by J. D. Barker
“What choice did I have?”
Poole wanted to tell him he had many choices. Porter had made many decisions from the first moment he took on this case until the present, and he continued to go through the wrong door. His vision had been so clouded he might as well be blind. The rabbit hole was deep, and he and Bishop appeared to be taking turns with the shovel.
“There’s something else. Something you need to know.” The light in Porter’s eyes flickered, like a bulb caught in a power surge. He blinked. Focused on Poole. “Some parts of the diary are true—the houses, the lake, the Carters—I think all that is accurate, but others are not. I see that now. It’s in the cadence of the writing, the word choice. He left clues. I think I can tell the difference. That Beaver Cleaver shimmer, I can see through it. You saw it too, right?”
Poole was growing frustrated. “Those diaries are a distraction.”
“No!” The word came from Porter at a much louder volume than he must have intended, because he shrank back at the sound of it, settled himself deeper in the chair. “No, those diaries are key to it all. We just have to solve the puzzle.”
“All I need to do is catch a killer.”
“Killers,” Porter replied.
“What?”
“Right before they left me in that hotel, Bishop’s mother said, “‘Why would you tell this nice man your father was dead.’ She was talking about the diary.” Porter leaned forward again. “Don’t you get it? I see it now. The words scream off the page at me. The falsities and the truth, it’s like they’re printed in different colors, I see them so clearly. You saw Libby McInley’s body—I don’t think Bishop killed her. I think he was trying to protect her. If it wasn’t Bishop…” His fingers were twisting together again, weaving, kneading invisible dough. “They’re all killers—his mother, his father, and Bishop, and I think all three of them are here in Chicago, right now. The three of them are finishing something that started years ago, something that began way back in Bishop’s childhood. Something in those diaries. Something true hidden in the mess of lies.” He started to nod, a grin rolling over his lips. “Something I can see now.” He looked up at Poole. “You need to trust me.”
Poole stared at him, and the seconds ticked by. “Some people believe you might be Anson Bishop’s father.”
The spittle fell from Porter’s mouth, dropped to the metal table in a small puddle. He wiped at his lip and looked Poole dead in the eye. “What do you think?”
“I think we found compelling evidence in your room at the Guyon.”
Porter snickered. “Photographs? Come on. You know how easily those can be faked.”
“Some of those pictures date back more than twenty years,” Poole replied. “Even if he wanted to fake them, where would Bishop get twenty-year-old images of you to work with? How long have you known him, Sam?”
“Less than half a year,” Porter replied. “I met him the same day Nash did—with the bus accident, when he was pretending to work for Chicago Metro. Give me a polygraph if that will ease your mind, I don’t care. I’ve got nothing to hide. The pictures are no different than the property deed—he’s trying to distract you from the truth.”
“The truth only you can see in his diaries.”
Porter said nothing to this. His mind had gone elsewhere again.
Poole tried not to let the frustration show in his face. “Who is Rose Finicky?”
“You need to let me read the diaries. You know he wouldn’t have left them if they weren’t important. At the very least, you understand that.”
“I’ll have my people go through them.”
“We don’t have time. They don’t know what to look for. They can’t see through the bullshit to the truth. I know Bishop.”
“Do you?” Poole countered. “How well?”
Someone knocked on the one-way window. A heavy fist. Two quick hits.
Poole remained still for a moment, his eyes fixed on Porter, Porter glaring back. He couldn’t read him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. If Porter was lying, his body language didn’t betray him. He believed everything he said.
That doesn’t make it true, Poole reminded himself.
He stood, went to the door.
From behind him, Porter said, “You can’t catch him without me. You can’t catch any of them.”
5
Clair
Day 5 • 5:43 AM
Clair looked up at the nurse standing in the doorway of their office. The woman had been on duty since they arrived and looked no better than the rest of them—bloodshot eyes, dark bags, slouched. She hadn’t slowed down, though. Clair didn’t think she had even taken a break.
“The doctor’s on line four,” she said, nodding at the phone on the wall.
Clair thanked her and got to her feet. Her body creaked more than the old metal chair she’d called home for the past several hours.
Her everything hurt.
Her bones were sore. Her throat. Even her eyes throbbed. Her nose had turned into a snot factory, and she couldn’t get warm.
Kloz watched her wearily from his own corner of the room. He didn’t appear to be in any better shape.
She crossed to the phone, picked up the receiver, and pressed the illuminated button. “This is Detective Norton.”
“Detective? Dr. Beyer here.”
Due to the quarantine, she had yet to meet the man in person. She told herself he probably looked like a cross between George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and that cute guy from Scrubs because that made her smile and she really needed something to smile about. His voice was low, gruff, filled with sand. The voice of a man who spent a lifetime choosing his words very carefully before speaking.
He cleared his throat and told her exactly what she didn’t want to hear. “This is a hopeless case. You know that, right? There is no saving this man.”
Clair glanced back at Kloz. He’d stopped doing whatever computer stuff he’d been doing and was watching her. She pressed the receiver against her ear and lowered her voice. “If that man dies, there’s a good chance Anson Bishop will release the SARS virus somewhere in the city. Thousands of lives could be at risk.”
