by

William C. Markham
 Copyright © 2020 by William C. Markham
All rights reserved.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior
written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and

situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is
unintentional and co-incidental.
“I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my
feeble powers go.”

- Sherlock Holmes
 1

New Year's Eve: the birthplace of false hopes; the final resting place of shattered dreams
and ambitions. It’s a night to reflect on all that you’ve accomplished over the past year and look
forward to what the coming months might hold.
I was trying to avoid that. Too much had happened in the last several months. Too much
had changed. I couldn’t wrap my head around all of it and didn’t want to try at the moment.
Instead, I sat on a barstool at Cuneen’s, a little dive bar several blocks from my flat, and took
another drink from my gin and tonic.
This was a low-key neighborhood bar, far enough from nearby Loyola that the college kids
didn’t come here. It was my favorite watering hole, mainly because it was quiet enough to hear
the TV mounted on the wall. Tonight, however, it was packed. Which was okay with me. The buzz
of conversation helped drown out my thoughts.
I would have preferred to be at some swanky martini bar with Stacy, but being an ER doc,
she didn’t get to pick her shifts and got stuck working tonight. While I didn’t want to dwell on the
events of the past year, the future held more promise. I liked Stacy. We’d gone out several times
and seemed to click. Things could go places. But I didn’t want to think too much about that either
and risk jinxing it.
I finished the last of my drink and swirled the ice cubes around the bottom of the glass,
wondering if I should get another when the bodies around me shifted and something hard and
cold pressed into my ribs. I glanced to the mirror behind the bar, but the reflection only showed a
man in a dark hoodie pressed close against me—not an unusual sight in this environment.
A husky voice breathed into my ear. “It’s a little crowded in here. What say we take a
walk?” The voice had a hint of an accent, but it wasn’t one I recognized.
I turned my head a little and said, “I was just about to have another drink. Why don’t you
join me?”
The thing in my ribs pressed harder. The muzzle of a pistol, I thought. But it might have
been something else. I sighed and got to my feet. The stranger moved with me, fluid in his
motions, placed a hand on my shoulder, and guided me to the door.
The night air hit me like a slap in the face and cleared my head instantly. The temperature
plummeted to freeze-your-nose-hairs cold when the sun went down and wouldn’t climb back to
something more bearable until sometime around noon tomorrow.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Shut up and keep walking,” he said.
We reached the corner and turned into an alley. It was dark. Dumpsters lined the walls of
the surrounding buildings. The sounds of revelers echoed along the corridor. If the guy was going
to shoot me, this was as good a place as any.
He shoved me forward and said, “Turn around.”
I turned around. The guy still had his hood pulled up, so I couldn’t see his face. He was a
big guy, though. Almost as big as me. He clutched a matte black .45 in a gloved hand. Gloves were
bad for trigger feel, but so was frostbite.
 This didn’t look good. The guy had the drop on me, and he didn’t seem to be in a talking
mood. Taking him out before he pulled the trigger would be difficult, but not impossible. Average
reaction time is a quarter of a second. A tenth of a second for his eyes to tell his brain I was
moving, five milliseconds for him to decide to pull the trigger, and another tenth for his finger to
get the message. Three feet separated us. The average speed to cover that distance is about two-
tenths of a second. That was cutting it close. There was no room for error. Anticipation can speed
up reaction time. The cold can slow down explosive movement. If I got him talking, though, I
might have an advantage.
“Halliday sends his regards,” the man said.
Shit. Halliday was the subject of an investigation I’d done last year. He was a small-time
crook, cheating on his wife. She hired me to find evidence, which I found in droves. Some of it
reached the courts, and Halliday spent some time in jail. The wife got her divorce, and I got paid. I
guess the guy held a grudge.
The goon in front of me was a hired killer. He wouldn’t be talking anymore. I had to make
my move. But it was too late. His finger twitched, and I knew I was about to be shot. First time for
everything, I guess.
Suddenly, a glass bottle flew from the darkness and smacked him in the side of the head. It
wasn’t a hard hit, but it was enough to make him flinch as he pulled the trigger. The shot went
wide.
Before he recovered, I launched myself at him, grabbed his gun arm in my left hand, and
smashed him in the temple with my right elbow. He didn’t drop, so I followed up with a knee to
the groin. He doubled over and I chopped him on the back of the neck, sending him sprawling to
the pavement. Then I kicked him in the head for good measure.
