“Thanks for meeting me here.” Gina Ward stood up as I walked to the table in the back of the bar. She was young—late 20s—with dark brown hair and studious glasses. “I don’t usually go to bars, but I really needed a glass of wine.”
“I meet clients everywhere,” I told her. “I don’t have an office like TV P.I.s. They’re expensive.” We sat down. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s just that I have to do this on my own time.” She waved for a server. “It’s okay for me to do it—I worked on overturning convictions when I was an intern. But this is pro bono. And it’s kind of—unusual? Lauren said you were good with that.”
Lauren DiBello was an attorney at one of Chicago’s top law firms. I’d worked with her before. And sometimes the cases were indeed unusual. “That’s fine.”
A waitress walked up. I ordered a beer. Gina had a white wine next to her laptop. She opened it up and turned it to show me the screen.
“Charlie Shore was convicted of murdering his wife and son with an ax.” I saw a mug shot of a bearded man with bleary eyes. “That was 13 years ago. There’s a confession, but he says he doesn’t remember writing it. Or committing the murders. He says he was possessed by a demon.”
I don’t know if she was expecting me to laugh or walk away. Instead I shrugged. “Well, they do say possession is nine-tenths of the law, don’t they? Is that a defense?”
She picked up her wine with a skeptical look. “Lauren says you have experience with that. She didn’t say anything about your sense of humor.”
I smiled. “Probably wise. So he’s trying to get the conviction overturned? After 13 years?”
“He contacted us after seeing my name online. One of his friends in prison had his conviction overturned. The firm agreed to look at the case, and gave it to me.” She laughed. “I’m new. Anyway, we might have had grounds on inadequate defense. The public defender barely put up a case. There was no physical evidence—he was home at the time, very drunk, possibly too drunk to move, and no blood on him. And the defender apparently never even considered an insanity defense, with Shore saying he was possessed by a demon. We might have had a shot—I might have had a shot.”
“Might have?”
She sighed. “He escaped from prison. Now, no matter what happens, even if I could get him a new trial, he’s going back. When they catch him.”
Life isn’t an episode of The Fugitive. I wondered if she’d ever watched it, or at least seen the movie. “So you want me to find him? Isn’t that the, what, U.S. marshals?”
She shook her head. “No, I want you to find someone else.” She tapped a few keys on the screen. I saw images of newspaper articles, and a small picture of a middle-aged man, balding, with a clerical collar.
“When I met with Charlie, he was obsessed with—aside from getting out—this guy. Nathan Blackburn. He was a minister in town when the murders took place, and he apparently told Charlie he’d perform an exorcism to get the demon out of him.” She sighed, annoyed. “It never happened. He kept saying the first thing he was going to do when he got out was find Blackburn and make him do the exorcism. That’s where I think he’s going.”
I sat back and drank some beer. “So if I locate him, I might find your client?”
“And then I can make sure he turns himself in and doesn’t get shot. That’ll help. A little.”
The bar was dark and quiet. Music from a jukebox played softly. Gina sighed and closed her laptop. “I can send all this to you. If you want the case. There isn’t much money—we can get some reimbursement from the state for investigation, but it’s not much, and if they’ll even do it now that Charlie escaped . . .” She shrugged.
I crossed my arms and looked at her. Young, idealistic. Cute. “This is important to you.”
She finished her wine and waved an arm for more. “I’m new at the firm. You have to do a lot of the shit work just to stay there, and you don’t get noticed if you just give up when shit happens. Sorry. It’s been a long day.” Her wine came, and she gulped at it. “Good thing I don’t have court tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
She glared at me. “What? All right.” She crossed her arms. “I like working on wrongful convictions. It’s a total blast when you can free someone who really didn’t do it. It doesn’t happen very often. I thought—” She paused for a deep breath. “Well, it’s probably not going to happen now, I know that. I just don’t want to give up. It won’t look good, and—I went to law school so I could help people. I know, I know.”
She shook her head and laughed. “In a couple of years the only thing I’ll care about is bringing in fat rich clients and racking up billable hours for the firm.” She shook her head. “But I’m not ready for that yet. Right now, I still want to do something I can feel good about. Even if it’s just making sure Charlie doesn’t get shot by some sheriff somewhere.”
I nodded. I became a reporter because I believed telling people what they had a right to know. I became a private detective—well, that happened because some people didn’t want me telling anybody about the things I’d seen, vampires, monsters, and the like. I had to make a living.
But I know what it’s like to want to do some good in the world.
I finished my beer. “Send me everything you can. I’ll see what I can do.”
Gina looked surprised. “Okay. Thanks.”
“It’s what I do.” I smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”
Rachel was watching a reality show about cruise ships in the Bermuda Triangle when I got home. “Get a case?”
“Pro bono.” I sat down beside her. “No money. Expenses, maybe.”
“The great detective.” She slugged my arm. “Get a real job.”
“Ouch.” I leaned back. “It’s for DiBello. I owe her.”
“Good thing I’ve got tons of work this week.” Rachel’s a graphic designer. She leaned her head on my shoulder. “There’s curry in the fridge.”
“In a moment.” I stroked her hair.
“What does DiBello want?”
“It’s for one of her associates, actually. Gina Ward. Young.”
“Cute?” She shot me a warning look.
There was no safe answer. “I’m looking for an exorcist. An escaped murderer is looking for him too.”
She groaned. “Can’t you just get a normal who-poisoned-grandma-in-the-conservatory case just once?”
“I wish.”
We watched the show. Two crew members got into a fight and started throwing chunks of pineapple at each other.
“You think there’s anything there?” Rachel nudged me. “In the Bermuda Triangle?”
I shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. To us, for that matter.”
“True that.” She sat up. “I want ice cream.”
I was hungry too. We ate, watching TV until we went to bed.
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