Graham Rinehart dutifully pulls out his dark navy wool coat from inside the tiny, cluttered closet.  He smoothes out the wrinkles on the front of the jacket with his calloused hands—admiring the single line of polished silver buttons that descends the length of the tunic, the gold authoritative star at the top right—and slips a muscular arm through each sleeve.  He meticulously drags a fine-toothed comb throughout his thick russet hair, evenly slicking each strand back, and places a matching navy round-billed cap gently atop his head.  The holster around his waist is heavy, weighed down by its imperious attachments of Domination and Pacification: the wooden baton smoothed on the edge from use, the tarnished steel handcuffs worn by a myriad of criminals, and the deadly Smith & Wesson .38 Special Revolver—which he secures just above his right hip, quick for the draw.
The air is cold and bitter; the incoming wind howls and bites at his skin.  Each gale sends a series of needles to pierce his flesh.  The room is quaint: a small twin-sized mattress with dull white linens, an old paisley armchair with ripped seams and yellowed stains, and an uneven pine desk in the corner—quaint and constricting. A solitary window, clouded with filthy residue, welcomes the frigid air with open arms and invites the roar of the traffic below into the dark, damp room.

At the station, the other officers are gathered around the front desk over the newest edition of the Chicago Tribune, dated January 13, 1929.  The headline reads “Local Cop Stops Gang Robbery—Louis Milano Shot Dead.”  As Graham enters, they all erupt into shouting cheers and wild applause.

“There he is!  The man of the hour,” one announced, jumping up to pat Graham’s back.
“Nab‘em & Grab‘em Graham—Chicago’s finest,” another echoed.
“One down, the rest to go!”
“Big Cheese Capone better watch out—Rhinehart’s coming, and he can crack any case!”
“Truly a hero,” the secretary coos, batting her dark eyelashes and flashing a bright ruby smile.  Her blonde hair is cropped into a finger-waved bob, framing her small face.

All the while, Graham remains silent—miles away, his mind transported elsewhere.  He quietly nods a “thank you” to each, all without a word, and makes his way to his cluttered desk to confront his worries.  He grabs a cup of coffee—black, the only thing strong enough since the beginning of Prohibition—and stares at the newspaper.  One of Capone’s men was making a run for goods, and Graham happened to be a block over on one of his rounds.  One thing led to another, and both men fired; Graham’s accuracy deemed him victorious but not without a wound of his own—his left shoulder still stings from the nick of the bullet. 

This wasn’t the first instance Graham’s line-of-duty led to a fatal shoot out; he’d made peace with that many years ago—a necessary last resort in the enforcement of justice.  However, this time there were strings attached.  Milano wasn’t a rogue criminal operating out of self-interest; no, he was merely a pawn in a game led by a dangerous kingpin—one who would most definitely seek retaliation.  This was far from over, the fools in the lobby failing to realize.  Graham’s stomach twists and churns with the thought.  As he turns it over in his mind—dissecting and chewing it—the taste becomes sour and bitter, all the more real: he’s the target.

His heart beats violently within his chest, furiously pounding like a hammer on a nail.  Sweat beads on his forehead, a wave of adrenaline shoots through his veins.  A panic settles as his eyes dart throughout the room—seeking, searching.  He shuffles his feet in a mad dash toward the rusted window—cold and cruel.  His eyes look down upon the street five stories below.

For the next few days, Graham walks with a nervous step—an eye that shifts left, right, and behind constantly.  His heart skips a beat any time he turns a corner and sees a large muscular man—but each instance proved to be anti-climatic.  Today, on his day off, the missing weight of the badge provides no sense of relief; Paranoia makes her home by tangling her web in the mind.   

Graham drives to a local restaurant, The Green Mill, and takes a seat at a table in the far corner, a large round booth with burgundy vinyl seats. The lounge is fairly empty, save Graham and a few other diners.  The atmosphere is calm and soothing.  A pretty, young dame stands on stage singing sweet tunes like a canary on the first day of spring.  There is a low hum that drifts throughout the restaurant as the few present diners engage in conversation.

