Interview with Lt. Del Carter, CPD

This was me at 6 AM
when my company
arrived!

Note: I apologize that this post was released before it was completed! That was an accident! It also speaks volumes about the day I had today!

Anyway, here is the final cut!
______________________________

Well, last week I explained how the people in January Moon showed up at my home one very early January morn and forced their way into my home and heart and changed my life forever.

That's no hyperbole; they changed my life in ways that are yet unfolding and which, I suspect, will unfold for quite sometime. It's extraordinary to have your life completely transformed at the awesome age of 59; 18 months later I am a different person in a different life -- and it is sweet. It took awhile to get here but I believe I am finally doing what I was born to do and all of my life's experiences (both wonderful and dreadful), as well as my education, were prelude to this point.

The person most responsible for changing my life is Del Carter. Del and I sat down this morning over coffee and discussed this, as well as other things.

MG: Del, I can't thank you enough for showing up at my door!

DC: Looking back, I think I need to thank you! It was a huge leap of faith to let us all descend on you as we did. Sorry about that; it wasn't very well thought out.

MG: Wiley would have asked "what are the odds that she'll let us in?"

DC: (Laughing) Oh, he said that a few times on the way over here. He still harps on it!

MG: I already know you rather well but let's get you introduced to everyone else. How 'bout we start with your full name and some bio info?

DC: My full name is Franklin Delano Carter. I've always been called Del. My dad, Mack, has always been a trucker. He and my mother, Marge, built up his one truck business into a successful trucking company. It was hard work and a struggle. They're still not on easy street. The economy has hammered them pretty badly but I'm hoping they can retire soon. They deserve it.

MG: You don't like talking about yourself, do you?  I've noticed before and now again you tend to go off and talk about someone else. Jess, your folks, your partner; that sort of thing.

DC: Hmmm.... I guess that's right. Yeah, maybe. Never thought about it before.

MG: Let's try to stick to you, OK?

DC: We can try.

MG: You had a rather meteoric rise on the Chicago Police Department; it was very impressive. In January Moon, however, you're very troubled about your career. You want to talk about that?

DC: (laughs) Well, actually no, but I will... I think everyone, if they're honest, has doubts about their choices in life. Probably the oddest thing about me is not that I went through a period of burn-out -- that just goes with the territory -- but that I ever became a cop. I never dreamed about being a cop as a kid but take my partner Tooch --  now there's a guy who knew he was going to be a cop from kindergarten. Me? I figured I'd drive a truck like my dad but my folks were hellbent on me going to college. They talked me into it in fact. I thank them for that but I don't think my dad figured he'd get a philosopher out of the deal! I think he was sort of hoping I'd major in business or become an accountant. They were barely adjusted to the idea that I had a degree in philosophy when I told them I'd been accepted into the Police Academy. One surprise after another I guess.

MG: So, how did you go from a degree in philosophy to becoming one of the most decorated police officers in Chicago's history? A degree in philosophy isn't the usual route.

DC: Probably not. But I had to eat. I considered law school but that didn't turn me on and I even considered the FBI. My senior year of college was sort of the Summer of My Discontent and I knew I had this great education, or so I was told, but I also knew I had no real skills and it was time to get real and get a job. I met a chick at a bar who was a cop and also in grad school to become a psychologist or something and I thought "hell, if she can do it, I can do it..." Honestly, it was just going to be a stepping stone. Get a job with benefits, maybe a schedule I could rotate around on so if I wanted to go back to school I had some wiggle room, and kill some time doing some interesting things. I wasn't interested in a desk job but I'm athletic, strong, never blink first, can handle a gun... so I figured if that little cutie who was a third my size could work the streets so could I. And, don't laugh, I'm serious, I actually thought I could make a contribution, be a real public servant. Seriously.

MG: Why would I laugh? I would hope all police feel that way.

DC: Some do, some don't. Anyway, I thought it would be a short term gig until I figured it out. I'm still trying to figure it out.  Plan B was playing sax in a jazz club but a guy has to know his limitations; that was never going to pay the bills for me.

MG: But you're very musical; you have an incredible voice. And you seem to have a remarkable memory for music and lyrics. Jess told me you literally know thousands of songs.

DC: Yeah, what's the TV show about knowing the lyrics? Maybe I should look into it, huh?

MG: What are some of  your favorite songs?

DC: Of course, you know I'm a whore for sax. Anything with alto sax just knocks me out. But I love rock & roll, country & western, Broadway show tunes. I'm pretty eclectic. It's hard to say what's a favorite but there's no doubt "Lady in Red" is up there at the top.

MG: Let's get back to your formal education. How did it help you as a cop?

DC: Philosophy teaches you to think outside the box; ask the questions no one else asks. I also went back to school and studied criminal justice. One degree is heavy in theory, the other in praxis. A yin/yang combination. It seems to work.

MG: Let's talk about love. You're very much in love with Jess Farrell. How has that changed you?

DC: Damn, it changes everything; absolutely everything. Men who say it doesn't are deluding themselves, at least if they really love. It makes you vulnerable. Suddenly you really know fear.

MG: You almost lost Jess.

DC: Yes. It still turns my blood to ice water thinking about it.

You know, bringing in the scum was just part of the job. Unless the SOB tried to kill me or my partner, I was happy to just throw his ass in jail and let the state take it from there. But I fell in love with Jess when I was on the United Nations Serial Killer case. My perspective changed after I was in love. Mommsen was probably never a threat to Jess; his victims were foreign tourists but nonetheless every victim became Jess in my eyes, every grieving lover was me. It's the first time in my life I understood paranoia and real fear.

MG: You could have killed Mommsen but you didn't. Do you still regret not taking the shot?

DC: Every day.

MG: But he's been put away for life.

DC: So they say. I won't relax until he's dead.

MG: And then there was Rae Hart. She was the real threat to Jess.

DC: Yeah, and I never saw it coming. It happened fast, it came out of the blue, my guard was down. She's at the heart of January Moon. The story opens with Mommsen in jail and Rae Hart out there in the wings. She was such a surprise. So unexpected. I never knew the likes of her. Don't think any of us did. She's one freaky scary bitch. I bumped into Mercer and Cole in the Federal Building in Chicago a few months ago. Remember them? They were the federal agents in charge of the raid on the cult. Apparently Rae Hart's a spooky legend with them too.

MG: How are you and Jess now?

DC: We're great. Living the dream.

MG: But the story continues...

DC: Yes, it continues in March Storm. You're writing it now so I guess we don't want to give too many spoilers.

MG: And Wolf? 

DC: Amazing as always. He's become a celebrity.

MG: Well, he's probably going to be the most famous dog in literature since either Lassie or White Fang.

DC: He's definitely more like White Fang. Don't you remember the ending in Jack London't great story when the grateful Weedon family name White Fang the "Blessed Wolf"?
MG: I never thought about it before but the you're absolutely right; there are parallels. The "Blessed Wolf." Amazing. Is Wolf going to end up living contentedly with a cute Border collie and siring lots of puppies like White Fang?

DC: So he hopes, right? We'll see.

MG: Would you mind if I told people they could ask you questions about January Moon or yourself? Would that be OK?

DC: Don't know why not. Sure. They can email you or leave questions here on your blog. If I can answer their questions, I will.

MG: Anything in particular you want to say before we end?

DC: Yeah, these are some delicious donuts. Mind if I grab another?

___________________________________________________

SAMPLE SUNDAY

The following is Chapter Two in January Moon.

Enjoy!! 

Two

Urbana police responded to an emergency call from an hysterical female about blood in the ladies washroom over at the Gas City near I-57.

“Blood is everywhere!” she yelled, “All over the place!”

Cops found a pair of blood soaked underpants and two bloodied bath towels and the washroom floor, toilet and sink were smeared with bloody hand prints. They also retrieved a pink backpack with clean underwear and knee socks, a tube of Neosporin, a mirror and tweezers, and a box of straws – but no ID.

