Mental State, page 10
“I’m just here as a regular guy, not a cop. You know what I mean? Sorry if you got the wrong impression.”
“Oh, no problem, man. We’re cool,” he said turning back to the path. Then, looking down at his boots kicking up dust, he added nonchalantly, “The way you said that back there, I just thought you were going to tell me what was the other reason you are here—maybe I can help you.”
The man’s breathing relaxed considerably. He was off the hook, but Royce thought it would be interesting to find out what he was hiding. Knowing the area, it was probably just petty narcotics, which was pretty low on everyone’s list of targets these days. But it could be more serious—a gun shop this close to Chicago could make a tidy profit serving the black-market demand for a city of eight million people who weren’t permitted to own most firearms. Or maybe he was part of one of the right-wing militia groups that operated in Michigan. Both interesting to the average G-man.
“Help me? Interesting.” Royce let the words hang between them like the mounted deer heads on the walls of the lodge just over the rise. “Let’s finish the last station, then we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The last ten shots were known as “bouncers”—simulated rabbits that rolled and bounced along the ground. They were thought of as being the most difficult on the course. Royce knew these shots were right in his wheelhouse. He’d trained heavily on tracking running objects. He could win the day but wanted the guide’s help. Having him be in a good and agreeable frame of mind would be valuable. If he threw the last ten shots, and the contest, he’d put his guide in a position of superiority that he could exploit.
He lost by one shot. Kept it close and made the win that much sweeter.
Back in the club, the guide put away their gear and cleaned out the shotgun barrels with a long brush. Royce casually held up the image from Alex’s desk.
“Recognize this photo?”
The guide smiled. It wasn’t about him and the network of trailers he and his friends had strung through the thick woods a few miles away.
“Recognize it? I took it.”
“Remember any details about the people in the photo?”
“Of course I do. We’re open to the public but we don’t get a ton of walk-ins. Most of our business is members. Summer season is when all the FIBs are here—”
“FIBs? You mean FBI agents?” Royce was nonplussed.
“Oh, not FBI. F…I…B. It’s just kind of an expression we use around here to describe the seasonal crowd. ‘Fucking Illinois Bastards.’” He paused. “You aren’t from Illinois, are you?”
Royce managed a half laugh.
“Pittsburgh.”
“Steelers?”
“Big time.” He held up six fingers.
“Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. When we get a group from a university from the city here for a shooting day, it is something you remember. Plus, we don’t get a lot of black guys coming around here. It ain’t that I’m prejudiced—I’ll take everyone’s money and every excuse to shoot I can—but just an observation.” This day and age, even in places like this among guys like these, people watched their words. “Heck, I wish we had more of every color around here, I could use the cash.”
“Tell me anything about the people in the photograph?”
“Why? Any of them in trouble?” This question was instinctual—it was a guy who’d been asked about empathizing with guys being asked about.
“Just trying to track down a firearm used in a recent crime. One of these guys might be involved.”
“A firearm? Can you be more specific?” The man raised his arms, and as the sleeves of his tattered button-down shirt slid down his forearms, Royce could make out tattoos that on another day would have piqued his interest. “We’ve got a few of those around here,” he gestured in sweeping motions around the room.
“A pistol. Glock, 9 mil.”
“I’ve got a dozen of those back there.”
“I have a particular one in mind.” The guide cocked his head to one side and squinted at Royce. “I know you had one stolen a few months ago, and I’m wondering if there might be a connection with any of the people in this photograph.”
“You are being quite…What was your name again? Agent…”
“Everyone calls me Royce.”
“Well, Agent Royce, I don’t see how you know that, without a warrant or something, and I don’t know what you are getting at. If I thought one of my customers stole the weapon, don’t you think I would have called the police right then and there?”
“Of course, of course.” Was the man being cagey or was he going for obtuse? Maybe he’d underestimated this yokel. “What I mean is, I think one of these men stole your pistol.”
“Is that so?” The guide sounded doubtful.
“We found it at a crime scene in Chicago, and one of these men is involved in that crime.”
“Really?” He wiped his brow. “That’s shocking. These guys were the nerdiest people in the building in the past ten years. One of them…what, what did they do?”
No reason to reveal more than necessary. “It’s true. The pistol and the guy are both in my custody,” Royce lied. “Can you think of anything connecting one of them with the missing piece?”
