Passions of Crime

The man has two holes in his head, and not much else to his name. Not even a name, you correct yourself. No wallet, no watch, nothing in his pockets, nothing on his clothes to identify him.

And he's hardly the first, you think with a sigh. Things are getting worse in Chicago, and all the hard work for no results is becoming tiring.

You turn your attention back to the dead man. He's well-dressed, except for one untied shoelace. Perhaps that's what caused him to trip while running from his killer, you think. The blood spray around his head makes it clear he was shot while lying on the ground.

The man's hat is laying next to his head. You pick it up and notice the felt inside is rather rumpled. You feel it and hear a crinkling sound. You reach under the felt and pull out a folded newspaper clipping.

Unfolding it, you find an article about recent industrial development on the south side of the city. Three manufacturing companies are mentioned by name, and they're names you've heard before. "Mandrill," you mutter under your breath.

"Welbry!" a voice shouts from behind you. You turn to see Captain O'Brien trudging up the hill toward you. He reaches you, slightly winded. "What have you got, Welbry?" Straight to the point, as usual.

"John Doe, Captain. Two slugs in the head. Nothing else on him."

"Nothing?" O'Brien asks, leaning over the body.

"Nothing but this," you add, handing over the clipping. O'Brien scans the article.

"This could mean anything," he shrugs.

"It means something," you insist. "He had it hidden pretty carefully inside his hat."

"Well, maybe forensics will turn something up." He turns to leave.

"Captain, I have a theory." O'Brien sighs and turns back around.

"Of course you do, Welbry. Alright, let's hear it."

"It's Mandrill." O'Brien groans, rolling his eyes. "Now hear me out, Captain! I know I've been looking into him for a while..."

"Against my better judgment," he interrupts. "And with nothing to show for it, I might add."

"Ever since they nailed Capone three years ago, there's been a power vacuum," you continue, unfazed. "At least back then we knew who the bad guys were. Now I think we're looking in the wrong place. I've been hearing things about Mandrill."

"So have I, Welbry. Aldermen are powerful people under any circumstance, and if half of what I've heard is true, we're better off leaving him alone." O'Brien clearly doesn't want you on a wild goose chase, but you're sure more evidence will change his mind.

"Captain, I've heard of the companies mentioned in this article more than once. Mandrill's not officially connected to them, but he could be running them behind the scenes. And..." you pause dramatically, "this land is owned by Mandrill."

O'Brien gives you a long, hard look. "No," he says finally, turning again to leave.

"Captain, I'll bust this whole case wide open! Just give me 72 hours," you plead.

O'Brien loses his temper. "Dammit, Welbry, I said no! This department has got enough headaches to worry about already. So I'm telling you: drop this. Take a day off. Get some rest." You stare after him as he walks back down the hill, anger and confusion bubbling in your stomach.

**********

The next day, you try to sleep in, but find yourself restless. Out of habit, you decide to look over the info you've gathered about Mandrill, even though you know you won't find anything new. Not wanting to be cooped up inside, you walk over to Grant Park with your files and look through them on a park bench.

A few blocks away, you can see a gathering of uniformed officers. You consider going over to see what's happening, but going through these files is already stretching the definition of 'day off.'

At lunchtime, you go to a small diner near the park. The waitress chats pleasantly with you, and you end up reading the newspaper until dinnertime. You head home, even though you're not planning on a dinner of anything but bourbon.

After a few more hours, you head out again, sick of drinking by yourself.

You take a seat at the bar and order a drink. It's not your usual place, but you're not in a mood to see anyone you know. The bartender notices your badge. "That thing real?"

"Oh, it's real. As real as the corruption lurking in the heart of this rotten city."

"Mmm." The bartender sets down the drink and goes back to cleaning glasses.

"Here's to you, Pops. You're alright in my book." You raise your drink in a toast. "To the man who can solve this case." You down the drink in one gulp. "Whoever the hell that is," you mutter.

A few more drinks, however, and you've changed your mind. "Fuck O'Brien!" you exclaim, a bit unsteady on your bar stool.

"Mmm," the bartender agrees.

"I'm the best detective he's got. I'm solving this case whether he likes it or not!"

You slam your empty glass on the bar and stand up to leave, when you hear a sultry voice behind you. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Detective Welbry."

