Rodriguez was waiting in a lobby paved in squares of green and white linoleum. He didn’t say a word, just motioned for me to follow. We were buzzed into the morgue by a receptionist sealed up in her own Plexiglas tomb. Rodriguez led me down a dingy hallway to a small office with more linoleum, a table of gunmetal gray, and two folding chairs. Rodriguez pushed out a chair with his foot and slapped a folder on the table.
“What’s this?” I said, taking a seat and flipping the file open.
“It’s the paperwork on Goggin.”
I pushed it aside. “Got a question for you. Beacon Limited.”
“They own companies that build roads.”
“Big outfit?”
“The biggest. Why?”
“Would you be surprised if their subsidiaries use illegals for some of their grunt work?”
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”
“So it’s not something anyone should get too excited over?”
“Fuck, no. What’s this about?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do?”
“You really want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Smart man.” I opened up the folder again and pulled out Goggin’s autopsy report. It was dated three and a half months ago. The cause of death was given as massive head trauma. Underneath that was a space for manner of death. Someone had typed in the word: HOMICIDE.
“The body’s gone, I take it?”
Rodriguez eased his long frame into the other chair and tilted back against the wall. “Long gone.”
“So why are we here?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Four months ago, Goggin’s driving down the Dan Ryan. Kid pushes a rock off an overpass and puts it right through his windshield.”
“A rock, huh?”
“Goggin was killed immediately. We arrested the little prick a day later.”
“Your case?”
“Nah. The detectives who handled it are good. They developed some information in the neighborhood, brought the kid in, and got a confession.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in county, waiting on a trial date.”
I noticed an envelope clipped to the back of the file. It was thick with photographs.
“Mostly autopsy stuff,” Rodriguez said. “There’s a few shots from the scene.”
I flipped through the photos. Massive head trauma was an understatement.
“The kid claims he’s innocent?” I said.
“Aren’t they all? He’ll cut a deal.”
I pulled out a photo of the car with the body removed. The windshield was gone, and the front third of the roof on the driver’s side was crushed.
“Hell of a rock,” I said.
Rodriguez leaned over for a look and grunted.
“Can I talk to the kid?” I said.
“What are you thinking?”
“Don’t know. Where’s the car?”
“Probably down at the pound.”
“Let’s go take a look,” I said.
“At the car?”
“The kid, Vince. Let’s go see the kid.”