The October Five (A Military Murder Mystery of Crime and Suspense) Read online

  After two hours Whaler had a list of people he was going to meet.

  He opened his desk drawer. Inside was a carrying-size icebox. He pulled out a can of diet cola, unsnapped and sipped it, and then leaned back.

  At the start of every case, Whaler thought of retirement. He didn’t want to look at any dead bodies, or talk to any next of kin. All he wanted was to go somewhere and relax.

  Whaler’s eyes fell on an old photo sitting on his desk. It was a black and white of a small house. Whaler had imagined it was painted red, white, and yellow, surrounded by green fields, overlooking a blue ocean. ‘It’s in Ireland,’ Whaler’s father had said when he was a child. ‘Someday I’ll go there and retire.’ He always said that. Always. ‘Some day, son, one day for sure, I’ll go there and not come back.’

  That day never came. Whaler’s father never left the United States or even Chicago for that matter.

  He, himself, had not gone anywhere, except for the time he went to New York when he was young.

  How long ago was that?

  Too long.

  The photo was probably fifty years old, as old as he. Whaler had promised himself that he would be the one to go to this place in Ireland. Fulfil his father’s dream.

  For all he knew this photo wasn’t even real.

  He was not going anywhere. Like his father he would die while still working.

  Retirement was something the Whaler boys would never see.

  He threw the empty can in the trash and left his desk.

  ***

  O’Reilly’s Bar & Grill was an old-fashioned Irish restaurant in Beverly, once owned by Shawn O’Reilly, now sold to some guy from Turkey.

  Whaler loved the cozy feel of the restaurant; the lights lit low, the furniture wood, the low Celtic music in the background.

  Whaler found an old-fashioned booth in the corner, away from the windows.

  If Whaler couldn’t go to Ireland then at least for the next while he would fool himself into being there.

  A blond, blue-eyed waitress came over and Whaler ordered his favourite, shepherd’s pie.

  Whaler began going over his notes from the morning.

  His order came and he began devouring the pie, which consisted of hot potatoes and minced beef. He had never been a fan of fruits and vegetables. Meat was the only way to go. Even when he went to a sandwich restaurant he preferred nothing on the sandwich except for cheese and meat. If he felt a little adventurous he would put pepper on it and some salt.

  Half way through his pie he leaned back, his mind going over his theory.

  The indentations on the carpet meant someone was sitting on that chair for a lengthy period. The marks on Mark Mansfled’s wrists and ankles, plus the scratches on the chair’s legs, indicate he had been tied to that chair. He was then strangled with the leather belt found hanging in the room, and then his body was placed on the bed. That was the most obvious answer. The big question was, why?

  Whaler pondered this for the next while until he looked at his watch. Satisfied enough time had elapsed, he left O’Reilly’s and headed to the morgue.

  ***

  Inside the Cook County Morgue, Whaler sat in the office of the coroner. Whaler crossed his arms over his jacket and waited. Whaler’s eyes fell on the coroner’s mission statement, hung high up.

  We speak for the dead to protect the living.

  Whaler had read this statement a hundred times but it never lost its effect.

  Dr. Tenhouse entered, holding a beige folder. “You just missed a great autopsy,” she said.

  “I was so looking forward to it,” Whaler managed a smile.

  “I’m sure,” she said. Whaler had stopped coming to view autopsies a long time ago.

  “What can you tell me?” he asked.

  “What we already know,” she sat down behind her desk. “Death by asphyxiation. Definitely homicide.” She pulled out an enlarged glossy photo of the neck and slid it across to him. “The ligature marks on the victim’s neck are horizontal. If the victim had hung himself the marks would begin underneath the chin and move upward toward the ears.”

  Whaler knew all this but it was a question he had to ask.

  “Inflicted with?”

  “The leather belt matches the bruising.”

  “So we have the weapon,” Whaler said, more to himself than her. The perpetrator left it for us to find.

