The Shoulders of Giants (17 page)

Inevitably, we drifted on to the subject we had been trying to avoid.

“Nothing came up on the thumbprint.” Scott said

“Which means no criminal record, right?”

“Assuming the killer loaded the shotgun, that’s what it means.”

“We can also cross Military service off the list.”

“Which puts us no closer to finding him than yesterday.”

“What about the DNA?”

“It’ll take a couple more days, but since the print didn’t match the best we can really hope for is a forensic hit.”

“A what?”

“A match to a DNA sample collected from another crime scene. But that still won’t tell us who he is.”

“So what angle are you working now?”

“We’ll be checking into Linda Kramer. Seems a lot of people think the fact that he cut her face up may be significant. Maybe he knew her. Meantime we've been knocking on doors around each crime scene looking for possible witnesses. Brought in maybe six suspects in the past week from tips we've had from the victims’ friends and relatives but so far everyone checks out. Two guys down the station spend all day going through the anonymous phone tips we've been getting since the story broke yesterday. It’s mainly nuts and ambulance chasers, but you never know when something useful could come in. Not to mention the confessions.”

“People are confessing?”

“About a dozen so far. It always happens on a high profile case, over two hundred people confessed to the Lindbergh kidnapping. But we’ve got to check them out. There is one glimmer of light – DuPage cops were recanvassing around Greene Valley and someone remembered a partial plate on a blue Honda they saw burning rubber away from the scene around the time Stacey Lloyd was shot. Might lead to something.”

“So how many bodies do we have now?”

“Eight. Four white, four black, three male, five female. That’s weird too, because serial killers don’t mix genders. I mean, it happens, but it’s rare. All were killed between Friday 14th September and Thursday 20th. No apparent regular times for the murders, either. Some were done in the morning, afternoon, evening, even the middle of the night.”

“So we’re looking for a very busy insomniac.” I said.

“Hell, that could be me. What are your plans for this fine day?”

“I thought I’d take a trip down to the public library, and see what I could find out about Grant Foster and Calvin Walsh.”

“You done with Susan?”

“I think I’ve spoken to everyone I can about her. Did you ever find out who Tommy Byrne’s friend was?”

“Oh, yeah. Meant to let you know. We ran his known associates and one guy pretty well matches your composite. He’s a button man by the name of Dean Dugan.”

I sniggered. “A button man?”

“A foot soldier. A grunt. If the boss wants the button pushed on anyone, he pushes it. Mostly Byrne just uses him for protection.”

“Might he have pushed the button on anyone we know?”

“Doubtful,” said Scott. “He’s a one trick pony. Always uses a gun or a knife.”

“Two trick pony.” I said, under my breath.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Chapter 26

When Scott and I had finished the last of the pancakes, he left to kill time before his next shift. I offered him the opportunity to help me with my research, but he politely declined. Actually, he said he’d rather beat himself repeatedly over the head with a baseball bat, and then go and sit in a freezer.

I got dressed, and headed for the Harold Washington Library Center. It was a bright day, and as I took Lake Shore Drive down to East Wacker, the sun reflected off Lake Michigan and into my car. It was noon when I pulled up outside the library on State Street, and while I waited for the song on the radio to finish, I sat in my car and looked at the largest public library building in the world.

It still looked newly built, and at just fifteen years old, it was only a baby compared to most of the skyscrapers that towered over it. I stared, as I always did, at the green metal gargoyles which crouched on the roof and surveyed Congress Parkway. Apparently, they are supposed to be owls, but they had always looked more like dragons to me.

I had parked in the sun, and before long, the car began to get very hot. The air-conditioning hadn’t worked properly since just after I bought the car, but I couldn’t seem to get round to taking it in to be fixed. I got out and crossed the street to the library.

