“Do you know where Sorin lives now?”
Popek stuck out his bottom lip, shook his head, then turned to his wife and said something in Polish before returning to Kate.
“No, it’s been too long.”
“Do you know if the people living in the Zurrn place now might know?”
“Nobody’s there now. The landlord’s trying to rent it. Lots of people have lived there since the Zurrns.”
“Do you know the landlord?”
“Tabor something.”
“Lipinski,” Magda Popek said. “Tabor Lipinski, he’s rented it for years.”
“Do you have number for him?”
“No,” Magda said. “He’s a nasty, greedy man.”
Kate made some notes.
“Did Sorin Zurrn have any brothers, sisters or any other relatives?”
Popek shook his head.
“You say he had no friends, not even one?”
“Never saw him with other kids.”
“Did he belong to Scouts or any clubs? Did he work after school?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What school would he have gone to? What high school?”
“Thornwood High School. It’s not too far. I can draw you a map.”
Kate asked a few more questions before thanking Popek and exchanging contact information.
“You know, he had a mean side,” Popek said.
“How so?”
“He never went to his mother’s funeral.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes, we both did. She was our neighbor. But there were less than ten people and Sorin, who was a grown man, was not one of them.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s worse than sad. His mother committed suicide and they say he never showed up when they buried her. That’s cold-blooded.”
CHAPTER 43
Chicago
Kate climbed the front steps of Thornwood High School, a classic three-story redbrick-and-yellow-stone building.
She went to the central office lobby and reported to the security desk, as the admin staffer had advised when she’d called ahead with her request for help to contact a former student.
It had been nearly fifteen minutes since Kate arrived at the counter where she now stood watching Officer Fred Jenkins, according to his nameplate. He’d already called the school official she was to meet, searched her bag and run a metal-detecting wand over her. He was now meticulously entering her driver’s license number into his computer.
As Jenkins slowly double-checked the number, Kate’s attention went to the security rules posted on a board under the flags and portrait photos of the president, governor, mayor and principal, spelled out in plain language for all to see. No guns, no knives, no weapons of any sort, no gang colors, no gang clothing, no fighting, no bullying and so on and so on.
“Here you go, ma’am.” Jenkins passed her a visitor’s pass. “I’ll keep your license, then exchange it for the pass on your way out.”
As she clipped the pass to her blazer pocket the door squeaked open.
“Kate Page?”
A woman in her late forties had entered.
“Yes.”
“I’m Donna Lee with the Alumni Association. Welcome to Thornwood, please come this way.”
They went down a hallway lined with lockers. The air smelled of floor polish, perfume and cologne, with traces of the gymnasium and body odor. They passed glass trophy cases and banners heralding the championships and glory captured over the years by the Thornwood Thunderbolts: basketball, wrestling, swim, track, football and other teams.
“I understand you’re looking for information on a former grad?” Donna asked as they walked.
“Yes, I was hoping the Alumni Association could help me.”
“And you’re a reporter?”
“Yes.” Kate gave her a business card. “I’m doing some biographical research for a story.”
“I see. This way, to the right.”
They proceeded down another hallway.
“We’re fortunate. Not every high school has an Alumni Association on-site. We’re very well supported here,” Donna said. “Thornwood’s enrollment is about seventeen hundred students. Our alumni include two vice presidents, a governor, a Supreme Court justice, a number of actors, writers, professional athletes and successful business people.”
And how many murderers, Kate wondered as Donna continued.
“The school opened in 1927, so we’re talking about the histories of a hundred-and-thirty-thousand dead and living students.”
“You have files on all of them?”
“A while back we digitalized everybody, so we have a pretty comprehensive database. Our listings vary from student to student, and we adhere to a strict privacy policy. Here we are.”
The alumni office had a table with two large desks at the far end of the room. A bank of file cabinets stood against one wall next to shelves with yearbooks going back to the 1920s. A section of one wall was plastered with reunion photos, people with babies and people in landmark locations around the world, as well as cards and notes thanking the association.
A woman at one desk with a sweater draped over her shoulders removed her glasses and stood.
“This is Yolanda White, our director. This is Kate Page from Newslead in New York.”
“Welcome, Kate.” Yolanda extended her hand. “The admin office said that you’re looking for a particular former student?”
“Yes.”
Kate put her bag on the table, took out the death notice for Krasimira Zurrn and tapped the name Sorin.
“I’m trying to locate her son, Sorin. They lived on Craddick Street.”
Yolanda replaced her glasses, studied the notice then sat at the keyboard of her computer.
“And do you have his age?”
Kate used the age police had given for Carl Nelson.
“About forty-five.”
“So, Class of Eighty-Eight.” Yolanda began typing and within a few seconds her computer chimed. “Yes, Sorin Zurrn, graduated in eighty-eight.”
Donna selected a yearbook, flipped through it and showed Kate Sorin Zurrn’s high school photo. Kate’s pulse quickened as she stared at it. For her gut told her this was Carl Nelson, then she thought, no. It was Jerome Fell from Denver. Then she accepted that it could be anybody.
“Is this the man you’re looking for?” Donna pointed to a listing.
“It is. Would you have a contact address for him?”
“I’m afraid that’s private,” Yolanda said.
“Wait,” Donna said. “We have to see if he’s registered first.”
“Registered?”
“If he’s registered to the Alumni Association, we’ll have his current information and we can send him a message to see if he’s okay to release it to you.”
“No,” Kate said. “I need to contact him
