Jack Daniels Six Pack (57 page)

“It’s Harry. Duh.”

“What do you want, McGlade?”

“The bull. The guard. I got him.”

That got my eyes open.

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I kid?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He’s in room 3604, under the name John Smith. Real creative, huh?”

I shook my head, tried to get my thoughts clear.

“How’d you find him?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Bring a warrant.”

Judge Taylor wasn’t happy about being woken up in the middle of the night, but because she knew the immediacy of the situation, she understood. I stopped by her place on Cumberland, and then went to the hotel.

McGlade greeted me at the entrance with a canary-eating grin.

“How the hell did you manage this?”

“I told you. I’m a world-famous private investigator.”

“Spill.”

“Well, I knew you guys would have checked the airports, bus terminals, and train stations, and since the guy didn’t have a car, I figured he’d still be in the city. You froze his accounts, so he couldn’t use his credit cards. That meant he had to pay with cash. So I touched base with some of my friends at a few dozen local hotels, asking if anyone checked in lately paying in cash. Got a hit here, and confirmed it when the doorman saw the picture.”

“Harry, I gotta admit it, I’m amazed.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I amaze myself. You ready to crack some skulls, partner?”

I nodded. We entered the building, all crystal chandeliers and polished marble, and I hit the button for the lobby.

“So, you owe me a favor, right?”

“Anything you want, Harry, as long as it doesn’t involve either of us getting naked.”

“You wish. You remember my movie?
Fatal Autonomy
?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, I’m talking with the producer, and he’s considering turning it into a series.”

“That blows my mind.”

“Mine too. One of the Baldwin brothers is going to play me this time. They want to get that fat actress who played you to reprise her role. There’s a little matter of permission, though.”

My good mood lost a smidgen of goodness.

“Please, Jack? I found this guy for you, right? You owe me one. They love your character, and don’t want to do a series without her.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

McGlade opened his arms to hug me, but I advised him against it.

The elevator spit us out on the seventh floor. We passed a table stacked high with cut flowers, and made our way to the second set of elevators. McGlade pressed the number 36.

“Nice hotel.” He tapped the marble-inlaid floor with his shoe. “Reminds me of a HoJo I stayed at in Jersey.”

When the elevator stopped, we found the room without difficulty.

“Mr. Rohmer! Chicago Police Department. Open up. We have a warrant.”

No answer.

“Mr. Rohmer! Open the door, sir!”

Nothing.

“I’ll get a manager.” Harry trotted off. I continued knocking for another five minutes, before a desk clerk came over, smiling nervously.

“We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb the other guests.”

“Sure. Just open up.”

He opened it. I went in first, gun in hand. The room was dark, but I noticed two things immediately.

First, the television was on, playing the kind of movie that men watch when they’re alone.

Second, Mr. Rohmer was on top of the bed, naked and grasping his veal. He was also quite dead.

“You could try mouth-to-mouth,” Harry suggested. “He’d probably like that.”

I might have tried, too, but I’d been around enough corpses to know he’d been dead for at least an hour.

Harry shook his head. “And they say pornography is harmless.”

I turned off the TV, cursing bad luck, fate, and timing in the same breath.

“Oh, dear.” The manager made worried mother-hen noises. “We can’t let this get out.”

“It’ll make a good headline.” Harry put his arm around the clerk’s shoulders. “Crooked Department of Corrections Employee Wanks Himself to Death at Four Seasons.”

“Oh, dear.”

“At least he died happy.”

I called it in, then flipped on the lights and spent ten minutes tearing the room apart. I found a few grand in cash, and nothing else.

“Get anything?” I asked McGlade.

“Just an almost new bottle of baby oil.”

“No tape?”

“No tape. It’s not here, unless he’s hiding it in a body cavity. I’ll roll him over if you wanna check.”

I rubbed my eyes. Cops came, and paramedics.

“Probably a heart attack or a stroke,” said a uniform.

“More like a lot of strokes,” Harry said.

My cell rang. I went into the hallway to answer.

“Daniels.”

