Free Calumet City by Charlie Newton Page B

smear-campaign rabbit trail from Gilbert Court to Calumet City and its sixty years of malfeasance.’ Am I clear?"
    I’m having trouble breathing normally as the Bridgeport Family Restaurant fills with smoke only I can see. "Ah, did you say the mayor’s wife is tied to Calumet City—"
    "It’s in the paper, for chrissake." The superintendent clenches and unclenches his fist again. "Annabelle Ganz, her husband, and two of their foster kids have
all
been MIA from Calumet City until you and the fire department found Annabelle in the wall."
    He frowns at the
Herald
and then the window onto Thirty-fifth. I follow his eyes, hoping there’s something out there that changes what he just said, especially the part about it being in the paper.
    He looks back and says, "Not that I give a damn about Calumet City, except that the mayor’s wife once owned the building Annabelle’s buried in—a gift from her grandfather as I remember." His voice lowers. "And I lived there in the 1970s when I first came on, as did a number of other rookies working 6, 7, and the Deuce."
    The lovely and talented Mary Kate O’Banion owned Gilbert Court? And Chief Jesse lived there?
I wonder if I wake up, where I’ll be. No wonder this is all in the
Herald
. And Mary Kate has her own "colorful" history. Besides being the mayor’s wife, Mary Kate is the granddaughter of Dean "Dion" O’Banion, a famous Capone-era gangster now remembered fondly as "local color" in spite of the twenty-five murders he committed.
    "Certainly her once owning this building and my residence therein is a coincidence. But a coincidence that your media pals, including Tracy Moens, will fan into three days of additional sales, followed by well-timed political attacks on His Honor and myself." The superintendent looks at me as if I understand the political ramifications. "So, Officer Black, you are news yet again, this time at the center of an election-related civil rights smear. And when that news dies, the new epicenter of said smear campaign will be the former owners and occupants of Gilbert Court."
    "No need to transfer me. Tell me to shut up and I will."
    "District 18. Am I clear, Officer Black?"
    "Ah, yeah, but—"
    "There are no ’buts’ in the Chicago Police Department this month.
Stay out of all three cases
and
away
from Alderman Gibbons." The superintendent offers a small unreadable smile. "Go forth and make the Northside safe for BMWs and baby carriages until I tell you different."
    "What about IAD and the criminal charges—"
    "District 18. Now."
    The superintendent stands as a photographer approaches, then he grabs my hand and smiles like the professional politician he isn’t. The flash is soundless but loud. He tells the photographer, "P-a-t-t-i," pats my shoulder as he passes, and shakes hands out the door. I look at the
Herald
so I don’t have to meet any eyes and blink like I did when the flashbulb hit me at Ruth Ann’s. The caption under the picture in the
Herald
reads:
    "Annabelle Ganz. Murdered in 1993, missing since 1987."
     
     
WEDNESDAY, DAY 3: LATE MORNING
     
     
       Three hours later most of my brain is still swimming with what I heard the superintendent of police say in Bridgeport. And why it was said, and why it was said in front of an audience and a camera. I’m a TAC cop, a ghetto action figure; this is Perry Mason from the ’50s.
    My new partner is showing me my new neighborhood, using one hand to turn us left on Division Street. He’s young and excited, a two-year TAC officer in 18. Their stationhouse is across from the ghetto high-rises on Division, the projects—Cabrini Green—the only area north of the river I’ve seen that resembles what I’m used to. It’s also where Mayor Jane Byrne and her army of bodyguards lived to prove "public housing is safe," a point that no one could prove. And since she gave us our union, I’m a fan no matter how stupid a stunt it was.
    Yawn. Last night’s catching up with me; my eyes are heavy and my