Cahokia: When Murder Doesn't Die

PROLOGUE

"Chasing The Wind"

CHICAGO: Summer, 1988

The Windy City.

Art and Architecture.

Cronyism and Political Maneuvering.

From the lake shore’s scenic drive to expressways diverged east, west and south. A cavernous horizon. Spiraled asphalt slithers a cosmopolitan jungle.

Cold.

Breathing.

Unforgiving.

The sandal shorn feet of a young woman splashed through puddles scattered across walking lanes on the Michigan Avenue trunnion-bascule. The pavement was damp, steamy. She walked with a steady gait. It was the walk of tired legs moving with a purpose. A Chicago rain ended less than an hour ago.

Her clothes, a light midriff top and floral summer skirt clung to her body. Her scamper to nowhere in particular began as the final sprinkles of an August rain eased away. The humidity, typically following an urban shower in northern Illinois was rising.

Damp and sweaty, she moved about downtown, wandering past Union Station, past Wells Street and on toward Lake Shore Drive. Mumbling, and glancing only occasionally at her whereabouts, her path led underneath an elevated train trestle at the West Devon Street CTA stop. Suddenly, a car sped past. It stopped then reversed itself quickly to near where the woman stood on the sidewalk.

Cee Cee! a man’s voice yelled through a lowered window from inside the car.

Cee Cee!! his shouted again with more intensity.

The young woman barely looked up. She peered peripherally long enough to make out a copper colored, older model Oldsmobile.

A Cutlass Supreme, two door. Her step quickened.

The features that she could identify of the lone man in the car were not those of anyone she knew. That was not uncommon for her and who she was. She was often approached by or interacting with people that she did not necessarily know, particularly men. And on this day, after all the other headache inducing activities she’d been through; she was not about to stop for anyone. She walked faster.

Cee Cee, come on .. You gotta .. You need to talk to…

The man continued to scream inaudible somethings at the woman.

CEE CEE !!

A train passing noisily overhead broke up whatever he was trying to say.

The screeching and rumbling of the downtown Chicago Transit Authority El-train howled away around a bending track. The walking, now running woman ducked onto an adjoining street. Tiring even more, she dug in and broke into a full speed gallop to evade the stranger in the car.

Cee Cee finally stopped running when she reached a beach path along a walkway near the lake. It was dark now, only a few people strolled in the distance. They were heading away from the beach, either toward parked vehicles nearby or down closer to the waters of Lake Michigan’s shoreline.

Cee Cee was exhausted. Not frightened, just tired from running. Tired of trying to get away. Her body slumped down in a sandy clearance just off the path that she’d happened upon.

After sitting a moment and gathering herself, Cee Cee jumped up with a renewed and determined consternation. She stood and stormed back toward downtown Chicago. She’d only taken a few steps when someone grabbed her shoulder hard and spun her around.

Why did you run? I only wanted to talk to you! said the man that Cee Cee could now tell was the one she’d been trying to elude earlier.

Let me go! she snapped. I know what you want. I’m not doin’ anything, I’m not going anywhere with you! she growled.

Cee Cee snatched away and ran toward the water, into the darkness.

In seconds, her legs crumpled. The weight of the man lunging onto Cee Cee’s back brought her to her knees.

Now you need to calm down little missy, he stammered with an excitedly nervous twitch. He rolled Cee Cee around facing him. She struggled, twisting to her feet as the man eased his hold.

Instinctively, Cee Cee lashed out and swung a vicious open-handed slap across his pockmarked face. Staring at him, Cee Cee balled her fists then stared him with a hard-as-nails and ready-to-fight glare in her eyes.

The reciprocal punch delivered to her stomach knocked the wind out Cee Cee, a sharp shriek wheezed out of her before she doubled over and a hard slap across her face followed the initial blow. Cee Cee went down, writhing in pain. He stood over her.

Bitch! It didn’t have to be this way.