I knocked his gun out of reach with my foot and looked around the alley. The bottle had
come from my right, just behind my would-be killer, about ten feet away. A dumpster hugged the
brick wall and a small pile of trash huddled beside it. That was it. I turned my gaze upward,
looking for a window, but saw nothing.
Part of me wanted to search the alley thoroughly for my savior because that well-timed
throw had kept me out of the graveyard a little while longer, but I also didn’t want to turn my back
on the thug at my feet. He might be disarmed and unconscious at the moment, but that could
change quickly if I didn’t pay attention.
I knelt down and pulled the hood back from his face. He didn’t look familiar, not handsome
or ugly, just plain. Nondescript. I guess that worked in your favor if you were a gun-for-hire.
I checked his pulse. It was strong, but he wasn’t moving.
I dug the phone out of my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher came on the line and
said, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
I gave her a brief run-down of events and my location and said, “Tell them to hurry. I’m
freezing my ass off out here,” and hung up.
A small sound caught my attention. I almost missed it under the drone of music and raised
voices polluting the night air. It was a rustle of fabric and clink of glass nearby.
I looked back at the dumpster. Had the pile of trash moved? It might be a rat.
I stood up and called out, “Whoever you are, thank you.”
 There was no response.
I took two steps toward the dumpster and saw a flicker of movement. Inching closer, I
inspected the dumpster and its surroundings carefully. It was pushed up close to the building’s
wall. There was no room for anyone to hide behind it, and it sat flat on the ground, so there
couldn’t be anyone under it. Someone might be inside. That made sense.
As I drew closer still, I kept looking back at the pile of garbage beside the dumpster. There
was something...off about it. I stared at it until the pile became a blurred image. That’s when I
realized it wasn’t a pile of garbage. It was a person. Actually, it was a kid. At least, that was the
impression I got. All I saw were the eyes—two bright orbs watching me with suspicion. He had to
be small, though. No adult-sized person could have hidden in that tiny pile of trash. I picked out
pieces of his outline, an elbow here, a glimpse of a leg there. But it was fuzzy, like a picture out of
focus.
I stopped, not wanting to spook the kid more than he already was.
“Hey kid,” I said. “I owe you one. Pretty sure you saved my life.”
The kid said nothing. He just watched me intently.
The longer I looked at him, the fuzzier his outline became. It should have been the
opposite. I should have been able to pick out more detailed features, but I couldn’t. The one
feature I focused on was his dirty face. I guessed he was homeless.
“Can I get you a sandwich or something? A cup of hot chocolate? It’s cold out here. Maybe I
could rent you a room for the night or something.”
Still, he said nothing. But he scrunched up his face in confusion. Maybe he didn’t speak
English. So I mimed eating.
He put a finger to his lips, shushing me, and pointed to something on the wall next to him. I
squinted at it. Some sort of symbol was spray-painted on the brick. Not some huge tag, like a
graffiti artist would leave, but small, about the size of my palm and plain simple white.
The thug groaned behind me. I tossed a glance over my shoulder and saw him stir. I’d have
to do something about that.
When I looked back to the kid, he was gone. Vanished. I hadn’t heard him leave and didn’t
see any place he could have gone, but he was gone all the same.
I shifted into the Skygge, the shadowy place between this world and another, something I’d
only recently learned how to do.
Reality dulled into muted grays. Usually, rivers of red and blue lights would spring into
existence, swirling through the alley. These were the energies of life, or so I surmised. They oozed
out of every living thing and merged into ever larger flows. Though each individual’s energy could
be called blue, they were all slightly different, and I could often follow a person’s trail for a while if
it was fresh.
This time, however, there were no lights. None. Which was strange. I’d never encountered
a complete absence of them in the city. Granted, as the density of people decreased, so did the
number of lights, but they were never gone completely. Another mystery. One to contemplate
later. The guy behind me was groaning louder.
I went back to my attacker and sat on him, waiting for the cops to arrive.
They showed up about five minutes later. Which was good because my teeth were
chattering, and I couldn’t feel my face. I may have been drooling.
After identifying myself and explaining what had happened, they cuffed the guy and put us
each in the back of a patrol car. At least it was warm. We got things sorted out. One of them
retrieved the weapon I kicked away, then went to talk to the people at Cuneen’s. I doubt anyone
had paid attention, but maybe someone would corroborate my story. Or maybe they had a
security camera.
