by C. M. Sutter
“How can I help you, Detectives?”
“Is there a place we can speak privately?” I asked.
“Of course, right this way.” She led us into her office and closed the door behind Frank. “Please, have a seat.” Louisa rounded her desk and scooted the chair in once she had sat down. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
I reached in my jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out my phone. After spreading the picture of the killer to enlarge it, I slid my phone across the desk. “Do you recognize this woman?”
She stared at the screen. “She does look familiar, but with her hair tucked inside a stocking cap, I can’t say I recognize her with one hundred percent certainty. Do you know her hair color or style?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t,” Frank said, “but we do know she frequents this particular library and has been here twice for sure in the last few days.”
“Okay, then how about a name? I can look her up in our library cardholders database.”
I took my turn. “We don’t have a first name, only an initial. The woman goes by V. Smith.”
“Sure, I’ll check right now.” Louisa powered up her computer while we waited. “There is a library card on file that’s registered to a Victor Smith, but unfortunately, that’s a man’s name. It looks to be the only Smith whose first name begins with a V.”
I sighed in frustration. “Is there an address attached to the name?”
“Yes, a box number is the address on record from the Henry W. McGee post office on Forty-Sixth and South Cottage Grove.”
We thanked Louisa, and I gave her my card, along with instructions to have her or her staff call me immediately if the woman was seen inside the library again. I sent the picture to Louisa’s email address, and she said she’d have a private meeting with the staff about it as soon as we left.
After climbing into the cruiser, I buckled my seat belt and stared out the passenger window. “That woman has to live around here somewhere since the library and post office are only a few blocks apart. If only we knew what kind of car she drove.”
“We can have Lutz send officers to see if they can find cameras that might show where she came from when Foxworthy caught her at the end of the block on the opposite side of the street. She likely parked somewhere around the corner then walked in so her car wouldn’t show up in front of the Barstow home. The officers can backtrack her movements from home cameras until they see what kind of vehicle she got out of.”
“Yeah, that may be our only way to know what she drives. I’ll call Lutz now.”
Once we updated our commander, Lutz said he would send out a handful of officers to comb a several-block grid around the neighborhood in search of cameras that could track our perp from the second she climbed out of her car.
I entered the bullpen and walked to Henry’s desk. “Did you finish the doorbell camera footage?”
“Yep, nobody else came or left, and I checked the entire time between noon and five.”
“Okay, good. How about the Smith names?”
“There were seventeen that began with a V.”
“Easy enough to go through,” Frank said. “How many were named Victor?”
Henry glanced at the sheet he’d printed. “Only three.”
“Good, now find out where they live.” I took my seat and was mindful of the time. In fifteen minutes, the news would come on, and the segment about our mystery woman would air. I hoped that after that piece ended, the tip-line phones would glow red like Christmas lights.
Back in the moment, I tried to remember what I had been working on before Frank and I left for the library.
Ah, that’s right. I was going to review everything again starting with Charlotte’s murder. Maybe the connection between them will reveal itself now that there’s even more victims.
The first thing I needed to do was print a map of Chicago. Several locations were much too close to each other to be considered coincidences. I heard the whir of the printer as it started, and I took that time to fill my coffee cup while the map printed. Back in my chair with the map in front of me and a red pen in hand, I checked the locations of the crimes and put a dot where each one had taken place. Then I used a green pen to place dots on the library and post office locations. I propped up my chin and stared at the results. Other than Jeff Vaskey and Renee Barstow’s home locations, the dots were relatively close in proximity, and the killer likely chose those spots purely for convenience.
Close to home and you know that area well. You pick and choose the spots where you’ll go unnoticed, and you take streets that will get you back home quickly without cameras picking you up.
Opening my notepad to last Saturday night, I reviewed what I had written at the scene of Charlotte’s murder. I could see the anxiety in my handwriting, and some parts were illegible. I pulled the official police report from the file cabinet and reviewed that instead. I recalled the street, the time of night, how Charlotte’s vehicle looked, and where it ended up after it slowed to a stop. I envisioned her in the driver’s seat, slumped to the right, and how the left side of her face was covered in blood and unrecognizable. The horrific scene of the dead mother of one of my best friends was something nobody should ever have to see. Even though I was a cop, it still broke my heart. I turned the page to the interviews Tillson had conducted with people in the immediate area. Their accounts were all over the board, and none of them matched. I remembered giving Tillson a hand. We needed statements that were more reliable and from witnesses who seemed more credible.
Flipping the pages of my notepad, I went to the interviews I’d conducted myself and read them again. I’d spoken with four people that night—a single man, a single woman, and a couple. I read the single man’s interview first. He said he’d seen a suspicious man in a tracksuit duck into a building, but that was proven false—the building was locked. The couple was next, and according to what they’d told me, they couldn’t agree on the number of gunshots they heard or where they came from. I remembered the boyfriend smelling like beer. I rubbed my eyes and continued on. The last interview was with that know-it-all woman who gave me the wrong information about the VW Tiguan as the vehicle that was alongside Charlotte’s Nissan when the shots rang out.
