Unofficially, I was still on the case. I just wasn't allowed to be connected with it. We live in a political world.
After working with a police artist to improve our composite photo of the perp, I grabbed a vending-machine ham on rye and went down to the shooting range to try out my new .38.
I spent an hour there, shooting round after round into paper silhouettes, imagining each one was the Gingerbread Man. When I was finished, my gun was hot to the touch and the stench of cordite had penetrated my clothes and hair like cigarette smoke.
When I got back to my office, Benedict was waiting.
"We matched prints off the third Jane Doe. Army record. Reserves. Her name was Nancy Marx. You up for it?"
"Let's go."
We took the elevator because I wasn't anxious to start bleeding again. Benedict drove. Nancy Marx had lived in a townhouse on Troy, off Irving Park Road. Herb already had a search warrant, should there be a need to break in.
There was no need.
"May I help you?"
A woman answered the door. Elderly, gray, wrinkled, someone's grandmother. My heart clenched.
"I'm Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. Does Nancy Marx live here?"
"Did you find her? I called this morning, but I was told I couldn't fill out a missing person report until she'd been missing two days."
"Are you related to Nancy?"
"I'm her grandmother. What's going on? Where's Nancy?"
In less than two sentences I destroyed this woman's life. If there was one part of my job I hated the most, this was it. Herb and I stood there, awkwardly, while she went from shock, to denial, to hysteria, and finally to depressed acceptance, moaning like a ghost haunting an old love.
We took turns trying to comfort her.
After the initial outpouring of emotion, they always wanted to know how and why.
We told her the how. We didn't know the why.
"She didn't suffer," was all we could offer.
The autopsy report had confirmed this. Nancy Marx died from a broken neck. How the ME figured that out from examining an array of body parts amazed me.
"But who did this to her?"
"We don't know yet, Miss..."
"Marx. Sylvia Marx. Nancy's parents, my son and daughter-in-law, died in a car accident seven years ago. She was all I had left."
We lost her to sobbing again. Benedict made some coffee in the kitchen, and I sat with the old woman on the couch, holding her hand.
"Mrs. Marx, did your granddaughter have any enemies?"
"None. Not one. She was a good girl."
"How about a boyfriend?"
"No one steady for a while now. Nancy was popular, she dated a lot, but there hasn't been anyone serious since Talon."
"Talon?"
"Talon Butterfield. Didn't really care for him much. He fooled around on her. They were engaged too. Lived together for a while, and then she moved in with me earlier this year, after she broke up with him. It was nice to have her home."
Her gray eyes began to blur again.
"Did Nancy know anyone named Theresa Metcalf?" I showed her a picture.
"No. Can't recall. Is she dead too?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Pretty thing, like my Nancy."
I had her look at other pictures, of the first Jane Doe, and of the recent composite of our perp.
"I'm sorry, but no. I don't know any of them."
"Do you have an address for Talon Butterfield?"
"No. I don't think Nancy does either. When she left, he moved out of town. They haven't been in touch, as far as I know. Do you think Talon was part of this?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out, Mrs. Marx."
"I never liked the boy, but he wasn't a killer. He loved Nancy. He just couldn't keep his drumstick in his pants."
Benedict brought us coffee, and we asked a few more questions. After they yielded nothing, we got permission to search Nancy's room.
It was small, modest, and neat. Her drawers held no secrets. There were no letters, no appointment books, no bills, no canceled checks, nothing at all.
It occurred to Herb that maybe Nancy's things might be somewhere else. Not too many people did all of their paperwork in the bedroom. We decided to ask Sylvia. She was in the den, petting a white cat, staring at a framed picture of her dead grandchild. The cat jumped off her lap and fled when we approached.
"Mrs. Marx, did Nancy have a checkbook?"
"She kept it in the kitchen, in the utility drawer."
"Canceled checks as well?"
"Nancy had one of those cards. Like a credit card, but it drew from her checking account. The bank keeps the canceled checks."
"How about an address book? Or credit card statements? Or personal letters?"
"She has a box of papers that she never unpacked after moving in. It's in the closet there. Did you find anything from Talon?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. Nancy gathered up everything, pictures, gifts, cards, and threw it away when she left him. But I was thinking. If you want to find out about him, you could ask that private detective."
"Ma'am?"
"Nancy hired a private detective to spy on Talon when she thought he was being unfaithful."
My heart rate went up.
"Do you remember his name?"
"Let me think. Nancy actually went out with him a few times, after Talon. She brought him to the house once, and he pinched my bottom."
Sylvia Marx giggled, tears still in her eyes.
"Henry, was it? Henry McGee. No, McGlade. Henry McGlade?"
"You mean Harry McGlade?" Benedict asked.
"Yes, that was it. Harry McGlade."
Jackpot.
Chapter 37
HE HAS TO GET RID OF the truck.
That isn't part of his plan. His fingerprints are all over the damn thing. Even if he spends an entire day wiping it down, he'll never clean it completely.
And his fingerprints will lead them to him. He's never taken the pains to establish a new identity. He never thought that they'd get close enough for it to be necessary.
He goes over it all again in his head, goes over what they have.
They know his face now. But with some hair dye and a shave, that can be changed. There's nothing connecting him to the truck; he stole it in Detroit and put stolen Illinois plates on it. He has no business license. His driver's license is current, but shows an old address, and he never bothered to update it after getting married and moving.
But there are some links to his present address. The phone company and the electric company. The IRS. Credit cards. The bank. If the cops get his name, they'll be able to find him without much trouble. And once they find him, they'll be able to convict. In his cockiness, he's giving them his DNA. Not the smartest move, in hindsight.
He has to move quickly, establish a new ID. Maybe even go to one of those doctors who can laser away your fingerprints. He'll disappear, resurface someplace else. Maybe even leave the country. There were plenty of women around the world to have fun with.
But first he has to finish the job here.
He takes a bus back to his house after ditching the truck in an all-night parking garage. Jack isn't on his mind for the moment. All of his focus is on the last victim. She'll be the easiest of all. No stalking necessary. No need for the truck. If he plays it right, he won't even need the Seconal.
He picks up the phone, no longer worried about telephone records or paper trails. It will all be over by tomorrow.
"Hello?"
"Diane? This is Charles."
"Charles?"
"I know you're surprised to hear from me. We didn't split on the best of terms. How are you?"
"Good. I'm doing good. I'm seeing someone."
"Good for you. I hope he's treating you well. Look, I'm calling because my therapist..."
"You're in therapy?"
"Yeah. For about six months now. She's helping me deal with my anger."