  “The victim was bound,” Dr. Tenhouse continued. “We found nothing underneath the fingernails but there was something interesting.” She slid another glossy photo across. It was the inside of Mansfled’s mouth.

  Whaler peered closely. “What’s that on his teeth?”

  Small navy-blue pieces, similar to bubblegum, were stuck to the enamel.

  “It’s Play-doh, the gooey stuff kids use to make things. I’ve sent a sample to forensics for further testing but I know its Play-doh. Our youngest couldn’t stop eating the stuff so we had to ban it in our house.”

  An image formed in Whaler’s mind. Mansfled was bound, gagged with this substance so he would not scream, and then strangled.

  “How were his teeth?” he asked. “I mean, how white were they?”

  “Extremely. The victim took great care of them.”

  “Can any product do that?”

  Dr. Tenhouse shrugged. “I’m not sure if any over-the-counter could. Professional whitening might.”

  Whaler nodded.

  Dr. Tenhouse’s voice broke his thought. “Mark Mansfled’s parents identified the body and they are downstairs. I knew you’d want to talk to them.”

  She handed him a copy of the death certificate.

  ***

  Whaler found Mansfled’s parents sitting in the lounge. They looked middle-aged, and so they should, and rightly tired.

  Mansfled’s mother was particularly grief-stricken. She couldn’t stop crying. Her eyes were red with bags underneath them.

  Mansfled’s father held her. He had a hard but sad look.

  “I’m Detective Karl Whaler,” Whaler said.

  The only two things Whaler knew about the Mansfleds were that they lived in Wisconsin and that Mark was their only child.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Whaler started. “I can tell you my job never gets easier.” Whaler meant every word he said. “I would like to ask a few questions, if I may.”

  The father nodded.

  “Mr. Mansfled, when was the last time either of you spoke with your son?”

  “Jane spoke to Mark almost every day,” he answered.

  “Mark called every day,” Jane Mansfled said. “Day or night.” She went back to sobbing.

  Whaler said, “Mr. Mansfled…”

  “Colin.”

  “Yes, Colin. When was the last time you spoke to Mark?”

  “I don’t know…we hardly ever spoke,” he said.

  “Did you and your son have a strained relationship?”

  Colin Mansfled nodded. “We got into a lot of fights—too many fights.” His grip tightened on his wife. “But I loved my son.”

  She nodded, approving.

  “What was the cause of these fights?”

  Colin lowered his head. Instead his wife spoke, “Money.”

  “Your son wanted money?”

  “At the beginning he asked if we could lend him some, which we did.”

  “Our entire life’s savings,” Colin interjected.

  His wife quickly said, “But then he paid us back, every penny and more. In fact…” Her face lit up. “He paid for our house. We no longer have a mortgage.”

  “It sounds like the fight still continued,” Whaler said, fishing for more.

  Colin nodded. “I lost my job a year ago…”

  “You worked where?”

  “At Steelcon. We made heavy-duty cable wires.”

  “And you, ma’am?”

  “I’m a receptionist at Dr. Goldberger’s dental office.”

  “Thank you.” Whaler quickly jotted this down. “Please continue.”


  “After I lost my job, Mark supported us and I guess, always being the man of the house I didn’t fully appreciate that. I do now, Detective Whaler.”

  “How much did Mark borrow at the beginning?”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “And how much did he spend on your mortgage?”

  There was hesitation but Jane said, “About a hundred-and-twenty thousand.”

  Whaler stopped writing. “And did he give you any amount other than that?”

  “About twenty thousand more.”

  Whaler let the silence hang.

  He then said, “Where do you suppose your son got all that money?”

  “From his business,” Jane said quickly.

  Colin agreed. “Mark had come up with something so unique...” He paused and looked around as if there was someone hiding in the corner, ready to grab this information. “This thing that can make people’s teeth ten times whiter.”

  “Finally Bright!” Whaler said.

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  Colin said, “Mark had just sold the patent to…” he paused. “Honey?”

