During our search, we had eliminated one car simply because it was a small sports car. It wasn’t physically possible to fit two people, one dead man, and a wagon in that vehicle. Now we were down to eight. I studied the list while the others worked the database. Any one of the remaining cars would do. There were two SUVs, three midsize sedans, one large twenty-year-old Buick, one van, and a pickup. I tapped my pen against the desktop as I thought about the vehicle that would be the easiest to get a body in and out of. I wrote down the van as my first choice, followed by the two SUVs and then the pickup, although a truck would be risky—no place to actually hide the body.
“Got anything on the van yet?”
“There are two hundred late-model light-blue Toyota vans in the city,” Frank said. “Brian in Tech thinks it’s a Sienna.” He raised a brow at me. “Is the van calling out to you?”
“Sort of. Easy in, easy out, and plenty of room. Keep in mind, if those individuals are the same ones who are responsible for the murders in California and North Carolina, then they needed to move some of their belongings with them whenever they traveled to a new location.” I squeezed my head and groaned.
“What?”
“Damn it! If they’re the same people from those other crimes, they wouldn’t have Illinois plates on the vehicle. I’m afraid we may be spinning our wheels.”
“So now what?”
I picked up the receiver, dialed Lutz, and pressed Speakerphone. “Hey, Boss. Did you ever get the copies of the police reports from California and North Carolina?”
“I did, but nothing stood out except for the fact that the reports were damn near identical to our own.”
“Then that in itself stands out. Those crimes had to have been committed by the same killer, but we need to have more. Eyewitness accounts, a car speeding away, somebody trolling the neighborhood, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds like something is percolating in your mind.”
I wrote notes to myself while I thought. “I realized we’re looking in the Illinois database for a car that may be registered in California or North Carolina or none of those states if the killer is traveling from one to another. What’s funding them if they’re the same perps?”
“Good question, McCord. First, we have to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the murders are at the hand of the same person. I need to contact the coroners in Sacramento and Charlotte to see if they did tox and urinalysis reports on the victims. I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, get in touch with Chuck Donahue and see if he can shed some light.”
“Roger that.” I hung up and told our officers to check in with the detectives to see if they needed any help. I pulled open my center desk drawer and took out the card that Chuck Donahue had written his phone number on and dialed it. Just the thought of interrupting a man’s honeymoon was cringeworthy, but he was a cop, and I was sure he understood. For the greater good, he’d probably made plenty of calls in his life that were unavoidable too. I listened to ringing on Chuck’s end as I pulled paper and a pen out of my desk drawer. My phone was pinned between my ear and shoulder, which usually resulted in a neck cramp. I dreamed of having an earbud that was compatible with my desk phone since using Speakerphone wasn’t always the best alternative. As I was about to hang up, I heard a raspy hello on the other end. Now I was really cringing.
“Chuck Donahue?”
“Yep, who’s this?”
“It’s Detective McCord from yesterday.”
“Oh, sure, give me a sec.”
I heard silence for thirty seconds or so before he returned to the phone.
“Okay, just needed a drink of water. I was out for a run. What can I do for you?”
I quietly sighed in relief. “Is there any chance of you coming down to our precinct? We need more input on those similar murders that happened in Charlotte. Anything you can tell us would be appreciated. Since your police reports were almost identical to our own, we didn’t get that sudden epiphany that we were hoping for after reading them. I guess what I’m asking for is behind-the-scenes chatter, anything along the lines of witness accounts, a vehicle that was noticed, or tip-line statements—that sort of thing. Commander Lutz is reaching out for the autopsy report too.”
“Yeah, sure. I came to Homicide on the tail end of that case and then the perp just up and disappeared, but I’m sure I can add something that’ll shed some light. Give me an hour to shower and change, and then I’ll be there. Stacey has a spa afternoon scheduled, anyway.”
“Great, and thanks. We’re the Second District precinct on Wentworth and Fifty-First. See you soon.” I ended the call and dialed Lutz’s phone. “Hey, Boss.”
“What’s the word? Did you get ahold of Donahue?”
“I did, and he’s stopping by in about an hour when his wife leaves for a spa treatment.”
Lutz sounded relieved. “Good. Hopefully, he’ll have something we can use.”
I hung up and called Debra Blake, our desk sergeant at the front counter, where all the incoming action took place. “Hey, Deb, can you lead a detective named Chuck Donahue back here when he shows up? It’ll be in about forty-five minutes. Yep, appreciate it.” One last call to the crime lab would give me a good forty-five minutes of paperwork to review before Chuck arrived. I wanted to see if anything found at our first murder scene was similar to anything from the second. At least it would make me feel proactive.
“Is anyone still working the call lines?” I asked.
Tony said he was, although the calls had diminished significantly. Without a chance in hell of airing victim number two’s face, we knew the only tips that would be relevant had to come from John Doe number one. I jotted notes to myself as I waited for the crime lab reports to hit my in-box. We needed to know how the killers were funding their travels and where they were staying if they were the same people from California and North Carolina. We also needed to know why nobody was searching for our vics. They had to have family somewhere who noticed their absence, didn’t they? A new idea popped up in my mind, and I called out to Frank.
“Hey, partner. Do me a favor and see where the nearest hotels, motels, or flop houses are in the Bixler Park area, especially along East Fifty-Seventh Street west of South Dorchester.”
“Yep, on it.”
An alert on my computer indicated a new email had come in. I clicked on the first message, downloaded the attachments, and hit Print. I liked having hard copies since they would go in the case file, anyway.
I read and reread the reports but didn’t find the smoking gun I had hoped for, and there was no mention of anything found that didn’t belong in nature—other than a dead body tucked away under last winter’s fallen leaves and tree limbs. I huffed my disappointment and cracked my stiff neck. Dialing up Don Lawry, I glanced at the time. If Chuck was prompt, he would be arriving any minute.
“Hey, Don, it’s Jesse. Did you send for a tox and urinalysis screening on vic number two?”
“I did, and the results should be available tomorrow. Of course, the blunt force trauma to the man’s head would have definitely killed him, anyway.”
“Yep, that’s a fact, but it would be interesting to know if drain cleaner shows up in his report too. Okay, thanks.” I clicked off and added that to my growing list of notes.