Cops tend to believe most people that file a complaint, as long as there aren’t any glaring
holes or inconsistencies in their statements. While I could technically be charged with assault, I
hadn’t used excessive force and the guy had shot at me. There was certainly GSR on his gloves,
which they would test for. I wasn’t too worried about it.
They cut me loose after about an hour of taking statements and filling out paperwork. Mr.
Hit-man didn’t have any ID and refused to say anything, so they took him to the station for
fingerprinting and such.
Since I’d had plenty of time to warm up, I didn’t leave right away. I walked back to the
dumpster and squatted down for a better look at the symbol the kid pointed out earlier.
On closer inspection, it appeared to be a wavy cross or perhaps a curvy lower-case F
surrounded by a fuzzy halo with two spikes jutting off the sides. I’d never seen anything like it
and had no idea what it meant or stood for. It apparently meant something to the kid. Maybe it
was a warning. Maybe it marked some gang’s territory. It was impossible to tell. Whatever it was,
it captured my curiosity. Perhaps I’d research it in my spare time.
I went back into Cuneen’s, had another gin and tonic to settle my nerves, and called it a
night.
 2

Two days later, I was sitting in the office playing Spider solitaire on the computer when
Brenda stuck her head in the door.
“Gray,” she said, “There’s a detective here to see you.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, “send him in.”
I’d been expecting a follow-up visit. No doubt the cops would want a detailed account of
my interaction with and investigation of Mr. Halliday. Maybe the hired gun had turned state’s
evidence and ratted him out. My testimony would seal the deal and probably put Halliday away
for a long time.
A moment later, a heavy-set man with graying hair and a bristly, white mustache strode
into the room. He wore a thick wool suit and red tie with a coffee stain. Traditional detective garb.
“Mr. Gray,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m Detective Murray. I’d like to ask you a few
questions.”
“Of course,” I said and offered him a seat and a cup of coffee. He took the seat but declined
the coffee. I settled into a chair across from the couch. “How can I help?”
“Do you know a Donald Wiggins?”
The question caught me completely off guard.
“We’ve met,” I said. “Is he handling my case?”
His brows pinched together. “What case would that be?”
“The one about the guy trying to shoot me the other night.”
He looked confused. “No, this is unrelated.”
Now it was my turn to be confused. “So what is this about?”
“Donald Wiggins. You said you know him?”
“I said we’ve met. Once.” Now my guard was up. The last and only time I’d seen Lieutenant
Wiggins was on Christmas Eve. I went to his apartment to ask him a few questions of my own. He
was my primary suspect in a corruption case within the Chicago Police Department. After a short
and lively conversation, he admitted to me that he had covered up a few cases, but that his family
was being threatened. Other than the name Michael, he didn’t know who was behind it. We
agreed that he would continue to do as he was told, but would feed me information so I could
conduct my own off-the-record investigations. That was how we’d left it, anyway. Now, I was
worried he’d changed his mind and was pressing charges for having socked him in the nose.
“When was the last time you saw him?” He took out a notebook and flipped to a blank
page.
“Christmas Eve,” I said, watching him closely.
“Where?”
“At his apartment.” He wrote nothing down, which meant he already knew it. He was only
confirming facts. The way he asked the questions told me something else. Something had
happened to Wiggins. Maybe he had disappeared.
“What did you talk about?” Murray continued. There was no expression in his voice and he
stared at his notepad. Either he wasn’t invested or he was trying hard not to let his emotions
bleed into his tone. I guessed the latter.
“What happened?” I asked. “What’s really going on?”
He looked at me then—a cold, flat stare—and I knew that something was very wrong.
“I can’t go into details about an ongoing investigation. I’m just here to gather information.”
He said it so dispassionately that I knew it was bullshit. He could tell me whatever he wanted to.
Keeping me in the dark was a strategy. These preliminary interviews were pretty much what he
said, information gathering forays. But any and all information gathered would be analyzed for
inconsistencies, contradictions, and attempted deception. Any detective worth his salt wouldn’t
muddy the waters by providing information the person being questioned didn’t already know.
“Can you tell me what you discussed?” he repeated.