Yeah, she thought she was giving me some really important details, and nothing she said panned out either.
I stared at the information I’d written down from her driver’s license. She was a six-foot-tall woman who tried to appear helpful but was actually lying through her teeth and attempting to throw us off with the fake Tiguan sighting. I nearly fell out of my chair when I realized why the woman in the library footage looked familiar. “I have her—I know who the killer is!”
Everyone in the bullpen spun in their chairs. I yelled at Frank to pull up the DMV website and enter the name Gloria Smythe into it. It had to be her.
“What have you got?” I leapt from my chair and stood at his side.
“That’s her.”
We gathered around his computer and stared into the face of the woman who had exited the Barstow home.
“Got her dead to rights,” Henry said as he high-fived me. “Look.” He pointed at the driver’s license details. “She’s six foot tall, and don’t you think the names Smythe and Smith are too similar to be coincidences?”
“Damn right I do.”
Frank read off the address for her on East Forty-Eighth Street and South Langley while I dialed Lutz’s office. When he answered, I put him on Speakerphone.
“What’s up, Jesse?”
“We’ve got her, Boss, and we need a couple of patrol units to meet us at this address immediately.” I read off the address.
“And you’re sure it’s her?”
“I’ll stake my career on it.”
“That’s good enough for me. You, Frank, Henry, and Shawn head to that address now. The rest of you stay put and work on the tip-line phone calls. Just because that’s her address doesn’t mean she’s waiting there for us to arrive.”
Chapter 47
We rolled to a stop behind a parked patrol car two buildings down from Gloria’s. Without knowing the layout of the building, we had no idea if her windows faced the street or the alley in the back, but we did know that she had a second-floor unit. Frank and I hopped out of the cruiser and approached the waiting officers. Henry and Shawn were on our heels.
“See her car anywhere?” I asked.
“Nothing that fits the description of a late-model black Civic along the street, but we haven’t checked the alley or the parking lot yet.”
“Okay.” I nodded toward the parking lot, and Henry and Shawn took off on foot. I turned toward the officers. “You guys check the alley, and we’ll watch the front of the building. I want everyone back in five minutes so we can plan our approach. We can’t linger out here in the open too long.” Giving the buildings on the block a glance, I assumed they all had locked entries with intercom access. I jerked my chin at the one directly ahead of us that looked identical to Gloria’s. “Let’s see how the entrance is set up.”
Frank and I took the sidewalk to the front door and walked in. The vestibule was as I had expected with a locked inner door. I imagined Gloria’s building was the same. We needed a way to get inside without her knowledge, and a surprise entry was imperative.
“We’ll have to ram that steel door and hope she doesn’t hear us from the second floor, then ambush her apartment.”
Frank rubbed his chin. “That’s a lot of work when we have no idea if she’s home or not. How about checking to see if there’s an on-site manager first?”
“Yeah, go for it. Check online for a contact person or a management company.”
I kept my eyes on Gloria’s building while Frank searched his phone for information.
“I’ve got something,” he said. “Apparently, all of these apartment complexes are managed by FTR Rentals of Chicago.”
“Then call them and make it quick.” I turned when I heard footsteps at my back. Shawn, Henry, and the two officers were returning.
“Her car isn’t here, Jesse,” Henry said.
“Okay, we’re going to hang tight for a minute. Frank is checking into the rental agency to see if there’s an on-site manager.”
“Why not just ram the door?” Shawn asked.
I shook my head. “Let’s find out about a manager first, and if there isn’t one, we’ll ram it.”
Frank held up his hand—he had someone on the line. We waited as he talked. Seconds later, he thanked the person and hung up. “Paul Hennison is the manager, and he lives in building seven.”
“Good, let’s go.” I led the way to the third building on the left side of the street. Inside, I pressed the buzzer for P. Hennison, and he immediately answered through the intercom. I breathed a sigh of relief that he was home. “Paul Hennison?”
“That’s me.”
“This is Detective McCord from the Chicago PD. I’d like a word with you if you wouldn’t mind coming to the door.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right out.”
Paul reached the door within seconds, and we had our badges ready. Any smart person would ask to see our IDs.
I explained that we needed to take a resident into custody and told him Gloria’s name. “She’s in apartment nine in building three,” I added.
“Not anymore,” he said.
I wrinkled my forehead. “Meaning?”
He swatted the air. “I had to evict her. She was a menace, and everyone complained about her short temper and threatening attitude. There was something off about that woman, like she had a chip on her shoulder.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?” I asked before thinking. She probably wouldn’t have given him a forwarding address if she had been evicted.
Paul scrunched his face. “Nope. I was just happy to get rid of her, and so were the other tenants. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Detective.”
I handed him my card. “Call me if you think of anything else that could help. Oh, and by the way, how long ago did you kick her out?”
“Only a week back.”
“And the apartment has been cleared of all her belongings?”