They quickly theorized a baby might have been born in the john and other reasonable possibilities included a miscarriage or botched abortion. The theories gained credence when security cameras confirmed the last female to use the john was a young girl who left the premises under unusual circumstances.

Ms. Waynelle Penney, the Gas City night employee who placed the 911 call, described a white female, twelve to fourteen, fifteen tops, who was forcefully dragged from the premises.

When Ms. Penney admitted the kid didn’t scream, ask for help, or fight the big trucker who snatched her, the cops figured she probably knew the guy.

Waynelle thought the girl was Amish because she wore an old-fashioned black dress. She conceded, however, she didn’t see her wearing the traditional white cap most Amish women wore. Waynelle explained she was “something of an expert on the Amish” because she had a cousin who lived near Arcola and “there’s lots of them there.”

The cop taking her statement said he didn’t know much about the Amish but “never heard of no Amish kid having a baby in a gas station john.”

Waynelle weighed his comment carefully. “I never looked at it that way,” she admitted.

According to Ms. Penney, the kid was in the john about two hours and then bought chocolate milk and Ding Dongs. Waynelle overheard her trying to hitch a ride to Wisconsin with three local guys who were “bad news” when all of a sudden “this big trucker guy just kinda’ come right outta’ nowhere.” She clarified “nowhere” as being over in the area near the Wiener Ferris Wheel and said “and then damn if he don’t grab her little fanny and haul her outta’ here.”

Urbana was expecting a major winter storm blowing down from up north so police were at full court press to find a baby, if in fact there was one. Snow was already falling as they searched the dumpsters, garbage cans, and empty boxes behind the premises and a canine team was brought in to search a grassy knoll behind the gas station.

A state trooper pulled into the Gas City for his usual coffee and a piss and saw local cops up to their necks in something big. He called his district’s headquarters to see what he could learn to help the local cops and that’s how Urbana police learned a Jane Doe was found in a truck more than a hundred miles north, near Matteson, way up in Cook County just south of Chicago.

Obviously, state and local police needed to know if Jane was the same kid who left the bloody mess in the john. Urbana police downloaded security pictures from multiple video cameras covering the Gas City premises and sent them to the state police; they expected an answer shortly.

**

Three Illinois State Police cars responded to Mack’s call and troopers found him understandably agitated but fully cooperative. He was sober, coherent and articulate and his CDL, registration and title, as well as insurance and truck log were in order. They let Mack cool his heels in the rear of one of their cars while they inspected his truck.

Jane Doe was found in the passenger seat of the truck, secured in place by a seat belt and sitting upright in a small puddle of her own blood. A blanket was tucked around her. One of her coat pockets contained a few coins, a $5 bill, and a dirty Ace bandage, the type used to wrap a sprained ankle or wrist. The other held a 200-count bottle of Ibuprofen; only four pills remained. Just as in Urbana, the troopers further north found no ID.

An initial inspection of the truck and body failed to show evidence of a shooting or stabbing and Ms. Doe didn’t appear to have died from strangulation. There was no evidence of blood on Mack, his clothes, or anywhere in the truck other than the immediate space where the body was found. Troopers found no weapons, drugs, or anything other than what was legitimately on Mack’s manifest or what personally belonged to him.

The weather was worsening so dispatch instructed troopers to take Mack to the nearest municipal police department which happened to be over in Matteson, rather than to district headquarters in Des Plaines, which was a good poke down the road.

“Anyway, Wiley’s already there,” the dispatcher said, “we’ll call and tell him you’re coming in.”

The troopers wondered why Wiley was in Matteson and one of them might have asked if Mack didn’t interrupt. Mack asked if he could call his wife to tell her where they were taking him and they agreed.

**

Fred Wiley was a tough talking, chain smoking, ’Nam-era ex-Marine who’d been with the Illinois State Police almost four decades. He could have pensioned out ten years earlier but hoped to die on the job because the idea of retirement was one of the few things that terrified him. His ruggedly handsome leathery face, square jaw, steel blue eyes, old fashioned crew cut and whiskey voice made him look like a stereotypical grunt-eating, fire spitting by-the-book USMC Drill Instructor which is exactly the image he wanted to project.

Wiley was killing time, waiting for the troopers to bring Mack Carter into Matteson, when he decided to ride his partner about his ridiculously pompous name.

“What are you, a pope or something? What the hell kind of name is Aloysius anyway? And Benedict; Jesus: Aloysius Benedict? Don’t know if I should puke or genuflect.”

Benedict tried to explain his friends called him Aloe. “You know, like the aloe plant. The one for burns.”

“Christ, say it ain’t so. Aloe? Like A-hole? You actually let people call you Aloe? What, ’cuz you burn my ass?”

Benedict didn’t know what the problem was or why Wiley insisted on ragging his sorry ass but several bored cops enjoyed the exchange immensely. Everyone knew Wiley was as big of a hoot as he could be horse’s ass but if you weren’t the poor bastard withering under one of his verbal assaults it was damn good fun to be an observer.

“OK, listen up,” Wiley snapped, “I’m calling you Eggs. From now on, you’re Eggs.”

“Eggs? Why eggs? I don’t get it.” Benedict’s cluelessness was possibly even funnier than Wiley. “I don’t even like eggs,” Benedict whined, “and I’m allergic to egg products.”

Wiley threw his hands up in disgust. “You believe this guy? He’s allergic.”

“Wha… what am I missing about this? You don’t think allergic is serious?”

One of the Matteson cops felt compelled to come to his aid. “Eggs Benedict, you get it now?”

Benedict didn’t get anything. His deer-in-the-headlights look said it all.

Wiley snarled, “Hey maybe we should call him Allergic, whaddya’ think?”

One of the other cops tried another tack. “Listen up Aloe, it’s like this man: Aloe just don’t work, you understand? A cop can’t have no partner people call Aloe. It ain’t possible.”

A third cop added, “Hey Aloe, Wiley don’t mean nothing by it. He gives almost everyone a nickname, especially if he likes ’em.”

It was all too much for Wiley and he exploded.

“Like him? You think I like this poor bastard? Hell, I don’t like him. This isn’t love, you assholes. It’s a damn mercy mission.”

**

It was 6:30 AM when Wiley and Eggs finally walked into the small drab interview room where Mack was held. Eggs was brooding about the meaning of his new name and sat sullenly beside Wiley while he interviewed Mack.

Mack explained how he found the girl at the Gas City down in Urbana, thought she was afraid someone was following her, and seemed willing to hitch a ride with three guys Mack described as “dangerous creeps.” Mack told Wiley and Eggs he only realized how sick she was after he got her into his truck and then he called his wife to see what Marge thought he should do next.

He also tried very hard to tell Wiley everything the girl said to him and the men agreed her words made little sense, most likely because of her delirium. However, she probably had a grandmother since she repeatedly called Carter “Gram.” Wiley made a number of notes, including “grandmother?” and “poss. drug use?” which he circled for emphasis. He figured there was a chance the kid was hopped up on something that made her loony.

Mack also explained he was an independent trucker driving a refrigerated rig and he hauled one kind of shit south and was hauling another kind on the flip-flop north when he stopped in Urbana to take a leak, stretch his legs, and get some fresh Joe. Then a goddamn house fell on him. It was one of the most godawful things that ever happened to him.

He shook his head in genuine puzzlement. “God Almighty,” he asked Wiley, “why do you suppose that kid died?”

Wiley couldn’t say. He explained the body was on its way to the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office. Unfortunately, the place was usually backlogged and even if they were lucky it could take days to get a preliminary post-mortem report and much longer if they weren’t.

Wiley gave Mack a cup of strong coffee. He looked like he could use something stronger but Wiley didn’t offer it.

Wiley saw Mack’s simple gold wedding ring and asked how long he’d been married. Mack said “forty years this June” and Wiley whistled to show he was impressed.