I took a deep breath and weighed my answer. Innocent people told the truth. Guilty people
clammed up, were uncooperative, or told stories with so many holes it was like looking through a
screen door. I needed to be truthful, but I also didn’t want to incriminate myself. Especially since I
didn’t know what had happened.
“Sure. I asked him some questions about a case I was working. My investigation to that
point told me he had pertinent information.”
“And did he? Have the information you wanted?”
“Sort of. He confirmed a few things and gave me a new direction to look.”
“And you thought Christmas Eve would be a good time to ask these questions?” Murray
asked.
“Good a time as any,” I said.
“Why did you go to his apartment? Why not talk to him on the phone?”
It was my turn to give him a flat look. “Same reason we’re having this conversation in
person.”
He nodded, then paused. “Did things get physical?”
Ah, now we came to the sticking point. I had to tread carefully. Things had gotten physical.
He chucked a glass tumbler at my head, and I punched him in the nose. Technically, I had broken
the law. If Wiggins pressed charges and I was found guilty, I’d lose my PI license.
“We had a...disagreement. At first, he was reluctant to talk to me, but after being
confronted with the evidence I collected, he reconsidered and we reached an understanding.
When I left, we had settled on a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Murray was making notes on his pad by this point. Clearly, this was new information.
“And what was the nature of this case you were working on?”
“I’d prefer not to disclose that,” I said. Investigating the Chicago Police Department
wouldn’t make me any friends. While I didn’t want to seem uncooperative, it wasn’t unreasonable
for a PI to keep his mouth shut about his cases. “Confidentiality and all that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I could get a subpoena.”
“Of course. And if that happens, I’ll tell you all about it.” I spread my hands and gave my
best “I’m sorry,” look. “I’m not trying to be contrary. Honest.”
He didn’t look convinced but moved on. “What time did this conversation take place?”
I had to think for a minute. “Well, I was at a pageant beforehand. That ended about 7:30, I
think. So add in travel time, somewhere between eight and eight-thirty. Maybe as late as nine. I’m
not certain.”
He jotted this down, then tapped the pad with his pen several times. Tap, tap, tap. He
looked around the room. “Do you have anything to corroborate your story? Any files, papers,
receipts?”
I thought about the photos pinned to the board in my closet. The photos of cops. I didn’t
want him to see those.
“Possibly. I think most of what you’d want is at my house, though. I’d be happy to turn it
over, given an appropriate warrant of course.”
He nodded and said, “I need to make a phone call.” He rose and stepped out of my office
and down the hall, out of earshot.
As soon as he left, I picked up the phone on my desk and buzzed Brenda. When she
answered I said, “Brenda, I need you to look up Philip Riggleman. He’s an attorney. Give him a call,
explain who you are, and tell him I may need to call in a favor.”
Philip Riggleman was a damn good defense lawyer I had done some work for in the past.
He had scruples and didn’t win all of his cases, but he did his homework. He didn’t like surprises
and often hired independent investigators to dig up anything his clients were hiding that might
come back to bite them in the ass. We crossed paths while I was on the force, and I didn’t like him
much because he helped the bad guys get away. At least, that’s how I saw it.
When I started working for Frank, I learned a different side of the story. Frank had a
working relationship with Riggleman and introduced us over drinks one evening. I grilled him
about being a defense attorney and representing criminals. He laughed and said that yes; he
represented criminals, but until they were proven guilty in a court of law, they had the same
rights as everyone else. He believed in the criminal justice system primarily because of the
safeguards that kept innocent people from being wrongfully convicted, even though there were
still plenty of innocent people in prison. Furthermore, he liked to hire PIs for independent
investigations because they would sometimes turn up evidence that exonerated his clients. And
sometimes they would turn up damning evidence. This was where his scruples came into play. No
matter what he found, he turned it over to the prosecution. Even if that meant his client went to
jail.
I respected that, and after working several jobs for him, decided not to charge him when
my investigations ended up costing him a case. It wasn’t often, but it was enough. He once told me
that if I ever found myself in a jam, to give him a call. I had a feeling I might be needing his
services.
Brenda said she’d take care of it, so I sat back in front of the computer and closed out of
the solitaire game. I didn’t feel like playing anymore. There were more important things to think
about. I still didn’t know what was going on with Wiggins, but the way Murray acted had me on
edge. A few minutes later, he walked back into the room.
