The message to kill me went out at 7:30.
Mayor Faison was a guest of the I-Team on Channel7 Eyewitness News. Three decades in the job, but old Freddy Faison still looks great in front of the camera. Dig those porcelain teeth and Italian silks. Faison was fielding questions from Chuck Goudie. The balls on this guy. The Faison Mayoralty was the most corrupt in the Windy City’s history: a dubious distinction akin to being the worst anti-Semite at a Nuremberg rally. Goudie’s investigative reporters covered political corruption and organized crime. By appearing on the show, Faison was sending a message that he had nothing to fear.
Except he did fear someone. Me. His driver. Terence Baumgartner III.
“Mayor Faison, you’ve been in office for twenty-eight years,” Goudie stated. “Is there any possibility that you won’t seek reelection?”
“You know what they say Chuck, in Chicago the only term limits are how long the politicians spend in jail.”
Cue studio laughter. Yeah, smile you smug cocksucker. Too bad a sex worker and mother of three Jackie DeLaurentis can’t smile. Struck and killed by a police car. Driver exonerated. Then there was Ricky Glover: disgraced journalist turned citizen blogger. Dead by overdose from a drug problem no one knew he had. Finally, there was Harold Tafler. Accountant. Mob associate. Found floating down the Chicago river. Coroner ruled it a suicide. The water’s hard in the Midwest: Two of Tafler’s fingers were broken and his body was covered in bruises. What do these unholy trinity of cadavers have in common? They all worked for Faison and they all tried to rat on him. They had stories to tell about kickbacks, bid-rigging, sweetheart deals, you could even use Chicago’s finest for murder-for-hire, providing Faison got his cut. All work done on the premises.
Faison thought he had plugged the leak, but a rumor was circulating on the street. Tafler had kept details of every crooked deal in a ledger. He had names, numbers, the whole damn thing. Did it really exist? The tough bastard hadn’t given it up under torture. I had the ledger. I had the juice on Faison. Tafler had saved my life, at least for now. But he hadn’t done it for me. He knew he was dead when the Mayor’s men found him. Tafler refused to give up the ledger because he wanted to see Faison get sent down from beyond the grave.
“Mayor Faison,” Goudie continued, in the vain hope that Faison would give him a less glib answer. “A number of your former employees have leveled serious allegations of corruption against you. The most recent of which was made by your former driver.”
“Who, Baumgartner?” Faison’s face went beetroot red. “Terry Baumgartner is a very bad guy. He couldn’t cut it as a driver. I fired him. Imagine a guy who can’t even drive for a living. He’s so clumsy, he’ll find himself under the wheels of his own car. You can’t trust a word he says. I’m telling you guys like that are accident-prone.”
It was enough. The contract was out. The going rate for murder in Chi was ten grand. Some punk might figure he could get double that, Faison wanted me dead so bad. It was 7:30 pm. How long before someone cashed in that check? Normally, Faison wouldn’t take such a direct approach but his people had been looking for me and they hadn’t found my hideout on the Northside. Faison was getting desperate. He didn’t know for sure I had the ledger, but he wouldn’t feel safe until I was dead. This way he was putting the contract out to every hoodlum, drug dealer, dirty cop and pimp. I was a dead man if I stayed in Chicago. I had to get out. I had a cousin who worked as an FBI data analyst in Milwaukee. A federal building. An ambitious special agent that Faison can’t touch sees this ledger and offers me protection in return for a career-making case. It could happen. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was my only chance.
My apartment had been B&E’d. My car torched. I needed a vehicle that would get me onto I-94, and then I’m only ninety minutes away from Milwaukee. Renting one was out. Even if I paid by cash, I didn’t have a fake ID I could register the car with. I’d have to steal one. I left my fleapit No-Tell room. I had five days left on the room. Even if the motel owner was paying someone who was paying Faison, I figured he might wait till I’d coughed up the rent in full before he turned me over, if he knew who I was. My belongings were in a holdall. Some clothes, some cash, a couple of tools, the ledger and a metal ruler to slide down a car door and disable the lock. I found a light blue Ford Edge. Nice all-American car to help me get out of Chicago and blow the lid on an all-American corruption case. The ruler got me in. I started the engine with a screwdriver. No witnesses. When will John Q find out his car is missing and file a police report? God grant me a little luck. I was on the road now, driving past overflowing street trash picked apart by rodents and snow melting into sludge. The cops were looking for me. They weren’t looking for a carjacker. They might be ignoring all APBs not pertaining to me. I settled in for the longest ninety minute journey of my life.
The radio played country music and evangelical sermons. I flipped channels to pop hits and golden oldies. Nerves were too raw for music. The tempo of each song sped up my heartbeat to embolism levels. I looked at my car interior and wound down the window. The car needed an airing. It stank of dog hair, Hershey wrappers and cigarette butts. The only item which caught my eye was a novel by some bald-headed French writer calling himself the Demon Frog of Crime Fiction. I flipped through a few pages with my left hand until the asinine alliteration started to drive me nuts. It was a relic of the analogue age. I gifted it to the tarmac.
