CHAPTER 18
Chicago, October 26, 2019
RORY SAT IN THE BOOTH ACROSS FROM THOMAS MITCHELL. SHE knew from her father’s file that he was sixty-eight years old, but the man across from her looked younger. Deep crevices ran from his nostrils, around his lips, and died somewhere near his chin. But otherwise, his face was chiseled and young-looking. If Rory didn’t know better, she’d guess he was in his early fifties.
His expression was stoic when she sat in front of him, his handcuffed wrists resting on the table, his fingers folded as if in prayer, and an aura of patience emanating from him. He lifted the phone and placed it to his ear. Rory did the same.
“Mr. Mitchell, my name is Rory Moore.”
“They said my attorney was here to see me.”
“I’m sorry to inform you that Frank Moore passed away last month. I’m his daughter.”
Rory noticed something in the man’s eyes, whether it was emotion or simply contemplation was difficult to determine.
“Will this delay my release?”
“No. I’ve taken over the case and am handling the details.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
Rory hesitated, just like when Judge Boyle asked her the same question.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I worked occasionally with my father, and I’ve met with the judge who is overseeing your parole.”
Thomas Mitchell said nothing, so Rory went on.
“The judge and my father were negotiating the terms of your parole. I’m familiar with the details.”
Rory opened the file in front of her.
“You have some assets.” She pulled a page from the stack. “Just over eight hundred thousand dollars remain in your account. If you’re smart with your money, it should last for the rest of your life.”
He nodded.
“My father had financial power of attorney. Those rights have transferred to me, and the judge has asked that I help you get established financially after your release. The world of banking has changed since you were a free man. The judge has asked that I help you with your finances for the first year and a half after your release.”
“What about my living arrangements? I don’t want to live in a halfway house,” he said. “Frank was working on that for me.”
“The judge has granted your request to live in the home located near Starved Rock. I see that you inherited the cabin from an uncle in 1994. My father placed it in a trust for you and it’s been under management ever since as a rental property. The judge has ordered me, along with your social worker, Naomi Brown, and parole officer, Ezra Parker, to inspect the residence before your release.”
“Fine,” The Thief said. “Please make sure the heat is on.”
Rory paused at his subtle attempt at humor.
“Have you been to this cabin before?”
“When I was a kid. I was surprised my uncle willed it to me. But I’m happy to have it, and Frank has kept it anonymous.”
Rory had paged briefly through her father’s work related to the inherited property. It made sense now that he had placed it in a trust to keep the owner nameless.
“There is a long list of requirements you’ll be expected to follow during your first twelve months of release.” Rory pulled another page from the folder. “You’ll need to meet and speak regularly to your parole officer. You’ll also be assigned a social worker, who will make sure you are getting settled. There is a list of doctors here that you will be required to see. An internist who will run regular drug testing, and a psychologist you will be required to meet with every other week. All of this is set up to help reintegrate you into society.”
“There’s not going to be any reintegration. I’ll have folks trying to hunt me down. And if any of them find out where I’m living, it’ll be the end of me. Frank anticipated this and took measures to assure my privacy. And for the same reason, I doubt it would be helpful to make me find work. No organization will want me, and I’ll run into the same problem of people finding me. I have plenty of money to live a quiet life, which is what I intend to do.”
“The judge has waived the work requirement based on your age, notoriety, and your financial means. Paperwork that covers all of these stipulations will be delivered to you for your signature. Once the papers are signed, the parole will move forward. Your release is scheduled for November third. Questions?”
“Yeah. What happened to Frank?”
Rory observed the man through the glass. The way he said her father’s name felt personal.
“He had a heart attack.”
“Damn shame.”
Rory squinted her eyes behind her thick glasses. “You and my father seem to have had a close relationship.”
“We did. He was my attorney, and other than the people on the inside, he was the only one I was regularly in contact with.”
Rory wanted to ask what her father had done for Thomas Mitchell for forty years. It was more than appeal and parole hearings. She wanted to ask why this man had paid her father nearly $200,000 in retainer fees.
As if The Thief had read her mind, he said, “Listen, I’m sorry to hear about Frank. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. But I’ve got to concentrate on getting out of here, and keeping myself anonymous after I do. Can you help with this?”
His friend. Rory’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. Then again, and again. Three notifications in a row. She offered Thomas Mitchell a forced smile, retrieved her phone from her pocket, and looked at the screen: Rory. Very interested in talking with you about Angela Mitchell. I’m in Chicago and would love to meet, Catherine Blackwell.
Rory had nearly forgotten about the message she left in the comments of Catherine Blackwell’s Facebook page. She looked back to Thomas Mitchell. There was a woman still looking for justice forty years after this man had killed his wife. Rory’s fingers itched with the urge to type a message back to Catherine Blackwell.
“Your parole is still scheduled for next week,” Rory said, looking up from her phone. “Nothing’s changed.”
Thomas Mitchell nodded his head, hung up the phone, and pressed the call button underneath it. A moment later, a guard appeared and ushered him away.