“What do you got?” Lynch asked.

CHAPTER 12 – CHICAGO

1971

Hastings Clarke lived in one of the older high-end buildings along Lake Shore Drive, just north from Oak Street Beach. Dark paneling, heavy furniture, thick oriental carpets.

“Nice place, Mr Clarke,” Declan Lynch said as Clarke ushered him in.

“Thank you,” said Clarke. “And please, call me Hastings. How can I help? I’m very anxious for David’s killers to be found.”

“Let’s start with the obvious, given the ugly nature of the crime scene. Was David getting any threats?”

“David could be very forceful discussing the issues – you’ve seen that. But he was also a very fair-minded man. You’ve heard what he’s had to say about his father’s politics, yet his father and that whole political machine enthusiastically supported him. I couldn’t have imagined anyone wishing harm to David – he devoted so much of himself. Still, something like this happens, and then you start to think…”

“Think about what?”

“Detective, you understand what a volatile issue race is in this city, hell, in this country. And David was one of the few honestly race-blind people I have ever known. Absolutely without prejudice. A close friend of Dr King’s, in fact. That was central, vital, to his campaign. I think that’s what gave him the moral authority to speak out against some of the more radical elements in the colored movement. There were a few people, a very small minority, on the fringes of that movement who resented him – some, in fact, who I believe find exacerbating racial strife to be in their best interests. We did get some ugly mail – calling David just another white massuh, that kind of thing – from those people.”

“Anyone in particular come to mind?”

“There’s a group called the AMN Commando, AMN standing for Any Means Necessary. A lot of its members used to be associated with Fred Hampton and the Panthers. And I want to make it clear, detective, that I am not equating the two. Hampton may have been a polarizing figure, but he did a lot of good for his community. His extra-judicial murder – and I know that may offend you as a policeman in this city, but that’s what it was, and David agreed with me on that – that’s driven some in the Negro community in dangerously radical directions.”

“So you think these AMN guys are worth a look?”

“I didn’t say that, detective. You asked about threats, and I wanted to be up front with you. My real fear, to be honest? The mayor, Riley, men like that, they’ll seize on this to push their agenda, solve their problems. I hate to inject race into David’s murder when he’s been such a champion of the colored community. That the bigot element might seize on David’s death for their own ends, that would be intolerable.”

“That why you’re thinking of running? I hear maybe you’re throwing your hat in the ring.”

“It is a consideration. I will wait and see who the Hurleys bring forward. But I am committed to seeing David’s ideals represented in this election. I am willing to make that sacrifice if necessary.”

Sacrifice, Lynch thought to himself. The bullshit you had to listen to out of these people. “OK, let’s change gears here a bit. Can you tell me what David was doing at Stefanski’s? Can you fill me in on the timing there?” Lynch watching Clarke, seeing a little tightening around the eyes during the question.

“The mayor wanted David to talk with Stefanski about some local political issues. Let’s face it, as much as David was committed to change, he understood he needed to be elected if he wanted to change things. He couldn’t ignore the Democratic machine’s ability to deliver votes. It’s my understanding that Stefanski was the connection to some of the city workers that drive turn-out efforts. As distasteful as David found some of the local politics, at least he grew up in this climate. He knew these men, even if he didn’t always approve of them. He had a way of pressing his concerns without damaging those relationships. So he met with Stefanski regularly. I did not attend those meetings. My presence in certain circles seems only to inflame things.”

“So David was spending a lot of time with Stefanski?”

“As I said, detective, I didn’t attend David’s meetings with Stefanski. Certainly, he’d meet with him from time to time.” Clarke seeming less and less comfortable.

“He have a decent relationship with the guy?”

“I really don’t understand your focus here.” Clarke sounding a little short now.

“The murders happened at Stefanski’s place and they were pretty ugly. You see that level of violence, lots of times that points at something personal.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that, detective. I’ve heard stories, of course, about Stefanski. A bit of a reputation. I suppose this could have been something aimed at him, something David got caught up in.”

“Kind of a late night, though, wasn’t it? Midnight?”

“Nature of the beast in an election.”

“OK, another thing. I understand that David owned a gun.”

A little laugh from Clarke. “Quite a row about that, actually. His father insisted, after Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, and after King’s. He wanted David to be able to protect himself. Silly, really. I mean, look at those shootings. What good would a gun have done either man?”

“It was a Walther, a PPK?”

“I wouldn’t know, detective. We used to do some skeet shooting, summers out on the Long Island, so shotguns I can tell you something about. Pistols are beyond me.”

“Small automatic, the kind from the James Bond movies.”

“That would be David. He did have a sense of style.”

“He carry it?”

“He did that night, actually. I saw it in his briefcase that afternoon, for all the good it did him.”

CHAPTER 13 – CHICAGO

1971

Five men were in the conference room at City Hall when Declan Lynch arrived shortly after 9.30am.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Lynch. “Just got word to come down when I got to the station.”

“No problem, Lynch,” said Riley. “Thanks for coming.”

Riley had his coat off, over the back of his chair, and his cuffs turned up over his wrists. Two almost identical guys in black suits sat across the table with a tape deck sitting in front of them. Crew cuts, that tight-ass look Feds usually had. Bob Riordan, head of Hurley’s Red Squad – an informal police team charged with tracking peaceniks, Reds, the Weatherman, Black Panthers and, Lynch figured, probably Republicans – sat at the near end of the table. At the far end sat a compact man, perhaps five feet nine inches, in a tan summer suit, three-button natural shoulder, a white shirt, and red and blue rep tie.

Riley waved around the table. “Gentleman, this is Detective Declan Lynch. Lynch, Riordan you know. Over here we have agents Harris and McDonald, FBI COUNTERINTELPRO. They coordinate with Riordan on, well, whatever needs coordinating. And over here we have Ezekiel Fisher. Zeke, you wanna tell Detective Lynch what you do?”

“No,” said Fisher.

Riley chuckled. “It’s alright, Lynch. Same answer I always get. It’s OK. He’s a friend of Hurley’s. Anyway, he helps out.”

“So what’s the drill here, Riley?” Lynch asked.

“Couple things. First off, it’s the mayor’s kid we’re dealing with here, so he called J. Edgar, told him he wanted some help on it. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Fine by me,” said Lynch.

“Second, papers are already going bat shit with this, and you know how the old man feels about press, especially around his family. So he wants to play this real tight. Wants to keep it to the players here in this room until we need something else.”

“Again, fine by me, but my captain’s gonna wanna know what I’m up to.”

“Commissioner’s talking to your captain now. You need anything from him, you got it, but he don’t need to know shit,” said Riley.