Cast Of Shadows

by Kevin Guilfoile

  All three were on tight surveillance tonight, along with two other men favored by separate detectives working the case. Ambrose almost hoped that once word was out they had testable DNA, the Candlestick Maker would start running. Not likely, though. Smug asshole would probably stay right where he’s at, daring the cops to arrest him.

  Footsteps. A sudden increase in the volume of background noise.

  “Lou,” Detective Rozas said, using the familiar term for lieutenant. “The television. Channel five. News.”

  Ambrose hurried out to the squad room. A half dozen cops were kneeling and stretching around a portable television. Another dozen stood around the perimeter listening. Ambrose pushed his way inside the circle.

  “The Chicago Tribune is reporting in tomorrow’s paper that police finally have a suspect in the Wicker Man killings, and plan to make an arrest in the next forty-eight hours. Julie Becker has the report.”

  The scene cut to a woman standing on Division Street near the latest crime scene. She was attractive and serious-looking.

  “Diane, in a page-one exclusive tomorrow morning, the Tribune is reporting the results of a long investigation into the Wicker Man killings. An investigation they claim has led to a suspect. Although their investigation is incomplete, Tribune officials say information that police were preparing to arrest the man forced their decision to run the story tomorrow.

  “The suspect’s name, according to the Tribune, is Samuel Nathan Coyne, of Chicago. Coyne is a partner at the prestigious Michigan Avenue law firm of Ginsburg and Addams. Representatives of that firm are not commenting tonight, nor is Samuel Coyne responding to the rumor himself. Calls to the office of the police commissioner were not returned, although this story just broke in the last few minutes. We should repeat, of course, that no arrests have yet been made in this case.”

  Multiple phones rang throughout the squad room. The greenest cops ran off to answer them.

  The anchorwoman reacted to an off-camera cue. “Julie, tell us more about events that led to a break in the case.”

  “Diane, the break came early this morning when a witness walking her dog found the body of Deirdre Thorson, of Chicago. According to police, this witness also saw an individual fleeing the scene. Unlike with previous victims of the so-called Wicker Man, blood and semen were found on the body in quantities large enough to test for DNA. Police assume that the killer was interrupted before he could finish cleaning up.”

  “Julie, what makes police so certain this is a victim of the Wicker Man and not just a random killing?”

  “That’s a good question, Diane. Police have not revealed all the details to us, but it was clear in a press conference this morning that confidence is very high this is their man. Quoting anonymous sources within the department, the Tribune is saying tonight that if Coyne can be connected through DNA to Thorson’s murder, he’ll be arrested on that charge alone. Presumably, detectives will then try to string together pieces of evidence that connect him to the killings of some twenty young women in Chicago over the past six years.”

  Another intro by the anchorwoman and then footage of Ambrose at this morning’s press conference. Ambrose pressed the volume button until the sound was muted. His hands rolled into fists, his skin pale but becoming flush, he turned to face his squad.

  “I want to know two things,” Ambrose yelled. “Number one: which one of you assholes is talking to the goddamn newspaper?” The cops looked suspiciously at one another. A few looked down at their own feet. The mood had gone from jubilant to tense just that fast.

  Ambrose scowled. “And number two: who the fuck is Samuel Coyne?”

  – 88 -

  His phone had been ringing for several hours, but Sam didn’t answer. He was inside the game, leaning on a surfboard bolted to aluminum legs and refashioned as a table at a tropical theme bar called Caymans. He was sharing drinks with three women, judging them, deciding among them.

  They were Alyssa, Emmylou, and Robey. The last was a redhead who had downloaded the new software, and she was perfectly rendered. When she turned he could see the waves and strands of her thick hair fall away and come together in a natural bounce. Her eyelashes were like fans over her irises. When she spoke he could see her tongue move against her white teeth. If he knew how to read lips, he figured he’d be able to read hers.

  However, he really didn’t care what she was saying just now. The girls had been steering the conversation to real-world topics, and that always put him out of the mood. He hated it when people treated Shadow World like a chat room. What happens in the real world should have no impact here. In the game we shouldn’t even know who the real president is, or what stocks are outperforming, or what baseball teams are in first place. We have our own president. Our own stock market. Our own baseball teams. He’d been trying to tune them out, waiting for the conversation to hit upon more local topics, but it was difficult.

  “Robey and Alyssa, did you see the news?” Emmylou said. “I guess the police are going to arrest him tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

  “Emmylou, that’s such a relief,” Robey said. “You know there hasn’t been a single day since I was seventeen when I haven’t thought about him, or been scared of him…”

  “I can’t believe they just said his name on the television like that,” Alyssa said. “If I were him, I’d be headed for May-hee-ko.”

  “Alyssa, I’m sure they have cops all over his house,” Robey said. “Actually, they probably arrested him as soon as his name went out on the news.”

  Interrupting, only because it was better than being bored, Sam said, “Robey, who are we talking about?”

  Alyssa laughed. “Sam, what have you been, in-game all day? The Wicker Man, silly. They know who he is. They’re going to arrest him anytime.”