He looked at the young girl squiggle below him, trying to eke air into her depleted lungs. Smiling crazily, he began to undo a large pewtered belt-buckle that read in carved letters:

"BORN TO LOSE"

He glanced quickly around at even fewer people on the beach and even farther in the distance. Dampened blue-jeans slid down over a pair of moist sneakers. Cee Cee watched him grinning a dingy grin above her. His stained white boxer shorts came down next. Cee Cee couldn’t muster the energy to yell out, her tiny five-foot-four-inch frame shivered.

The man dropped to his knees, grasping underneath her skirt and ripping her panties off with a force. Like some kind of animal, he clawed away the light summer top and brassier that Cee Cee wore, with one fell swoop. She screamed with all the energy she could. Another crushing blow silenced her to a low moan. As if for pure spite, he sent an additional crunching fist to Cee Cee’s ribs. Then he mounted her.

He forced himself inside her with one heated push and slumped on top of her limp body. His hot breath blew into the sand beside her bruised and swelling face. He grunted like a pig, pumping his pathetic manhood into his semi-conscious victim.

Cee Cee’s head spun. It ached miserably. Her brain was reeling. She could not believe what was happening. The pain from the beating she had taken joined with a burning, searing sting shooting through her loin. Cee Cee thought she passed out.

In moments, the man was standing over her again pulling his pants together, dusting clinging sand from himself and buckling his jeans closed.

"BORN TO LOSE," blurred in Cee Cee’s eyes.

Uppity Bitch! he snarled, kicking Cee Cee once more for measure.

As though suddenly snapping out of some trance, the beachside attacker guiltily wheeled his eyes around the beach once more.

No one.

He looked down at Cee Cee.

Ah fuck! he barked, in the oddest tone. Shit!

Then just as suddenly, he took off, leaving the helpless girl lying there beaten and raped on the sand.

Scurrying to his car then swerving out of the parking lot, he reached for a soiled towel on the front seat next to him. It was only then the man noticed Cee Cee’s blood spattered on his hands, on his knuckles, on him. He flinched then wiped frantically.

The car sped, then slowed to the legal limit. Safely back in the city, he stopped at a Citgo gas station around the corner from Ed Debevic’s Restaurant. He re-examined his hands and clothing. Short of his hands starting to bruise, most of the obvious blood was gone.

Swiftly, he moved past the station’s entrance, looking away when an attendant inside glanced in his direction. He raced past the door, tossing the bloodied towel from his car into a city dumpster and stepped over to a payphone near the station’s restroom. He grimaced, reaching a hand into his pocket for change. Grunting, he dialed rapidly. The call went through.

The man talked quickly at times almost yelling. Then he was silent, listening intently. Then his body jerked itself upright! Urgently, he hung up the phone and dashed out of the booth.

Still unnoticed by the station’s attendant, he ran to his car. The tires peeled rubber as he raced the car backward. Heading back toward Cee Cee. Back for the woman he had left on the beach.

CHAPTER ONE

"The Powers That Be"

The Present: Fall, 1998

DeAngelo Cornelius Byrd is not a master criminal by any stretch of human imagination, and he knows it. Dee Byrd is your run of the mill two-time loser. He has spent about as much of his 36-year old life in jails, prisons and detention centers as he has spent out of them. Byrd was released from a minimum security institution in Vienna, Illinois after serving 32 months for theft and burglary. That was in June. This is November.

The slight built, effeminate little man is a case study in bad luck and bad timing. And, what happens when your singular avocation is to dress in women’s clothing, mixed with a concentrated preoccupation with rock cocaine.

A quick hit of his beloved crack is the very thing DeAngelo Byrd is thinking about while locked in an interviewing room at Cook County Jail in Chicago, awaiting his court appointed lawyer. If convicted of the current residential burglary charge he’s facing, that would make him a habitual criminal offender under Illinois statutes. Three strikes and you’re out. Mr. Byrd moves on to the criminal big leagues. If convicted, he graduates from two-time loser to three-time felony offender and the distinct probability of life imprisonment.

