76: Frank Poole stepped into the basement office at Metro and flicked on the light switch. The fluorescents buzzed to life, casting a yellow glow over the space. His nose crinkled at the strange odor permeating from the far back corner. They had yet to figure out what it was but traced it to an oval stain on the carpet under an old desk.
Poole removed his coat, scarf, and hat and dropped them onto a table by the door. He crossed to the center of the room and sat on the edge of a desk, his eyes locked on the whiteboards at the front of the room.
He should go home.
He should sleep.
He couldn’t, though.
Poole knew the moment he closed his eyes, Libby McInley would be there waiting for him, desperately trying to tell him what happened, but unable, silenced.
Diener had left his scarf on the floor near the door.
Stewart, his first name was Stewart.
Poole hadn’t known him well. He remembered seeing him around the Chicago Bureau office a number of times, but this was the first case they’d worked together. He wasn’t married. No girlfriend. At least, he didn’t mention one. Poole knew nothing about his home life. He didn’t know where the man grew up, went to school, whether or not he had any brothers or sisters. SAIC Hurless said he would personally reach out to Diener’s family, but he hadn’t said who that was.
Poole knew at some point, as the last person to see him alive, he would also have to reach out to that person or persons, that someone special to Stewart Diener. He wished he’d taken the time to learn just who that was.
“Goddammit, Diener,” he muttered, shaking his head.
He went to the whiteboards and cleared a spot on the far right and wrote:
Green House—518 41st Place
Bishop—hiding there since?
Wiped—no evidence left behind—planned for fast escape
Drop House—519 41st Place
Libby McInley’s fake IDs shipped there—Bishop organized?
Why would Bishop help Libby McInley? Why would Libby agree to help? Killer of sister, Barbara McInley?
Why would he kill Libby McInley?
Poole paused at this one. It didn’t make sense. Why would he kill Libby McInley if he was somehow helping her? Maybe they had some kind of falling out? That would mean they had a relationship to begin with. What kind of relationship could they possibly have had? He killed her sister. He tortured and killed her sister. Did they somehow know each other? If that’s the case, did they know each other before Barbara was murdered, or did they somehow get in touch while she was in prison? There would be a record. Not a single piece of mail, phone call, or visit goes unrecorded.
He wrote STATEVILLE CORRECTIONAL on the board.
He’d have to pull all her prison records. Somehow, Bishop had been able to correspond with her. Finding those messages would be key.
Finding the how.
Poole cleared another spot on the board and wrote out the three poems and the sentence excised by Bishop from the drop-house wall.
Had Bishop taken their cell phones because they took pictures, created a record of this writing? Originally, Poole assumed he took the phones to slow them down, to give him a head start before Poole could get somewhere and call for help. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Bishop expected Detective Sam Porter to find the house, not federal agents. That meant he wanted Porter to find the writing. He wanted Porter to try and figure out the meaning. He and Diener had spoiled that, shown up first, ruined whatever timeline Bishop may have had in place. Poole had taken out his phone to photograph the wall, but Diener had stepped in, stopped him before he got a single picture.
Had he killed Diener because he saw the wall? Photographed it? Would he have seen the images on Diener’s phone? Bishop hadn’t found any pictures on Poole’s phone—maybe that’s why he let him live? Figured he hadn’t seen the writing?
It was possible.
Poole had seen the writing, though. He remembered every word.
He stared up at the poems, particularly the underlined words:
Ice
water
Life
death
Home
fear
Death
“You can’t play God without being acquainted with the devil,” Poole muttered.
Death was the only repeated word. He circled both, then wrote Death x2 at the bottom.
The knot at the back of his head ached. The paramedic said he probably had a mild concussion. He needed sleep but probably shouldn’t. He didn’t really want to. He wanted to keep working the problem.
Sleep would clear his head.
He went back to the desk and ruffled through his briefcase, found a bottle of Advil, and dry-swallowed three of them.
The contents of the boxes he’d sifted through earlier were still spread out. Polaroid pictures and spreadsheets were strewn about on the desk beside him.
He glanced back up at the boards.
Poole had never believed in coincidences.
This was all connected.