Friday, OCTOBER 22, 2010 – 6: PM
(the following chapter was accumulated from interview and police reports)
Dino Koukoumtzis wiped one of the tables in his bar, “Dino’s Dugout“. The table didn’t even need it. No one had sat there yet this evening but he did those sorts of things so routinely he no longer realized he was doing them.
The Dugout is a sports bar connected to his restaurant, “The Campfire“. It was Friday evening and his regulars would begin rolling in soon. Dino spent weekend nights roaming between the bar and restaurant speaking to people and ingratiating himself to his patrons. He wasn’t blind, Dino understood in this deflated economy folks had few extra dollars to spend at places like restaurants and sports bars. So he wanted to make sure those that did venture out with their few extra bucks felt appreciated when they came to either of his places to spend them.
He saw Dave MacPherson typing away at his laptop. Dave owned the local newspaper here in Milan, Discover Milan News. Dino liked the man, Dave gave him good deals in advertising with his paper, and he was easy to talk to, not overbearing.
“Like some more tea there, Dave?”
Dave looked up with a graying, bearded smile. “Yeah, that’d be alright – appreciate it.”
Dino poured. “Hot on a new story?”
“No, I don’t do the reporting, I just own the paper, I don’t write it.” The two men chuckled at the irony. “No, I’m just working on the layout for one of our advertisers.”
Dino nodded that he understood. “Good. Well I suppose I better move on over to the restaurant, make sure everything’s goin’ alright over there.”
“Yup,” was Dave’s only response.
Dino glanced up at the clock – 6:02pm. Campfire has been open for two hours but as yet traffic was thin. He tossed his rag on the bar. “I’m going to head next door, Heather. Back in minute.”
Heather Bohnett, the very pleasant woman that took care of things for him when he had to step out, nodded and turned back to the customer sitting at the bar.
*BAM*
Without a thought, Dino shot off toward the door. Someone had just run their car into something outside his building. As he darted through the doors, he saw the something was his restaurant’s sign at the corner of Dexter and Lewis Ave.
Wisps of steam trickled up from the hood of the car but the car did not look too badly damaged at a glance. Inside the vehicle he could just make out the head of a male driver slumped over the steering wheel.
Dino darted forward. He heard others barreling out of the Dugout behind him. He reached in his pocket for his cell phone. ‘Damn,’ left it in his jacket back in the bar.
He saw Ali Fawaz darting across Dexter St. toward the crash. Ali owns a nearby cellular dealership.
“Ali! Call an ambulance. I left my cell inside.”
Fawaz waved that he understood and stopped by the side of the road to begin dialing.
The driver’s side window was down. Dino reached in and felt the man’s neck, looking for a pulse in the carotid artery.
The man’s head popped up and he gasped. “He’s coming, he’s coming.” His breathing was hard bought and his voice heavily labored as if air fought every inch to get into his lungs.
“Hey, hey sit back. We’ll stop whoever’s after you but you need to relax you may have spinal injuries.” Dino tried to sound reassuring but as he reached in to turn the ignition off the still running car, he saw the blood soaked through the man’s shirt and spread across his lap. The man’s hand lay limp beside him, no longer strong enough to apply pressure on the gushing wound.
Dino’s mind whispered this was far more serious than he anticipated when he’d first run toward the crashed vehicle.
The man grabbed Dino’s arm with surprising strength as Dino attempted to lean back out of the car. Dino looked into the man’s shocked eyes. Ringed in red his eyes began to fix forward. Dino knew the poor guy had only seconds left.
“Sto…sto…”
“You’re going to be alright. Yes, the car has stopped. An ambulance is on its way. We’re going to get you some help. Just hang on a few more minutes.”
Dino looked at the man’s face. The man’s lower jaw continued to move just slightly as if he needed to say something more before the quickening end, but there was no sound. Dino saw the man’s eyelids begin to droop while his eyes locked straight ahead. He again felt the guy’s neck for a pulse but the poor man’s chest no longer labored for breath. Finding no pulse, Dino pulled open the driver’s door and reached in to unhook his safety belt.
“Dave! Come over here. Give me a hand.”
Dave MacPherson was standing nearby with some of the others from the bar. He rushed forward to offer assistance.
