Victor said, “We’d be pissing into the wind right now. A judge would sign a warrant, but sometimes the quiet approach works best. Since we know nothing about Mr. Marshall here, I think we dig up what we can first.”
“We need some information, something, to go at him with because we don’t have anything right now,” said Drexel. “And I’ve called in the FBI to help with a profile. She’ll be—”
“FBI?” Carl looked down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Who authorized that?”
Victor started to speak, but Drexel said, “I did. She’ll be able to—”
“You did. Jesus, you called her in without approval?”
“If she’s going to help, having her see the crime scene is important. I mentioned it the day we found the first body and then called them yesterday. And I did it on my own because two bodies in two days means more are coming, and I want to catch this guy. If the brass wants this guy caught quickly, they’ll make this a massive task force, combing the streets, manning tip lines, the whole shebang.” He waited to see if Carl would blubber in, and when he saw he would not, continued. “Special Agent Vivaldi, once she’s made a profile will also be able to give us some options about how best to interrogate our suspect. We do it wrong, he’ll lawyer up. He thinks he’s smarter than us. Right now he is. Taunting us by delivering packages directly to our doorstep. But we’ll be smarter eventually and get him.”
Carl looked at Victor and shook his head. He looked back at Drexel and sighed. “Well, Jesus, I guess you get to go about this how you want. You realize the media is already on this? They did a report last night.”
Daniela looked at Drexel. She must have been too busy working to hear about this. He shrugged with his head, and she nodded.
Carl said, “I saw that. Yeah, the news last night. ABC7 broke it. ‘Gruesome murders in north Chicago.’ The mayor’s already calling the superintendent asking about what we’re doing. She’s pissed, and she wants answers.” He raised his hands. “But you want to take the slow path. I’ll give you a bit of rope. What?” He had caught Drexel’s downward glance.
“Two bodies in two days. I’m thinking we’re getting another package today. I want to make sure the station knows about it.”
Carl said, “Get a move on figuring out who did this. Another body shows up, and this ain’t going to stay quiet. Fuck, it ain’t quiet already. The media will go into a frenzy. Then they’ll name the fucker, and then we’ll have panic. We’ll have the mayor calling the super who’ll be calling me. It’s not far from summer and the tourists. Who the hell wants to visit a town with a serial killer?” He wiggled the knot on his tie to ensure it was appropriately positioned. “And if I start getting calls, you can bet I’ll be on your asses.” He smiled, slid the cap out from his arm, and placed it on his head, running his thumb and index finger along the brim. As he walked out, “I’m not sure I can get it from you.” He pointed to the table and made a circle that encompassed all three of them. “But I want the best fucking police work this city has seen. Capiche?”
“You always get the best,” said Victor, giving a casual salute with two fingers.
They heard Sobieski’s grunt and then turned to each other. “He’s right,” said Daniela.
“What?”
“The media will blow this up if there’s a third victim.”
“Screw them. Not a thing we can do about it except our jobs,” said Victor. “Pierce, clear your caseload. Give it to— Hmm. Who do you want to have it?”
“Natalie.”
“Do it.”
Drexel nodded, stood up, and left the conference room. He found Natalie sitting at her desk, typing in a report, looking down at her keyboard as she paused. He told her the commander wanted his full attention on the Brittany Day killer and to hand over everything else to Natalie. Luckily for her, the Kid Dunkadelic case was it because he had cleared two cases the previous week and three others had grown cold. He did not like giving up the case—any case for that matter. But with limited resources and—though he hated to admit it—the potential for a media blowout of a serial killer, he understood the need. Natalie understood, too, but she shook her head nonetheless. “Poor black kid on the south side is the one that gets pawned off.”
No argument there. What hope did his case have with every strike against him? Black. South side. Gang-related. It was the Trio, as Doggett said. That was the fifth rule of homicide. If a detective landed a case that had the Trio, he or she could relax about not closing it. The brass would not hold it against them. The Trio could also be Latino. South side. Gang-related. Or replace gang-related with drug-related.
“I was working it,” said Drexel.
Natalie smiled. “I know you were.”
* * *
As Victor hunted down coffee, in the conference room, Daniela and Drexel compared notes. They both had come to a similar conclusion of the number of people they wanted to talk to, and that meant a lot of legwork. Follow-ups on Brittany Day. Follow-ups once the second victim was identified. Interviews to conduct regarding Brandon Marshall. And work to do on Kevin Blair. As Victor placed the three cups of coffee on the table, Drexel started to speak, but Victor interrupted, “Hold that thought,” and left the room.
To Daniela, Drexel said, “So what do you do for fun outside of here?” He took a sip of his coffee. He could not remember if this was his third or fourth cup.
“Huh?” She looked up from a file.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Uh, stuff.” She looked at one of the coffees, ignored it, and picked up the Monster can. Seeing the look on Drexel’s face, she said, “What? Nothing much, really.”
“Sounds like you’re hiding something.”
“Maybe.” She smiled thinly.
Victor walked back to the conference room but stopped at the entrance. “What’s up?”
Drexel turned around to face him. “We’ve got a lot of people to ask about Brandon Marshall. Hoping we can get some support.”
