26.
Kirsten chased Larry away and got on the phone to the Winnebago County Sheriff’s office. She waited a long time, but Sergeant Danny Wardell finally came on the line.
“You heard about the missing fourth priest, Carl Stieboldt?” she asked.
“I did. You got anything for me on Kanowski?”
“I went up to those porn stores after I talked to you. Nothing new. Then I went to Bunko’s.” She paused, then asked, “Anyone report an incident at Bunko’s that night?”
“What incident?”
“Right,” she said. “Anyway, the bartender told me almost everyone in the place the night in question was a familiar face—including Kanowski. The only strangers there when Kanowski was there were some college-age kids and a woman who stopped for coffee.”
“I didn’t hear about any woman. Told me no one paid any attention to Kanowski.”
“This woman didn’t, either. Drank her coffee and left.”
“Stopped at a shithole like Bunko’s for coffee?”
“It happens, according to the bartender. Someone’s driving at night, gets drowsy, and stops at the next sign of life. Sign doesn’t say ‘shithole.’ Anyway, she was headed north, to Madison.”
“And he knows that because…”
“She told him,” Kirsten said.
“Why would she tell him?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Is that it?” he asked.
“That’s all on Kanowski. I’ve been checking out Stieboldt, though.”
“Already? How—” He was obviously surprised. “Anyway, what?”
“Are you getting paper on all these killings? I mean, because they’re related?”
“They’re possibly related. But yeah, and you know I can’t share that with you. What you got on Stieboldt?”
“How about just the medicals? Off the record?”
“I’ll think about it. What you got?”
“First, a nurse’s aide, or an L.P.N. or something, named Clara Johns, says there was a woman near Stieboldt’s room looking for him not long before he disappeared.”
“What woman?”
“Told the aide she was from his insurance company. I talked to the hospital lawyer, Howard Arnett. He asked the insurance company and they didn’t send anyone.”
“Jesus. A woman?”
“Yeah. Then I found an R.N. named Irene Delgado who IDs Emmett Regan as— You know, Regan?”
“I know, I know. Go on.”
“Delgado IDs Regan from a photo as having visited Stieboldt in the hospital on Monday afternoon. The two of them were … friends, I guess. That’s the afternoon before Regan was—”
“I know that, too.” Wardell’s impatience didn’t surprise her. “What else you got?”
“What the hell?” she said. “Isn’t that a lot?”
“It’s not enough.”
“How about those medicals?”
“You come up with anything else, let me know.”
“Absolutely. I could even drive out there to pick them up. See your smiling—” She stopped. Smiling? “I just thought of something.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s stupid, but…”
“Lemme have it.”
“Well, the bartender at Bunko’s couldn’t give much of a description of the coffee drinker. But he remembered that she smiled a lot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Clara Johns, the aide, couldn’t describe the woman she talked to very well, either. Just that she smiled a lot. I mean, could it be—”
“Not likely. Is that it?”
“Those medicals?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
* * *
Kirsten planned to stop at Mollie’s desk on her way out. It never hurt to keep Mollie happy. She ran Dugan’s office, after all, even if Dugan sometimes lapsed into thinking he did. Mollie was efficient and gruff, and forever busy. But like everyone else, she liked to be noticed, stroked a bit. Plus she was a nice person when you got to—
“Kirsten?” Mollie was already coming her way. “There’s a fax for you.”
Kirsten used Dugan’s office fax number because there was someone watching his machine all day. The fax was from Leroy Renfroe, with an inventory of what they’d found at her office. Nothing.
* * *
At four-thirty Kirsten picked up her car and headed for the northwest side, around Belmont and Kedzie, where Emmett Regan had lived. By now the cops would have finished canvassing the block, and she’d give it a try herself. She told herself that surely someone heard or saw something.
Yeah, right. Still, it’s what investigators do.
As she drove she tried all the news stations she could find, but there was no hard information about how Regan was killed, only that he was the victim of a “brutal attack.” The media finally had the three murders linked together, though. And the new “breaking story” was the discovery of severed fingers from yet a fourth child-molester priest, in a plastic bag left in a mailbox near Queen of Mercy Medical Center in Waukegan.
She found Regan’s street in a neighborhood of older bungalows, an area that had definitely seen better days. Gentrification was on the horizon, with skyrocketing home values, and few of the present residents would be able to pay the increased property taxes. The rich get rich, and the poor move over.
She found a place to park and walked to Regan’s block. Right away she saw the cops. Three detectives in sport coats and ties—two white males, one black—spread out and going door to door. No one she recognized. Had it been that long since she left the department? She waited at the corner, figuring she’d spot a fourth detective any minute. She was right. He came out of the house three down from the corner, on her side. And she recognized this one.
“Yo, Barlow!” she called, hurrying his way. She’d worked with Harry Barlow, just briefly, when they were both assigned to Area Three. “Remember me?” She knew he would, if only from that afternoon he had held her feet and lowered her headfirst down into a deep, narrow construction ditch and pulled her out again … she bringing a screaming three-year-old up with her.
He turned. “Hey, Kirsten.” He grinned. Barlow was good people, and good police. Everyone agreed he looked like Bill Cosby, only homelier.
They exchanged how-are-yous and lied a little about how things would never be as good as they used to be. “So,” she said, spreading her arms to indicate the ongoing canvass, “still right on top of things, huh? This is Thursday. Didn’t this Father Regan buy it two days ago?”
He stared at her. “What do you know about it? And what are you doing here, anyway?” Now more cop than comrade.
“Heard about it on the radio,” she said. “And … I have friends in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah? What friends?”
She smiled. “You.”
She knew enough not to ask what they’d learned, and he didn’t tell her. But he did verify what she’d been afraid of. “The two dicks who caught the case didn’t do shit,” he said. “Figuring the man’s got no relatives, and it comes out pretty quick he’s a pervert and the neighbors all figure, ‘Fuck him, he got what he deserved.’”
“And now suddenly,” she said, “the case is a heater?”
“Christ, fucking media all over the place.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta go,” he said, “and you should, too.”
“Right. Well, you take care.” She turned and walked back to her car.
* * *
She tried Wardell on her cell phone. Not available. She ended the call and immediately her phone rang.
It was Cuffs Radovich. “The guy who runs the seminary police force just called,” he said. “Says someone told the man in charge there—the rector, he said—about him letting me watch over your babies. Says he almost lost his fucking job. This rector says me and my people gotta stay the hell away.”
“But you’re helping them,” she said. “Is he crazy?”
“Guy’s running a goddamn priest factory, so answer that one yourself. Anyway, this rector—I love that word—says he talked to the goddamn cardinal, for chrissake, and their excuse is it’s an insurance thing. If me or one of my guys gets hurt … or hurts somebody … whatever. What it really is? They figure I’m a thug and they got no control.”
“Damn,” she said. Cuffs was a thug. But he was her thug.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “That other thing I been working on? I can put it on hold for a while. I’ll get rid of my people and stay on the job alone.”
“No way. They’ll have you arrested or something.”
“Bullshit. They won’t even see me. If they do, maybe then I’ll have to go, but they’re not gonna lock me up, for chrissake. Meanwhile, fuck them.”
“I don’t…” But she knew pissing off authority was one of his favorite things. “Okay,” she said. “And thanks, Cuffs, I really appreciate it.”
“Just keep sending my fucking checks, is all.”