CHAPTER 12

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27

Marti didn’t know what time it was when the nurse woke her. She came awake all at once, and said, “Ben?”

The nurse nodded, smiling.

Everything—muscle, bone, and joint seemed to hurt as she eased her way up from the couch and walked with the nurse down the hall to Ben’s room. His eyes were still closed. Marti tried not to be disappointed. There must have been some change in his vital signs to indicate he was waking up. The regularity of the beeps and the consistency of the lines zigzagging across the green screen had become reassuring.

She went to his side, touched the hand that didn’t have a line in it, and he squeezed her fingers.

“Ben!” He knew she was here.

His eyes opened. “Where’s my teddy bear?” he asked, and closed them.

“Ben?” He squeezed again, less pressure this time. Then he was sleeping.

The doctor came in. “He woke up and called for you, but he keeps drifting off. We’ll be waking him every ten minutes to make sure he’s responsive. The injury was caused by the rapid flexion and extension of his head and neck,” he explained. “The brain impacts against the skull and rotates. We’ll x-ray him again, but from the looks of it, he got lucky. There’s no swelling, so I don’t expect to find a blood clot in there. It did take him a long time to wake up, so we’ll want to keep him under observation for a few more days. He’ll stay in ICU at least for today. If his progress continues, we’ll move him to the head-trauma unit in the morning.”

“You’ve got a head-trauma unit?” They were at least twenty miles from the Chicago city limits. She knew hospitals there had specialized trauma units. She hadn’t expected to find one here.

“You picked a good place to have a collision. We get a lot of car and motorcycle accidents because of our proximity to Route Forty-one, and also, I think, because there are no more stop-and-go lights past Park Avenue.”

Marti stayed her allotted ten minutes. Ben woke up when the nurse roused him. He looked at her and smiled.

As soon as she left Ben’s room she phoned home.

“He woke up!” she told Momma. “He woke up! Ben’s going to be okay! He woke up!”

Then she found a nurse and asked for more pain meds.

“Doctor wants to see you again,” the nurse told her. “To make sure everything is okay.”

Marti looked at her left arm, the one that hurt the most. It was bruised from the back of her hand to her shoulder. She checked the other arm, same thing. When she undressed for the doctor, most of her body was an angry red or purple. There were no abrasions. Her face hadn’t hit anything and looked okay. The doctor decided her left wrist was sprained and had it bandaged.

*   *   *

Adrian took the bus to the lake and got off near the Chicago Yacht Club to watch the sunrise. He could see Navy Pier to his left, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, and the Adler Planetarium to his right. He had loved to go the Field Museum and the aquarium when he was a child. Even as an adult he went there. He would like to go one more time before he left town. He should have thought of that sooner. Now there wouldn’t be time.

The wind picked up and he turned and headed into the Loop. He walked along State Street, then to LaSalle and into the financial district where he stood across the street from the Trade Center. He found the window in the office where he had worked at Wilburton and Associates. Twelve years he had worked there, doing everything right, never making a mistake. Twelve years while he watched the white man come in, get promoted over him, and then had to train him. For twelve years he had done the right thing, and then when the partnership became open, Wilburton chose a white woman with less seniority and a lesser position. Once again, he had to train her. That was when he knew for certain that he was never going to be more than what he was. It was fashionable to have one black man and one Asian—an overachiever just as he was, who spoke English, Vietnamese, Chinese, and French. It was fashionable to bring in a black woman after he had been there for five years and give her a job that should have been his. Like any good black man, he smiled, praised the company, told everyone how pleased he was with his job, and accepted their praise, and even amazement, that he had come so far. Like any black man, he was angry.

Adrian turned and walked away. He headed back to the lake. It was too early to go to the museum or the aquarium, but they opened at nine. He would find a warm place to have coffee, and wait. He went to a McDonald’s on Dearborn.

*   *   *

Marti was about to look through the stack of folders when the family came in with Lupe Torres. Lupe was carrying a small suitcase.

“Just a change of clothes and a few personals,” Momma said.

“Wait,” she warned, “no hugs. Everything hurts.”

The boys, faces solemn, came and sat with her, one on each side. Theo touched her bandaged wrist.

“It’s just a sprain,” she told him.

Joanna sat at her feet on the carpet and rested her head on Marti’s knees. Momma patted her shoulder.

“Ben’s going to be fine,” Marti told them. “You can see him for a few minutes. He’ll probably open his eyes when you talk to him, but he might not say anything. He’s really tired. And he might not remember what happened. Amnesia is common with concussions.”

“That’s all it is?” Joanna asked. “They’re sure about that?”

“Very sure,” Marti assured her. “They took him for more X rays, and everything looked fine.”

“Can he come home soon?” Mike asked.

“Soon,” Marti answered.

“Will he have to go right back to work?” Theo asked.

“No. Me neither.” Vik and Lupe would have to manage their caseload without her. She couldn’t go to work like this.

Ben woke up enough to smile at the kids. Mike was the first one to cry, then they all did.

“My teddy bear,” Ben said again.

Marti didn’t understand what he meant.

“He wants a teddy bear like the ones he gives to kids when they get hurt,” Mike explained. “We’ll get you one, Dad.”