“Unis or detectives?”
Drexel bounced his head from side-to-side. “Unis at this time would be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll reach out to the patrol commander. He should have people for us this afternoon.”
Daniela said, “Awesome. We’ll make a list for them.”
Victor nodded and walked back to his office. As he did so, he shouted, “Starling, get your ass in here now.”
Drexel and Daniela reviewed the list of interviews, putting the majority of them in a column for the unis to conduct. He called Plumber Savior and asked which location Marshall worked out of, and after getting routed through a couple of people finally learned it was in Lincoln Park. Daniela, meanwhile, called the university and was promised a copy of Brittany’s transcript. Drexel volunteered to pick it up when he interviewed Janay. He also wanted to show Brittany’s friends the photo of Marshall to see if it matched the person she had run into at O’Neal’s. Daniela was going to speak to his neighbors. The unis would be assigned to talk to Marshall’s co-workers and supervisor.
“Let’s not forget Kevin Blair,” said Drexel, rubbing his chin. “I consider him a bit of a low priority on our short list of suspects, but I still want to check him out.”
“Already ahead of you, boss.” She pressed Enter on the keyboard. “Okay. A Kevin Blair shows up in a half dozen police reports in the past two years. Fraud. Theft. A speeding ticket. Address in the Gold Coast.”
“Sounds like we got a con man. Flashy Ferrari. Gold Coast address. House remodeling. Fraud on his sheet. Can’t afford to pay the remodelers.”
“The scam’s selling the house.”
“The scam’s probably getting someone to pay the remodeling costs up front and then not paying them—keeping the cash. I’ll check it out. Send me the address. Lower priority, but still.”
Daniela nodded and sent him the email with the address. Sh
e downed the last of her Monster drink and slapped the top of the table. “Let’s roll.”
Chapter 9
Drexel’s first stop at the university was the registrar’s office. The clerk said that getting an electronic copy was easier and faster. Drexel said he was down in the area anyways, so it made sense to get a printed version. The clerk mumbled something and returned with a copy, charging the police department thirty dollars. He thanked him, took a photo of the transcript, and sent it to Daniela along with a text saying, “Need to get professor’s names from university for those sections.”
He folded up the transcript and stuck it into his sport coat’s right inside pocket. Janay lived in Breckinridge House. After finding it on the map he had picked up at the registrar’s office, Drexel walked the block north to it. Beyond the house, a Metra train was leaving the Fifty-Ninth Street Station toward the Loop. The house was set back from the street. A stone fence with two large pillars bounded a set of steps leading to a small garden and a sidewalk to the front doors. Clusters of lilies, green thin leaves and orange flowers, fronted the fence. The three-story brick building seemed, to Drexel, the classic idea—perhaps a bit elitist version—of what a residence hall should be. He walked into a bustling lobby of cushioned chairs and vending machines. Students sat around with laptops open or faces glued to their smartphones while piles of books sat on end tables. He showed his badge to the front desk attendant—a freckle-faced, redheaded boy.
After negotiating the hallways, he found Janay sitting in his room on his twin bed with the door open. Drexel knocked. “Janay Wade?”
Janay looked up from his computer and gave Drexel an up-and-down look. “Yeah. Come in. You the cop asking about Brittany?”
“I am.” He held up his badge for the kid to look at—and he was a kid.
Janay was dressed in distressed jeans, a light brown T-shirt, and a tan and cream striped lightweight hoodie. His shoes lay on the floor and his green socks were thick and worn on the bottom. The room was small, enough for Janay’s twin bed, a desk, a small cabinet, and a closet, which was open. A clump of clothes—T-shirts, socks, underwear, and jeans—were piled between the bed and the outside wall. The window looked down on the garden area. Janay closed the computer and set it aside. “You want to talk about Brittany?”
Drexel nodded. “I do.” He pulled the chair out from beneath the desk and sat down. “Your friends told you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
Janay pursed his lips and then frowned. “She didn’t deserve that. Not at all.”
Drexel had Janay tell him about the day Brittany disappeared, focusing particularly on the time at O’Neal’s. Janay was convinced that Brittany did not have any boyfriends, had not been dating at all, for she was too focused on her studies. His descriptions of the evening were consistent with the others. Like all witnesses, no set of narratives was the same. Each had that person’s particular focus and quirks, and rarely did people go about their daily lives thinking what was happening right then was significant and therefore being aware and consciously noting things. Instead, people lived their lives and when asked to recall a specific day or event, clothing changed colors, cars differed, time was shortened or lengthened, order of events altered, and habits were presumed. All Drexel hoped for was to build up a narrative with a close approximation to an ideal, factual, elusive truth—like the impressionist paintings of Monet. Zora particularly liked a painting of his at the Art Institute. A field of poppies and trees. While she would study the painting as close in physical proximity as allowed, he had always been fond of standing far away and moving in slowly. He was fascinated by the realism of the field where he might have been tempted to think of it as a photograph. As he approached step by step, the realism faded—and it became more and more a painting. That, to him, was like objective facts of a crime.
