“Then there were the autopsy photos,” the detective said. “Something we never released to the media. Gleason was tied up before she was shot. Struggled with it. Significant bruising on the arms and wrists.”
“Sounds like an execution to me.”
“Exactly. Now you show up with her name in an old case file. I think to myself, maybe this is the connection. Maybe this is where she got herself dead.”
“Maybe we’re chasing the same ghosts.”
“Could be. I tell you what, Kelly. Why don’t we exchange files. You get yourself access to Carol’s homicide book and I get a look at your street file. See if something clicks.”
I agreed. Reynolds promised to copy the Gleason file and FedEx it to me.
“Probably take a week or so, the way they move around here,” the Phoenix detective said.
“I’ll get you a copy of my stuff by week’s end,” I said.
“Fair enough, Kelly. Let me know if you turn up anything.”
I clicked off with Reynolds, circled Carol Gleason’s name on my list, and punched up Masters’ cell.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Kelly again.”
“I knew that.”
“How was the morgue?”
“Hopping. Gibbons’ landlady sends her best.”
“How’d she die?” I said.
“None of your fucking business.”
I waited. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
“Massive electrical shock,” Masters said.
“Accidental?”
“She was Tasered. ME says the device must have been rigged, delivered double the normal dose. At least a hundred thousand volts. Blew out her heart.”
I swallowed and took a quick read on the old pulse. A hundred thousand volts and still ticking.
“Kelly, you there?”
“You know a cop named Tony Salvucci?”
The detective’s voice came back. This time with an edge.
“I knew him. Killed in a shooting a couple years back. What of it?”
“He’s tied in to the Remington rape.”
I could hear the hum of traffic over the line and then the blast of a truck’s air horn.
“How so?”
“He took the report from Gibbons. Handled the paperwork.”
“How did you turn up his name?”
I knew that was coming but just moved on through.
“Look, Masters, I don’t know how this all fits but that doesn’t mean it won’t. I’d like to get a look at the file on Salvucci’s death.”
“Cop shooting? Never going to happen.”
I figured that and had a backup request ready.
“How about the file on Remington? Everything you have.”
“What do you know about cold cases?” Masters said.
“I watch the blonde on CBS.”
A bit of a wheeze came blowing through the line. It seemed an effort, but Masters didn’t disconnect.
“We got something now called a cold case squad. They specialize in clearing old crimes. Use a lot of DNA and all that happy horseshit.”
“Impressed, huh?”
“Who knows. You ever watch Bill Kurtis on A amp;E.”
“The guy with the voice?” I said.
“Chicago guy. Good buddy of the mayor. Anyway, he has a show. Not the one with the blonde. These guys do real cases.”
“Cold Case Files.”
“You watched it?”
“I saw it once,” I said.
“Lays out these old investigations, all the forensics.”
“Real-life CSI.”
“Whatever. Anyway, Kurtis buttonholes the mayor with this stuff. How cops across the country are clearing these old files and Chicago is doing squat. Now we got a cold case squad. They have all these old files stacked away somewhere.”
“So I go talk to them about Remington?” I said.
“Don’t bother. I ran the case number after we talked this morning. The cold squad doesn’t have the file.”
“Should they?”
“Yeah, they should probably have something. Which leads me to wonder how you can pull names out of a file that the Chicago PD says doesn’t exist.”
I knew Masters wanted to help. I also knew I needed someone on my side.
“I have a street file on this case.”
“You took it from the landlady’s house.”
“Mulberry FedExed it to me. Got here this morning. Just before you did. Got the receipt to prove it.”
“Maybe. But you were still at the house.”
I wondered how he knew. With a veteran cop like Masters, sometimes it’s just a feeling.
“Okay, I was there. Didn’t touch a thing. Just called it in.”
Nothing.
“Want to see the file?” I said.
More nothing. Then, something.
“You know Mr. Beef down in River North?”
I didn’t know a man in Chicago worth knowing who didn’t know of “The Great Beef” on Orleans Street.
“Tomorrow afternoon, twelve-thirty,” the detective said. “Bring the file or don’t bother coming at all.”
Masters hung up. I leafed through the old file again, looking for something worth a person’s life and not finding it. Then I thought about the polo shirt I’d pulled from Goshen’s warehouse. I picked up the phone and made a final call.
After I hung up, the guilt held on. For just a bit. Then it dissipated. Like it always did. The friend was an old one. Too old not to help. And I knew it.
CHAPTER 26
The State of Illinois Forensic Science Center is located in the 1900 block of West Roosevelt Road, a mile or so from where O’Leary’s cow kicked over the lantern that burned down a city. I got there at just after six o’clock. The lab was large and empty. Nicole sat at her workstation.
“Let’s see it, Michael.”
I put the street file on her desk. She turned her nose up. I wasn’t sure if it was at me, the file, or both. Then she slipped on a pair of latex gloves and began to turn pages.
“You didn’t pull the file from this woman’s house?”
“She sent it to me.”
“Gibbons’ landlady?”
“Yes.”
“And now she’s dead?”