Ben smiled and drifted off to sleep again.

They went to the cafeteria for breakfast.

“Nobody ate last night or this morning,” Momma said as everyone loaded their plates.

Then while Lupe shepherded the children in to see Ben one more time, Marti sat with Momma.

“What’s going on?” Momma asked. “Anything I need to know?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But I think we were run off the road deliberately.” She could still see that man’s eyes. No fear, no panic. Just determination.

“Should I be worried about the children?”

Marti felt her anger rise again. How dare anyone threaten her, or Ben, or their children. How dare they assume that criminal acts were their right and that anyone who stopped them was fair game. She would not be scared off. She would get them. If this was some idiot who thought he could get even, he needed to think again.

“Why don’t you keep them close to home. And I’ll call the chief, have the patrol units keep an eye out.”

She hated that, hated having to protect her kids, anticipate possibilities that would never have occurred to Momma when she was growing up. All parents had to do that now, but they shouldn’t. Children should be safe from harm.

“Ben is going to be okay?” Momma asked.

“It really was just a concussion.”

“You look worse than he does.”

“And I hurt worse too. I think we’re both going to have to take a couple weeks off.”

Momma glanced at the folders the Chicago detectives had left with her. “Looks like you’ve got your work with you.”

“Just this,” Marti said. “I just have to look into this.” She didn’t add that she was hoping to identify the person who had run them off the road, and maybe, at the same time, whoever had shot Ray Franklin.

While everyone got ready to leave, Marti motioned Lupe into the hall.

“Thanks for bringing them,” she said.

“Anytime. You feeling okay? You look like hell.”

“I thought I looked pretty good.”

“Vik wants to be here. I thought I could stay by the phone in your office, in case you needed something. Slim and Cowboy want to help too. What needs doing? I saw those folders.”

Marti explained.

“Sounds like you’re going to need a fax machine.” Lupe said. “Maybe the hospital has a room they don’t use on the weekends. Vik will be bringing those photos. Slim and Cowboy are out looking for Garrett’s two friends. We have nothing on LaShawna. The composite in the News-Times has generated nothing so far. There was definitely no body in the house on First. Vik showed the Ramos photos with the broom to the state’s attorney. They’re not ready to bring charges. They need the psych report. We’ve got a little more time on that one. Nothing new on the train conductor homicide. Anything else?”

“I want the black-and-whites that patrol my neighborhood to be conspicuous for the next few days at least. We’re in a cul-de-sac, a lot of times they just look that way and don’t drive down there.”

“You’ve already got that per order of Chief Allendo.”

“Seen Dirkowitz?”

“He’s been in and out. Baby Angela comes home Monday. We’re chipping in for a gift. I’ll put in for you. And I’ll bring the family back this evening. You’d better call Vik now if you want him to bring anything with him. He’ll be leaving as soon as I get back.”

“I’d hug you if it didn’t hurt,” Marti said.

“You think this was deliberate,” Lupe said.

“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

“Well, in this case, it’s better to err on the side of safety. We’ll be watching your back.”

Lupe gave her a light pat on the shoulder. Marti winced, then took her hand and held on.

*   *   *

Adrian took the train to Barrington, got off downtown, walked to Liberty and Hough, then east toward Lake Louise. The Wilburton estate was on several acres of land. The main house sat well back from the road. It was protected with an alarm system and surveillance cameras. There was a security gate and a guard-house along with an electronic system with codes or keys that had to be used to access the property. Mr. Wilburton felt safe here. Adrian liked it when people felt safe. It made it that much easier to kill them.

It was Saturday. The main streets were busy. Adrian was wearing his repairman’s jacket, quilted pants, and carrying a toolbox and a small duffel bag. Even though he would be the only black among many whites and a few Hispanic domestics, his uniform would make him as invisible as he had been the night he wore the homeless man’s clothes and shot Bryan Weinstein.

Adrian checked his watch. Mr. Wilburton had retired from the company, but still prided himself on his fitness and good health. He liked to take a walk after meals, weather permitting. Snow, cold, and wind kept him inside. There was no snow today. The sky was overcast, and it was just below freezing, but only by a couple of degrees. There was no wind to speak of. Assuming Wilburton had ventured outside today, Adrian had missed his after-breakfast constitutional, but was in time for his postlunch walk. If Wilburton did go out, he would head for the lake.

Adrian remembered Mrs. Wilburton as a short, overweight woman who loved food. Apparently she didn’t share her husband’s enthusiasm for fitness. Adrian had observed Wilburton twice. Both times he had been alone. His noon route would take him into a wooded area that abutted one of the other estates. That was where Adrian waited, behind a tree.

Small birds chattered in the dense evergreen branches. Several squirrels engaged in a loud argument while others scampered across the snow. A pastoral scene, Adrian thought. One that he might have enjoyed one day when he retired, if Wilburton had let him become a partner. If Wilburton had paid him what he paid others with his education, his experience, his responsibilities.

When he heard snow crunching and wood snapping, he took out the knife. As the sounds came closer he tensed. He let Wilburton walk past him in his bright red down jacket. Then he stepped from behind the tree.

“Hello, Mr. Wilburton.”