“Mr. Gray,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir. We have some pictures we’d like to show you and get a written statement from
you.”
I bet he did.
 3

The interview room at the 18th district station was like every other one I’ve been in: small,
two chairs, a table, and a one-way observation window. Though the place was familiar, it wasn’t
comforting. Not this time. I spent a lot of time in interview rooms, but I was always the one asking
the questions.
I knew they considered me more than a witness immediately. When we arrived at the
station, Murray ushered me through the lobby where I garnered several stares from officers who
did little to hide their animosity.
Once in the interview room, he asked if I’d like anything. I knew the drill, so I asked for a
coffee with one cream and two sugars. If they wanted me on edge, they’d let me sit for ten
minutes before bringing in something other than what I asked for. He closed the door behind him
and said he’d be back in a minute.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and a different person entered holding a styrofoam cup
in one hand and a file folder in the other. I recognized her immediately. It was Sergeant Hatfield
from the 9th district, same as Wiggins. She was one of the photos pinned to my bulletin board at
the office. My investigation hadn’t turned up any dirt on her, but I knew who she was. I pretended
I didn’t.
She sat the cup down on the table in front of me. I picked it up and took a sip. Black. No
cream, one sugar. Just how I liked it.
She pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.
“Mr. Gray, I’m Sergeant Hatfield. I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions.”
“Okay,” I said.
She placed her forearms on the table, fingers laced together and said, “You told Detective
Murray that you saw Lieutenant Wiggins between eight and nine on Christmas Eve. Is that
correct?”
“As far as I know. I’m sorry I can’t be any more specific.”
“Was there anyone else in the apartment?”
“I don’t think so. But I didn’t exactly search the place.”
“Did you see anyone else that looked like they might have been coming or going to his
apartment?”
“No,” I said confidently.
Sergeant Hatfield leaned back in the chair, opened the file folder, and pretended to read.
After a moment, without looking at me, she said, “I’d like to know the details of your
conversation.”
“As I told Detective Murray, I’ll be happy to divulge the particulars when I’ve seen a
warrant or subpoena.”
Hatfield looked at me. “We’re working on that.”
“Good. Now, can you tell me what all this is really about?”
In reply, she withdrew an 8x10 photo from the folder and slid it across the table. I leaned
forward to get a good look. What I saw left me speechless.
 Lieutenant Wiggins was sprawled back in his recliner wearing a wife-beater and boxers,
the same thing he’d been wearing on Christmas Eve. Lifeless eyes stared up toward the ceiling. A
trickle of dried blood clung to his upper lip.
I looked closer. His cheeks were sunken and his skin had a sallow tone, almost as if he’d
been starved. Which was odd. When I’d seen him, he was plump and rosy-cheeked, but maybe
that was just the alcohol showing through.
I sat back in the chair and ran a hand over my face. A thousand thoughts ran through my
head, none of them good, and I tried to think of something to say.
“Damn,” was all I got out.
Sergeant Hatfield stared at me, trying to read my expression. She liked me for this, I could
tell. She was hoping I’d say something incriminating or backpedal on my story. I thought through
everything they’d asked so far. When trying to find a killer, or eliminate a suspect, there are three
things you look for: means, motive, and opportunity. Without all three, you can’t get a conviction.
It was clear they knew I’d been at Wiggins’s apartment. They even knew what time. If they
placed me at the scene of the crime in the right time frame, they had Opportunity.
The cause of death wasn’t clear from the photo, but if they thought he’d been murdered, it
certainly wasn’t a heart attack. They hadn’t asked me about it, which meant they knew exactly
how he died and could reasonably explain how I could have done it. That, or they had no idea how
he died and weren’t ready to go there yet.
From the questions they had asked already, it was clear they were looking for a motive. I
didn’t have one since I hadn’t killed him, but they wanted to find one. The thing about motives is
they're hard to prove. Juries don’t really need proof, though. All they need is plausibility.
I looked at Hatfield, her eyes still searching for some clue.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asked.
Like every synonym for genitalia in a gas station bathroom, the writing was on the wall.
When they learned I was investigating Wiggins for corruption, which they would eventually, that
would give them all the motive they needed. They would hang me for this. I had to get out in front
of it.
I sighed heavily, wondering which tack to take.
“It sure as hell screws up my plans,” I said.
“How so?”
“He agreed to work with me on my case, feed me information. It was a long game, but it
was the only thing I had going.”
