Wrigleyville Ch. 10 — Billy Pursuing Pursuers?

Wrigleyville

Serial cop drama. Check back for a new chapter every week — or maybe sooner.

Here’s Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4., Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 and Chapter 9.

CONTENT NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNG READERS.

(From Chapter 9) Jackson’s cell phone rings.

“Jackson here,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding. Yeah, yeah, thanks. We’re on the way.”

He turns to Sullivan.

“Goat did go missing. Hole in the fence,” he says. “She failed to mention she was on vacation for the past few weeks and missed it.”

They half-run to the door.


Before Sullivan and Jackson can escape, however, the CO pokes his head out of his office.

“Hey, you two, one more thing,” he says.

They stop and turn back.

“I’ve got a call with the FBI in an hour,” he says.

“What does that mean?” Sullivan says, knowing what it means.

“I’ll tell you what it means when you get back,” the CO says.

On the stairs Sullivan says, “We don’t even know if we need the feds.”

“He said he’s just calling,” Jackson says. “We don’t know if they’ll get involved. Only thing we have linking all this is the Cubs. No physical evidence.”

“They’ll be in,” Sullivan says. “This one’s too good to pass up.”

“Well, if they are we’ll have better shit to work with,” Jackson says.

“And more chefs in the kitchen,” Sullivan says.


Billy smiles as he walks down the sidewalk.

“That was him,” he thinks. “That stupid cop’s son, and he looked right at me. And didn’t know anything. He knows as much as his dumb-ass dad. He’ll know a lot more than dear old dad soon enough.”


On the way out to O’Hare, Sullivan and Jackson hear the radio call of Jorge Soler blasting a double off the wall at Wrigley.

“Hey,” Sullivan says. “The kid’s keeping it going. What the hell.”

“Historic start, no doubt,” Jackson says. “Hey, I got a question for you. You seeing the Cubs differently after all this crap?”

“What crap?” Sullivan says.

“What crap? What other crap you thinking about besides the goat head, the dead fake Bartman, you know, that kind of shit,” Jackson says. “You thinking differently about the Cubs, about the path-o-logy (stressing each syllable) of all the losing and the people who follow that shit?”

“Jesus, Jackson,” Sullivan says. “I wasn’t thinking about it, no. I was enjoying a nice ballgame on the radio until you opened your trap.”

“I’m just sayin’. The whole Cubs thing is kind of demented,” Jackson says, “and now …”

Sullivan cuts him off. “That’s enough Jackson,” he says. “You know as well as I do that this nut job could be obsessing about Bugs Bunny instead of the Cubs. It’s all just a lame outlet for his pathetic psycho behavior. So cut the Cubs crap, and let me listen to the game.”

“Just busting your balls,” Jackson says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sullivans says.

Jackson’s cell phone rings.

“Sounds good, thanks,” he says and then turning to Sullivan, “the woman from the goat company is there waiting for us to show us the operation, answer some questions.”


Back in his apartment, Billy prints out the photo of the cop’s son that he took on his phone before he was spotted. He takes the photo and carefully tapes it to the bottom of a large chart on the wall. Lines branch out here and there with other photos and newspaper clippings pasted at the ends of the lines. John Sullivan’s photo is there, just above his son’s.

Billy then places a notebook in front of himself on the desk and starts to read intently.

Wakes up: 6:45 a.m.
Makes coffee: 7:30 a.m.
Leaves house: 8 a.m.

The entries continue for an entire page, outlining someone’s activities for a 24 hour period.


Sullivan, Jackson and a forensics team inspect the spot where the fence at O’Hare had been cut open and the goat removed. Since authorities at O’Hare figured the theft was a prank, no police report was filed and the fence was repaired. Rain and the foraging of the farm animals wiped out any other obvious traces of evidence. A road ran along the fence and it was secluded enough that someone could stop and carry out the crime unnoticed. Video cameras did not target this particular area.

“In short, we got nothing again,” Sullivan says.

“Not necessarily,” Jackson says. “I was just talking to the woman from the place that takes care of the animals. She said they graze in this field on Tuesdays from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. From here I can see a decent size intersection over there that accesses this road. Might be a camera mounted over there. How many cars would turn down this road in that time period? Shit, not many from the traffic I’m seein’ here now.”

“Good,” Sullivan says. “Let’s check it out. I’m getting really sick of this goat killing mother f’er.”

A few minutes later Sullivan and Jackson are standing next to their car looking up at the street light over the intersection Jackson had pointed out.

“Bingo,” Sullivan says.

There, mounted on the large metal pole is a new looking camera, trained on the intersection.

To be continued …

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