Graham hovers over his large plate of spaghetti and meatballs, occasionally pushing a meatball around the circular disk—first clockwise, then counter—or idly twisting and twirling noodles around his fork.  With his focus on his dish, a loud BANG! sounds, reverberating off the dark green walls.  Graham jumps out of his seat—and almost out of his skin—only to find that the new waitress had dropped a tray of beverages, shattering glass all across the wooden floor.  Graham exhales and shakes his head—but that’s when he sees it.

A group of six or seven large-build, broad-shouldered men slide into the doorway quietly, sticking to the walls without calling attention.  Each is clothed in a black pinstripe suit, matching fedora, and polished shoes; in their hands are sawed off shotguns and Tommy guns, the metal glistening under the dim overhead lights—a dangerous mocking call.  The largest of the bunch—the one in the center—smokes a thick cigar, puffing heavy tufts of smoke into the air with a sinister grin.  He exchanges a nod with one of the waitresses as she nonchalantly looks at the other staff to hurry to the kitchen.

Graham looks around at the other patrons: Italian, some matching the garb of the gangsters, others smoking similar cigars, women in lavish jewelry cocking their heads back in laughter, all of them aware of their presence but not the slightest bit alarmed. 

“S***,” Graham mutters beneath his breath, unable to comprehend how he failed to see it—the truth staring him right in the face: this is their territory.  “All this time and they were right under our damn noses!”  He attempts to slide out of the restaurant without being noticed, keeping low and clinging to walls.
“There,” one of the women shouts, pointing a slender finger embellished with numerous rings and red polish in Graham’s direction.
The men make haste and hustle toward him, a massive imposing wall of muscle.  Graham bursts into a desperate sprint, fleeing out the door as shots fire at his footsteps.  He runs all the way to an abandoned warehouse building on 9th Avenue, darting up five flights of stairs until he reaches a room with a solitary window. 
The ledge is thin—one wrong adjustment and it’s a long plummet.  He hugs the hospital building’s outside brick wall, his fingers clinging to the rough edges. Graham can hear the men’s shouts as they climb the stairwell.  Their voices ring in his ear, frightening his soul.  Voices sound from the stairs: the nurses’ crying pleas, the guards’ authoritative shouts, even Ronnie from the next ward over joins their desperate calls.  Behind the eight ball, Graham weighs his options as his knees begin to quiver: the dirty window or the stairwell full of bloodthirsty mobsters. 
“Do it! Do it,” the voice in his head shouts. “It’ll only hurt a little, just a scratch really.  These people here want you to rot in this cell, to poke you with needles, mess with your mind, say it all wasn’t real—you never shot Milano, it never happened, you were never there—to call you crazy.  Is that what you are?  CRAZY?”
“Stop,” he screams, tearing at the sides of his hair with his hands.  “Stop! Get out of my head! Get out! Get out!”

The voice laughs wickedly and maniacally.  “I’m just as real as you are.  I’m the plague of your mind, the demon of your soul. DO IT! Jump, you fool!”

Graham crawls out the window to the thin ledge, gazing at the cars busily rushing by below—each in a hurry, zooming past in a colored blur.  The guards pound at the door, trying to pry it open.  The gangsters kick and beat at the distressed white door, almost knocking it down.  “It’s just a matter of time.  One way or another,” Graham sighs, stepping forward.

“No!  I won’t do it,” he fights back, hitting his head with his fist.  “This is my lif—”  his foot slips, his balance thrown off like his body from the ledge.  He feels the air rush through his slicked hair as he falls.  The wind is cold, and his bones freeze.  Time seems painfully long. The guards open the door—five seconds too late, his body already displayed flat on the hard pavement.

* * *
Graham Adam Rhinehart, age 34, of Chicago, Illinois, died Thursday, January 17, 1929, at Chicago State Asylum.
He entered into the Chicago Police Academy at the age of 18 until he was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 20. 
He is preceded in death by his parents, George and Ellen Rhinehart.
There will be a private memorial in Burr Oak Cemetery, Illinois Saturday, January 29, 1929.