The Dead Bell

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER

ONE

Maybe this time I can make it happen.

I study my feet as they grip the tiled concrete edge of the pool stretching out in front of me. Large and white, my toes are fringed with brown hair and armored with clipped nails. The smooth green water reflects fluorescent lights and black lines, wavering between fat and thin.

I draw air deep into my lungs and hurl myself onto the glassy surface, which breaks to receive me, muffling my ears and cocooning me from the outside. With each stroke, my head rises and I can hear the brassy sound of slapping water bouncing off the tiled walls. With the downstroke, the sound deadens again.

At the other end, where the pool sinks far below, my feet dangle, and I stop to listen. I can hear only my breath and the throaty gluck gluck of the rippling water hitting the drain. When I left the apartment this morning, the sunrise, its early light fragile and clean, painted the street with promise. I’d arrived at five-thirty on this beautiful Saturday morning and, as I’d hoped, the pool was empty. I’d come for the silence and the solitude.

I manage to put in thirty lengths before resting again. My breath comes hard as I perch at the deep end, hanging onto the concrete edge of the pool. The cavernous room is still empty, the lights buzzing steadily. Drawing three quick deep breaths and releasing the edge, I drift, eyes open, to the bottom. I land on the flat, hard plane and sit there, legs folded, arms extended, as though bestowing a blessing on the pool. My breath silent, I perceive only the muffled hum and click click of the pool’s mechanical heart, and the warm water holding me a few inches above the tile floor. After a bit, I open my eyes and see the dark green shades and dim glaze of ceramic squares in the corners, barely discernible through fluid astigmatism.

Suspended still, inert as a bubble in oil, I will myself to stay submerged. After sixty seconds, my lungs begin to ache. I release a small burst of air through my nose and settle firmly on the bottom of the pool. After ninety seconds, my vision narrows. With a violent, autonomic twitch, I expel the last of my air. My chest convulses, and my throat clenches tight as a knot, the dark cool green now lit with electric red and black. Finally, like blades of a spring knife, my legs shoot me to the surface and into the silence of the lights and the empty room.

My hungry lungs wrestle chlorine-filled air with each gasp. I lurch towards the edge of the pool and hug the cold, wet surface, my arms extended like wings, and sprawl until my pulse slows and the vivid reds and blacks recede. Finally, I pull myself up and out of the water.

Fighting the urge to vomit, I make my way to the shiny metal bench to secure a towel. Sensing the first gray, heavy notes of a headache, I put my head between my knees. I sit for several minutes before gathering the strength to make the trip to the locker room. I carefully navigate the slippery deck, yet still slide on a small patch of wet grime, driving my elbow into the unforgiving cinderblock wall.

Once inside the locker room, I need to sit down again, so I weave toward the wooden bench near my locker. The smell of strong disinfectant wafting from the showers magnifies my headache. The pain in my elbow thrums, hot and loud. Seated in front of my open locker, I see the clock on the wall reads six-thirty. Holding my arm, something else edges out the throbbing. Starting sharp and thin, like an insect sting, it spreads as I try to put a name to it. The new feeling, now more of a solid ache, is shame and anger. This same feeling assaulted me earlier, along with the din of the garbage crew hurling metal garbage cans with symphonic gonging, waking me from half-sleep. Stirring, I’d sent an exploratory leg under the covers, only to find the bed empty. I dragged myself to the kitchen, where I’d found a note affixed to the fridge by a magnetic Tabasco sauce bottle.

Written in Trina’s distinctive cursive, the note informed me she’d be staying with her sister overnight. This was hardly a surprise, given the several days’ conflict which had erupted between us. Relying on the peculiar logic of conflict, as I’d left the apartment that morning, I’d managed to transform Trina’s departure—by all rights a small tragedy—into feelings of relief; there’d be no boxing match that night. Even if it meant being alone, I’d felt resolved, if not entirely content.

I have reached a stage in my existence where I can claim enough self-awareness to articulate what I hope to gain from life. Recently, I was startled to realize I am too far along, too anchored, to change my course towards that elusive destination: contentment. I seem to be perpetually entangled and confused, my perspective smeared with a dark brown stain of frustration. Something has been making me irritable, discontented, and swinging at everything with all my might. But, like trying to punch something underwater, I haven’t been able to land a blow, and I feel out of control and useless. I have to admit I’ve taken this out on Trina.

The small mobile phone setting on the locker’s utensil tray springs to life, startling me. I answer, “Edison.”