"Yeah, well, who's asking?" you say, spinning around and nearly falling over.

The speaker is a stunning leggy brunette in a blood red trench coat. "My name is Camille Rosemont, Detective." She takes a drag on a long, thin cigarette holder. "And I think my life might be in danger."

You merely gape at her for moment, taken aback by her beauty. Even this inebriated, though, you can't stop your observant mind from analyzing her. Your first impression is of a dame who cares about appearances. Her hair and makeup are immaculate. Her trench coat is clearly tailored, as it hugs her impressive curves perfectly. Her stockings are flawless.

But most of all, her shoes, gloves, lipstick, earrings, handbag, and even her cigarette holder all match the color of her coat exactly. Here is a lady, you think, who screams 'class.'

"And what exactly does that have to do with me, Miss Rosemont?"

"Mrs." she corrects. "At least I was until this morning." She takes another pull on her cigarette. "My husband was murdered, and unless you can help me, I'm sure I'll be next."

"Forgive me, but you don't seem too broken up about it."

Camille gives a sniff that is somehow both disdainful and embarrassed. "My husband was too dumb to keep from sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Then again, I suppose I don't have much room to talk. After all, I was dumb enough to marry him."

"Listen, dollface. I'm sure you're a nice enough gal, but we've all got our own problems to deal with..."

"Detective," she interrupts. "I believe my husband was killed over this." She holds out a newspaper clipping, a clipping of the very same article you found on your John Doe yesterday. You are immediately a good deal more sober.

You glance at the bartender, who quickly pretends to be cleaning a glass again. "Listen, lady," you say, lowering your voice and stepping toward Camille. "I think you had better start explaining yourself."

She squints at you, her eyes cold. "That's what I've been trying to do." She walks to a booth and gingerly wipes dust from the seat with a frown. Her frown deepens as she looks at her now soiled glove. She sits with a resigned sigh.

"Marcus didn't come home from work last night. Whatever his faults, and they were many, he never missed dinner." Camille reflects for a moment. "Never mind, you can list that under his faults as well. I called his secretary, who said she hadn't seen him since he left for lunch."

"Where did he work?"

"He was head of advertising at Literbach Insurance."

"Big place," you say with a whistle. "He must have been well paid."

She smiles dryly. "It's not as glamorous as it sounds."

"And it sounds like a thrill and a half," you add. Camille's smile widens and she seems genuinely amused, the first crack in her aloofness you've seen. "Still, you must be pretty well off now... with him out of the way, I mean." Her smile evaporates, her manner icy once more.

"Please. He was never in the way. I was a trophy and he was a bank account. Ours was a marriage of convenience."

"On the other hand, jealousy is rarely rational," you press on. "You mentioned he had a secretary."

Camille scoffs, but her cheeks redden slightly. "Marcus was too boring to have an affair, Detective Welbry! He was a complacent and passionless man, with just enough ambition to lead a life of moderate luxury. I thought, once..." Her face falls, and you see a hint of true sadness and regret.

She composes herself. "I waited for hours, until long after it was dark. I don't know why I went out looking for him. I walked to his office, to places nearby he might have had lunch, checking in alleyways and behind trash cans. Finally I went to a place I knew he sometimes stopped while walking home. A particular bench in Grant Park. And that's where I found him."

"I recognized him by his shoes. He was lying under a bush. He had been stabbed multiple times." Camille is stony-faced but her eyes are dry. "I stared at him for the longest time, trying to cry. I knew I should. But I couldn't. I felt nothing. He meant nothing to me."

She is quiet for a long time, as if trying to convince herself to believe her own words. Finally you interject. "Sounds to me like he didn't come home because it would have put you in danger." She still says nothing.

It feels rude to continue questioning her, but you need more answers. "Where does this come into it?" you ask, indicating the clipping.

Camille seems to shake herself free of her thoughts. She takes a long draw on her cigarette, which had been dangling forgotten in her hand. "If my husband was anything, besides dull, it was suspicious and paranoid. Stupid, really. As if that simpleton would ever do anything as interesting as make an enemy or uncover a conspiracy." She rolls her eyes.

