“So his name is Christian Newsome,” Jane says, glancing at Andy, who’s thinking about that religious name comment in the text messages.
Cheronis hands her a business card. All green, the color of money. No logo or catchphrase. Just the name, “Christian Newsome,” in a simple black font, then beneath it, separated by a horizontal line, “Newsome Capital Growth.”
In the corner, the contact information:
NEWSOME CAPITAL GROWTH
Grant Thornton Tower
161 North Clark Street
Suite 1320
Chicago, IL 60601
Jane hands Andy the card. “The Grant Thornton Tower,” she says.
“That’s Clark and Randolph downtown,” says Cheronis. “Across the street from the Daley Center and the Thompson Center. Most people know it as the Chicago—”
“Chicago Title & Trust Building,” says Jane. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
“Is this guy married?” Jane asks.
“Not so far as we know. We only found the body a few hours ago, so who knows, but nothing in this place suggests a woman lives here. Or even a second person.”
Jane bends at the waist, not touching the dead body but looking at the bullet wound under his chin, the blood and brain spatter on the wall, the angle of the other shot.
She uses her finger as a gun, sticks her index finger under her chin, then swipes it right, off her chin, and presses down with her thumb, firing.
That’s what happened here. The bullet that didn’t hit Christian was fired into the wall, just short of the ceiling, off to Christian’s right. The only way that bullet could land where it did was if the gun had been fired right by Christian’s face.
It was under his chin, and then it wasn’t. The gun angled off Christian’s chin to the right and fired.
“It’s not hard to imagine hesitation,” says Cheronis. “Not hard to imagine he shoves the gun under his chin, then loses his nerve and moves it off his chin.”
“But he wouldn’t fire the gun,” she says. “Or at least, not intentionally.”
“You’d think not,” Cheronis agrees. “Then again, if you’ve come to the point of suicide, who knows what’s going on in your head? Hands are probably shaking, right? It’s not impossible the gun would’ve gone off. Plus, who knows how many of these pills he took.”
Fair enough.
“Or,” she says, “someone shoved a gun under Christian’s chin, he knocked it away, and the gun went off in the struggle.”
“That is . . . possible, yes,” Cheronis agrees.
“Neighbors hear anything? A struggle? The gunshots?”
“Nope. We talked to all of them. Judging from the timing of the suicide note, he died around eleven on Halloween night. So most people were down for the night. And Wicker Park, Bucktown, I mean, it’s noisy around here, especially on Halloween night.”
“Suicide note,” she says.
“He sent a text message to this ‘Lauren’ on Halloween night at ten-forty-seven p.m.”
“Right. I have Lauren’s phone.”
“Let’s just make sure we’re on the same page with that.” Cheronis shows her a cell phone, a burner that looks just like Lauren’s, except it has a green cover rather than pink.
Jane takes the green phone in her hand. “How many people he talk to with this?”
“Just the one,” says Cheronis. “Just this ‘Lauren’ woman.”
With her gloved fingers, Jane taps on the phone. She finds only one name in the contacts, “Lauren.” She pulls up his text messages. Every text in the months-long text exchange with Lauren’s phone is there. All the way down to the last one:
Mon, Oct 31, 10:47 PM
I’m sorry, Lauren. I’m sorry for what I did and I’m sorry you didn’t love me. But I’m not sorry for loving you like nobody else could. I’m coming to you now. I hope you’ll accept me and let me love you in a way you wouldn’t in this world.
“This all tracks with what we have and what we know,” says Jane.
“Jane!” Andy calls to her. “Jane, you gotta come see this.”
Andy is standing in the bathroom, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “See anything interesting?” he says.
“Oh, yeah, this guy,” says Cheronis. “Guy has a friggin’ titanium toothbrush and a matching set of other goodies. Know what this one is?”
Jane spots it on the sink’s countertop. Three pieces of the five-piece Bentley-Kravitz Elite Men’s Care Set, titanium and matte-black: toothbrush, nail clippers, and dental-floss holder.
“This thing is for holding friggin’ dental floss,” says Cheronis. “You imagine what something like that costs? How much spending money you gotta have—”
“Nearly nine thousand dollars,” says Andy, showing Cheronis his phone, the website pulled up. “All that’s missing is the electric razor and nose-hair trimmer. And guess where we found those?”
Andy lifts the robe with two gloved fingers, careful not to touch it or shake it. A long black robe with elongated hood. A Grim Reaper costume, resting on the bed in Christian Newsome’s bedroom, just like the one the neighbor kid saw on Halloween night.
Jane steps out of the room, pulls out her phone, and dials the number.
“Simon,” she says, “this is Jane Burke again. Listen, something’s come up, and I can’t make it back to Grace Park tonight. Can I meet with you tomorrow, November third?”
87
Jane
Chief Carlyle slams his hand down on his desk. “That’s beautiful. He has the burner phone. He’s got the damn Grim Reaper costume, the boots that match, and half his toiletry set is in Lauren Betancourt’s bathroom. He worked at the building where all the morning text messages probably came from, and he lived in an area consistent with the nighttime text messages. He’s ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ like that text message described him. And ‘Christian,’ last I checked, sounds like a religious name to me.” The chief puts out his hands. “Jane, look happier.”
“I’m happy, Chief.”
“But not convinced. The evidence isn’t strong enough.”
“Oh, the evidence is strong. In fact,” she says, “about all that’s missing is a sworn affidavit from Christian Newsome that he and he alone, without any assistance from Simon Peter Dobias, murdered Lauren Betancourt. But I assume that’s arriving soon in the mail.”
The chief considers her, wetting his lips. “Remind me never to buy you a present, Janey. You’ll just tell me everything that’s wrong with it.” He flips his hand to Andy. “What about you, Sergeant Tate?”
Andy’s a loyal enough colleague not to show up Jane. But she knows he’s more convinced than she is. “It could be very solid, Chief, but I think Jane’s concerns are worth following up on.”
The chief takes a seat in his office, his fingers playing piano on his desk. “Okay, go through these concerns, Jane, start to finish, before I wish we had never heard the name Simon Dobias.”
Jane puts out her hand, ticks them off. “Number one, the pink phone. As you already know, after Lauren was dead, somebody moved that phone under the hallway table.”
“You think someone did.”
“The phone absolutely was moved a second time, and carefully so, not smudging the blood line at all. A level of care, sir, that all but rules out anything but an intentional act. And for the life of me, I can’t understand why the offender, coming upon Lauren’s burner phone that is absolutely, far and away, the most incriminating piece of evidence against him, would push it under the table, knowing that we’d find it.”