Catherine was nodding her head as she listened. “I see the increase and the decrease. But what does it mean?”
“Here’s my theory,” Angela said. “The same person who is taking women this summer has been killing these types of women since around 1970. Between 1970 and 1978, he was careless and brazen. But since the beginning of this year, he’s been more diligent. Instead of the police finding a body some weeks after a girl goes missing, now the women just disappear with no bodies being discovered.”
Catherine squinted her eyes as she began to see Angela’s theory come together. “You’re saying this person’s reign of terror spans, not just to this summer, but for the entire decade.”
Angela made eye contact again. Her second time. “Yes.”
Catherine sat back in her chair. “This is some crazy stuff you’re telling me.”
“But you see how it’s possible, right?” Angela asked.
“When you present it to me this way, yes. That’s assuming all your facts are correct.”
“They are.”
“And you got all this information from the library?”
“It’s all there for anyone to find. You just have to look in the right places and with the right ideas in mind. This guy, The Thief, he has a type. And he’s been preying on a specific type of woman for ten years.”
“So why has this guy suddenly become so careful this year? Why is he hiding the bodies so much better?”
“Good question,” Angela said. “What happened last year? What was the big story around here?”
Catherine shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Angela pulled more pages from her folder and passed them to Catherine. “Out in Des Plaines?”
Catherine’s eyes widened slightly when it came to her as she read the headline: KILLER CLOWN CLAIMS 33 AS MORE BODIES DISCOVERED.
“John Wayne Gacy,” she said.
“Correct. The police discovered a serial killer named John Wayne Gacy, who killed more than thirty young men and buried them in the crawl space of his home.”
“And what? The Thief got spooked by Gacy’s arrest?”
“Correct. Police activity picked up. The public was more diligent. And if the authorities had any ability to see patterns, they would have picked up on this one.” Angela tapped her homemade chart again. “So he changed from a killer to a thief. He still kills these women, I’m certain of it. He just hides their bodies better.”
“Angela, sweetheart,” Catherine said. “I don’t really know what to say. If this is correct, even if it’s only partially accurate, you need to take this to the police.”
Angela looked at Catherine again. “That’s why I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“I can’t go to the police. They’ll look at me …” Angela made brief eye contact again. “You know what they’ll think.”
“Bring Thomas with you.”
Angela was already shaking her head. “I can’t tell Thomas about this. He’s already worried about how I spend my days. If he knows I’ve been obsessing—”
The sound of her own voice uttering that word again caused Angela to scratch her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. Frustration flared when her benign fingernails, clipped to the nubs, were unable to produce the searing pain she hoped for.
“Thomas would think this is an unhealthy way for me to spend my time.”
“But if it’s true, Angela. If what you’ve discovered is true, this transcends what Thomas thinks about how you spend your time.” Catherine tapped the graph. “If this is true, then telling the police could save lives.”
The front door opened and Catherine’s husband yelled into the house.
“Catherine, you home?”
“In here, hon.”
In a panic, Angela began gathering her research and stuffing pages back into the file folder as Bill Blackwell walked into the kitchen. He wore dirty jeans and a shirt covered in bits of concrete. Angela immediately recognized the appearance, since it was how Thomas often came home after work. Catherine’s husband wore a bandana, which hung loose around his neck. Angela remembered the red marks on his skin and his remarks from the other night about mosquitoes and an allergic reaction and his foreman quitting, which forced Bill to run the crews. Angela hadn’t even been aware that night, preoccupied as she was with her thoughts of the missing women, that she had comprehended Bill Blackwell’s words. Angela’s mind worked that way, absorbing everything around her and storing it all in the deep recesses of her brain. The catalogued information randomly floated from her subconscious until she was aware of its presence. It happened to her often. Her mind would whisper to her that she was aware of something, even if she didn’t quite grasp precisely what it was she understood. Then, later, the stored image or nugget of knowledge would break loose from the anchor in her mind and rise to the surface. But there was something else that caught her attention now. Angela tried not to look, tunneling her vision to the task of organizing her papers so she could leave as quickly as possible.
“Angela,” Bill said. “How are you? I didn’t know you guys were getting together today.”
Angela smiled and offered a quick glance at Bill Blackwell. Then the other image that had caught her attention came into focus. She saw another man in the background.
“This is Leonard Williams,” Bill said as the man walked into the kitchen. “He’s been working up at the Kenosha shop for me. I stopped home for a quick bite to eat before heading out to a job on the west side.”
When Leonard Williams appeared from the hallway and entered the kitchen, Angela immediately recognized him as the man from the alley who had tried to help with the couch. His dark eyes were less shadowed now than they had been when the morning sun had backlit his frame that day, but the dark charcoal of his orbits was unmistakable. Angela’s throat closed in a momentary spasm of panic, and for an instant, she was unable to breathe, causing her eyes to widen and bulge as she stared at the stranger from the alley. The man who had pushed her into a week of hysterics that had ignited her obsessive-compulsive habits.
