“What is there to know?”
“Exactly, Michael. What is there to know? As far as you’re concerned, nothing.”
“Now you got me curious.”
“Bul shit. You were curious from the moment you saw it. And I think you might have gotten at least half a look at it.”
“You’re not gonna tel me about the binder?”
She turned the music up again. I returned to my notes.
“What’s that?” She pointed to a file I had tabbed TRANSCO.
“A lead Hubert was working on the old CTA crash,” I said. “Most of it’s in the files he downloaded to you.”
“That for the ME?”
“Maybe. You want to hear?”
“Hang on.” Lawson had exited the highway. Now she took a right onto Harrison Street and pul ed into a slot in front of the Cook County Medical Examiner’s building. I handed her the folder.
“I’m listening,” she said and began to leaf through Hubert’s notes.
I explained how a faulty device built by Transco derailed a train thirty years ago and probably kil ed eleven people.
“Who owned Transco?” she said, eyes narrowed, stil glued to her reading.
“An old holding company named CMT.” I handed her some more paperwork. “Hubert could never nail down the principals, but I think it’s worth a little more digging.”
Lawson closed the folder and handed it back to me. “Why?”
“Because I get the feeling these guys, whoever they are, don’t want to be discovered.”
“And that interests you?”
“I don’t believe Doherty kil ed Hubert.” I popped open the passenger’s-side door. “And these guys have something to hide. So, yeah, that interests me. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 52
What makes you think I wouldn’t have given you a look?”
Marge Connel y measured me through a pair of black reading glasses and reached for her coffee mug. She was sitting behind her desk, dressed in a set of blue scrubs, with a stack of files in front of her.
“Why would you?” I said.
Connel y puffed out her cheeks and pul ed the rest of her face into a frown. “Agent Lawson, I don’t know you very wel, but I’m going to ask you a question.”
“Nothing you say leaves this room,” Lawson said. “You have my word.”
The ME sighed and pul ed a folder from the pile on her desk. “What concerns me is the way the case is being handled.” She flipped the file open. “If you know what I mean?”
“I think I know what you mean,” I said, “but fil me in.”
“First day or so, there’s the kind of interest you’d expect. Mayor’s office cal ing, higher-ups in Homicide, even the feds.” Connel y glanced toward Lawson, who crossed her legs and kept her hands folded in her lap.
“So we push up the autopsy, blood work, al that stuff,” Connel y continued. “I get the results, cal everyone, nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” I said.
“Just that. The mayor’s office gave it a yawn. Feds never even cal ed me back.” Another look Lawson’s way. “Homicide told me to send the results along when I got a chance. So I packaged it al up and sent it off.”
“Our office did inquire,” Lawson said, “but backed off once we saw the lay of the land.”
Marge Connel y leaned forward in her chair. “Which is what exactly, Agent Lawson?”
“Chicago PD has taken over primary investigation of the case,” Lawson said. “And I believe they’ve concluded James Doherty was responsible for Hubert’s death.”
Connel y frowned. “Explain.”
“It’s not something that’s been in the press,” Lawson said, “but Hubert was working the Doherty case.”
The ME picked up Hubert’s file. “This boy was working that case? How did that happen?”
“He was helping me, Marge,” I said.
“You were working that case?” Connel y shook her head, but let it go. “What is it, exactly, you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What did you find?”
Connel y plucked a summary page from the folder. “Ligature mark on the neck consistent with hanging. The rope was nothing special. Something you could buy in a hardware store. Slipknot. More common in a suicide, but it stil works for murder.” Connel y glanced up and over her glasses. “Then there are the wrists.”
“What about them?” I said.
“My examination revealed marks on both of the decedent’s wrists. Can’t be a hundred percent, but they could have been made by a set of handcuffs.” Connel y laid the summary page back down on her desk.
“You have pictures of the autopsy?” I said.
The ME pul ed out a stack of photos. Hubert’s skin looked slightly blue under the lights. White loops of stitching held together the Y incision across his shoulders and down his chest. I passed the photos over to Lawson.
“Here’s a shot of the ligature mark.” Connel y moved another stack of photos across. “And these are the shots of his wrists.”
