by Dana Killion
“I can’t say I feel I know the guy or his personal points of view. I hired him for a task, and he performed. I have no complaints about the quality of the work that he provided for me.”
“Has your staff given you any inkling of sexist behavior or language coming out of Rutkowski?”
“No, but as we’re learning, I may be the last to know this stuff.” He sighed. “Hold on for a minute. Let me get Nancy in here. Other than Marcus, she’s the one who had the most contact with him.”
As Victor stepped out, I wondered about the friendship between Bennett and Leon Rutkowski, imagining both of them steeped in a false life where fifties role models reigned and men were men. I pictured Leon with a matching wife in her shirt dress, pearls, and apron, living blocks from the Bennetts, sharing barbecues with their brood of children. A self-created world where bad things would never happen because men were in charge and women waited on their every need.
Victor came back into the room. Nancy followed, looking a bit uncomfortable, but she joined us at the table.
“Nancy, Andrea has some questions about our forensic accountant, Mr. Rutkowski. I brought you in since you’ve had more contact with him than anyone other than Marcus. Would that be okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m happy to help.” She looked at Victor, then at me, trying to figure out where this was going.
“I’m wondering if you ever witnessed any behavior or language from Mr. Rutkowski that seemed misogynistic or hateful toward women?”
She hesitated, looked at Victor expectantly. He nodded.
“Only every time I came into contact with him,” she said.
“Can you be more specific?” I asked.
Victor was silent but lifted his brows. I imagined it was disconcerting for him to be made aware of things that his staff felt uncomfortable sharing with him.
“I know Mr. Kirkland likes him,” she began. “Thinks he does a good job and all, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s all an act. With me, he’s rude and dismissive. There are people who act that way when they come in—after all, I’m just the secretary, and divorce is a tough thing—but Mr. Rutkowski has been outright mean. He speaks to all the women like we’re just around to do his bidding. Sorry, Mr. Kirkland, if I’m the first to tell you this.”
“It’s okay, Nancy, just tell us the truth.”
“Can you give me some examples of how Rutkowski behaved toward women?” I asked.
“A couple months ago, he asked out Catherine, one of our young attorneys. When she said no, he called her a frigid lesbian bitch. And I’m quoting; I was there. He asked her out while standing in the middle of the reception area. Didn’t matter to him that anyone was there hearing the whole thing. Catherine was uncomfortable, but she was polite, hardly rude, simply said no thank you. Said that she didn’t mix work with her personal life. There was no cause for him to get so angry. The way he responded, you’d think she’d been insulting or mean. But the guy couldn’t handle the rejection and snapped at her. He’s been extra rude to her ever since, even going out of his way to be around her so he can say something hurtful. At least the last part is what she’s told me.”
“He’s not married?” I asked. “For some reason I assumed he was.” Interesting. I had him pegged firmly in the traditional-wife crowd with his newspaper and scotch waiting for him the moment he returned from work, towheaded children clamoring for attention at his knees.
“No, more like the kind of guy who can’t get a date and then blames women because he’s rude and socially awkward.”
“Thank you, Nancy, I appreciate your honesty. That’s all I needed.”
She left, but Victor and I stayed for a moment. I imagined he was processing the disconnect between the relationship he thought he had with his staff and the new reality he was learning. And I was thinking about Rutkowski’s hatred of women in a whole new way.
“The boss is always the last one to know,” he said, running his hand over the top of his head. “I don’t know what else to say. There are always things your staff keep to themselves, but I had no idea this was going on. I’m appalled that the women in this firm have been subjected to this. Why didn’t they say anything?” Victor asked, shaking his head and not really expecting an answer from me.
I could hear the sadness and confusion in his voice. It was a difficult concept for men to wrap their heads around, the fact that women were used to abuse in one form or another and, more often than not, simply dealt with it on their own. Victor was no different than most; he hadn’t experienced it, so he wasn’t tuned in to look for it, then was shocked when it slapped him in the face. Perhaps this was the sensitivity training he needed to find ways to open the dialogue for women to express themselves in his office.
“It sounds like you’ve been given a gift. I’m sure there are a number of women on your staff who would like to hear those same words.”
“And they will.” He sighed. “Well, Rutkowski’s off the list. Luckily, he just finished his work on the Hayes case, and I won’t be forced to look that jackass in the eye any longer, either.”
As I wrapped up the conversation with Victor, another question formed in my mind. Being mid-divorce, Elyse and Skylar had both been single, sort of. Maybe Rutkowski thought he had a shot? Was it possible that he had made advances on both women and been rejected?
36
Ordinary hate wasn’t enough. What was the personal component?
I was beating my head against the wall, trying to figure out if there was anything more that connected these men than their mutual hate for women. Whoever killed Elyse Wright and Skylar Hayes was making a statement about their willingness to talk. And what had they both been vocal about? Their husbands’ wrongdoing. I had firsthand experience with Bennett’s willingness to inflict physical violence, but what about Rutkowski? Did he have similar tendencies? Or did he limit his hate to name-calling and false slut-shaming?