"I got him a tailored jacket for our anniversary last year. He needed a new one because, as I said, he never missed dinner. The one thing he insisted on was an invisible inner pocket. When I found him, all his pockets were empty. No wallet, no keys, nothing. Then I checked the secret pocket, and found that."

"Did you call the police?"

"Sure, because that wouldn't have looked suspicious at all." Her voice is thick with sarcasm. "Standing in an empty park at night over the body of my recently stabbed husband." Camille shakes her head. "Even I wouldn't have believed my story. No, I went straight home. I've spent all day today trying to track you down."

Your eyes narrow. "It's a fine story, Mrs. Rosemont, but there's one thing that doesn't make any sense. How did you know this," you brandish the clipping at her, "was related to my case?"

Camille stares at you blankly. "What case?"

"I found this very same clipping on another murder victim. Yesterday." Though you try, you can't quite keep the accusing tone out of your voice.

"Detective, I swear I don't know what you're talking about."

You lean forward. "Then why did you track me down?"

She points at the clipping. "Turn it over." You flip the clipping over, and on the back, scrawled messily across an ad for a lumber yard, is a single word: Welbry.

You sit back heavily, at a loss as to what it all could mean. Eventually you look back up at Camille. "I would love to help you, but there's a problem. I'm not actually on that case anymore. Officially, I mean."

"Why not?"

"Because my Captain's a chickensh... er, coward who won't let me investigate this," you say, gritting your teeth.

"Won't let you investigate a murder?" asks Camille, surprised.

"Yeah, because it involves Alderman Mandrill, by some accounts one of the most powerful men in the city."

"Please, Detective," she says, the haughty resolve in her eyes faltering a bit. "I don't know what got my husband killed. But that clearly won't stop these people, whoever they are, and I don't much like the idea of being tied off like a loose end! What do you suggest I do?" Her calm demeanor is definitely starting to fray.

You sigh and think for a moment. Something about her words is niggling at your conscious mind, trying to get in. "Loose end..." you mutter under your breath.

"What?"

"C'mon," you say, standing up abruptly. "We need to go to the station. It's just a few blocks."

Camille looks startled. "I thought you believed me!"

You laugh. "Don't worry, I do. You're not under arrest."

"Oh. Are you... going to put me in protective custody?"

"Nope, can't do that either. Best case, it'll just be another murder I can't investigate. Worst case, they'll make you an active suspect."

"Soooo..." she says, completely confused now, "why are we..."

"Let's just say I don't always do what my Captain says."

**********

You walk down the dark street with Camille, her heels clacking noisily on the sidewalk pavement. "You'll have to stay at my place for tonight at least." You expect her to object, but she remains quiet, if rather dour. "You don't have to look so happy about it," you add. The faint trace of a smile crosses her face. "We have some time. You said your husband's body had nothing identifying on it. That should buy us a day or two at least, more if we're lucky."

You walk a while in silence. "Thank you for helping me, Detective Welbry," she says quietly. She sounds earnest, but her face is in shadow and her expression unreadable.

"Well, it was your husband's dying wish." Camille gives a dismissive and unladylike snort.

"Sure," she says sarcastically. "So, do you have a first name, Detective?"

"It's James. Jimmy to my friends."

"I'm sure you have plenty of those," she says, under her breath but still loud enough to hear.

You glance sideways at her. "You can call me James."

As you cross the street, a flash of movement from an alleyway catches the corner of your eye. You glance behind you as casually as you can, and see a dark figure following you.

"Try not to react, but we have company."

Camille stiffens and her eyes widen. "Where?"

"Behind us. Act normal and follow me." You turn the corner into the nearest alley and stand next to the wall. "Stay behind me," you whisper.

You tense your body and wait. A few seconds later, the figure emerges cautiously around the corner, leading with the barrel of a .38 special. You lunge and grab the man's wrist, turning the gun aside just as it goes off. Behind you, Camille screams.

For a few seconds, you struggle. The man swings his free hand at you, but you block it with your forearm. You grab his arm with both hands and twist it savagely. The man grunts and drops the gun.

You pull out your own revolver, but the man recovers quickly. Before you can take aim, he kicks the gun out of your hand. It skitters across the sidewalk and slides under a parked car.

You slug the man hard in the stomach and he grapples you, trying to put you in a choke hold. You elbow him in the face and hear a sickening crunch from his nose. The man lets out a roar of pain and staggers back. He trips and falls, directly onto his dropped gun.

