by Dana Killion
Had the men known each other? Were there common clubs or membership organizations they both belonged to? Each question went on the legal pad as I brainstormed.
A text popped up on my phone. Victor, with the names of the two divorce attorneys. I thanked him, then settled back on the couch, opening a browser window. Both men had hired well-respected attorneys, male attorneys with reputations for aggressive negotiations. I wasn’t surprised.
These were exactly the types of attorneys that any individual in the middle of something this messy would need to have. If you didn’t come to this type of legal showdown with your A team, there’d likely be nothing left at the end, even if you won. And under the circumstances, these guys would have been fighting for every scrap they could possibly get. Whether winning meant saving their finances or reducing the damage to their reputations, neither one of these husbands would have come out of their divorces feeling victorious. But with skilled legal representation, they might have had a shot of rebuilding after.
The choice of legal teams was also not surprising given that both were well-positioned career men. They were smart enough and financially solvent enough to afford quality legal talent.
Regardless, the connection between the men was not legal, and neither of these firms were sleazy enough to have relationships with this level of unsavory characters. I moved from the legal teams to doing a dive into Oliver Hayes’s background, looking for any internet references I could find to previous employers, association memberships, evidence of similar social circles. The Wrights had been active in the world of charitable giving, perhaps the Hayeses had been as well. I opened Google Images, looking for photos of charity benefits, galas, golf outings, and any other place where wealthy, civic-conscious individuals might be enticed to give their time or their money.
After nearly three hours, my eyes were strained and my neck was stiff from hunching over the keyboard, but I’d found nothing that looked like a connection. I set my legal pad aside, moved Walter off of my feet, and went to the kitchen for a Pellegrino. My phone was ringing when I returned.
“You’re still awake,” Michael said on the other end of the phone.
“It’s only nine o’clock. Tonight will be an early evening, but this is a bit much for Saturday night. Have you wrapped this case up yet?” I said, laughing.
“If only it were that easy. We’re doing our best, but no leads yet.”
“Come on, Michael, I don’t believe that. Someone on your side is already speaking to the Tribune, calling this a carjacking. What about the similarities with Elyse Wright’s murder? Two women, both in the middle of nasty divorces, both stabbed and then their mouths slashed? You’ve said Wright communicated with the killer. Hired him to do in his wife. Are you telling me you can’t trace that email address? Have you found a financial trail?” I peppered him with questions. “If you’ve got a lead on Elyse Wright’s killer, then you’ve got a lead on Skylar Hayes’s killer. Seems pretty obvious.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. Granted, there are strong similarities, but it’s too early to make a direct connection. Hayes had an unlocked car and a big haul of jewelry in her possession. That’s an attractive motive.”
“It might be too early to make a connection between the killer and the husbands, or that the husbands conspired together to have their wives knocked off, but you can’t tell me the manner of death in both cases isn’t identical.”
“What I’m telling you is that you need to slow down. You’re always rushing to a conclusion. Let us do what we do. Let the evidence speak for itself before you go off and convict someone.”
“What it sounds like is that you’ve been muzzled by Janek.”
22
Saturday’s crappy weather turned into six inches of snow by Sunday, which suited me fine. I’d holed up in my apartment diving into as much deep background on the Hayes and Wright families as my skills allowed, amassing a lot of material but not knowing what, if any of it, was useful. Grudgingly, I’d left my apartment only to confirm Erik’s place was ready for the stagers, who were scheduled to bring in their stash of furniture in a few hours.
Woven in between the research, I’d written a short piece on Skylar’s murder but had danced around the connections between Elyse Wright and Skylar Hayes. I couldn’t do the story without mentioning similarities but also couldn’t link them on gut instinct alone. I’d sent it in, letting Borkowski do his tweaks, and the story had been loaded to the landing page early this morning.
But I’d only scratched the surface. In my gut I believed that how the women had died wasn’t the real story; why they died was. However, with Michael and Janek shutting me out, I needed to nail down as many commonalities as I could, so what better way than to go straight to the source: the medical examiner.
As I drove south, swinging from Lake Shore Drive to the westbound Eisenhower, I listened to WXRT and debated with myself about how to deal with Michael. He was being evasive about the cases, which pissed me off. Was that about caution, Janek, or my reaction to his suggestion about our living arrangements?
I’d volunteered information that the dead women shared a divorce attorney, but even that hadn’t been enough to get him to talk. One thing these murders had made clear was the complications of a relationship between a cop and journalist. If there was going to be a future for us, we’d have to figure out how to talk about the boundaries between work and our personal lives. Hardly an easy task for two headstrong professionals.
I was also keenly aware that I hadn’t told Michael about my dinner with Ryan Friday evening. In the moment, it hadn’t occurred to me. I didn’t intend to hide the information from him; it was just a work meeting. But in light of Ryan’s obvious interest in me, I was reassessing. Had my silence been intentional? And if so, what did that say about my feelings for Michael?