Before she could ask me about my investigation again, the door opened and Detective
Murray stuck his head in. “Mr. Gray has a visitor,” he said brusquely. Hatfield shot him an irritated
look, but a small man ducked under his arm and inserted himself into the room. He was short,
about five-six, with slicked-back hair and a thin pencil mustache that looked out of place in this
century, but reminded me of nothing so much as a young Clark Gable. It was Philip Riggleman.
Apparently, Brenda had made that phone call before I’d left the office.
Unlike most lawyers you see on TV, he didn’t carry a briefcase. He was, however, dressed in
a navy flannel herringbone suit that hung just a little too loosely.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said. “I need to have a word with my client in private. There are
some confidentiality matters he should be aware of before you continue your discussion.”
Hatfield snorted and pushed her chair back, her eyes narrowing in contempt. I knew how
she felt. Investigations always got more complicated when lawyers were involved.
She picked up the folder and stomped out of the interview room. Murray glared at me
before closing the door and leaving us alone.
Riggleman plopped himself into the seat Hatfield had just vacated and withdrew a
smartphone from his inside pocket. He slid his thumb across the screen and tapped a couple of
times before setting it down on the table between us.
“Right then,” he said, “I’ll be recording everything for posterity, but it’s all privileged so feel
free to spill your guts. Tell me what’s going on and we’ll take it from there.”
I told him. I filled him in on the details of my investigation of the Police Department, the
discoveries that led me to Wiggins, about going to confront him on Christmas Eve, punching him
in the nose, the conversation that followed, and—most importantly—that he was alive when I left.
When I finished, he didn’t respond right away. He scrunched his face up in thought, ran
two fingers through his mustache, and pursed his lips.
“And what have you told them so far?” he asked when I’d finished.
“I tried to be helpful without incriminating myself. I told them I went to his apartment
between eight and nine on Christmas Eve, we talked, and he agreed to help me out.”
“Did they ask if things got physical?”
“Yeah. I told them we had a disagreement. I didn’t know he was dead and worried he might
press charges for assault.”
“Good. That’s great wording. Don’t say anything else about it until we know what’s what.”
He paused and shifted in the chair, leaning toward me a bit. “I saw the State’s Attorney on the way
in. He’s out there right now, probably discussing things with the detectives. They might arrest
you. They might not. Depends on what else they’ve got, but prepare yourself to spend the
weekend in jail. If they do arrest you, the earliest we’ll get a hearing is first thing Monday
morning.”
“Great,” I said. “Just how I was hoping to spend the weekend.”
There was a knock on the door before it opened, just enough of a warning to claim they
weren’t trying to eavesdrop. Murray stepped through with an official-looking document.
“I have a warrant here to search your place of residence and business for information
relating to your connection to Lieutenant Wiggins.”
“That was fast,” noted Riggleman.
“A police officer was murdered,” stated Murray, his tone steely. “We take these things very
seriously and so does the SA.” He looked at me. “Want to tell us what we’ll find?”
“A sink full of dishes,” I muttered.
Riggleman shot me a disapproving look. Murray’s was downright caustic. I kept my mouth
shut after that and let Riggleman do the talking.
He looked over the warrants and nodded when he concluded they were in order. “Very
well, my client and I shall accompany you to his apartment. Let’s go Gray.” He stood up and
pocketed the phone.
Murray’s scowl morphed into a tiny smile.
 “Not so fast, gents.” He put a hand to the back of his belt and pulled out his cuffs, jangled
them once, and said. “Earl Mason Gray, you are under arrest for the murder of Donald Wiggins.”
He instructed me to turn around, which I did, and roughly slapped the cuffs around my wrists.
Back in the Academy, we had to endure all sorts of things: getting tased, sprayed in the face
with pepper spray, and of course, being handcuffed. None of it was fun, and not at all what you’d
expect. The taser hurt like a bitch, muscles convulsing, but it was over quick. Pepper spray is even
nastier. Everybody reacts a little differently, but the basics are the same. Imagine chopping
jalapenos and then rubbing your eyes. This is a thousand times worse. Your glands go into
overdrive trying to get rid of the stuff. Your eyes swell shut. Snot and spit mix together and pour
out of every orifice in your face. That was the worst experience for most of the cops-to-be. But for
me, it was being handcuffed. It’s not such an in-your-face experience as the other two, but it still
sucks. At first, the bracelets are a mild irritation around the wrists, but being bound with your
hands behind your back is hard on the shoulders. Soon, the cuffs bite into your skin and rub them
raw, and an ache blooms between your shoulder blades. The longer you wear them, the worse it
gets. Plus, there’s the psychological factor. It’s the first taste of having your freedom taken away.
