BY C. INANEN
Copyright is held by the author.
I DREAMED of being a princess or a famous dancer as I was growing up. That didn’t happen but I’m a pretty good homicide detective. Besides, the only dancers I know are strippers. The only queens I know are homosexuals and the only kings are drug lords. I don’t know any princesses at all.
Sometimes things don’t turn out the way that we think they will. What happens instead is unexpected.
I worked sex crimes after I got my gold shield before I transferred to the drug squad. Eventually Homicide gave me the call. My father used to tell me, “Laurie, if you’re going to be a dog, be a big dog.” I listened to him. A lady doesn’t tell her age but I’ll give you a clue. I’m no rookie.
I’m Laurie Sweet, City of Chicago police department detective and my record speaks for itself.
My partner John Collins and I had just cleared a case and were next up in the rotation so when the phone rang I answered it. “Homicide – Sweet.”
It was an internal call. The duty officer told me, “Got one for you. George Robinson, a.k.a. Lil-G was found deceased outside the front door of his home at 11:15 by uniform patrol in response to an anonymous 911 call.” He went on to give me the details which I copied down in my notebook.
“Do I need to hear the initial call?” I asked.
“Pretty basic, male caller said “Lil-G dead, man” and he gave the address.”
“OK, we’re rolling on it.” I looked across the desktops toward my partner who had his nose buried in a book.” When I hung up his eyes rose toward mine. “We’ve got one, Johnny,” I told him.
He was already pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “Once more into the breach,” he said. I think that’s a quote from somewhere. He does that all the time.
“Ulysses S. Grant,” I guessed.
He shook his head. “Shakespeare, from Henry V, spoken by King Henry.” He knows stuff. He’s even older than me; he’s got his 30 years in and then some. Despite the department’s best efforts to break us up so we can share our purported knowledge and experience with younger detectives we’ve been and remain partners. Every time the department tries to split us up he threatens to retire which effectively quashes that idea. I couldn’t ask for a better partner, I can’t even imagine a better one. Four years ago, after I’d been shot twice in the back, when I was in bed at Northwestern Memorial Hospital he visited me every day. Every single day, if we didn’t have anything interesting to talk about, he read to me, out loud. I would charge hell with a bucket of ice water, watching his back. He’d do the same for me.
When we arrived at the address on South Spaulding Avenue a coroner’s van was already at the scene. Two uniformed officers were present as well. A silver coloured blanket covered the deceased. When I peeled it back I could see there wasn’t any doubt about the fact and the manner of death. The young Black man had been shot multiple times. One of the uniforms stood next to me. “Frontal entry of multiple gunshots, in the neck, the chest and the abdomen,” he told me. I nodded. “Identification was made by his mother, resident of the home. She says that’s the second son she’s lost in a month.” The pair from the coroner’s office stood by with a proprietary, bored, impatient air.
“Through and through?” I asked. I didn’t know him. I had to read his name tag, Silverspoon. He was young enough for this to be his first homicide but handling it well. His partner, not so much, she seemed all anxious shocked eyes as she watched us from the front steps, next to what I assumed was the mother, Mrs. Robinson.
“Just the neck,” he replied. “The other slugs are still in there. That was probably the one that killed him.”
“No need to roll him then. You find anything on the body?”
“Nothing at all. Tee shirt, sweat pants and athletic shoes.” He hesitated, and then continued, “He was a shot-caller for the 27th Street Lords.”
That was good to know. “Good job,” I had to look at his nametag again, “Silverspoon, call the fire department and have them clean up the blood, and then you and your partner are clear.”
“Yes Ma’am – I mean yes Detective Sweet.”
I took a lot of pictures of the body in situ and the surrounding area then I told the coroner’s drivers they could take it away. We exchanged cards and paperwork. John was talking with the mother. The second patrol officer appeared glad to get out of there. John told me Mrs. Robinson hadn’t heard or seen anything and had only come out 15 minutes or so later after he stepped outside and found her son. He had just awakened.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told her automatically as I gave her one of my cards. I was surprised how young she was, she didn’t look old enough to have a son that age. She wasn’t crying too much and certainly wasn’t hysterical or anything but her eyes were fixed on the shape underneath the blanket and then his body as it was zipped into a body bag the whole time we spoke. I wouldn’t want eyes like that directed at me. After we dismissed the mother I told Johnny what Silverspoon had said about his being a shot-caller for the 27th Street Lords. We split up and knocked on doors in hopes of finding a witness who might have heard or seen something useful.