“Well, I took this picture a few months before we noticed the pistol missing from our stock. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but doubt it could have been stolen that day and no one have noticed for months.”
“Could one of them swipe it while out of sight?”
“Doubt it. I was with them almost the entire time from the time they arrived until the time they left; I mean, they weren’t out of my sight more than a few minutes. The new ones are like just-hatched ducks—they stick very close to the mother duck, that’s me, while they’re around dangerous stuff for the first time.”
“So, they didn’t use pistols?”
“No, we did the course you did today. Twelve gauges. And I put those away myself.”
“Where do you store your weapons?” he followed up, trying not to lapse into interrogation mode.
“In a secured room when they aren’t being used.”
“And where is that?” The tone and paced intensified, despite attempts to hold back.
“In the back, through the store room and down a flight of stairs.”
“I see.”
Royce let the silence between them linger. The best way to get someone to keep talking was to give them silent air to fill. The guide was going along, so it was time to hold back.
“No way one of them did that that day. They would have needed to have been here before and had a lot longer than a couple of minutes alone to steal a pistol from our cage. That was the only way.”
“No pistols were out and around that day? Maybe out on the course or being cleaned?” Royce pointed at the shotguns the guide had put down on the glass top case as they talked. Several were now strewn around, more or less available for the taking. “How can you be sure?”
“It was a Sunday, and we don’t shoot pistols on Sunday.”
“Sorry? Is that a religious thing?”
“It’s because, well, I’m not actually sure I know the reason. We just don’t. Club rules. So, there wouldn’t have been anyone on the range with a pistol. Mondays are our days we don’t shoot shotguns, and Sundays no pistols or other weapons on the range.”
“Interesting.” Royce made a note in his Moleskin notebook, and as he wrapped the elastic band around it, he said, “So, you mentioned it would take more than one visit. Did any of these guys visit after that?”
The guide paused. He blinked for a beat longer than normal, like he was about to give up a secret or a friend.
“The black guy. His name was Marcus something or other. Marcus…oh, I forget. I just called him ‘Big M.’”
“Big M?”
“Yeah, little guy, but big personality. The kind of guy you want to give a nickname when you first meet him.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Positive.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Like I said, we don’t get many guys like that. So, he was interesting to me. We talked.”
Royce nodded along. He could see Marcus doing that. The description fit to a t. Royce liked him too, even though he was increasingly convinced he murdered his brother.
“Anyway, during that first shoot, he was just in awe that this place was so close to his neighborhood. Everyone enjoyed the day, but you could tell that he was a different person when he left. Like he found a part of himself out here that he didn’t know existed. I felt it too, the first time I stepped onto a range.”
“I know what you mean. The smell of gunpowder in the morning.” They shared a laugh.
“Exactly. So right away, I liked him. He came back here maybe ten times in the next couple of months. We shot birds, clays, targets, bottles, pretty much anything that would take a bullet. I’d call him a regular.”
“How can a guy from the South Side of Chicago afford to come do this ten times in six months?” Royce held up his receipt from the morning. “I mean, one hundred fifty dollars isn’t exactly bus fare.”
“Like I said, we kind of became friends. He’d take the train down to Michigan City, and I’d go get him. We’d drink some beers and shoot. Being friends with the shoot boss has benefits.” There was hope in his voice, and Royce sensed he was begging off giving away too much.
“And none of the others ever came back?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you guys ever shoot pistols? You and Big M?”
“Shotguns at first, but eventually he became interested in target practice, so, yes, we shot pistols a bunch of times. But, truthfully, I don’t think he stole the weapon,” the guide said, shaking his head. “I’m not certain he was here the day it was stolen, and I don’t see how he could have gotten into our cage without someone noticing. If he really needed a weapon for something, I…” The man caught himself. His defense almost turned into admitting something there was no reason to admit.
Royce let it slide. He had everything needed from the Quail Meadows Gun Club. The murder weapon was stolen from the club; Marcus was a frequent customer of the club; he trained on the exact weapon used in the crime; and the club employees could not definitively rule him out as involved in the theft. There was one last angle to play.
“What day was the pistol in question first noticed missing from the cage?”
“We check the cage every night. We don’t do inventory per se, but we don’t have that many weapons, so things generally stand out when they aren’t in place. Phil, one of the guys here, noticed it missing on July twenty-fourth, a Wednesday, I think.”