Wiley knew marriage was no guarantor of anything, let alone an inability to murder, but when he formed his opinions about people he liked to say he “added up all the little things.” If it was true the man was married to the same babe for forty years then it told Wiley several things: first, the man hadn’t murdered at least one woman and, second, he was probably a damn saint.

Wiley was married and divorced four times and figured most wives at one time or another deserved killing. He said he never had a wife who didn’t give him at least one good reason to murder her. In fact, he joked, he considered his failure to murder at least two of his wives to be his two greatest achievements.

“Unfortunately,” he’d deadpan, “no one hands out medals for not killing wives.”

A clerk knocked on the door, entered, and handed Wiley security camera pictures from the Gas City. They showed Jane Doe walked in the door three hours before Mack drove onto the premises. The cameras caught her speaking to the three guys Mack described as creeps, as well as Mack propelling her out the door to his rig. The hostile exchange between Mack and one of the creeps in the parking lot was also captured on video.

Mack also looked at the pictures and gave a statement that she was definitely the same girl he picked up in Urbana who died in his truck.

There was another knock on the door and Wiley barked an order to come in. A trooper handed him two reports; one said Carter was clean as a whistle, which came as no surprise to Wiley, and the other indicated there were no recent Amber Alerts or other reports about missing girls fitting Jane Doe’s description. Wiley found that vaguely disconcerting; he always wondered how people could lose their kids and not know it.

Wiley studied Mack carefully and made up his mind. Mack’s story checked out and the quicker he could wrap it up with Carter the quicker he could get on with the real business of investigating Jane Doe’s death.

As far as he was concerned, Mack Carter could go home.

Wiley and Eggs left the room and Wiley asked the desk clerk to get Carter more coffee and let him go to the can. Eggs could see Wiley was done with Mack but didn’t grasp why.

“So, you’re just gonna’ let him walk out the door? That’s it? That’s our investigation?”

“No. I’m going to call Eliot Ness and discuss it with her and then I’m gonna’ let him walk out the door.”

**

Wiley nicknamed Ms. Elnora Calista Ness “Eliot” the day he met her and it stuck. Assistant State’s Attorney Ness was that rare breed of attorney content to spend an entire career as a prosecutor. At one time when the office had very few minority lawyers, not to mention even fewer female ones, it was rumored her color and sex made her a double token. Those rumors died quickly as Eliot chalked up an impressive prosecutorial record.

Eliot was brilliant, aggressive, and strikingly beautiful. She currently looked as stunning in short cropped silver streaked hair as she did when she showed up right out of law school. Neither three kids nor middle age screwed up her fine figure or legendary energy. She liked to wear bright colors, short skirts, sexy shoes and insanely large earrings and pulled it off with a panache that kept her from looking cheap.

Eliot’s first criminal prosecution was Wiley’s first homicide case. He didn’t know shit about being a credible professional witness and she knew even less about being an aggressive, sharp prosecutor. Their combined inexperience gave the case to the defense and the perp walked but he showed up later, as most perps will, after he kidnapped, tortured, and murdered another little boy.

Wiley and Eliot believed it was their incompetence that gave the bastard a second chance to kill. The shared pain of that first trial loss would never go away but it became the catalyst that transformed them into a strong prosecutorial team and they successfully nailed him the second time around.

The day they got his evil ass convicted was also the first night they slept together. That night turned into three more days and nights holed up in Eliot’s tiny apartment in some dump of a building in some shit hole part of the city not far from the courthouse. They periodically came up for air long enough to order pizzas and Chinese and then they went down like submarines again.

It was a torrid, wonderful affair but Eliot always told Wiley it couldn’t last. He assured her it could and would and he meant it with all his heart. She knew differently.

She insisted the affair be kept a secret, something that really pissed him off.

“Why is this necessary?” he’d storm. He said “I want to go out to dinner with you and my friends” or “I want you to meet my family” and badgered her with questions like “why won’t you introduce me to your family or friends?” But she never talked about her family and she claimed she hadn’t been in Chicago long enough to make many close friends so he had to be content with bringing her into his world.

Then one night at the Parthenon in Greek Town Wiley asked her to become his wife. It was just after waiters ignited their order of saganaki and the entire restaurant erupted with joyous shouts of “Oooopa!” Wiley waited for the luscious cheese to cool and poured her another glass of Greek wine. Then he raised a toast to the “Most beautiful, brilliant, and sexy woman in the world, the woman I love and want to marry,” and she froze. She refused to even look at the stunning 2-carat emerald cut diamond he had carefully chosen.

Wiley was stunned when she explained marriage was not an option. “Blacks should marry blacks and whites should marry whites.”

“What are you, nuts?” he fumed. “We’ve been humping the eyes out of each other for two goddamn years and I love you to death. I don’t want to live without you. We can screw but we can’t marry? Where’s the logic in that?”

Eliot was adamant: she wasn’t going to marry a white man. The argument went on for days.

“But this is 1978 for God’s sakes, and this is Illinois,” he argued. “Damnit, El, this is ridiculous.” He accused her of being a bigot in her own convoluted way.

“So, it’s OK to screw me,” he heard himself ask, “but not marry me? Did you lie to me when you told me you loved me?”

No, she loved him very much but she would not marry him.

Finally, under his relentless pressure, she explained she wasn’t strong enough to be a trail blazer.

“I’ve already gone further than I ever dreamed possible and I don’t want the strain of a mixed-race marriage for the rest of my life or the stress it’ll put on my kids.”

Wiley was stupefied. “That’s crazy,” he said, “please, listen to me baby. We can make this work. There are neighborhoods we can live in. Screw those assholes who don’t like us.”

He had a house in mind in a great neighborhood in Evanston, close to Northwestern University. It was a safe and beautiful town for an interracial couple. Barring that, if she didn’t want to leave the city, there were several other excellent neighborhoods, including Hyde Park, Lincoln Park, and East Rogers Park, all places anchored by world class universities that gave haven to liberally minded folks. Wiley did his homework.

Eliot was emphatic. “Don’t ask me to explain it any more than I already have. It’s over.”

She swooped down on Truman White, marrying him with lightning speed in a historically important black Methodist church on the south side of Chicago less than five weeks later. Tru was an easy going, salt-of-the-earth, church-going black man who wanted nothing more radical than a steady job teaching high school and a few kids of his own. Eliot was the most extraordinary, beautiful, and talented woman he ever met and he adored her. They enjoyed a stable marriage and were the proud parents of three kids but after a lifetime sharing the same bed with Truman, it was still Wiley who came to Eliot in all of her most vivid sexual dreams.

She could live with that; in fact, it was exactly how she wanted it: Tru in her house and Wiley in her head.

“You’ll get over me,” she assured him but it wasn’t true. No matter how many other women agreed to marry him, the truth was the only woman Wiley really wanted at his side declined the offer.

He wished he’d been able to hate her for rejecting him but that was impossible: Fred Wiley knew he was still very much in love with Eliot Ness.

**

Wiley returned his thoughts to Carter. He wasn’t going to let Mack walk until he spoke to an ASA and he intended the ASA to be Eliot. He didn’t want to think too much about why his heart still skipped a beat or why he felt like a chump just thinking about her. He’d go with the fact she was the best ASA in the county and he was the best dick in the state and it was OK for him to run important issues past her. They had a long history turning his busts into successful prosecutions and if that was the only way he could have Eliot in his life he’d rather take it than leave it.

He never knew what she thought about their working relationship and he always hunted for the faintest glimmer of regret on her part, the merest suggestion that she still cared deeply but those hints and suggestions never came. Her only deliberate effort to maintain social contact with him outside of work was an odd faithfulness about sending an annual Christmas card, something she’d done every holiday since they broke up. She also always remembered to include whatever his wife’s name was at the time, a thoughtful gesture that both amused and puzzled him. He kept every single card, including all the pictures of her kids as they grew up over the years. Their names were branded into his memory: Kenny, Adele and Denise.