I walked briskly through the lobby, barely glancing at the mosaic mural of Harold Washington, the city’s first African-American mayor. I made straight for the third floor, and the Newspapers and Periodicals section, which housed copies of the
Chicago Tribune
dating back to 1947, all on Microfiche. The
Trib’s
website had an archive search which went back to 1985, but it only showed the first few lines of an article, and you had to pay four bucks a pop for the rest. Back at the office, I’d searched under Calvin Walsh and Grant Foster and I’d written down the dates of the articles that looked likely. I started working backwards through the list, and found most were not about the people I was looking for, including one that had looked promising but turned out to be an opinion piece on whether or not a group named ‘Rights for Foster Parents’ should get a grant for their campaign.

My first real hit came with a story from April 2000, involving Walsh. I retrieved the appropriate roll of film, and loaded it onto the Microfiche reader. It took me a few minutes to get the hang of the controls, but before long I had found the correct page.

Walsh’s name was mentioned in a human interest story from an opinion column about dogs being banned from children’s play areas. It seems he was a dog-owner involved in a dispute with a local parents’ group over whether dogs should be allowed to run around in parks where kids are likely to be playing. The columnist appeared to feel things were getting too serious, judging by the tongue-in-cheek lilt to his words.

‘The City has not yet figured out a solution to the growing tension between angry parents and dog-owners. There is no city-wide policy to give dog-owners their rights over these power-mad human toddlers, but someone has to stop these dangerous radicals before things get out of hand.’

I thought it a bit of a stretch to imagine the parents’ group had got together seven years later to rid the world of Calvin Walsh. Nevertheless, I printed the story out and went back to my list of dates. The Microfiche didn’t take too long to check, and I was enjoying the feeling of doing some real hands-on research.

Grant Foster’s name came up next, and I found the Microfiche roll containing the
Tribune
for Monday 15th September 1997. The headline was ‘WOMAN SERIOUSLY HURT IN HOUSE FIRE’.

‘An unattended cigarette ignited a couch and sent flames racing through a Westchester home early yesterday morning.

The fire was reported shortly after 3 a.m. by a next door neighbor who saw smoke pouring from a downstairs window. Responding initially with two engines, fire-fighters had the blaze under control within an hour.

Shelley Ryan, 24, who lived in the house on the 1600 block of Mandel Avenue, was listed as being in serious condition at Loyola University Medical Center in Maywood, where she is being treated for severe smoke inhalation, as well as burns to approximately five percent of her body. Her fiancé, photographic model Grant Foster, 26, was not home during the fire, said assistant fire chief John Huffman.’

While I waited for the story to print out, I looked through the next few days worth of papers, to see if there were any follow up stories which weren’t in the index because Foster wasn’t mentioned. I came across a small article buried in the following Monday’s edition, simply saying that Miss Ryan was well on her way to a full recovery, and would be released soon.

The next hit, a short piece from August 1997, was the one that shocked me.

‘Levi Jeans model Grant Foster was found not guilty Tuesday of a drunken driving charge. Foster, 26, of Westchester, was arrested on charges of driving under the influence of alcohol after a portable Breathalyzer test showed his blood alcohol level at 0.9 percent, making him one of the first drivers to be prosecuted since the state limit was lowered to 0.8 percent on July 2nd. Previously, Illinois presumed impairment at 1.0 percent. Foster’s attorney, Cook County Public Defender Abigail Dexter, argued that the tests were improperly administered and Circuit Judge George Van Allen apparently agreed.’

When I showed her the list of names, Abby had said she didn’t know any of them. Was she lying or did she not remember? It was a while ago, but she had known Grant Foster. I felt sure she had just forgotten the name. I wondered how to go about getting a transcript of the case.

There were no more website hits that actually involved either of the men, so I turned to the paper indexes. Searching manually, year by year, through the large leather-bound books slowed things down considerably, and I had no more luck until I reached January of 1979, and found an emotive piece about seven year old Calvin Walsh saving a school friend who had fallen in a frozen pond.

