Following my interview with Dr. Chan, I drove back to the studio, one hand clutching the steering wheel, the other pressed against my cheek, in disbelief over what I’d just learned about the inconceivable horror of Masey James’s final moments.
She was eviscerated, Jordan.
I could feel my heart beating, not in my chest, but in my head, like a bass drum relentlessly keeping time. Along the way, I called producer Tracy Klein to see if she was available to edit the footage, which is scheduled to air tomorrow night. Tracy is as good as gold, the most gifted editor at the station and certainly one of the most dedicated. God bless her, she worked an hour and a half over on her Saturday shift to sit with me in the dark, cramped editing booth to chop up the interview precisely as I instructed. I am usually not so hands-on, but Dr. Chan has put a great deal of faith and trust in me, so I make it my business to ensure that nothing I report in any way compromises his position.
It was dark when I pulled out of the underground parking lot, and I mourned the loss of the evening sun when the days grow shorter as a precursor to fall. Back in Austin, I looked forward to the change of seasons and the unbridled majesty of fall’s mosaic. In Chicago, fall’s beauty is the first sign of the inevitability and brutality of the winter to come.
I felt a similar kind of dread wash over me on the way home. After this day, it is the last place I want to be—drinking alone. No stash of cute throw pillows and scented candles from Pier 1 was going to make me feel better, but I could use a drink, so I called Zena. She’s usually up for anything and just the person I needed to pull me out of this funk. Just dialing her number, I could feel the tension leaving my body. I asked her to meet me at a wine bar in my neighborhood. Zena Gardner, or Z, is like a little sister to me, but I admirably refer to her as my “big sister” because at twenty-five, she’s already so accomplished. She co-owns a clothing and jewelry boutique with her mother in Oak Park. She also has majority stock in an organic coffee company and owns two rental properties—one in her native Brooklyn and another in Philadelphia she inherited from her grandmother and renovated—and she recently moved into a three-bedroom condo she owns in Bucktown.
I arrived first and headed straight for the more private lounge area in the back, with its low, plush blue velvet couches and candelabras on teakwood side tables. I plopped down and let out a deep breath, then discreetly slipped out of my pumps. The server hadn’t noticed me yet, but that was okay. I needed a moment to catch my breath and sink into this velvety comfort.
Z arrived about ten minutes later. The couch had me in its grip by then, and I struggled to find my footing to get up and greet Z with a hug.
“Hey, girl! Don’t get up. You’re fine,” Z said.
But Z had no idea how badly I needed that hug. I fought gravity and stood up, holding out my arms and greeting her warmly. “Thanks for coming out. It’s been a rough couple of days, girl.”
For some people, my opener would have invited questions, such as “Why?” or “What happened?” But not Zena. It wasn’t that she didn’t care; her default mode was always to listen and pivot to the positive.
“Wait! When did you cut your hair? I love it!” she said.
Zena hadn’t seen me since the big chop a couple weeks ago. I made a drastic change from a bob that kissed my shoulders to a short do spiked at the top and shaved close to my scalp in the back.
“I liked your style before, but this is you!” Z said. “Not everybody can pull it off. It suits your face.”
“See, I think so, too. But it’s still a big debate in the newsroom.”
“What are you in the mood for?” she asked.
“You know I love my big reds. Let’s get a bottle,” I said.
“Bet!”
Z and I chopped it up until just before midnight, when she was distracted by the chirp of an incoming text message on her phone. She grabbed it off the table so fast it looked like a flash of light beaming across the table. I knew something was up by the sneaky grin that crept across her face.
“I know that look,” I said. “I’m about to be kicked to the curb.”
Z laughed. “I didn’t tell you about this guy I met who works at the CBOT?” That’s the Chicago Board of Trade, which meant one of two things: Either he has money or he’s pretending to have money.
“Do I need to put him through my approval process?” I asked. “Do you know his birthday? I can have Joey run a background check.”
Zena laughed. “It isn’t even that serious. Trust me.”
I know what you mean.
“We’re just meeting for a nightcap . . . at his place.”
A nightcap. Is that what they call it now?
“Didn’t you say you just met this guy?” I asked, playing the big sister now.
“He’s cool. I’ve been over to his place before. He’s not an ax murderer, Lois Lane. Your job makes you paranoid,” Z said.
I rolled my eyes. “My job should make you paranoid,” I said. “Chicago might have a serial killer on the loose targeting Black women.”