Pictures of Eliot and her husband Tru were never included.

**

Wiley looked at his watch; it was still too early to call Eliot. He almost always called her on her cell but tried to respect sensible business hours unless it was a dire emergency.

He didn’t consider Mack Carter a dire emergency. Be cool, he told himself; relax.

Wiley told Eggs to run out and bring back breakfast. Eggs groused that it was still snowing heavily.

“So what? You don’t eat in winter or something? Cops don’t fight crime in bad weather? You think I should starve ’cuz it’s snowing?”

Eggs wisely bit his tongue and grabbed his parka.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t care, just make sure it’s pancakes, three eggs, sausage, make it links, hash browns, Greek toast and get me a large OJ.”

He tossed Eggs a double saw-buck, adding “Ask that guy Carter if he’s hungry. Tell him I’m buying.”

He didn’t offer to buy anything for Eggs.

_____________________________________________________________________

Note from Maureen: I know it appears that I've been slackin' off all week since I haven't posted anything since last Monday. Truthfully, I've been on a mini-vacation... I didn't plan it though (if I had I would have told you) but it's sort of evolved like this: I've been waking up every morning lately and saying "screw it; I'm going to do nothing but chill today...."

Honestly, I think it began when I was hit with Maximum Blog Burnout because I'm less than happy with Google (as already noted). I'm thinking about moving my blog to Word Press but I'm just too lazy to bother with that now...

In any event, as I said, almost every day this week I woke and said "screw it..." but you know what? It feels pretty damn good so, obviously, it was time.

I've taken a few short road trips, tackled a few gardening projects, wrote a review about an art exhibit for my local paper, but mainly have been greatly absorbed in thoughts about March Storm, the sequel to January Moon. I'm not at an impasse and I don't have writer's block; I'm just letting the Muse speak and I'm trying to listen. March Storm is already written in my head and much is already typed and I love it; this is just a break in the action so that I can return to the mss fresh and ready to hit it out of the park!

Enjoy your Sunday!! 

Beats the hell out of ordinary sunbathing, doesn't it?



Remembering Dad and the Zoo of Liberty

Washington Park (Bughouse Square) across
from the Newberry Library
Chicago

(Author's Note: I've allowed the following article to also be posted at The Pragmatic Progressive Forum 6/19/11).


Bughouse Square in Chicago
circa 1950's


Earlier this week my husband and I enjoyed an absolutely fantastic visit with our dear friends Nicole and Bob Daines from San Diego. Nicole and Bob are authors, inspirational speakers, and lifelong activists for human dignity and civil rights. In the course of our many hours of stimulating conversations covering the range of our many life’s experiences, both shared and uniquely individual, Bob looked at me and asked “Maureen, why do you think you became such a liberal?”

I’m seldom at a loss for words. At this mellowed more matured stage of my life (is this where a person can rightly say they’re fully “kreusened”?), I think I’ve finally arrived at a point of personal understanding that is both liberating and empowering. I’m comfortable discussing my many sorrows and joys, my tragedies and triumphs, and even my sins and graces. In short, I pretty much know how I got to where I am today but honestly Bob’s question sort of stumped me.

After stumbling over some generic homage to the benefits of being raised on the Northside of Chicago, attending excellent schools, and growing up in a large extended family of adults who were all very engaged in the world around them and who were, almost to a person, FDR Democrats, I was at a loss to offer up any particular epiphany that I could definitively point to and say with confidence “this event or that person” was responsible for my left-leaning philosophy about life.

I summarized it by saying “I think it’s just me. I’ve just always been this way.”

Boy did I blow that!

I've been thinking about Bob's question ever since and don't know how I could have forgotten to tell him that it was definitely my father who planted and then nurtured the seeds of my liberalism. So, Bob, (and the rest of you), here’s how it began:

I was six or seven years old when my father, a child of the Depression, a WWII veteran, and a practicing attorney, took me to sit with him in the middle of Bughouse Square in Chicago. This would have been in the late 1950s, a period of Eisenhower conservatism in a country still damaged by the paranoia and hate of McCarthyism. It was a time when being a liberal and a “pinkie Commie” were synonymous and a young Senator from Massachusetts had not yet made liberalism fashionable, let alone respectable.

I remember it was a beautiful sunny day in spring or possibly summer. My father promised me a day at Lincoln Park Zoo but first he wanted to take me to a strange sounding place he said was called "Bughouse Square."

Bughouse Square?

I didn't much like bugs but was nonetheless interested in this unexpected excursion because I suspected it was going to be exactly the kind of place my mother would never have thought to take me. Even more enticing, it was probably going to be the kind of place my grandmother would certainly dislike if, for no other reason, than she wouldn't be with us to keep her keen eagle eye firmly on me. I was well aware that my maternal grandmother never quite approved of my jaunts around the city with my father and this made all opportunities to go with him all the more wonderful.

Nanny, as we called my grandmother, was a worrier, clearly tending toward some weird ideas and even paranoia about any person or place she wasn't familiar with; her normal distrust of life was made worse by the obvious fact that she didn't trust the male species to have a clue about how to care for children. She lived in mortal fear that they would lose us (not just me, of course, but any of my cousins as well). She as much said so, warning me very darkly on several occasions that "when you're with your father or Poppy, or God forbid your Uncle Ed, you be sure to keep your eyes on them; they could lose the hats on their heads if they were nailed to their skulls." 

Only a few months earlier there'd been a minor furore in the family after my grandmother learned my father had taken me to Chinatown. For some reason my mother stayed home with my much younger brother and I went with my father by myself. We had a wonderful time at a very exotic restaurant (exotic to me anyway).  I remember it was all red and gold and there were black lanterns hanging everywhere. It was very clear that the people in the restaurant held my father in high esteem (years later I learned that he represented their interests in a dispute with the city and won; apparently his fee was not enough to satisfy their sense of gratitude and so it was decided a feast in his honor was in order). I came away with the novel idea that my father was an important man despite the fact that my grandmother clearly regarded him as something of an idiot.

I mean how stupid do you have to be to lose a hat that’s been nailed to your head?

It wasn't long after our trip to Chinatown I overheard my grandmother upbraiding my mother. It was the first time I heard the expression "white slavers" and it was quite clear my grandmother was convinced the Chinese might have snatched me out from under my father’s oblivious nose when he was doing something really stupid -- like she was certain all men did when they were supposed to be caring for children. No doubt she believed it was only through the intervention of her continual novenas that I wasn't lost to the family forever, quite possibly learning evil arts in a far off opium den. My mother, of course, held her own. When I asked her what it all meant and why Nanny was so angry she shrugged it off and said, "Don't worry about it, Nanny can sometimes be ridiculous."

No kidding.

So on this wonderful day when my father decided to visit a place called Bughouse Square I fervently hoped I might finally learn the truth about "white slavers."  At a minimum, I'd probably have been happy with a fortune cookie.

I quickly deduced, however, that Bughouse Square had neither bugs nor fortune cookies (I was a fairly clever child). Apparently, it also didn’t hold any fascinating dark secrets about white slavers either.

Dad found a park bench in the sunshine and we sat.

Just sat.

And sat some more.

After a fairly long time (at least to a kid my age), I asked what we were doing, sitting on that park bench.

My father explained I should relax and "watch and listen."

Huh?

"At what? Where? Who?"

He pointed to a man who looked like a bum, armful of leaflets, preaching or ranting or rambling on and on to a small group of curious onlookers. Then he pointed to a very well dressed man holding court elsewhere in the park, no less agitated than the other guy, but mesmerizing a slightly larger crowd. The park was busy with cyclists, dog walkers, and probably lovers holding hands. Most paid absolutely no attention to the two very different orators and certainly no one paid any attention to us.

I was very disappointed; it was incredibly boring and I was eager to get on with the trip to the zoo. No bugs, no cookies, no white slavers and no interesting animals to speak of; bummer.

