I didn’t sleep much, but at seven o’clock or so I stumbled into the shower, then got dressed and made my way to the office.
The new Left Foot Killer murder was the top local story online. A young woman, name withheld, had been found dead by a dumpster in an alley on the north side. Her left ankle—or left foot-depending on the story—had been snapped, and she’d been strangled.
Why now? After two years? The cops weren’t commenting on that question.
Rachel staggered into the office in a T-shirt and panties. “Anything?”
“Not yet. Maybe not ever.” I went back to Facebook. “I made coffee.”
“I saw. I’m going to take a shower.” She turned, then looked back. “No checking out my butt.”
“Who, me?” I grinned. Then I turned back to my computer
But before I could hit any keys, my phone buzzed. A Chicago Police number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? This is detective Naomi Diaz from the Chicago Police Department. I’d like to talk to you about a murder committed last night.”
The call Sharpe had predicted. “Certainly, detective Diaz. Should I come down to the station?” It pays to be polite with cops. I might run into her again.
“Not just now. I’m calling because detective Sharpe told me you’ve expressed in an interest in the Left Foot Killer case.”
I took a deep breath. “I did ask her about that.” Then I explained why—without naming my client just yet.
She listened. Then: “So someone is impersonating a victim on Facebook? Why?”
I hesitated. “Uh, did detective Sharpe tell you anything about me?”
Diaz snorted. “That I wouldn’t believe anything you said. I know about the vampires, but everything else makes me wonder what kind of drugs people are taking.”
“I’m clean, aside from too much caffeine. How about this? It’s really Vanessa Scott, communicating from the great beyond.”
Now she groaned. “You don’t really believe a ghost is using Facebook, do you?”
“I’ve learned to believe a lot of crazy things. Detective Sharpe has too. You might ask her.”
“Whatever.” She was skeptical. “Anyway, I need to talk with your client.”
Nuts. Sam Spade would have told her to go to hell. But this was real life, not a Dashiell Hammett novel. I sighed silently. “Justin Cornell. I’ll have him call you.”
“No. Just give me his number.”
She was right. The cops wouldn’t want him to have any warning, even if he wasn’t the Left Foot Killer. I hated to do it, but I gave Diaz the number. She thanked me and hung up.
I got more coffee. My phone buzzed again as I sat down to the computer. Unknown number. For once I truly hoped for a telemarketer offering me a great new rate on life insurance, my electric bill, or air-duct cleaning. “Tom Jurgen speaking—”
“Mr. Jurgen? It’s Traci Bueller. You left your number.” She sounded half-frantic. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Me neither. “How can I help you?”
“I just got up. My laptop was on, and I always turn it off when I go to bed. But it was open to Vanessa’s page, and I saw what you wrote to her.”
“Okay. What can you tell me?”
“I don’t know! This is crazy! I think . . . I think . . .” She gasped. “Wait a minute . . . Ohh . . . Wait . . .”
I wondered if I should call 911 to her apartment. But after a second she came back. Her voice was—different.
“Tom? This is Vanessa Scott.”
Definitely Traci’s voice, but low-pitched—almost a whisper. “Hello, Vanessa.”
“I don’t have much time. It’s hard to stay . . . here.”
I had a dozen questions. Maybe more. Where were you before? What’s it like? Did you see God?Or Satan?
But I tried to stay focused. If she didn’t have much time, I was going to ask as many questions as I could. “So why are you here? Now? Why did you contact Justin Cornell? Why take over Traci?”
“He’s going to do it again. He did it again. Justin is—was my friend. So is Traci.”
“Who is it? Who killed you?”
“I didn’t see—him. It was outside. I didn’t see . . .” She fell silent.
Traci came back a moment later. “Oh god. It was—her, wasn’t it? Vanessa?”
How much was she aware of? “Yeah. It was your friend.”
“I could hear her—me. Talking to you. From far away. I don’t get this!” Her throat sounded hoarse. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“These things never do.” I waited a moment. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I—I guess.” Her voice trembled. “What?”
“What happened the night Vanessa was killed?”
“I was—she was . . .” Traci swallowed. “We went out for drinks. And dinner. And drinks again. I told the cops all about it. I left, and Meredith and Vanessa were still there. Then I got a call the next morning . . .” She started to sob.
My phone buzzed with another call. Cornell. Of course. Damn it. “Listen, I have another call. Can we meet?”
“S-sure. I guess.” She sniffed. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Thank you. —Hello, this is—”
“Jurgen! Goddamn it!” Cornell’s voice trembled. “The police just called me! This isn’t why I hired you! What’s going on?”
“There’s been another murder.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I was doing research into Vanessa’s death before it happened. I talked to some police contacts, and—”
“I was in the hospital all night! With my father. He’s sick. I don’t understand how you could—”
I was tired too, but I didn’t expect him to be sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cornell, but I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or a priest. I don’t have any legal protection here. There’s been a murder. My advice is to call your own lawyer before saying anything to the police.”
“I don’t have a lawyer! Not for this, anyway.”
“Then tell the police you won’t answer any questions without a lawyer present. They can’t arrest you, and that’s when everything gets complicated.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cornell. I’m still looking into this.”
“Have you found anything? Jesus Christ—”
I leaned back in my chair and gazed at the ceiling. How to make this sound rational? “Your girlfriend Vanessa apparently possessed her friend Traci Bueller from, uh, beyond the grave?” Oh yeah, this sounded insane. “She sent you those Facebook messages. I’ve talked to her—them. Both.” I paused. “I know it sounds insane.”
“So Vanessa is still—alive?”
“No.” Not a ghost but—“Somehow she’s reaching out. She knew the killer was going to strike again. And he did. That’s the problem, now.”
“Oh god.” Cornell sounded as if he was fighting tears. “I just—we weren’t going to get married or anything, at least not yet. But it was so hard . . .”
I let him cry. Sometimes being a P.I. is like being a psychologist.
After a minute I heard him blow his nose. “All right. I guess I have to go talk to the police now. Let me know if—you find out anything. If you hear from her. Tell her—Say I’m sorry.”
What did that mean? I still wasn’t convinced that Cornell wasn’t the killer, even if he did have a solid alibi for last night. But he was still my client. “Sure thing.”
No comments:
Post a Comment