The Shoulders of Giants (13 page)

“What about time of death.”

“A little early to say for sure. Rigor has started in the jaw, even in this outside temperature, but in my opinion that was probably hastened by strenuous activity before death. It looks like she may have been exercising. Her body temperature is still pretty high, but she died of asphyxiation, which raises the body temp. All in all, I would estimate she’s been here no more than three hours.”

“Okay, thanks.” Scott said, and began to turn away.

“There’s one other thing you should know,” said Dr Odin. “I found a drop of liquid on her thigh. Probably semen.”

“Probably?”

“I’m pretty sure. Naturally I’ll do a rape kit when we get back for the post.”

“What about the other victims?” Freedman asked.

“Well, you already know about the one we found in the trunk of the car. As for the others, there’s nothing to show it, but I can’t rule it out.”

Scott thanked Dr Odin, and told Freedman he’d meet him back at the station.

“You know, this could be very good” he said to me after his partner had left.

“Not for her.”

“No. But he’s getting cocky. This one was raped and killed in broad daylight, a few yards from a path, and it looks like he might have left us some DNA. I can feel us getting closer to him. Are you okay to get a cab home?” he asked me. “I really have to get to the station; we’ve got some people to talk to.”

“No problem. Have you got anything good?” I asked.

“No eye witnesses, but we’ve got an I.D. from a couple of people. Her name’s Linda Kramer. She’s a math student, lives in the dorms over there.” He pointed to a buff colored brick building on the corner of Harrison Street. “She was probably on her way home and she got jumped. She was only a few hundred yards from her front door.”

“What about the reporters?”

“At least one of them got an anonymous tip. That’s who I’ve got to go talk to now, see what they can remember about it. Maybe it was the killer themselves, wanting a piece of the action. Wouldn’t be the first time a murderer contacted the media for a little attention.”

“Of course, it could just be a member of the public who didn’t want to get involved in a police investigation.” I pointed out.

“Could be,” he agreed, “but I’m thinking this killer wants to be famous.”

Chapter 20

By nine o’clock on Friday morning, I was sitting in my car outside Red Again, the second hand bookstore where Susan had worked, just off the Magnificent Mile. I was checking the morning’s
Tribune
for the story on last night’s murder. There was a leader on the front page, with a picture of Linda Kramer how she used to look before someone had strangled her to death. Inside were a few of the less gory details, and someone had done an editorial on how our educational institutions are no longer safe. It talked more about Columbine and Virginia Tech than UIC, and I got the distinct feeling that that writer had rehashed a piece he’d put together some time ago.

The shop was small, and every inch of space was used to its fullest. Books of various sizes, some in good condition, some in need of repair, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The clientele were, to say the least, eclectic. Businessmen in suits browsed next to students who hadn’t washed their hair in weeks. Books are a great equalizer. Behind the counter was a young man with a Letterman jacket on. Another part timer, no doubt.

“Can I help you?” he asked, helpfully, as I approached the counter.

“Is the manager in?” I asked.

He smiled at the implication that there was a question he couldn’t answer. A situation he couldn’t handle. “Is there a problem?”

I smiled right back at him, and showed him my license. “No problem at all,” I said. “I’d just like to ask them a couple of questions about Susan Patterson.”

“I’ll just get the manager,” he said, and went into the back office.

About half a minute later, he emerged and came back to the counter. “Mrs Henshall would like to speak with you in the back.” He held up the flap of the counter and motioned me through.

The kid showed me into a room barely big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs. Sitting in one of the chairs, behind the desk, was a very proper looking woman wearing half-glasses, a blouse that buttoned all the way up to her chin and a frown that seemed to weigh down the top half of her face. She was surrounded by bookshelves, and more books were piled on the floor, presumably waiting to be sorted through.

I had to move the waste basket in order to sit down, and in doing so, I sent one pile of books crashing to the floor.

“Leave them,” she barked. I sat down. “William tells me you’re a detective.” I nodded. “May I see your credentials?”