“Lieutenant? This is Gary Pludenza, Derrick Rushlo’s lawyer. Derrick would like to talk.”

“I won’t testify!” Rushlo screamed in the background.

“We need him to testify, Mr. Pludenza.”

“He won’t do it, but I think he might be able to help you anyway. Can you come here?”

“Where are you?”

He gave me his address, a house in the suburb of Naperville.

“How soon can you get here?”

“Gimme an hour.”

I hung up, heading for the elevator. McGlade nipped at my heels.

“You’re still going to sign the permission form, right? Jackie? I’ll be by in a couple of days, okay? Sorry this didn’t work out for you—”

The elevator doors closed, saving me from further pestering.

I took Delaware to Congress, and hopped on 290 heading west. Rush hour was in full effect, and the stop-and-go traffic was a perfect setting for inducing a panic attack. My heart rate doubled, my palms became slick, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek while my brain kept sending me still pictures, like a slide show, of every mistake I’d ever made over my whole life.

By the time I made it to Naperville, I was a wreck.

Pludenza’s house reeked of money. It sat in a cul-de-sac in a ritzy development, two stories high with four alabaster Doric columns supporting the roof overhang. The doorbell was hooked up to real bells.

“Thanks for coming, Lieutenant.” Pludenza looked about as agitated as I felt. He led me through a grand foyer, my short heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.

“Bankruptcies seem to be on the rise.”

“Hmm? Oh. My wife comes from money. It’s like living in the Taj Mahal. Derrick is in the den.”

The den was an expansive room with vaulted ceilings, black leather furniture, and a beautiful Prairie Wind pool table in colonial maple.

Derrick sat in an armchair, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Is he out yet?” he asked.

“Soon. Closing arguments are today. If you want to keep him locked up, you have to testify.”

His head shook violently.

“No. No testifying.”

“Then he’s going to get out, Derrick. And then he’ll come for you. He was a cop. He knows how to find people.”

Derrick began to hum, off-tune.

“Did you want something to drink, Lieutenant?”

I asked Pludenza for some coffee, and sat across from Rushlo.

“Derrick, we need to keep him in jail. Do you understand that?”

He nodded.

“I know that you’re scared. We can keep you safe. I promise. But you need to help us make sure he doesn’t get out.”

He nodded again.

“Tell me about Southern Illinois.”

His good eye locked on me.

“You know about Southern?”

“I know about you getting kicked out. I know that’s where you met Fuller. I know about the body you stole.”

“I took her out into the woods, where no one would see. He followed me and watched.”

I ventured a guess. “Fuller turned you in.”

Rushlo looked at me like I’d just grown donkey ears.

“Barry didn’t turn me in. He was the one that told me to do it. He understood.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He came up to me, after class. Wanted me to get him and some of his fraternity buddies into the morgue. For hazing week.”

“Did you let them?”

“No. I would have gotten kicked out of school. But for fun, I let them see my embalming book. The guys were making jokes, acting tough, because they didn’t want to admit being grossed out. But Barry was different. He seemed . . .”

“Interested?”

“More like aroused. Not by the embalming pages. By the reconstruction pages. He liked the trauma pictures. Extreme disfigurement. Stuff like that. So a week later, he came by again, alone. We got to talking. We have a lot in common, you know.”

Yeah, I thought. You’re both psychotic perverts.

“Were you helping Barry with disposals while in college?”

“No. That didn’t happen until I had to leave. During my internship, at the funeral home in Champaign-Urbana. We stayed in touch, and one day he calls me up and says, ‘Do you want a fresh one?’”

“A fresh corpse?”

“Yeah. He was still down at Southern. He told me she was untraceable, and he needed my help to get rid of her.”

“This was someone he’d killed?”

“Yeah. So I drove down to Southern to pick her up. He’d bloodied her up pretty good, but she was still warm.”

Derrick got a faraway look in his one eye; the other one always had a faraway look.

“You buried her in a closed casket with another body.”

He fixed both eyes on me, a first for him. “How did you know that?”

“Do you remember the names, Derrick?”

“The girl’s name was Melody. Such a pretty girl.”