I’d picked up a bowl of chicken-and-rice soup at the deli downstairs on my way back into the office and was waiting for Brynn while I sipped.
“I thought you hated their soup,” Brynn said, peering into my cardboard container, laptop in hand.
“It’s just like my mother used to make. Canned.” I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t have time to be a foodie today. The kitchen closes at two thirty, and they wouldn’t make me a salad.”
She chuckled and parked herself in the chair, elbows on her knees. “Mr. Marcus Bennett doesn’t like you much, does he?”
“I don’t like him, either, so we’re even. So, Twitter. Talk to me.”
“They should rename it Trolls ‘R’ Us. Sorry, I know you have to use it, but I hate the platform. Anyway, I started some background work. Give me a second while I pull my notes.”
“I may use it, but don’t ask me to understand how to do anything other than post something simple.”
I took another sip of soup, cringing from the sodium content and rice now turned to mush, my thoughts on possible motives for the murders. If Bennett or Rutkowski were the killer, perhaps understanding why would help me prove the case.
Was it the outrage of two men being taken down by the women who were supposed to bow to their husbands’ authority? Lesser indignities had driven men to kill, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that these murders were personal. The intimacy of the murders and the postmortem slashes to the mouths said that the killer had a relationship, even loosely, with the victims. They weren’t simply symbols of society’s ills.
“Okay, when I looked into Skylar’s account, she wasn’t a big user. And never used it for business. There wasn’t anywhere close to the amount of content that Elyse Wright posted. I took some screenshots. Give me a second to run through them. Are you looking for anything in particular or just the general sexist bullshit that creeps seem to dish out?” she asked as she scrolled.
“I’m wondering if there were any threats or tweets that seemed particularly ugly. One of her coworkers mentioned she’d been concerned.” A new thought po
pped into my mind. “Is there a way to see if the same Twitter handle can be found in comments on both women’s accounts? Maybe the same guy got nasty with both of them? I know that’s a little more work than a quick glance, but if he did, it might give me something to work with. I’m hitting a brick wall, so take a look into it for me.”
“I’d be more than happy to out one of these creeps. I can’t stand the way they hide in the background. Cowards, all of them. Not one of them would say any of this shit to someone’s face.”
“You’re right about that.”
Unfortunately, I had no choice but to participate in the drivel. Occasionally it yielded a source or a lead or, at the very least, was often the fastest way to get news out.
“When I was going through Elyse Wright’s feed, I made a list of the handles of the guys who were the most obnoxious to her,” Brynn said. “The worst was this guy, @mstrxxx. He’s the one who tweeted the pic with the X across Elyse’s face. His avatar is some stupid cartoon fist. I’ll have to poke around to see if I can track him to Skylar, too.”
As we spoke, a youngish man in a helmet and serious biking gear appeared in my office doorway. Had to be a messenger, as no one else would be stupid enough to try riding a bike through the streets of Chicago in February.
“Can I help you?”
“You Andrea Kellner?” he asked, reading from a clipboard. “I have a package for you.”
After I confirmed my identity, he lifted the flap on the messenger bag slung across his chest. The bag dinged as its many metal buttons were disturbed with the effort. He lifted an envelope out of the pocket, glanced at the front, and then laid it on the top of my desk.
“I need you to sign this,” he said, then placed his clipboard in front of me. I scribbled my name, and he was off.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Brynn. “When do you think you could get back to me?” I asked, lifting up the manila envelope the messenger had left. My name was scrawled across the front, but there were no other markings. I tore open the flap as Brynn discussed her timing. I looked into the envelope and pulled out the contents.
“What the hell? Oh, my God.” I dropped the documents in horror and jumped to my feet.
“What’s wrong?” She looked at me, then at the top of my desk.
“Someone sent me photos. Photos of Elyse Wright and Skylar Hayes, dead. These are from the crime scenes,” I said, my voice getting shrill and my body beginning to shake. “There’s a third photo—of me.”
We stood together, staring in disbelief at an image of me pulled from the company website, a red X drawn over my mouth.
I grabbed the images splayed across my desk and flipped them over, looking for a note or markings of any kind to see who might have sent them. Even opening the envelope again to see if I had missed something. Nothing.
“Who was he?” Brynn took my arm. “The messenger? Did you see where he was from? Andrea, you need to call the police, right now.”
“These images had to have been taken by the killer,” I said, frozen in place, my eyes locked on the two faces of death. “I guess the message is that I’m next.”
I looked at Brynn and then again at the photos on my desk, then ran toward the elevator. The messenger was nowhere in sight, and the elevator sat untouched. The stairs. I ran down onto the street, frantically looking for the biker, but there was no sign of him. I trudged back into the building and asked employees closest to the door if he had said anything when he arrived. Asking if anyone noted the company he worked for, learning only that he had asked for me by name.
No one had noticed what company he worked for. And neither had I.