She finally pushed air into her lungs and returned to shuffling papers into her purse, some of which scattered to the floor. She hurriedly tried to retrieve them and stop others from falling, but succeeded only in scattering more pages from the table.
“Wow, wow, wow,” Bill said. “Take it easy.”
He glanced wide-eyed at Catherine before picking up a few loose papers from the kitchen floor and handing them to Angela, who took them quickly without looking at him. Angela didn’t need to look into Bill Blackwell’s eyes to see the disgusted look on his face. She sensed it. It was an expression that sent Angela back to her childhood. Most people had looked at her this way throughout her adolescence, and today Angela felt much of the confidence she had earned in the last few years slipping away. She muttered a nearly silent thank you while stuffing the pages into her bag.
“Let me help you,” Catherine said, taking control of the situation and organizing the pages into a neat stack for Angela to place back into her purse.
“Angela stopped by for coffee,” Catherine said. “Just a quick visit.”
Bill looked at the dry coffeepot, empty since this morning.
“Got it,” he said. “You feeling better? Thomas said you were under the weather.”
Angela nodded quickly. “Yes. Thank you.” She looked at Catherine. “Call me later so we can talk.”
“Will do.”
Angela walked past Catherine’s husband and the man from the alley, hurried to the front foyer, pushed through the screen door, and raced down the steps, quickly walking along the sidewalk with her purse clutched under her arm.
Inside the house, Bill Blackwell stood next to Catherine and watched Angela rush down the block. He kept his voice quiet so Leonard Williams, whom Thomas had just hired as a foreman, wouldn’t hear. He didn’t want his words getting back to his partner.
“I’d never say anything to Thomas, but what the hell is
wrong with her? Is she a little … dense? Like retarded?”
Catherine turned her head and stared into her husband’s eyes. “She’s anything but stupid, you idiot.”
“Then why does she act like that?”
“Because she’s a goddamn genius, Bill. And people treat her like a leper.”
CHAPTER 10
Chicago, October 21, 2019
RORY ENTERED THE SMALL LAW FIRM AND CLICKED ON THE LIGHTS. She walked past Celia’s desk and into her father’s office, where the stacks of files had shrunk since her initial visit. She still remembered the day Celia had dribbled tears onto her neck. A week later, the thought continued to bubble her skin with goose bumps and call for extra scrubbing each morning in the shower.
Despite her hysterics, Celia was quite efficient. She and the paralegal had notified all of the firm’s current clients about the death of Frank Moore, and the need for them to find new counsel. From Celia’s diligent work and research, nearly every client was either represented by a new firm or had strong leads on where to take their cases. A letter had gone out to all former clients explaining the news. In just one week, Celia’s work was completed, her desk emptied, and the rest of the dissolution of Frank Moore’s firm rested on Rory’s shoulders.
Rory, too, had been busy. She’d placed calls to all clients whose cases were approaching trial and explained the situation—extensions were being filed until new counsel could be assigned. Nearly every case had been shuffled, and when she walked into her father’s office this morning, there was only a single, lone folder waiting on his desk. It was as enigmatic as it was troubling, and so far, Rory had not been able to reassign it. Mostly because the judge she had spoken to about the case had requested a meeting before Rory did anything else, but also because the closer Rory looked into the details of the file, the more curious she became about how this case had fallen into her father’s hands.
She spent an hour at her father’s desk, searching the Internet for any information she could find about the client. Rory had never known of the case during her time at the firm. But given her limited role within the Moore Law Group, this was not startling news. She had never heard of most of her father’s clients, but this one carried such magnitude that she was interested to know how he had kept such tight wraps on it. Her father’s history with this client was extensive, and untangling the firm from the situation would not be as simple as a few phone calls looking for reassignment.
At 10:00 A.M., Rory shut down the computer, grabbed the lone file that remained on her father’s desk, and locked the empty law office on the way out. She climbed into her car and drove downtown to the Daley Center. Inside, she made it through security, and, a few minutes later, rode the elevator with the security guard to the twenty-sixth floor, where the Circuit Court of Cook County was located. The guard led her down a hallway to the judge’s chambers and knocked on a closed door. A moment later, the door opened and a distinguished-looking older man appeared, white hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a suit and tie.
“Rory Moore?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Rory said as the guard tipped his hat and was gone.
“Russell Boyle. Come on in.”
Rory walked into the judge’s chambers and took a seat in front of his desk. The judge sat in his deep-set leather throne and swiveled to face Rory.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of your father for a couple of weeks. Sorry to hear about his passing. I was just made aware of the circumstances.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming down here on such short notice. I don’t mean this to sound harsh, but for many reasons other than the obvious, your father’s death comes at a terrible time. Frank and I were working on a delicate case, and the situation needs attention.” Judge Boyle lifted a file from his desk.