The monotone voice on the other end responds with, “Article nine off Moffett”, providing an address. I acknowledge the call and hang up.

By sheer force of will and perseverance, I have reached the rank of investigating detective, appointed to Major Case Task Force for Lake County Illinois. Lake County is in the northeastern corner of Illinois, along the shores of Lake Michigan. It is the third-most populous county in Illinois after nearby Cook and DuPage counties. Its county seat is Waukegan, which is referred to locally as one of the collar counties of Chicago. Lake County is also the second most wealthy county in Illinois and one of the wealthiest counties in the nation. The lakefront communities of Lake Forest, Lake Bluff, and Highland Park are part of what is known as Lake Michigan’s Gold Coast.

I am on rotation, and it is my turn to pull the call. I’ve worked Lake County for over eight years—long enough to know Moffett is in Lake Forest where tall hedges, iron gates, and security cameras preserve privacy and keep out the masses.

Reaching into the locker, I pull out my clothes, dress quickly, then shut the locker with a solid metal clunk. I pause for a moment to consider my situation. After a few seconds, I come to the grudging conclusion, if only to myself, that I’ve been a shithead.

I leave the athletic club, waving to Tyler, the club manager, as I depart. I climb into my red Audi TT. The Beast, as I privately call it, giving in to the juvenile urge some men have to name their cars and weenies, is a vanity I allow myself. That I drive a car like the TT, even if it is pre-owned, has raised a few eyebrows at Division. I live in a tidy prewar railroad apartment in Waukegan, which provides shelter to the strong, muscular, and loud working- engine of North Chicago. The car is a symbol of a time when I’d hoped for something larger, a place in the order of things that resonated with purpose—a goal.

On weekends, I used to watch from my fourth-floor window as my neighbors dutifully mowed their tiny lawns and polished bumpers on cars for which they paid the bank every month while they drank beer and dreamed of something more. The TT, bought with the proceeds from the sale of my parents’ house in Springfield, is my contribution to the counterrevolution, my rolling middle finger to the forces pushing to keep my face planted to the mat.

After half an hour, I see the signs for Lake Forest and turn down a parkway lined with pink dogwoods. The trees arch over the road in frothy shades of white, rose, and purple. Spring has come late to Illinois, but it made a showy entrance. Even so, after so many false starts, most locals, like jilted lovers, are skeptical of Mother Nature’s first gesture of generosity and accept the sunny weather with healthy mistrust.

Giving Mother the benefit of the doubt, I roll back the convertible top and feel the breeze as it rolls wet and fragrant down the street, pushing dogwood blossoms in waves across the asphalt. I almost feel happy. Scanning the passing signs, I finally find the small green sign marked simply Moffett, framed by tall emerald green thuja hedges. Had I blinked, I might have missed the sign entirely. Half a mile down, as I near the address, I see police cars lined up like so many stacked dominos along a tall brick wall. A location van stands open in front of the driveway. Blue lights tick quietly on a large paramedic unit backed into the driveway. Even in the early weekend morning, a small knot of people edge against the yellow police tape for a better look.

Passing the entrance, I park in the first available spot, carefully leaving distance between the TT and the adjacent thrashed ’97 Pontiac Firebird, which seems out of place with the clean street and late model European sedans dotting the driveways and cul-de-sac. A breeze caresses the parkway surface, whipping light green seed spores from the flowering trees into lazy curling patterns that swirl down the immaculate asphalt.

The house, if you could call it that, is a four-story brick and stone structure with two-story windows running the length of the front. Surrounded by a tall brick wall topped with wicked foot-long spikes, the entrance is dominated by stone steps that rise to black doors saddled with brass fixtures that gleam with new polish.

At the gate, the uniform points me to a path which follows the brick wall, finally opening out into the garden. The brick wall, which I estimate is over twelve feet, extends the length of the garden. At the end of the lawn, half a football field away, the wall makes a sharp turn and extends another fifty yards until it turns left again. Rows of carefully tended rose plants and shrubs cascade upwards towards the back of the house. A white stone pergola dominates the center of the garden, which is, in turn, framed by a large, circular, dry fountain.

Fifty yards out, at the end of the lawn, the cluster in the far corner might pass as an intimate congregation gathered to celebrate a wedding or bar mitzvah. The mound of bright yellow plastic tarp on the ground pegs it as the Article Nine of the Illinois Criminal Code Homicides and Crimes Against the Person called in by the dispatcher. The tarp, the emergency responders’ orange uniforms, and the intercom squawks, serve as a jarring contrast to the green peace of the morning. I can see the techs in the far corner, looking for footprints.