I handed her the Photostat of my license, and she read it carefully, to check I wasn’t the book police in disguise.

“Jake.” she said, in disgust, still reading. “Is that short for anything? Jacob?”

I got the sense she didn’t like names to be shortened. I bet William preferred to be Bill if he was given the choice. Maybe she felt it showed a lack of respect for words. She would have a fit if she ever met Calvin Walsh’s boss. In a way, I was sorry to disappoint her. “No ma’am,” I said, “it’s just Jake.”

“Then I will call you Mr Abraham,” she said, handing back my license, “and you may call me Mrs Henshall.” I almost said ‘Gee, thanks’, but I thought if she frowned any more she might disappear into her blouse.

“Well, Mrs Henshall,” I began, “I just have a few questions about Susan Patterson.”

“Yes, awful news. She used to work here, you know.”

I nodded. “That’s why I’m here.” I said. “How long had Susan worked for you?”

“Approximately six, no wait, five months.”

“And how many hours a week did she work?”

“It varies. She did a lot of extra time over the summer break, but mostly she works evenings and weekends.”

“Saturdays?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“Were you surprised when she didn’t come in last Saturday?”

Mrs Henshall shook her head. “She had booked the day off. It was her father’s birthday.”

“Did she mention anything to you beforehand that seemed odd? Maybe only in hindsight?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about anyone else who works here? Did she talk to them much?” I asked.

“There is usually only myself and one other person here. It’s a small shop Mr Abraham, and not usually as busy as today. It appears there really is no such thing as bad publicity.”

I couldn’t recall any mention of Red Again in any of the newspaper reports of Susan’s death, but I let it slide. I took out the list of victims names I’d shown to Abby Dexter. I had added Linda Kramer to the bottom.

“Do any of these names mean anything to you, Mrs Henshall?” I asked, showing her the list.

She took it from me, looked at it for a little bit too long, and handed it back. Her eyes gave her away.

“No.” she lied.

“Are you sure?” I said, giving her a chance. “Take another look. Look at the names one by one.”

“Well...”

“Yes?”

“These are the other victims, aren’t they?”

No, that can’t be what she said. I must have misheard. I checked.

“Excuse me?”

“The other victims. All killed by the same person as Susan?”

Shit. How should I handle this? Who knew about the link? The killer obviously, and also cops. Maybe she was a cop’s wife.

“So you do know the names?” I asked, gingerly.

“Some of them ring a bell. Linda Kramer. That was the name of the girl found at the University last night, I believe.”

She knew far too much about the case for my liking. I decided to try the direct approach. Maybe she’d confess.

“And you know this because...”

“It’s all over the papers.”

“That’s pretty observant. Most people wouldn’t even notice the name, let alone remember it.”

“Usually, I’m sure I would be the same,” she said, “but given the connection to Susan, what with it being the same killer...”

“What makes you think it’s the same killer?” I asked, beginning to lose my patience.

She looked at me as if I was stupid, then reached down into her bag by the side of her chair. My muscles tensed, ready for fight or flight. She brought a copy of that morning’s
Chicago Sun-Times
down on the desk with a thud. My eyes went reflexively to the headline. ‘ZORRO KILLER SLAYS SEVENTH. POLICE BAFFLED.’

I looked from the paper to her eyes and back. Her expression was fairly blank. I don’t know what I’d expected. The headline remained the same no matter how long I stared at it.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing towards the paper.

She nodded.