The accused was fidgeting nervously. He flipped up the collar on the bright orange jumpsuit worn by all the inmates at Cook County. Then he sat, staring blankly at the floor in the windowless room.

Moments later the sound of muffled voices outside the interviewing cell startled Byrd. He adjusted himself, shuffled his suit in place and sat erect at the stone, bench-like table, the only piece of furniture in the room. A jail guard opened the door to DeAngelo’s cell.

Just buzz me when you’re done, Miss Teale, the guard said to a smartly dressed young woman as he pulled the door open and the woman entered the room.

I’m your attorney from the Public Defender’s Office and I’ve been assigned to this case, the woman said.

Griffen Teale, was in her sixth year with the Cook County PD’s Office. She was in the room with Dee Byrd for four to five minutes before saying as much as one word more than her brief introduction. Dee watched as she fanned back and forth through a series of folders and files.

You look like you’ve made quite a mess for yourself on this one, Mr. Byrd, Teale said finally. The residential burglary charge you’re facing is serious enough and would probably get you a nice chunk of time all by itself. If the state can prove its case. And, I’m sure you’ve figured out that the prior felonies here won’t help much either.

The inmate studied the lawyer. The lawyer kept talking.

Looks like you’ve got a host of misdemeanors; from soliciting to shoplifting, she said. And the fact that you were on parole when you caught this case … Well … In a word, Mr. Byrd … You’re screwed. No pun intended, added Teale.

Dee Byrd half smirked at the stranger assigned to him.

He’d been this route before. The PD couldn’t care less, he figured. Just another case to clear off the docket. They come in, run it down to you and then start talking about copping a plea. It’s not that they weren’t good lawyers but Dee knew that his name was only one of about 60 or so, stuffed into Griffen Teale’s handsome little legal bag that day. Whether she cared about Dee Byrd was not the issue right now. The one thing Byrd knew was, the counselor was right. He was in quite a mess.

Maybe I could work some kinda deal, Byrd said. You know negotiate or something? he inquired.

Well, I’ll tell you. I talked with the State Attorney’s office two days ago and they’re gonna push it for all it’s worth, Griffen Teale responded.

And honestly, they’ve got a damn good case. Unless you’ve got four aces up your sleeve and an angel in your pocket, this one’s gonna be pretty rough. You could be looking at some pretty stiff time.

Unh-unh, I can’t go back in there! Byrd squawked, as his lawyer took a break in her bad news recitation.

LIFE! he screeched.

FOR WHAT?!

Unh-unh, they’re gonna try to jam me up in some place like Menard or Pontiac, or one of them crazy-ass, max security joints. I know they will!

Griffen Teale almost nodded in agreement.

I can’t do no hard time like that shit. Byrd ranted.

LIFE?!—Look at me! They’ll kill me up in there, he cried.

The lawyer looked at Byrd (or Miss DeeAnn as she discovered he liked to be called). The prisoner began to fidget and shift again. He shook slightly and rocked subtly while chewing on a partially painted middle fingernail. Griffen watched while Miss DeeAnn rocked and chewed. The room was quiet for what seemed like the longest time.

Dee? Griffen finally said softly.

The petite man looked at his attorney, primping, as if starting to cry. Hesitantly, he started to speak.

There is one thing I bet they could use. Miss DeeAnn said haltingly. It’s from a long time ago, he said in an almost eery tone. I know they don’t got nuthin, cause they didn’t never catch nobody.

He paused again.

Remember all them girls that was gittin killed all over the place, way back in the day? Dee asked.

Griffen looked up from the DeAngelo Byrd file that she was holding. Miss DeeAnn had her attention. Her eyes glanced up and away momentarily as though she was remembering.

Yes, Griffen said slowly. You mean the serial murders?

Miss DeeAnn nodded.

Yeah, what about em? asked the lawyer.

Yeah, them one’s with them scarfs and all that sick shit. DeeAnn confirmed.