“Huh?” Z said, head down, eyes wide and peering over her glasses.
“Yeah.”
“Oh shit! I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“It hasn’t been confirmed. My source at the medical examiner’s office has suspicions, though,” I said, and instantly regretted opening that can of worms.
I was saved by another chirp from Zena’s phone. And just like that, the sneaky grin was back.
“Go have your nightcap. I’ve got this,” I said, and went for the check.
“Uh-uh!” Z said. She reached inside her purse and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table, acting like the big sister once again. I didn’t protest. I thought about inviting her over for brunch tomorrow with the rest of my crew, something I’d decided to do at the last minute, then thought better of it. Amanda was going to be there, and Z and she don’t click.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Once outside, before I could say another word, Z held up two fingers and hailed a cab and flashed those same two fingers toward me in a peace sign.
“Good seeing you, Jordan,” she said. “You’re killing it with that hair, girl. Love you,” and she disappeared into the taxi.
I turned in the opposite direction and started to walk home in the dark past midnight, ironically, after admonishing Z to beware of her new man and a potential serial killer on the loose. My spirits were up, so mission accomplished. But I still wasn’t ready to be alone.
I could use a nightcap myself.
I pulled out my phone and texted Thomas. ARE U UP?
Thomas is a personal trainer I met at the gym. He heckled me one day as I was doing squats. I was on my last set, barbell heavy across my shoulders with twenty-pound weights on either side, when he stepped into my peripheral vision. His chin rested against his right hand as he shook his head disapprovingly. I looked at him.
“What?” I said, slightly irritated, as I carefully returned the barbell to the slats.
“Did you run track in school?” he asked.
Ordinarily I would have said, “And you are?” but I didn’t want to invite more interaction. I’d seen this shtick before—trainers trolling the gym trying to reel in new clients.
“No, why do you ask?” I said.
“Because you look like you’re running the 440 relay.”
“Excuse me?” I laughed.
“For real, you’re crouched down like you’re in position to grab the baton,” he said, demonstrating.
“No way,” I said.
“With that posture and stance, you’re going to end up needing ibuprofen,” he said. “Your left leg is too far back, and you’re leaning too far forward. You could mess yourself up doing that. Here, let me show you.”
As I watched him demonstrate the proper technique, it dawned on me that I’d seen him at the East Bank Club before. There aren’t many Black trainers at this trendy, exclusive gym.
“By the way, my name is Thomas.”
Here we go. I didn’t want to be rude.
“Hi, I’m Jordan.”
He didn’t say, “I know who you are.”
Interesting.
I sized him up. Thomas wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, but his physique was hard to overlook. He has that V-shaped torso men spend hours lifting weights and surviving on protein shakes and red meat to obtain. Before he went too deep into his sales pitch, if that was what this was, I put on the brakes.
“Look, Thomas, thanks for showing me the proper technique. But if you’re looking for new clients, I’m sorry. I don’t have extra money right now for a personal trainer. I hope to someday, though.”
I expected him to say, “Okay, nice meeting you,” but instead he said with a grin, “You know, squats can get boring, but they don’t have to be. Let me show you something.”
Hello? Did he not hear me?
He removed the twenty-pound weights, grabbed the barbell, and eased up behind me within an appropriate range but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Hold on. Wait a minute.
“Is it okay if I spot you?” he asked.
“Why’d you remove the weights?”
“Because what I’m about to show you requires a little more balance,” he explained. “Until you get used to it, don’t use the weights. The bar itself weighs twenty-five pounds. I don’t want you to injure yourself.”
My cynicism started to fade. Thomas stood behind me and lifted his hands palms upward just below the bar.
“This time, as you squat, take a step forward.”
I did as he instructed, and he flashed me an approving smile.
Was he flirting?
I didn’t have the extra money for a trainer, but I returned the flirt, because I did have extra room for something new in my personal life. And, just like that, we started seeing other, but I wouldn’t call it “dating.” Thomas was clear he had no desire to meet my friends or accompany me to events.
“But I’d like to see you afterward,” he said.
He didn’t fool me. Seeing me afterward was his way of keeping tabs on me. He didn’t want me coming home with anyone else. I decided I could deal with it for now. Our “relationship” was convenient. Thomas worked early mornings at the club, which fit my schedule perfectly. I got the personal training after all without spending a dime. One of the things I like most about him is that he’s a night owl, like me. Most people’s heart rate dropped after nine o’clock, the quasi fitness guru told me. Around one a.m., “yours is just getting started. That makes you a unicorn,” he said.