The ligature mark was a single oblique line three-quarters of the way around Hubert’s neck, purple to the point of black. Lawson picked up a photo of Hubert’s right wrist.
“Can I take a look?” I said. Lawson snapped her eyes onto mine and pushed the picture across.
“Possible cuff marks are here and here,” Connel y said, pointing with her pen.
“Anything else?” I said.
Connel y shrugged. “Blood work was clean. No sign of any drugs introduced into the body.”
I took a closer look at the ligature mark, then both wrists. Lawson stirred beside me.
“Michael, I’ve got a couple of meetings this morning.”
I looked over. “You gotta run?”
She nodded. I glanced at Connel y.
“Be al right if I stick around and go through this stuff some more?”
The ME shrugged. “Okay by me. No one else seems too interested.”
I turned back to Lawson. Her eyes floated across my face. Connel y got up from behind her desk.
“I’ve got a couple of things I need to take care of. Michael, you can look through the materials in here. Agent Lawson, a pleasure to meet you.” The two women shook hands, and Marge Connel y left, closing the door behind her.
“You think this is the best thing, Michael?”
“What can it hurt?” I said, pul ing Hubert Russel ’s autopsy folder toward me.
Katherine Lawson slipped her hand across the back of mine. “Let go of the file and look at me.”
I did, head pounding, heart suddenly rol ing in my chest.
“Hubert’s not your fault.”
I began to speak. She shook her head.
“You had every reason to think he’d be safe in his apartment. I could have, should have, fol owed up and made sure my agents got there quicker than they did. Truth is, there are probably a lot of people who let Hubert down. But you know what, Michael? You’re not one of them.”
“You think I’m wasting my time here?” I said.
“I think you’re chasing a ghost.”
I laughed. “That’s what Jim Doherty told me when I approached him about his old files.”
“This isn’t going to end like that, Michael. Doherty kil ed Hubert. You know it. So do I. It’s time to let it go. Time to heal.”
Then Katherine Lawson leaned in and kissed me. Softly. Her fingertips brushed across my cheek, leaving behind a tenderness I couldn’t afford.
“I gotta do this,” I said.
She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but nodded instead. “Let me know if I can help.” Then she stood up and left. I spread Hubert’s file out on the desk and began to sort through it al over again. An hour later, I was elbow deep in autopsy photos when I saw something. Or something that might be something. I found Marge Connel y in the middle of cutting off the top of someone’s skul. I waited for her to finish.
“What?”
“When you get a chance,�
� I said.
“Is it important?”
“Could be.”
Connel y stepped away from the table, snapped off her gloves, and fol owed me back to her office.
“What is it, Michael? By the way, the agent and you?” Marge raised a discreet eyebrow.
“No,” I said and picked up one of the autopsy photos. “This photo here. Hubert’s left wrist.”
Connel y slipped her glasses back on and squinted. “That’s a shot of the back of the wrist.”
I pul ed out a second photo. “This is the right wrist. Basical y, the same shot.”
“What about it?”
“Here.” I pointed to the left wrist. “About an inch below the indentation you said might be a cuff mark. There’s a second discoloration. Looks like it might be some sort of bruise.”
Marge leaned in and took a closer look. Then she slipped over to her computer and booted it up.
“We have these photos on file. Let me see if I can blow that area up.”
Marge found the shot and began to work on it. I watched as she zoomed in and sharpened the image. After a couple of minutes she sat back.
“That’s the best I can do.”
“What do you think?”
She touched the screen with a pencil. “This area right here is what you’re talking about, right?”
“Yeah.” It was definitely a bruise, more circular than I’d first thought. “Doesn’t seem like it could have been made by the cuff.”
“I agree,” Marge said. “It’s almost round in shape. Damn, I’m sorry I missed this.”
“You didn’t miss it. We got it right here. What do you think?”
“Judging by the discoloration, I’d say it was certainly made at or around the time of death. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“Guess?”
Marge looked at the photo and tapped the pencil to her teeth. “Let me try a few more things before I give you an answer.”
“Like what?”