“Okay, July twenty-four. You reported it stolen that night or the next morning, I assume?”
“I didn’t do it, but I think they did a search of the shop, the main club house, the whole place. It probably took a few days. I’m sure you can find that out by just, you know, pulling the records.”
“Thanks. One last question: can I see your customer receipts for July twenty-fourth?”
“It’ll take me a minute—I’ve got to go to the back and dig them out. Why don’t you go to the lounge and get a drink? I’ll be up in a minute with the receipts.”
At the bar Royce took a seat and ordered two ryes, neat. He swirled one in his hand and put the other in front of the empty bar stool next to him. He clinked glasses and downed his in one shot.
A while later he felt a tap on the shoulder. “I’ve got ’em,” the guide said.
“The receipts?”
“The ones from Marcus Jones—July twenty-fourth, three receipts: shooting on the pistol range, a hamburger and a beer for lunch, and a Quail Meadows polo shirt.”
“Can I take a picture of this?”
“Sure.”
“Going to have one with me? Bartender, two more over there.”
“Sorry, gotta skip the drink.” He laid the receipt on the bar. “I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Thank you.” Royce reached into his back pocket, fishing for some money to tip the guide.
“Nah, man. Keep your money. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“For the shooting…”
The guide shook his head. Then sighed.
“Keep it. I’m sad to see Big M in trouble, but if he stole from us and did some other bad shit, you know, in my world, he deserves what’s coming to him. But…” He trailed off, shaking his head. He turned like a military man and headed back down the hill.
Royce took the pictures, left forty dollars on the bar, and headed for the Volvo. Back on Interstate 94 headed toward Chicago, he dialed in a favor.
“Sally, I think you saw the NSL and my request for a phone location search for a Marcus Jones.” His breathing quickened and he could feel the adrenaline course.
Sally Morovich was a fifteen-year veteran of the Bureau; a competent but undistinguished agent. But Royce’s life depended on her at that moment, and not for the first time. The Bureau needs more than just cluesmiths, sharpshooters, and people who can kick in doors. For better or worse, the federal bureaucracy had doubled in size in the past few decades, and if it didn’t have people like Sally—public-minded people who got things done and could navigate Washington’s dangerous shoals—the government would grind to a halt or, even worse, be directed toward even more malevolent ends. Tens of thousands of well-meaning, nine-to-fivers were one of the great bulwarks against tyranny. Sally was one of them. One of the best.
“In fact, I’ve got your files right here. Sending those to you via secure email. You should have them inside the hour. There’s a lot.”
“Great, Talk to you later. Thanks a mil.”
“One more thing. Your hunch about Marcus Jones’s cell phone was a good one.”
Royce sat up and gripped the wheel with both hands. He turned down the radio and swallowed hard.
“What do you mean?”
“His phone was on and GPS location services were active on various applications during the time in question.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, who knows whether he was aware AT&T and Facebook and Google were tracking him, but they were.”
Could it be true?
“Between ten-forty-five and eleven-fifteen, two days ago, he was in the vicinity of Greenwood Avenue between 47th Street and 50th Street.”
“Fuck.” Marcus deserved to rot in prison, or worse.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The only active use during this time was at 11:02 a.m. He sent a text message from near the corner of 50th and Greenwood.”
Royce pulled onto the shoulder as an eighteen-wheeler roared by, shaking the rusty old Volvo. He closed his eyes and air poured through his nostrils in a long and deliberate release. He did it. Inside of the forty-eight-hour window, he’d actually done it. He patted the dashboard—it was as close as he could come to his little brother now. It was time to hand everything over to the one person who had jurisdiction to follow the evidence and make an arrest.
CHAPTER 21
It was early, and Officer Dan Dziewulski was in his underwear as he walked toward the front door of his apartment, taking sips of Folgers out of a Northern Illinois University mug. DZ, as his friends called him, was eager to see if the White Sox broke out of their slump, and the answer was in the Sun-Times, which was waiting for him, as it was every morning, on his porch.
Before he got to the door, DZ saw a large manila envelope on the tile floor in the entryway. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the envelope, set askew next to an umbrella that had fallen over onto the floor. Someone must have slipped it through the mail slot in his door during the night. He walked back toward the kitchen and retrieved his service revolver, which was in a holster slung over a recliner covered with popcorn crumbs. He drew the weapon and walked cautiously down the hallway toward the front door.
