by Shane Lusher
I followed him into a room filled with ten or twelve cubicles and two deputies sitting at desks, one on the phone, the other staring into a computer screen as if he’d never seen it before.
The standard tar scent of burnt cop coffee was unmistakable.
“Back here,” Rassi said, leading me over to a glass-walled office, shades drawn, and a door that still read “Tad Ely, Tazewell County Sheriff.”
Rassi gave a short knock and then opened the door to a small office with a desk, a few chairs and a struggling ficus plant in the corner.
Two men were standing in the room, looking out the window to the parking lot and the river. I already knew Dubois from sight. Thin as a post, gristled sideburns no doubt left over from the seventies, his hair short and scraggly.
The other man I recognized from the news conference the day before. He turned as we came in, and a harried look between relief and caution crossed his face before he smiled and stuck out his hand.
“Wayne Trueblood,” he said. His grip was firm, his hands manicured. He was taller than anyone else in the room. “Good of you to come in.”
Dubois nodded. “Dana,” he said and gestured toward one of the chairs in front of the desk. “You can go now, Dave,” he said.
Rassi seemed about to say something, thought better of it, and then left, closing the door behind him.
I sat, as did Trueblood. Dubois remained standing, his face stony. He visibly sized me up, looking at my face, his eyes traveling down to my suit coat and then back up again.
Trueblood leaned forward on the desk. He clasped his hands together and sighed.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he began. “Tad was a good man. I’ve never lost a brother, but I know what it’s like to lose a family member.” His eyes clouded over. “It’s hell.”
“Wayne,” Dubois said as he slouched down into the chair behind his desk, the weight of the world sliding with him. “All due respect. Let me handle this,” he said. He toyed with a clean ashtray on his desk.
I noticed the pack of cigarettes in the shirt pocket of his sheriff’s uniform. Dubois had extremely white teeth, which seemed out of character. From the cigarettes and the way his office smelled, I judged that he was a heavy smoker.
I mumbled words of appreciation and waited.
In spite of what Dubois had told him, Trueblood started. “Dave Rassi has vouched for you,” he said. “I understand you solved a few cases for the Chicago Police Department.” He smiled. “I used to live in Joliet. I still read the Tribune.”
“I put some things together,” I shrugged. “The software did the rest.”
Dubois shifted in his seat, and though he was already sitting ramrod-straight, he seemed to grow taller in the chair. “Why don’t you tell me why we should hire you?” he said.
I paused. I’d stumbled into a job interview. Without a resume. So much for everything already being cleared.
“Rassi said-”
“Dave isn’t here,” Dubois interrupted. His mouth twitched at the corners. “Why don’t you tell me what you can do for us?”
I held up a hand. “First of all, Sheriff Dubois, I’m not in law enforcement. I’m a software developer. All I would be doing is taking a look at the files.”
Dubois sighed loudly and glanced at Trueblood. “I told you, Wayne,” he said. “We need to bring in the state police.”
“And I told you, Randy,” Trueblood said, shaking his head, “I want to keep it local.”
“Why is that, Mr. Trueblood?” I asked.
“Call me Wayne,” Trueblood said. He’d formed his fingers into a steeple in front of his mouth. “I don’t know how much you know about me, Dana, but I—we both know-”
At this, he looked over at Dubois, held his glance for a moment, and then came back to me. “That the State boys really don’t care about the murder of just one person.”
“Now, Wayne, that’s not necessarily true,” Dubois said. He’d stopped fumbling with the ashtray and was now pressing an index finger into the table.
“Randy,” Trueblood said. He looked at me. “I know that they have more resources. I also know that they wouldn’t put as much effort into it as someone more close to home.”
He looked at me expectantly. Trueblood was around sixty, his face weathered with the years, but the bags under his eyes seemed new. Swollen, and red.
I recognized them because my eyes looked the same.
Dubois cleared his throat. “Why don’t you answer my first question, Dana?”
Suddenly Trueblood faded into the background, and it was all me and Dubois.
“Why you should hire me?” I glanced at Trueblood, who had swiveled in his chair and was now looking out the window.
I thought for a moment about what I knew about Dubois. Tad had kept him in the department because, in deference to his experience, he felt that it would be the right thing to do. Dubois was the kind of person who had enough people who liked him, and who needed to be liked. He was also the kind who rarely spoke to subordinates unless they could do something for him, and that was what had ultimately done him in.
When he’d been voted out of office, he’d ridden out on a minor scandal that involved using county gasoline to take a vacation to the Ozarks with his girlfriend. That information had been leaked from within his own department.
“The Chicago P.D. contacted me through a friend on the force,” I said. “They were trying to solve the Shopping Cart murders. Are you familiar with those?”
Dubois waved his hand. “Some guy shooting up homeless people,” he said.
“And raping them.” I paused. “Male or female. It amounted to five murders, and it had all the markings of a serial killer. The guy was escalating, getting more violent. There were mutilations, the bodies were being positioned. Signs of ritual work.