And I said so.

Dad replied, "But we are at a zoo; this is the Zoo of Liberty. It's where people come to speak and be heard and even be a little crazy."

Honest to God, he said that; that’s how my father talked to a seven year old girl. As my friends often said, the man was weird. Sometimes he embarrassed the living hell out of me.

I vaguely remember we eventually found our way to Lincoln Park Zoo but honestly I don’t remember much about the zoo that day. I loved the zoo -- but something had changed in my life forever, although it would take a lifetime for me to realize it. Suddenly the most important public space in the world was not where living things were forced to live in cages – which of course can be a metaphor for life. I was introduced to the fascinating and radical idea that the most important public spaces were where everyone had a voice and there were no cages. I had been introduced to Bughouse Square and the Zoo of Liberty.

My father didn’t think the people in the Square that day were crazy, or if he did he didn’t say so. No, that wasn’t the message he wanted to convey.

That first introduction to the fascinating world of non-conformist discourse led to many other discussions with my father over the years. He had opened a window for me to crawl through and I did -- and I never looked back.

At some other point, however, and I'm sorry but I can't identify it at any particular time or place, he also introduced me to the necessary twin of free speech: responsibility.

It was my father who first explained to me that there is no constitutional right that allows anyone to falsely cry “fire!” in a crowded theatre. He explained crying fire in a crowded theatre would cause a panic that could cause enormous harm and maybe even death. However, in the case of a real fire, then the necessity of crying a warning alarm could mitigate the possible harm caused by doing so; in fact, it would be a moral requirement.

This is a lesson in responsible speech; a weighing of rights and obligations; the beginning of the critical thinking required to understand that the risk of creating unfortunate situations could be justified in order to prevent even greater catastrophes. It is the beginning of understanding that our words have consequences and we must take responsibility for them.

He also taught me that my right to wave my arm ends where another person's nose begins but that sometimes a powerful blow to the “old kisser” is absolutely necessary.

My soldier-liberator father had seen a horrible place called Dachau and he was no pie-in-the-sky pacifist. He understood as well as anyone that sometimes a powerful blow to the old kisser was absolutely mandatory. “Some things,” he also told me, “really are worth dying for….”

I realize that the seeds for how I think about both freedoms and duties, as well as how our speech and writings are pregnant with consequences, were first planted in my mind by that fine man on a warm day in Chicago at the Zoo of Liberty, more commonly known as Chicago's Bughouse Square.

I don’t remember learning much in the sandbox but I sure do remember Bughouse Square. It was the beginning of many other private, precious moments with my father in his all too short life. He was dead at the age of fifty-seven and so I only knew him for twenty-seven years, most of which, to be honest, I never appreciated him very much.

Funny how that’s changed…

Thanks, Dad.

________
Note 1:

Bughouse Square (from “bughouse,” slang for mental health facility) is the popular name of Chicago's Washington Square Park, where orators (“soapboxers”) held forth on warm-weather evenings from the 1910s through the mid-1960s. Located across Walton Street from the Newberry Library, Bughouse Square was the most celebrated outdoor free-speech center in the nation and a popular Chicago tourist attraction.

In its heyday during the 1920s and 1930s, poets, religionists, and cranks addressed the crowds, but the mainstays were soapboxers from the revolutionary left, especially from the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), Proletarian Party, Revolutionary Workers' League, and more ephemeral groups. Many speakers became legendary, including anarchist Lucy Parsons, “clap doctor” Ben Reitman, labor-wars veteran John Loughman, socialist Frank Midney, feminist-Marxist Martha Biegler, Frederick Wilkesbarr (“The Sirfessor”), Herbert Shaw (the “Cosmic Kid”), the Sheridan twins (Jack and Jimmy), and one-armed “Cholly” Wendorf.

A Bughouse Square Committee, headquartered at Newberry Library, has continued to organize free-speech gatherings there each July in conjunction with the library's annual book sale.

(Source: http://encyclopedia.chicagohistory.org/pages/178.html)

Note 2:

For more information about Nicole and Bob Daines please read my Nicole’s interview at my blog, “The Windy City Author” @ http://windycityauthor.blogspot.com/2011/06/meet-nicole-and-bob-daines.html.  There’s also a link to their website in my blog post.

Thank you.

Maurice L. McDermott, January 19, 1921 – February 12, 1978

The "Pink Phoenix" Interview w/Sue Owen and Moi!

I met Sue Owen on Twitter last week. Sue's blog, the Pink Phoenix, is dedicated to supporting indie authors (God bless her!) and she posts book reviews and author interviews. Sue is going to read January Moon and post a review sometime soon but she asked if she could interview me first and I happily agreed.

Sue wanted a less-traditional interview; she wasn't interested in an author's typical advice to wannabees and the other more usual questions. She wanted something "meatier" and I think I gave it to her. I'm posting the interview below and would also encourage you to follow her blog. If you're an indie, please ask her to review your work and/or interview you. If you want to support indies and want some great recommendations for your summer reading, please check it out at the Pink Phoenix (I'll give the link at the end of the interview below).

Interview between Sue Owen and Maureen Gill

SO: Hi Maureen, thanks for this interview opportunity.

MG: Hey, Sue; my pleasure. I like your blog; I’m glad to be a part of the work you’re doing to promote indies. What’s on your mind? What do you want to discuss?

SO: Primarily, I’m looking for insight into you as a writer.

MG: You mean like what makes me tick; who am I? 

SO: Well, let’s start with how you’d describe yourself as a person, and then we can discuss your writing.

MG: The foremost thing I know about myself is I’m a survivor. I’ve crawled out of some major train wrecks; some of my own making, some not. I’ve survived mental illness, a suicide attempt, a short stint in a federal prison camp (like Martha Stewart), and above all, absolute despair. I’ve fallen from being a respected and admired person to a person who was a pariah among family and so-called friends. I’ve had to rebuild my life from the ground up; I’m still working on it. It’s a process.

Most people credit God with their survival and I suppose I do too but in a more oblique way; I credit my passion for – and training in – history for helping me survive (and God gave me that now, didn’t She?). As a historian I’ve studied great human tragedy, as well as the indomitable survivors of those tragedies. I’ve studied the lives of great people who have overcome their own flawed characters and gone on to live remarkable lives. I’ve actually met Holocaust survivors who lost all of their loved ones and wore Nazi tattoos and lived with the memories of unspeakable horrors and yet chose to start over and gamble with life again. Who could do that? I can’t imagine that sort of courage but I take my inspiration from it; many a time I’ve said to myself “for God’s sakes, this is chicken shit compared to Dachau; you can do this thing, you can push through it....” I’ve also met people who have done dreadful things and paid the price but now give back through lives of service. Those are the models I keep in my heart.

Above all, I suppose, I also know the greater part of my life has been very successful. The unhappier times are actually a small part of the total; I’ve done many good things, some even extraordinary things. I’ve even saved lives; in once instance because I wasn’t successful in my own suicide I lived to prevent another one. In another, my quick thinking saved a man in a medical crisis. I know I’ve shaped more than a few lives for the better at work or in teaching in the classroom and now at this stage in my life there’s not a week that goes by since I published “January Moon” and started blogging that I don’t receive emails from people all over the world pouring their hearts out to me, telling me how I’ve touched them, or inspired them, or shown them how to see things differently.

So, all of this – knowing that people have survived the unthinkable and understanding that my life has a purpose – is what composes my core being and defines me in my mind. I think that’s how I’ve arrived at truly understanding the full meaning of Maya Angelou’s famous saying, “I can be changed by what happens to me but I refuse to be reduced by it.”

I saw a sign outside a church the other day that said, “If you have a pulse, you have a purpose.” I believe that.

SO: How would you define yourself as a writer?

