While the Leopold and Loeb houses had been demolished, the Franks house still stood. It was badly deteriorated, but the expansive yellow-brick mansion conjured images of what it must’ve been like when the entire nation followed with morbid fascination the story of the wealthy homosexual lovers, their pubescent victim, and the “trial of the century.” The Franks house was on the perimeter of Kenwood, but today I was driving farther into the affluent enclave.
Since my visit many years ago, not much had changed except that a former US senator had ridden the wave to become the first African American president. Despite his international fame, he still owned a well-appointed Georgian brick affair just a block away from the Franks mansion. Heading south on Greenwood, the heavy concrete Jersey barriers stood like fortified sentries with two loud SECRET SERVICE signs flanking the entrance to his block. The federal agents who had once kept watch around the clock had been replaced with a single private security car that was no longer covered by taxpayers.
The Morgan mansion was an enormous redbrick conglomerate that sat far back from the road, imperiously keeping watch over its sweeping lawn. Like the others on the street, the tall wrought iron gate was solidly locked. I rang the intercom.
“Ashe Cayne,” I said. “I’m here to see Hunter Morgan.”
“May I ask what this is about?” the voice returned. It belonged to an older woman with heapings of the South in her voice.
“It’s about Tinsley Gerrigan,” I said.
There was a short pause; then a buzzer sounded and the lock slapped back. I pushed through the gate and tried to look unimpressed as I strode up the long bluestone walkway. Two rows of meticulously trimmed hedges lined the pathway leading to the massive limestone front steps. I spotted three cameras on the house positioned at different angles and one peering from the trunk of an enormous oak in the middle of the yard. I also noticed a couple of motion detectors hidden in two of the potted plants closer to the front porch. Just off to the right I could see the makings of a tennis court in the backyard and lawn furniture that looked more expensive than the best pieces I had in my dining room. Several sculptures had been installed throughout the yard.
I had done a quick internet search on the Morgan family, and most of what I’d found had to do with the family’s attendance at society functions or mentions in the Tribune or Crain’s about their philanthropic work. Mrs. Morgan was the daughter of a DuPont cousin and through a complicated labyrinth of trusts, deaths, and divorces had inherited a piece of the DuPont fortune. She sat on a long list of charitable boards and wrote enormous checks to get the Morgan name carved into the cold limestone of hospital wings and eco-friendly parks.
I’d tried looking up both Tinsley and Hunter on social media. I couldn’t find either of them on Facebook, but both were on Twitter and Instagram. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything except for their avatar pictures. Both accounts were set to private.
As I hit the first step of the expansive porch, one of the gigantic oak double doors opened. An emaciated black woman in a well-ironed uniform and hairnet stood with a cautious smile on her face. She looked as old as the house.
“Do come in,” she said, in that gracious southern accent. “Mrs. Morgan has asked that you join her in the east parlor.”
I followed the old but limber woman through a maze of ornate rooms, one bigger than the next, each of them full of gilded framed artwork and custom-made furniture that looked as if it hadn’t been sat on since the house was first decorated. Every room held several vases of fresh flowers, and most of the potted plants towered over my six-foot-three-inch frame. We journeyed down one last hallway toward the rear of the house, then entered a room that was bigger than my entire apartment. The red lacquered walls had inlaid gold leaf designs that delicately sparkled under the sun rushing in from the open bay windows in the northern part of the room. Old white men with uncompromising expressions looked down sternly from gold baroque frames as if to remind those who stared back that this house had been built from the dividends of serious business. I had been in many a snazzy home before, but the opulence here was nothing short of breathtaking.
A trim, well-composed woman with steel-gray hair cut into a severe bob sat on a chintz slipcovered double-wingback chair. She wore a lavender dress with prominent white stitching and a hem that prudently fell beneath her knees. Her shoes were patent leather with little black bows. A silver tea service sat on a round table next to her. She took off her reading glasses and lowered the magazine as I entered. She was reading the New Yorker. Of course.
“I’m Cecily Morgan,” she said, not getting up and not extending her hand. “How can I help you?”
“Ashe Cayne,” I said. “Mind if I have a seat?”
She nodded toward the other side of the table. The chair was identical to the one that she sat in. Her expression was flat and disinterested. I wasn’t sure if it was her attitude or the