“That doesn’t change the facts, Detective. This man is at the end stage of glioblastoma. A large portion of his brain has been compromised by a very aggressive tumor. I removed what I could, but it’s simply impossible to repair the damage left behind. I’m frankly surprised he is still alive. Aside from loss of memory and motor function, the cancer has invaded his posterior parietal cortex, primary motor cortex, and supplementary. Post-surgery, at the very least, he’ll require a ventilator. We’ve noted abnormalities in his heart rhythm, and I believe his vision has been compromised. His quality of life...”
Clair closed her eyes as the doctor droned on. “We were told you could save him, that you had some kind of treatment—”
“My studies at Hopkins are in focused ultrasound therapy,” Dr. Beyer interrupted. “A noninvasive treatment for glioblastoma, but we’re in the very early stages of clinical trials. Had he been referred to me at the onset a few years ago, perhaps I would have been able to help him, but now? The disease has progressed too far. There is no known treatment or path to wellness from here. We’re too late.”
“What else can you do?”
“Nothing that hasn’t already been done. Stabilize him, make him comfortable, wait for the inevitable. I’d be surprised if he lasted more than a day or two in his current condition.”
Clair glanced over at Kloz. He had this hopeful look in his eyes. She turned away from him and spoke again. “I need you to tell the press Paul Upchurch came out of surgery better than expected. He’s stable. And you plan to take him back to Hopkins to continue his treatment the moment he’s able to travel. You need to convince them you’re hopeful of his outcome.”
Dr. Beyer didn’t reply.
Clair glanced down at her watch. “Doctor, Anson Bishop is still out there somewhere. We need him to believe we’re doing everything we can, t
hat Upchurch is receiving the treatment he insisted on. You don’t have to go into detail—blame privacy laws for lack of information—just leave them with that impression.”
“Detective, I have a responsibility to my patient, a reputation—”
“Your actions could potentially save thousands of lives. That man, Paul Upchurch, kidnapped and murdered multiple girls. Two of his victims are here in this very hospital, fighting for their lives. When he dies, nobody will do a more elaborate happy dance than me, but as far as the public is concerned, as far as Anson Bishop is concerned, his prognosis needs to appear positive. At least for now.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “I’ll need to think about that, Detective. Maybe speak to my attorney. What if Bishop has someone in the hospital watching this situation, reporting to him? I don’t personally know any of the people who were in that operating room with me. My team is in Baltimore back at Hopkins.”
Clair sighed and picked at her tangled hair. “I’m stuck in this room. I need you to talk to them, too. Explain what’s at stake.”
“You’re asking a lot, Detective.”
“Will you do it?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up before she could say anything else. Clair stood there for a few moments before replacing the receiver.
“Well, how is he?” Kloz asked.
“Peachy.”
Before he could reply, someone else knocked on their door. Through the window, Clair recognized Jarred Maltby from the CDC. He didn’t look happy.
6
Poole
Day 5 • 5:48 AM
The number of people in the observation room had grown by two since Poole stepped in with Porter. In addition to Nash, Captain Henry Dalton was there along with someone Poole didn’t recognize.
Although Dalton was nearly a half foot shorter than Poole, he carried an air of authority with him that made him seem larger than he was. And even though it was only five something in the morning, he appeared neatly shaven, showered, and fresh. Poole would kill for a shower right now.
“You can’t hold him,” Dalton said, dispensing with pleasantries.
“The hell I can’t.”
“If the press gets wind that you have him in custody, they’ll crucify him.”
“I imagine you’ve been briefed, Captain. That man crucified himself. Not only is he a suspect in the murder at the Guyon, he’s wanted for breaking the dead woman out of prison in New Orleans, transporting her across state lines. He defied your orders and left Chicago on some vigilante chase for Bishop. He’s an obvious flight risk. He’s not going anywhere. I don’t care what the press says.” Poole glared at the other man in the room. “Who are you?”
Dressed in a dark blue suit with neatly cropped white hair, the fiftyish man offered his hand. “I’m Anthony Warnick, with the mayor’s office.”
Poole didn’t shake his hand. Instead, he turned back to Dalton. “I’ll need to see all of Porter’s employment records—background checks, psych screenings, evaluations—everything you have on him. I need to piece together his past.”
“I think you need to take a step back and think about all this,” Dalton said. “We all do.”
Warnick stepped up. “Agent, it would be irresponsible to implicate a member of law enforcement in crimes as heinous as those committed by Anson Bishop without fully understanding all the facts. Members of the press are like hungry stray dogs. They’ll take whatever scrap you throw at them and run with it, consequences be damned. Somebody captures an image of you doing some kind of perp walk with Detective Porter, and not only will he be victimized, but all of law enforcement will be, including your agency. They won’t draw the line at him. They’ll see all of you as corrupt. This city can’t handle that, not now. With recent events, what’s happening over at Stroger, everyone is on edge.”