Well, he continued. I used to have this boyfriend and he was always talkin’ bout how he knew some real crazy stuff bout all of that. He used to be braggin’ all bout how cops couldn’t touch him cause he was The Man." Talkin’ bout how he knew the key to all that mess.

Another dramatic pause.

He was a crazy fucker too. He probably did know sumpthin bout somebody or sumpthin…

DeeAnn’s voice started to trail off.

Hell, crazy as his ass was—He mighta done that shit hisself. Dee mumbled.

Wait a minute! Griffen snapped.

Are you tellin’ me you have information on a string of murders that happened over a decade ago?! she asked.

DeeAnn nodded again, slowly.

That’s the deal you want me to take to the prosecutors, to the state’s attorney?! Griffen’s tone was incredulous.

DeeAnn responded with another tentative nod.

Well, yeah! … They ain’t got nuthin else, he said. And I sho ain’t tryin’ to take my lil frail ass up in no maximum security lock-down!

A pause again. He leaned in toward Griffen. Instinctively, she leaned too. Dee spoke in a whisper.

See, all this stuff is hood shit, he said. To let Purcell tell it, ain’t but two or three people in on the whole thing, Dee whispered, then he leaned in closer.

"Ain’t nobody givin’ up no information on this kinda stuff, Miss Teale! … Not unless they got to! And I mean really got to!"

Dee eased his body upright.

"And I guess Um the first one to come along that’s got to."

Dee, this is thin, real thin! Griffen said in a half whisper, easing upward herself. They’re gonna know you’re fishing, said the lawyer, referring to the state prosecutors. Hell, I think you’re fishing—I must be nuts to even be listening to this, she said.

The room went quiet again.

Listen, what the hell, Griffen conceded after a moment.

Okay, I’ll bite, she said. You got names? Places? Details? she questioned.

This Purcell guy?—This ex-boyfriend?—Is that who you’re tryin to give up? What’s his story? Griffen pressed.

Yep, that’s him, Purcell Green. Byrd said, his tone was a little more relaxed, sensing that his story might be buying him some time.

That fool been in and out of the joint more than me, Byrd continued. He was a snitch here in Chicago and he was snitching downstate too. That’s the only reason he still on the street.

Griffen pulled a legal pad from her bag and started to write.

Yeah, he gave the cops information. He gave ‘em lots-a-stuff, anythang they wanted. But he ain’t gave em nuthin on this … I was with that fool for three years, honey. He was in love with me, girl! Miss DeeAnn said, with a proud snap and a circle.

"Purcell started runnin’ his mouth ‘bout all kinds of stuff, once we got tight. And I’d be just listenin’ and sayin’ okay Purcell, okay, alright honey. And he just kept talkin’.

Then he gon’ have the nerve to try to leave me for that bitch, Tootie … Tootie ain’t no damn woman!" Miss DeeAnn digressed.

Shit, I’m mo’ woman than that slut ever gon’ be! That’s why I tried to scald his ass … Don’t nobody mess wit Miss DeeAnn, honey! And don’t nobody mess wit’ Miss DeeAnn’s man! … Anyway, that’s about the time I got the hell up outta there. See how that bitch like his ass all burnt up … I tried to dump that boiling pot-a-grits in his damn face! You know girl, just like Al Green! Dee added.

Griffen jotted a note or two, selectively blocking Miss DeeAnn’s hyperbole.

Well, Purcell stupid-ass ducked. Then he came after me! He had steam comin off his ass an-shit … Man, he was hollin! … Anyway that was about, maybe three years ago. And like I say I got up outta there and brought my butt back to the city.

Miss Dee Ann took a deep breath and flipped his head back with his hand up like he was holding an imaginary cigarette. Then he stared at Griffen Teale, batting his eyes magnanimously, like he was the Queen of Sheba.

So yeah, I gotta name. I know where that fool used to hang out too! Dee Ann said. But Purcell crazy, Miss Griffen, he told the lawyer ominously. "He’ll kill up a bunch-a-folks if he know y’all comin after him on this stuff from way back then. He was talkin all bad wit’ me, way back in the day. But to tell you the truth, Purcell acted like it kinda scared him too. He could be kinda jumpy sometime. ‘Specially when he was scared.