Wilburton started, then turned. “Adrian? Is that you?”

“None other,” he said.

“But I thought … I thought…”

“That I was in prison? Sometimes they let you out for good behavior.”

“Oh. I’m glad to hear that.”

Wilburton was afraid. Adrian could see the fear in his eyes. He tightened his grip on the knife and took a step closer.

“Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Why are you here?” Wilburton demanded. His voice shook.

“Oh, I need a job, sir. Thought maybe you could use a handyman.”

Wilburton looked at him for a moment. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Adrian took another step forward. This time Wilburton backed away. Reaching out, Adrian grabbed him by the jacket.

“Now, just a minute, Adrian. I won’t have this. What happened—you did that to yourself.”

“No,” Adrian said. “You did it to me.” He took out the knife, snapped it open.

Wilburton opened his mouth. Before he could speak, Adrian slit his throat from one ear to the other. Blood gushed. Adrian let go of Wilburton and he slumped to the ground. Blood saturated the snow. Reaching down, Adrian pulled up Wilburton’s jacket and gutted him. Then he went behind the tree, out of sight, slipped off his bloody jacket and removed his quilted pants. He was wearing jeans and a turtleneck beneath them. He unzipped the duffel back and took out another jacket with a company logo, a hat, and gloves. He left his bloody clothes and the weapon where they were and walked back the same way he had come.

*   *   *

Alone again, Marti sat down with the files. She needed a table or a desk, but she also needed to stay close to Ben. She found her favorite nurse.

“There’s a small conference room off the ward that nobody will use until Monday.”

“Can I set up a fax machine in there?”

“Yes. There’s a phone line; I think that’s all you need.”

The nurse showed her to the room. Marti looked around. There was enough space for at least ten people to sit down. The chairs looked comfortable and there was even a window. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. A nearby golf course was all white slopes and ridges with crevices of snow. “This is great,” she said. “You’re sure it’s okay if I use it?”

“Sure. But we’ve never had police actually working here before. Don’t be too surprised if a few people find an excuse to come in.”

The nurse went and got the files for her, and the small suitcase Momma had brought. “Would you like to take a shower first?”

Hot water. Clean underwear. Toothpaste. That sounded wonderful.

*   *   *

After she showered, Marti changed into sweats. She felt less like a patient and more like a cop as she sat at the table with the list of recent releases and the slim stack of files. She reached for one, thought of seeing Johnnie’s precise handwriting again, and hesitated. He would tell her. If the person they were looking for was here, Johnnie would tell her who it was. She just had to pay attention to what he was saying as she read through his notes. She was the only one who could decipher Johnnie’s ‘one-worders,’ those cryptic words and abbreviations that only meant something to him.

She put the folders in alphabetical order and began reading. She read the official forms first, to get the chronology of the crime and arrest, then the forensic reports, then Ray Franklin’s notes. She looked at Johnnie’s notes last. They were more detailed than she expected. The one-word, one-phrase shorthand must have evolved. Nothing jumped out at her. She compared Johnnie’s notes with Ray’s. The two men did not think alike.

Ray: “Subject was located at the pool hall. Claimed he was innocent before we indicated we were taking him in. Did not resist. Held out his hands to be cuffed. Laughed when Mirandized. Said he wouldn’t say anything without a lawyer.” After interrogating him, Ray wrote: “Insists he is innocent. Gave us an alibi. Confident he’ll be released.” Later: “MacAlister told him too much. Subject laughed in our faces. Thinks we’re shooting crappies in a barrel.” Then, “Lawyer offered to plead to a lesser charge.”

Johnnie: “Not hostile. Knows the drill.” After interrogation: “Too relaxed. Knows we have the right man. Daring us to prove it.” Later, Johnnie wrote: “Gave him some of what we have on him.” Then, “Ready for plea bargain.”

She wasn’t used to Johnnie’s expansiveness. She had expected his comments to be even more terse.

She took a break, went in to see Ben. Woke him up again.

“What happened?” he asked, but dozed off before she could even begin to give him an answer.

The doctor was at the nurses’ station when she left his room. “You’re sure this sleepiness is all right?”

“Normal. There’s nothing else going on, and he does wake up on command.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“It’s a head injury,” the doctor said. “We are monitoring him very closely. And, don’t forget, he was in an automobile accident as well. His body is exhausted.”

She nodded. Ben’s brain had bounced around inside his skull. His body had experienced other insults, just as her body had. There were no breaks, no fractures, no bleeding, but his body was still reacting to the total trauma. She hoped that was all this waking and sleeping was about.

*   *   *

After reading through the files twice, Marti selected four that caught her attention. She read through them again, unable to figure out what it was that caused her to single them out. She read through the other seven, decided it was something about the subjects that influenced her choices. She still felt vague about what that was. Other than committing a homicide, they didn’t have much in common. “Trust your instincts,” Johnnie used to tell her. Johnnie had very good instincts. Marti reached for her notebook. She wished she had a legal-sized pad.

She called Vik. “We’ve got an office,” she told him.

“Good. Lupe stole somebody’s fax machine.”

“Bring some office stuff. Pencils, big pads, paper clips.” Whatever was in her in-basket or on her voice mail could wait.