He lowered his voice and put a hand on Poole’s shoulder. Poole shrugged it off. The man continued anyway. “If he is, in fact, involved, there will always be time for justice. There is no reason why we can’t build a case privately, make sure we have all the facts straight, then go public. That’s the responsible thing to do.”
“That’s not Sam.”
This came from Nash. He stood at the observation window, looking inside. “Scatterbrained, disorganized…he doesn’t look like he’s slept in days. Even when his wife was murdered, he wasn’t like this. You take this case away from him, it might break him.”
“That man is already broken,” Poole replied.
“He needs to see this through. He needs closure.”
“What do you suggest?”
Nash shrugged. “You give him the books. The diaries.”
“They’re evidence, possibly evidence that might incriminate him. No way I can hand them over. I need to get them to the Behavioral Analysis Unit back at Quantico. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”
Dalton exchanged a quick look with the guy from the mayor’s office, then said, “We can digitize them here and your people will have the files in a few hours. Sam can review them, too. We tell Sam if he wants to read the diaries, he needs to do it here at Metro—not under arrest—he stays here on his own accord. He finds something, that’s great. If not, at least he doesn’t leave custody. He stays where we can watch him. That will give your people time to figure out what you found down in South Carolina, too.”
In the interview room, Porter’s hands were folded on the table again, his fingers knotted together. His lips moving in that silent conversation.
Nash’s phone rang, and he stepped out into the hallway to take the call.
“Does that work for you, Agent?”
Warnick again.
Poole’s phone began to ring, too. He fished it from his pocket and glanced at the display.
SAIC Hurless.
He held up a finger. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
Hurless didn’t wait for him to say hello. “We’ve got another body fitting Bishop’s MO. A woman in a cemetery here in Chicago. Rose Hill Cemetery. I’ve got a team en route. Is Porter secure?”
Poole glanced back through the window. “He is.”
“I’ve got reports coming in from Granger in South Carolina, the prison in New Orleans, and the CDC from the hospital here in Chicago. We’re consolidating everything at the field office. When you’re done at the crime scene, I need you to report back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hurless hung up.
Nash stepped back into the room, his face pale. He glanced at Dalton, then to Poole. “We’ve got another body.”
“I just heard. I’m heading there now.”
Nash blew out a breath and turned back to his supervisor. “Sir, until we’re able to move the victim from the tracks, the Red Line will be out of commission. We’ve got to get word out to commuters.”
Poole frowned. “Red Line? The body is in a cemetery.”
Nash’s face somehow managed to grow whiter. “The call I got was for a body found on the subway tracks for the Red Line off Clark. A woman. She’s posed. Three white boxes tied off with black string on the ground next to her.”
7
Nash
Day 5 • 6:13 AM
Detective Brian Nash pulled his partially restored ’72 Chevy Nova behind an ambulance double-parked on the curb at Lake Street off LaSalle, found his police placard in the wheel well of the passenger seat, and placed it on his dashboard. Clair had called him a few minutes ago to bring him up to speed. She was still on the line.
“They’re sure?” he said into the phone before shifting into park. He held his free hand over the heater vent—the air was blowing but didn’t feel much warmer than the wind off the lake.
“Maltby from CDC said they ran the tests twice before he came to see me,” Clair told him. “The hypodermic we found in the apple with Upchurch’s file contains a pure strain of the SARS virus, laboratory quality.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,”
Clair said. “They’re doling out antibiotics here like they’re candy, but aside from that, there’s not much they can do. There’s no preventative treatment. They’ve got this place locked down tighter than a Catholic schoolgirl’s asshole.”
Nash laughed, and it quickly devolved into a wet cough.
“Christ, you don’t sound good.”
“I’m coming down with a cold or something. No rest, shitty weather, my body can’t handle it. It’s all just catching up.”
“Your diet of fast food and candy bars doesn’t help. Your body is supposed to be a temple. You treat yours like a slum lord hoping to collect insurance after the fire.”
Nash glanced down at the McDonald's wrappers on the floor of his car and changed the subject. “I heard Upchurch’s doctor on the radio a few minutes ago—at least it sounds like we’re in the clear there.”
“That was all bullshit. The doctor’s covering for us to buy time. Upchurch is on his way out. He’s got forty-eight hours at most. I’ve got a tight leash on anyone who has contact with him to make sure his condition doesn’t get out.”
“If you called to cheer me up, Clair-bear, you’re doing a lousy job.”
From the mouth of the subway station, a uniformed officer ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and started toward Nash’s Nova. The wind kicked up loose snow around his feet, swirled it through the air. When the officer realized who the car belonged to, he gave Nash a half-hearted wave and turned right back around.
“Is the body one of Bishop’s?”
“I’m still outside,” Nash told her. “Sounds like it, though.”
“Do you believe what Sam said about Bishop’s parents?”
“I don’t know what to believe right now.”
“Because it could be one of them, too. Or it could be none of them. Might be some copycat.”
Nash turned off the heat, turned it back on again. The fucking thing was definitely blowing out cold. His skin felt like ice—he couldn’t get warm. “Sam would tell us to focus on the evidence, everything else is noise. That’s what we’ll do.”
“…you saw him, right?” Clair asked.