'Keep going.'
He read all twelve receipts, and the number in the left-hand corner was 193 in eleven out of the twelve. On the odd one, the number was 102.
'Can I do anything else for you, honey? Anything at all?'
'That should do it. Thanks, Bill.'
'My pleasure.'
I got on the horn with Information and was charged thirty-five cents to get the number for the 7-Eleven on Monroe and Dearborn. I already had the number somewhere, but like all public servants I'd been rigorously trained to waste taxpayers' money at every opportunity.
'Seven-Eleven,' answered a voice with an Indian accent.
I found the deposition on my desk of the manager who'd been watching television while the Jane Doe was dumped in front of his store.
'Mr. Abdul Raheem?'
'No. This is Fasil Raheem. Abdul is my brother.'
'This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Violent Crimes. I'm sure your brother told you about the body discovered in your outside trash.'
'He has not stopped talking about it. Is it true he chased the murderer away by showing him karate moves he learned from Van Damme movies?'
'I believe he was watching TV the whole time.'
'I thought as much. What can I do for you?'
'Tell me what the two numbers are in the top corners of your receipts, please.'
'Simple. The top right-hand number is the order number. The top left-hand number is the store number.'
'Are you store number 193?'
'No, Lieutenant. We are store number 102. I believe store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue. Let me check the book.'
He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and I felt a tingle of excitement in my gut because my hunch had paid out.
'I was correct. Store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue.'
'Thank you, Mr. Raheem.'
I hung up, satisfied. Benedict strolled in, handing me a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of Dr. Booster's prescription pad, except now it had writing on it.
'That was quick.'
'We used fingerprint powder on it, and it clung to the depressions. No prints, but the writing stood out.'
The prescription was for sixty mls of sodium secobarbital, written out by Dr. Booster.
'Handwriting matches previous prescriptions he'd written.' Herb held up the Booster case file.
'So he was killed for the prescription, like we'd guessed.'
'It gets better. We found something else.' Benedict handed me another photocopy. 'This was written twenty or so pages into it. Maybe it was just a doodle, or maybe Booster had left a note for us while the killer was there.'
It was a chicken scratch, only two words, practically illegible. It said 'Buddy's Son.'
'So the killer is Buddy's son?'
'Could be. Or maybe his buddy's son. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything. I called Melissa Booster and she doesn't know anyone named Buddy.'
I puzzled over it.
'How about the patient list? Someone with the first or last name Buddy?'
'I checked. Nothing even close.'
'Let's have Booster's entire life checked out, see if he ever knew someone named Buddy.'
'Tall task.'
'We'll give it to the task force.' I grinned, changing the subject. 'I know how the killer dumped the body in the can without being seen.'
Benedict raised an eyebrow. I've always wanted to be able to do that; raise one eyebrow in silent inquiry. Unfortunately, both of my brows are hooked up to the same muscle, and whenever I try to raise one I do an involuntary Groucho Marx waggle.
'He swiped a garbage can from a 7-Eleven on Lincoln, took it home, and arranged the body in it, then dropped it off at the 7-Eleven on Monroe and took the other can with him. He could have switched cans in twenty seconds, if he had a ramp and a hand truck.'
'Maybe a garbageman?'
'Maybe. Check through Booster's patient list again, check out occupations; garbagemen, mailmen, delivery