“What about the files from Chicago?” he asked.

“I’m looking at them now.”

“Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

She called the Chicago detective next. Bryan Weinstein had regained consciousness. Consuela Jones—Ray Franklin’s partner—was doing fine. Neither of them could remember anything. Ray Franklin was still unconscious but breathing on his own. They hadn’t narrowed their list of suspects. Three had missed their last appointments with their parole officers. Marti took down those names. One was in her pile of four. The other eight were reporting as required. They had not spoken with any of them yet, but they were in the process of verifying places of residence and current employment.

*   *   *

When Vik came in, he brought a manila envelope, a thermos filled with coffee, and a covered dish.

Marti grabbed the envelope first. “Are these the pictures?”

She pulled out a stack of black-and-whites, and spread them on the table. There were only two shots, both taken from a distance, each blown up five times. She couldn’t make out anything from the three-by-five. The nine-by-twelve was too grainy. Nothing in between helped either. The man was looking down.

“If I could just see his eyes,” Marti said. “I’ll know it’s him when I see his eyes.”

Disappointed, she turned her attention to the food. She wasn’t crazy about Polish or German cuisine, but something smelled good. She lifted the lid, kielbasa and that sweet-and-sour red cabbage she liked, and fried potatoes with lots of onions. Vik had brought paper plates, plastic forks and enough for two.

“Mildred packed this, didn’t she? Where’s what I told you to bring?”

“Eat. I’ll get it.”

“Sit down while this is still warm.”

He frowned when she winced as she reached for a napkin.

“What’s with the wrist?”

“Just a sprain.” The sweet cabbage was great with a hunk of spicy sausage. “Mmm.”

“I saw the SUV. It looks like someone crushed it the way you take a pop can and crush it. You two got lucky.”

Marti ate a forkful of potatoes. “This is good. I didn’t even know I was hungry. Who cooked? Mildred or her sister?”

“You should be in a hospital bed, too,” Vik said.

“No time for that.”

He didn’t disagree. “They found a car parked not far from the fire on First Street,” he said. “Stolen. In Chicago. Just like the one that hit you yesterday.”

“They say what part of Chicago?”

“One was stolen on the West Side, one on the South Side.”

“You know what’s wrong with all of this, Jessenovik? None of it makes one damned bit of sense.”

“I think that if it’s just one person, he’s smart. Let’s hope he’s too damned smart and gets cocky.”

After they ate everything, Vik went in with her to see Ben. He woke up enough to smile at her, tried to move the hand with the IV, seemed puzzled, or confused, slept again. The sleeping still worried her, but she didn’t say anything.

Vik went to the car and came back with a cardboard box filled with things from the precinct. He plugged in the fax machine, then cleaned up from lunch. Then he sat down and she pushed the stack of four files toward him.

“This could be a waste of time,” she said. “Maybe what’s happening to us and what happened to Ray Franklin are totally separate incidents.”

“You don’t believe that and neither do I.” He tapped his finger on the top folder. “I bet you’ve got the answer right here. Why don’t we come up with a list of additional information we need on these guys, hold off on the others.”

Marti began going over the files with him.

“Johnnie cut right to the quick, didn’t he?” Vik said, after they went over the first file. “No wonder he was so good. Why do you like this perp?”

She pointed to Johnnie’s one-word summary. “Excuses.”

“Why that?”

“People who make excuses don’t see themselves as responsible for anything. They can cause a lot of damage that’s ‘not their fault.’ This guy’s got four priors for battery. First one is a fight, the next a few broken bones and a broken jaw, then the next victim is hospitalized. This time he stomped the guy to death. And none of it was his fault. Who did he blame when he got sent up for manslaughter? Johnnie, for arresting him? The judge for sentencing him? Me vicariously?”

Vik picked up the next folder. They were in alpha order. “And this one?”

“Vehicular homicide. Ran the ex-girlfriend over three times, forward, backed up, went forward. Then he got out to make sure she was dead. And all because she was dating a school crossing guard.” She could still see the driver’s eyes. Steely. Without fear. Were they the eyes of someone who had killed that way before?

The third folder was that of an arsonist. Johnnie had a one-worder, “coward,” and a two-worder, “will repeat.”

“An obvious choice,” she said. “But people who set fires usually like fires, like to watch them burn, derive a lot of good feelings and satisfaction. Someone dying in a fire can be a real boost to their self esteem.”

“Let’s find out more about him,” Vik said. He picked up the last folder. “Adrian Quinn. What’s special about him?”

Again it was Johnnie’s one-worder, “Avenge.”

“And read Johnnie’s notes,” she said.

“‘Denial. No guilt,’” Vik read.

“I want to know more about him, too,” Marti said.

“What’s to know? He denied the charges, said he wasn’t guilty.”

The word avenge held her attention. Getting even. But why had Johnnie used that word instead of revenge?

The Chicago detective had the complete files handy. While she waited for him to fax more information, she went in to see Ben. Still drowsy, he smiled, squeezed her hand, said “Bear.”

“Well, our arsonist should be in a mental institution,” Marti said after she read his reports. “Get on his bad side and something is going to burn.”