37
Michael stood next to my desk, watching a technician dust the photographs and envelope for prints while I watched them through the glass. An officer had grilled me on what the guy had said, what he looked like, the usual describe-the-guy-so-we-can-find-him questions. I wasn’t much help.
The officer was now going through the same routine with others in the office while I stood on the sidelines, helpless, trying to assess how scared I was. Damn scared.
“There you go again. You always have to be the center of attention.” Borkowski stood next to me. Despite his playful tone, I could see the concern on his face. “At least we can get a story out of it. Since everyone around here is distracted by our men in blue, we’re going to need it.”
“Thanks. We can always count on you for your well-developed empathy,” I shot back, more sarcastically than I intended. This was the banter—minus my attitude, anyway—that had been part of our relationship prior to Ryan Molina and Wade Ramelli turning my future upside down. It seemed false now. Knowing them, they’d try to use this to pile on another reason I needed to go. Can’t have a threat to the staff around the office every day.
Borkowski may have a prickly exterior, but I knew that underneath it he had a big heart. Was he softening on whatever secret deal he’d struck with the two of them, or was this just a little guilt shining through? More likely, I was just overthinking.
“Why is this taking so long?” I paced and huffed like a four-year-old forced to stand in line at the DMV.
Finally, the technician seemed to be wrapping up. I watched him bag the photos and start packing up his kit. Michael came out to give me the update.
“No prints. Other than yours, that is.”
“These photos, they were taken by the killer, weren’t they?” I pressed him.
“Possibly.”
“Come on, Michael, give me a break. Could you give any more of a non-answer than that? The only other option is someone got ahold of the photos your guys took. Do you think a cop sent these to me? Is that a likely scenario? When was the last time you had leaks of this kind in your forensics department?”
I was badgering him, my voice agitated and loud, maybe even bordering on hysterical, and I knew it, but I was sick to death of the evasiveness he kept dishing out. Whatever he was doing to set boundaries between his job and our relationship was failing miserably, in my opinion.
Borkowski kept his face neutral as he listened to me rant but made no effort to leave. He was probably waiting to see if I’d need to be escorted out of the building.
“I’m just asking that you stop jumping to conclusions without evidence and let CPD do the police work. If this isn’t a sign that you’ve been overstepping, I don’t know what is. You’ve made yourself a target. And now I have to worry about someone coming after you when you don’t even have the good sense to be cautious.”
“Apparently I’ll need to wait until someone tries to kill me before you’re ready to have a conversation about reality!”
I stormed into my office, slamming the door behind me, not caring that I was making a scene. My life had just been threatened; I was entitled. Michael and Borkowski and the rest of the staff would just have to deal with it.
I buried my head in an internet search on Rutkowski while I tried to get a grip and clear my head enough to think this through. Bennett was in jail, at least for a few more hours, but he could have arranged the messenger earlier. Rutkowski had no such obstacles. For all I knew, maybe he’d been standing across the street, watching the whole damn thing and laughing. Would upping the pressure on the men push one of them out into the open? Or just get me killed?
Rutkowski was the one who intrigued me. I picked up the phone and called Kirkland and McCullough, asking for a meeting with Catherine, the young attorney Rutkowski had been hassling. I was told she was down at the courthouse. I grabbed my coat and bag and headed out to find a cab.
Divorce cases were heard by the circuit court of Cook County housed in the Daley Center. Catherine was trying a case before Judge Powers in room 202. It was impossible to gauge the timing. I could be waiting five minutes or five hours. I pulled up her photo from the Kirkland website.
Divorce cases were generally a long series of delicate negotiations back and forth between the parties, up to and sometimes after the time set for trial. It was a process, like
many in the legal world, designed to get the two parties to come to an agreement on their own, while the legal team played negotiator.
I took a seat outside of the courtroom and watched, not certain which mediation rooms had been assigned. After about forty-five minutes of sitting on the hard bench, I was starting to lose feeling in my tush, so I stood and paced the hallway for a bit. Hushed conversation floated over from the side hallway, a sign that someone might be wrapping up for the day. Moments later Catherine appeared, laden with a thick, battered briefcase that probably weighed over thirty pounds. A distraught woman walked by her side, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes.
I remembered the feeling.
I watched for a moment, not wanting to intrude on an emotional exchange. Few wanted this moment of pain witnessed publicly, even in this building. The client nodded sadly several times while Catherine tried to reassure her before they both went their respective ways.
“Catherine?”
She looked at me, trying to place my face. She was a small woman and looked like she belonged in a Crest commercial. Blond and blue-eyed, just like the #tradwife ideal, but her eyes held a fierceness that overshadowed her frame. “Yes. Do I know you?”
“No, but I’m a friend and former client of your firm. My name is Andrea Kellner.” I handed her a card. “I was speaking to Victor and Nancy earlier today, and they told me about an interaction that you had with Leon Rutkowski. I hope you don’t mind, but they told me you had some uncomfortable experiences with him, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“I’m not in the habit of discussing these things with strangers. I’m sure you understand.” She began to walk away.