The Killing League

ELIMINATION ROUND ONE





49.

Florence Nightmare

Retired Chicago Police Officer William Dragger was tired of being on surveillance. Back when he was “on the job,” he’d had a much better attitude. But now, he was retired. The long days and long nights felt longer.

To add insult to injury, his pension wasn’t all that great, and the book deals that were discussed back when he’d arrested The South Side Strangler never materialized. Probably because even though he’d made the actual arrest, it was a pretty big task force that was able to eventually take credit.

So here he was.

Working for a private investigator — another former cop — who had given him a freelance assignment to follow a man whose wife thought he might be cheating on her.

The thing was, if this was real work, real on-the-job work, he wouldn’t take a break. But this was freelance stuff. No one was committing any real crime, so Bill Dragger didn’t see the harm in momentarily breaking off surveillance, ducking into the liquor store across the street, and buying a six-pack to keep him company for the last hour of his shift.

He shut off the ignition to the Buick — his trusted surveillance car that fit in anywhere downtown, the suburbs, a strip club. Buicks were ubiquitous.

Dragger got out of the car, walked across the street. The cold beer was along the back wall. Dragger had to turn sideways to fit down the narrow aisles, between the shelves of cheap wine and generic brand margarita mix.

He found the section where the domestic six packs were, and picked some Miller Genuine Draft. He never drank on the job back when he was a real cop. This wasn’t a real job, though. Plus, he was almost done. He’d pass this last hour sucking down the cold beers, then go back to his little house in Joliet, have a few more and re-heat roast beef he’d made in a crock pot yesterday.

Back at the counter, he paid the tall clerk wearing a backward baseball cap and had the man put the beer in a paper bag.

He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing a woman’s hat that had just fluttered to the ground. He turned and saw an older woman with a startled look on her face. Dragger bent down to pick up the hat and the woman collided with Dragger. He felt a sharp, wincing pain in his leg and turned with the hat in his hand. He gave the hat to the woman and touched his leg. It was sore. Jesus, he thought. What the hell just jabbed me?

“Thank you,” the older woman said. “I’m sorry I bonked you with my purse,” she said. She held it up for him to see, but Dragger didn’t see any sharp edges. Maybe it was a muscle twinge.

The woman took her hat and walked on. Dragger waited a moment for the traffic to clear and then he began to cross the street. He was stepping across the yellow line when he realized he was looking directly down at the yellow line as it came closer and closer. Finally, his nose was pressed against the chipped paint and then he couldn’t see anything at all.