“They called me in because the FBI couldn’t give them more than a standard profile that included about forty per cent of the population. They thought maybe I could do something with technology that could help them out.”
Dubois looked over at Trueblood and snorted. “Dave brought me a computer geek,” he said.
“Let him finish, Randy,” Trueblood said. He’d turned back around, and was now leaning back over the desk, his eyes on mine, his fingers steepled once again.
“I found the killer in three days,” I said. “The Chicago Police had been working on it for three months. They had one lead; bad video of a man leaving a supermarket, and that was it.
“I solved it by running the information from all the customer store cards. It’s amazing what you can find out about people by knowing their shopping habits.”
Dubois cleared his throat. “Store cards?”
“You know,” I said. “The cards you get everywhere now? You go to Scotty Mart, you have a card that is supposed to get you discounts. It does, but what it also does—you don’t know this unless you read the terms and conditions—is record every single purchase you make.”
Dubois looked at me for a moment, his face indifferent. Then he seemed to make the jump. “So you think you can find Colby Trueblood’s killer by the kind of shampoo he buys at Scotty Mart?” he said finally.
He placed his hand on Trueblood’s arm, briefly, and then took it away.
“I’m sorry, Wayne,” he said. “I thought there’d be more to it than this.”
Trueblood hadn’t looked at Dubois. He held up a hand. “Go on, Dana,” he said. “Please.”
“People buy different things. All of that information is on that card, stored along with the information about a person’s demographic. Companies pay for sociologists and psychologists to research what else they might buy, if they buy that one thing on any given day of the week.”
I’d rehearsed all of this twenty or thirty times. It had been part of my testimony, and the Cook County prosecutor had made damn sure it was decipherable to a jury. Not to mention that I would hold up to cross examination.
“Out of that has come lots of information about
human behavior that hadn’t been anticipated,” I continued. “For example, you can determine whether a woman is pregnant based upon whether she buys 3 out of a specific set of 7 items at one time.”
I looked over at Dubois, who was shifting in his seat again. He wanted a cigarette. He was fumbling with the pack in his pocket.
“To answer your question, Sheriff,” I said. “No. I can’t solve Colby Trueblood’s murder based on the kind of shampoo anybody used. The serial killer in Chicago was a special case, and that kind of information needs to be subpoenaed.”
I noticed the strain in Trueblood’s eyes, and though I had more misgivings than ever about the case, not the least of which was the fact that the sheriff didn’t seem to be on board, there was a kind of desperation lurking in them that made me want to help the man.
Dubois spoke up then. “You need probable cause.”
“There are other ways,” I said, but didn’t want to touch that one. I wasn’t sure the information I’d been given in Chicago had been done by the book, and I hadn’t asked. It might have turned out differently if I hadn’t found the killer.
“At any rate,” I said. “That was something completely different. The police had a lead. Do you have any?”
Trueblood looked up at Dubois. “We had one suspect, as you probably know. He turned out to be the wrong guy.”
I waited until Dubois looked at me.
“Why don’t you tell me why I should be on this case?” I asked.
Dubois smiled. “I don’t think you should be on this case at all,” he said.
Trueblood sighed. He leaned back in his chair and placed both hands, palms down, on the desk. “Dana,” he said. “No matter what Sheriff Dubois thinks, I know you’re the real thing. I reached out to a lieutenant in Chicago who spoke highly of you.”
He let that dangle. I looked at him for a moment.
“I just want to find out who killed my brother,” I said finally.
“We’ve already solved that one,” Dubois said. He stood, pushing his chair up to the desk, and crossed his arms. “We did that with good, solid police work.”
“Alisha Stamm says differently,” I said.
“Yeah,” Dubois said. “They all say that. She wants to be able to appeal once she gets convicted. You’d know that if you were a cop.”
Again Trueblood held up a hand. “Dana,” he said. “I know about your son. We both know what it’s like to lose a child. Please help us. Please help me.”
He had charisma, I would give him that. I could see how he had gotten to his position in life. I wondered what else he knew about me.
I sighed. “I might be able to look at everything and figure out another way of getting behind who killed your daughter. I understand your loss. I’ve lost a child, too. But I’ve also lost a brother, and the person who’s been convicted of his murder now claims she didn’t do it.”
“Dana,” Trueblood said. He glanced over at Dubois for the first time since we started the conversation. “Look. I was one of the people in this county who supported your brother. Sorry, Randy,” he said as an aside.
Dubois shrugged and let him continue.
“But your friend Dave out there did some stellar work, as far as I understand it. That Mrs.-” He looked over at Dubois.
“Stamm,” Dubois said.
“Stamm. She was the one who did it. There was nobody else.”
They both seemed at a loss. I moved in my chair, glanced at the door, and then looked up at them.
“If it’s all the same, I’d like access to the case.”
Dubois set the ashtray down on the windowsill. “I told you this was a waste of time.”
Trueblood clasped his hands on the desk. It looked as if he were praying. He looked up at Dubois.