Even as I was reading it, I couldn’t believe the story had broken. It took up several pages of pictures and text, and I skim read as best I could. Scant details were given of each of the crimes, in the order in which the bodies were found. Richard West was described as a
‘high-flying city broker, found dead in his own car.’
They still hadn’t mentioned the drowning. The other victims followed, some with information missing, some in more detail.
‘Melissa Adams, shot while jogging on the beach...Susan Patterson, daughter of disgraced police captain Gregory Patterson, was found in a parking garage, having died of an insulin overdose... Julie Campbell, 19, a British hitchhiker poisoned and dumped by the side of the road...actor Grant Foster, stabbed in his kitchen... Calvin Walsh, a factory worker, beaten to death...and finally, last night, math student Linda Kramer was brutally strangled only yards from her front door. Seven seemingly unconnected but violent deaths in a city with more than its fair share. However, one gruesome connection between the bodies has now been revealed. One of the feet of each victim had been mutilated by a cut in the shape of a ‘Z’. Police spokesmen are refusing to comment on the possible motivation behind this, but one thing seems clear. A serial killer is on the loose in the streets of Chicago tonight.”

Great. That should stop people from panicking needlessly. I folded the paper, and put it back on the desk. Mrs Henshall was tapping away at her computer keyboard as if I wasn’t there. I gave her my card, apologized for taking up her time, and left.

Twenty minutes later, I was in my office with the news on, and my own copy of the
Sun-Times
spread out on my desk. On the way over, I listened to WGN talk radio, and the talk was about the case. People were angry, but not at the killer. The anger was aimed at the police. People couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been told there was a serial killer on the loose. As if it would have made a difference. All the same, I could see lawsuits on the horizon from the victims’ families, claiming that their beloved sons or daughters might have been more careful had they known.

The television news had frantically rehashed the information that was in the
Sun-Times
, and added footage from its coverage of the individual murder scenes. Last night’s scene at UIC was conspicuous by its absence, as the police had commandeered the tape, since it provided their only record of what the crime scene had looked like before it was contaminated.

What I wanted to know, however, was how the
Sun-Times
had got their information. They knew almost everything. Worst of all, they knew about the ‘Z’ on the feet. When the cops eventually decided to go public, that would have been the main detail to keep from the press, since it was the only real connection between each of the crimes. By publishing so many of the details, the papers were practically inviting copycats.

At ten the television news had something fresh. There were protests springing up around the city. Apparently, the latest victim, Linda Kramer, was a member of a church group. The group had started a vigil at the university, to remain there until the killer was caught. People were chanting, crying, lighting candles, and praying. Praying for the killer to be caught. I wondered if they would forgive him.

The news showed these Christian people, even interviewed a few. Handy soundbites, which could be packaged and used again on news reports throughout the day. Then the location changed. Outside the police station on Belmont and Western, an even larger crowd had gathered. Some were marching in circles and holding placards with ‘Reclaim the streets’ and other inspirational messages on them. I admired what they stood for, and their motivation, but I couldn’t help feeling that their methods were lacking. For all the good they were doing, the placards might as well have read ‘Down with serial killers’ and ‘Investigate crime’.

When I had finally pored over and assimilated all the information in the papers, along with the story in the
Tribune
about Linda Kramer, which had gone to print too early to break the
Sun-Times
exclusive, I went to the coffee shop around the corner for some Coke and donuts. Everyone in the place was talking about the ‘Zorro’ killer. The anger expressed on the radio talk show, and in the protests on the news was echoed in the atmosphere of the coffee shop. I wanted to tell them that they should be angry with the killer, not the police, but I thought I might be lynched. I got my Coke and donuts to go.

The media went into overdrive, with regular news updates when there was nothing to update, and constant summaries of the updates so far that morning. They were hyping the story out of all proportion, but I did watch every bulletin in case there was something different, so I guess I was one of the news junkies perpetuating their power. I hated that.

At eleven I got a call from Scott.

“Hey Scott”, I said, “how’s life in Area 3?”

“Peachy. Have you seen the news?”

“Could I have missed it? How’d it get out?”

“No idea. Frankly, I’m amazed we kept a lid on it as long as we did. People talk. After a hard day, they talk to their girlfriends, husbands, dogs. Helps them unwind. Then it gets talked about some more, in a bar, in a beauty parlor, eventually it gets to a reporter.”