‘One of the children ran to get help, while others stood and stared, not knowing what to do, as their friend screamed in the freezing water. Young Calvin Walsh sprang into action. He crawled on his stomach across the ice towards the hole where Richie was treading water, and he pulled his friend up onto the ice with him. By the time help arrived, Richie was safe, and is recovering from his ordeal at home in bed.’

I was reminded of George Bailey saving his brother in
It’s a Wonderful Life
, and I wondered if it would be long before the press found out and I saw the headline ‘ZORRO VICTIM WAS CHILD HERO’, or something to that effect.

I decided I had gone back far enough, so I left the indexes and asked the lady at the Information Center desk how I could find out which agency represented a local actor. She pointed me towards a very useful reference book, and within minutes I had the name and address of Grant Foster’s agent. I made up my mind to go and talk to them first thing Monday morning. I couldn’t think of anything else to look up, so I headed over to Foster’s 2nd floor walk-up to talk to his neighbors.

Chapter 27

I started by talking to the super in Grant Foster’s building, a guy named Hudson, who was as wide as he was tall. Apparently, he also collected the tenants’ rent every month for the landlord. I wondered how long it took him to climb two flights of stairs, given that he had to rest twice on the way from his front door to his armchair.

“Foster, 2G. I tell you, I’ve had so much hassle since he bought it, with the police coming round every other day, checking they haven’t missed anything, and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing with reporters asking me questions. I didn’t tell them shit, though,” he said, proudly. “I hate reporters. You sure you’re not a reporter?”

It was the third time he’d asked me since answering the door.

“Positive.” I said, and showed him the Photostat of my P.I. license again.

“Good, I hate reporters.”

I was curious as to where such a deep seated hatred stemmed from, but I felt that if I asked, he might tell me, and I may never leave, so I got right down to business.

“What can you tell me about Mr Foster?” I asked.

“I didn’t like him.”

I waited for more, but nothing came.

“Any particular reason?” I prompted.

“He never paid his rent on time. Not since his girlfriend moved out, anyway. She was real good about it, but he was always late.”

“When did his girlfriend leave?”

“Four, five months ago. I guess they broke up. Anyway, after she left, I always had to chase him for it.”

“Do you have a forwarding address for her, by any chance?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he said, “lemme find it.”

I waited while he heaved himself out of his chair. He could have done with one of those devices they used to use to lift knights on to their horses.

He waddled over to the desk, and opened one of the drawers. He took out a wad of scraps of paper, with hand written notes on them. He then started to spread them out across the desk, and sifted through them, searching for the one I needed. I wanted to ask a couple more questions, but I didn’t want to break his concentration.

“Here it is!” he finally said, triumphantly.

I waited while he waddled over to me and handed me the slip of paper. The name on it was Emma McKinley, the address no more than ten minutes away.

“Do you remember anything else about either of them?” I asked, pocketing the address.

“Not really. I think she was some kind of actress. He was a big guy, worked out a lot. He never said much to me, kept himself to himself, but then he never complained about the plumbing like some of the others live here do.”

“What about the day of the murder, um, Wednesday? Did you see or hear anything unusual? Did you see anyone you didn’t recognize around here that morning?”

“First I knew anything was up, I heard Louisa going crazy.”

“That’s Mrs Hernandez? The cleaning woman?” I asked.

“Right. She found him. Next thing I know the place is crawling with cops and reporters. Bastards.”

“Okay, thanks. You mind if I talk to some of his neighbors?”

“Not if they don’t mind talking to you.”

When I let myself out of his apartment he was trying again to wrench himself from the armchair. He reminded me of a turtle flipped over on its back, trying to right itself.

I climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door of 2F, opposite Grant Foster’s place. There was nobody home. I moved back across the hall, and tried 2E. A man answered in a cardigan and slippers. He looked mid 50’s but dressed mid 60’s.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His accent was Boston.

“I hope so. I’m a private investigator.” I showed him my license. He seemed impressed, but I think he was just being polite. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Grant Foster if I may.’

“Certainly,” he said, “Come in, come in. Would you like some tea?”