Twenty minutes on I-94 and sirens blare behind me. Oh fuck. Traffic cops are the worst. Bored, cuckolded and eager to prove themselves. This would not end well. I only had my genuine driver’s license to show him. I pulled over into the nearest rest area. The cop departed his vehicle and strolled over with just a hint of badass. Honest cops don’t strut like that. Trust me to land the only cop who is a movie buff.
“Sorry officer, was I speeding?”
First rule of the street: never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. I was within the limit.
“License and registration,” he says, leaning into my window and giving me a blast of his White Castle breath.
There is no way I am giving this man my real name. He’d turn me over for a crate of Miller Light. I feign reaching for my wallet but instead pull out the performance of my life.
“Ah, sorry officer. I left my wallet at home. You know what it’s like, all my credit cards are on my phone now.”
“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”
He takes a step back and places one hand on his radio so I can see he is prepared to request backup. His gun is in its holster and he doesn’t need to reach for that. Maybe he was wearing bodycam or a camera was filming us from his rear-view mirror, but he doesn’t want get too rough yet. If I can stop the cuffs going on I figured I was safe. I follow his instructions and exit the vehicle.
“Hands on the hood. Legs apart.”
He frisks me in a way that suggests he is sexually frustrated, confused or both. Oh fuck, he finds my wallet in the inside pocket of my jacket.
“What have we here, you said you didn’t have your wallet.”
“I must have missed that.”
He calls in a background check on my name. I realize if I don’t get away soon, I’m a dead man. If I end up in a cell, some punk will cut my throat for that bounty. I’m mulling my options. Nothing seems good. From the hood I look out into the reeds that separate my vehicle from the Chicago skyline that I have spent a lifetime trying to escape. I spot movement. It ain’t the wind. I hit the floor as the first shot rang out. More shots follow. Pop, pop, pop. Fuck you Faison, runs through my head as I press down against the concrete. I expect my car to start exploding into little pieces, but this guy’s a pro. He ain’t firing into my cover. The traffic cop has gone silent. Only his radio blares out frantically. Someone back at the station is desperately trying to figure out what is going on. My traffic cop lies dead on the road. Cars are swerving frantically to avoid the stiff. Then I see a darkly-dressed figure climb into the cop car. Shots are still ringing out. There must be two of them, and they hope to pin me down with harassing fire. Of course, they have to remove the dashcam. I’m not here to be executed, it’s a set-up.
Do what they don’t want you to do.
I get to my feet and slide behind the wheel of the car. Screwdriver worked on the second attempt. I pulled out to the sound of gunfire. They were potshots. They didn’t want me dead – yet. America worships its dead. Even Mayor Faison would be forced to say something nice about me. “I didn’t always agree with Terry Baumgartner, but he was a first class driver and public servant. My heart goes out to his family.” I was in a much worse position than dead. Terry Baumgartner – Cop-Killer. Just wait for the calls to reintroduce the death penalty.
The police had my name, details and stolen car. The black bag hit team back there were making sure the evidence told their story. I needed to lose this vehicle. I was about an hour away from Milwaukee and doing ninety. It made no sense to get off the I-94 now as my plan was still to get to the FBI building, although God only knows how long a cop-killer would last in a federal building. I had the ledger. I had the juice on Faison and just hoped the Feds would listen to my story. Lifers had plenty of time to talk. Sweat ran down my brow but it felt surprisingly good. Those gunshots had given me a shot of adrenaline. I drove and drove and drove past plots of land with half built debt-trap houses and billboards begging Milwaukeeans not to use Canadian banks. I’ll make those bastards rue the day they didn’t kill me when they had a chance.
By some miracle I reached Milwaukee without spotting another cop car. I figured my Guardian Angel doesn’t work overtime. Time to ditch the car. I left the Ford in the Burbs and hit the pavement. I had the ledger but left the holdall. Didn’t need belongings where I was heading. My phone was still on. The police could trace me through cell-site technology. I downloaded a walking route to the FBI building and memorized it. Fuck. Google told me it takes two hours and twenty minutes on foot. I switched the cell off to make myself off-grid. Now my problem was getting to the FBI building without being picked up by the police or shot on site. I walked and jogged and ran, and when I ran out of breath I was practically crawling, always moving, conscious of the fact that the police treat pedestrians as vagrants and I could be picked up at any moment. Lose your car and you’ve practically lost your citizenship. I had one thing going for me. Faison had no authority over Milwaukee PD. He had to trust in their brotherhood instincts to kill a cop-killer. I managed a smile. Faison was an impatient bastard. I could picture him in City Hall anxiously waiting for the news that I was on a slab. Let’s make the bastard sweat some more.