Thomas is a unicorn, too, and for that I’m grateful. However, he could have told me about his on-again, off-again girlfriend before we had sex. He didn’t exactly tell me; I asked him after his cell phone was buzzing nonstop at two-thirty in the morning. My reaction surprised him. I used his admission to set boundaries.
“It’s not like we’re a ‘thing,’” I told him with air quotes. “That’s your business. We’re adults, and I never thought we were exclusive. In fact, I don’t want to be. I never wanted to be. I assumed we were on the same page,” I said with a wink and a nod.
The truth is, I have neither the time nor the energy to maintain a relationship. I don’t want to feel obligated to check in with somebody every day or talk about what’s for dinner.
But we can creep.
“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want the time that we do spend together to be quality time.”
That was easy, because quality time to Thomas was effortless fun, like a night stroll across the boulders along Lake Michigan’s shoreline. And, of course, there was always the obvious. We started getting together once or twice a week, usually after eleven o’clock at night, because that’s what you do when you creep. I’m a little surprised at myself. Not for creeping, but for dating a man five years younger than me. We have great chemistry, and I like that he doesn’t try to replicate something he’d seen in a porno flick when he was sixteen. I must admit, his sculpted body makes our lovemaking, which has been phe-nomenal, feel surreal, like something out of a dream. I can see why his ex or current girl, or whatever she is, doesn’t want to let go.
Thomas texted me right back.
THINKING ABOUT YOU. Want me to come over?
Yeah.
It was that easy. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t been home since this morning. My bed hadn’t been made and I’d left all my makeup on the counter in the bathroom getting dressed for work. I quickened my steps. I needed time to straighten up and put something sexy on. Inside the lobby, I got distracted by Bass, the security guard on the graveyard shift.
“Joooor-dan!” he called out to me.
“Baaaass!” I said.
Harold “Bass” Brantley got his nickname for the instrument he plays, mostly with his church choir and occasionally on Chicago’s jazz scene when he’s lucky enough to get a gig on his day off. Bass and I have been tight ever since he rescued me from the stairwell during a blackout in the middle of a dangerous ice storm. Chicagoans are used to snow, but ice is a different story. Neighborhoods west of downtown were affected overnight, but I assumed the power would be restored by the time I went to work in the morning. The elevator was still out, so I took the stairs but freaked out in the pitch-black stairwell. I’ve always been terrified of the dark. Bass, about to end his shift, heard me in distress and came up with a flashlight and walked me down.
We’ve gotten to know each other through long talks at the security desk. Bass, who’s twenty-six, is six-six and slender, with perfect posture. It’s damned near a superhero stance. Whenever I see him, I’m reminded to stand up straight and pull my shoulders back.
“How are you doing, pretty lady?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know, honestly. Did you hear about Masey James?”
“Naw, what happened?” he asked. “Don’t tell me . . . she’s dead?”
“Yeah, they found her body yesterday. Confirmed her ID this morning,” I said.
“Ah, man, that’s horrible!” said the young father, diverting his eyes toward the floor. Bass has a five-year-old daughter with his girlfriend, Sabrina, whom he’s nuts about but not ready to marry, which has been the topic of many of our conversations.
“How’s Sabrina?” I asked.
“Don’t start,” he said.
“Hey, by the way, are you ever going to marry that girl?” Bass released a full-throated laugh that reverberated across the marble walls and floor. It was our inside joke. I’ve asked him periodically and challenge myself to state it slightly different each time.
“You better get out here!” he said. “Where’s your other half?”
“Now see, there you go messing with me again.”
“What’d I do?” he asked playfully.
“He’s on his way over,” I said, which elicited more boisterous laughter.
Bass is a novice health and wellness buff, so he and Thomas have struck a chord. I don’t have a problem with that. Bass is discreet. Nothing he has seen or heard me do has made it out into these streets.
Thomas creeped in around 1:15 in the morning and was back out again by 5:30. I’ve barely had a moment to myself. Good. I’d gone from Z to Thomas, and now I was about to entertain another welcome distraction. I got right up and started to make preparation for brunch. I prepped the meat for my famous enchiladas and put the pinto beans in the slow cooker. Given the way I’d been feeling and everything that had been going on, I found solace in the kitchen.