“Melody Stephanopoulos?”

He nodded.

“How about the name of the person you buried her with?”

“Last name was Hernandez, I remember that. Skinny guy. Tongue cancer. Most of his jaw was gone. I put them both in the same coffin, planted them in Greenview Cemetery. It was a beautiful ceremony. Lots of flowers.”

I took out a pad and scribbled all of this down.

“How many others were there?”

“Kantner’s Funeral Home in Urbana didn’t have a crematorium. When I got a job in Chicago, it was much safer. I would still do an occasional two-for-one special, though, if I could get away with it. Cremation is such a waste. You might not believe this, but I think death is sacred. A funeral is a sacred ritual. I think everyone should have a wake, even if it isn’t your family kneeling at the casket.”

“How many, Derrick?”

“There were about eighteen women, total, over the last fifteen years. I buried nine of them.”

“You have names?”

He smiled shyly.

“Of course. I remember them all. Each and every one of them.”

“What if you didn’t have to testify? What if you just made a statement?”

That flipped the switch in Rushlo. “I won’t testify! You can’t make me testify!”

“Easy, Derrick. Calm down.”

“I won’t do it!”

“But you wouldn’t have to go to court. You could just . . .”

“I love him.”

Pludenza chose that moment to return with the coffee. He handed me a cup and saucer, a wince etched into his face.

“Derrick”—I tried to sound soothing—“Barry wants to kill you.”

“I can’t betray him like that. He understands me. He’s the only one that understands me. But I don’t need to make a statement. You can prove Barry killed those women.”

“How?”

“He likes to bite. All of the girls I buried had bite marks on them.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

That would be enough. If we exhumed Hernandez and found Stephanopoulos in the casket, with Fuller’s teeth marks on the corpse, he’d have to stand trial in Carbondale. And since this was years ago, he wouldn’t be able to use the tumor insanity defense.

I set down the coffee without taking a sip, and dug out my cell. Derrick grabbed my pants leg.

“You have to help me.”

“I’ll send some guards over to watch the house.”

“How about the witness program? Where they give people new names?”

I punched in Libby’s number. “If Fuller gets out, that’s a possibility.”

“Can they set me up at another funeral home?”

“We dropped charges against you, Derrick, but I really don’t think the FTC, IDPR, or OSHA is going to let you practice again.”

He began to cry. I thanked Pludenza and left Libby a voice mail on the way to my car. Then I called Herb.

“What?”

“Look, Herb, we can deal with our squabble later. I’m driving down to Carbondale and I need you to run interference for me.”

“Tell me.”

I filled him in, and he agreed to set the wheels in motion.

Southern Illinois University was a five-hour drive.

I hopped back on the expressway, my car pointed south.

CHAPTER 42

I was sixty miles away from Carbondale when Libby called.

“The jury’s out.”

“How was your closing?”

“Not as good as Garcia’s.” I could picture Libby frowning. “If I were on that jury, I’d vote not guilty.”

“If that happens, we need to keep tabs on Fuller until we can get an arrest warrant from Carbondale.”

“What’re the chances of that?”

“If Rushlo wasn’t lying, chances are good.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You too.”

I met the Carbondale chief of police, Shelby Duncan, at Greenville Cemetery forty minutes later. With him were a woman from the Health Department, the county coroner, the assistant director of the cemetery, and several workers.

Herb had made good on his word; the permits were in order, and everyone who needed to be there was there.

The day was cold and miserable, befitting a disinterment. We huddled together, hands in pockets and shoulders scrunched, while the guy operating the backhoe repeatedly dipped the big yellow shovel into the Hernandez plot.

After an hour, he struck concrete. The vault. Illinois cemeteries required all coffins to be placed in a burial vault or grave box. That prevented the earth from collapsing the casket, which would leave the cemetery pockmarked with hundreds of obvious indentations.

Two men in overalls went down the hole to widen the edges, and large spikes with eyeholes were driven into the vault cover. They secured ropes, and the backhoe lifted the section of concrete out of the grave. Straps were then attached to the coffin, and it was brought to the surface and gently placed next to the vault top.