'The basement. There's press all around the front door.'
'I know. I'm looking at them as we speak.'
'I'm not ready to talk to the press.'
'Follow the arrows to the loading dock on the back side. I'll pick you up there.'
'Right,' Vail answered, following an arrow down a long, dreary tunnel. Empty dollies with bloody sheets wadded up on them lined the walls. Several of the overhead lights were burned out. The narrow, depressing shaft smelled of alcohol and dried blood. He reached the service entrance and bolted through it, raced to the loading platform, and jumped to the ground as St Claire pulled up beside him. He got in the car and St Claire pulled out into the hospital driveway, then sped off towards the courthouse.
'What was it, heart attack?' St Claire asked.
'Stroke. He can't walk, he can't talk, he's living on canned air, his brain has been deprived of oxygen and blood, and he's unconscious. When I suggested he might end up a mashed potato, Ziegler got edgy.'
'Wasn't a very professional diagnosis,' St Claire said. He spat our of the window.
'I'm not a doctor.'
'No.' St Claire chuckled. 'You're the new DA.'
'I don't have time to be DA,' Vail answered sharply. 'This is going to sound weird, but ever since this happened I keep thinking about the day Kennedy was killed, that picture of Johnson in the airplane taking the oath of office.'
'Passing of the mantle, Marty.'
'I'm not a hand squeezer and I'm too blunt in social gatherings. I don't want the mantle.'
'No, cowboy, but you sure got it.'
Chief Hiram Young sat behind his grey metal desk and drummed his fingers, staring at the phone message lying in front of him. Rose, his impressionable secretary, always responded to long-distance phone calls, especially those from big-city police departments, as if each was an omen of pending national disaster. Young even found her careful, impeccable, Palmer-method handwriting annoying, but she was the mayor's sister, so he couldn't complain. Even worse, she underlined words she felt required emphasis.
You had an urgent phone call from the District Attorney in Chicago (!!) at 1:30 PM I tried to reach you in several places. You must call Mr Ben Meyer as soon as you get in. I took Charlotte to the dentist. Back at 3. Call ASAP. I promised!!!
The phone number was written double-size across the bottom of the memo pad.
Warily, he dialled the number and asked for Meyer.
'This is Ben Meyer,' the deep voice answered.
'Chief Hiram Young returning your call, sir,' Young replied.
'Yes, sir!' Meyer responded enthusiastically. 'Thanks for getting back to me so promptly.'
'My pleasure,' Young answered. He cradled the phone between his jaw and shoulder and leafed through the mail as they spoke.
'I hate to bother you,' Meyer said, 'but we're working a case up here you may be able to assist us with.'
'Glad to help,' Young said, opening the phone bill.
'It's in regard to the Balfour murder case.'
There was a long pause. A long pause.
Finally, 'Yes…?'
'We think it may relate to a case here.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Uh, would it be possible to get some additional information from your department, Chief? We have the IBI report, but it's pretty skimpy.'
'Our information is pretty skimpy.'
'Have you had any further developments? Suspects, new information…'
'Not a thing.'
'As I understand it, you suspect Satanists may have - '
'That was speculation,' Young said tersely.
'I see. Was there anything specific…'
'You seen the pictures we sent over to the IBI?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Self-explanatory, wouldn't you say?'
'So it was the nature of the crime that led you to that conclusion?'
'I said it was speculation. Some of the city fathers and local ministers came up with that idea.'
'You don't agree then?'
'Didn't say that. What's your case about?'
'Some unidentified bodies. There are some similarities. Did Mrs Balfour have any enemies? Any - '
'Nothing like that. I knew Linda since she married George up in Carbondale and came here. Three, four years ago. Nice lady. No problems. George is the salt of the earth. Bringing up that little boy all by himself. He's had enough trouble.'
'Do you have any background on Linda Balfour - you know, from before she moved to - '
'I didn't feel it was necessary to snoop into her business. Like I said, she was a nice lady. No problems.'
