Campanelli: Sentinel Page 8

  “Thanks for your help and for the warning, friend,” Campanelli said and shook the man’s hand.

  “No prob,” he said and added, “Just so you know, don’t expect to get to da top. Word has it that part of the structure has fallen in somewhere past the fifth or sixth floor.”

  Frank thanked him again and turned his attention to his men. In just under two minutes, the great panel of wood was reduced to splinters. Only the parts at the screws remained attached to the walls.

  While the men returned the tools to the truck, he briefed the uniformed officers on what they were looking for and led the patrol cars inside. Frank guided the cruiser manually around the first upward bend to the right. All three cars washed the graffiti-covered concrete walls with headlights and searchlights as they rolled cautiously and slowly forward.

  Their path widened once it met the second floor, opened as it was to accommodate parking spaces on either side of them. It was here that the first abandoned vehicles were discovered. Covered in thick layers of dust and dirt, they lay between the faded yellow strips of paint that bracketed their existence. Many were in varying states of disassembly, having been stripped perhaps a multitude of times. Those that were parked against the outer wall, unprotected and exposed to the wind and weather, were mere piles of rust and collected dirt.

  “Jesus, Frank,” Marcus said in a foreboding tone once they had rounded yet another corner.

  Campanelli took his foot from the accelerator and looked to his partner, whom he found was pointing at something on Frank’s side of the car. Coming to a stop, Frank guided the spotlight upon what Williams had seen. As they had ascended the parking garage, the elevator and stairway access had remained to their left, at the core of the building. Frank whistled as his light traced a giant crack which ran vertically through the doorway to one of the elevators. The doors were skewed at different angles as a result.

  “That gap has to be about…five…six inches wide,” Campanelli noted.

  “What the hell could have caused that?” Marcus wondered as the three police cars began to roll on.

  “Well, it’s the last building on the block. It must’ve taken some shock from the demolition of the others.”

  “Makes sense,” Williams opined and guided his spotlight forward again. The beam passed over the dusty corner, where the wind had no purchase. “Frank! Look!”

  “What now?” Campanelli called irritatingly as he halted the car.

  “Oh, only a clue,” Marcus said defensively as he passed his light over the ground.

  Frank leaned forward and angled his spotlight to cover the area Williams had lit. In the layer of thick gray dust was a tire track which appeared fresh. “My sincerest apologies my friend,” he offered in a manner that was campy and at the same time sincere. “Would you say that’s a twenty inch tire tread?”

  From the information they had found on the Mako Speedster, they knew that it featured twenty inch tires. Williams agreed.

  “Campanelli to detail,” Frank called to the radio. “We’ve got some fresh tire tracks here in the corner. Stay sharp.” The patrolmen behind them acknowledged.

  The number of abandoned cars increased as they made the transition from the fourth floor to the fifth. Frank said nothing when he saw that the crack they had discovered on the floor below was present here. Campanelli wondered about the integrity of the building. There were also quite a few shanties of cardboard boxes, particle board and scrap wood in the corners, areas least affected by the weather. So far however, there had been no contact with people.

  Almost to the fifth floor, Campanelli placed his spotlight on a small vehicle under a dark colored canvas top, tucked between an abandoned van and a strange type of truck. “Here, what’s this here?” Frank said and stopped the car at an angle. The patrol car behind him lit the area as well. “We’re getting out to check this one,” he announced to Williams and the backup units.

  Frank hopped out of the car and was quickly joined by his partner. The officers of the car behind also exited their vehicle, keeping their short barreled pulse weapons within reach.

  Campanelli tugged at the left rear corner of the sheet while Williams grabbed the opposite corner. Lifting it out of the way, the pearl white paint reflected a rainbow of color in the brilliant spotlights. The company logo of Mako Automobiles, Incorporated; a big-eyed, gray shark which appeared to be swimming at a high rate of speed was mounted square in the center of the rear bumper. The model name, ‘Speedster’, was stamped above the passenger side taillight. Completely removing the canvas cover, they saw that the car was free of license plates.