  “His name’s Sam, like you,” Emmylou said. “Sam Coyne.” She giggled. “I’d ask your last name, just to be safe, but I figure the Wicker Man wouldn’t be wasting his time playing computer games with the police knocking down his door.”

  What the hell?

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  This can’t be happening.

  Through his apartment door: “Mr. Coyne? This is the police. Please open up.”

  Sam left the computer and quickly dialed Bob Ginsburg at home.

  “I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” Bob said.

  “They’re outside in the hall, Bob! For Chrissakes!”

  “Mr. Coyne? We have the building manager with us. He’s going to open the door. Please lie down on the floor and put your hands above your head where we can see them.”

  “What’s this about, Sam?”

  “I don’t know, Bob. Jesus Christ. Send somebody to meet me.”

  “Where are they taking you?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  Dead-bolt click. Door slamming against drywall.

  “Down! Down! Down! Down! Get on the floor now!”

  In Shadow World, as Alyssa, Emmylou, and Robey continued to discuss the exciting developments in the Wicker Man case, Sam’s silent avatar ferried a pint glass between the table and his lips with a repetitive, mechanical motion.

  – 89 -

  She couldn’t admit it to anyone in the newsroom, but she was nervous. Extremely nervous. Allies asked if she was worried, and she shook her head and laughed. The Web site famous for the “Malik Watch” had started posting odds that by naming Sam Coyne, the previously unknown reporter, Sally Barwick, had torpedoed her own career and possibly brought down a handful of Trib executives with her. Already, just since the news had come down, a hundred of her colleagues had placed their bets, with the trend running two to one against her.

  Sam Coyne had agreed to a blood test.

  Shortly after the news broke on TV, police had asked Barwick in for questioning. Accompanied by a Tribune lawyer, she refused to reveal her source in the department but briefed them with all the information that would be in the piece, including Coyne’s attacks in Shadow Wor
ld, the correlation between Coyne’s murders in the game and the Wicker Man murders, and Coyne’s attempted assault at her home. She was still at the station when they brought Coyne in: four cops, no handcuffs, and three attorneys (including Bob Ginsburg, the Trib lawyer pointed out). Sally hid behind a Coke machine until they disappeared into an interrogation room.

  They questioned Coyne for three hours and released him after he agreed to a blood test. Sally’s stomach wrung itself like a wet towel when she heard that. She had been certain his lawyers would fight any request that might incriminate him. Now, at two o’clock the following afternoon, it appeared possible, even probable, she would be proved wrong about Coyne in a matter of hours – one of the fastest undoings of a promising career in journalism history.

  Malik hadn’t been seen in the newsroom all day. This was surely it, the whispers said. The Sam Coyne stunt was the last straw. What was he thinking? What was Barwick thinking? We all knew she was a little off her rocker – she had no life outside the Tribune except in that crazy computer game – but no one had thought her capable of a suicidal stunt like this. Was somebody setting her up with bad information? Someone who had a beef with Coyne? Was she being played by someone who’d been slammed by Ginsburg and Addams in court? Research recent cases involving Sam Coyne – especially the ones where G amp;A acted as plaintiff’s attorney – and start with the biggest verdicts and work down. We’ll need all this when Coyne passes that blood test and we print the retraction next week. The new managing editor will be glad to have the diligence done in advance. Heck, the new editor might even be one of us… Such was the way rumors spread.

  Rumors spread so fast, in fact, that an Iowa company specializing in the distribution of agricultural products, a company that had lost a hundred-million-dollar copyright infringement lawsuit last year with Sam Coyne leading the litigation for their competitor, issued a press release denying they had anything to do with the accusations against Coyne. No one had even asked them.

  Rumors cut the other way too. Web sites were papered with unconfirmed and unsourced tales of Coyne’s promiscuity and kinky bedroom practices.

  Sally called Justin on a real phone, her free hand on the cradle in case his mother answered. He was home.

  “I just wanted to talk to somebody,” she whispered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s starting to look like we were wrong.”

  “We aren’t wrong.”

  “But what if he didn’t kill Deirdre Thorson? What if that was a copycat and he’s giving up his blood because he knows he didn’t do it?”

  “If his blood doesn’t match, that’s all it will prove.”

  “Except that my career is over. And I’m going to be named in a trillion-dollar lawsuit. And probably go to jail for contempt or something because I don’t really have a source in the police department, but they won’t believe me when I tell them the truth.”

  “You’re worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet.”

  “But they will, Justin. Don’t you see what’s going on? He agreed to the blood test. Why would he do it if he knew he was guilty?”

  “Lots of reasons. Maybe he’s a split personality and doesn’t remember.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Or maybe he’s going to challenge the DNA evidence,” Justin said. “It hasn’t been done much lately, but I’ve read about a bunch of cases going all the way back to O.J. where accused killers have gotten off by claiming the evidence was tainted. Or the testing not a hundred percent accurate. His lawyer will even say in court, Why would my client have freely given the police evidence he knew would incriminate him? Juries are too smart for that these days, but he might try if it was his only hope.”