Together the two men eased the injured man out of the vehicle.
“Are you sure we should be moving him?”
Dino looked at him. “I don’t think it matters anymore.”
MacPherson said nothing and helped lay the man down on the pavement beside the car. Dave took off his light jacket and slid it under the man’s head.
“No, no, use the jacket to elevate his feet, we need blood to get to the brain.” MacPherson didn’t argue and carefully slid the rolled up jacket under the man’s feet.
“Here, push this right there.” Dino instructed Dave as he pulled off his white dress shirt, handed it to his friend and indicated the deepest red spot on the man’s torso where blood continued to seep out of the wound. MacPherson pressed Dino’s wadded up shirt onto the spot and applied pressure in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.
Dino could tell his friend was nervous. He couldn’t blame him, nervous was an appropriate response to this much blood. Dino began compressions on the man’s chest. He no longer believed there was any saving the poor guy’s life but he had to try.
It seemed like only seconds had passed since Dino first ran toward the crashed car when he heard a siren coming toward the scene. He no sooner heard the siren when the police were pulling alongside the edge of the Lewis St. corner next to where the sign and ruined vehicle were. A man knelt next to him in the surreal time dilation that stress often supplies.
“I’ll take it from here, sir,” a uniformed officer said nudging in next to where Dino knelt.
Dino jumped out of the way and the man took over the chest compressions.
“How long have you been doing compressions?” the cop asked glancing up at Dino.
“Ahh, maybe a minute, two at the most.” The man nodded and continued pressing on the driver’s sternum.
Again, in what seemed like mere seconds, an ambulance pulled up on the Dexter Rd. edge of the corner and two EMTs pushing a gurney made their way next to the injured man.
One of the EMTs began pressing a bag on the man’s mouth to force air into his lungs while his partner pushed an open-wound dressing onto the hole in the man’s lower left-side stomach. As Dino watched, he knew it wasn’t just a wound, it was a gunshot wound.
The police officer was still giving CPR compressions as the EMTs worked. As soon as the second tech finished dressing the wound, he took over on chest compressions.
Dino looked on with Dave MacPherson still beside him. He found himself strangely numb watching the scene as this man died not five feet from him. He knew that later this whole event would affect him a great deal but just at the moment, he could not find the slightest emotion. Somewhere in the back of his mind Dino knew he was experiencing a type of shock by the severity of events. A man drives his car into the business’ sign and then Dino has to watch as the poor fellow lies dying at his feet.
Dino saw the man performing CPR look over at his partner and slowly shake his head. The second man looked at his watch and said, “Eighteen-twelve. Call it.”
The other man nodded and reached for his radio. “Dispatch – 527.”
*527. *
“Ahh, contact the ME’s office. We need an investigator, 1035 Dexter, Campfire Restaurant, 1035 Dexter.”
*1035 Dexter, copy. ME in route. *
The EMT stood, walked toward the ambulance, and pulled a blanket out. He walked back and the two men spread the blanket over the dead man’s body and face.
It wasn’t until the dead man was covered that Dino finally looked around him. At some point, more police cars had shown up and were directing traffic round the area. Brightly burning flares lined the street and one officer began to set up red sawhorse barriers.
“A murder investigation.” The thought came to him unbidden. Dino knew this was more than just a fatality – this had been murder.
He saw his employee, Heather Bohnett standing behind him. She had her hands over her mouth as she watched the EMTs cover the body of the driver. Others were on their cells talking feverishly about what they saw.
Dino just looked at them for a moment. He could not begin to understand what every person felt right then but he assumed there was a measure of disbelief, the same disbelief he wanted to feel. The disbelief that said this was all a horrible dream from which he would wake up in the next few seconds. But the seconds ticked by and he did not wake up. Even as he saw the investigator from the medical examiner’s office pull up, and the police began asking questions, Dino could not wake up. He watched but that’s what he really wanted to happen just then, he wanted to wake up and be relieved that this had all been just a bad dream.
Just a bad, bad dream.
Having spoken to Dave MacPherson about the car accident, I turned to walk back to my car when I ran headlong into an attractive blond haired woman moving across my path behind me.
“Whoa, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“I should probably wear a bell,” she grinned.