I slipped back in bed and set my alarm for 9:30, which would give me plenty of time to get dressed and meet my girlfriend María Elena at St. Matthew Presbyterian for the eleven o’clock service. I’ve been going to church nearly every Sunday of late. I hadn’t attended church this regularly since Catholic grade school. The commitment to attend church is a different sensation as an adult. It’s my reset button.
Sleep came easy, but I was awakened by an incoming call on my cell phone. Part of me hoped it was Pamela Alonzo, but part of me was glad when I saw that it wasn’t.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Miss Jordan! There you are! I was about to send a search party to look for you.”
It was just after seven o’clock. I hadn’t been asleep more than forty minutes. Mom was right to admonish me. We hardly ever go more than two days without speaking.
“I know, right? I’m sorry I haven’t called.” I must have sounded terribly groggy and fatigued. I sure felt that way. “These past few days have been crazy.”
She’d heard that before.
“I figured you were busy,” Mom said coolly. The Worrier had been getting better at not thinking the worst, which is her default switch. “I saw on the news they found that little girl who’d been missing. I know that must be bothering you.”
“You’re right. It is. I didn’t know her, but I felt like I did. She could’ve been Dru or any one of my little cousins or nieces. She was smart. She had a future. It’s just such a damn shame,” I said.
It was the first time I’d correlated Masey with my cousin Stephanie’s oldest and surviving child, Drucilla.
“Have you talked to her mother?” Mom asked.
“No, I haven’t spoken to her since they found the body. She called me, though, and left a couple messages while I was at the scene. I didn’t check my messages until later, and I felt bad. I’m sure she was wondering what happened to me.”
“That’s worrying you, too,” said the woman who knows me better than I know myself. “Okay, so now that this is over, Jordan, you need to cut that relationship off.”
“It’s not over, Mom. I am still covering the story. And from what Dr. Chan told me, this investigation could take a while,” I said.
Mom’s voice brightened at the mention of Dr. Chan, whom she had met once during a visit to Chicago. “How is Dr. Chan?”
“Skinny,” I said. “He looks like he’s lost about twenty pounds.”
“Seriously?” Mom asked. “I hope he’s not sick.”
“He seemed okay, health-wise. He’s on his way to New Zealand as we speak. But I got a chance to interview him on-camera, and he didn’t talk to anyone else before he left. That piece is set to air later today.”
“Dr. Chan loves him some Jordan,” Mom said. “So he did the autopsy?”
“Yes.” Then I shifted abruptly. “How’d you hear about it?”
“It led the news yesterday on WGN,” she said.
Masey’s disappearance didn’t lead the local news, but her murder did, which made me think back on the profound question Pastor Andrea Byrd posed to the congregation last Easter Sunday. “Would we have ever known Jesus if he hadn’t died on the cross?”
“You know I’d much rather watch your broadcast, but I can’t get it all the way down here,” Mom said. “Are you still in bed?” she asked.
“Yes, I was out with Zena last night, and I invited the girls over for Tex-Mex brunch today after church.”
“Somebody’s about to eat good! I sure wish you could fax some of it down here to me,” Mom said. “So, what are the police saying?”
My mother the crime buff was not going to let me off the hook that easily. She devours murder mysteries and watches an average of twelve hours of TV crime dramas each week.
“The police aren’t saying much of anything so far.”
“What’s Dr. Chan think?” she asked.
My mother was far from satiated. She wanted the gory details.
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t want to get into it right now. It’s . . . it’s devastating,” I said, then went into it, anyway. “She was brutalized. I’ve never heard of anything like it before. Never.”
“Was she raped? Beaten?” Mom asked.
“Yes, it appears so. Beaten, I’m not sure, but she was cut up pretty badly,” I said.
“Cut!” Mom exclaimed.
“Lacerations over her entire body, and burned.” My words formed an image in my mind that stunted my breathing. “Just imagine your worst nightmare for your child, then multiply that by two,” I said. “That’s why I’m having the girls over today. I need a distraction. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“There is a special hell for people who harm children,” Mom said. “If somebody did that to one of mine, they wouldn’t have to worry about prison. I’d kill ’em.”
“Mom, you know I hate it when you say things like that,” I said.
“I’m not playing,” she said.