Adrian Quinn didn’t have a sheet. He did have several college degrees. “Not your typical killer,” Marti said. “Just one victim, a co-worker who fingered him for stealing from the company. No priors, not even a traffic violation.”

“Sentence seems extreme, given the crime and the lack of history. Everything they faxed on him is positive. Graduated from Northwestern at the top of his class. It looks like he belonged to damned near every civic and social organization in the city. Got three humanitarian awards for community service. This is the kind of guy they like to slap on the hand and put back in the street. At least that’s how it was back then.”

“How much time did he get?”

“Fifteen to life for manslaughter.”

“Any unusual force?”

“No,” Vik said. “He got mad, picked up a bookend, hit the guy over the head. One hit, no bludgeoning.”

“Sentence sounds excessive.”

“Yeah,” Vik agreed. “He was black. Could that have had something to do with it? I know that a lot of what Ramos is saying is true for adults as well as juveniles.”

Marti nodded. “Sounds that way. Upstanding citizen. An impulse killing. Unpremeditated.” She read through the additional reports. “All of these accomplishments and he embezzled from his firm, threw it all away.” She looked at Johnnie’s notes again. Denial. No guilt. This was one black man writing about another. What was Johnnie saying? Avenge. Why not revenge? They meant the same thing, getting even.

“I need a dictionary,” she said. It took twenty minutes to find one in an office on the first floor that was empty for the weekend.

Avenge and revenge could be used interchangeably, but the definition for avenger was a one-liner that got her attention. A person who avenges a wrong. Adrian Quinn had committed a crime. What if denial and no guilt didn’t mean what Vik thought it did? Suppose it meant that even though Quinn did it, he believed it was someone else’s fault and not his.

“I need more on this Adrian Quinn,” Marti said. She explained what she thought Johnnie might have meant. “Suppose he had to avenge a crime committed against him?”

“The sentence was excessive.”

“Let’s start there. He’s been out, what—” She checked the printout the Chicago detective had given her listing the names and the release dates. “He’s been out since before Christmas. Who was the judge?”

She made another call to Chicago and requested a photo of Adrian Quinn and a list of everyone involved in his arrest and trial, as well as a contact at the firm where he had worked.

*   *   *

Adrian boarded the train and headed back to the city. He closed his eyes and thought back to what he had done this morning. He wondered why he had ever liked the Field Museum with its stuffed animals. Even the birds were stuffed and displayed in cases as if they had been stopped midsong, their wings stilled. Now they sat on branches in perpetuity and looked as if they were ready to take flight. Push a button, hear a recording of their song. And the aquarium. That had changed so much. Watching the fish swimming in schools and alone in their little habitats, up and down, back and forth, had depressed him. Trapped, all of them, even the coral was trapped and it was stationary. Everything was trapped, the whales, especially the whales and the penguins. Trapped the way he had been trapped in that prison. In cells, just as he had been. Did they have any memory of freedom?

He used to enjoy watching nurse sharks and turtles swim round and round in that big tank. Now he thought of himself, locked into a routine he had no control over, going in one circle, one direction day after day. He didn’t ever want to go back to jail. Another day, maybe two, and he would finally be free of it all. He had been to Mexico before, stayed in a small town where all they cared about was American dollars. A place near the ocean, where the fish were free to swim wherever they wanted, and birds, all kinds of birds, flew free. A place where he would be free also.

*   *   *

Sheets of paper were coming from the fax machine when Lupe returned with Momma and the children. Marti looked out the window, surprised that while she was working, darkness had come. She had been hoping that Ben would be fully awake when the kids returned, but he was still waking and sleeping the last time she went into his room. Momma brought another change of clothes for tomorrow and more food. Mike was carrying a small brown teddy bear wearing a scarf and matching hat.

“They didn’t have one with a fireman’s uniform,” he said.

Marti went with the boys to see Ben. He was awake when they walked into the room. Both boys rushed over to him.

“Are you okay, now?”

“How do you feel?”

“That was scary, you being asleep.”

“Does it hurt?”

Mike gave him the bear. Ben smiled and rubbed Mike’s head with the hand that was free. He motioned to Theo to come closer.

“I’m fine,” he said, almost in a whisper. “See. Not everyone dies.” He spoke slowly, as if it took some effort. “God doesn’t take everyone. He has to leave some of us here.” He took a deep breath. “That trip to the Rockies is still on.”

Both boys grinned. Marti didn’t ask what trip. That could wait until later.

Ben’s eyes were open when Marti returned with Momma and Joanna.

“You’re awake,” she said. “You’re finally awake.” She kissed his forehead.

Ben smiled at Joanna. “Did I miss any good basketball games?”

She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. “We were so scared,” she said.

“I know.”

Momma went over to him. “You sound tired, baby. You get some rest. God still sits on the throne. Everything will be all right.”

Everyone stayed another fifty minutes so they could visit with Ben one more time. Marti returned to his room with some trepidation, but this time he wasn’t sleeping when they went in.

Afterward, Lupe said, “Okay, we’re out of here. Time for pizza.”

When the boys hugged Marti good-bye, their hugs were gentle but extra long. Joanna asked if she could stay.

“You’ll miss out on the pizza,” Marti said.

“I’d rather be with you.”