For a split second, as the man is wiping blood away from his eyes, you consider leaping on top of him, but his hand has already closed around the gun. You turn to Camille. "Run!" you shout.

Together you flee down the alleyway. Camille shrieks as another shot rings out, the bullet hitting the brick wall just above your heads. She falls behind as the alley turns a corner. "Hurry up!" you yell.

"I can't run in these things!" she calls frantically.

"Then take them off!" Without slowing down, you whip around another turn in the alley and see what you have been looking for: a couple of trash cans with some wooden crates stacked next to them.

You are shoving the crates away from the wall when Camille comes up behind you carrying her shoes. "What are doing? C'mon!" She tugs at your arm.

"Get back here and get down!" you hiss, crouching behind the crates. She flings herself in after you.

There is barely enough room for both of you to hide, and Camille has to practically hug you to fit. Within seconds, you hear the pounding of your assailant's feet. "Don't move and don't breathe," you whisper in her ear.

The footsteps get louder and louder, and Camille grips you tightly. But instead of slowing, the figure rushes straight past your hiding place and up the alleyway. The sound of his footfalls fades into the distance.

You feel Camille slowly relax in your arms. You can't help but notice how nice her firm, heaving bosom feels pressed up against you. With so much work keeping the precinct busy, it's been longer than you'd like to admit since you felt a woman's touch.

She sits back, her chest still heaving. "We'll wait just a minute in case he comes back, then we'll get out of here," you say, while peeking over the tops of the trash cans.

Camille is staring at you with a strange look on her face. "James... you saved me."

"Of course," you say, wondering if she might be in shock from the whole experience. "That's my job."

She shakes her head as if trying to clear it. "But... I mean... I'd be dead right now if not for you!"

"You wouldn't have been walking around at night if not for me," you point out.

Camille brushes this off. "But the way you attacked him! It's like you weren't scared at all!" she says incredulously. Oddly, she still hasn't been able to catch her breath.

You shrug. "I've been in dangerous situations... before..." You trail off as Camille slowly moves closer, and then suddenly her arms are around you and her lips are pressed hard against yours.

Your surprise keeps you from reacting for a moment, and she deepens the kiss, forcing her tongue into your mouth. It feels amazing, and makes it very hard to think about what's happening. Not one to waste a good thing, you decide to go with it.

You obligingly suck on Camille's soft tongue, and she lets out a small moan. You pull her body close to you and enjoy the feeling of her curves under your hands.

After a few moments of delicious squirming, she breaks the kiss and pulls away. She looks quite shocked at what she's doing. "Oh God... I don't know what... I'm sorry, James!" she stammers, turning red.

"You don't have to apologize. In situations like this, the adrenaline can take over. It's not your fault."

"But why would I... oh, James, what you must think of me!" she says, blushing harder than ever.

You gaze at her for a moment. "I think you're beautiful, Camille," you say simply. For the first time, she is completely speechless. "Now c'mon, before I can't tell your face from your coat." She laughs despite her embarrassment.

**********

You arrive at the station without further incident, after first retrieving your gun from under the car. Since it's close to midnight, you don't run into anybody on the way down to the morgue.

The John Doe from yesterday is lying on a table, covered to the waist with a sheet. Another body, that you assume is Camille's late husband, is on a second table, completely covered.

As you open the box of evidence, Camille fidgets uncomfortably. "Don't worry, we don't have to be here long."

"It's not that," she says, looking awkward. "It's... you."

"What did I do?" you ask, as you remove the dead man's shoes from the box.

"I don't know!" she says, sounding frustrated. "You said it was just the adrenaline, but that's been gone for a while and I still..." You raise an eyebrow at her and she falters. You examine the shoe with the untied laces as she continues.

"I mean, look," she says with a too-casual air, "this is obviously just some weird fluke, right?" You shrug, seeing nothing apparently wrong with the shoe. She scoffs as if unconcerned. "Clearly, you're not my type." You give a wry chuckle. "Plus, my husband was murdered and the same people are after me! I should be terrified, but all I can think about is..." She trails off again.

You place your hand on Camille's arm and an involuntary quiver runs through her. "Is kissing me again?" She blushes.