MG: That’s a much tougher question than how I define myself as a person! Honestly, I’m not sure. I probably don’t even give it much thought. Writing comes to me as naturally as breathing and I’ve never suffered the typical writer’s angst but I’ll tell you what some other people think, OK?  My style has been compared to Michael Connolly and Sue Kidd Monk, as well as Lee Child, John LeCarre and Raymond Chandler. I rarely read contemporary fiction and of these five authors I’ve only read Sue Kidd Monk’s “The Life of Bees” (which I adore) and John LeCarre (but I haven’t read him in years). I do love John Grisham.

The truth is I’m fairly well steeped in the literature of Steinbeck and Hemingway but really love the Southern writers like Tennessee Williams, James Agee, Erskine Caldwell, Flannery O’Connor, Walker Percy, Twain, Faulkner, Robert Penn Warren. Come to think of it, that’s probably why I like Grisham; he’s a southerner. 

However, I'm very much a Midwestern Yankee. Someone said my writing is like a “gale force wind off Lake Michigan” which thrills me no end even though I don’t know for sure what the hell it means. 

 

I grew up on Chicago’s far north lakefront and love the lake and the city.

The most curious thing I’ve been told about my style is that I write like a man. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that; again, not sure what it means. I’m definitely not a man.

My friend, Denny Banahan, a retired Chicago homicide cop, suggested I publish “January Moon” either using only my initials or under a pseudonym. His reasoning was that men don’t read detective stories written by women. I’ve heard it since from other men; some have told me they liked my book because I sounded like “a guy.” Yet there are very strong feminist themes in “January Moon,” themes about family, motherhood etc. Another female writer I know told me “yeah, they’re there -- but so well hidden a man will miss them!” I think that’s pretty funny.

SO: I read your reviews and they’re excellent. Do you read your reviews? Are they important to you?

MG: They’re only important insofar as they encourage people to read “January Moon.” I believe in this book; it has a lot to say that I’d like more openly discussed and understood and so at that level reviews are very important because they can push sales. I’m very grateful so many readers have taken time to write in-depth reviews; some are quite detailed and thoughtful. Readers have been very generous in their praise.

But if you’re asking if the reviews are important to me as a person and writer -- meaning whether I need praise to validate me as an author – the answer is no.

SO: Are you really that confident? Most writers wallow in a lot self doubt.

MG:  I understand the angst, the doubt. Been there, done that. Oh my God: yes! But I’ve been able to move beyond that and shake off the fear and insecurity. I know I can write and in that regard I have been validated; I may have won every award for writing that’s possible to win at the university I attended.

Obviously, writing fiction is quite different from the style of writing I’ve been trained to do and I understand that just because someone writes non-fiction well doesn’t that person can write fiction.  I always wanted to write fiction and when I tried in the past I was unhappy with the results.  For whatever reason when I sat down to write this time it finally felt right for me and I knew I could write fiction reasonably well.

People who have known me the longest, and even some of my students, have said that they can “hear” me talking in the book. One of my oldest friends said, “Oh Mick, I sometimes could hear your voice, your comments; even see you telling a joke.” I’ve always been a fairly entertaining story teller; I could turn a history lecture into either high drama or slapstick, depending on the subject.

I wrote “January Moon” as if I was just telling any other story, any interesting event in society or history but I also laid it out as a historian would if a historian was trying to get a handle on a major event and write about it. I had the raid on the Branch Davidians in mind, in Waco, Texas, when I wrote about the cult in the book and a federal raid on the compound. As a professional historian, if I were going to write about Waco, I’d go down there and interview everyone, top to bottom, and get their stories. In January Moon I incorporate a lot of related stories throughout the main story. I transitioned point-of-view much like a historian might.  I was in conversation with three agents last summer; one of them was with a really important agency but they didn’t get it. They wanted a formulaic book. One agent actually told me the story was “too sophisticated” for the average American reader; another asked me to dumb it down.

Dumb it down? That really offended me.

I told her that maybe some of the reason this country is “dumbing down” is because the gatekeepers have been offering up a lot of fiction that plays to the lowest common denominator among us. I told her I write books that I would want to read and no one needs to dumb anything down for me. She also told me that John Steinbeck couldn’t get published today; she said “no one would read Steinbeck.” Well, I would. I’m not on his league and never will be but he is a model in my mind for superior American fiction.

I’ve gone too far and chewed too much dirt to whore out my work at this point in my life. My fiction might fail on a lot of levels but it won’t be because it’s been dumbed down to please people with 8^th grade educations. I can’t write at that level anyway so it’s probably a moot point.

I guess at this point I need to pause and say “thank God for independently publishing.” I think it shifts power and changes the gatekeepers.

I’d never say I’m a great fiction writer but I would like to become one. I’m still learning and exploring my own style and voice. I hope each book is better than the last. But all I had to do to convince myself to publish “January Moon” was convince myself that it’s a reasonably good effort for an inexperienced fiction writer’s debut novel. It represents my best effort at the time and although it’s not perfect I think it still works and I’m not embarrassed to claim it as mine. Could it be better? Sure. Could it have been worse? Of course.

Once I satisfied myself “January Moon” is a respectable first effort I moved into a place of reasonable contentment. Once I decided, after extensive research, that independent publishing was a viable and respectable option, then I moved in that direction too.  

SO: You write with a lot of conviction and “January Moon” touched on a number of controversial topics. Are you going to do the same thing with “March Storm” and any other books in the “Del Carter Calendar Series”?

As you know, “January Moon,” is the first novel to situate female genital mutilation within the context or genre of an American detective story and this is creating a lot of buzz but it’s also about so much more and yes I guess I have a lot of convictions and passions. I hate racism, religious fanaticism, political absurdities but I also love strong people, good stories, and optimism and hope. I write about all of that in “January Moon.” I’m writing about animal abuse, puppy mills, dog fighting, and human trafficking in “March Storm,” as well as a mad Mother Earth and climate change.

I’m also writing a history book titled “Daylight & Déjà vu” that’s an outgrowth of my blogging about history and politics. I’d like to write some historical fiction too but right now I really want to prioritize my writing to finish “March Storm” and then begin the third book in the Del Carter Calendar Series. I’m not sure I’ll write 12 books but I’m fairly certain I can generate four or five in a series.

_________

Sue provides links to my website, blogs, and the book at the end of the interview. Here's the link to her blog:
Pink Phoenix
Pink Phoenix Press recently published Sue's "The Sword's Journey," which is a work of YA/Teen Sci-Fi Fantasy. Here's the link to "The Sword's Journey" at Smashwords: The Sword's Journey.

Enjoy your day!

The Del Carter Calendar Series: Meet Del Carter

THIS POST IS DEDICATED TO CHICAGO'S GREAT JAZZ JOINTS & MY AUNT ELAINE. I RECENTLY LEARNED FROM MY COUSIN BETH THAT SHE SANG AT SOME OF THE BEST JAZZ CLUBS BACK "IN THE DAY" (I HAD NO IDEA!).

NOW LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO DEL CARTER:

Lt. Franklin Delano (Del) Carter is a handsome, well educated Chicago homicide dick who loves Jessica Farrell and mellow sexy jazz. If there’s a saxophone riff in the music somewhere you can bet Del’s gonna’ love it.

Here’s an exchange between Del and his fiancée, Jess:

“What do you want for Christmas? You’re always so hard to buy for,” she said.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Just keep me in good sax.”

“Your birthday?” It was right after the holidays.

“Drown me in more good sax.” He looked at her and winked. “See, I’m easy. A whore for sax.”

January Moon has several protagonists which is usually not done… but there are many things about January Moon that defy the classic rules of fiction. Why? Well, probably because it’s my damn book and that’s how I wrote it. J So, if you’re a purest for formulaic fiction, well, then it’s best you move on. But if you’re not – well, then please stay; I think if you learn more about January Moon and its extraordinary characters (and totally unique story) you’re going to really love this book.

If there are two truly central characters in January Moon they are Del Carter and Fred Wiley -- and these two are very opposite men.

