Serial cop drama. Check back for a new chapter every week — or maybe sooner. CONTENT NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNG READERS.
“Are you frickin’ kidding me? You’re trying to tell me that Robin Ventura was better than Ron Santo? Get the hell outta here.”
John Sullivan stares at his partner in the passenger seat, a styrofoam cup of coffee suspended in air between his lap and his mouth, which stands partially agape in disgust.
“You get the hell outta here old man,” says Jimmy Jackson — JJ to his friends, of whom he has many, just not the guy he spends half of every day with. “You must be trippin’ takin’ that broken down loser with his 342 career home runs. Hall of Fame my ass. Ventura had nearly that many homers and he wasn’t an All-Star but two times. Damn, might as well put him in the Hall.”
“I don’t know how you know those numbers and can still be such a dumb mother,” Sullivan says, bringing the coffee up under his bushy brown mustache.
“Oh, I see, a brother can’t possibly know about the history of baseball, can’t memorize stats. That what you sayin’?” Jackson says, stuffing a couple of French fries in his mouth.
“Jesus H. Christ, don’t get all “48 Hours” white cop-black cop on me Jackson,” Sullivan says. “F’ing Ventura?”
“’48 Hours,’ now you’re talking,” Jackson says. “Eddie Murphy was the shit in that.”
Sullivan scoffs. “Nick Nolte was the shit in that,” Sullivan says.
He takes another sip of coffee as Jackson digs in the Weiner Circle bag for a couple more fries. The white noise of the radio drones on as they eat silently until their car number jumps from the crackle and stops them both.
“95, 419, 1060 West Addison.”
Without saying a word, Sullivan downs the last of his coffee, tosses the cup on the floor, throws the unmarked sedan into drive and pulls away from the curb.
They arrive within view of Wrigley Field but have to park down the street due to the jam of patrol cars, an ambulance and a gathering crowd. The pair exits and weaves through the onlookers to get to the yellow tape. Sullivan flashes his badge to the patrolman keeping out the crowd and they duck under.
He quickly identifies the officer in charge and asks “What you got?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” says a woman wearing sergeant stripes.
“Why?” says Sullivan as the three push to the front of the crime scene.
Stooped low over something on the pavement, a photographer snaps a few more photos.
“Let these guys take a look, Sanchez,” Sgt. Kowolski says.
Sanchez moves to the side and Sullivan and Jackson lean in closer, taking in a bloody scene. It takes a second for their brains to take it all in before they figure something’s not right.
“Hey, what the …,” says Jackson. “That ain’t no, that’s a, what the, is that a …”
“A fucking goat’s head?” Sullivan blurts out. “What the hell?”
“That’s right,” Kowolski says.
“A goat’s head at Wrigley Field, no shit,” Jackson says admiringly.
But Sullivan has perked up.
“Why the hell do you need homicide for a goat’s head?” he asks.
“Good question,” says Kowolski, “Let me tell you.”
Continue to Chapter 2 …
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