I called the Gang Crimes Section back at headquarters. “George Robinson, a.k.a. Lil-G, now deceased was found outside the front door of his home this morning. Supposedly he’s a member of the 27th Street Lords. What can you tell me?”
I learned that Lil-G had assumed the leadership of the 27th Street Lords after his brother’s body was found at the intersection of Pulaski Road and 26th Street in the South Lawndale neighborhood last month. His brother had been known as B-Ball. The Lords were suspected of retaliating by firebombing the Aktivnyy Social Club. That had been a Russian mob headquarters. Five Russians were found dead at the scene and the event was being investigated. There were a number of promising leads. “Where do I find the 27th Street Lords?” I asked.
“South Sayer Avenue and W. 27th Street,” was the prompt reply. “That’s their corner. They peddle heroin and an assortment of pharmaceuticals there. They also hang out at the Burger King on 27th Street near there and Tat City Tattoos on Kedzie Avenue. Your homicide might be part of a war between them and the Russians.”
“I appreciate it,” I thanked them. John and I finished up our door-to-door questioning about the same time. I filled him in on what I’d learned with my phone call to Gang Crimes. Beyond that I had drawn a blank. I didn’t even get anyone to admit that they lived on South Spaulding Avenue.
John had done better than me. He’s a people person. A Mrs. Wolcox, who was troubled by hemorrhoids, had heard what she described as sounding like the sewing machine from hell. When she looked out her front window she’d seen a black SUV drive past. She didn’t know how many people were in it and hadn’t gotten the license number but that had happened about the right time. Not much to go on but better than nothing.
John told me, “You should never invade Russia during the winter.”
“Adolf Hitler?”
“He learned it but I don’t think he said it. It’s one of the generally accepted rules of warfare, like never fight a land war in Asia.”
“Dwight Eisenhower?” I guessed.
“That’s from the movie “The Princess Bride” although Douglas MacArthur or Bernard Montgomery could have said it.” The things I learn being partnered with John.
“Let’s go over to South Sayer Avenue and 27th Street,” I suggested. John put the Chevrolet plainclothes car into gear and it responded with an ominous Clunk before it began to move. We could probably swing some weight and get a newer car but the heat and the air-conditioning worked well in this one.
It appeared that business was slow for the 27th Street Lords when we pulled up to the intersection. It would probably pick up when people started to go home after the work day. I rolled down my window and pointed at one of the older boys standing at the corner and crooked my finger at him. He looked at his buddies and then swaggered over to the car, styling in front of his friends. “Whassup, babe?” he asked me.
I chose to take the “babe” as a compliment. I was old enough to be his mother. “What do they call you?” I asked him.
“I’m Rida,” he informed me, pronouncing it “rye-duh.”
“Hop in,” I told him. “We’ll take a little ride, Rida.”
“Oh man,” he began to protest.
I cut him off, “Just up to the alley. We’re not Narcotics, we’re murder police. It’s important.”
He looked back at his friends and then at John and me again. “Yeah?” We both nodded.
After Rida got in the back of the car John drove ½ a block to the entrance of the alley and he backed in. “This is good, right?” he asked. The corner boys could see us and we could see them but we weren’t obviously interfering with business, obscured by the buildings that flanked the alley, as we were. John turned toward Rida. “Lil-G was shot down outside his front door today. Can you tell us anything about it?”
He was evidently surprised. The first thing he said was, “It wasn’t me, man. First I heard.”
“Now you know. Who didn’t like Lil-G enough to shoot him 4 or 5 times? Does anybody come to mind?”
He put his head down with his eyes closed. I’m guessing that was part mourning and part thinking. “Everybody like Lil-G,” he finally said.
“Even the Russians?” I prompted.
“Maybe not them,” he admitted. “But everybody else, ‘specially that Chantel. She like him a lot.”
I gave him one of my cards. “You hear anything we should know, get in touch, OK?”
He was hesitant to take it. “Anything you think we should know,” I rephrased that emphasizing “you”.
He accepted the card. “You gonna find out who?” he asked me.
“That’s our job,” I told him.
“You want a ride back to the corner?” John asked him.