Y’all go messin wit Purcell crazy-ass, y’all betta be fo-real. I remember how police was all over the place lookin for somebody on them killins, ‘specially after that last girl."

Dee Ann paused once more, checking to see how his story was playing. Then he added … Now I know this might not be no fo’ aces up my sleeve, Miss Griffen but I bet if I can help ‘em mop up them girls gittin kilt after all this time, then that’s gon’ have to be worth sumpthin.

Griffen looked skeptically at the client that she’d been assigned only days ago. Other than thinking what a truly odd looking individual DeAngelo Byrd was; Griffen also wondered if he was trying to run a typical convict scam. Or, did he actually have solid information on one of Chicago’s most heinous series of murders in memory. One thing Griffen knew for sure, DeAngelo Byrd was not going anywhere any time soon, if ever.

Miss DeeAnn talked and talked as though his life depended on it. Griffen Teale listened as more and more details spilled out of him and into the room. Whether his accounts were accurate, or untrue, Griffen couldn’t tell. But it was starting to sound plausible that maybe this guy could be the real thing.

Public Defense Attorney Griffen Teale saw five other people on her visit to the Cook County Courts Building that day. None proved as interesting or as potentially explosive as her session with DeAngelo Byrd.

She was just finishing with a preliminary hearing, a quick appearance on a misdemeanor case, closing out the day. Griffen was explaining to her client that she would likely not have to go to jail. The woman started a rant about having never been in trouble and so on. Griffen’s mind wandered after the woman’s second sentence started with something about having been a Girl Scout, when she was a child.

She glanced over the client’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of Bert Avila, her boss, heading in the opposite direction. Quickly, Griffen again reassured the client that the case would work out fine and that the young woman should call the Public Defender’s Office within the week for an update.

She shook the woman’s hand hastily then scooped up her valise and darted down the hallway, chasing after Bert Avila.

She caught up with her boss just around a corner waiting for an elevator. Avila had stopped by the courthouse for a meeting with Chief State’s Attorney, Bobby Kortunal and Bryce Costanza, the Mayor’s Office Security Manager, as well as several judges’ assistants.

Listen Bert, Griffen said, I’ve got this guy facing a third felony and habitual offender status in the lock-up downstairs.

The elevator doors opened, Teale and Avila squeezed on with a number of other attorneys, probation officers and court staffers headed to the first floor.

Chief you’re not gonna believe what this dude’s trying to sell to the prosecutor’s office to cut a deal. Griffen whispered.

What? … What’s he got? queried the serious, stocky built Bert Avila. More than a smidgen of cynicism already tinged his voice.

The Yellow Ribbon Murders. Griffen whispered even lower.

One of the lawyers on the elevator crunched near Griffen squinched a quick look in her direction. Griffen, not in the mood, fired back with a kind of mind-your-own-damn-business glare and moved in closer to Bert Avila.

"Come on Griff! The Yellow Ribbon Killer?! You mean our Yellow Ribbon Killer?! The MCU’s Yellow Ribbon Killer?! Bert said in a terse whisper. Are you freakin’ kidding me?"

Bert I’m tellin’ you, this guy may have something. Griffen said.

He’s got some pretty good details and I got the notes!

Bert glanced around the tight elevator. Griffen wasn’t sure if that was a glance or more a roll of his eyes.

You know me Bert. she said, standing eye-to-eye with her boss.

You know I wouldn’t bring you something like this if I thought the guy was just pulling my chain. The guy is facing life! she argued.

Exactly, countered Avila.

"Look boss, he’s not going anywhere. If nothing pans out, what do we have to lose? Plus, your office, we, become major players in closing a twelve year old murder case. I’m serious Bert. This one’s worth a look!"

DING!

The elevator doors opened. The five or six people on board crushed out into an even larger rush of court patrons and employees.