For someone like me, it’s pretty much unbearable.
Once he had the cuffs secure, Murray slipped a laminated card out of his pocket and read
me my rights while Riggleman watched.
When he finished, I asked Riggleman to get the keys out of my pocket, which he did, and
told him to let Willy out when he got to my place. “He’ll be fine on his own until I get back,” I said.
Which was true.
Willy was a one-eyed stray tom cat that saved my life. I’d kind of adopted him before
Christmas and it turned out he was more than just a cat. From what I’d been able to discern, he
was possessed by a spirit that could speak to me through dreams. I had my suspicions about his
true identity but hadn’t said anything about it yet. But I digress.
Riggleman gave me a reassuring nod, and Murray walked me out of the interview room.

My day went from bad to worse. Instead of taking me down a floor to start the booking
process, Murray and another officer trundled me down to the garage and into another cruiser. We
pulled out onto the street and drove south toward downtown. Normally, I would have been put in
a holding cell at the station after processing to await a bond hearing, but Murray was no ordinary
beat cop. He was part of the Bureau of Detectives, like I’d been. That meant they were taking me
to Central Detention. Not good.
Central Detention is actually a Federal prison where they hold all levels of inmates, from
those having just been arrested, like myself, to the most violent offenders and high-level members
of drug cartels, either awaiting trial or already sentenced. I was responsible for a number of
people being there, though the odds of bumping into them were slim. Still, the prospect of
spending a weekend among them wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.
The ride over didn’t take long, and soon the towering twenty-eight story high-rise that
resembled a giant computer punch-card circa nineteen fifty loomed overhead. It’s unlike any
other building in the Loop. It’s an impressive and fascinating structure, but there is no doubt
about the evil housed within.
 Once we arrived in the secured parking area, Murray escorted me into the building and
through security. He filled out paperwork, checked all the boxes, and handed me off to detention
personnel. At this point, hours of tedious and humiliating processing began. First, they
confiscated my belongings, and put me in a holding cell.
Four other guys already occupied the place. Two were scrawny little dudes with a manic
look about them: wild, darting eyes and reeking of stale beer. They squirmed on a bench in the
middle of the cell. A big guy with a bald head and beard lounged in the corner, arms crossed over
his burly chest. A biker, most likely. The last guy looked the most comfortable. He had tattoos
running up both arms, was well muscled, and watched everyone through heavy-lidded eyes. I
found a seat away from the others and settled in to wait.
Eventually, they came and got me for the rest of the booking process. I was thoroughly
searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and interviewed. No, I wasn’t suicidal. I didn’t take any
medications. Yada, yada, yada. I kept my answers concise, not saying anything I didn’t have to.
They put me back in the holding cell while background checks were run, databases searched, and
outstanding warrants looked for.
The others were taken away one by one. The bald guy never came back, so he was
probably released on bail. The two wiry guys came back and slammed around the cell, griping
about how unfair everything was, and making a racket until an officer came over and told them to
shut the hell up or they’d only make things worse for themselves.
After another hour or so, they came back for me and took me to the little desk where they
did all the interviews.
A blonde woman pulled up my files on the computer and said without looking at me,
“Because you’ve been arrested for felony murder, you must have a bail hearing with a judge. One
will be scheduled for you within forty-eight hours.” That was it. No niceties. No apologies. Then
they took me back to the holding cell.
They allowed me a phone call—monitored, of course—so I called Brenda and filled her in
on what had happened and asked her to update Riggleman.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.
“I’ll be fine,” I told her, more to convince myself. “They can only hold me for forty-eight
hours before I see a judge, then I’ll be out on bail.” Part of that was true. I wasn’t so sure I’d make
bail. It depended on the tenacity of the State’s Attorney and the judge’s disposition. But I had
Riggleman on my side, and he’d do everything in his power to make sure I didn’t stay here.
What worried me most was the intervening forty-eight hours. A lot could happen in that
time, especially in a place like this.