I know she wasn’t. My mother grew up around guns. Her father and brothers hunted, and though she was never formally trained how to shoot, she always kept a gun in the house. In Chicago, there’s a lot of talk about Black people illegally owning guns but very little discussion about Blacks who legally keep what they see as protection in their homes. They aren’t the face of the NRA or the gun enthusiasts who trot out their weapons in open-carry states. Legal gun ownership has been portrayed in the media as a white male privilege. The face of illegal trafficking of guns across state lines is that of a young Black man, and that has influenced perceptions about those we see as victims and perpetrators.
There is a fifteen-year age difference between my mom and dad, but keeping protection in the home was one thing they could agree on. However, if me or one of my siblings ever fell victim to a killer, U.S. Army 1st Lt. Robert Manning would likely beat my mom to any act of vengeance against someone who would harm his children. My father is one of those quiet men people warn you never to cross. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that side of him, but I’ve heard his siblings retell stories at our house during the holidays and backyard barbecues after downing a few Lone Star beers. In a bad situation, he was the one they called on. I refer to him as the Warrior, because he’s always encouraged me to fight for what I want, for what I deserve.
“Anyway, Jordan, I was calling to tell you about Drucilla.”
My heart pounded. “What?”
“She’s fine. I just wanted to let you know that she’s not going to be able to make it home for Christmas. She’s coming home in mid-January. I’m hoping you’ll be able to get some time off and come home then, too. But make sure you check with her to get the dates right.”
“Oh, no! She’s not going to be home for Christmas?” I was disappointed. For the first time in my career, I had Christmas Eve through the day after New Year’s off work, and I’d been looking forward to seeing my little cousin.
“No, she won’t be on her job for a year. She couldn’t get the time off,” Mom said.
“Okay, well, thanks for the heads-up. I will definitely plan on coming home then,” I said, but failed to mention it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get time off just two weeks after the holiday break.
January was months away, but the thought of seeing Drucilla made me smile.
“All right, I’ve got to get ready for church, myself,” Mom said. “I know you’ve probably got a lot to do to prepare for your company, so I’ll let you go. Try to enjoy yourself today.”
“Okay, love you, Mom. Thanks for tracking me down. Smooches.”
“Love you, too.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and as I was about to hang up another call came in. It was Pamela Alonzo.
Remember, you promised yourself you’d answer.
“Hello, Pam?” I asked.
Silence.
“Pamela, is that you?”
“Yes,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “It’s me.”
Her breathing sounded stunted and hollow, as if air wasn’t passing through her lungs but through a hole in her heart instead. The emptiness in her voice was palpable.
What do I say? My heart breaks for you. No, don’t say that. I’m praying for you. Yeah, well, who cares?
Finally, I managed, “Pam, I’m so, so unbelievably sorry.”
“Thank you, Jordan. Were you there? When they found my baby?” she asked. “Were you there that day?”
“Yes,” I said, measuring my words. “I got a tip that morning . . . but I didn’t know . . . until the news conference yesterday.”
A lie.
“I can’t . . . tell . . . you how . . . devastated . . . I am,” she said, struggling to talk and breathe at the same time.
By now I, too, struggled to breathe. My face became hot and there was a ringing in my ears as I desperately fought back my own tears. I didn’t want to cry on the phone with Pam. I didn’t feel I had the right to. How could I know what she was feeling? I’m not a mother. I lost my favorite cousin, whom I loved like a sister, but what Pam was experiencing had to be twenty times worse.
No matter how many times I’d seen it before, this level of trauma and pain was gut-wrenching. I wondered how a person managed not to collapse into a vegetative state and wither away.
I took a deep breath and tried to speak, but thankfully Pam spoke first.
“The police don’t know nothing! They asking me if I know who could’ve done this? Why would I know that?” Pam screamed and sobbed. “Why would I know that?”
I recognized what she described as a standard police question. But how do you tell that to a grieving mother?
“I’m not going to survive this,” Pam said. “I already know, this is going to kill me.”
Say something, Jordan. But what? How does a person respond to something like that?
Pam continued: “But while I’m still breathing, I’m going to do everything that I can do to send the bastard to the funeral home or to death row. And I already know, I can’t count on the police!”
Unfortunately, Pam, you’re right.
“They told me my child ran away from home, ran away from me and her little brother. Mal-co-o-om,” she said as her sobbing escalated. “He’s traumatized. How am I supposed to explain this to him?”
Pam’s voice reached a fever pitch, and I could no longer suppress my grief. It lunged out of me.