  “God, I feel sick.” Sally tapped her keyboard, searching the wire to see if any news was breaking on the case. On the far side of the room, Barwick heard a murmur and the swishy, squeaky sound of people standing up from their seats. Stephen Malik walked into the newsroom, stony and purposeful. Attempts by reporters to read his expression couldn’t have been more obvious if his face were Braille and they were assaulting it with their fingers. Malik passed Sally’s cubicle and didn’t pause but wiggled his fingers just under her sight line, and she hung up the phone and followed him into his office as the definitive rumor began its path around Trib Tower. Malik was fired and Barwick’s going with him. By the time it reached the tenth floor, the story described how Malik had already been escorted from his office by armed guards.

  But by then the truth had entered the system, as well. In a whisper.

  “Did they fire you?” Barwick asked in his office.

  “They started to,” he said in a voice that was hoarse and tired and disappointed. “They started to tell me I had been irresponsible. That the checks and balances we have in place here at the paper should have stopped your story on Coyne before the press. That by circumventing those checks and balances I had betrayed their trust, or betrayed the duties with which I had been entrusted, or betrayed the board of trustees. Something about trust and the betrayal of it, anyway.”

  Sally urged him with her eyes to get on with it. Did she still have a job?

  “And they said this whole Coyne thing was just one event in a series of unfortunate ones, and they were disappointed, and they had given me every chance but they had no choice, and it wasn’t personal, and that some financial arrangements could be made with respect to my contract, and if I had even moderate savings tucked away somewhere, a pension, IRA, et cetera, that I could live a very comfortable retirement, which is what they assumed I wanted because a man my age wouldn’t be able to find another job after such a high-profile scandal, no matter how they couched it for the press. Also, that I should retain counsel in preparation for the inevitable civil suit.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, Stephen,” Sally said, the beginning of a good cry stinging her nose.

  “And then they started in on you. How you would take much of the fall, but you were still young and talented and could no doubt recover from this. There might even be a confessional-type book in it for you.”

  “So we’re both cooked,” she said, a little relieved it was over, oddly.

  “Curiously, no,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because as they were making that speech, word came in. Coyne failed the DNA test.”

  “Oh my God. It was him?” she whispered, certain she would cry now.

  “It was him.” Malik was laughing. “You should have seen the sons of bitches. If they weren’t sitting on fine brown leather, I swear I could have seen each of them shit his pants.”

  “Holy God!” Sally spun around his desk and hugged him. “I’m so happy for you. Happy for me, but mostly happy for you.”

  “Barwick,” he said, pushing her to a distance where they could see each other’s faces. “I gotta ask… Why do you sound so surprised?”

  – 90 -

  Midwesterners are so used to complaining about the weather, they do it even on the pleasant days, Davis observed. If it drops to the low seventies with an evening breeze in August, they’ll call it “chilly” and pack a jacket. Three days in a row without rain will have them worried about their lawns. A mild February surely portends the brutal, sweltering summer to come.

  They are also sanguine about bad weather, however, even when it arrives at inopportune times. Between pews on an overcast wedding day, you will hear expert testimony from guests that flat sunlight filtered through dense clouds will eliminate shadows and produce the best pictures.

  It was raining on Northwood East’s graduation day – a slow, small-caliber assault throughout the morning, interrupted by periods of downpour that sent pedestrians running for cover as if the heavy drops were directed by snipers. The ceremony was moved inside to the big gym, which had neither enough seats nor enough fresh air for students, parents, and extended family. Faculty organizers said they wanted to keep it short this year, b
ut they had no plan for doing so. The principal, the valedictorian, and the commencement speaker, a Northwood East grad who had been an actor on Broadway and a late cast addition to a handful of dying sitcoms, each privately decided the time wouldn’t be excised from their own speech.

  Six months ago Justin’s teachers thought he had a chance to be valedictorian. Not a good chance – Mary Seebohm was a dedicated student who’d already been accepted to Harvard, and Justin’s dedication, even when he was interested in a subject, was sporadic. Still, he was the wonder kid – clearly the smartest in the school – and when the final semester began, faculty lounge speculation noted that Justin might have a shot if he managed straight A’s across his AP schedule and if Mary Seebohm slipped in advanced calculus, a worry she confided to her gossipy guidance counselor, Mrs. Sykes.

  Neither of those things happened. Mary Seebohm coasted through calc as easily as her other classes, and Justin’s grades, a direct result of his sudden and jarring indifference to schoolwork, devolved into C’s and B-minuses. Drugs, they guessed in the teacher’s lounge. They’d all seen it a million times before.

  Justin finished fifteenth in his class, which would have been good enough for an excellent private school if he’d applied to one. He didn’t apply to any schools at all. “I’m taking a year off,” he told his guidance counselor. This will end badly, his teachers agreed.

  The morning of graduation, Davis told Joan he wanted to go to the ceremony.

  “What good could possibly come of that?” Joan asked him.

  “None,” Davis said.