The Shoulders of Giants (11 page)

“Yeah. I figured he’d come back when he dried out. It’s happened before, and he always made up the time he lost. He was responsible like that.”

Over the next three hours, I talked to more than twenty of the people who had worked with Calvin Walsh. Pez’s loose definitions of ‘honorable’ and ‘responsible’ seemed to be backed up by the general consensus about ‘Cal’. Beyond that, I learned that he was a good manager, because: he knew the machines; he’d done the job himself for so long; and because he didn’t take any shit from Pez when production was down for any reason.

I learned that he usually went out for a drink after work, especially on a Friday, but he divided his patronage between several bars in the area. Sometimes he drank with ‘the boys’, sometimes not. It appeared that on Friday the 12th, he had gone off on his own. Most of the workers couldn’t think of anyone specific that he had pissed off, but everyone agreed that it was probably over a woman. Nobody had heard of Grant Foster.

Three of the guys mentioned an incident that occurred about two months before Walsh disappeared. Each had a slightly different version of events, but the core was the same. It seemed that one day, when everyone was leaving the factory, a large black town car with blacked out windows was waiting by the gates. Between two and five burly men were standing next to the car, and while one held the door open, the rest grabbed Calvin and shoved him inside. Then the car drove away. Walsh was back at work the following morning, none the worse for wear, and a story gradually worked its way round the factory. The car belonged to a local gangster, whose first name was either Vittore or Vincenzo, but who definitely wasn’t Irish, and Walsh was being warned off after he had slept with the man’s mistress. Walsh himself would never comment on the story, so none of the three could say for certain whether it was true or not, but they all felt it was the sort of thing Cal would get mixed up in.

Aside from Billy, everyone seemed to have one syllable names - Pez, Don, Hal, Ed. People with names like Jerry had them shortened to Jer. I wondered if, because of all the coffee they drank, nobody could concentrate long enough to make it to the end of Jerry.

I left the factory, unable to decide whether zipper production would go up or down if they switched to decaf.

Chapter 16

I bought a large honey bacon club from Quizno’s and took it back to my office for lunch. I’d barely unwrapped it when my phone rang.

“Abraham and Associates, Jake Abraham speaking”, I said. The picture of professionalism.

“Mr Abraham, my name is Dr Robert Odin,” said a man with a distinct Texan accent.

“The Medical Examiner?”

“I didn’t realize I was famous.”

“I recognized your voice,” I explained. “How can I help?”

“Detective Bales mentioned you had a theory about the Richard West drowning. He asked that I call you, He explained your interest in the case and said you can be trusted to treat confidential information as confidential.”

“Of course. How much did Scott tell you about my theory?”

“Let’s pretend nothing. I’d rather get the whole story from you than try to piece things together.”

“Fair enough. I wonder if, first, you’d mind telling me how you figured out it was a drowning? I understand it’s hard to say for sure.”

I could practically hear him puff up his chest with pride.

“It’s a diagnosis of exclusion. There’s no one thing that is definitively diagnostic of someone having drowned, although obviously if they’re found face down in the river that helps a lot.” He paused, perhaps for a laugh. When he didn’t get one he continued. “In this case there were several factors that, taken together, led to one most likely conclusion. First was the foam cone.”

“I’m sorry, the ‘foam cone’?”

“It’s a pinkish foam that forms in and around the airways due to the water mixing with the respiratory mucosa, the air in the lungs and pulmonary surfactant. We see it in drownings, but it can also indicate a head trauma or a drug overdose, both of which I was able to rule out at autopsy. I also found some pulmonary edema – that’s fluid in the lungs, a fair amount of water in the stomach, and some hemorrhaging in the middle ear and sinuses. Any one of these taken in isolation could be linked to multiple causes of death, but all put together they are highly indicative of drowning”. I said “uh huh” occasionally during this to indicate I understood at least most of what he’d said.