“I’m so sorry,” Pam said. “I didn’t mean to put all of this on you, Jordan.”
“Pam, please, you don’t ever apologize to me. Okay?” I said.
Silence.
How long can we sit here like this? This is not where I want to be.
“Jordan,” said Pam, slightly more composed. “Before this pain takes me from this earth, I will see justice done. Somebody out here knows who did this. I want to issue a public plea for anyone who has information to come forward, and I’m going to set up a reward, even if I have to cash in every dime of my retirement. I want to go on the air, Jordan, as soon as possible. Finding the person who took my angel from me, this is my life now.”
And all I could say was “All right. Just tell me when you think you’ll be ready.”
“I can tell you right now,” Pam said. “Tomorrow.”
* * *
If I hadn’t already committed to meeting María Elena at church, I would’ve stayed in bed. My soul said, Uh-uh. Get up and receive the word of God. You’re going to need it.
I wanted to beat María Elena to church for once, but by the time I finished texting back and forth with Ellen and Scott about interviewing Pamela Alonzo one-on-one tomorrow, I had to scramble to put myself together. When I arrived at St. Matthew’s, she was already sitting on a stone bench in the attached side garden, her petite frame folded in half, intently reading a paperback romance novel.
“Oh, so that’s what you’re going to be thinking about during service,” I said.
María Elena looked up with a startled smile, stuffed her book in her oversize bag, and embraced me robustly.
“Good morning!” she said excitedly, squeezing my size 6 frame with her size 0 arms. María Elena is small in stature but gives the biggest hugs.
“Hey, gorgeous!” I almost added, I thought about crawling back in bed this morning, but thought better of it. I was here now.
“I forgot that Pastor Byrd isn’t here today. We have a guest speaker,” María Elena Suárez-Sallen said in her thick Latin accent. She came to the United States from her native Bogotá, Colombia, to study to become an optometrist. She performed the first eye exam I had after I moved to Chicago, and we just clicked. María Elena always looked stunning, her long, light brown hair swept to one side. She wore a maroon jumpsuit with a thick matching belt, a black shrug, and four-inch strappy gold sandals. At five-two, María Elena was almost always in heels and one accessory removed from transitioning from day to evening, no matter the occasion.
I, too, had forgotten that Pastor Byrd wouldn’t be preaching today. Now I really did wish I’d stayed in bed. When I worked at the station in Dallas, I grew attached to a small Baptist church pastored by a Black woman. She could really preach. Pastor Andrea Byrd, who is White, approached the word in a similar way that resonated with me, relating Scripture to everyday life. She was just as likely to quote well-known literature as the Bible.
We decided to stay, but I was unable to focus. Pam’s request had rendered me impenetrable. All I could think about was the exclusive interview tomorrow. Wait . . . did she say exclusive? Or did I just assume that? Is she ready for this? A grieving mother was catnip to a television news station, and I didn’t want her to be exploited.
After service, María Elena said, “I want to put on something more comfortable. I’ll meet you at your place in a half hour.”
Good. That will give me time to dress the enchiladas and whip up a pitcher of margaritas. I turned my cell phone back on. Thomas had left me a voice mail. I was surprised; Sunday wasn’t our day.
That’s sweet. He called to check on me.
After an emotionally exhausting week, I was looking forward to spending some quality time with my Chi-Town posse. All of them, like me, are Chicago transplants. Dr. Courtney Felix, who was born in Detroit, is an OB/GYN who’s married to a doctor of internal medicine, Dr. Nathan Blackwell III. They are the most idyllic couple I’ve ever met. Both thirty-nine, they have two beautiful sons, Elijah and Nathan IV, ages three and five. I have never seen them argue or throw verbal daggers at each other. Not once. They are the real-life Huxtables. Last year on Halloween, Courtney invited me to their home in suburban Naperville for a pumpkin carving party with the kids. It was a scene straight out of Good Housekeeping magazine.
Courtney and I met at the annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Chicago. I hosted the event that year and also participated in it, though I did more walking than running. It was a rare warm October day in Chicago. Our respective groups had common members and blended along the route. Courtney and I struck up a conversation. Her smile is arresting. I imagine that’s one of the features her husband fell for when the two of them met while vacationing with friends in Bali. They were always trying to fix me up with a guy, but neither of them had figured out my type yet.
