“Well, rockets and lasers can be used to trigger lightning strikes,” Wade Lawson told me. “They shoot rockets into thunderstorms with spools of wire trailing out of them, for research. And they can shoot lasers and make a trail of ionized gas to conduct lightning to the ground—they do that for space launches. But I can’t think of any way that could be happening here.”
Wade Lawson was a local TV weathercaster with a few spare minutes to answer some questions from his friendly Chicago P.I. “But this kind of activity is unusual, right? Three people killed by lightning in the same week?”
“Very, especially with multiple storms. You sometimes have more than one person hit during a single storm, but statistically this is, well, wildly improbable is putting it mildly.”
I thought so, but it was nice to have it confirmed by an expert. “Thanks. Love your broadcasts.” Actually, I rarely watch TV weather, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.
I’d talked to Julie Lavoy, and to Lenore Grayson. Julie was skeptical, but she wanted answers about her boyfriend’s death. Grayson just wanted it billed separately from the divorce work.
Then I started making phone calls and sending emails. I was surprised when the assistant at the TV station sent me straight through to Wade Lawson and he actually picked up. Maybe all the rain was making it a slow day for weather. When we finished I checked my email, and then my phone buzzed.
Clement Hogue, a semi-retired instructor of earth sciences, had read my email. He knew Harold Mortime, and he was willing to talk over lunch. He lived near the U of I-Chicago campus, so I jotted down his address and arranged to meet him.
At 1:05 p.m. I was in a Panera restaurant across from a 70s-ish man with a bushy gray beard and sparse blond hair, with a tattoo of the Earth on his left wrist and a friendly smile.
“I don’t get out much these days.” He’d gotten a Caesar salad and a cup of potato-leek soup at the counter. “Between the Covid and taking care of my wife, I haven’t been out to eat in a couple of weeks. This weather don’t help.” Rain drizzled outside.
“I appreciate your time.” I sipped some coffee. “You were in the same department with Harold Mortime?”
“Yeah, I was teaching environmental sciences. Still do, I’m only semi-retired, but I was doing it online all last year.” He stirred his soup. “Harold was a nice guy. He taught weather—meteorology. A little weird, but a good teacher. Students loved him.”
“Weird how?”
“He got obsessed with stuff. Crop circles—he did half a semester on crop circles. The students mostly went along with it, but the head of the department had to shut him down. Then he went on about tornadoes. Good research, but more than he really needed. Climate change, of course. But he went in for crazy solutions, like giant mirrors in the sky to deflect the sun or building floating countries in the ocean.”
Hogue took a bite of salad. “But he was good teacher and a nice guy. Spent lots of time with students. He got them volunteering for projects to reclaim the prairie. That sort of stuff.”
“What about lightning?”
He sipped some Pepsi and thought for a long time before answering. “Yeah, He went off on a tangent about controlling lightning for a while. Lasers and stuff like that. Then it was . . . less science-based. He started getting books on, like, alchemy and magic. From other colleges, and Amazon and other places.”
“Was this recently?”
“Well, I haven’t seen Harold in a couple of years. It was right before he got—before he retired.” He looked down at his plate.
I set down my sandwich. “Did something happen?”
“Damn it.” Hoge shook his head. “I’m not supposed to—I only know the rumors. They said he was doing it with a student, a girl. And he quit mid-semester to get out of it. I never heard if there was a formal complaint or an investigation. He just sort of disappeared. I never saw him again.” He sat back, nervous. “You can’t—I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I won’t bring your name into it.” Unless I had to, but this didn’t seem likely to become a court case. “He just vanished.”
“Yeah.” Hogue gulped his Pepsi. “Like I said. Nobody heard anything from him.”
“Do you know a student named Alan Lavoy? Or Marcus Diego?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t think so. Lots of students, you can’t remember everyone, you know?”
“Right.” I finished my sandwich. “So, thanks again for your time.”
“Thanks for lunch.” I’d paid. Expense accounts are handy for things like that.
Back home I wrote up the interview and reviewed my notes. I had the bare facts about Mortime—where he’d gone to school, teaching jobs and other activities—but the stuff about his obsessions added context. I noticed that before he’d taken the UIC job he’d worked as a storm tracker in Oklahoma, chasing tornadoes and watching thunderstorms.
I went over my research on Alan Lavoy again. He’d started Redburn four years ago, with two shops. It was privately held, so I couldn’t get financial data, but there was enough public information to tell me that it had grown steadily, with six more shops in two years, closing one at the same time. Two more last year—then three closed since January of this year.
The pandemic was obviously having an impact on local businesses. And managing growth in a small business is hard. But Kenneth Dunne’s death made me wonder.
I spent an hour doing a deep search on Redburn without finding out much more than I already knew. Finally I turned in my chair. “Want to go get coffee?”
Rachel didn’t look up. “We have coffee here.”
“I need to go talk to somebody. You don’t have to come, I don’t need your psychic powers, I just thought—”
“I’m coming.” She jumped up. “I need to get out of this place for a while. Just let me get dressed.”
She emerged from the bedroom 10 minutes later in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. “It’s still your turn to make dinner.”
“Deal.” I held the door.
Diego was behind the counter when we walked in. The rain was light but steady outside. The café was almost empty—one woman on her phone in the corner, no line to order. He saw me and frowned. Even the sight of Rachel didn’t change his expression, and she usually makes everyone a little more cheerful. But I’m biased.
“What do you want?” Diego crossed his arms.
I looked at the board behind him. “Maybe the jasmine tea.” I’d had enough coffee today. “Rachel?”
“Espresso. And a scone. I skipped lunch.”
He didn’t move. “What’s this about?”
“We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like—” I spread my arms. “How’s business? Is Redburn doing well? You closed three stores this year. I know it’s a tough economy with the pandemic and everything, but—”
A bell at the front door jingled. Diego looked past us, and his arms dropped. “Hi, Alan.”
Alan? I turned. Yes, Alan Lavoy was on his daily rounds. Earlier than usual to get this far north. His raincoat was damp.
He stepped to the counter and set his briefcase on the floor. “Hey, Marcus. What’s up?” He glanced at Rachel and me. “I’m sorry. You were ahead of—”
“They’re not customers.” Marcus planted his hands on the counter. “This is Tom, uh, Jurgen. He’s a private detective.” He darted a look at Rachel. “I don’t know who she is, but he was here yesterday with Julie. He’s asking questions.”
Lavoy stared at me. Trying to be intimidating. “What do you want?”
I stared back. He wasn’t a vampire or a wendigo, after all. “Interesting weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”
He frowned. “What the hell?”
“All this rain. Thunder. Lightning?”
Lavoy blinked and took a step away. “Get out of here.”
“Hey, I didn’t get my scone,” Rachel said.
“Marcus, give her a scone,” Lavoy said. “Just get out now.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Forget it. This place is getting one star from me.”
We left quickly. The rain was falling harder. My car was down the block, and we got fairly drenched before we could jump inside.
I started up. Rachel grabbed my wrist. “Wait. When you said lightning?”
I looked at her. “Yeah?”
“I saw something.”
Her psychic powers. “I didn’t bring you here for that. I just thought—”
She punched my shoulder. “It’s fine. I needed some air. Plus I was hungry and I really wanted a scone. But anyway—I saw, just for a moment, a book. A big book, like the Bible, except not the Bible. Just—leather binding and parchment pages.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t make out the writing. But he was mad. Furious.”
“Yeah. Even I got that.” I put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
Then a boom of thunder rocked the street. A moment later, lightning streaked across the sky.
Rachel pushed my hand away. “Just get us home.”
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