Back at the office Griffen. Bert ordered. Meet me there in an hour and bring the notes, he said.

The two lawyers meshed swiftly into the crowd. They walked quickly past the reverse side of the building’s metal detectors and the uniformed officers standing there.

So what’s our songbird’s name anyway? Bert asked, as the two of them pressed through the front doors.

Byrd indeed. Griffen said, half smiling at her boss’ choice of phrase and the irony of her snitch’s real name.

DeAngelo Byrd, she said.

Oh my God, Griff! Bert Avila blurted. I know him!—I know that guy!—The guy’s a loser, Teale. He’s a small-time snitch and a rock head! Who’s he trying to pull in on this? The Boston Strangler!

Look, I just took down what he said Bert. It’s worth a look. He came up with a name.

Yeah, who? Hoffa? Bert interjected.

Purcell Green.

Avila stopped Teale in mid-sentence.

Purcell Green? he said.

Now that’s a name I definitely know.

Bert stared at Griffen and rubbed his brow as though his mind went someplace else.

Purcell Green? he said again with a distinct tone of familiarity.

Miss DeeAnn Byrd, huh?

Griffen raised an eyebrow. Her boss had just reeled off DeAngelo Byrd’s preferred alias without batting an eye.

What?! she quipped.

Listen Griff, if Byrd’s got something to talk about and he’s throwing around Purcell Green’s name. I got a handful of pretty prominent people who are gonna wanna hear about it.

Griffen and her boss dashed through a cold Chicago rain outside the courthouse. They splashed across the busy intersection in front of the building and headed for a parking garage across the street.

One hour Griff! … Back at the office! … Bring the notes! Bert shouted.

He and Griffen split in opposite directions at the parking structure.

One hour! Griffen shouted back. Got it!

Bertrano Avila started out as a prosecutor in the State Attorney’s Office. He was a new assistant when he was first introduced to Purcell Green. Avila was the man who had, on several occasions, negotiated deals for Green in plea bargain situations.

He knew Green as a full-time junkie and part-time dealer back in those days. He also discovered that Purcell Green would sell his mother’s soul for a gram of cocaine to freebase.

Avila himself was just like every up and coming lawyer, cop and politician in the city of Chicago; constantly on the lookout for a leg-up in the system. So when he had a client who was squiggly enough to talk and connected enough to give out information that might lead to something. Bert Avila was more than willing to negotiate a lenient sentence with the defense attorneys, the local cops or anyone else looking for a confidential informant (CI) to put back on the streets.

Catch the big fish. That was the name of the game.

Avila first introduced Purcell to a couple of beat cops who had busted Green on some minor possession charges. That was only the beginning. Purcell was a gold mine. So determined to impress the cops and keep his butt in good graces with those in power, Purcell turned up stuff that no one ever expected. He got so good, he could do just about anything and still stay on the streets. Short of outright murder, Purcell Green walked. And maybe even that … If he could keep it quiet.

Purcell seemed too stupid or too high most of the time to figure out that one slip out there; and the streets, the politicians, the cops and anybody else he brought down, would just as soon slit his throat as look at him. But, Purcell wasn’t as stupid as his cohorts thought. He knew if he kept supplying the cops with the juice, they were sure to keep him out of jail.

And they did.

Green’s philosophy, as misguided and drug affected as it was, was simple: The Golden Rule—The man who has the gold makes the rules. Purcell Green’s information brought results. It was gold.

Connected and Protected, that was Purcell’s motto. That is, until those serial murders started from out of the blue then ended just as quickly.

When a seventh murder in the Yellow Ribbon Killings rocked Chicago, the cops went nuts! Nobody was safe, no one protected. Purcell took a pass on that one. It was messy. Purcell wanted no part of it.

Purcell got lucky too. The police shook down everybody. Any place, any time. But they didn’t even come near Purcell for maybe two weeks. By then Purcell went underground. Poof! Out of sight.