“We have a tool we use on bite marks. Brings out the detail in any indentations on the victim’s skin. Not always accepted in court, but pretty damn effective.” Connel y leaned forward and took another look at the photo. “Let me run this through the program. See what we get.”
“How long?”
Marge shrugged. “Hel, we can do it this afternoon. I’l give you a cal.”
“Great. And, Marge, if we find something, what happens to your report?”
The ME smiled. “My report’s done, Michael. Case closed. Just like the city wants it.”
CHAPTER 53
Faces and facts mixed and mingled in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim Doherty, features sunken and feral, nursing his hatred in a tomb of darkness under the city. A shooter named Robles, eyes gray and flat, rifle flashing death along the lakefront. An al ey off Milwaukee Avenue and a young man with a rope around his neck. Rachel, staring into the corners of her mind, watching the past cut her present into little pieces. Katherine Lawson and the trace of her hand on my face. Mayor John J. Wilson. A company cal ed Transco and an autopsy file. A red binder. The pieces of this case, maybe two or three cases, held together by the thinnest of wires: circumstance and an educated guess. The rest floated and turned in the darkness, offering themselves up as a piece of the puzzle, with no real clue as to how or why. I sighed and opened my eyes. This was fucked. I got out of my car, walked down Broadway and up a flight of stairs. There was a stack of mail shoved up against the door to my office. On top
was a thick manila envelope. The return address was handwritten in black felt pen: SOL BERNSTEIN JR. 110 SUTTER STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Son of a bitch. I found my way to my desk, opened up the blinds, and sliced the seal on the envelope. By the turning light of late afternoon, I read Mr. Bernstein’s letter.
MR. KELLY,
I HOPE THIS MISSIVE FINDS YOU WELL. AS YOU PROBABLY KNOW, YOUR ASSOCIATE HUBERT RUSSELL CONTACTED ME IN REFERENCE TO A COMPANY NAMED TRANSCO AND ITS PARENT COMPANY, CMT HOLDING. MY LATE FATHER WAS INVOLVED WITH CMT MANY YEARS AGO, ACTING AS ITS ATTORNEY IN SOME MATTERS, AS WELL AS ITS REGISTERED AGENT. FORGIVE ME FOR NOT CONTACTING MR. RUSSELL DIRECTLY, BUT, AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING PRESUMPTUOUS, HE SOUNDED A BIT YOUNG, ALBEIT QUITE CAPABLE, OVER THE PHONE. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND AND EXTEND MY APOLOGIES AND BEST WISHES TO YOUR COLLEAGUE. AS TO TRANSCO AND CMT, I HAVE THOUGHT A GREAT DEAL ABOUT THE MATTER AND DECIDED YOUR INQUIRY MIGHT BE AN OPPORTUNITY TO PUT SOME THINGS TO REST. I AM INCLUDING A RAFT OF DOCUMENTS I FOUND AMONG MY FATHER’S PAPERS. I THINK THE MATERIAL IS FAIRLY SELF-EXPLANATORY. I WILL INCLUDE A NUMBER BELOW, SHOULD YOU NEED TO REACH ME, BUT I SINCERELY ASK THAT YOU DO NOT. DISCRETION IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE TO ME AS I, LIKE MY FATHER, AM AN ATTORNEY WITH A SENSITIVE AND VERY PRIVATE PRACTICE. I CONSIDERED GOING DIRECTLY TO THE AUTHORITIES WITH THIS INFORMATION, BUT COLLEAGUES IN CHICAGO ASSURE ME YOU ARE EXPERIENCED IN AFFAIRS SUCH AS THESE AND CAN BE COUNTED ON TO ACT IN A CONFIDENTIAL AND EXPEDITIOUS MANNER. I HOPE I HAVE MADE A WISE DECISION.
SINCERELY, SOL BERNSTEIN JR.
