We had barely made the deadline to get our John Doe’s information on the six o’clock news, but we squeaked in, and the stations accepted it. A photograph of his face with some makeup magic around his mouth gave him a presentable appearance, especially for the early-evening broadcast. We included the scar on his right shin in his description. If anyone was looking for him and knew him well, they would probably be familiar with that scar. All we needed was a name, then we’d take it from there. We would offer a few vague details in hopes of drawing in the killer. Oftentimes, they inserted themselves in investigations by pretending to be caring citizens who only wanted to help. We’d say the deceased man was discovered in a Chicago park, but we wouldn’t say which one. To a friend or family member, the location wouldn’t matter much, anyway, but the killer would want every detail known as a way to frighten nearby residents. We wouldn’t identify how the man had died, and at that moment, we had no idea, but even when the tox report came back, that information wouldn’t be shared. Only law enforcement and the killer would know John Doe’s manner of death.
I wasn’t sure which way the tip line would go. Either we would be flooded with calls, or I would be home by dark, but regardless, the doggy door Frank had installed and Bandit’s self-feeding and watering bowls were a godsend. My guilt had subsided during grueling cases, and Bandit and I had grown accustomed to our new normal. It was working okay for both of us, and when I was home, I lavished him with love.
I took my seat after powering up the TV in our conference room. All of the detectives tasked to the John Doe case—along with our commander, Bob Lutz—were in attendance. Two phones had been set up for tip-line calls, and if it turned out to be too much for Frank and me, we’d have more phones brought in, and officers would lend a hand. If our John Doe wasn’t a well-known figure or a local resident, I wasn’t expecting more calls than Frank and I could handle.
With an elbow to my ribs, Frank tipped his head toward the TV, which was already turned to our favorite news station—Channel 7.
The evening anchor, Charles Landry, began with breaking news, which pertained to our John Doe. The broadcast was right on target. Our John Doe’s face, his height, weight, eye color, hair color, and the long shin scar on his right leg were all mentioned. A photograph of his shirt and description of his pants, along with the sizes and brand names, were also described. Charles said that the man currently known as John Doe was found deceased in a local park with no identification on him. We made sure to gloss over the part where viewers would wonder about fingerprints and dental records, and we had the anchor say only that fingerprint and dental records provided nothing useful to the police department. In a roundabout way, that was true. The segment was only two minutes long, then the banner with the tip-line number ran across the bottom of the television screen. They moved on to the regular evening news after that.
I slapped my hands together after shutting off the TV. “Well, now it’s a waiting game. Either I’ll be here half the night and Bandit will have to fend for himself, or I’ll go home, throw a steak and a potato on the grill, and have dinner an hour later.”
Frank pressed his temples and chanted, which entertained all of us. “I’m feeling a sort of psychic power taking over my mind.”
I grinned. “Then work your psychic magic and solve this case.”
The rest of our team broke out in laughter as Frank continued. “I’m thinking dinner is going to consist of a vending-machine sandwich, a bag of chips, and a soda.”
The phone on the left rang, and our entire group groaned.
“You may be right.” I picked up and had my pad and pen ready to go. “John Doe tip line. This is Detective McCord speaking. Do you have information for us?” I jotted down what the caller was saying.
Both phones rang nonstop for two hours. At eight o’clock, I had Henry plug the vending machines with dollar bills and bring back two turkey club sandwiches, two bags of corn chips, and two sodas for Frank and me. It was nearing nine o’clock when the calls subsided. Both phones had recording devices connected to them, so we could go through each call at a slower pace and decide in what order of importance they would land. I wrote brief notes to myself about what time the calls came in to help me track the ones I wanted to give another listen to.
I looked over my notes, which I could barely read. My penmanship was poor at best. With a scratch to my forehead, I glanced at Frank. “Did you get anything that needs a second look?”
“Some. How about you?”
“The same. Let’s listen to the calls again and decide in what order of importance or urgency we need to address them.”
Frank found the first call he thought was important and backtracked to the fourteen-minute mark.
“Give me a synopsis of the call.”
“It was a woman who said the guy is her dad and that he’s been missing for two weeks.”
I grimaced. “Not sure about that one, buddy. Why would anybody hold on to a man that long without a good reason? Did she say there was a ransom demand?”
“Nope, just that he’s been gone.”
“So he and his killer hung out and played cards for two weeks? It isn’t like he was tortured. There were no clear injuries on his body except—”
“Yeah, except the ones that were right in front of us, and I’d consider having your fingers snipped off and teeth smashed down your throat as torture.”
“I meant to say signs of torture over a period of several weeks. Did she mention his scar?”
“Nah, let’s move on. I’ll get back to her and insist she email us a photograph of her dad.”
We returned to our lists and calls then chose three people to connect with that night. One was a woman who thought the man looked like her old neighbor. He was a widower and had never had children. Maybe that was why nobody was looking for him. The lead had substance, and the woman lived only fifteen minutes from our station. We would visit her first. The second caller we wanted to check in with said he saw something strange as he was driving home from the airport. He said he took a red-eye flight from Miami. Although the vic’s location was never revealed, we learned the man’s home was only four blocks from the playground. Asked what he saw, he said two people were pulling what looked to be a wagon. He admitted they remained in the shadows as he drove by on East Fifty-Seventh Street, but it was four thirty in the morning, and although he thought it odd, he chalked it up as being a couple of homeless people.
“That one totally sounds legit,” I said. “Let’s visit him first instead of the woman.”
Frank agreed. The last man said he would be bowling until eleven and his team always stopped at Gilda’s Pub afterward. I said we could meet him there after eleven.
“And what was the story behind his call?”
“He thought the man looked just like a mom-and-pop bookstore owner who ran a shop about a mile west of Washington Park. He said it’s been closed for several days now, which is unusual.”
“Hmm. Still in the general vicinity and could hold merit. Okay, let’s head out. You have all the addresses?”
“Yep.” Frank handed me the sheet. “You guide, and I’ll drive.”