Marti agreed, but only because she thought Joanna needed to be with her. She wasn’t sure how watching her and Vik work would affect her.

*   *   *

“You’re using Dad’s notes,” Joanna said after they had eaten sandwiches from a machine and Vik and Marti got back to work. “This is awesome.” Joanna had all eleven files stacked in front of her and was flipping through them one at a time.

“Mmmm,” Marti said. She could finally look at what had been faxed.

The phone interrupted.

“Watch your back, MacAlister,” the Chicago detective said. “This Adrian Quinn has moved, no known address, and he hasn’t shown up at his work site in over a month.”

“When are you sending that photograph?” She didn’t see any photos in the stack of papers she had just retrieved.

“We’ve got a file photo, nothing recent.”

“Send that.”

“You got it.”

Marti went back to the faxes. There was a handwritten list of the names and addresses of everyone involved in Adrian Quinn’s arrest and trial.

“Vik,” she said. “Look at this!”

“Ramos?” he said. “Graciela?”

Ramos had been Quinn’s attorney.

Marti called him.

“How are you?” he asked. “I heard about the accident. Is your husband okay?”

“Doing fine,” she said. “What can you tell me about an Adrian Quinn?”

“Name means nothing. What about him?”

“You defended him thirteen years ago.”

“I’ve defended a lot of people.”

“My deceased husband was the arresting office. Quinn got paroled a couple of months ago. Now besides my accident, my husband’s partner has been shot, and Quinn’s disappeared.”

“What was the charge?” Ramos asked. “I work mostly on appeals now.”

“Homicide reduced to manslaughter.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Black, well educated, worked for Wilburton Financial, hit a co-worker over the head with a bookend because the man caught him stealing from the company.”

“Okay, got him,” Ramos said. “I don’t represent too many guys with his pedigree. He lied to me about a few things and the prosecutor nailed us for it in court. Quinn was real angry about that. Apparently it wasn’t his fault that he lied. Then maybe four, five years ago a couple of his prison buddies were released because of forensic evidence mishandled by a technician. Quinn thought he should get out, too. Trouble was, his evidence was processed by a different technician, and it was very straightforward. His fingerprints on the weapon, the victim’s blood was on his clothing, an office cleaner heard the entire argument and saw Quinn run from the office. There was nothing to screw up. Again, he felt that there should have been, that it was my fault, or someone’s fault that all of the evidence was in order.”

Marti didn’t share her suspicion about what might have happened to Graciela.

“I think you should keep that alarm system activated, Mr. Ramos, and that you and your family should be very careful until Quinn is apprehended. If he has shot a cop, he’ll take anyone out.” She thought of the house fire and car accident. “Quinn might even have an agenda.”

When she hung up, Vik handed her another fax. She didn’t recognize the man in the photo. “This is Adrian Quinn?”

She shook her head. Quinn was looking at the camera, but his face was expressionless. “The only thing I remember about the man in the car was his eyes.” In the photo Quinn’s eyes made him look as though he was half-asleep, and lacked that intensity.

She compared the photo to the one taken at the fire scene. Nothing.

*   *   *

Slim and Cowboy came in a few minutes later and put a box of doughnuts and a cardboard tray with four cups of coffee on the table. And there was more food. Thermos containers with soup.

“My mother is big on chicken soup,” Slim said. “She thinks it cures everything from depression to diphtheria as well as the common cold. This will stay hot for a while.”

“You okay, Officer Mac?” Cowboy asked.

“You don’t want to know.” She had gotten used to the painkillers fast. They didn’t make her sleepy anymore. That and keeping busy kept the pain at a manageable level, but her entire body still hurt.

“We’ve spent the day trying to find LaShawna,” Slim said. “Nothing. I’m sorry. At least we know she wasn’t in the house that got torched. We did turn up two more women who will testify against Reginald Garrett. One of them has a permanent disability because of him, tremors, paralysis in one arm, and she walks with a limp. The other young lady is now licensed to carry a weapon. Neither of them wants to relocate. I think if he goes near the one with the gun he’s a dead man. I talked with the state’s attorney. He says since these beatings were so brutal, they are going to throw every charge applicable at Garrett and go for the max penalty on each.”

“I’m beginning to think that maybe LaShawna took off or found some way to go to ground,” Marti said. At least she was trying to think that way. Anything was better than wondering if she was dead. “Those kids were pretty resourceful. The system kind of straitjacketed that. But I think they’ve survived the best way they know how.” She thought of Jose. “With plenty of emotional insulation.” She wondered if her own kids would be okay. How they were really coping with this, not just how they seemed to be coping.

“We stopped by your place before we drove down here,” Slim told her.

“To see how the kids were,” Cowboy said.

“It was a little late,” Slim said. “But Momma Lydia said that since it was not a school night we could take them to the bowling alley. They took one look at the room with the pool tables and forgot all about bowling and man, those boys shoot a mean game of pool. Kicked my butt. They liked staying out late.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

“Cute kids,” Slim said. He rubbed his hands together. “Now, what can we do?”

Marti told both of them about Adrian Quinn. “We’ve got two phone lines,” she said. “And a list of people Quinn might have it in for. I need to go and see Ben.”