DZ picked up the envelope and rotated it in his hands. It had no markings and based on its feel, seemed to be filled with papers. He put the pistol in his waistband and carried the envelope back to the kitchen table. He had no big cases these days, and no one he could think of had reason to blackmail him or threaten him in any way. But the envelope scared him. It could be a bomb or laced with anthrax. But who would want to off a university cop? He took a deep breath, broke the seal, and spilled the contents on the table. There was no note or explanation for what, at first glance, seemed to be a disorganized police file of some sort.
As DZ leafed through the file, he munched on a piece of carrot bread his mother brought over the week before when she came to clean his apartment and do his laundry. In DZ’s five years on the Rockefeller University police force, he’d investigated a few serious crimes, but nothing quite like he saw sprawled out before him. His most heinous crime to date involved the investigation of two fraternity brothers who had been accused of sexual assault. DZ worked the case, but it was never his.
The envelope contained an orgy of evidence: cell phone records, forensics and ballistics reports, written statements, narrative summaries of testimonies from several witnesses, maps, drawings, copies of emails, dozens of photographs, and theories written in red pen on pages of yellow paper. As DZ read the details he saw the case form against Marcus Jones, whoever that was, in the murder of Professor Alex Johnson. He held up a picture of Marcus, who was wearing a University of Illinois tie and looking distinguished. Not a usual killer.
Looking at the photographs and reading the notes, he remembered the morning he’d pushed open the door to the professor’s three-story, red brick house. He’d expected another case of an old lock and a gust of wind. But then he saw the soles of Professor Johnson’s stocking feet. Then there was the blood. The brain bits on the wall and ceiling. So much blood and bits of bone and flesh that DZ had to step outside and catch his breath. Nothing about five years of being a university cop prepared him for that.
After reading the file, he pushed his chair back in amazement. The case was compelling and built on data—cell phone records, bank account information, Google searches, travel, credit card purchases, and countless other details of the lives of Alex Johnson and Marcus Jones. He could see their lives proceeding in parallel, intersecting a few times in classrooms and on the hunting fields of Michigan, before they crashed violently together on that morning several weeks ago.
“Oh, no problem, man. We’re cool,” he said turning back to the path. Then, looking down at his boots kicking up dust, he added nonchalantly, “The way you said that back there, I just thought you were going to tell me what was the other reason you are here—maybe I can help you.”
The man’s breathing relaxed considerably. He was off the hook, but Royce thought it would be interesting to find out what he was hiding. Knowing the area, it was probably just petty narcotics, which was pretty low on everyone’s list of targets these days. But it could be more serious—a gun shop this close to Chicago could make a tidy profit serving the black-market demand for a city of eight million people who weren’t permitted to own most firearms. Or maybe he was part of one of the right-wing militia groups that operated in Michigan. Both interesting to the average G-man.
“Help me? Interesting.” Royce let the words hang between them like the mounted deer heads on the walls of the lodge just over the rise. “Let’s finish the last station, then we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The last ten shots were known as “bouncers”—simulated rabbits that rolled and bounced along the ground. They were thought of as being the most difficult on the course. Royce knew these shots were right in his wheelhouse. He’d trained heavily on tracking running objects. He could win the day but wanted the guide’s help. Having him be in a good and agreeable frame of mind would be valuable. If he threw the last ten shots, and the contest, he’d put his guide in a position of superiority that he could exploit.
He lost by one shot. Kept it close and made the win that much sweeter.
Back in the club, the guide put away their gear and cleaned out the shotgun barrels with a long brush. Royce casually held up the image from Alex’s desk.
“Recognize this photo?”
The guide smiled. It wasn’t about him and the network of trailers he and his friends had strung through the thick woods a few miles away.
“Recognize it? I took it.”
“Remember any details about the people in the photo?”
“Of course I do. We’re open to the public but we don’t get a ton of walk-ins. Most of our business is members. Summer season is when all the FIBs are here—”
“FIBs? You mean FBI agents?” Royce was nonplussed.
“Oh, not FBI. F…I…B. It’s just kind of an expression we use around here to describe the seasonal crowd. ‘Fucking Illinois Bastards.’” He paused. “You aren’t from Illinois, are you?”
Royce managed a half laugh.
