away news clippings in a homicide book. CST stood for Chicago Sun-Times. I Googled their archives, but they went back only two years online. I could have called a Sun-Times reporter and asked for a favor, but one journalist in my life seemed like more than enough. I punched in Diane’s cell. She picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you?” she said.
“Nice to talk to you, too. I’m at my office, Googling with no apparent effect.”
“When did you get back from Menard?”
“Couple of hours ago,” I said.
“I left you a message.”
I looked at the blinking light on my machine. Not for the first time.
“I know.”
“Michael, you need to return your messages.”
“I know.”
“I was waiting to hear how it went with Grime. And don’t tell me you know.”
“Okay.”
“How did it go?”
“Actually, I don’t know,” I said. “In fact, that’s what I’m working on. I need access to the Sun-Times clip morgue. You guys can do that, right?”
“How far back?”
I took a glance at Grime’s note.
“September 1998.”
“What day?”
“Let’s just keep it at September until I get down there.”
“You don’t have to come down. I can access the clips from your computer. Is this going to be good?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’m leaving now. Be there in a half hour. Did he creep you out?”
“Grime?”
“Who else?”
“See you in thirty.”
I had just hung up with Diane when Rodriguez punched in.
“We got test results back from Miriam Hope’s bedsheets,” he said.
“And?”
“The same guy who helped Grime in 1995, raped Elaine Remington in 1997, and cried in Miriam’s bed three weeks ago.”
“Some guy.”
“Yeah. For my money he’s also grabbing twelve-year-olds and leaving Grime’s semen behind. Just for kicks. What did John himself have to say?”
I told him about Grime and the note he gave me.
“What do you think?” Rodriguez said.
“I don’t know. Diane Lindsay is coming over. We’re going to go through the clip file.”
“Can she keep her mouth shut for a bit?”
“She will.”
Rodriguez didn’t like it but held his fire.
“Fine. If she helps us ID this guy, we give her the exclusive. Biggest story any of us will see.”
“You got that right,” I said.
“Keep me posted. And remember, Kelly. Me, you, and Lindsay. That’s it until we find this guy.”
I hung up the phone and looked past a week’s worth of mail, to a single package sitting on my desk. A missive from the desert. Most likely a waste of time. But there it was. Waiting to be opened.
CHAPTER 45
The FedEx package from Phoenix had lain there for three days. As promised, Reynolds had included the entire Gleason murder book along with a note that read, “Where the fuck is my file?” The detective knew me not at all and yet very well. I packaged up a copy of Remington’s street file and posted it to Phoenix. Then I began to wander through the Gleason homicide.
The first thing I pulled out were a set of autopsy photos. Carol Gleason looked up at me from the examining table, eyes flying open in surprise, a small neat hole drilled through her breastbone. In death, she looked a lot like John Gibbons, and that bothered me. I was about to dig into the forensics report when my buzzer rang. Five minutes later Diane was set up on my Mac, ready to sleuth.
“Okay, I need the date,” she said.
Diane turned her face my way and held out her hands. I handed over Grime’s scrawl.
“I told him I thought he had an accomplice. He basically told me to take a hike. Then, as I was about to leave, he sent this down.”
“Sent it down?”
“From his cell. With one of the guards.”
Diane laid the note flat on my table and leaned in close.
“You can look as close as you want,” I said. “It doesn’t say any more than what it says.”
Diane continued to study the note as she talked.
“So he gives you this after he talks to you and after he returns to his cell?”
“Yes.”
“Which means he had some time to think about what you said and maybe decided to play ball.”
“Could be,” I said. “Or he might have been interested from the start and needed to get back to his cell to get the date. Or he might just be a fucking lunatic with nothing better to do on death row than run me around for shits and giggles.”
Diane punched in September 9, 1998, and looked up from the computer.
“Maybe,” she said. “Let’s see what we get.”
The first article she pulled up celebrated Mark McGwire hitting number sixty-two against the Cubs. The picture was a closeup of McGwire and Sammy Sosa in a bear hug. They both looked huge. They both looked happy. Neither condition would last.
“What a difference eight years makes,” I said.
Diane closed up the file and moved on without a word. We began to go through clips. Political turmoil for Mayor Wilson. Noise problems at O’Hare. Roger Ebert’s insightful commentary on There’s Something About Mary.
“Maybe Grime wants us to channel Cameron Diaz,” I suggested.
“Fuck off, Kelly. What are we missing?”
She clicked on another article, a few inches of column print from page twenty-three.
“Hold on a second,” I said. “This looks interesting.”
The headline read: MAN ARRESTED; HOLDS HOSTAGE IN BASEMENT. The body of the text described how police followed up on a tip. Found a young girl tied up and held prisoner for a day and a half in a Chicago basement. The house belonged to a man named Daniel Pollard. Police arrested him and were considering charges.
“You think this is it?” Diane said.
“I think Grime attacked young women. I think he tied them up, and I think he buried them in his basement. Where was the girl found?”
“Fifty-two fifteen West Warner. That’s on the Northwest Side.”
“Dump it into MapQuest.”
Diane was already on it. A map of Chicago streets jumped up on the screen. Warner dead-ended into thirty- six acres of open space called Portage Park.
“Less than a mile from Grime’s old house,” I said.
