The Woman in Darkness

by Charlie Donlea

  Her phone rang, pulling Rory back from the inner workings of her mind. It was her father calling. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but decided to answer it.

  “Dad, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

  “Rory?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the call, only that it was female and panicked.

  “Yes?” She took a few steps away from Davidson.

  “Rory, it’s Celia Banner. Your father’s assistant.”

  “What’s wrong? My dad’s number came up on my phone.”

  “I’m calling from his house. Something’s wrong, Rory. He had a heart attack.”

  “What?”

  “We were supposed to meet for breakfast, he never showed. It’s bad, Rory.”

  “How bad?”

  The silence was like a vacuum that sucked the words from Rory’s mouth. “Celia! How bad?”

  “He’s gone, Rory.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Chicago, October 14, 2019

  IT TOOK A FULL WEEK AFTER THE FUNERAL BEFORE RORY FOUND THE time, and the gumption, to enter her father’s office. Technically, it was her office as well, but since she hadn’t handled a formal case in more than a decade, Rory’s involvement in the Moore Law Group was not immediately evident. Her name was on the letterhead, and she drew a 1099 every year for the limited work she did for her father—mostly research and trial prep—but as her role at the Chicago Police Department and Lane’s Murder Accountability Project demanded more of her attention over the years, the work she did for the firm became less obvious.

  Besides Rory’s occasional employment, the Moore Law Group was a one-man firm with two employees—a paralegal and an office administrator. With an anorexic staff and a manageable roster of clients, Rory assumed the dissolution of her father’s law practice would require a bit of time and expertise, but would, ultimately, be conquerable in a couple of weeks of concentrated work. Rory’s law degree, something she earned more than a decade ago, but had never truly put to use, made her the perfect and only candidate to take care of her father’s business affairs. Her mother had passed years before and Rory had no siblings.

  Rory entered the building on North Clark Street and rode the elevator to the third floor. She keyed the door and pushed it open. The reception area consisted of a desk in front of tan metal file cabinets straight out of the seventies, and was flanked by two offices. The one on the left was her father’s; the other belonged to the paralegal.

  She dropped a week’s worth of mail onto the front desk and headed into her father’s office. Her first order of business would be to shuffle the active cases to other law firms. Once the firm’s docket was cleared, there would be the matter of paying bills and settling payroll for the staff with whatever funds were stashed away. Then Rory could close the lease on the building and shut the place down.

  Celia, the office administrator and the one who had discovered her father dead in his home, had agreed to meet at noon to go through the files and help with reassignment. Rory settled her purse on the ground, popped open a Diet Coke, and got started. By noon, a mountain of paperwork surrounded her as she sat at her father’s desk. She had emptied the file cabinets from the reception area, and the contents were now organized into three stacks—pending, active, and retired.

  She heard the front door open. Celia, a woman she’d met a handful of times over the years, appeared in the doorway to her father’s office. Rory stood.

  “Oh, Rory,” Celia said, rushing past the stacks of files to embrace her in a tight hug.

  Rory kept her arms straight at her sides and blinked several times behind her thick-rimmed glasses while the strange woman invaded her personal space in ways most of Rory’s acquaintances knew not to.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” Celia said into her ear.

  Celia had, of course, uttered the same sentence at the funeral a few days before. Rory had been just as stoic in the dimly lit funeral hall, standing next to the coffin that held the wax sculpture of her father. When she felt the warmth of Celia’s breath in her ear now, and sensed what she guessed were the woman’s tears spilling onto her neck, Rory finally put her hands on Celia’s shoulders and broke free from her grip. She took a gathering breath and exhaled away the anxiety that was rising from her sternum.

  “I’ve been through the file cabinets,” Rory finally said.

  A confused look came over Celia’s face as she looked around the office and recognized the amount of work Rory had done. Celia patted the front of her jacket to collect herself, wiped her tears. “I thought … Have you been working on this all week?”

  “No, just this morning. I got here a couple of hours ago.”

  Rory had long ago stopped attempting to explain her ability to conquer tasks like this one in a fraction of the time it took others. One reason she never practiced law was because it bored her to death. She remembered classmates spending hours studying textbooks that she memorized in a single skimming. And others taking months-long review courses to prepare for the bar exam, which Rory passed on her first attempt without opening a book to prepare. Another reason she avoided lawyering was because she had a strong aversion to people. The idea of haggling with another attorney over the jail sentence of some two-bit criminal made her skin crawl, and the thought of standing before a judge to plead her case caused her to wheeze with angst. She was better suited working solo to reconstruct crime scenes, her final opinions coming in the form of a written report that ended up on a detective’s desk.