I made it to South Lake Drive. The FBI field office appeared on the horizon. All glass architecture and snow white walls. It looked like a social media HQ in Silicon Valley. It was late. Most employees had left already. Only a dozen or so stragglers remained inside. I just hoped Cousin Jenny was among them. There was a commotion outside. As I neared the grisly scene honed into view. An old red Mustang had driven into the front entrance. Glass from the revolving door had rained on the hood. Cops were standing beside the car, their guns unholstered. I got close enough to see the driver was dead. There was no way I was getting past that entrance. The building was in lockdown. Cops were arguing with FBI agents over jurisdiction. Did they think it was a terrorist attack? Then it dawned on me. Milwaukee PD must have been tipped off that the FBI building was my likely destination. They’d got into an altercation with the man in the Mustang thinking it was me. Maybe a Mustang had been stolen close to where I ditched the Ford Edge. It was a costly fucking mistake. One man was dead and I couldn’t get into federal sanctuary. How many bodies did Faison have to drop until he got to me?
Violent scenes drew the crowds. People were recording the aftermath of the chaos on their Androids. The dead man would have his dignity robbed on YouTube, TikTok, Instagram and all the rest. I wasn’t safe, even in a crowd. A cop might recognize me. There was a bar nearby – McNulty’s, close enough for me to keep an eye on the FBI building. I went in and bagged a booth by the window. They’d have to let the remaining staff out of the building once they lifted the lockdown. People were itching to get back to their family, Netflix and chill or just plain crash. That would be my chance. A waitress took my order.
“Scotch and soda,” I told her, while checking out the decor. The place was old. The patrons looked rough. There was dust everywhere, and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned because none of the regulars expected it. It was odd. South Lake was a nice part of town. But McNulty’s looked like Heaven’s portal to Hell. The waitress brought me my drink. A elderly barfly climbed down from his stool and walked over. He looked old but alert, overweight but strong with the paunch.
“We have a stranger in da house.”
That was no Milwaukee twang. Swapping the T for a D, Chicago accent without a doubt.
“I’m just passing through,” I say, not so much to him but everyone in the room and no one at all.
“The drink’s on me,” he replies, pointing at it in case I was in any doubt as to what drink he meant.
“Thanks, but I can’t accept dat.”
I winced as I heard my mistake. Always thought my voice was kinda flat, but we walk around largely unawares of our own accent.
“Windy City, no mistake.”
Chi got that nickname not for the weather, but for the long list of blowhards the city produces. This guy fit the bill.
“My name’s Joe.” I don’t offer him my hand or name in response. He slid into my booth. “What brings you to the Cheese Belt?”
“You had a little trouble outside?” I say, ignoring his question, while looking out the window eager for updates. The cops had set up police tape around the crime scene. Looks like they were gonna use it to help escort FBI employees out of the building without disturbing the evidence.
“Ah, people round here just go crazy or something. Must be the cold, but today’s my lucky day though.”
“Why is today your lucky day?”
The police were leading the first group of people out of the FBI building. One woman had her head buried in a cop’s shoulder.
“Because after years of my horse never coming in, a winner like Tim Baumgartner suddenly walks into this bar.”
I met his eyes and realized I was looking into the face of a killer. Mine stayed poker. No point signing my own death warrant.
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” I didn’t offer him a phony name.
“Did you really think you’d make it?” he said with an alligator grin. “We set up that little diversion outside to make sure you’d never walk into that building.”
Shit, Faison had anticipated my every move. A thought came back to me that had come after that cop stopped a bullet on the I-94. Do what they don’t want you to do. This fucker Joe could be keeping me talking while a crew of Faison’s hired guns are making their way over.
It was as if Joe could read my mind. Suddenly a look of panic came over him as my body sent signals that I’m about to move fast and he’s gonna lose his payday. He reaches into his jacket and I know he is going for a gun. I slide out the booth as fast as I can and reach the door when I hear the first shot. Shards of colored glass explode next to me, sending pieces into my face and scalp. Some people in the bar are screaming. Others are urging Joe the shooter to kill me. I get through the door and hit the street. I’m running towards the FBI building, the ledger firmly clasped in my hands. People have heard the first shot within the bar. Joe is shouting, “Cop killer, cop killer” behind me. He fires again. Clearly he thinks he has to fire the fatal shot in order to claim the bounty Faison has put on me. I could be killed by the cops and the FBI agents I’m running towards. More shots ring out and I feel two hammer blows to my back. The force of the bullets colliding with my flesh keeps me moving at first, but my guts are shredded inside. I see Cousin Jenny by the front entrance looking on in disbelief. I stagger forward, gripping the ledger for dear life. The cops unleash a hail of bullets which take down Joe. Turns out he didn’t win the Kentucky Derby after all.
I collapse on the steps leading up to the entrance. The stone beneath my skin feels good. Federal property. I’m the victim of a federal crime. The ledger in my hand is evidence. No cop will be able to touch it. No one broke or venal enough will be able to sell it to Faison. I’m grinning from ear to ear as my heart stops pumping. Feds will be reading the ledger as I’m being lowered into the earth. They’ll link it to Faison and what he said about me on live television.
The message to kill me went out at 7:30.
— Steven Powell is the author of five books and is the leading authority on the life and work of James Ellroy. He is the author of Love Me Fierce in Danger: The Life of James Ellroy published by Bloomsbury, the only full-length biography of Ellroy.