She was perhaps early thirties, mid-length reddish-blond hair, on the taller side, perhaps five-seven, and average weight with a very gentle yet compelling face, full lips and bold blue eyes.
“Well, that would be the thing to do here in the country.” I hoped she had a sense of humor.
“Yeah, meaning to get one this Christmas,” again the young woman smiled enough to tell me she in fact did have a sense of humor.
“My name’s Merc, Merc Robbins,” I said putting my hand out.
She shook it with a firm grip. This told me she was not a timid woman. Probably in charge of wherever it is she works. I like a woman who takes charge.
“Mandy Gilson.”
“Well Miss Gilson, for the offense of nearly running you over, would you allow me to take you out for a coffee?” I think the words were out of my mouth before I realized I said them.
“Mr. Robbins, are you asking me out on a date not twenty yards from where a man lays dying?”
“Umm,” well she had me there. So I did what any smart-aleck would do, I turned the tables on her. “To be honest Miss Gilson, the man is already dead and the coroner has already taken his body away. And, the opportunity to ask you out did not arise while smelling scented candles at the local Bed, Bath, Beyond.” I hoped I did not come off too flippant.
Despite herself, a short laugh escaped her lips. “Fair point, Mr. Robbins. But I’m afraid I cannot accompany you for coffee this evening.” She began walking away, my shot at going out with an attractive woman walking away with her. Then she stopped about ten feet from where I stood still looking at her, spun back to look at me with a coquettish smile and added, “But I will be available tomorrow afternoon…if you are.”
Now it was my turn to grin like a boy who’d just got his first valentine card in school. “I will indeed.”
“See you here tomorrow then; twelvish.” Still smiling, Mandy turned and walked off. I watched her a moment more, her flowered dress waving out behind her. I then headed back to my own car but now wearing a goofy grin.
I got in my car and pulled toward the drive I first entered. As I pulled up to the skirt of the parking lot, I saw a gray Chrysler Sebring slow as it passed in front of me, its driver looking back at the wrecked car. The Chrysler was a newer model, which suggested it was possibly a rental. There was a man behind the wheel. He was alone wearing a suit and tie. This might have all been irrelevant and not worth my attention had I not noticed the front bumper of the passing car was bashed in, by another vehicle perhaps? The car wasn’t ruined but the damage was noticeable. The whole thing triggered my natural suspicions.
As soon as the car passed, I pulled out onto Dexter Rd and turned left, toward the Sleep Inn & Suites down and on the other side of the street. As I again passed the wrecked car of the now late Jerome Kirkwood, I looked once more at its back bumper. Yup, definitely smashed, not completely but enough to put the two things together. I’d not been able to see the back bumper clearly before because of the ambulance parked in front of it, but it was clear this time.
I was sure the local cops were just now noticing that a car that ran into a large sign post would not have a smashed rear bumper, unless it was either hit first from behind, or it reversed at speed into something else, something like a newer Chrysler Sebring.
I did not slow or pull back into the restaurant, I drove on to the hotel. Call it the paranoid suspicions of a man with things to hide, but I was certain the gray Sebring held the gunman that shot Jerome Kirkwood causing Kirkwood to later crash into the Campfire Restaurant’s signpost.
Jerome obviously, way back at the Bistro Restaurant, got shot during a spray of bullets, or possibly just one neatly placed bullet while he awaited my arrival. Despite his wound, he made it to his car but before driving away he rammed his car into the front end of the Sebring hoping to disable it giving himself a few precious moments to make his getaway. His plan obviously worked but for the bullet that hit him in his mid-section.
If I began poking around too much just at that moment, I would alert the gunman that there was someone, an outsider nosing into the fatal death of the accident victim, nosing into to his victim’s death.
I pulled into the parking lot at the Sleep Inn.
This whole murder business was all Det. Stalwart’s problem anyway. I was not about to risk my life over something that pompous ass had himself involved with. I’d get my room and call Stalwart, tell him what I saw and what I found out then let him handle it when he got into town later this evening. I’ve dealt with my share of tough customers before and Stalwart knew it, but I was not a spy behind enemy lines and this was not the last great war. This wasn’t my problem.
I got a room on the second floor. The hotel was full on the first floor, which was just as well. I picked this hotel specifically because it had multiple floors. Whilst caught in the intrigue of espionage, multiple floors represent escape options should some bad guy pay me an unwelcome visit. And yes, paranoia is a disease.
