care.”
“It was your case?” I asked.
Corcoran nodded. As I looked at him, a million memories flooded my mind. A scrawny kid, all spindly limbs and wild carrot hair. Wrought-iron desks floor-bolted in long straight rows. Impromptu street games on hot summer nights. Interminable Masses on hard wooden pews.
As kids, Corcoran and I were back-fence neighbors in a South Side neighborhood called Beverly, and card-carrying members at St. Margaret’s of Scotland. Keep in mind that Chicago Catholics map people by parishes, not geography. An oddity, but there you have it.
When I was eight, my father and baby brother died, and my family relocated to North Carolina. Corcoran stayed put. We lost touch, of course. I grew up, attended the University of Illinois, then graduate school at Northwestern. He studied at Michigan, undergrad through med school, then completed specialty training in pathology. It was forensics that brought us back into contact.
Reconnection occurred in ’92 through a case involving a baby in a suitcase. By then Corcoran had married, returned to Chicago, and purchased a house on Longwood Drive. Though a little farther east and a lot upmarket, Corcoran had returned to the old spawning ground.
“Turns out it was here all along.” Corcoran’s voice brought me back. “The guy was so scrawny he got hidden behind an obese woman on an upper gurney shelf. The techs just missed him.”
“Happy ending,” Ryan said.
Corcoran snorted. “Tell that to Walczak.”
It was said of Stanley Walczak that only his ego surpassed his ambition in raw tonnage. His cunning was fierce too. Upon the resignation of the previous ME nine months earlier, having forged a complex web of political connections, to the surprise of few, and the dismay of many, Walczak had called in his chits and been appointed Cook County Medical Examiner.
“Walczak is pissed?” I asked.
“The man detests bad publicity. And inefficiency.” Corcoran sighed. “We handle roughly twenty pickups a day here. Between yesterday and this morning the staff had to phone over sixty funeral homes to see if a delivery had been made to the wrong place. Four techs and three investigators had to be pulled off their normal duties to help check toe tags. It took three sweeps to finally locate the guy. Hell, we’ve got half a cooler set aside just for long-term unknowns.”
“Mistakes happen.” I tried to sound encouraging.
“Here, misplacing a body is not considered a career-enhancing move.”
“You’re a fantastic pathologist. Walczak’s lucky to have you.”
“In his view, I should have been on top of the situation sooner.”
“You expect fallout?” Ryan asked.
“The family’s probably lawyer-shopping as we speak. Nothing like a few bucks to assuage unbearable anguish, even when there is no injury. It’s the American way.”
Corcoran circled the table and we all sat.
“Walczak says he won’t be long. He’s closeted with the Jurmain family lawyer. You’re gonna
“Oh?”
“Perry Schechter’s a Chicago legend. I once heard him interviewed. Explained his style as confrontational. Said being abrasive knocks people off their stride, causes them to reveal flaws.”
“Character flaws? Testimonial flaws?”
“Beats me. All I know is the guy’s a pit bull.”
I looked at Ryan. He shrugged. Whatever.
“Before they arrive,” I said. “Why are we here?”
Again, the mirthless smile. “Ever eat a Moo-Moo Bar or a Cluck-Cluck Pie?”
When Harry and I were kids, Mama had packed dozens of the little pastries into our lunches. Though uncertain of the relevance, I nodded recognition.
Ryan looked lost.
“Think Vachon,” I translated into Quebecois. “Jos. Louis. May West. Doigts de Dame.”
“Snack cakes,” he said.
“Thirteen varieties,” Corcoran said. “Baked and sold by Smiling J Foods for two generations.”
“Are they still available?” I couldn’t remember seeing the little goodies in years.
Corcoran nodded. “Under new names.”
“Quite a slap in the face to our barnyard friends.”
Corcoran almost managed a genuine grin. “The J in Smiling J stood for Jurmain. The family sold out to a conglomerate in 1972. For twenty-one million dollars. Not that they needed the cash. They were bucks-up already.”
I began to get the picture.
So did Ryan.
“Family fortune spells political clout,” I said.
“Mucho.”
“Thus the kid gloves.”
“Thus.”
“I don’t get it. The case was closed over nine months ago. The Jurmain family got a full report but never responded. Though the coroner sent registered letters, until now no one has shown any interest in claiming the remains.”
“I’ll do my best to summarize a long but hardly original story.”
Corcoran looked to the ceiling, as though organizing his thoughts. Then he began.
“The Jurmain family is blue-blood Chicago. Not ancient, but old enough money. Home in East Winnetka. Indian Hills Country Club. First-name basis with the governor, senators, congressmen. North Shore Country Day, then Ivy League schools for the kids. Get the picture?”
Ryan and I indicated understanding.
“Rose’s father is the current patriarch, a sorry old bastard named Edward Allen. Not Ed. Not Al. Not E. A. Edward Allen. Rose was a black sheep, throughout her life refusing to follow any course Edward Allen deemed suitable. In 1968, instead of making her debut, she made the
“When Rose turned thirty, Edward Allen pulled the plug. Deleted her from his will and forbade the family to have any contact.”
“Until she saw the light,” I guessed.
“Exactly. But that wasn’t Rose’s style. Thumbing her nose at Daddy, she chose to live on a small trust fund provided by Grandpa. Money Edward Allen was unable to touch.”
“A real free spirit,” I said.
“Yes. But things weren’t all sunshine and poppies. According to her partner, Janice Spitz, at the time of her disappearance, Rose was depressed and suffering from chronic insomnia. She was also drinking a lot.”
“That clicks with what we learned,” Ryan said.
“Did Spitz think she was suicidal?” I asked.
“If so, she never said.”
“So what gives?” I asked. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Two weeks ago, Edward Allen received an anonymous call at his home.”