There were rumors that he had sprung deals early-on with some migrant workers down in Southern Illinois and might have the resources to duck to Mexico if need be. Purcell had planned ahead, a contingency for when or if his golden touch was ever tarnished. He kept his head down and kept moving as long as the heat was on.

Purcell had played both ends against the middle the whole time. He turned over enough people to keep the cops happy and passed on enough stuff street-side to keep everybody cool out there. Supplying information across the board, giving him plenty of markers to call in when the time came. His new credo became, Outta sight, outta mind.

A fresh batch of aliases, a few remaining connections, and being scared enough to ease up on the dope scene; Purcell stayed on the straight and narrow, making few waves.

Outta sight … Outta mind.

But Purcell had left a few vices behind. Vices that one day might put his name back on the minds of a select group in Chicago’s court system. One of those vices turned out to be a vindictive, crack-happy transvestite named DeAngelo Byrd. A walking, talking, breathing vice, facing life in prison with a personal score to settle with one Purcell Green. Purcell’s day of reckoning had arrived.

So, it’s like I told you Chief, Griffen Teale was saying to her boss. I don’t know if this is worthless or worth something, she said. But that’s the story from Byrd.

Griffen summed up, in about forty-five minutes, her notes and impressions from the ninety minutes or so that she’d spent with DeAngelo Byrd earlier that day.

You’ll be the judge, Chief. Something or nothing. But I think this could have legs, Teale concluded.

I don’t know, Avila started cautiously, we got stuff here that nobody’s thought about or talked about in years, Griffen —-Sometimes, maybe you ought to let sleeping dogs lie, ya know?

Griffen stipulated to her boss’ assessment with a hesitant nod.

On the other hand, continued Bert. "Dorian Willis is running for office, he said. He might like to close this case down."

Yeah, especially in an election year, Griffen interjected.

Like you said, Griff, it can’t hurt to take a look. Bert said, with an impish wink in Griffen’s direction.

Griffen winked back.

Byrd’s not going anywhere and the case is still wide open. Bert went on.

Right. Griffen added.

Okay kiddo, Bert said, easing down into his office chair.

Let me put in a call or two.

He reached for the telephone on his desk, then paused.

You can tell your client that his stock is up. he said, with a half smile. Then Avila’s face turned serious again. But if this little fucker thinks that we’re gonna spend the city’s time and money chasing shadows to get him a pass on jail time! You tell him that he is sadly mistaken. This had better go someplace Griff! Or I can assure Mr. Byrd that his ass is mine! And I’ll be turning it over to the entire inmate population of the first maximum security unit in the state with an opening!

With that ominous warning, Griffen Teale and Bert Avila were done for now. The two of them knew the real deal. They were positioning themselves to get in good with Chicago’s powerbrokers. DeAngelo Byrd was merely a pawn in an elaborate chess game, and the game was just beginning.

Griffen gathered her belongings and slid the Byrd notes over to her boss. Avila swiveled about in his chair. He picked up the telephone at the corner of his desk and punched in a series of numbers.

He spoke into the receiver…

Bryce Costanza, please.

DOWNTOWN: 3 DAYS LATER

The obnoxious sound of Rat..tat..tat! Rat..tat..tat..tat! over and over again rang throughout the room. All of the idle chatter about: How was your weekend? Or, what’s up with this department or that, had worn pretty thin by now. There was only the rat..tat..tat of Angela Morris, a finance office assistant tapping her carefully manicured fingernails impatiently on the hardwood table in the middle of a large executive conference room. She’d begun with the click, click, clicking of her three-inch heels on the room’s marble floors. After more than a few annoyed stares, she had now resorted to the nail tapping.

No one could blame her. The entire Mayor’s office was extremely busy this time of year. Budget outlines, program funding issues and a litany of urgent, do-it-yesterday matters that were day-to-day life in a city the size of Chicago. Unfortunately, no real business could begin until Deputy Mayor Dorian Willis arrived.

The current wait time was moving into its 46th minute. By consensus of the people in the room with Angela Morris, it was a bit much. But the seven junior administrative staffers waited … And waited!