Meyer was floundering, trying to strike a nerve, something that would open the chief up. Meyer said, 'And there were no suspects to speak of?'
'There was a utility man near the house that morning, but we never could locate him.'
'A utility man? What company - '
'Lady across the street saw him walking down the road. Fact is, we never ascertained who he worked for.'
'And that was your only suspect?'
'Told you, Mr Meyer, she didn't have any enemies. Nothing was stolen. Some nut comin' through town, most likely. We worked on that case for about a month.'
'Fingerprints?'
'Nothin' didn't match up with the family and their friends.'
'We're interested in the condition of the body, Chief. Can you - '
'I'm not at liberty to talk about that sir. You might talk to Dr Fields at the clinic - if he'll talk to you. He's also the coroner.'
'Thanks, Chief. Do you have that number?'
Young gave him the number and hung up. He sat and stared at the phone for several moments, started to call Fields, and then changed his mind. Doc Fields was a grown man. He could tell this Meyer fellow whatever he wanted to tell him. Young turned his attention back to the mail.
Doc Fields was staring across a tongue depressor at the most inflamed and swollen throat he had seen in recent years. He threw the wooden stick in the wastebasket and looked sternly down at the six-year-old.
'You been smoking, Mose?' he asked.
The boy's eyes bulged and his mother gasped, and then Fields laughed.
'Just jokin', young fella. Got us some bad tonsils here. Lessee, you're Baptist, aren't you, Beth?'
The mother nodded.
'Those tonsils have to come out. Sooner the better.'
The boy's eyes teared up and his lips began to tremble.
'Oh, nothin' to it, son. Besides, for a couple of days you can have all the ice cream you want to eat. How 'bout that?'
The promise of mountains of ice cream seemed to allay young Moses's fears.
'Check with Sally and see when's the best time for both of us,' Fields said. But before the woman and her son could get up to leave, Fields's secretary peeked in the door.
'You got a long-distance call, Doctor,' she said. 'It's Chicago.'
'You don't say,' said Fields. 'Probably the university school of medicine seeking my consultation.' He snatched up the phone.
'This is Dr Bert Fields. What can I do for you?' he said gruffly.
'Doctor, this is Ben Meyer. I'm a prosecutor with the DA's office. You may be able to help me.'
'You ailing?' Fields said sardonically.
Meyer laughed. 'No, sir. We have a case in progress that may relate to a homicide you had down there.'
'The Balfour murder?'
'How'd you guess?'
'Only homicide we've had hereabouts in a dozen years. In fact, the worst I ever saw and I been the town doctor since '61.'
'I understand you're the coroner.'
'Coroner, family doctor, surgeon, you name it.'
'And you performed an autopsy?'
'Of course.'
'Do you remember any of the particulars?'
'Sir, I remember every inch of that child's corpse. Not likely to forget it.'
'Would it be possible to get a copy of your report?'
Fields hesitated.
'I can
assure you, we'll treat it confidentially,' Meyer hurriedly added. 'We may have a similar case up here. If this is a serial killer, it would help us greatly to stop the perp before he goes any further.'
'Perp?'
'Perpetrator.'
'Ah. Perp.' He laughed. 'I'll have to use that. It'll throw Hiram for a loop.'
'Yes, sir. I was wondering, do you have a fax machine?'
Fields got another hearty laugh out of that. 'Just got me an answer machine last year,' he said. 'Can't think of any reason why I'd need a fax machine.'
Meyer sounded depressed by the news. 'It sure would help me right now,' he said.
'Why don't I just get the report out and read it to you? Isn't that long.'
'That would be great!' Meyer answered. He reached over to the telerecorder attached to his phone and pressed the record button. 'Mind if I tape it?'
'Just like that?'
'Yes, sir, just like that. We're big-timers up here,' and they both laughed.
Fields left the phone for a minute and Meyer could hear a metal file drawer open and shut.
'This is exactly what I reported, Mr Meyer. Ready?'
'Yes.'