If my suspicions about the man in the Chrysler were true and he really was the gunman, it was highly likely he too would be checking into the Sleep Inn for the night.
There is another smaller hotel on this stretch but it sits ground level with one way in and out – way too confined for folks like me.
You see, that’s why I live up in the mountains of West Virginia most of the time, away from everyone else. I am far too paranoid an individual to live among regular folks for long periods. You get shot at a few dozen times, hit on a few of those occasions, and beaten to within a breath of your life more than once, one tends to grow a healthy paranoia about almost everything.
Yup, definitely Stalwart could handle this problem. I’m happy to sit this one out.
Friday, OCT. 22nd – 7:10pm
“What the hell you mean you won’t be here until tomorrow? Get over here and clean up your mess, Stalwart,” I yelled over the phone. I’d called him as soon as I got to my room.
“Hey, you’re the one who was late getting there, Robbins. Had you been on time…”
“Had I been on time I would probably have gotten shot along with, Kirkwood. No Adam, this is your situation and you need to handle it. I told you I am certain I spotted the gunman, meaning he is in town looking for whatever information Kirkwood got away with. I don’t have a weapon, a vest, or even a snappy comeback for a man who’s not afraid to shoot someone in a public place. He shot up the first meeting place, the Bistro, he probably won’t hesitate to shoot up this little town either.” I was angry as I spoke but then that was usually the tone Adam Stalwart and I used when we talked.
“I’ve got a situation here in Chicago. I won’t be able to get out of town until morning, maybe midday. I have a feeling I know who shot Kirkwood or at least who he works for and if I’m right, he won’t risk shooting up a town with cops in it who will shoot back.”
“Yeah, well what if you’re wrong and this is just some hired thug who will shoot anyone that gets in his way or gets too nosey, huh?”
“Robbins listen, this is important. The information Kirkwood was carrying is part of a deep cover investigation and I have to get it to the Attorney General ASAP. If I could get out there tonight I would, but things have gone bad here in Chi-town. I have to stay and handle it. All I’m asking is that you make some very casual inquiries around town to find out if the local cops found the packet Kirkwood had on him.”
“Why not the District Attorney’s office? You said the Attorney General, wouldn’t you be giving information to the DA instead of the AG?”
The fact that Stalwart, a Chicago detective would be dealing with the Illinois Attorney General’s Office over the Chicago District Attorney told me a lot. It told me, this was about a government cover-up.
Chicago is notorious for its corrupt, double-dealing politicians. The mob might not run the town like it did back in the twenties and thirties but the ‘good ol’ boys’ system is still firmly in place. There are plenty of envelopes still passed from hand to hand, photos taken of politicians lying drunk with hookers to be used at opportune moments, stuff like that. Chi-town certainly isn’t alone in its corruption but it does seem to get caught at it more than other cities.
“Robbins, this is one of those cases where it might be smart not to be quite so clever.”
“You asked me to come in on this case, Stalwart. You know the way I think. Did you assume I’d miss that little detail?”
“No, I guess that was too much to ask. Look Merc, the less you know about the details the better off you are in the long run. I’ll be in Milan early afternoon tomorrow. Just make a few unobtrusive inquires in the meantime so I have some place to start looking when I get there. Alright?”
“Why don’t you just contact the police here?”
“Right now the Milan PD believes they have just a murder victim. If they discover that there is more at stake than Jerome Kirkwood’s death alone, they could botch our deeper investigation. I can’t go into detail right now but this is more involved than the surface suggests.”
“Yeah, I got that much. I still think you could handle this on the phone with a clever story so I could bow out of any further involvement,” I told him matter-of-factly.
“Oh come on now, Merc ol’ chum, we both know you’re no stranger to this sort of intrigue. You may think I’m just a stupid cop but even I can spot someone trying to hide in plain sight.”
“Have I mentioned lately that I don’t like you much?”
“Pretty much every time we talk. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up again without a thanks to be heard. That guy’s an asshole. He’s a ‘do-good’ cop always getting himself into problems from which he wants others to get him out. Of course, I’m sure he says much the same things about me sans the ‘do-good’ part. 