“Could you tell what kind of water he was drowned in?” I asked when he’d finished. “Scott said it could have been a pool. Did you find any chlorine?”

“Nothing definitive. When someone drowns in a pool the chlorine tends to dissipate fairly quickly into the lungs and bloodstream, and the chlorine used in pools is actually chloride ions similar to those we would expect to find in the body anyway. Add to that the fact that pools have wildly varying quantities of chlorination depending on how well maintained they are and all I can say is that I can’t rule it out. I can’t rule out bath water either, if that’s what you’re asking. Tell me your theory.”

I laid it all out for him. He had heard of the brides in the bath murders, but was sketchy on the details. When I was done he went silent for a few moments.

“Interesting,” he said, finally. “I’d like to be able to give you more, but all I can say is that it is not inconsistent with the autopsy findings. I would imagine that, if the procedure were performed perfectly, there would be less water in the stomach and lungs, as the victim would be rendered unconscious, but pulling the legs upwards would likely be sufficient to bring the head under water, at which point holding him there would be much easier than pushing him there. Of course, it would go some way to explaining the contusions around Mr West’s ankles. I had thought that they came from the perpetrator holding his feet while he made the signature incision, but this actually makes a little more sense given the bruising pattern”.

We said our goodbyes, and I finished my lunch. I hadn’t proved anything, but I’d come up with a viable theory, and that was enough to put a smug grin on my face while I ate.

Chapter 17

After lunch, I picked up a
Tribune
, sat in my car, and dug out the small address book I had taken from Susan Patterson’s bedroom. I found the address for Abby Dexter, Susan’s ex. I typed the street name into my Sat Nav, and within five minutes I was on the Eisenhower Expressway, headed west. Before I came off at the Austin Blvd exit, I passed the lay-by where Julie Campbell’s body had been found.

Abby Dexter’s house fit right into its Oak Park surroundings. It looked like Frank Lloyd Wright himself had built it on a slow weekend. It was low and horizontal, with a shallow roof and wide eaves. Small as it was, it had an air of austerity. I walked up the stoop and put my hand out to ring the bell. There was no bell, so I lifted the brass doorknocker, and let it fall against its brass plate with a thwack. I waited. No-one came. I tried again, with the same result.

I began to leave, thinking to myself that I should have called before making the trip out there, when a woman stepped off the sidewalk on to the short path leading up to the house. She was maybe mid-thirties, wearing an extremely well tailored navy blue power suit, and a long coat which looked like it was made of silk. As she walked, her coat billowed around her like smoke. She noticed me, and looked up. When her eyes met mine, I was captivated.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

After a short pause, I remembered why I was there.

“Actually, I’m looking for Abby Dexter. This is her house.” I don’t know why I felt the need to add that.

She smiled. “I know. I’m Abby Dexter,” she said. When she smiled, her eyes brightened, and dimples appeared in her cheeks. It made her face appear younger, but she retained an air of maturity. All in all, she was incredibly beautiful. I realized I was staring.

“Jake,” I said. “My name’s Jake. Jake Abraham.” I struggled to regain some composure. “I’m a private investigator. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. It’s about Susan Patterson.”

Her smile faded quickly, and was replaced by an equally fascinating expression of sorrow.

“Please, come in.”

As I followed her in to her house, I breathed in her perfume. I had no idea what kind it was, but it was elegant and feminine, and went with her completely. Once inside, she led me into the living area and lit the huge fire before sitting down. After all, as Frank Lloyd Wright had said, the fire was the heart of the house. I considered trying to impress her with this bon-mot, but remembered I was there to talk to her about her dead ex-lover, and this made it seem inappropriate.

“I saw the papers yesterday morning. It’s terrible. Are you working with the police?”

“Actually, I’ve been hired by Susan’s father, but I am following the investigation.”

Her talking about Susan reminded me that Abby was, in fact, a lesbian. And I was flirting with her. Well, barely. Besides, she was probably ten years older than me. Which meant that she was probably twice Susan’s age. For some reason the theme from
The Graduate
popped into my head.