Amanda Pickering, thirty-five, is a native Kentuckian who works for an investment group at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. She’s single and a prolific dater. I met Amanda in a clothing boutique when I came to Chicago to interview at News Channel 8. The zipper had busted in the dress I’d brought to wear for my interview. Thankfully, I tried it on the day before, and frantically ran out to find a replacement an hour before the boutiques closed downtown.
Amanda overheard me describe my situation to the salesperson and started helping me shop like she worked there. “When you get that job, you call and let me know,” she said in her southern drawl.
Amanda and I couldn’t be more different. She grew up in a homogeneous community outside Louisville, Kentucky. There were only two Black kids at her high school. In my experience, White people who weren’t raised around Black people can be more accepting of our differences than some who have lived around Black people their entire lives. There is, however, a learning curve, and Amanda, though well-meaning, can be a bit naive. Zena finds her off-putting, which is why I didn’t invite her today. Amanda thought she was complimenting Zena when she set her apart from Black women living in poverty on the West Side. “You live in Oak Park, for goodness sakes!” All it took was one maladroit statement by Amanda and Zena had had enough of her. I hate that it happened, but I believe in accepting people for who they are. I enjoy both women’s company, and I refuse to give one up for the other.
María Elena, thirty-five, is still my eye doctor. We bonded over red wine and complicated relationships. Her ex-husband is a Jewish attorney she met in Chicago. The marriage lasted only two years. She didn’t get along with his family and resented their assertion that she married him for a green card. “They were assholes,” she told me, “and after a while, so was he.”
I needed my girls today. Their camaraderie would be like an emollient for my worn nerves, hardened by cynicism and the stories of death that are constants in my life. I hadn’t planned on talking about work today. I must’ve been crazy to think that these smart, worldly, inquisitive women wouldn’t want to talk about the Masey James case.
Amanda kicked it off. “Isn’t it horrible about little Masey James?” she said, bringing her right hand to rest on her chest.
“Oh my God! Unimaginable,” Courtney chimed in.
“Where’d they find the body?” asked María Elena.
“At 45th and Calumet,” I said.
“Was she raped?” Amanda asked.
Oh my God, please! Just shut up! This is the last thing I want to talk about.
Courtney bolted off the couch. Her movement was so sudden that it startled me. Her face had been transformed by a painful memory. Amanda and María Elena didn’t know that Courtney had been the victim of date rape in college.
I nodded somberly and said, “Watch the news tonight.”
“You talk to Dr. Chan?” Courtney asked, not picking up on my cue to change the subject.
“Of course,” I said. “He hooked me up.”
“Really? What was the big takeaway from him?” asked Courtney, whose interest, I understood, wasn’t purely professional, but that was a big part of it.
I hesitated before I spoke. “He said whoever did this is a monster. I suppose you can say that about anybody who takes a life. But . . .”—I paused somberly—“What happened to Masey is beyond the pale. And it’s going to be very difficult to solve this case due to the condition of the remains,” I said, powering through the sentence.
“I wonder how long she’d been in that watery field,” Courtney, who had obviously watched the news, said. “Even if there was evidence of rape, the conditions could’ve changed the chemical composition of the evidence, making it useless.”
Even with my forensic background, I hadn’t thought about that. “It changes the composition of semen?” I said, suddenly becoming interested in a conversation I didn’t want to have.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw María Elena grab the tequila bottle to add a smidgen to her glass.
“Correct,” Courtney said.
“There was evidence of assault but no traces of semen,” I said. “What’s more, she was set on fire, postmortem, to destroy evidence,” I said.
María Elena froze. She clearly had lost track of how much tequila she was adding to her glass. “That poor mother,” she said.
“Whoa, hold the tequila!” I said.
“Oh shit!” she said. “What the fuck am I doing? I need some juice to put in this.”
“No, you need a bigger glass,” Courtney quipped.
Everyone laughed, releasing some of the tension of the moment.
“Girl, how do you talk to that mother?” María Elena asked.
“Mostly I listen,” I said. “I’m not sure what all she knows about what happened to her daughter. I hope to God that she was spared most, if not all, of those details.”
“Like what?” Amanda asked.
I paused for a beat. “Mmm,” I said, and rested my face in my right hand. The doctor in the house got it right away and walked over and put her arms around me.
“Sorry, sis,” she whispered in my ear. She pulled away, flashing me that striking smile of hers, and changed the subject.
“So, how’s your love life?”