“Well, if it’s what he needs, I don’t see why you can’t give it to him,” Trueblood said.
I wondered just what kind of influence a non-office holder could have in making that decision, but I’d lived in Chicago long enough to know that it was better not to ask.
Dubois shook his head. “That would have to come on a quid pro quo basis,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“What he means is that we don’t know who killed my daughter,” Trueblood said.
I looked at him, and in his eyes I saw the loss, the sadness, and, down inside, the anger and the rage. He was struggling to hide it, and while he was winning that struggle, it was still there.
Which was fine by me. I could deal with rage. It was something I understood very well.
“If you help me out on this one, we’ll give you access to whatever it is you need. Won’t we, Randy?”
Dubois coughed. He opened the window and lit a cigarette, his back turned to us.
“Now,” Trueblood continued, “I’m not sure what that entails. You’ll have to work with Randy here, and with Dave Rassi, but the fact of the matter is, I need your help. And nobody here has been able to figure out who did this to Colby.”
I nodded, considering, inhaling the sweet smoke that was flowing in a steady stream back from the open window and up toward the hot air exchange.
“I can’t do much more than look at the files,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure you can do more than that,” Trueblood said.
Dubois had turned away from the window, cigarette in his hand. He looked down at the floor and shook his head.
“Why me?” I asked.
Dubois pursed his lips. “I thought we’d already gone over that,” he said.
“Did we?” I asked. “I came in here thinking I’d just be signing some papers, confidentiality or whatever, and I find myself defending my presence. Now I’m your go-to boy?”
“Well,” Trueblood said. “We know Dave’s a good investigator.”
Dubois stamped out his cigarette and sank down into his chair.
“Wayne,” he said.
Trueblood shook his head.
Dubois tried again. “We have to mention it. He’s going to find out sooner or later, if he doesn’t know about it already.”
Trueblood shook his head again and closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he said. He looked at me, his eyes watery, his smile vanishing. “There’s something about the case that only Randy and I—and Dave Rassi—know about.”
“Okay,” I said. There was a long silence. “And? What is it?”
Dubois sighed. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “Colby had cocaine in her system.”
I looked at the both of them.
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s the big secret?”
Trueblood leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes and then leaned forward, lacing his hands together and looking down into the palms as if something were written there.
“It’s plenty,” he said softly. “I didn’t raise her that way.” He sniffed. “It can never come out.”
“Is it in the file?” I asked.
Trueblood looked up at me. “Your brother and I had an agreement.”
Dubois snorted. “That’s exactly why we have you in here, and not the state police. It’s not in the file. It was suppressed.”
“Who else knows about it? Other than the four of us?”
“Kelly Davos knows,” Dubois said. “She and Tad had an agreement as well.”
“Randy,” Trueblood said, his voice taking on a pleading tone.
“I don’t like it, Wayne, and I’m not going to pretend I do,” Dubois said. “I know how Tad Ely ran this department.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Dubois said. “I know.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
Dubois didn’t answer. He’d fixed me with an icy stare.
“Randy,” Trueblood said again, wearily. “We talked about this.”
Dubois bit his lip and stood up again, his cigarettes in his hand.
“Is that all that was suppressed?” I
asked.
“Isn’t that enough?” Trueblood said.
I looked at him, and then at Dubois. “Was that the real cause of death?”
“No,” Trueblood said, shaking his head. “No, she was—she was—well, it’s in the file. Randy?”
Dubois stood there, a fresh cigarette already dangling in his mouth.
“Fine,” he said. “He can look at the file. The Colby Trueblood file. Not anything else.”
I considered Dubois, and then turned my attention back to Trueblood.
“Dana,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I know you’re concerned about Alisha Stamm. Tell you what, you help us out here, and I’ll talk to the state’s attorney. Glenn Holzel is a personal friend of mine. We’ll see what we can do.”
Dubois snorted again, cracked the window, and lit his cigarette. He exhaled loudly.
“Dana,” Trueblood said again. “Imagine you could take back everything that happened with your son. Jacob, was that his name?”
I looked at him. “With all due respect, Wayne, finding out who killed your daughter is not going to bring her back,” I said.
“I know that,” he said. “I do. But—I hate to mention this—I know about what happened with the doctor. I’d like to think I understand a little about why you did it.
“Now think about this. Imagine you’d had some kind of closure other than having to enact a bribe in lieu of prosecution for assault. Imagine that guy went up for not trying to save your son.”
I wondered where he got his information, but I didn’t ask.
“Help me find out who did this to my little girl,” he said finally.
I looked at Dubois, who stood smoking his cigarette, his face scowling, and then back at Wayne Trueblood.
I sighed. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
I got up to leave. This time Dubois deigned to shake my hand, and once he’d said goodbye to Trueblood, he turned to me.
“Come back in here,” he said.
I followed him back into the office. He opened the window wide and sat down, one hip up on the sill. He looked off in the direction of the river as he talked. For once he wasn’t smoking.