  “White body, white top and white interior,” Marcus confirmed with his flashlight. “It checks out, Frank.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Frank mumbled as he fished out a tool from his jacket pocket. As he worked the door lock, a gust of wind hit the parking garage, making the structure sway alarmingly. From somewhere, a great groan of tired steel emanated throughout the darkened level.

  “Holy crap, Frank,” Marcus murmured from the other side of the car.

  “Yeah,” Campanelli added as he opened the Speedster’s door. Taking in deep inhalations through his nose, there was only the smell of leather. He tapped the button to unlock the passenger side door. Marcus opened it and leaned inside.

  “Computer’s still here,” Marcus noted after feeling the underside of the dashboard.

  Running his flashlight beam along the doorframe, Frank found the manufacturer’s sticker and compared the vehicle identification number to the one listed in the report. They matched.

  Campanelli straightened and called to the patrolman closer to him. “Officer, call a tow, would’ja? We got our car.”

  “Great! Now can we get the hell outta here?” Williams nearly shouted as he headed back to the cruiser.

  “You know, you’re awful jumpy for an ex-Seal,” Frank smiled as he pressed the trunk release. “I’m gonna have to check your military file. I am highly dubious,” he added cheekily with an exacerbated accent.

  “I would just feel a whole lot better not inside a place that creaks when the wind blows, Frank.”

  “Picky, picky,” Campanelli muttered as he verified the absence of a body in the trunk. Its emptiness was both satisfying and a letdown. Part of him had hoped to find Antony stuffed inside the tiny compartment, tortured and killed by his mafia friends. The righteous part wanted to deliver justice to the cop killer in the proper way.

  Slamming the trunk lid, Frank went to his cruiser and recalled his detectives from their searches. Afterward, he leaned on his fender and lit a cigarette.

  “What’s next, Frank?” Marcus asked, all the while keeping his eyes dancing from dark corner to dark corner. Campanelli had known the man long enough to realize that this was not a sign of unbridled fear, but of military training and he was grateful for it.

  “We wait for a tow,” Frank said simply and exhaled a cloud. “We get this thing over to Rothgery. Have him go over it for prints. DNA. Blood.”

  “You think Antony’s still alive?”

  Frank thought a moment before he spoke. “Yeah. I think he’s got a friend that’s keeping him that way.”

  The sun was on its way down by the time the truck carting the Speedster arrived at the District One station. Campanelli and Williams followed it to make sure of its arrival to Rothgery’s garage. The forensic genius had already left for the day, so Frank mentally composed a note with his request pertaining to the car and sent them to the CPD server. With that done, there was nothing else to do but call it a day.

  ***

  The next morning, Frank awoke, certain that he had forgotten to set his alarm. “Time,” he called out.

  “Five-oh-Five…a.m.,” answered his clock.

  “Shit,” he muttered, though he was relieved at not having overslept. Not wishing to activate his CAPS-Link so early in the morning, he grabbed his RadarCane from the nightstand and activated it. It hummed and tweeted as he swung it from left to right on his way to th
e bathroom. Afterwards, he wandered into the kitchen and, completely by practiced feel, prepared his coffee maker and activated it. He waited for it to be done and poured a cup.

  Using the cane to get to the living room, he sat upon his couch, found his remote control and turned on the HV to listen to the morning news which had started at five. Instead of a news anchor, the voice of the evangelist permeated the residence.

  “…it besets upon a man to do evil things. Things that he would never have normally done before that hellish planet was discovered! Friends, the Lord wants you HERE!! On Earth, living the way HE has always intended you to live.”

  “Praise Him!” called out the preacher’s audience.

  “Holy crap,” Frank mumbled as a memory shocked him even harder than his caffeinated beverage. “DeSilva!” The face of the man that had been in Beritoni’s office just prior to his meeting with Antony’s attorney came to him in a shot.

  “Friends! There is no more sinful thing to do against your Lord than to leave the house that he gave us! Those among you that have given up on HIS wish…HIS dream…repent your sins and return to your allegiance to Earth!”

  “Reverend! Tell it!” DeSilva’s followers howled amongst other things.