For the moment, avoidance of the subject seemed the better strategy. I was in no rush to sort that out, even if both of them seemed ready, willing, and able. I wasn’t there.
I pushed both men out of my head as I pulled up to the squat hulk of a building on West Harrison that housed the medical examiner’s office. Once again, my history as a prosecutor was coming in handy, and I was calling in a favor. Visitor parking was empty, so I pulled into a spot near the front door, walked inside, and told the receptionist I was here to see Samar Patel.
Patel was a pathologist who worked for the Cook County’s chief medical examiner. I’d gotten to know him professionally through a couple of murder trials I had worked a few years back. He didn’t realize it yet, but he owed me.
Knowing he started each morning by reviewing case files and test results, I’d arrived early. Catching him before he donned his protective gear gave me a fighting shot to get a few minutes of his time before he locked himself in the autopsy suite.
I waited for about fifteen minutes alone in a reception room, listening to bland music and trying to forget where I was, before I saw Patel’s round face appear next to the reception desk. He paused, adjusted his glasses higher on his nose, and looked around. I stood and met him near the desk.
“This is a surprise,” he said. “Don’t tell me you were just in the neighborhood, because I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Nope, I drove out here to see you. Is there somewhere we can talk for a few minutes?”
Significant arm-twisting would be necessary, and I didn’t want to discuss the details of my visit in public. Although the visiting room was empty at the moment, I knew that could change. The priority of the men and women who worked in this establishment was to protect the humanity of the dead and to not cause undue harm on the families forced to identify remains.
He looked at me quizzically but tipped his head toward the back. I followed him down a wide hallway to a small conference room, noticing the twenty pounds he’d put on since I’d last seen him.
“I’m afraid I don’t have coffee or anything to offer you,” he said, motioning me into a seat and immediately checking his watch.
“No, that’s not necessary, but thank you. I’ve had my fill already today.”
“So, Andrea, what’s this all about?”
“The Skylar Hayes murder,” I said. “She came in yesterday. Caucasian, early thirties, stab wounds.” I recited enough of the details to jog his memory.
“I wasn’t in yesterday. It’s not my case. I’m not sure I can help you.” He seemed to relax a little.
“I believe she’s already in the case archive. At least that’s what appears on Data Lens. I can give you the case number, if you need it.”
He looked at me and scowled, correctly interpreting the dig. The medical examiner’s office had started an online database of cases processed through this office. The database had started back in 2014 and was intended to provide more transparency to a department that had been embattled in political ugliness for quite some time and more than a few lawsuits.
He stood and walked to a computer, where he logged in a few keystrokes. “Okay, I think this is the case you are referring to. It’s status is pending. I’m not sure I can tell you anything more than what you already knew. It’s too early to have determined the cause of death. I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip.”
“Yes, I’m aware this is a pending case. But I believe not only is this a murder that isn’t going to take your greatest medical minds to figure out but that it’s also related to a similar case of a woman murdered just a few days ago. I want to see the preliminary files.”
Patel drew back, crossing his arms over his chest and giving me a look that said I may as well have called his mother a whore. “Have you lost your mind? I can’t show that information to nonofficial personnel. It’s an outrageous request. And, if I must say, quite brazen. The fact that we know each other does not entitle you to walk into my office and demand information. There is a procedure and a protocol in place for sharing information, and you are well aware of that.”
I looked at him and held my gaze. “Interesting choice of words. Procedure and protocol in cases of suspicious death require an investigator from the medical examiner’s office to come to the scene. No one from this office was at the scene yesterday. She was transported by ambulance. Nor was anyone from this office at the scene of the previous death. And I know this because I was at the scene. Both of them. I found the first victim.”
The office had been in the middle of a political shit storm for over a year. Accusations had been flying related to lazy pathologists, incorrect identification of cause of death, flawed autopsies, all of it coming together in FBI investigations and lawsuits. It hadn’t been Patel’s fault; he was competent, but internal pressures could only be intense. And if I had to add to the pile to get what I needed, so be it.
“How many stories have been reported related to mismanagement in the medical examiner’s office? We both know that procedure in suspicious deaths is for this office to be on the scene,” I said, feeling only a little guilty for the tactics I was using. “How do you think your superiors will react when I publish a story giving firsthand knowledge of your failure to show up, as required by law, to the scene of these crimes? This office is already under the microscope. I’m convinced that the manner of death for both of these women, and the marks on their bodies, will be nearly identical. What I want you to do is to open the preliminary files and look at them. Tell me if I’m right.”
Patel wasn’t the one who screwed this up, and I felt bad about blackmailing him to get information, but I had to work the angles available even if it meant losing him as a source in the future.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, irritated to be placed in this position. I knew his work was beyond reproach and he likely hated being drawn into the mismanagement, but I also suspected he had aspirations for the top job, and raking the office further into the muck wouldn’t help him get there.