'The victim, Linda Balfour, is a white female, age 26. The body is 53.5 inches in length and weighs 134 pounds and has blue eyes and light brown hair. She was dead on my arrival at her home on Poplar Street, this city. The victim was stabbed, cut, and incised 56 times. There was evidence of cadaver spasm, trauma, and aero-embolism. There was significant exsanguination from stab wounds. The throat wound, which nearly decapitated Balfour, caused aero-embolism, which usually results in instantaneous death. Wounds in her hands and arms indicate a struggle before she was killed. There was also evidence of mutilation. Both of the victim's nipples and the clitoris were amputated and placed in the victim's mouth. It appears that the wounds were accomplished by a person or persons with some surgical knowledge. Also the inscription C13.489 was printed with the victim's blood on the rear of the skull, 4.6 centimetres above the base of the skull and under the hairline. The weapon was determined to be a common carving knife with an eight-inch blade found on the premises and belonging to the victim. A routine autopsy revealed no alcohol, controlled substances, or poisons in the bloodstream. The victim was nine weeks pregnant. Signed, Edward Fields, M.D. Date, 6/10/93.'
'That help any?' Fields asked.
'Yes, sir,' Meyer said, his pulse racing. 'Can you repeat the inscription on the back of the head so I'm sure I have it right?'
'C13.489. Any idea what that means?'
'Not the slightest,' Meyer said. 'But if we figure it out, I'll let you know.'
'Hope I've been some help, Mr Meyer.'
'Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. If you're ever in town give me a call. I'll buy lunch.'
'My kind of fella.'
Meyer cradled the phone and sat for a long time staring down at the scrap of paper in front of him.
C13.489. What the hell could that mean?
Maybe the old-timer would know.
Seven
Vail braced himself and pushed open the doors to the main salon, knowing exactly what to expect. A tidal surge of noise and heat assaulted him. He faced a thousand lawyers and their wives, all babbling at once with a calypso band somewhere on the other side of the room trying to compete with them, all enveloped in an enormous ballroom with eight food tables, each with its own towering ice sculpture, a dozen or more bars, nobody to talk to but lawyers, lobbyists, and politicians - and no place to sit. The world's biggest cocktail party. Vail, a man who despised cocktail parties, was about to take a stroll through Hades.
Vail was the most feared man in the room, for he represented a potential danger to every lawyer at the party: a loose-cannon prosecutor, unpredictable, unbuyable, unbeatable, who had spent nine years on their side of the fence before switching sides and becoming their worst nightmare, a prosecutor who knew all the tricks and was better at the game than they were. In ten years he had successfully prosecuted two city councilmen, a vice mayor and a senator for everything from bribery to malfeasance in office and had wasted a local bank for money washing. They would treat him cordially but at a distance as he worked his way through the room, subtly letting him know that he was not one of them. It was the only part of the ordeal Vail enjoyed, for he revelled in the role of the untouchable outsider.
Otherwise, he despised the annual ritual dance of the state's legal power players and their fawning associates. The corporate partners used these occasions to study the young sycophants and their wives and to reaffirm their choices. How did they handle themselves in this social bullring? Did they have the proper social graces? Did the women dress properly? Did the young lawyers drink too much? Express unacceptable political views? Hold their own in social debate with their peers? And perhaps most important of all, did they discuss the business of the company? Like pledges at a fraternity party, the young bootlickers performed for their bosses, fully aware that their performances would be discussed later and in harsh detail in the halls of the kings. Divorce had even been suggested after these forays.
They drank too much and they bragged too much and it was business. Big business. They talked about lobbying for this bill or that; which PACS they contributed to because they 'got the job done'; which congressmen and state legislators were 'spinners', those whose opinions could be influenced with a free dinner at a four-star restaurant or a hunting trip to some exclusive lodge in Wisconsin or Minnesota; which were 'bottom feeders', cheap sellouts who could be bought for a bottle of good, hearty Scotch and a box of cigars; and which were 'chicken hawk' neophytes who could be lured into the fold with flattery and attention. They scorned the 'UCs', uncooperatives whose votes were not available at any price and subtly shunned them until they were 'seasoned' and learned the first rule of the game: compromise. These conversations were not about the law, they were about business and politics, enterprises that had little use for the law or ethics or integrity.