  Jane’s red eyes narrowed. “I think it was the company that made those Whitestrips.”

  “Crest?” Whaler asked.

  “Yes, I think that was it.”

  Whaler was getting familiar with the whole teeth-whitening business.

  Colin said, “Crest gave Mark a lot of money—I don’t know how much, so that they could test the product, make samples and do market analysis and stuff.”

  “Do you know if your son had any enemies?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “But I can tell you, Detective Whaler,” Colin said. “There are a lot of people out there who would want Mark’s secret formula.”

  SIX

  Lincoln Park, named after the sixteenth President of the United States, is part of the same namesake community in North Chicago. While the community itself once contained Indian settlements, the neighbourhood is now made up of young professionals and young families. Many boutiques, restaurants, coffee shops, and retail stores line up along Lincoln Avenue. The rent on Lincoln Avenue can exceed several thousand dollars a month for commercial units and is a prime location for shopkeepers and owners. However, one building stands out. It is made of grey granite with a shop on the ground floor and an apartment at the top. Over the years, several prospective shop owners had tried to rent it or even buy it, but were turned away after being told a ridiculous asking price. Some said it was in the millions to buy while others said tens of thousands to rent. So it sat vacant. In reality, the building was not for sale or for rent. The owners had long ago paid for it when housing prices were low, and were using it for their own purposes.

  ***

  Mike Lantern parked his white 1995 station wagon a few blocks away. From the passenger side he grabbed a rolled-up black cloth and went to the back of the wagon. He opened the trunk door and covered his tools with the cloth, locked up, and then headed in the direction of Lincoln Avenue.

  Mike was slightly over six-one. He had a lean frame with strong callused hands from working with tools. His face was always tight and wrinkled, squinting.

  He stopped in front of a vacant store. A small advertisement had been taped on the front of the store’s window.

  Mike waited, looked around and then went through a side door and up the stairs.

  ***

  A brand new 2000 Silver Mercedes-Benz swerved around and parked in front of a coffee shop on Lincoln Avenue. Lee Tarkovski was behind the wheel with his father, Barry, in the passenger side.

  “I’ll call you when to pick me up,” Barry said.

  “Sure,” Lee shrugged.

  “And, go help Marvin close up the shop. Okay?” Barry said.

  “Sure.”

  Once Barry was out, Lee accelerated the Mercedes and disappeared around the corner.

  Barry shook his head.

  He walked past the coffee shop and past many others selling perfumes to electronics. Barry was under six-three but was close to two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pounds. He looked big and menacing, with his big body and big butcher hands. But Barry was gentle and amicable.

  He stopped at a store that was vacant. He checked his watch when he saw the advertisement taped to the window. It was for a karate class.

  Barry waited, looked around, and then went through the side door and up the stairs.

  ***

  Sam Patroni emerged from Fullerton Train Station in Lincoln Park. With his hands in his pockets he strolled along Fullerton Avenue toward Lincoln Avenue. Sam was five-seven, medium built and looked much younger than his actual age. His hair had not turned grey, except for the few stubborn ones around the temples. Sam had fixed them with hair dye. He whistled a tune from a song he’d heard earlier in the day.

  “Got a dollar?” said a man sitting on the sidewalk. Sam pulled out a dollar bill and dropped it in the man’s cup.

  “Keep the change,” he said and continued whistling.

  He stopped in front of a vacant store. The interior of the store was dark. Sam checked out his reflection. His hair was fine and so was his wardrobe. His eyes caught an advertisement on the window. He scanned it, tore the tiny piece with the telephone number on it and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Sam waited, looked around and then went through the side door and up the stairs.

  ***

  Vince Crouch got out of the taxi and then walked north on Lincoln Avenue. He grumbled about having to spend money on the taxi when he could have taken his car, but his soon-to-be ex-wife had the car.

  Upset, he continued walking with his head down. Someone tried to hand him a piece of paper.