Striding the lawn, I nod to obligatory hellos and how ya doin’s, recognizing auxiliary crime techs I’ve worked with before. Over near the corner, I see Lou Watson, the senior forensic tech and owner of the thrashed Firebird. I feel a frisson of relief that I’ve parked a few feet away. Watson, who grew up on the dangerous streets of Riverdale, is the first Black lab tech in Lake county. He possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of jazz, which is our only point of common interest . . . aside from violent death. I sometimes find myself drawn into lively and heated conversation with him, often over truly arcane issues like pre- and post- Camarillo Parker. This time, however, I am not in the mood to talk and, even less, to pass niceties. I look around, noticing two cameras pointing into the center of the garden. I gesture to one of the techs.

“Surveillance?”

The cop shrugs. “Yup. No data.”

“None?”

The cop raises his shoulders in resignation. “They been having problems with da system. Can’t tell if it was turned off or flushed.”

I make my way towards the tarp. As I cross the lawn, the sun breaks over the tops of the trees. The air, heavy with spores and pollen, carries the light chirp of a woman’s laughter. I halt, looking quickly to my left to find the sound. A short blonde woman in a tech uniform quickly averts her face.

I stand still, my neck aching, suddenly tired. Recalling Trina’s laughter, I realize it has been months since I’ve heard her light music. Startled out of my reverie by a blue jay across the garden, I edge towards the far border of the garden. A small group of techs and one cop ring the tarp. They part to allow me room. I steel myself as I stride forward. The laughing woman moves to one side as I crouch to peel back the plastic. Grey, matted hair drapes over the broad shoulders of the corpse, which lies encased in a yellow rain jacket. Under the jacket, the victim wears a white terry robe, its collar stained the color of rust. Adjusting my feet to get a better view, I hear a spongy noise under my shoes. I see the woman’s hair is wet, as is the robe, jacket, and the surrounding ground. Tugging at her left shoulder, I meet the fleshy face of an older woman, her blue-grey eyes gazing without light, the chalky skin of her cheek smeared with dirt and leaves.

Watson joins the circle. I turn to him. “Why’s she wet?”

Lou ignores me. Walking his crab-like walk, he nudges techs and cops aside with his considerable size as he circles the body. Working with an urgent athleticism, he swings a Nikon D7100 camera, adjusting the focus. I turn to the female uniform who stands several feet away.

“She got a name?”

“Faith Wesley.”

The dark jitters, which have plagued me since early morning, become impossible to ignore, rising undeniably, inexorably, and as urgent as a spastic colon. I want only refuge to purge them in private. “That it?” I shoot at the woman.

“Well, they’ve got money, I’d say,” she volleys back.

I scan the faces around me, certain my condition is as obvious as if it was written on the back of my jacket. Realizing the choice is either to gather myself or call in someone else, I take a breath, will away morbid reflection, and begin organizing the crime in my mind.

Over the years, I’ve responded to hundreds of felonies. Most crime is easily sorted and as predictable as an I Love Lucy rerun. Typical crime is comfortable, a Fred and Ethel domestic shooting, say, or a drug deal gone south, and usually constitutes a few days’ work.

I kneel next to Lou as he inspects the ground next to the body. He retracts the yellow sheet and touches Faith Wesley’s head, muttering comments as much to himself as to anyone else. Doing my own internal calculus, and ignoring Lou as best I can, I start a mental ledger: means, motive, and opportunity. I mentally sift through the scenarios—s****l assault, burglary, lover’s quarrel—and for each make a mental note. I’ll need to follow up with the ME’s office for a r**e kit and make sure to have the brick wall periphery completely searched for signs of entry and exit.

Lou finally points to indentations on the edge of the lawn in the spot where he’d been standing earlier. “Sprinklers,” he says, his exhale whistling through his nostrils. “You hear they’re releasing the complete Art Tatum catalog next week? Remastered.” He rises to his feet and adjusts the waist of his pants. I am certain that if Lou doesn’t start taking care of himself I’ll be looking at him under the yellow sheet before too long.

I shake my head, responding to Lou’s attempt to engage me, then nod towards the mound. “Hadn’t heard. Can we turn her all the way over?” I see the female uniform roll her eyes and shake her head in disgusted disbelief. I find myself angry at the woman and defensive of Lou.