“Pittsburgh.”
“Steelers?”
“Big time.” He held up six fingers.
“Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. When we get a group from a university from the city here for a shooting day, it is something you remember. Plus, we don’t get a lot of black guys coming around here. It ain’t that I’m prejudiced—I’ll take everyone’s money and every excuse to shoot I can—but just an observation.” This day and age, even in places like this among guys like these, people watched their words. “Heck, I wish we had more of every color around here, I could use the cash.”
“Tell me anything about the people in the photograph?”
“Why? Any of them in trouble?” This question was instinctual—it was a guy who’d been asked about empathizing with guys being asked about.
“Just trying to track down a firearm used in a recent crime. One of these guys might be involved.”
“A firearm? Can you be more specific?” The man raised his arms, and as the sleeves of his tattered button-down shirt slid down his forearms, Royce could make out tattoos that on another day would have piqued his interest. “We’ve got a few of those around here,” he gestured in sweeping motions around the room.
“A pistol. Glock, 9 mil.”
“I’ve got a dozen of those back there.”
“I have a particular one in mind.” The guide cocked his head to one side and squinted at Royce. “I know you had one stolen a few months ago, and I’m wondering if there might be a connection with any of the people in this photograph.”
“You are being quite…What was your name again? Agent…”
“Everyone calls me Royce.”
“Well, Agent Royce, I don’t see how you know that, without a warrant or something, and I don’t know what you are getting at. If I thought one of my customers stole the weapon, don’t you think I would have called the police right then and there?”
“Of course, of course.” Was the man being cagey or was he going for obtuse? Maybe he’d underestimated this yokel. “What I mean is, I think one of these men stole your pistol.”
“Is that so?” The guide sounded doubtful.
“We found it at a crime scene in Chicago, and one of these men is involved in that crime.”
“Really?” He wiped his brow. “That’s shocking. These guys were the nerdiest people in the building in the past ten years. One of them…what, what did they do?”
No reason to reveal more than necessary. “It’s true. The pistol and the guy are both in my custody,” Royce lied. “Can you think of anything connecting one of them with the missing piece?”
“Well, I took this picture a few months before we noticed the pistol missing from our stock. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but doubt it could have been stolen that day and no one have noticed for months.”
“Could one of them swipe it while out of sight?”
“Doubt it. I was with them almost the entire time from the time they arrived until the time they left; I mean, they weren’t out of my sight more than a few minutes. The new ones are like just-hatched ducks—they stick very close to the mother duck, that’s me, while they’re around dangerous stuff for the first time.”
“So, they didn’t use pistols?”
“No, we did the course you did today. Twelve gauges. And I put those away myself.”
“Where do you store your weapons?” he followed up, trying not to lapse into interrogation mode.
“In a secured room when they aren’t being used.”
“And where is that?” The tone and paced intensified, despite attempts to hold back.
“In the back, through the store room and down a flight of stairs.”
“I see.”
Royce let the silence between them linger. The best way to get someone to keep talking was to give them silent air to fill. The guide was going along, so it was time to hold back.
“No way one of them did that that day. They would have needed to have been here before and had a lot longer than a couple of minutes alone to steal a pistol from our cage. That was the only way.”
“No pistols were out and around that day? Maybe out on the course or being cleaned?” Royce pointed at the shotguns the guide had put down on the glass top case as they talked. Several were now strewn around, more or less available for the taking. “How can you be sure?”
“It was a Sunday, and we don’t shoot pistols on Sunday.”
“Sorry? Is that a religious thing?”
“It’s because, well, I’m not actually sure I know the reason. We just don’t. Club rules. So, there wouldn’t have been anyone on the range with a pistol. Mondays are our days we don’t shoot shotguns, and Sundays no pistols or other weapons on the range.”
“Interesting.” Royce made a note in his Moleskin notebook, and as he wrapped the elastic band around it, he said, “So, you mentioned it would take more than one visit. Did any of these guys visit after that?”
The guide paused. He blinked for a beat longer than normal, like he was about to give up a secret or a friend.
“The black guy. His name was Marcus something or other. Marcus…oh, I forget. I just called him ‘Big M.’”
“Big M?”
“Yeah, little guy, but big personality. The kind of guy you want to give a nickname when you first meet him.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Positive.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Like I said, we don’t get many guys like that. So, he was interesting to me. We talked.”