Drexel showed Janay a picture of Brandon Marshall, but he shrugged. He left Janay to his studies and hunted down the rest of Brittany’s friends who were around to show them the picture of Marshall. None of them recognized him. A block off campus, he grabbed a late lunch. As he ate a patty melt that did not live up to his expectations, he kept looking at the bulletin board near the entrance where a now tattered version of the flier for finding Brittany hung. The color portrait of her promised something better than she received. He left a third of the sandwich and a few fries after paying the bill. As he walked out, he pulled the flier off the board and tossed it in the trash.
Daniela emailed back a list of her professors, one of whom he recognized: Cheryl Barber, the person who drove Whitney Day home to be told her daughter had been found murdered. Drexel called and left a message for Cheryl and then moved on to Brittany’s other professors, who talked about her in positive if not glowing monologues. Hard worker, applied herself, attended class, did the prep work. Not the brightest of the bright, but they were all quick to point out she was nonetheless intelligent and could expect, eventually, success in law even if they doubted she would get into the best law schools in the country. He checked his messages to find that Cheryl had left a voice mail. She was at a bar near campus, Lift, and would be there for some time. Drexel got directions from a student. The bar was on the south side of the campus, tucked between a CVS and bicycle shop. Walking in felt like entering perpetual night. Bigger than his and Ton’s favorite haunt on Milwaukee, but still small. Cheryl sat at the tall, dark wood bar, a pile of papers at her right arm, a pint of dark beer to her left.
“Hello, Dr. Barber.” He leaned his right arm on the bar. He read the top paper’s title, “The Symbols of Late Medieval Catholicism in the Town of Nice from 1400-1425.” He said, “Interesting reading there.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “It is. If you’re into Medieval Catholicism, symbols, and Nice. How can I help you?”
“We got Brittany’s transcript and noted she took a class with you. We’re talking to all her professors.”
“Trying to get a better understanding of her, right?”
“Yes.”
The bartender came over and asked if Drexel wanted something to drink. He said he would have the same as Dr. Barber.
“Aren’t you on duty?”
“I am. But a beer will be okay. I hate to make you drink alone.”
She smiled and then grimaced. “So I knew Brittany both from class and from knowing her mother. She was in my History of Christian Thought II class. She was doing well. Turned in her work on time. A solid A student.”
The bartender set the beer down next to Drexel’s arm. He grabbed it and sat down next to the professor. The beer, a stout, was rich with chocolate and coffee without being too sweet or dry. “That’s good. What is it?”
“Rogue Ale’s Shakespeare Stout.”
Drexel nodded several times. “Very good. So what’s that class about?”
“In essence, it’s about the transition from the end of the Western Roman Empire through to the Early Middle Ages. We cover thinkers like St. Benedict and Pope Gregory the Great. We dive into quite a bit about the development and path of monasticism in the West. Cistercians and mendicants. And, of course, Aquinas.” She rubbed the tip of her nose. “And we don’t forget about the Eastern Roman Empire, the Byzantines, and what was happening in the church there.”
“Is this a normal class for a pre-law student?”
She chuckled. “Hardly. She took it because she was interested, which you don’t find very often in students outside the Divinity School. I’m sure she picked it up from her mom.”
“What was she like as a student?”
“Hard working enough. Not stellar. I wouldn’t expect her to be though. Not in this class at least. Most of her other coursework was outside religion, so she would’ve encountered a lot of new things to her that many students I teach in there already know. But I’ll give it to her, she put in the effort. Didn’t treat the class like an easy elective.
” She took a drink and used her bottom lip to suck in her top lip. “Which it isn’t.”
“Was there anyone in class she was close with?”
Cheryl shook her head. “Not that I know of or noticed.”
“What did you think of Brittany herself?”
She leaned back, the wood of the stool creaking in response to the change. She smiled. “A good girl. Perhaps a bit full of herself, but who isn’t at that age, right? Thought she had the answer to everything.” She puffed out a flash of air between closed lips. “I wish I were that young again.”
“You’re not that old,” Drexel said.
She put her hand on his shoulder and laughed. “How kind of you. But once a woman hits thirty—and I’ve passed that—she is old.”
He shrugged. “I kind of like being older at times. I don’t feel so stupid.”
“You’re a guy.” She downed the last of her beer.
He pulled out the photo of Brandon Marshall. “You recognize him?”
She leaned over, turning her head to the side a bit, and looked at the photograph. Brandon’s driver’s license photo. She sat straight back up and looked at the photo. Shaking her head, she said, “No, I don’t recognize him.”
“And the Days themselves? What were they like?”
“Whitney is a fantastic person. A brilliant scholar. Her specialty was John Wycliffe.” Seeing the small frown on Drexel’s face, she explained. “English scholar who translated the Bible into the vernacular in the fourteenth century. His translation was hugely important, taking the word of God from the control of the Latin-educated priests to the daily masses of people. If they couldn’t read it—and most couldn’t—at least they could hear the Gospel of Matthew in their own language. Anyways, he was eventually declared a heretic after his death. The church exhumed his body and burned it. They tried to make a point, but as we know, they lost that fight.” She raised a finger and nodded when the bartender looked over at her. “Whitney really helped mentor me when I first came to the department. I feel awful for her.”
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 8
