Sam just shook his head.
“Look, I know it has been tough for you. I sympathize. I really do. That Chalkboard thing and everything around it was a mess. Maybe it’s time for you to think about…”
“Are you firing me?” Sam asked stunned.
“No, Sam,” he said. “I would never fire you. I’ll never forget the work you did, especially on the Chalkboard Killer. This city owes you a lot. I promised Jack Ballant that I would never let anything happen to you.”
The references to the Chalkboard Killer hit Sam like a sucker punch to the gut, but bringing up his recently deceased old chief, Jack Ballant, got his blood boiling.
“I know, you don’t like to talk about it. To be honest, neither do I. That was a nasty bit of business. Fortunately, we don’t get things like that around here that often. We’ll leave Los Angeles to deal with those kinds of psychos. I’m just saying that maybe you need to take a break and maybe deal with some of these demons that are keeping you from being the best detective on the force.”
“As soon as I finish up with the dead liquor store clerk on the Hill, I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I know no one cares, but I do.”
“So do I. That’s why I’ve got Brent bringing in your perp for interrogation.”
Sam left Paulson’s office and went back to his desk. There wasn’t even anger, just relief. So what if Paulson wanted him to take a break. Why not? That’s what got in his craw the most. The idea that Paulson felt he needed to baby him. Even that anger washed away as soon as it rose. He just didn’t have any fight in him anymore.
Sam worked in relative quiet for the rest of the day. The hubbub of the Nixon resignation dwindled, and everyone went to work. There wasn’t a whole lot of time to waste gossiping about world events in a squad room. There was nothing for Sam to work on anymore. Brent would get the confession. He knew that. Brent was no Jimmy Dugan, but he was thorough. Why did Sam care how he went down? Why did it always matter to him? Why did it matter to him when Jimmy beat the living hell out of someone and got them locked away? If the guilty got what they deserved, isn’t that all that mattered? It did matter to him though. It always mattered. Sam wished he could talk to Lorraine about all of this, but he couldn’t.
Sam left work early and drove home to his house in Dormont. As a city police officer, he was supposed to live in the city, but he got away with a lot of things in the old days. It was a three-bedroom home that stood on the top of a hill. A flight of concrete steps led up to a small yard. Then, a set of wooden steps lead up to the porch. Sam parked his Dodge Charger in front of the house and walked up the twenty-two concrete steps. The red paint was peeling off the house. He really should paint it before winter, but Sam just didn’t have the energy to even think about it. He looked to his right where the sidewalk that his father-in-law had laid for them all those years ago wrapped around the house. In one of the concrete slabs were the handprints of his two oldest children, Deborah and William. He walked over to them as he often did and ran his foot over the fading impressions. He walked up the six wooden steps to the porch and into the house. To the right was the flight of stairs up to the second floor and the three bedrooms. To the left was the living room. He sat down on the couch and stared across at the television sitting in the corner. He didn’t turn it on. He just stared at the blank screen, the light from the window behind him glaring back at him. On the mantle were pictures of the kids and Lorraine. His picture might not be prominently displayed in their homes, but they would always have a place on his mantel.
He was hungry. He walked up the street to the Red Bull Inn where he sat alone and ate in peace. It was his usual dining place. He always came alone, sat in the corner and no one talked to him. That’s the way he liked it. The staff kept his table open for him on most nights if they could.
After dinner, Sam walked down West Liberty Avenue to the South Hills Theater. He purchased a ticket for Mr. Majestyk at the box office out front. He walked through the glass doors and into the outer lobby and stood upon the blood red carpet. He stood to the right of the booth and watched people wander into the corner theater. Finally, he walked through the doors and into the main lobby, which was also carpeted in red. Stairs led up to the balcony above and across the left side of the lobby ran the concessions where you could find theater sized candy and popcorn, along with pop. Sam didn’t bother with the popcorn tonight. Instead, he walked through one set of doors to his right and found a seat about ten rows back from the large stage with the screen beyond. He looked up at the high ceiling and the gothic touches that were embedded throughout. Normally, watching Charles Bronson beat up a bunch of people would satisfy Sam, but he was feeling restless.
After the picture, he walked down West Liberty Avenue towards Potomac Avenue. A trolley car passed, and he watched the small cylindrical car fade into the darkness. He wanted a drink, but he never drank alone, and he certainly wouldn’t make an exception during his current melancholy. Retirement was not something that he had ever thought about, but for a few brief moments, he let the thought pour over him like a refreshing shower. He didn’t want to retire. To give anyone that satisfaction, especially Paulson, made the hair on the back of his neck hurt. What he needed was something to occupy his time, a win.
He crossed West Liberty at the borough building and walked past the library on his left. He stopped and looked at the brick building where he had spent many a weekend afternoon with his kids. They all loved the trips to the library. The building had only been about ten years old when he brought his oldest daughter, Deborah, there for the very first time. He remembered her squeals of delight at all the books lined up on their shelves. Sam smiled at the memory. The building was beginning to show some wear now. That was just the nature of getting older though. You got older, you got worn out, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t just as useful.
Perhaps that was Sam’s problem, why he was feeling so restless, he just didn’t feel useful anymore. That his time had come and gone. He thought about his old chief, Jack Ballant, and the unwavering faith he showed him. Now, he was dead. He had taken a shotgun to the J&L Steel Mill, the place where his father had worked. He had gone to a place near the river and somehow pointed the shotgun at his face and pulled the trigger. No more Jack Ballant. A suicide. None of it made sense. He couldn’t believe Jack Ballant capable of suicide, but perhaps that was just the loyalty of an old friend, mixed with some guilt over a past indiscretion. How could he do it, though? How could he point a shotgun at his face and pull the trigger? Not the act of suicide. Sam understood the thoughts behind those kinds of actions very well. How could he reach the trigger to do it? And why point it at his face? Why not put it in his mouth? Sam turned back towards home with a newfound purpose. Jack Ballant. So what if it was a fool’s errand, it would give him something meaningful to occupy his time. Tomorrow, he would begin an investigation into the death of his old friend.
CHAPTER 4
August 10, 1974
After waking up the following morning, he almost threw it all in. The thought of retirement wasn’t as awful as it seemed the previous night, but he needed work. If he didn’t, he would have retired years ago. His pension would have been more than enough to keep him and the family afloat. Money was not the problem. It never had been. The thought of not being able to work filled Sam with uncontrollable rage. Sam hopped into the Charger and drove down to the South Side to where Jack Ballant had decided to meet his end. He had turned a shotgun on himself while overlooking the Monongahela River at the J&L Steel Mill. The thought was that he went there to be closer to his dead father, a steel worker, who Chief Ballant had idolized.