoxiousness was only outdone by her screwed-up son. Poor old Regis never stood a chance under the care of this goofy cow. There are some specialists in the Department who work with and on the Internet. They make judgments about the hatefulness of some of the content. The FBI also does this. Some of the sites run by your son are classified as hate sites. Were you aware of this?

What are you talking about? What a terrible thing to say to me. My son is, … was, firm in his beliefs.

Are you a user of the internet, Mrs. Chamberlin?

No, she said dourly. I see it as impersonal, as terribly lonely. I don’t do it.

But your son, you know that he was into it.

Yeess … so? she said guardedly.

Are you aware of the fact that some sites can be pretty negative, pretty vicious?

Yes, but not my son’s. He was a man of opinion, not a man of hate. It sounds to me as though you’re trying to attach blame onto him. Aren’t you?

No, not blame. But your son seems to have been stirring up some trouble with a variety of groups. Do you know of any reason why he’d start sites that would state some pretty radical views of religious groups, ethnic groups, races, sexual orientations, just to name a few?

She stopped looking at Hennessey. She had a way about her that clearly indicated that she was going inward. Hennessey tried to figure it out but couldn’t put his finger on it, except that he knew, at least for the moment, that she wasn’t there. She came back, I need an example.

Do you know how to use a computer?

She blushed slightly. I can have it done, don’t you worry.

He reached into his folder and took out a list of 25 website addresses. Here are some examples. Why don’t you go home or to some place where someone can do it for you, Mrs. Chamberlin. He let this last comment drip out sarcastically. When you look at some of these, perhaps you’ll understand the difficulties around this case. The simple fact is this, your son’s murder could have been from any number of enemies that he himself cultivated. One of them may have decided to take action.

She gazed at the list. He wondered how ignorant she was of the Internet. She looked back at him and said, I’ll study this and get back with you. But, I’ll tell you now, you leave me unimpressed.

Those things happen, Mrs. Chamberlin, those things happen. He got up and walked out of the room. He felt that he had gotten in one solid gut shot against the mean-spirited bitch.

CHAPTER II

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Hennessey was given two more detectives, Whitey Bennett being one of them, by the divisional Chief of Detectives, John Kiernan. He was told that he had two days to advance the investigation. If you can’t, we’ll have to put it out for someone else. Burying this one is out of the question, Mark. Sorry. Kiernan said. Kiernan was a holdover from the old school. He was unemotional, straightforward, and had the sense of humor of a polar bear. Hennessey wondered whether Kiernan liked or disliked anyone; life seemed to him to be a matter of moving pieces to and fro. Then, again, he had to coordinate his efforts with Commander Miner and his scorpion bitch Elizabeth.

Whitey burped as he came into the conference room on the second floor of the station. He sat with a thump, nodded his head at Hennessey, and stared flatly at Eddie Jones, the newly-made, black detective. Hennessey watched Jones duplicate Bennett’s glare. Great, a team made in heaven. I’m sorry about your drawing this case, you guys. There’s a lot of political spin moving through it. So, we’ve got to show something, or we all take a hit on it.

We means you, Hennessey. It’s your case. Whitey said abruptly.

I suppose that’s right – ultimately. But I need your help. I sent out a summary sheet on this to each of you. Need any clarification? He eyed Jones who sat there quietly and sullenly.

I’ll do whatever you want me to do on this. But it seems like a waste of time. This Chamberlin had some kind of death wish if you ask me. Bennett said.

Hennessey didn’t respond to the comment because he didn’t ask Whitey for his opinion. You OK on this, Jones?

Yup. Guy was a maggot. What am I supposed to do? Interview all of the black groups he dissed? That why I’m on this detail?

Kiernan assigned you, I didn’t Hennessey said defensively. Who would you like to interview? The Cardinal? The Chief Rabbi? The guy was a universal hater, not just blacks. So please, check the attitude.

Whitey snarled, Yeah, Jones, what gives? Maybe you should interview the Gay and Lesbian Alliance?

OK, Whitey, that’s enough from you, Hennessey said. Jones, I thought you’d have the best chance of getting some kind of response from the three black groups that we’ve identified. But, …

That’s profiling crap, Hennessey, and you know it.

How about just common sense?

Yeah, sure, that’s what they always say, common sense, common sense. But, if that’s what you want, I’ll head off to the south-side and see what I can dig up.

Thanks. So, you’ll sniff around the NAACP, Urban League, and the Black Muslims. I’d appreciate an immediate call if you get something hot. OK?

Yup. That it?

No. I want everyone to know what each is doing. Whitey …

Jones cut him off, Have him do the Klan. Is that on the list? He glowered at Whitey Bennett.

Whitey Bennett laughed ugly. Go screw yourself. The only reason you’re even here is because you cheated on the promotion test and you’re black.

Hey! Guys! Come on, will you? I’ll make sure that neither of you have much to do with the other, but please. Time to focus on this damn case.

They looked at each other with sheer hatred but said nothing. Hennessey went on, "Whitey, I’d