Del is a young (thirtyish) homicide dick in Chicago who has experienced a meteoric rise through the ranks. Wiley is an older, more seasoned, homicide investigator with the Illinois State Police; he’s a ’Nam era vet with a gnarly-snarky attitude long on cynicism and full of shrewd. Wiley plays in stark counterpoint to the more cerebral and polished Del.

Del is a complex man; he’s layered with more subtle nuances than the finest wine while Wiley’s a shot & beer kind of guy. Del gets in your head; Wiley gets in your face.

Cops and people who know cops tell me that I’ve nailed these guys, including their sidekicks Eggs and Tooch and Wiley’s dear friend Mayfield. I’ve known a lot of cops in my life but only one is truly represented in January Moon: Lt. Dennis Banahan, a real life Chicago homicide detective, now retired.

Denny is part Del and part Wiley -- some by pure accident and some by design.

Here’s the deal: I was already well into the story when I met Denny Banahan more or less by accident. He was already retired and for several weeks I had no idea that he was a cop.  We were patched together by a mutual friend because of our dogs and that’s a story that’s repeated here on this blog under the tab titled “Trooper, Shadow and Wolf” – so for background about Denny and our relationship, please go there. However, after I learned more about Denny’s career (and read his wonderful book, “Threshold of Pain”) I knew I had found a way to describe Del Carter’s career on a succinct and interesting way. Therefore, I boldly snatched Denny’s creds and after some massaging I created Del Carter’s resume.

Denny told me later, “You know, you might have given Del some of my credentials but you definitely gave Wiley my personality.”

Interestingly enough, that’s the accidental part. It was only toward the very end of the story that I actually began to know Denny Banahan very well but by that time Fred Wiley was fully created and the story was over.

This is probably explainable because I’m Fred Wiley’s generation (and of course Denny’s) and so to some extent – and probably quite a large one – I’ve known guys like Fred Wiley (and Denny) all my life.

Next week I’ll share more about Fred Wiley and the role he plays in January Moon but today I want to introduce you to Del and the best way to do that is to let you read the Chapter that introduces Del to the reader.

Background:

January Moon opens with a Prologue that begins at a truck stop in Urbana, Illinois. In the Prologue the reader meets Mack Carter, Del’s truck driver dad, as well as Del’s mom, Marge. After Mack impulsively rescues a young runaway from the clutches of three predators, something goes terribly, terribly wrong….

PART ONE

Traveling Death

One

Del Carter was flat on his back, one arm under his head and the other under Jess. He was deep in thought, still unaware his dad was on I-57 with a dead girl in his truck.

He looked at the clock and winced; he hadn’t caught a wink all night. In a few hours he was expected to appear at a breakfast meeting with the Mayor of Chicago and some hotshots with the Chicago Convention and Tourism Bureau.

This shit with the Mayor, he thought, is getting old.  Real old, real fast.

Jess was curled up beside him, one arm arched gracefully over his bare chest. He kissed the top of her head; her hair smelled like lavender. With Jess at his side nothing else really mattered. Screw the job, the Mayor, and even the blizzard slamming into Chicago.

All things have their season, he thought, and I just need to figure how to hurry out of this miserable one so that we can begin another.

Give me, kind Heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation; title and profit I resign; the post of honor shall be mine…

Where the hell does this shit come from? It amazed him what his mind retained.

He ran his fingers through Jess’s soft hair. If anyone told him a year earlier he’d fall in love with any woman at first sight he would have said they were crazy. Love at first sight? No way. But Jess Farrell had proven him wrong.

She blew him away the minute he saw her and an hour later he knew she was The One. It just took a little bit of time for Jess to see it too. She was suspicious and asked how he knew it was true love.

“When I see something here,” he pointed to his heart, “and here,” he pointed to his eyes, “and also here too,” he pointed to his brain, “then I know it’s true.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

Then one day Jess saw it as clearly as Del and that’s when her fears surfaced and in a panic she slammed the door to her heart and tried to run away.

“Running away,” he said after he chased her down and made her listen, “is not an option.”

“It’s always an option.”

“I don’t have to be a cop.” 

“Of course you do. Cops don’t choose to be cops, not like dentists and teachers and others. Cops are born cops.”

“That, coming from a woman as brilliant as you, is preposterous.”

“I come from a police family,” she retorted. “I know. It’s in the blood.”

“So, why are you a history professor and not a police officer?”

“Because every now and then one of us escapes…”

No doubt about it, the woman he loved could be a wee bit daft. 

“Hmmm…,” she purred and snuggled closer, “you awake?” Her body was warm and soft and always so desirable.

“Yep.”

“How come?” She raised her head and glanced at the clock. It was 4:00 AM. “You OK?”

“Never better. Go back to sleep.”

“So, why are you awake?” 

“Just thinking.”

“About us?”

“Always.”

“Like what? Tell me.” She played with one of his nipples and he groaned with pleasure.

“Tell you what?”

“What you were thinking. Tell me.”

“You want me to tell you again, for the millionth time, how I knew the minute I laid eyes on you that you were the one, is that it?”

“Yep. I like that story. It’s my favorite bedtime story,” she laughed softly and snuggled closer.

“Professor Jessica Farrell, you’re spoiled rotten, you know that?” It was fine with him; he wanted to spoil the hell out of her.

“Yep. Works for me. So, tell me.”

“OK, I was thinking about the day I first laid eyes on you. You were walking Wolf. July 1st, 1300 hours. Greenleaf Beach.”

“And you stalked me,” she teased.

“Yes, and with great skill I might add.”

“Wolf knew you were behind us. He was watching you.”

“Yeah, and I kept my eyes on him too. He’s a very intimidating animal.”

“But it was love at first sight, right?”

“True. I never saw a more beautiful dog.”

“Not funny.” She pulled a hair out of his chest.

“Ouch! Damnit! That hurt!”

“Be serious,” she chided. “You loved me at first sight, right?”

“Absolutely. But then you told me to go to hell, remember?”

“I did not!” she rose up indignantly.

“Shhh… yes you did. You were still in love with that other guy, Jerry Lewis.” He knew his name but got a kick out of refusing to say it.

“Jerry Levinson,” she said reproachfully, “and I wasn’t in love with him.”

“Whatever. What’s-His-Name.”

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” She was pleased.

“Of course. I’ll kill anyone who even looks at you.” 

Del gently stroked her hair as she lowered her head onto his chest.

Jess reached up and lovingly stroked his stubble; she traced the outline of his handsome features, starting with his brows and eyes and lightly brushing over his strong cheek bones. Her small, feather light fingers hovered around his nose and danced across his lips. He opened his mouth slightly and she played with his perfect white teeth and teasing tongue and then her fingers moved along, toying with the deeply embedded cleft in his dramatic chin and chiseled jaw line.

Her touch was hypnotic and he soaked up the love. Del’s large, powerful hand cupped hers. He kissed it tenderly and then gently nibbled and sucked her delicate fingers.

“I lied,” he whispered.   

“What?” She raised her head and pulled her hand away but he pulled it back and kissed it again.

“Yeah, I lied. I didn’t tell you everything I was thinking.”

“Should I be alarmed?”

He lowered his arm and held her tightly. “No, babe. Not at all.”

“So then tell me the truth.” She shifted herself around so that she faced him and rested her chin on his chest.  

“I was thinking about how you hate me being a cop and I really meant it when I said I’d probably be happier doing something else.”

“But you love what you do.”

“Not any more. Something’s changed.”

Jess studied him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Very.”

            “But hey, sweetheart, it’s turned out you’re very, very good at what you do. The whole city thinks you’re a hero now. The Mayor loves you.”

“I only want to be your hero; I only want you to love me. Screw everyone else.”

“That’s sweet, thank you.”

She lowered her head back onto his chest. “Whatever you want to do, honey, it’s OK with me.”

In a few minutes her breathing changed and Del knew she’d fallen back asleep. Unfortunately, as long as his mind was on hyperdrive he couldn’t sleep.