“Nah, I kin walk.” I got out and then let Rida out of the rear door. He didn’t swagger as he headed back to the corner. He walked like a 15 year old kid who had just received some bad news, slowly and thoughtfully. Just as I was getting back in the car a black GMC Yukon rolled slowly past on 27th Street. What caught my attention was the fact that the windows were down, in November. There were three men inside the vehicle. As I watched, the passenger in the rear seat raised a gun barrel above the windowsill.
I shouted to Rida, “Get down Rida!” He turned in surprise and looked back at me, spotted the Yukon and dropped to the sidewalk, then rolled toward the curb. As he scrambled onto the street and under a parked car the man in the passenger seat leaned across the SUV and poked another gun barrel out the driver’s window. When they got to the corner they opened fire, spraying bullets across the intersection. Glass windows broke, bullets whined off of brick buildings and the sidewalk. The 27th Street Lords at the corner dropped or fell. I stepped out into the street and got the license plate number. The Yukon turned on South Sayer Avenue and the fusillade continued. By the time it had disappeared no one was left standing on the corner.
I’m trained to run toward trouble, not away from it so that’s what I did. I passed Rida cowering behind a tan car at a sprint. He was just raising his head in the sudden silence of the aftermath. When I got to the corner and surveyed the carnage I found two of the gangbangers down on the sidewalk. One of them was motionless and one was moaning. A third was taking shelter behind a pedestal for a street light and a green trash receptacle. That one looked at me with fearful eyes. John screeched to a halt feet away from him. I could see he was transmitting on the radio. “Black 2025 Yukon, Illinois plate number 190199!” I shouted to him. He added that to his radio call as he planted our strobe light on the dashboard.
The Yukon was long gone, of course. It had disappeared down South Sayer Avenue before I got to the corner.
Squad cars and uniformed patrol officers converged on the scene within minutes in response to John’s radio call. After our sergeant got the details he was uncertain if this incident fell into the category of an officer involved shooting so he had to check with administration out of an abundance of caution. Another detective team was sent out and we were interviewed as witnesses. By the time we got back to the station it had been determined that this would not be treated as an officer involved shooting. Had it been John and I would have had a mandated three days off duty and have to surrender our weapons for ballistic tests. We would also have to undergo a battery of tests and counseling sessions.
As it was I had time to go down to the Gang Crimes Section and talk with one of the unit members. He briefed me on the history between the 27th Street Lords and the Russian mob. He also gave me an overview of the Russian involvement in crime in Chicago and told me the overall shape of the joint investigation of the Aktivnyy Social Club firebombing. He was reticent about sharing certain details because the majority of the suspects were minors but I knew I could get those from the homicide squad if I needed them.
The license plate number traced back to an auto leasing firm in Baltimore. John contacted them and although they promised to get back to him they didn’t provide any information on who it was currently leased to. They would call him back. We would probably end up getting that info from Early and Kowalski, the detective duo who were assigned to the Sayer Avenue and 27th Street murder and drive by shooting. Even they might end up having a judge draw up a warrant and then having it served before that information was known.
Sometimes the wheels of justice turn pretty slowly.
Sometimes they don’t. When I got in the next morning, Detective Sparrow from the night shift tracked me down. He even brought me a hot chocolate.
“Got something for you,” he said, sitting on the corner of my desk.
“Oh, thank you,” I told him, eying the hot chocolate. “What do you want in return?”
“Oh, no,” he laughed. “I just didn’t know how you take your coffee. Today’s your lucky day.” I looked at him suspiciously. “You got any donuts?” he inquired.
“Johnny’s turn to bring the donuts today,” I explained, shaking my head. “He’ll be here in a couple of minutes but I doubt he got any extra.”
He shrugged. “Last night at 11:25 one Adryan Alekseyev, according to his international driver’s license, took two to the head at South Yates Boulevard and the entrance to Big Marsh Park. That’s Insane Disciples territory. They must have really screwed the second one right into his ear. It had soot deposition and stippling. They found him behind the wheel of a black 2025 GMC Yukon.”
I started to say something and Detective Sparrow held up one forefinger, silencing me. He continued, “The passenger, Peter Magomedov, who was shot several times himself is over at Advocate Trinity Hospital in intensive care. He’s still alive. We’ve got a uniform sitting outside his door.” Then he smiled at me.