With Faith Wesley on her back, Lou continues to catalog and mutter. The human remains of Lake County are a wrecking yard, and Lou seems immune to the c*****e. I’ve never gotten used to it.

What I see is a gash the color of crushed pomegranates cut deep into the pale flesh of Faith Wesley’s neck. Her tongue sticks out in perpetual disdain.

Lou coughs once. “Yup. And in August they’re supposed to reissue most of Bud Powell’s stuff on Verve.”

“What about the sprinklers?” I ask, becoming annoyed at Lou’s prattle.

“The system fires up at 6:45. The ground under her is damp but not soaked. Morning dew is my bet. She got here between 4:00 and 6:45.”

“f*****g s**t,” I say, placing the tarp over the woman’s unseeing eyes.

Lou raises his big shoulders in resignation. “That’s life,” he says, placing his clipboard in his bag—a gesture so Gallic and laden with ennui I fully expect to see him fire up a Gauloise and sigh through a column of smoke, “. . . et puis je fume.”

“How bad for forensics?”

As if on cue, Lou pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights and motions to the tall brick wall fifteen yards away. “Well,” he says, once we’ve stopped at the wall, where Lou bends to light the cigarette, “we won’t get any transfer prints, and the chance of decent fiber material is shitty. Best we can hope for is footprints and maybe some DNA material under the fingernails.” Now that we are standing next to the brick wall, it strikes me how truly high it reaches. Shaking his head, Lou pushes the blue plume out of his nose and gestures towards the scene. “This looks pretty clean. The other team is looking over by the far end of the wall.”

After taking another drag, he says, “Quite a scene. Weird.” He pitches the butt over the wall and out onto the street, ignoring the standing order against smoking on site.

I nod. I watch Faith Wesley being loaded onto a gurney and rolled across the lawn. I’ve come to understand this part of the job I do is as much the province of a village witch-doctor as a trained forensic investigator. Despite the technology and the precise mathematics of violence, police procedure is still riddled with traditions and superstitions.

As I stand in silence, my thoughts inevitably turn to Trina, remembering a period when the stars aligned and I’d believed in our future. Recently, the best either of us have been able to muster is a dark détente, tense blue and grey periods that streak our lives like rain down a window. I never seem to see the ugly parts coming. Like nausea or the flu, the darkness flares up, then passes with time. But over time, the return to intimacy—not physical and driven by hunger—but trust, the true currency of love, flows sluggishly. We’ve been spending as fast as we earn.

My cell phone rings, pulling me back to the present.

As so often happens, when naming a ghost, it appears.

I peer at the screen, not particularly surprised to see Trina’s name. Debating whether to answer the call, my resolve finally collapses with a groan and a splash like a decrepit wooden bridge. I answer, finding a safe spot several yards away in a small hedge next to a bed of roses.

“Hello?” My answer gives nothing.

Her voice sounds brittle and clipped. “D’you get my note?” she asks.

“Yup. You staying up there with Sophie ’til Monday?” The question is as much a challenge as a request for information. Within the few seconds between us, we are back to the form of lovers’ brinksmanship known as “Who Cares Less.”

“I’ll call you and let you know when I’m coming down,” Trina says, moving a step closer to the edge of no return, the point where neither of us can take back what we’ve said.

Despair, shame, and spite thump loudly against my insides like wet wash on a spin cycle. Looking to land a preemptive strike, I offer, “I’m working a new case, just called in.”

“All weekend?” Trina says, revealing her disappointment and, perhaps, hope.

“So far. Looks like it.” I kick at a tuft of grass.

“Where’s Liam?”

“With his mom,” I answer, dislodging the piece of sod and kicking it towards the hedge.

She exhales deeply. Almost in a whisper, she says, “I wish you’d take a different tack on the cat.”

This is everything I need to know. Looking behind me to make sure I am out of earshot of the staff, I drill into the phone, “I thought I was pretty clear.”

“Tom, you’re not being fair.”

“You lied to me about the f*****g cat,” I growl.

Trina comes back swinging. “I knew you’d overreact. I was right on the money. You can be right, Tom, and you can be alone.”

I yell into the phone, “You lied to me because you know I told you we—and that means Sophie too—are not going to have a f*****g pet.” Realizing I’ve screamed, I turn to see the team looking over. I worry about reports of my outburst getting back to Delahunt.

“I gotta go,” I say, my voice softer, still hoping to salvage some reentry into the conversation, but the line is dead.