  “Not interested,” he said without looking at them.

  On any other day he would have taken it, but why bother when he was just going to throw it in the garbage anyways.

  Vince was around five-ten, slightly overweight with a small protruding belly. His hair was receding but overall he was in good health. He slouched when he walked.

  He stopped in front of a vacant store. An advertisement was taped to the window. Without looking at it, he ripped it down, crumpled it, and threw it in the street.

  Vince waited, looked around and then went through the side door and up the stairs.

  ***

  Atop the empty store, inconspicuous behind heavy blinds, was the room. From outside it looked uninhabited.

  Inside, Mike, Barry, Sam and Vince had joined Al, who was hunched over the chess table, his tiny eyes transfixed by the horse and the bishop. He gingerly placed two fingers on the bishop, ready to make his move, when there was a snicker from across the table.

  Through his thick glasses Al saw Sam with his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.

  Al moved his hand back but then went for the horse. Again, there was a dismissive noise.

  Al, once again, pulled his hand back.

  “You have to make a move, you know,” Sam said with a smile. “Time is running out, buddy.”

  “Stop interrupting him, Sam,” said a calm voice from across the room. It was Mike. He was sitting behind a table with playing cards in front of him. Across from him Barry and Vince were staring at their cards.

  “I’m not interrupting him,” Sam responded.

  “You’re badgering him,” Barry said without looking up.

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Will you kids shut up?” Vince said. “I’m trying to concentrate.” After a pause he said, “Sam, stop interrupting him.”

  That had no effect on Sam; his smile merely widened. “Come on, gorgeous,” he said to Al. “Do your worst. I can take it.”

  Al gingerly moved the bishop three paces.

  Sam quickly reacted with his castle. “Checkmate. Ha. I won again.” He raised both his arms in self-congratulation.

  Al scratched his head in disbelief, and disappointment.

  “Don’t worry. You’re getting better,” Sam respond
ed. “Before I could beat you in eight moves.”

  Al nodded.

  “Now I can beat you in five.” Sam started to laugh.

  Barry said, “Why do you have to be mean to him?”

  “I’m not. I’m teaching him to have conviction in his decisions. Learn to believe in himself.”

  “No shit,” Vince said.

  Barry smirked.

  “Al, mind getting me a drink?” Vince said.

  Al got up, went around the counter and came back with a can of soda.

  “What the hell is this?” Vince snapped. “I need something with alcohol.”

  “We don’t have any.”

  “What?” Vince snapped. “What’re you here for then?”

  “Hey,” Barry said. “We’ll have none of that.”

  Vince turned to Al, “Al, you know I didn’t mean that. Don’t you?”

  Al nodded, knowing he didn’t.

  “We’re thinking about cutting down on the liquor,” Mike said. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

  Al, Sam and Barry nodded.

  The truth was Vince always had a weak spot for the bottle and it had gotten him in trouble. It was now costing him something that was dearer to him than anything in the world.

  They had all decided for Vince’s sake that they would refrain from indulging too.

  Vince looked at the can of soda and moved his head up and down. He pointed at Al. “But it better be cold.” He smiled.

  “Ladies,” Sam said. “It’s TV time.”

  Mike got up and turned up the volume of the television, perched high up.

  A Chinese reporter by the name of Rose Lee, from WGN 9, was standing in front of a house talking.

  “I like her,” Sam quipped.

  “I bet you do,” Vince responded, trying hard to enjoy the soda.

  “You like anything with long hair and long legs,” Barry said glancing at Sam.

  Sam did an I-can’t-help-it shrug.

  “Listen,” Mike said.

  On TV Rose Lee was saying, “This morning the body of Mark Mansfled was found in the basement of a detached house in Logan Square.” A picture of a young man in a suit flashed across the screen. In the back Rose Lee’s voice was saying, “Mansfled was from Wisconsin, graduated with a degree in fine arts from the University of Illinois and moved to Chicago only two years ago…”