Kevin Guilfoile - Cast Of Shadows

“Man in sweatshirt hears her coming, looks at her briefly, then runs off. She holds her dog back. Struggles over to the body. Sees the dead girl. Calls police on her cell. The body was both strangled and stabbed. Sexual assault. Posed. It has all the earmarks.”

“The victim?”

“Prostitute, apparently. They haven’t released her name if they know it.”

“And the best news?”

“Blood besides the victim’s, and semen. Cops are guessing the dog walker interrupted his cleanup. That and the rain let up.”

“Good golly.”

“Torriero, the police spokesman, was practically giddy.”

“Suspects?”

“The witness didn’t get a good look except to say the attacker was white. But Ambrose himself came out to say they’d be running the DNA against the database and hoped to have a suspect by the end of the week. Put himself right on the line and said it.”

“All right,” Malik said. “Give me the cops’ side straight, get me an interview with the witness, and give me a feature on Teddy Ambrose. He’s been on the Wicker Man from the beginning. And I want good pics of the cops working the crime scene. Not that blurry, unframed bullshit we got last time.”

Roles were assigned and accepted. Reporters dispersed. Sally remained.

“What?” Malik asked.

She shut the door. “We’re going to miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“The exclusive.”

“Tell me.”

“Why do you think Ambrose is putting his ass on the line, promising a suspect in three days?”

Malik turned a chair around in front of him and sat in it wrong way out, resting his forearms across the backrest. “Because he’s been on this case for too many years and he’s a little overenthusiastic. Also, the conventional wisdom has to be that this guy’s been picked up for a felony before, and his DNA would be in the system.”

“No,” Barwick said. “He’s putting his ass on the line because they already have a suspect and they’re just waiting for the DNA to confirm it.”

Malik understood. “Your stalker.”

“Right.”

“That’s a leap,” Malik said. “Ambrose is getting a lot of pressure to name a suspect, and that statement takes the heat off him for a few days and puts it on his detectives. It’s political arm-twisting. The odds that this asshole’s in the database just makes it a good gamble for him.”

Sally’s hand disappeared into her hair. “Stephen, this is the way it’s going to happen. On Friday, or possibly Thursday if they don’t want the best get of their careers stuck in Saturday’s paper, the police are going to announce that Sam Coyne is their suspect in this latest killing. They won’t mention the Wicker Man, but it will be obvious to everyone because the cops don’t hold press conferences every time they find a dead hooker. If he hasn’t fled the country, they’ll arrest him, but they won’t charge him because Coyne’s DNA isn’t in the system. He’s never been arrested in his life. I checked. They’ll take his blood, and when it matches, they’ll try to connect him to the other murders.”

“If you say so.”

“But we know Coyne’s the guy right now. And we’re the only ones who know it. We should run it in tomorrow’s paper. If we wait for the cops to announce it, the Trib ’ll be just another white ass in the weekend gang bang.”

A few weeks ago, Malik had reconsidered his opinion that Sally Barwick had potential to be an excellent reporter. Now he was reconsidering again. Sally had potential to be a great reporter. A great reporter is aggressive, ambitious, and takes huge personal risks. She had that in her, and he didn’t. That was why Malik himself had been only a decent reporter, and why he was a failure as an editor besides.

“Say we run it. What’s your story?”

“That an ongoing Tribune investigation of the Wicker Man murders had been pointing toward Sam Coyne for several weeks. That an analysis of his gaming patterns had revealed a correlation between his copycat activities in the game and the real-life murders. That a police source confirmed Coyne had been on the investigators’ short list for some time, and that once DNA tests come back, there is a high probability they will confirm Coyne is their killer.”

“I thought you said they didn’t have Coyne’s DNA.”

She shrugged. “They’ll subpoena him, ask him to submit to a blood test, and if he refuses, they’ll know they have their man. Besides, there are plenty of places to get a person’s DNA. Coffee cups, a hairbrush. They’ll make a match. I’d just rather do it first.”

“How good is your source?” Malik watched her body language. Sally crossed her arms and bowed her head. He tried to recall a seminar he’d taken on body language. What does that mean again?

Barwick looked up, right into his eyes. “Good. But he stays anonymous. I can’t even say how high up he is.”

“Just tell me, then.”

“No.”

“You don’t tell me, there’s no story.”

“No offense, Stephen, but you’re getting heat from a lot of different sides. I’ll go to jail to protect this source, but I don’t want you to have to make that choice, as well.”

“That’s my job, Sally.”

“Coyne is the guy. Trust me. When his blood turns out to be a match, no one’s going to ask who my source is.”

Malik considered what she was offering. The biggest media fish of the year. Every newscast and wire service and paper in the country would lead with the words “The Chicago Tribune is reporting today…” If Barwick were wrong, his disgrace would only be marginally worse than it was already. If she were right, it didn’t matter what they did to him. Hell, he could march upstairs and quit five minutes after the cops made the arrest. He’d be a newspaper legend.

“How sure are you about this?”

“I’m sure, ” Sally said. “I’ve got the most to lose here, Stephen. And I think we’d both agree you have as much to gain as I do.”

Malik stood up and walked to the phone. He punched three buttons. “Don. Get the staff together. Everybody. Now.”

A long, hot day at the district. Three meals delivered. Kids tucked in over the phone. Overtime adding up on a dozen officers’ time sheets, and no one from higher up complaining. Ambrose was going to sit at his desk until the lab came back with a folder thick with colored squiggles. Then he planned to go home while the techs ran the squiggles through the computer until they had a match. If the DNA wasn’t in the system, they’d move on to their top three suspects – the Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker. In a few hours, Ambrose knew, his gut was going to be proven right.

All three were on tight surveillance tonight, along with two other men favored by separate detectives working the case. Ambrose almost hoped that once word was out they had testable DNA, the Candlestick Maker would start running. Not likely, though. Smug asshole would probably stay right where he’s at, daring the cops to arrest him.

Footsteps. A sudden increase in the volume of background noise.

“Lou,” Detective Rozas said, using the familiar term for lieutenant. “The television. Channel five. News.”

Ambrose hurried out to the squad room. A half dozen cops were kneeling and stretching around a portable television. Another dozen stood around the perimeter listening. Ambrose pushed his way inside the circle.

“The Chicago Tribune is reporting in tomorrow’s paper that police finally have a suspect in the Wicker Man killings, and plan to make an arrest in the next forty-eight hours. Julie Becker has the report.”

The scene cut to a woman standing on Division Street near the latest crime scene. She was attractive and serious-looking.