“Yes, sir,” Rory said. “It’s the last bit of my father’s business that I’m trying to take care of.”
“Are you familiar with this case?”
“No, sir. I wasn’t familiar with any of my father’s cases.”
“Weren’t you a partner in the firm?”
“A partner? No, sir. My father’s law firm was a one-man shop. He had no partners. Certainly not me. I did some side work for him when he needed help, but I wasn’t active in the firm.”
“What was your role at the firm, Ms. Moore?”
Rory tried to find the correct words to describe what, exactly, she did for her father. Her lightning-fast mind and borderline photographic memory allowed her to read briefs and comprehend the law and its loopholes better than her father had ever understood it. When Frank Moore got stuck on a case, he asked his daughter for help. Despite that she had never stepped foot in a courtroom, Rory had always been able to put together a winning strategy for just about every case for which her father had sought her counsel.
“Mostly research,” Rory finally said.
“But you are an attorney, Ms. Moore. Is that correct?”
The technical answer was yes, but all she wanted to do was lie.
“I’m not practicing any longer.”
“Are you licensed in Illinois?”
“Yes, sir, but only as a supplement to my employment with the Chicago Police Depart—”
Judge Boyle handed Rory a file in midsentence. “Good. Then you’re more than qualified to handle this situation.”
Rory took the file.
“Let me get you up to speed. Your father’s client is preparing for parole, and it’s a touchy situation.”
Rory opened the file and began reading.
“He’s due in front of the parole board one final time to review my recommendations for the conditions of his release, which is scheduled for November third. The hearing will be the day before. Your father and I were hashing out the details, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to put on your lawyer shoes for the hearing. It’s mostly a formality, as the board will go along with all of my recommendations, and I’ve already approved all of theirs. But, nonetheless, we all need to cross our t’s and dot our i’s on this one. You’ll have to appear with him.”
“Sir, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve dragged my feet on this for as long as possible, but the parole board has made their decision and I’ve spoken to the governor about it. There’s no way to stop this from happening, so I’m going to make sure it goes as smoothly as possible now. There was a shitload, excuse my French, of details I worked out with your father. Many terms of the release were negotiated. We had everything just about settled.”
Judge Boyle pointed at the file in Rory’s hands.
“Make yourself familiar with the details so we can discuss the final terms next time you and I meet.”
“Your Honor, I’m working to reassign all my father’s cases. I’m not taking them on myself.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option in this case. Unless you think you can find someone to handle it for you by next week.”
“Can I request an extension?”
“Your father has already requested several. I can’t kick this down the road any longer. There’s too much attention on the case. Your client has been in the news lately, and he’s due in front of the board in two weeks. Before then, and when you’re familiar with the case, you and I will talk about the specifics of his parole. Let’s get this man’s affairs in order, and get his file the hell off my docket.”
“Sir, I’m not suited for a courtroom. Or parole boards. Or for lawyering, in general.”
Judge Boyle was already out of his majestic leather chair and on his way to the door of his chambers.
“I suggest you find a way to remedy that situation before you come out of retirement next week.”
He opened the door and stood next to it. Rory took her cue to leave, her knees buckling slightly when she stood. After she gained her bearings, Rory cleared her throat.
“What did this guy do that makes a simple parole so complicated?”
�
��He killed a whole slew of people back in 1979. And now a few idiots on a parole board think it’s a good idea to let him out of jail.”
CHICAGO
August 1979
ANGELA JOGGED THE TWO BLOCKS HOME FROM CATHERINE’S HOUSE, raced up her steps, and pushed through her front door. She rattled the frame closed and twisted the dead bolt with trembling fingers. Her breathing was labored from her frantic march home, during which she constantly looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her. With the door securely latched, she leaned her forehead against the frame, her breaths shallow from having come face-to-face with the stranger from the alley. She tried for the last week to stop the image of his deep-set eyes from trickling into her mind. She’d done a good job today of replacing that image of the stranger’s face with those of the missing women as she worked out her theory that The Thief had been lurking for much longer than this summer. But now, since seeing the man at Catherine’s and knowing Thomas and Bill had hired him, Angela’s tightly tethered paranoia had broken loose.
She spent an hour checking the locks and windows, picking up the phone a hundred times in a row. She called Thomas’s office, but there was no answer. Her index finger became raw from punching the numbers on the phone. She settled into a mindless loop of dialing Thomas’s office number into the phone, pacing to the back door, peeling the curtains to the side, and staring out into the alley. Back and forth for hours until she finally heard the deep rumble of Thomas’s Ford truck turn down the alley, and saw the garage door begin to open. The growl of her husband’s truck, a noise that usually irked her the way all loud noises did, today brought comfort.
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