Page 3 of Powerful Deception

That didn’t happen.

So, I sat there for what felt like hours, crying, screaming, wishing that whoever came after my father would come after me too. They never did.

I think one of the neighbors must have heard my screams because soon police officers were surrounding me and his limp body. I had no idea when they had arrived, but they did and because my dad was one of them everyone was on high alert.

One of Chicago’s finest had been murdered, of course they were on high alert.

Everything after that is a blur of events. Talking to the detectives handling the case, talking to the funeral director about a funeral I couldn’t afford on my own, fighting with the bank about touching the funds my dad left behind.

Everything is jumbled up together and now here I am.

Watching his funeral.

I fucking hate it.

I hate being in this cathedral in the middle of Chicago surrounded by people I don’t know.

I hate that I have to sit here, like the good daughter that is mourning, and not as if my insides aren’t screaming in agony wanting to know who did this.

I hate every fucking thing about this whole situation and there is nothing that I could do about but sit here and listen to a priest talk.

“Let’s give one final moment of silence in memory of our friend, our brother, our son, and our father, Joseph Vitale.”

As Father John bows his head, the entire church goes completely silent. Not even a cough sounds through the building. The only thing I’m able to hear is the rapidness of my heart beating in my chest.

I want to let out a scream to accompany the tears that are currently streaming down my face. I want to yell at everyone in this building to leave and let me mourn my father alone and not tell me how he’s off in a better place, because he’s not.

I want to run out of here and go find my father’s killer and give them the same mercy that was awarded to the one man that has ever loved me.

But once again, I don’t do that.

I just continue to sit here in this pew, waiting for this prayer to be over so I can continue to fight with myself as the funeral continues.

Because the funeral doesn’t end here.

It doesn’t end in this church that my father attended for years until my mother’s death. A church that he hasn’t set foot in in twelve years.

No, Joseph Vitale was one of Chicago’s finest in blue and this funeral will continue with a progression involving every first responder in this city. And once the progression is over, I will witness my father’s body be put in the ground to never see the light again.

I’m looking forward to that because then, then I will be left in peace and no longer will have to deal with the wives that look at me with pity.

To them I’m the poor girl that no longer has her parents.

Once my father is in the ground, I will be all but forgotten by them. A distant memory they will only recall when they see me on the streets or when a picture of my father comes along the way.

To them, I’m nothing.

During this whole moment of silence, I don’t bow my head or even take my eyes off my father’s closed casket. I don’t mutter the rosary prayer that I’m sure some people are saying in their heads. I stay that way until Father John clears his throat and says an amen into the microphone.

As soon as the amen is spoken, the music starts up signifying the end of the service.

I still don’t move. I still don’t wipe away my tears and I still don’t take my eyes off the wooden box.

In my peripheral vision though, I do see Tommy and a few of my dad’s colleagues stand up from their seats and make their way to the casket. Then when they’re in my direct line of sight, I see each of them taking their place as pallbearers.

Time to walk out the church and act like I’m the strongest person in the whole fucking world.

Father John walks down the aisle, stopping right next to my pew, waiting for me to join him. The look of sadness as he looks down at me is not one that I miss.