  “I’m here to help you get back in touch with HIM,” Maximilian promised earnestly. “This church is here to help you. It is amongst the last of its kind in Chicagoland, but it needs your help as well.”

  “Here we go,” Campanelli uttered and took a sip from his mug. He activated his implant to see the man he was hearing.

  “Help keep this church going, friends. Any donation, no matter how small, will help. But know this, friends: I am here to help you. The Lord is guiding me to help you to remember what it was that you have forgotten. To serve Him, you must remain in His house, for those that continue to want to go to the stars, to that place which had been falsely called “truth” are on the path to evil! Friends! I cannot even utter that twisted, devilish, misleading name! Don’t speak it! Don’t speak it!”

  Frank’s eyesight initiated just in time to see the evangelist produce tears and step back from the edge of his great stage. The cameras switched over to the audience, a mass of humanity that must have numbered in the thousands. They called DeSilva’s name in a horrifying chant which became louder and louder as handclaps joined in. The cameras switched back to follow the church leader, who had just finished wiping his wet eyes with a handkerchief which he quickly replaced to his powder blue suit jacket’s inner pocket. Maximilian waved both arms in the air and nodded robotically to the chanting mob’s rhythm.

  “Until next time, friends!” DeSilva belted over the intense orations of his audience, “Bless you, brothers and sisters! Keep the faith and go with Jesus and His heavenly Father!”

  At that point, music erupted, fast paced and simplistic, it fed from the crowd’s tempo and filled the hall with its mesmerizing repetitiveness. Even after the preacher left the stage, the cacophony went on, filling not only the hall represented on the screen but Campanelli’s residence to the point of irritation. Frank thumbed the volume down and was about to change the channel when the crowd and the music was brought down even further and a voiceover artist spoke of donations and upcoming events. The description of one event chilled Frank’s spine.

  “…and don’t forget Reverend Maximilian DeSilva’s ‘Rally for Earth & Jesus’ happening next Saturday at Daley Plaza. Don’t forget to make your signs, friends and neighbors, and send your message to the Mayor’s Office! Refreshment stands and gift centers will be located at the James R. Thompson Plaza, less than a block away and will be open throughout the day! See you all there and God bless!”

  “Signs?” Frank wondered aloud and switched the channel to the news once the program had changed.

  He retracted his cane and set it on the armrest with deliberation, lost in thought. Why the hell was DeSilva in Beritoni’s office? What’s this rally at Daley Plaza?

  These thoughts distracted him as he prepared for work. Once out of the shower, his CAPS-Link alerted him to a new message. It was from Dmitri Vanek advising Campanelli and Williams to a meeting in Vanek’s office at seven. Frank sped through his morning preparations and grabbed a breakfast bar on his way out.

  Even though it was only six, Frank wanted to get to Rothgery’s garage, knowing that the man was an early riser and probably just about to start his investigation of Antony’s car. In less than a minute, his cruiser parked on the Seventeenth Street side of District One. The morning air was chilly, putting a spring in Campanelli’s step. Once inside, he made his way to the garage.

  “’Mornin’, Lincoln,” he wished as he took in the sight of the attractively designed automobile. He saw that the convertible top had been lowered, adding to the vehicle’s appeal.

  “Frank,” Rothgery answered. Without his white lab coat, Frank thought the tall genius might be getting thinner as he got older. His lanky bulk leaned heavily against a workbench. The forensic scientist sipped coffee as he joined Campanelli in appreciating the Mako.

  “It’s a pretty thing,” Frank muttered as he leaned next to Rothgery.

  “Yep,” Howard Lincoln agreed with a nod. Somehow, the glasses remained on the top of his bald head. “I’ve got half a mind to take it for a spin after work.”

  “I won’t tell,” the Captain promised. “I might even join you.”

  Lincoln changed the subject. “How’s that Whethers girl?”

