129: Klozowski stepped back into his makeshift office at John H. Stroger, Jr. Hospital and carefully crossed back to his computer with two cups of coffee, one in each hand, the contents of Paul Upchurch’s file strategically placed across every flat surface in the room.
He’d spent the past two hours going through every page, identifying every name, then working with the team they had in place to round everyone up and bring them here. Thirty-two others in total, not counting spouses and children. They brought in so many people, Clair had been forced to spread out from the cafeteria and take over two adjoining employee lounges. She was in there now, trying to keep the large group calm, organize the uniforms, and get statements.
Most of these people had no idea why they had been dragged down here by the police. From what she said, only a handful recognized Upchurch by name. His condition, as horrible as it may be, wasn’t uncommon. Anyone dealing with death on a daily basis learned to tune it out, compartmentalize.
Kati Quigley was awake and talking up a storm. Clair told him what the girl went through, both girls. Kloz blocked it out. He could compartmentalize with the best of them.
Larissa Biel had come out of surgery twenty minutes earlier. She was in recovery with her father. Once she woke, she’d be moved into a double room with her mother, who also regained consciousness—both expected to make full recoveries.
Kloz set the two cups of coffee down and cracked his knuckles.
Now he’d search the obits and put a nice bow on this project.
His bed was calling out to him, and he’d be wrapped up in those glorious sheets soon.
A small red box blinked at the corner of his laptop screen.
Kloz clicked on it, expanding the alert message.
“Shit.”
He scrambled through the papers surrounding his computer, nearly knocked over one of the coffees, and picked up his phone, hitting Clair’s speed-dial button. The call went straight to voice mail.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
He dialed Nash.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three—
“Yeah?”
“Hey, where are you?”
“Still at the Upchurch house. I probably have another hour here. Why?”
“Remember the trace I set up on Bishop’s laptop?”
“Yeah.”
“We got a hit, and it’s close.”
“Text me the address. Espinosa too—his team just left.”