the game and the real-life murders. That a police source confirmed Coyne had been on the investigators’ short list for some time, and that once DNA tests come back, there is a high probability they will confirm Coyne is their killer.”
“I thought you said they didn’t have Coyne’s DNA.”
She shrugged. “They’ll subpoena him, ask him to submit to a blood test, and if he refuses, they’ll know they have their man. Besides, there are plenty of places to get a person’s DNA. Coffee cups, a hairbrush. They’ll make a match. I’d just rather do it first.”
“How good is your source?” Malik watched her body language. Sally crossed her arms and bowed her head. He tried to recall a seminar he’d taken on body language. What does that mean again?
Barwick looked up, right into his eyes. “Good. But he stays anonymous. I can’t even say how high up he is.”
“Just tell me, then.”
“No.”
“You don’t tell me, there’s no story.”
“No offense, Stephen, but you’re getting heat from a lot of different sides. I’ll go to jail to protect this source, but I don’t want you to have to make that choice, as well.”
“That’s my job, Sally.”
“Coyne is the guy. Trust me. When his blood turns out to be a match, no one’s going to ask who my source is.”
Malik considered what she was offering. The biggest media fish of the year. Every newscast and wire service and paper in the country would lead with the words “The Chicago Tribune is reporting today…” If Barwick were wrong, his disgrace would only be marginally worse than it was already. If she were right, it didn’t matter what they did to him. Hell, he could march upstairs and quit five minutes after the cops made the arrest. He’d be a newspaper legend.
“How sure are you about this?”
“I’m sure, ” Sally said. “I’ve got the most to lose here, Stephen. And I think we’d both agree you have as much to gain as I do.”
Malik stood up and walked to the phone. He punched three buttons. “Don. Get the staff together. Everybody. Now.”
– 87 -
A long, hot day at the district. Three meals delivered. Kids tucked in over the phone. Overtime adding up on a dozen officers’ time sheets, and no one from higher up complaining. Ambrose was going to sit at his desk until the lab came back with a folder thick with colored squiggles. Then he planned to go home while the techs ran the squiggles through the computer until they had a match. If the DNA wasn’t in the system, they’d move on to their top three suspects – the Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker. In a few hours, Ambrose knew, his gut was going to be proven right.
All three were on tight surveillance tonight, along with two other men favored by separate detectives working the case. Ambrose almost hoped that once word was out they had testable DNA, the Candlestick Maker would start running. Not likely, though. Smug asshole would probably stay right where he’s at, daring the cops to arrest him.
Footsteps. A sudden increase in the volume of background noise.
“Lou,” Detective Rozas said, using the familiar term for lieutenant. “The television. Channel five. News.”
Ambrose hurried out to the squad room. A half dozen cops were kneeling and stretching around a portable television. Another dozen stood around the perimeter listening. Ambrose pushed his way inside the circle.
“The Chicago Tribune is reporting in tomorrow’s paper that police finally have a suspect in the Wicker Man killings, and plan to make an arrest in the next forty-eight hours. Julie Becker has the report.”
The scene cut to a woman standing on Division Street near the latest crime scene. She was attractive and serious-looking.
“Diane, in a page-one exclusive tomorrow morning, the Tribune is reporting the results of a long investigation into the Wicker Man killings. An investigation they claim has led to a suspect. Although their investigation is incomplete, Tribune officials say information that police were preparing to arrest the man forced their decision to run the story tomorrow.
“The suspect’s name, according to the Tribune, is Samuel Nathan Coyne, of Chicago. Coyne is a partner at the prestigious Michigan Avenue law firm of Ginsburg and Addams. Representatives of that firm are not commenting tonight, nor is Samuel Coyne responding to the rumor himself. Calls to the office of the police commissioner were not returned, although this story just broke in the last few minutes. We should repeat, of course, that no arrests have yet been made in this case.”
Multiple phones rang throughout the squad room. The greenest cops ran off to answer them.
The anchorwoman reacted to an off-camera cue. “Julie, tell us more about events that led to a break in the case.”
“Diane, the break came early this morning when a witness walking her dog found the body of Deirdre Thorson, of Chicago. According to police, this witness also saw an individual fleeing the scene. Unlike with previous victims of the so-called Wicker Man, blood and semen were found on the body in quantities large enough to test for DNA. Police assume that the killer was interrupted before he could finish cleaning up.”
“Julie, what makes police so certain this is a victim of the Wicker Man and not just a random killing?”
“That’s a good question, Diane. Police have not revealed all the details to us, but it was clear in a press conference this morning that confidence is very high this is their man. Quoting anonymous sources within the department, the Tribune is saying tonight that if Coyne can be connected through DNA to Thorson’s murder, he’ll be arrested on that charge alone. Presumably, detectives will then try to string together pieces of evidence that connect him to the killings of some twenty young women in Chicago over the past six years.”
Another intro by the anchorwoman and then footage of Ambrose at this morning’s press conference. Ambrose pressed the volume button until the sound was muted. His hands rolled into fists, his skin pale but becoming flush, he turned to face his squad.
“I want to know two things,” Ambrose yelled. “Number one: which one of you assholes is talking to the goddamn newspaper?” The cops looked suspiciously at one another. A few looked down at their own feet. The mood had gone from jubilant to tense just that fast.
Ambrose scowled. “And number two: who the fuck is Samuel Coyne?”
– 88 -
His phone had been ringing for several hours, but Sam didn’t answer. He was inside the game, leaning on a surfboard bolted to aluminum legs and refashioned as a table at a tropical theme bar called Caymans. He was sharing drinks with three women, judging them, deciding among them.
They were Alyssa, Emmylou, and Robey. The last was a redhead who had downloaded the new software, and she was perfectly rendered. When she turned he could see the waves and strands of her thick hair fall away and come together in a natural bounce. Her eyelashes were like fans over her irises. When she spoke he could see her tongue move against her white teeth. If he knew how to read lips, he figured he’d be able to read hers.
However, he really didn’t care what she was saying just now. The girls had been steering the conversation to real-world topics, and that always put him out of the mood. He hated it when people treated Shadow World like a chat room. What happens in the real world should have no impact here. In the game we shouldn’t even know who the real president is, or what stocks are outperforming, or what baseball teams are in first place. We have our own president. Our own stock market. Our own baseball teams. He’d been trying to tune them out, waiting for the conversation to hit upon more local topics, but it was difficult.