“You can have my donut when Johnny gets here,” I told him.
I kept tabs on Peter Magomedov’s condition throughout the day which remained critical. They found 112 brass casings from 7.62×39mm cartridges scattered on the carpeting of the Yukon and an Avtomat Kalashnikova assault rifle, an AK-47. We had hit the jackpot. John ferried it over to the ballistics section. Chances were good that we could match the bullets taken out of Lil-G’s body after that was done during the autopsy with test samples fired from that weapon. If not it might match up with some from the Sayer Avenue and 27th Street shooting.
I got a call from my contact at the Gang Crimes Section. Helpfully he told me, “I know you’re working on something with the 27th Street Lords and thought you might be interested in this one. It looks like they got up on the scoreboard last night when they fired on a Russian courier vehicle over by Big Marsh Park. Killed the driver, wounded the passenger grievously, and took the dope and the money. That’s Insane Disciples territory. Apparently they ambushed it.”
“I appreciate the update,” I thanked him. That’s what units like that are supposed to be all about, helping us work together more efficiently. I liked the way he used “grievously” too.
I filled John in on what Gang Crimes believed. He said, “Attack when he is unprepared, sally forth when he does not expect you.” He seemed to be rooting for the 27th Street Lords.
“Ho Chi Minh?”
“Oh, so close,” he told me. “Sun Tzu.”
The next morning the cheerful telephone receptionist at Advocate Trinity Hospital revealed that Peter Magomedov had rallied during the night and was upgraded to serious. John and I split up. I would take our car to the hospital to question Magomedov, he would check out a squad car if one was available, otherwise he’d get ferried over to Mrs. Wolcox’s home with two six packs of photos which included Magomedov and the deceased Adryan Alekseyev. His driver’s license had provided the photo.
“How did you get Magomedov’s picture?” I was curious.
“Sparrow got it for me.”
I looked at the clock. Detective Sparrow had just left 30 minutes ago. I didn’t hesitate, referring to my contacts list I hit his cell phone up.
“Sparrow” he answered, alert as if he were sitting across the room from me. It takes a while to wind down and relax after a shift.
“Laurie Sweet” I told him. “I’m curious how you got a photo of Magomedov?”
“You mean one where his head isn’t wrapped in bandages? VKontakte, known as VK, it’s a Russian social media website. He’s got a profile there.”
“Clever,” I complemented him. “Have a good one.”
I checked out Magomedov’s profile as I drove to Advocate Trinity Hospital. He claimed to be 38 years old, had played professional hockey with the Metallurgy team in the Kharlamov division of the Kontinental Hockey League and indicated weightlifting was his hobby. There was no mention of being in or going to the United States. His profession was listed as prodavets. Google told me that translated as salesman.
When I stopped at the front desk to get my visitor’s pass and name sticker the woman looked at my business card and then back at me. “What is this, you all use the same card?”
I was puzzled. “What do you mean?” I asked her.
She referred to her clipboard. “Detective Laurie Sweet, Chicago Police Department arrived 9:20 AM and hasn’t left yet.”
That was just ten minutes earlier. I skipped past the elevator and ran up the stairs to the third floor. Before I got to the nurses’ station I heard gunshots. Nine of them, followed immediately by screams. Pandemonium ensued with people shouting and screaming. A buzzer went off and then a loud, strident bell began ringing continually. In the midst of all that Mrs. Robinson appeared in the hallway outside one of the rooms.
She walked calmly toward me, carrying a 9 mm handgun at her side. It looked like one of those cheap Chinese knockoffs. I reached under my jacket and drew my sidearm. I’m old school, I use a shoulder holster. I levelled it at her.
“Detective Sweet,” she said. “You got here fast.” She smiled. “I killed that sumbitch.” She handed me her weapon butt first. “Oh yes I did.” She seemed pretty pleased with herself.
Sometimes things don’t turn out the way that you think they will. What happens instead is unexpected.
***
C. Inanen lives in the midwest U.S. His work has been most recently published in Down in the Dirt magazine. It will also be featured in the March 2026 issue of Close to the Bone, April 2026 issue of Yellow Mama magazine, May issues of Blue Lake Review and AntipodeanSF as well as the June 2026 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine. He is a contributor to The Yard: Crime Blog and the British The Short Humour Site.