*   *   *

Ben had remained awake all evening, but every time she walked toward his room she became apprehensive. Again she thought of her children. She called home every time she went in to see him, to reassure them that he was okay, but what was this doing to them?

The nurse had propped the teddy bear where Ben could see it. He had a headache but they couldn’t give him anything for it. When he tried sipping water, he vomited. Normal, given the circumstances, she reminded herself. But she worried anyway.

The doctor was with him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s just fine. We’re going to move him to the neurological ward in the morning. It might be a while before I’m ready to let him go home. But at this point, his progress is normal.”

Ben gave her a thumbs-up. She gave him a careful hug.

*   *   *

“Let me see the phone,” she said when she returned to their makeshift office. The boys were still up. She could hear them whooping in the background when Momma relayed the news.

That done, she turned to Slim and Cowboy. “Got anything?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Slim said. He showed her the list. “X means no answer, check mark means a machine. People sure give out a lot of information when they are not at home. No wonder burglaries are up. The caller gets everything but an invitation. “First one, Weinstein machine, Everyone is at the hospital, Bryan is doing as well as can be expected. Leave a message.”

Marti felt her stomach lurch. Weinstein was shot with the same gun as Ray Franklin. “How was Weinstein involved with Quinn?”

“A Saul Weinstein was a juror.”

“Who’s next?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Ray Franklin, you know about that. Next is Jessica Grant, jury forewoman, machine, leave a message, family in Arizona for Doug’s funeral, and funeral details. Phone is listed in Douglas’s name.” He continued down the list. “No answer, no answer, everything fine with these folks, then Lottie Mae Jenson, her sister answered, said she was not accepting calls, that there had been a death in the family, Lottie Mae’s daughter. When I identified myself as a police officer, the woman wanted to know if we had found the killer yet. The daughter, LaPatrice, was stabbed and beaten on her way home from work on Thursday, February fifteenth. And I don’t know about you, Officer Mac, but this is beginning to scare the hell out of me. Have we got a lunatic on our hands here, or what?”

Marti sat down. It was painful, but she rubbed her arms, they were covered with goose bumps. Someone’s walking on your grave, Momma would say.

Vik came over and stood beside her. “What in the hell is going on here?”

“Johnnie MacAlister is next,” Slim said.

Marti was almost afraid to hear what Cowboy had come up with. “What have you got?” she asked.

“You know Ramos is here.”

She nodded.

“I’ll skip the no answers, and the ‘sorry we are not at home’ recordings,” Cowboy said. “We’re going to have to get more information on the ones that I have—come up with a profile on this guy. First, Lureen Stanwick, prosecutor, daughter Sabrina died a week ago today, snowmobiling accident. Next, Judge Margaret Toner, resigned from the bench due to illness. According to the housekeeper, her husband had a heart attack after he pulled into their garage last Tuesday, Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t turn off the van, died of carbon monoxide. This next one is familiar, Calvin Ward, juror. And last but not least, Quinn’s old boss, Rupert Russell Wilburton the Third, retired. Old Rupert died this afternoon, walking in a wooded area, throat cut and abdomen gutted by an unknown assailant.”

Marti felt faint. She put her head down.

“MacAlister?” Slim said.

“Marti?” Vik echoed.

“It’s just the pain medication. I’m all right.” But she wasn’t. She felt sick to her stomach.

She called the Chicago detective.

“Yes!” he said when she began talking. She could hear the excitement in his voice. He had drawn the short straw and got the case of a lifetime. As she continued, the magnitude of what was happening dawned on him. “My God, MacAlister,” he said, awe in his voice. “My God. This is incredible. This man is a human killing machine.”

“You contact everyone else on this list, ASAP,” she instructed. “We’re going to call the jurisdictions involved and talk with whoever is handling each case. We need to get a profile on Quinn fast.”

“I’ve got a team here trying to locate him. We’re going through everything we’ve got on him trying to find places to look. I put a call in to Statesville. He taught a class for the GED exam, before he was transferred there from Joliet. We’re checking out the graduates and other participants who have been released. Other than that, Quinn kept to himself.”

“Sounds good,” Marti said. “We’ll call whenever we’ve got something. You do the same.”

Ben was sleepy when she went in to see him.

“Nothing to do,” he complained. “In the morning I get a room with a TV. I can’t believe it’s come to that. Have the kids bring me a CD player with headphones and some CDs. Do we have any talking books? If I don’t get out of here in the next thirty-six hours, I’m going to go crazy.”

“This from a man who didn’t know what day it was this morning?”

“And still can’t remember anything about yesterday at all,” he admitted.

“Just as well,” Marti said. “You wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

She couldn’t worry him now, but wait until he found out about Adrian Quinn.

*   *   *

Marti and Vik decided to work up a profile. Slim and Cowboy decided to go home. Not to their homes, but to hers.

“We’ll take Joanna with us.”

“Joanna!” Marti had forgotten she was there. She turned, and there was Joanna, in the corner, wide awake, watching, saying nothing.

“I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to stay the night.”

Marti nodded.

Slim called the chief at home, confirmed that he had woke him up, and requested duty at Marti’s place, with him and Cowboy working in shifts.

“The hookers will think they’re in Vegas,” Slim said.