Dorian Willis was Chicago Mayor Jim Merritson’s right-hand man. Current Mayor Merritson was not seeking a third term. Willis was Merritson’s, and apparently the city’s, hand-picked successor to run Chicago.

Jim Merritson had been an effective leader as mayor. But a few political feuds and scrapes with some key department heads, as well as the hint of personal scandal had dropped his popularity considerably. Many felt that after thirty years in Chicago politics, mostly Merritson was just tired of it all. But Dorian Willis showed no signs of fatigue even when exhausted.

In spite of a decathlon type schedule and a few well known personal problems of his own; Willis persevered and sought to make sure that his fate did not follow that of the out-going Merritson. Those personal family difficulties brought sympathy for Willis from city voters and city employees. In spite of those matters, Willis’ unwavering commitment to Chicago only endeared him more to the Windy City citizenry.

So, the seven member staff who sat in the executive conference room waited for their boss with strained patience. Dorian Willis was worth the wait.

Nearly an hour after the meeting was scheduled to begin, the doors to the conference room flew open. As usual Bryce Costanza was leading the way. Costanza was a friend to Dorian Willis and headed the deputy mayor’s security staff. He was also in charge of personnel, clearance checks, and employment screenings for the developing, Willis for Mayor transition teams. The security chief appeared older than Dorian Willis but clearly subordinate, and he was a massive man. Not excessively unattractive, just big. Well dressed and highly competent in his area of expertise, Costanza was a force to be reckoned with. An intimidating figure both physically and politically. A former military operative with silvery crewcut hair and a constantly wrinkled brow, Costanza had the ear closest to Dorian Willis. His ever-watching, steely blue eyes rarely if ever left Dorian’s side, always within arms length and always the first through the door.

Costanza’s boss marched into the meeting just behind him. The deputy busily signed a barrage of documents and handed them back and forth to two of his assistants. The entourage had arrived!

Deputy Mayor Willis seated himself at the head of the conference table, pulling together a few final papers and apologizing all along for his lateness. Bryce Costanza slid over a chair and sat near the door, just behind and to the right of Dorian Willis.

Paula Moyer, the deputy mayor’s personal secretary waded through several huge legal pads and scribbled vigorous notations in preparation for the meeting. A silent but palpable sigh came from the others present and the city’s junior brain trust began to one-by-one knock off the issues packed into the days early afternoon agenda.

Dorian and his staff blitzed through the work before them like a house afire. The two hours that passed were a blur. Dorian Willis’ plate was a full one. Not only was he contending with his regular deputy mayor duties; he had also taken on many of the ones previously belonging to Jim Merritson. But that was the way Dorian liked things to be. Done.

At the two-hour mark, the final issue of the day was a flare-up with gangs and a spate of drive-bys over the weekend. Willis, a former cop was heading into the top spot in the city because crime had dropped dramatically city-wide, mostly because of initiatives that he had proposed. Dorian was the law and order candidate and that was playing well in Chicago.

I thought we had undercover people working on that gang stuff. What’s the MCU doing about this? Willis asked Assistant Police Chief, Warren Drake.

We’ve had people in there for months. Drake responded. Things cooled off for most of the summer but in the past few weeks, looks like the action’s starting to heat up again out there, said the assistant chief.

We took Mack Taylor and his crazy-shoot-em-up Polk Street Posse out of commission. Now the turf fights to sort out power are on the upswing. Drake reported.

We’ve been working with the MCU and DEA on a couple of sting operations and we’ve got sweeps in the works out west and south, but we still need a week or so for all the logistics to be in place, he stated.

Willis stopped the assistant chief in the middle of his update. He turned to Paula Moyer. That reminds me, he mumbled, get me Quinton Marks on the phone as soon as we wrap this up. I think Bryce may have something for him. Paula nodded, making a red-lined note on the pad in front of her.

Warren Drake went on, finishing his commentary on criminal hot-spots then gave a brief outline for a gang task force meeting scheduled with Willis, Merritson and Chief