Images of the career he wanted to abandon played on continuous loop: graduation from the Police Academy, the early years in Narcotics, being detailed to the U.S. Department of Justice’s DEA Task Force, promotion to sergeant, reassignment back to Narcotics as a Supervisor, then lieutenant rank before thirty. Then the chance to transfer to Violent Crimes, something he suspected he’d be damn good at, something proven right.

A helluva career, no regrets, and then all of a sudden it unraveled. What the hell happened?

It was a warm spring day when he was picked by the Mayor and Superintendent of Police, Jim Reardon, to head a Special Task Force to solve a string of murders terrorizing the city. The media nicknamed the murderer the United Nations Killer because his victims were foreigners and tourists.

It took the task force eleven months to catch the United Nations Killer and when they did Del became an instant celebrity. Handsome, well educated, and articulate, the Chicago media dubbed him the city’s “Renaissance Man.”

Mayor Carney knew a public relations goldmine when he saw it and quickly jumped on the bandwagon, declaring Lt. F. Delano Carter the perfect example of a modern police professional. Carney made him the cornerstone of a massive public relations campaign to restore Chicago’s image, an image trashed by the serial killer, an overall increase in crime, and a decade-long series of police scandals and federal investigations.

The Renaissance Man campaign was a huge embarrassment to Del. He detested the name and clenched his teeth just thinking about it. He and Jess knew there wasn’t any outpouring of civic adoration when her father and his partner took bullets that crippled and killed twenty years earlier. Frank Farrell was put into a wheelchair and his partner, Jimmy Pappas, was put into the ground.

Del was also acutely aware of the hundreds of other cops and firemen wounded or killed in the line of duty and he certainly knew he didn’t apprehend the United Nations Killer by himself.

“I’m not the Lone Ranger,” he said, stressing there were hundreds of other cops who worked hard, maybe even harder, to apprehend the bastard.

Del told Carney and Reardon, “No way, get some other patsy,” but they made it perfectly clear that wasn’t an option: as long as Del was a Chicago cop they owned his handsome ass.

Del said it was the publicity, the idiotic Renaissance Man campaign bullshit, that really got to him, turned his stomach and made him want out, but the truth was deeper, darker, and more dreadful.

It came in the name of Dale Bradley Mommsen. Mommsen was a cancer that ate Del’s soul. Before Mommsen, Del only dealt with the ordinary scumbags who routinely keep cops busy in Narcotics and Violent Crimes; scum killing scum and there was a certain dark justice to it. Sure, there was collateral damage but shit happens.

But nothing Del had ever seen in ordinary police work prepared him for Mommsen. Del remembered – in graphic detail – every one of Mommsen’s crime scenes and it didn’t matter if Del’s eyes were open or closed, if he was awake or asleep, Mommsen lived in Del’s head, devoured his sense of worth, and scared him shitless.

Mommsen owned Del’s head more than Carney and Reardon owned his ass.

I should have taken the shot, he thought.

Should have taken the fucking shot.

Instead, Del operated by the book, and now Dale Bradley Mommsen was housed in Tamms, the state’s notorious closed maximum security prison.

Del knew it was only a matter of time. No prison could hold the man.

I should have taken the shot.

**

“OK, so if you don’t want to be a Chicago cop, what do you want to be?”

It was typical of Jess that she could fall asleep and wake up ready to continue her last conversation as if it never ended.

“I don’t know. Maybe I could become an alpaca farmer.”

“What?”

“Or is that rancher? Alpaca rancher?”

“You’re crazy,” she said with mock indignation.

“Shhh….” He laughed and gently pushed her head back onto his chest.

She played with his chest hair and nibbled his nipples and he loved it. She emitted a sultry tigress growl and began to caress the length of his torso, further and further downward. Her touch was erotic as hell.

“God, that feels wonderful.”

Del closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed her love as well as the sex. You can heal me, he thought. Definitely, woman, you can heal me.

His respiration and heart rate changed and his abdomen jumped reflexively as her fingers brushed over him. Jess raised herself on top of him and he nibbled her lips and teased her with his tongue. He kissed her neck and licked a small heart-shaped mole under her chin. She teased him with her breasts and he sucked as she moaned with pleasure. They were immediately ready for each other.

“I love morning sex,” he whispered as his tongue danced in her ear and sent shivers down her spine.

Her voice was husky now. “Beats the hell out of Cheerios,” she whispered.

Del was adjusting her lovely rump on top of his pulsing groin when the room exploded with the terrifying roar of hovering helicopters and the heart pounding music of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

“Jesus H!” Del yelled as Jess cried “Good God!” and rolled off him.

It took a second for them to realize the hellacious noise came from Del’s cell phone and not an Air Cav assault coming through the roof. The phone vibrated across the nightstand and crashed to the floor. Wolf tore into the bedroom barking ferociously; his raised fur formed a one inch ridge that went from the scruff of his neck to his tail. They usually called it “Wolf’s Mohawk.”

“What the shit!” Del groped frantically to retrieve the phone as it proceeded to disappear under the bed. Wolf lunged to retrieve it but Jess held him back; he would have eaten it.

“Goddamnit!” Del’s mind flashed back to a memory of his partner Santucci screwing with the phone. Tooch loved to screw with anything electronic, especially if it belonged to Del. Del swore to God he was going to seriously screw with something belonging to Tooch, like maybe his goddamn shiny new car.

Del moved the bed and grabbed the phone.

“Good Jesus, I’m gonna’ kill that bast…”

He froze in midsentence when he saw the caller’s phone number. Calls that come in the middle of the night are never good, and that’s especially true when they come from parents.

“Yeah, talk to me! What’s wrong?”

            Marge was trying hard to fight hysteria and losing the battle.

“Ma! Slow down, slow down. I can’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”

Marge started over but Del still didn’t understand her.

“Ma, listen to me: honest to God, you gotta’ slow down. Take a deep breath.”

At first Del thought his mother said his dad died, found in his truck on I-57. Naturally, he was unbelievably relieved to learn he’d misunderstood.

OK, so it obviously isn’t cool that someone else died in the old man’s truck, but it’s a damn sight better than dad himself, right?

“Ma, again, I’m telling you, you gotta’ take a deep breath and slow down. You’re confusing the living hell out of me.”

Del walked his naked butt into the kitchen, picked up a red plastic beverage carafe, and poured cold coffee into a black mug that ominously warned “Life’s a Bitch, Then You Die.” Jess, wearing her favorite schlumpy robe, followed. Del put the mug in the microwave and Jess poured herself a glass of orange juice. Concern marred her beautiful face.

“OK, Ma, let’s start from the beginning. Does Dad know this guy, the guy who died?”

Jess looked shocked and mouthed, “someone died?”

Del nodded “yes.” He cradled the phone under his chin and whispered, “Yeah, and in my dad’s truck, can you believe it?”

Marge kept calling the dead person a “hitchhiker” which Del thought odd because his father never picked up strangers.

“Where did he pick this guy up?”

Marge wasn’t sure but corrected him. “Not a guy, Del, I said a girl.”

“A girl?”

“That’s right, your father said she’s definitely a young girl. Maybe twelve, thirteen…”

“A twelve or thirteen year old girl?” Holy shit. “Is that what you said?” 

His mother said yes: that was exactly what she said.

How the hell did dad end up with a dead girl in his truck? A dead minor girl in his truck?

Marge explained the state police were holding Mack in Mattson and within minutes Del was dressed and flying out the door.

“Jess, I’ll call you as soon as I can, I promise. Keep your cell phone on, OK?” He kissed her quickly and was gone.

The coffee mug stayed in the microwave.

_______________

Del Carter might have been listening to some great sax on his way to Matteson… here’s what he and I have been listening to this morning…. some mellow alto sax playing Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are. Enjoy!

Alto Sax playing "Just the Way You Are"