"Did you have sexual relations with Nancy Marx?" Herb asked.
"I don't kiss and tell."
"Yes you do."
"Oh yeah, right. I shagged her a few times. In fact, we shared a room the night of the Trainter show."
"The Trainter show?"
"Yeah. That was the first time."
"What about the Trainter show?" I asked. What did any of this have to do with the local talk show?
"When you're on the show, they give you a free hotel room the night before. Nancy shared her room with me."
"Nancy was on The Max Trainter Show?"
"Sure. She and Theresa both. A show about cheating fiances. You guys didn't know this? Some detectives you are."
"Think carefully, McGlade. Who else was on that show?"
"I don't remember, Jackie. It was five, six months ago. The show was about women who were dumping their men because they cheated on them. There were one or two other girls, I think. It was a wild show, even for Trainter. They had to bleep most of it. Max and I are old beer buddies. I'm the one who persuaded them to go on, dump their guys on TV."
"Look at the picture again, McGlade. Was this woman on the show?"
I showed him the first Jane Doe photo.
"Are you deaf? I don't know. You're showing me a computer enhanced photograph of a dead chick, who I might have seen on a show months ago. I'm not good with faces." He grinned at me. "So, have you finally forgiven me, Jackie? Maybe we could have a few drinks later."
"You're free to go, McGlade."
Harry stood up and brushed his pants. The wrinkles didn't come out.
"Just make sure I'm mentioned in your press statement, or I'll have to bring a lawsuit against this fine police establishment."
He shot me with his thumb and index finger, flipped the mirror the bird, and walked out of the door. A second later he walked back in.
"You got a couple bucks for a cab?"
I fished in my pocket and came up with some change.
"Here." I handed it to him. "Take the bus."
"Cold, Jackie. That's cold."
But he took the money and once again left. I'm sure the press was waiting for him outside, and I could only hope he'd make himself look like an idiot in front of them.
I probably didn't have to hope too hard.
"It can't be this simple," Benedict stated.
"Only one way to find out."
We went into a conference room down the hall and grabbed a phone. A minute later I was on the horn with the network where The Max Trainter Show was taped. After being bounced around a few times I was put in touch with the technical director, a guy named Ira Herskovitz. Once I'd informed him of the situation, he agreed to send over a dub of the show in question. I told him to send the unedited master. He refused, stating that the master tapes never left the building.
I was the cop, so I won. A squad car with sirens blaring went to pick it up, and when it arrived twenty minutes later I already had a 3/4" videotape recorder set up in my office.
"Cross your fingers," I said to Herb.
I pressed the play button.
Color bars and tone. A graphic with the show name, date, number, and director. Opening titles. Cue Max.
Trainter introduced the first guest, Ella. Ella was actually Theresa Metcalf.
Theresa dumped her fiance, Johnny Tashing, in front of the studio audience. Tashing had been unaware of the reason he was on the show, and when Theresa confronted him about his affair and tossed her engagement ring in his face, the crowd cheered. Tashing looked destroyed.
Next was Norma. Norma was our first Jane Doe, no doubt about it. She also dumped her cheating fiance. He called her several naughty slang terms, and stormed off the stage.
Third was Laura, aka Nancy Marx. Her fiance, a guy we guessed was Talon Butterfield, was similarly dumped with much audience applause. Talon grinned a lot and shrugged his shoulders.
Then Nancy's new boyfriend was introduced. He came out, gave her roses and a peck on the cheek, and was abruptly attacked by Talon. Talon got in a good smack to the face, but the new man knocked him down with an uppercut before the bouncers separated them.
The guy with the quick fists was our favorite private detective, Harry McGlade.
The last guest came on. The fourth woman. The one we hadn't seen yet. Her name was Brandy, and she was breaking up with her husband because he didn't come home some nights during the week. She suspected an affair, and couldn't take it anymore.
When her husband came out, I paused the tape.
There, frozen on the screen in midstride, was the Gingerbread Man.
"That's our guy."
Herb got on the phone with the studio, demanding the real names and addresses of the guests on this show. I let the tape run, watching as Brandy confronted the guy, watching as she dumped him, watching as the other girls on the panel called him names and teased him badly, watching as he picked up his chair, threw it at her, went into a screaming, swearing animal rage and attacked everybody on the set. Four bouncers and three security guards were needed to restrain him, and when he was hauled off the stage, the audience was on its feet cheering.
"Charles and Diane Kork," Benedict said. "Address in Evanston. Don't know if it's current."
I stood up and turned to face the eighteen other people in the room who were huddled around the TV.
"I need anything we can find on Charles Kork. Criminal record, DMV, phone, credit cards, aliases, everything. I want to know his life story and I want it now."
The next twenty minutes were a stampede of activity, phone calls, and computer checks. My team would call out info as it came.
"Got a record. Two stretches for assault and attempted."
"Divorce papers, finalized three months ago."
"I have a Diane Kork at an apartment on Goethe."
"DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep."
"Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there."
Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork's number.
"Answering machine."
"Warrants," I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane's place and to the killer's.
Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.
Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.
"Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third," Herb said. "You want to go there, or Diane's?"
"There. Let's move. I want eight men, full armor, now."
The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn't even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped each other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.
I had four teams coming with me, plus me and Herb. Evanston PD was meeting us there with more men. Herb placed an obligatory call to the Feds, but called the local branch to stall for time -- it would take a while to get the message to Agents Dailey and Coursey, and by then it would all be over.
In the black and white, siren screaming, Dispatch filled us in on Chuck's record.
"He's thirty-seven years old. Eight arrests in the past nineteen years. Convictions for aggravated sexual assault and attempted murder. Last stretch ended in 1998. Since then he's been clean."
"Not clean. Just careful."
The team heading to Diane Kork's arrived first. She wasn't home, and her place showed no signs of disturbance.
I hoped we weren't too late.
Three miles from the target we killed lights and sirens. The houses here were one-story one-family dwellings, middle-class income. I was hyper-tuned to my environment, noticing many things at once; the streets were pitted with potholes, the dusk air smelled like leaves, my chest felt confined in the tight vest, Herb had sweat on his forehead.
This was it.
Benedict parked behind a row of squad cars, all waiting for his signal.