As Vail entered the room, he passed a group of five lawyers, all performing for a tall, white-haired potentate with smooth pink skin who was obviously enjoying the playlet.
'It'll be tacked on House Bill 2641,' said one. 'Furley will take care of it, he's already spun. It'll glide right through.'
'How about Perdue and that new joker, what's his name, Eagle?' suggested another.
'Harold Eggle,' another intoned. 'A chicken hawk, nobody pays any attention to him.'
'And Perdue's a bottom feeder,' said still another. 'Send him a bottle of Chivas and forget him.'
'It's a done deal. Nobody will buck Tim Furley except the usual UCs and they'll be laughed out of the chamber,' the imperious senior partner sneered, ending the conversation.
Vail sighed as he passed them, knowing he would drift aimlessly from one group to the next, nodding hello, smiling, and moving around the room until he was close enough to a side exit to slip out and flee the event.
But tonight was different. As he walked into the room, he was deluged with handshakes, smiles, pats on the back. He was overwhelmed with goodwill. It took a few moments for it to sink in, for him to realize what was happening.
Across the room, he was being observed as he made his way through the swarms of people. Jane Venable watched with a smile. Tall, distant, untouchable, classy, arrogant, self-confident, Venable had it all. From the tip of her long, equine nose to her long, slender neck, she created a mystique that was part of her haughty allure. She was almost six feet tall and, on normal business days, disguised a stunning figure in bulky sweaters and loose-fitting jackets. But in court, the perfect showcase for her brains, beauty, and elan, she was truly in her element. There she put it all to work at once, performing in outrageously expensive tailormade suits designed to show off the perfection of her body. From her broad shoulders to her tight buttocks, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her tinted contact lenses accentuating her flashing green eyes, she was a tiger shark. Immaculately prepared, she was a predator waiting to slam in for
the kill: the ultimate jugular artist. There was no margin for error when doing battle with her. Like Vail, she had one rule: Take no prisoners. On this night Venable had thrown out the rule book. She flaunted it all. Devastatingly packaged, she was encased in a dark green strapless sheath accented with spangles that embellished both her perfect figure and the flaming-red hair that cascaded down around her shoulders. She was wearing green high heels that pushed her to over six feet. In the otherwise stifling milieu of the room, she was a beacon of sex, standing half a head taller than most of the men in the room. There was no denying her; no way to ignore this brilliant amazon. Jane Venable knew exactly what buttons to push to claim the night and she was pushing them all.
The day before Venable had wrapped up one of the biggest corporate buyouts in years. It was no longer a secret that Venable had spent six months studying Japanese culture and learning the language before going to Tokyo and masterminding Mitsushi's buyout of Midland Dynamics. Her strategy had pulled the rug from under four other law firms, one of them a Washington group that everyone had assumed had the inside track. It had earned her a $250,000 bonus and moved her name to number three on the corporate letterhead.
She had been watching Vail since he entered the big room, watching the minglers part like water before him, congratulate him, pat him on the back, then swirl back to continue their conversations in his wake. And at the moment she was thinking, not about her latest legal coup, she was remembering a day ten years earlier when she had suffered one of the worst defeats in her career.
Although they occasionally traded glances from across a theatre lobby or a restaurant, it had been ten years since Venable and Vail had exchanged even a hello. It had been her last case as a prosecutor before moving to a full partnership in one of the city's platinum law firms - and it was one of the most sensational cases in the city's history. A young Appalachian kid named Aaron Stampler had been accused of viciously stabbing to death one of Chicago's most revered citizens, Archbishop Richard Rushman. An open-and-shut case - except that Vail had been the defence attorney.
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