“What is it you do for a living?” I asked, getting down to business.

“I’m an attorney. Up until two months ago, I used to work as a Public Defender, but I got sick of the ridiculous workload and defending people I knew were guilty, and I was offered a job at Harrison and Duke, so I took it.”

“How did you come to meet Susan Patterson?”

“Susan was friends with my niece, Mary. They were at school together.” She said.

“How old was Susan at this point?” I prompted, taking notes.

“When we met, she was sixteen.”

“And the two of you got together?”

“Yes, over a period of time we became very close.” She said, without a hint of remorse. Not that I expected any. I wondered if she would appreciate the wording of my next question.

“Miss Dexter, were you trying to seduce her?”

She laughed, lightly. “I can see why that is how it would appear, but to be honest with you, I think I had as little choice in the matter as she did. We simply clicked. We both gave each other something that, until that point, neither of us knew we needed.”

“How long did your relationship last?”

“A little under a year. At the end, Susan was having a very rough time with family stuff. Well, I guess you know about her father. She needed support, and I was busy with work. I couldn’t be there for her like I should have been, like I wanted to be, and I think she resented me for it.”

“Did you resent her, for the break up?” I asked.

“It hit me hard, I cared about her a great deal. I threw myself into my work, which I was finding less and less rewarding, and which I blamed for causing the problems in the first place. No, I didn’t resent her. I didn’t blame her. I blamed the person I couldn’t be. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely.” I lied. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“I ran into her in a store on the North Side about two or three months ago. We went for a coffee, talked for a bit, she said she’d call. That was the last time.”

“Did she call?”

“No,” she said, with a rueful smile. “I didn’t expect her to.”

“You mentioned that you were a Public Defender until recently. Did anything happen to make you change career?”

“I stayed a lot longer than most P.D.’s. As I said, I found I spent a lot of my time keeping people out of prison who really deserved to be in prison. The workload was such that when I did get a client who might have been innocent I didn’t have the time I should have had to give them an aggressive defense. Now I can choose my clients to a certain extent.”

“Were you ever threatened by clients you weren’t able to keep out of jail?”

She smiled, “All the time. It goes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

“Anyone recently?”

“It’s been over a year since Susan and I stopped seeing each other. I’ve had other relationships since. If someone wanted to get to me I can’t see why they would pick Susan.”

“Maybe someone has some out of date information”

“Still, I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss my former clients.”

“Even if it might be connected to Susan’s disappearance?”

“Mr Abraham, for ten years I defended some of the most vicious and dangerous criminals in Chicago. I’ve been threatened at least a hundred times and had police protection on numerous occasions. Believe me, if I thought anyone connected to me through my work could have harmed her, I would tell you.”

I believed her.

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Just one last thing before I go,” I said, and suddenly felt like Columbo. “Could you tell me if any of these names mean anything to you?”

I took out a piece of paper, on which I had written the names of the other victims. She studied it, and I studied her. She really was quite stunning. I got the impression that she was genuinely moved by Susan’s death, and that she was being totally open and honest.

“I’m sorry, these names mean nothing to me. What do these people have to do with Susan?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out.” I said, avoiding the point of her question. “Thank you for your time.”

She stood, and walked me out, the gracious hostess. As I reached the door, I took a business card from my pocket and handed it to her.

“If you think of anything you think might be useful, then please give me a call.” I said. I wanted to add ‘If you want to talk, or go for a coffee’, but I didn’t.

She took the card and smiled again. “Thank you, Mr Abraham.” She said.

“Call me Jake.”

Chapter 18

I drove away from Abby’s house feeling confused. I was sad for her. Gregory Patterson was obviously more affected by Susan’s death and for him I felt a kind of pity, I guess. But Abby clearly felt the loss, and I felt her pain. As I took the ramp up onto the Eisenhower, my cell phone rang.

“Hey buddy,” said Scott. “Watcha doing?”