“Vishneski. I’m John Vishneski.” His face was lined and scarred, and his voice was a soft, tired rumble.
I paused, with my hand on the doorknob. “You’re related to Chad Vishneski?”
“His dad.” He shook his head, as if the relationship were new, or surprising to him. “Yes, I’m his dad.”
I shoved the door open—it always sticks more in the winter—and held it for Chad’s father. When he got inside, Vishneski carefully wiped his boots on the hallway mat three or four times, the gesture of a man who wasn’t sure he was welcome and wanted to minimize any evidence he’d been there.
I directed Vishneski to the couch in the client alcove and switched on the coffee machine in the back. While I turned on lights and put my coat and case away, Vishneski sat completely still, looking at nothing in particular. The cold didn’t seem to bother him, even though my office was barely sixty degrees. It’s such a barn of a place, I keep the thermostat turned low on weekends. I brought a space heater over from my desk, and sat down myself.
“I’m sorry for the trouble you’re going through, Mr. Vishneski.”
“Yep. It’s a hard time.” He made it a statement, not a complaint.
A minute or so went by when he didn’t say anything else. A lot of people have trouble getting to the point when they’re in the detective’s office. Like visiting the doctor: you have this lump in your breast, but now you’re in the office, you don’t want to ask, you don’t want to be told.
“Is Chad your only child?” I asked, just as a way to prod him into speaking.
“My only one, and I didn’t even know he was in trouble, not until one of the gals in the office called me Saturday night. My own boy, and I didn’t know. That’s what that I-raq war did, turned him into a boy who couldn’t call his old man when he was in trouble.”
“Would he have, before the war?”
He nodded. “We used to talk every day, even when he was off at Grand Valley State. Even when he first deployed. But then the war got to him. The violence. He saw his whole unit die around him during his third deployment, and that did him in. It was like he blamed me, in a way.”
“Blamed you?”
“I thought a lot about this,” he said. “I think he felt I should have protected him. I was his dad, see, and he always, oh, looked up to me. At least when he was small. I worked construction my whole life, although I’m a project manager now, for Mercurio. I was stronger than most guys, and Chad, he thought I could always take care of trouble around him, or me, and I always thought so, too. Until he went off to I-raq, where no one could protect him. It’s in my dreams all the time, that I should have saved him from seeing what he had to see. I couldn’t save him, and he couldn’t talk to me anymore.”
He stuck a hand reflexively inside his jacket pocket, then looked a question.
“You’re right,” I said. “This is a no-smoking zone.”
“Smoking in the cold outdoors—don’t know why pneumonia hasn’t carried me off by now.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “They’re holding my boy in a prison hospital ward. Do you know it?”
“Cermak Hospital. I’ve been there.”
“Terrible place. Terrible, terrible place. Just getting in to see my own boy, they searched me. I had to take off all my clothes just to see my son.”
Strip searching, it’s so humiliating. When you’re worried about your child, the violation is even more acute.
“My boy is in intensive care,” Vishneski was continuing. “He’s unconscious, but they got him chained to the bed. How can anyone get well if they’re chained to the bed like that? I begged them, Let me move him to a real hospital where he can get real care, but the judge, he set the bail at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If I can’t pay the bail, Chad has to stay there in the jail hospital.”
I could hear my office phone begin to ring behind the partition. Monday morning: everyone wanted me faster than yesterday.
“Why did you come to me, Mr. Vishneski?”
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “They told me you were at this nightclub, this Club Gouge. They told me maybe you saw what happened. Maybe you can explain what that dead gal did to Chad to get