  “I checked on her status last night with Family Services. She’s in a home on the southwest side. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Glad to do it,” Rothgery said and set down the cup. “One minute.” Grabbing a bottle of a chemical from the bench, he opened the driver’s door and sprayed the carpet, the seat and the steering yoke. Moving to the already opened trunk, he sprayed its tiny area as well. “Four point eight liter, ten cylinder gasoline powered engine. Not a hybrid of anything. One of the last gasoline only cars ever made. You know, they built only a hundred of these a year. The company only lasted six years,” he narrated as he worked. “This one, the twenty seventy-eight model, was made in the fifth year. Mind you, there’s no such thing as a collector’s item anymore, not in this ‘post-Great Exodus’ world of ours. Despite that, Mako Speedsters still bring up to a million dollars each.”

  “Uh-huh,” Frank interjected, patiently awaiting his colleague’s point.

  “So,” Lincoln went on as he went over the areas he had sprayed with his handheld optical scanner, “how does some low-level gangster rate this car? I doubt his boss, Ignatola would even spend the dough.”

  “Who knows? Gangsters aren’t exactly upfront about their spending habits.”

  “True,” Rothgery conceded and stepped to the trunk to continue scanning. In a moment, he turned off the device and stepped back to the workbench and reclaimed his coffee.

  Frank waited a moment, then a moment more. He peeled his eyes away from the gorgeous roadster and craned his neck to look up into Rothgery’s face. “So?”

  “Hmm? Oh, negative on the blood. Nobody was killed in this baby.”

  Campanelli rubbed his chin and stared at the car again. Though a lack of blood in the car was certainly no proof that Antony was not dead, Frank felt for sure that he had not left the city.

  “Hey,” Rothgery nudged him. “Wanna hear it run?”

  Frank smiled crookedly, but shrugged rather than give an answer. Taking that as a positive, H. Lincoln set the coffee down and walked back to the car. The tall man sat in the driver’s seat and Campanelli had to casually place a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. Rothgery’s head stuck out above the height of the windshield. Reaching a long finger to a button on the dash, the engine ignited its fuel and sent its ten cylinders into their rhythmic dance.

  The ensuing roar was augmented by the close quarters and the high performance exhaust. Campanelli’s audio receptors reacted to the noisy assault, cutting it down by twenty-five decibels. Rothgery glanced over at the detective and gave
a self-satisfied grin. He revved the engine, running the revolutions up and down a few times. Tools and other items sitting on the benches shook and rattled. A stack of papers on the desk in the corner slid over, dumping the top layer onto the floor. Howard Lincoln let off the accelerator, introducing a sudden loss of pressure in the exhaust, resulting in a few loud ‘pops’ before the car settled down to an idle.

  Rothgery cut the motor and climbed out with some difficulty. “Woo!” he shouted and waved a hand across his face to clear it of exhaust fumes.

  “I think you better open a window,” Frank commented.

  Lincoln did so and went about picking up his fallen documents. “You know, gas is expensive, too. Almost forty a gallon.”

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed a then an idea struck him. “How many gas stations you suppose there are in Chicago?”

  “Oh, no more than a dozen for civilians. I don’t know about the suburbs, though.”

  Campanelli nodded in thought. “How much gas is in the tank, Lincoln?”

  “It’s full.”

  “Recently refueled,” Frank said so low that Howard barely heard over the ringing in his ears.

  Just then, Marcus Williams burst into the room with his eyes wide in wonder. “What the hell is all the noise?”

  Frank said nothing, but pointed at the white antique car. Lincoln remained silent as well, a look of an innocent lamb upon his face.

  “This thing?” Williams said incredulously. He looked the tiny automobile over in doubt, one eyebrow tilted up high. He scanned the faces of Campanelli and Rothgery for signs of deception, but all he found were utterly blank gazes. “Well, whatever. Frank, we got to go.”

  “That we do,” Frank agreed and turned to Lincoln. “Give it a good look over for me, ‘k’?”

  “Don’t I always?” Lincoln said mildly as the detectives left.

  As Campanelli and Williams strode to the elevator, Marcus looked to his partner and said, “Did that little thing really make all that noise?”

  Frank shrugged. “Actually, I’m not sure I heard anything,” he lied as he stabbed the elevator call button with his finger. He crossed his hands and stared after the lit floor numbers above the doors.