Royce nodded along. He could see Marcus doing that. The description fit to a t. Royce liked him too, even though he was increasingly convinced he murdered his brother.
“Anyway, during that first shoot, he was just in awe that this place was so close to his neighborhood. Everyone enjoyed the day, but you could tell that he was a different person when he left. Like he found a part of himself out here that he didn’t know existed. I felt it too, the first time I stepped onto a range.”
“I know what you mean. The smell of gunpowder in the morning.” They shared a laugh.
“Exactly. So right away, I liked him. He came back here maybe ten times in the next couple of months. We shot birds, clays, targets, bottles, pretty much anything that would take a bullet. I’d call him a regular.”
“How can a guy from the South Side of Chicago afford to come do this ten times in six months?” Royce held up his receipt from the morning. “I mean, one hundred fifty dollars isn’t exactly bus fare.”
“Like I said, we kind of became friends. He’d take the train down to Michigan City, and I’d go get him. We’d drink some beers and shoot. Being friends with the shoot boss has benefits.” There was hope in his voice, and Royce sensed he was begging off giving away too much.
“And none of the others ever came back?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you guys ever shoot pistols? You and Big M?”
“Shotguns at first, but eventually he became interested in target practice, so, yes, we shot pistols a bunch of times. But, truthfully, I don’t think he stole the weapon,” the guide said, shaking his head. “I’m not certain he was here the day it was stolen, and I don’t see how he could have gotten into our cage without someone noticing. If he really needed a weapon for something, I…” The man caught himself. His defense almost turned into admitting something there was no reason to admit.
Royce let it slide. He had everything needed from the Quail Meadows Gun Club. The murder weapon was stolen from the club; Marcus was a frequent customer of the club; he trained on the exact weapon used in the crime; and the club employees could not definitively rule him out as involved in the theft. There was one last angle to play.
“What day was the pistol in question first noticed missing from the cage?”
“We check the cage every night. We don’t do inventory per se, but we don’t have that many weapons, so things generally stand out when they aren’t in place. Phil, one of the guys here, noticed it missing on July twenty-fourth, a Wednesday, I think.”
“Okay, July twenty-four. You reported it stolen that night or the next morning, I assume?”
“I didn’t do it, but I think they did a search of the shop, the main club house, the whole place. It probably took a few days. I’m sure you can find that out by just, you know, pulling the records.”
“Thanks. One last question: can I see your customer receipts for July twenty-fourth?”
“It’ll take me a minute—I’ve got to go to the back and dig them out. Why don’t you go to the lounge and get a drink? I’ll be up in a minute with the receipts.”
At the bar Royce took a seat and ordered two ryes, neat. He swirled one in his hand and put the other in front of the empty bar stool next to him. He clinked glasses and downed his in one shot.
A while later he felt a tap on the shoulder. “I’ve got ’em,” the guide said.
“The receipts?”
“The ones from Marcus Jones—July twenty-fourth, three receipts: shooting on the pistol range, a hamburger and a beer for lunch, and a Quail Meadows polo shirt.”
“Can I take a picture of this?”
“Sure.”
“Going to have one with me? Bartender, two more over there.”
“Sorry, gotta skip the drink.” He laid the receipt on the bar. “I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Thank you.” Royce reached into his back pocket, fishing for some money to tip the guide.
“Nah, man. Keep your money. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“For the shooting…”
The guide shook his head. Then sighed.
“Keep it. I’m sad to see Big M in trouble, but if he stole from us and did some other bad shit, you know, in my world, he deserves what’s coming to him. But…” He trailed off, shaking his head. He turned like a military man and headed back down the hill.
Royce took the pictures, left forty dollars on the bar, and headed for the Volvo. Back on Interstate 94 headed toward Chicago, he dialed in a favor.
“Sally, I think you saw the NSL and my request for a phone location search for a Marcus Jones.” His breathing quickened and he could feel the adrenaline course.
Sally Morovich was a fifteen-year veteran of the Bureau; a competent but undistinguished agent. But Royce’s life depended on her at that moment, and not for the first time. The Bureau needs more than just cluesmiths, sharpshooters, and people who can kick in doors. For better or worse, the federal bureaucracy had doubled in size in the past few decades, and if it didn’t have people like Sally—public-minded people who got things done and could navigate Washington’s dangerous shoals—the government would grind to a halt or, even worse, be directed toward even more malevolent ends. Tens of thousands of well-meaning, nine-to-fivers were one of the great bulwarks against tyranny. Sally was one of them. One of the best.