“She filled her car and was gone. I had a junk company come and remove the crap she left behind since I need to clean, paint, and get that apartment rented out before the first of next month.”
“The name of that company?” Frank asked with his notepad in hand.
“Clean Out Crew. You can find them online.”
We thanked Paul and headed to the cars.
“That was a bust,” Henry said. “Now what?”
“Now we put out a BOLO for her vehicle and hope something useful comes in on the tip line.” I thanked the patrol officers for their help, and we parted ways.
It was after seven by the time we got back to the precinct, and we found Lutz locking his office when we reached our floor.
“Boss.”
Lutz let out an involuntary sigh. “Go home, all of you. I’ve already updated the night crew. The BOLO is out for Gloria Smythe’s car, and Abrams has a heavy patrol presence in the general area she’s frequented this week. They know what she drives, they’ll keep their eyes peeled, and they’ll apprehend her if she’s spotted.”
“What about the tip lines?” Shawn asked.
“There’s enough second shift guys to answer the phones, and they’ve been told to call me if they receive anything reliable.” Lutz locked eyes with me. “Don’t worry, McCord. If I hear something worthwhile, I’ll call you. We’ll have Gloria in custody by this time tomorrow. I guarantee it.”
Chapter 48
It was after eleven o’clock, and as tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I climbed out of bed, headed into my office, and grabbed my laptop off the desk. Minutes later, with a beer and a sleepy dog at my side, I opened Notepad and began tapping the keyboard.
I couldn’t figure out why Gloria Smythe would have a library card and a post office address under the name Victor Smith.
Smith, Smythe, similar last names, but to take on the identity of a man? I don’t get the logic of it.
My thinking could be completely wrong, but as a cop, we were led to believe that when somebody used an alias, they were hiding from the law. Gloria didn’t have a police record, though, so I was at a loss for the reason behind her alias.
She did use V. Smith as the name of the person who sent the résumé to Renee Barstow. There has to be a reason that makes sense—at least to her.
I took notes of questions to address in the morning. I wanted to check Gloria’s tax returns to see what she listed as her occupation.
That might enlighten me, but it would require a warrant and lengthy red tape. Maybe Paul the apartment manager will know. I’ll try him first.
I needed to stop at the post office too. They might know something about her that they would share without a warrant.
But her post office box is under a man’s name. Why didn’t they ask to see her driver’s license when she rented it? Does she carry two IDs? She’s tall for a woman, but she definitely wouldn’t pass for a man.
I massaged my aching head and glanced at my phone. A text from Hanna that I hadn’t noticed had come in at ten o’clock. I sent one back asking if she was still up and got a response right away.
“Yep, I can’t sleep.”
“I can’t either. Can I call you?”
“Sure, but give me two minutes. I want to pour a glass of wine first.”
I smiled and would’ve loved having Hanna at my side. Her comments and theories were often helpful, and they seemed to come to her without effort.
Maybe it’s the difference between the way men and women think. Who knows?
I checked the time—three minutes had passed. I tapped Hanna’s name in my contact list then heard the phone ring on her end.
“Hi, handsome.”
I chuckled. “What’s keeping you awake?”
Her sigh was unmistakable. “It’s just one of those nights where I can�
�t turn off my mind. I even started to read a book by a new author, but I couldn’t get into the story.”
“I imagine that happens a lot.”
“Maybe. Why aren’t you asleep? Is the case weighing on your mind?”
“Yeah, big-time. I can’t wrap my head around some of the things the killer does.”
Hanna laughed. “Did you really just say that? Since when do murderers make sense?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Go ahead. Run your doubts by me.”
“Nah… it’s okay. You don’t always have to be my sounding board.”
“Jesse, I enjoy it—really. Just tell me.”
“Okay, if you insist. The killer goes by her given name, Gloria Smythe, but also by a male name, Victor Smith. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
“Police after her?”
“We are now, but we weren’t before. She doesn’t have a record—not even a speeding ticket.”
“That is strange, but it reminds me of what authors do. One of my favorites is J. K. Alba. Readers automatically think the author is a man because of the initials. I guess women usually go by names—you know, Melinda, Karen, Nora, and the like. Turns out, J. K. Alba doesn’t represent any name in particular. It’s just the author’s pen name. Her real name is Janet Kelly Alban. Similar to the pen name but different enough to keep her anonymity. Most authors do use pen names to separate their real life from their writing life.”
“I never thought of that, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t have much interest in reading. I already live the crime thriller life, and honestly, I’d rather get in a good two-mile run when I have the free time.”
Hanna chuckled again. “You do have an exciting life, Detective McCord. Maybe your killer has a bad relationship with her family and doesn’t want to be found. Or she’s transitioning and had her name legally changed to a male name.”
“Guess there could be other valid reasons I hadn’t thought about. Thanks, Hanna. Your input always helps. How about coming over for dinner Saturday night? I noticed Dark Destiny is showing on one of the premium channels now, and we still haven’t seen it.”