“I promise no one will know I got the information from you,” I said, hoping to seal his decision.
“Fine!” he huffed, then went back to the computer and tapped into another database, this one internal. “Okay, here’s yesterday’s victim.”
“Print it for me.”
He clenched his jaw, but a second later the printer whirled.
“And the earlier victim?”
I gave him the details, and moments later, the printer whirled for a second time. After pulling the printouts out of the machine, he laid both sets of documents on the conference table, and together we went through them. The first thing that got my attention was the markings made to indicate the locations of the stab wounds on the bodies.
“Okay, we have primary stab wounds just below the corpus sternum, puncturing the right lobe of the liver and the gallbladder. Likely the cause of death. And secondary superficial wounds across the mouth,” he said, pointing to the drawing.
“What can you tell from this about the weapon or the assailant?”
He flipped back and forth between the documents, comparing the details. “A knife. Large, serrated, possibly a hunting knife. Based on the angle of the wound, I’d say the assailant was directly in front of his victim when he struck, and the motion was a direct forward thrust. Like this.” He simulated the stabbing motion. “That’s relevant because it tells us he was close and quick.” He turned back to the docs. “Hmm. Both victims were close in height, around five foot five to five foot seven. I’d speculate they were standing face-to-face with the assailant, and based on the angle of motion, I’d say he is no more than a couple inches taller. Again, this is preliminary, so don’t hold me to it. First impression only.”
“May I see the photos,” I asked hesitantly. The images of death were hard to observe, tending to sear into one’s brain unwillingly, but I felt I had no choice. He turned back to the computer, clicking back several pages until two pasty faces appeared. The waxy skin of death had been cleaned of all traces of blood, and the branding of the knife over the women’s mouths screamed words they could no longer utter.
Patel and I looked at each other as tears streamed down my face.
23
Cold, lifeless flesh now branded with knife cuts to the mouth.
I’d seen many photos of death as a prosecutor, but somehow the images of these two women unnerved me as few had. Was it my interaction with Elyse or my own similarities to the victims? Despite Michael’s attempt at withholding details, I now knew without a doubt the same man had killed both women. Whatever reasons Michael had for holding back likely had more to do with Janek and department policy than with me.
Although CPD had withheld information about wounds to the mouth from the public, the similarities in the manner of death hadn’t stopped local news outlets from speculating, increasing the number of wild hypotheses. Already this morning I’d heard conjecture that the murders were the work of a jilted lover lurking on an online dating site. The longer CPD kept silent, the more fantastical the stories were likely to become.
Arriving back in the Loop, I pulled into a parking garage on Wabash, intending to make a visit to Skylar Hayes’s office. Since she was a road rep, I didn’t have great expectations for a large staff of coworkers to speak with, but nonetheless, it was worth a visit.
The office was in a nondescript vintage high-rise facing the L, and I could hear the rumble of the train as I stepped off the elevator even though I was on the sixth floor. Mudra Imports, the door said. Lights shone through the textured glass, and country music streamed faintly in the background, so I knocked and opened the door. The space looked to be no more than two rooms. Four desks, just as many file cabinets, and boxes and boxes of accessories filled the space, their contents overflowing onto the surrounding surfaces.
“Can I help you?” A woman who’d been crouched down, pawing through the entangled merchandise, now stood. Barefoot and looking a little disheveled, she tugged at her skirt and peered at me quizzically. Her eyes were swollen and red.
“My name is Andrea Kellner. I’m with Link-Media. I’d like to speak to you about Skylar Hayes.”
> Her eyes got wider, but she didn’t ask me to leave, although she seemed dazed.
“Most people wandering in here are either lost or trying to sell me something. Link-Media? What’s that?”
“We’re a digital news agency.” I handed her my card.
“Reporter.” She shrugged. “I wondered how long it would take somebody to show up. I’ve had the phone off all day in anticipation.” She let out a breath. “You’re the only one who’s had the guts to walk in the door. I guess I should be grateful for that,” she said, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “I’m having trouble believing it’s real. I just saw her on Friday.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Sorry about the blubbering. It’s going to be tough to get through the week.”
A photo of Skylar surrounded by a small group of women, who I assumed were coworkers, rested on the bookcase beside her. I wasn’t sure where to begin. Skylar’s morgue photo was unmistakably fresh in my mind, yet just days ago she’d been the woman in this photo, a vibrant individual with friends and family and dreams.
“Can you tell me about her? Did she spend much time in the office?”
“I’ll tell you. You get points for initiative. I suppose I can’t avoid this indefinitely. Let me find a chair, and then we can talk.” She moved boxes off a folding chair, placing them on the floor, and then offered me the seat while she settled behind the first desk.