I weighed the bundle in my hand and then cracked it open. On top were several Transco engineering reports from 1974 to 1979, detailing internal concerns about the company’s products, including a suggested recal of its engine overrides. I scanned the old reports and laid them aside. Underneath were a number of old contracts stapled together, share certificates, and personal correspondence. I took my time with the materials, pul ing out a pad and pen to take notes as I read. When I was finished, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. On a single piece of paper I had sketched out the web of companies owned by CMT Holding, including Transco, Wabash Railway, and a number of related businesses and properties stretching back ninety years. At the bottom of the page, I wrote down the name of the entity that control ed al of them-the entity responsible for the L crash on February 4, 1980.
I pul ed out the black-and-yel ow logo Hubert had ID’d as belonging to CMT, as wel as the Old English script from Wabash Railway. I hadn’t noticed before, but the CMT train carried an odd t shape on the very front of its engine. I took a closer look at the Wabash script. The l in “Railway” had a smal bar across it, making it into a lowercase t as wel. Or, in both cases, maybe a couple of crosses. Fucking hel. Forty minutes later, I was stil piecing through the old papers when my phone rang. Marge Connel y had worked her magic with the autopsy photo. I downloaded the shots and talked to the medical examiner for another hour. Then I thanked her and hung up. I closed my eyes and visualized al those pieces of the puzzle, stil floating in the darkness. Slowly, one, then another, then a third stopped turning. They hung before my mind’s eye, slipped neatly together and locked into place. The picture sharpened, and a face came into focus. I printed out the photos the ME had sent me, packed up Sol Bernstein’s paperwork, and locked up the office on my way out.
CHAPTER 54
I should have known when I didn’t hear the pup at the front door. But my mind was somewhere else, sunk into the tangled depths of CMT Holding and a single autopsy photo. I was halfway across my living room when I looked up and saw her, wagging her tail and sitting comfortably in the lap of the mayor of our good city, the honorable John J. Wilson.
“Nice dog, Kel y. I should have kept this one.” The mayor gave Maggie a scratch behind the ears and set her on the floor. Then he gestured to the two men sitting on either side of him.
“These are federal agents. They want to ask you some questions.”
I took the only chair left in the room and considered the pair of suits, one black, one blue. If they weighed two hundred pounds between them, they were lucky. Behind them was the muscle, a linebacker type, wearing a gray cashmere overcoat, finished with black leather gloves and Maui Jim wraparounds.
“What about the Terminator back there?” I said.
Wilson waited for someone else to speak. When no one did, he shrugged. “I told them you could be reasoned with, but they were wary. Of the gun and al that.”
“And you just came along for t
he ride?”
Wilson stretched his thick lips into a thin line. “I came along to protect the city’s interests, Kel y. And maybe yours, as wel.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
Blue suit thumped a briefcase onto my coffee table and snapped it open. I caught a glimpse of red inside and got an idea where this might be headed. Then the suit opened his mouth and I got an even better idea.
“Mr. Kel y, my name is Leo Nolan. This is Dr. Matthew Danielson. We work with Homeland Security.”
Nolan didn’t flash an ID and I didn’t ask for one.
“We know you were involved in the capture and death of James Doherty,” Nolan continued. “We also know he talked to you about a red binder he had in his possession at the time he was shot.”
“I never got a look inside the binder,” I said. “Agent Lawson took it with her from the scene.”
Nolan nodded. “And yet, we have reason to believe you continue to make inquiries about the binder and the nature of its contents.”
“And how would you know that, Mr. Nolan?”
Nolan shuffled through his briefcase for some paperwork. “We operate under a federal directive cal ed the Cyber Initiative. Al ows us, among other things, to monitor computers and Internet activity that might pose a threat to national security.”
I looked at the mayor, who shrugged. “That’s as much as they told me, Kel y. Maybe you can explain the rest.”
I turned to Nolan. “The red binder you’re talking about is a Pentagon report issued in 1998, cal ed ‘Terror 2000.’ Yes, I saw the title when we were in Doherty’s house. And yes, I did some searching about it on the Internet.”
“Why?” Nolan said.
“Why not? A guy like Doherty carries something like that around with him, it gets my attention. How about you?”
Nolan flicked a piece of lint off his pants. “Did Mr. Doherty make any specific threats?”
“That’s what Mr. Doherty did best.”
“Specific threats against the city?”
I glanced toward the black suit named Danielson. “Does he ever talk?”
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