“Nothing wrong with a hooker holiday every now and then,” Cowboy drawled. “Helps them let their guard down, releases their inhibitions. Makes it that much easier for us to catch ’em in the act.”

“True,” Slim said. “But what acts?”

“And,” Cowboy said, “there is the prospect of having a real breakfast.”

Lupe came in as they were leaving. “Had my sister drop me off,” she said. “Got a couple hours’ sleep and thought I’d drive the old man back to Lincoln Prairie.” She gave Vik an affectionate pat on the back. Vik scowled.

“Still awake?” Lupe said to Joanna. “Bored, aren’t you?”

Joanna shook her head.

“It’s okay if we just forget you’re here, right?”

“We already did,” Marti said.

“Marti, those boys are so sweet,” Lupe told her. “All four of them. We didn’t get a chance to tell you when we came in this evening, but we dropped Momma Lydia off after we left this morning, picked up the neighbors’ two boys and went ice-skating. They wore me out. I had to go home and take a nap. Is Ben still doing okay?”

“He’s bored, restless, and complaining,” Marti said.

“Way to go.”

“They’re moving him out of the ICU in the morning.”

Lupe raised her hand for a high five, then realized Marti wasn’t in any condition to raise her arm that high.

“So, whatcha get while I was pretending to be in the Ice Capades?” A funny question until she heard the answer.

“Be damned,” she said. “Let me help with the profile.”

“This is an MO profile, not a psych profile,” Vik said. “Even though we might need one of those, too. This guy is a real nutcase.”

“Scary,” Lupe agreed. “A lot of mentally ill people know something is wrong with them. I bet this guy thinks that he’s sane.”

They got on the phone, woke up a couple of desk sergeants and a few detectives and pieced together what they needed to know.

“He started out with next-of-kin victims. Left the guilty person alone,” Lupe said. “I’m not going to analyze that, but it sounds like he wanted to punish them, or make them suffer a lot longer than the time it would take them to die.”

“That changed when he killed Calvin Ward,” Marti said. “He could have killed his wife or his dogs.”

“Then he shot Ray Franklin,” Vik said. “And he got the boss this morning.”

“Are we including Graciela Lara in this?” Lupe wanted to know.

“I think we have to,” Marti said. “At least for now.”

Vik tapped his fingers on the stack of folders. “Graciela is stabbed on Tuesday. Toner dies Wednesday, but that’s iffy, could be a coincidence. Thursday, LaPatrice Jenson is stabbed. On Friday, Douglas Grant is hit by a train—that sounds straightforward. Sabrina Stanwick—another ‘accident’ on Saturday. Bryan Weinstein shot on Sunday. Calvin Ward is next—Monday night—stabbed also. This could be interesting. Nobody died on Tuesday, as far as we know. Does that mean he took the day off? Wednesday Ray Franklin and the female uniform are shot. We have the fire Thursday night. Friday you two end up here in the hospital. Today”—he checked his watch. “It’s one-fifteen in the morning. Sunday morning. Yesterday—Saturday—his boss got stabbed and gutted. And today?”

“Stabbing is real consistent,” Marti said, “The shootings weren’t fatal, not yet anyway. The stabbings were. Then we’ve got two accidents and a heart attack.”

Marti consulted her notes. “Charles Toner. Coroner ruled it accidental. The heart attack was massive, but he breathed long enough to inhale the carbon monoxide. Sabrina Stanwick. Still under investigation. Someone stretched a wire across the snowmobile trail. Decapitated her. Could have been kids. Douglas Grant, accidental. Got off one train, ran across the tracks, got hit by another train coming from the opposite direction.”

“If these didn’t happen so close together,” Vik said. “And if we didn’t have this connection to Quinn…”

“Let’s call it a night,” Marti said. She was getting a headache.

“A morning,” Vik corrected.

“Whatever.” The pain in her back from sitting so long was excruciating.

Vik and Lupe both looked concerned.

“I think I need a break.”

As soon as Vik and Lupe left, Marti asked for a pain pill. Joanna gave her the couch in the small room, and took the chair.

“You are not going to be comfortable,” Marti said. “You’ll get a crick in your neck.”

“Ma, I went primitive camping when I was a Girl Scout. This is nothing.”

Marti was too exhausted to argue.

*   *   *

Adrian sat in the middle of the circle and checked out the map he had drawn of the hospital where MacAlister and her husband were staying. The place was secured at night. He had marked three points on the first floor where guards were stationed. One in the emergency room, another where two corridors intersected, and a third who sat in a room with a window flush to the wall. He concentrated on the third location. The room was in the corridor nearest the elevators. The chapel was right down the hall. He couldn’t see any other way to get to her at night.

He studied the map for a long time, trying to figure out another plan in case that one didn’t work. He would have to go in before visiting hours were over at ten, hide out in a rest room, and then go to the chapel. There wasn’t an alternative plan, and if he didn’t get her there, he would have to wait until she and the fireman went home. Then there would be an alarm system and the dog to deal with. He was still apprehensive whenever he got too close to a dog. The dog would smell that. And now that he had met MacAlister’s children, he was sure that her dog would be one of those who was trained to disarm and attack. He folded the map.