“In fact, I’ve got your files right here. Sending those to you via secure email. You should have them inside the hour. There’s a lot.”
“Great, Talk to you later. Thanks a mil.”
“One more thing. Your hunch about Marcus Jones’s cell phone was a good one.”
Royce sat up and gripped the wheel with both hands. He turned down the radio and swallowed hard.
“What do you mean?”
“His phone was on and GPS location services were active on various applications during the time in question.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, who knows whether he was aware AT&T and Facebook and Google were tracking him, but they were.”
Could it be true?
“Between ten-forty-five and eleven-fifteen, two days ago, he was in the vicinity of Greenwood Avenue between 47th Street and 50th Street.”
“Fuck.” Marcus deserved to rot in prison, or worse.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The only active use during this time was at 11:02 a.m. He sent a text message from near the corner of 50th and Greenwood.”
Royce pulled onto the shoulder as an eighteen-wheeler roared by, shaking the rusty old Volvo. He closed his eyes and air poured through his nostrils in a long and deliberate release. He did it. Inside of the forty-eight-hour window, he’d actually done it. He patted the dashboard—it was as close as he could come to his little brother now. It was time to hand everything over to the one person who had jurisdiction to follow the evidence and make an arrest.
CHAPTER 21
It was early, and Officer Dan Dziewulski was in his underwear as he walked toward the front door of his apartment, taking sips of Folgers out of a Northern Illinois University mug. DZ, as his friends called him, was eager to see if the White Sox broke out of their slump, and the answer was in the Sun-Times, which was waiting for him, as it was every morning, on his porch.
Before he got to the door, DZ saw a large manila envelope on the tile floor in the entryway. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the envelope, set askew next to an umbrella that had fallen over onto the floor. Someone must have slipped it through the mail slot in his door during the night. He walked back toward the kitchen and retrieved his service revolver, which was in a holster slung over a recliner covered with popcorn crumbs. He drew the weapon and walked cautiously down the hallway toward the front door.
DZ picked up the envelope and rotated it in his hands. It had no markings and based on its feel, seemed to be filled with papers. He put the pistol in his waistband and carried the envelope back to the kitchen table. He had no big cases these days, and no one he could think of had reason to blackmail him or threaten him in any way. But the envelope scared him. It could be a bomb or laced with anthrax. But who would want to off a university cop? He took a deep breath, broke the seal, and spilled the contents on the table. There was no note or explanation for what, at first glance, seemed to be a disorganized police file of some sort.
As DZ leafed through the file, he munched on a piece of carrot bread his mother brought over the week before when she came to clean his apartment and do his laundry. In DZ’s five years on the Rockefeller University police force, he’d investigated a few serious crimes, but nothing quite like he saw sprawled out before him. His most heinous crime to date involved the investigation of two fraternity brothers who had been accused of sexual assault. DZ worked the case, but it was never his.
The envelope contained an orgy of evidence: cell phone records, forensics and ballistics reports, written statements, narrative summaries of testimonies from several witnesses, maps, drawings, copies of emails, dozens of photographs, and theories written in red pen on pages of yellow paper. As DZ read the details he saw the case form against Marcus Jones, whoever that was, in the murder of Professor Alex Johnson. He held up a picture of Marcus, who was wearing a University of Illinois tie and looking distinguished. Not a usual killer.
Looking at the photographs and reading the notes, he remembered the morning he’d pushed open the door to the professor’s three-story, red brick house. He’d expected another case of an old lock and a gust of wind. But then he saw the soles of Professor Johnson’s stocking feet. Then there was the blood. The brain bits on the wall and ceiling. So much blood and bits of bone and flesh that DZ had to step outside and catch his breath. Nothing about five years of being a university cop prepared him for that.
After reading the file, he pushed his chair back in amazement. The case was compelling and built on data—cell phone records, bank account information, Google searches, travel, credit card purchases, and countless other details of the lives of Alex Johnson and Marcus Jones. He could see their lives proceeding in parallel, intersecting a few times in classrooms and on the hunting fields of Michigan, before they crashed violently together on that morning several weeks ago.
