Gunmetal Blue by Joseph G. Peterson
For my brothers, Mike & Bob
Did you kiss the dead body
Harold Pinter
Police Seek Clues in Jewelers Row Killing
By Martin Dorsey
A 42-year-old woman was found dead of multiple gunshot wounds Tuesday evening in a building in the 200 block of South Wabash Avenue. Police spokesperson Lt. Marc Céspedes says the woman, Adeleine Topp, was discovered shortly after 6:00 p.m. in the offices of the Triple A Detective AAAgency by her husband Art Topp, the agency’s owner. Chicago police are investigating whether the murder was related to Topp’s work as a private detective, but stress that they haven’t ruled out any suspects. Funeral services will be held 10:00 a.m. Tuesday at Drake & Sons Funeral Home, followed by internment at Rosehill Cemetery.
PART I: SHOT
I tip the cabdriver and head up the hill to the cemetery. It was such a day five years ago, cloudless and coldish, that we buried my wife, and now revisiting this cemetery puts me in mind of that day.
What parts of that time do I want to forget? What parts do I want to remember?
I sincerely want to forget telling my daughter her mother had just been killed.
I sincerely want to forget the look on my daughter’s face when I told her her mother had just been killed.
I sincerely want to forget the sound of her book bag dropping in the hallway as I told her her mother had just been killed.
The sound of her book bag—clunk—and then: What do you mean, Dad?
Your mother was shot and killed at my office.
What?
Your mother’s body was found at my office. She was shot and killed.
Dad, Mom never visits your office. You’ve got to be joking.
Shot her not once but seventeen times.
Daddy.
I wish I were joking.
Daddy, where’s Mom? Please.
They took her away to the morgue.
I want to forget that my daughter had to live through that.
I want to forget that my daughter had to watch her mother buried.
I want to forget that I stood with my high school daughter over her mother’s grave.
I want to forget that it was a day such as this that destroyed my family life.
I had a wonderful family life. We had a wonderful family life. We live to have family, to build a family, to live a life within the family. We don’t live to watch the family destruct. But apparently so. Apparently we were put on earth to learn both happy truths and terrible truths. I can’t bear the terrible truths. I can’t bear them.
Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself.
And so I am.
The leaves on the trees are falling. They wiggle on the stem and the wind pulls them away.
The eternal hearse pulls into an eternal graveyard trailing terrible truths, which are eternal. Who is it today that has come to die?
You’re just depressed.
Am not.
Yes you are.
A line of vehicles pulls into the cemetery. A freshly dug grave is open, right next to my wife’s. I walk up behind to see who has died this time. Family members, grief-stricken, stumble out of three limos. An assortment of other folks step from their cars. And behind those, a school bus, from which a bunch of high school kids tumble. Young high school girls are crying just like my Meg cried on the day her mom was buried. Boys wearing football jerseys weep openly. Confused.
Catch them, Meg told me after the funeral.
Catch who?
Daddy, this is no time for joking. Whatever you do, promise me you’ll catch whoever did this.
I didn’t know we raised such an uncompromising person.
Get who killed Mom. Please.
I don’t know if I can do this, darling. Honestly, I’m too close to the case. I don’t know if I can catch who did this. It’s too ghoulish. I’m suffocating, if you know what I mean.
I’m suffocating. It’s me who’s dying here. It’s your daughter. Find out who killed Mom. I don’t trust anyone else to get it right. You must find out who did it.
But the cops are already on the case, and until it’s solved, I’m one of the subjects of their investigation.
You are?
Well they said in the paper they haven’t ruled anyone out. I don’t want to mess it up. Conflict of interest, that sort of thing. Honey, please. Let the police work it out. I have absolute faith in them.
Still, Daddy. You must find out who did this. I won’t take no for an answer.
No.
Daddy!
OK, I’ll see what I can do.
Please.
OK, but no guarantees.
And another thing, I hate you so much for taking Mom away from me I promise I will never talk to you again, ever!
?
It was in this cemetery, too—Ha! Ha!—I met Rita, all those years ago.
She was mourning the death of her mom—crying near her mom’s gave, which just so happens was near my wife’s grave.
From the ashes grows a flower, or so I thought.
You’re rhyming again.
Blurt. Blurt.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
?
Rita’s mom had died in a car accident.
I didn’t dare tell her how my wife died. I only told her she’d died in an accident, too. Rita assumed from this that I meant car accident and I have never corrected her.
How did your mom die? I asked her. She had showed up to the cemetery carrying fresh-cut flowers.
Car accident.
She wore a veil, which put her in a different era even though she was at least ten years younger than me.
Pretty veil.
I didn’t know what else to wear. I’m in mourning.
How did it happen?
My mom’s car was hit by a bus while she was waiting for the light to turn. I was at work when they called me to tell me. How did your wife die?
Accident.
See, she said. The road is a dangerous place. My mother’s death has taught me this.
Yes.
When did she die?
Three months ago.
Same with my wife.
My condolences.
Same same.
How are you getting on?
I miss her. I do. She was all I had. Now I feel orphaned. How about you?
Numb.
We stood over our respective graves. Each paying silent respect. I pulled a few weeds that had sprouted up near my wife’s tombstone. Then the two of us found a bench, sat down, and talked.
Where you from?
West Loop. How about you?
Same, as a matter of fact.
What do you do?
An assortment of things. How about you?
I wait tables. Hardest thing though, to wait on people. I have the hardest time serving people now that my mother’s gone.
Yeah, I know what you mean.
You do?
Sure.
Because I break down two or three times a day crying, for what I don’t know. I didn’t think it was going to be so difficult getting over my mom.
What’s your name?
Rita.
Hi Rita, I’m Art.
Hey.
Hey.
Some day, huh.
You’d think it spring, only the leaves have just fallen off the trees.
Does it bode a mild winter?
Are winters ever mild in Chicago?
I suppose not.
If every day were like this, I could take it. It’s the cold that gets me. This is sweater weather.
That’s a nice one you have on, Rita.
Thanks. My mom has knitted every sweater I own.
The one you have on is very lovely.
Thank you. I’m making a vow with you.