  Rory Moore’s world was a walled-off sanctuary she allowed few to enter, and even fewer to understand. Which was why this morning’s discoveries were particularly disturbing. She learned that her father had several active cases heading to trial in the coming months that would need immediate assistance. Rory had already considered the likelihood that she’d be forced to dust off her diploma, swallow down the bile, and actually make her first appearance in court to explain to a judge that the lead counsel had died and the case would need an extension at best, a mistrial at worst, and that she’d require some guidance from Your Honor to figure out what the hell to do from there.

  “A couple of hours?” Celia asked, tugging Rory back from the recesses of her mind. “How is that possible? This looks like every case we’ve ever taken on.”

  “It is. Everything I could find in the file cabinets. I wasn’t able to check the computers.”

  This was a lie. Rory had no trouble logging on to her father’s database. It was password protected, but barely, and Rory had quickly hurdled the minor security precautions to cross-reference the cases in the file cabinets with those on the hard drive. Despite that she had every right to access the computer files, being so far removed from the daily workings of the firm made it feel like trespassing.

  “If it’s in the cabinet, it’s in the computer,” Celia said.

  “Good, then this is everything.” Rory pointed to the desk and the first stack of folders. “These are pending cases. Should be simple enough to call these clients and explain the situation. The firm won’t be taking them on and they’ll have to look elsewhere for representation. I think it would be professional to make a list of other firms that handle these types of cases, so our clients have somewhere to start.”

  “Of course,” Celia said. “Your father would want that.”

  “The second stack is the retired files. A simple form letter explaining that Frank Moore has died should suffice. I’ll leave those two piles for you to handle?”

  “Not a problem,” Celia said. “I’ll take care of it. What about those?”

  Rory looked at the final hoard of records she had set on her father’s desk. The sight started her hyperventilating. She felt the walls of her carefully constructed and meticulously cinder-blocked existence vibrating with unwanted trespassers from beyond.

  “These are all my dad’s open cases. I teased them out into three categories.” Rory placed her hand on the first pile. “Cu
rrently negotiating plea deals—twelve.” With her spoken words, she felt her underarms warm with perspiration as she touched the second group of files. “Awaiting court appearances—sixteen.” A bead of sweat rolled down her spine to dampen the small of her back. “And finally”—she moved her hand to the last pile—“preparing for trial—three.” Her throat caught when she said “three” and she coughed to hide her fear. The three cases going to trial would need immediate assistance.

  A fearful look came over Celia when she saw the blood drain from Rory’s face, as if the heart disease that claimed her father surely ran in the family and might strike twice in the same month. “Are you okay?”

  Rory coughed again and regained her composure.

  “I’m fine. I’ll find a way to deal with the active cases if you could handle the rest.”

  Celia nodded as she picked up the mound of pending cases. “I’ll start contacting these clients right away.” She carried the stack to her desk in the reception area and went to work.

  With her father’s office door closed, Rory fell into his chair and stared at the files and the four empty Diet Cokes that had fueled her morning work. She clicked the computer to life and searched for criminal defense attorneys in Chicago who would be willing to take the cases.

  CHAPTER 5

  Stateville Correctional Center, October 15, 2019

  FORSICKS WAS HIS ALTER EGO. HE HAD ANSWERED TO THE MONIKER FOR so long now that he wasn’t sure he would respond any longer to his real name. The nickname originated from the number that had been assigned to him the first night he arrived, stamped onto the back of his jumpsuit in large block font: 12276594–6.

  Before prison guards knew an inmate’s name or the crime for which he had been convicted, they knew his number. His had been shortened to the final two digits in the series—“four-six”—which had morphed over the years into what most inmates and some un-informed guards believed to be his last name—“Forsicks.”

  He walked into the prison library and clicked on the lights. It was his home within the walls of the penitentiary. He had run the place for decades. Lifting weights and ballooning his body had never interested him, and joining the animals in the prison yard to colonize into sects of gangs was equally unappealing. Instead, he found the library, befriended the elderly lifer who ran the place, and bided his time. The lifer started wheezing during the winter of 1989 and never saw the last decade of the twentieth century. A guard rapped on the bars of Forsicks’s cell the next morning to tell him the old man was gone, paroled to the heavens. The library was Forsicks’s to run. Don’t screw it up. He wouldn’t.

  For thirty years, the library had been under his control. In total, he had logged four decades on the inside without a single incident. The stellar track record had turned him nearly invisible, like the superheroes he read about in comic books he managed to score every month. He despised comics and graphic novels, but made sure to read them just the same. They gave him a softer persona and helped hide the longings that still loomed in his soul.

  Prior to jail, he had set his life around The Rush—the feeling that washed over him after he spent time with his victims. The Rush had controlled his mind and shaped his existence. It was something from which he could never escape. After he was caught, though, he had no choice but to conform to life in prison. Withdrawal had been agonizing. He longed so badly for the feeling of power and dominance The Rush had once provided, for the incongruous sense of righteousness he enjoyed when he slipped the nylon noose around his neck and offered himself up to the lure of euphoria that only his victims could provide.

  But after the dizzying withdrawal had subsided and he settled into the years in front of him, he looked to something else to fill the void. It quickly became obvious what it would be. The secret that had destroyed his life lay buried somewhere outside the walls of this prison, and he decided to spend the final chapter of his life unearthing it.

  He sat at his desk in the front of the library. Only in America could a man who murdered so many be given such freedom—a desk and an entire prison library over which to rule. But after so many decades in this place, only a scant few on the inside knew his story. Even fewer cared. His anonymity was another reason he never corrected anyone who called him Forsicks. It added to his cover. The world had turned the lights out on him years ago. Only recently had the halogen of the past started to flicker back to life. Alone in his library, he unfolded the Chicago Tribune and found the headline on page two: 40 YEARS AFTER THE SUMMER OF 1979, THE THIEF SET TO WALK FREE.

  His gaze passed over his old nickname, “The Thief.” He couldn’t ignore what the title did to him, the subtle stream of adrenaline it provided. But he was also aware of the downside to such a perfect signature—it was sure to draw attention and stir up memories. As headlines started popping up and talking heads began discussing the summer of ’79, he would need to find a way to avoid the protestors and escape those who planned to haunt and torture him. He needed just a small window of anonymity after his release to complete his final journey, the planning of which he had dedicated his life in prison. It was a voyage he’d waited decades to embark upon, and had foolishly believed others could accomplish for him. But The Thief was the only one who could unearth the thing that haunted him, the secret that had ruined him.

  This many years after his reign of terror, his victims were faceless and anonymous. Even when he visited the darkest parts of his mind and tried to conjure some of The Rush that used to fuel him, he could only scantly remember any of the women. They were all dead and gone, erased from his memory by time and indifference.

  Only one remained vibrant in his memory, clear and present as if forty years were merely a blink of the eye, a single beat of his heart. She was the lone standout he could never forget. She ran through his thoughts during the quiet days in the library, and haunted his dreams when he slept. She was the only one he remembered, and his looming freedom presented a long-overdue opportunity to sew up loose ends with her.

  CHICAGO

  August 1979

  ANGELA MITCHELL STARED AT THE TELEVISION. SHE STOOD WITH HER friend Catherine Blackwell and watched the news report. On the screen, a reporter stood in front of a darkened alley as the sun set on the summer night. Trashcans rested against chain-link fences, and weeds pushed through the cracks of the uneven pavement.

  “Another woman,” the reporter said, “has been confirmed missing. Samantha Rodgers, a twenty-two-year-old from Lincoln Park, was reported missing on Tuesday after she failed to show up for work. Authorities believe she is the fifth victim in a string of unexplained disappearances that started in the first week of May.”

  The reporter walked along the boulevard. A few pedestrians passed behind her and stared into the camera with stupid grins, unaware of the tragedy being reported.

  “The disappearances started May second with the abduction of Clarissa Manning. Since then, three other women have gone missing from the streets of Chicago. None have been found, and it is suspected that their disappearances are all related. Now, Samantha Rodgers is feared to be the latest victim of a predator the authorities are calling The Thief. The Chicago Police Department continues to warn young women not to walk the streets alone. The authorities are asking for any leads in the whereabouts of the missing women, and have set up a tip line.”

  “Five women in three months,” Catherine said. “How have the police not been able to find this guy?”

  “They have to know something,” Angela said in a quiet and reserved voice. “They’re probably keeping the details away from the public so as not to tip this guy off to what they know.”

  Angela’s husband walked into the room and clicked off the television. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”

  “It’s just terrible,” Angela said.

  Angela’s husband ran his hand over her shoulder and pulled her close for a quick hug. He cocked his head toward the kitchen, making eye contact with Catherine as he left the room.
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  Angela continued to stare at the blank television screen. The reporter’s profile was burned into her mind, an afterimage that allowed Angela to recall every detail of the woman’s face, the alley, the green street signs in the background, and even the dumb looks on the faces of the passersby who had walked through the frame. It was a gift and a curse to remember everything she saw. She finally blinked the reporter’s image away, allowing it to fade from her visual cortex just as Catherine tugged lightly at Angela’s elbow, pulling her toward the dinner table.

  CHICAGO

  August 1979

  FOUR OF THEM—ANGELA AND CATHERINE, ALONG WITH THEIR HUSBANDS—sat around the dinner table. Thomas, Angela’s husband, had finished grilling chicken and vegetables, and they settled for the air-conditioned safety of their dining room rather than the original plan of eating on the back patio. The summer heat was stifling, the humidity thick, and the mosquitoes unrelenting.

  “Sorry to spend another summer night inside,” Thomas said. “We wait all year for winter to leave, and still find ourselves stuck inside.”

  “I’ve been spending all my days outside lately,” Bill Blackwell, Catherine’s husband, said. “One of our foremen quit a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been running his crews, so a break from the heat is fine with me.”

  “We haven’t hired anyone to replace him yet?”