The Shoulders of Giants (14 page)

“Dogs?”

“Well, my experience, dogs can usually be relied on to keep a secret. It’s really the girlfriends and husbands you got to watch for.

“So, are all those people marching outside your office inspiring you to toil harder on this case?”

“Of course. You know, if it wasn’t for them, we may not have thought to actually investigate the seven homicides this week.” Scott’s voice had an equal mix of hostility and sarcasm. “We would probably have just hoped the killer got bored and went away. And those placards certainly gave me some things to think about.”

I told him about my idea for a ‘Down with serial killers’ placard, and he said I should have some posters and T-shirts made up and sell them outside the police station.

“Anyway,” he said, eventually, “On to the purpose for my call. The M.E.’s office has been very busy. We got a fair amount of new information from them last night, and having passed it on to the Feds, we’re expecting an up to date profile around four. Do you want to come over and see a real live FBI profile later?”

“Actually, I’m not sure what I’ll be doing later.” I said. “I’ve got some people to talk to. Can you email it to me?”

“Uh… I guess I can. You got a lead?”

“Not really. I’m still following up about Susan Patterson”.

“I thought you’d moved on to Calvin Walsh.”

“Yeah, him and Grant Foster, since they both let the killer into their homes. But I’ve still got some people connected to Susan to talk to and I feel I owe it to her father.”

“You know, not everyone’s that careful about who they open their door to. No sign of forced entry doesn’t mean they knew him.”

“I know, but it’s a start. Who knows, maybe they belong to the same bridge club or something. What did the M.E. come up with then?”

“Well, first of all, from the knife in Foster’s neck, Odin estimates the killer is around 5’10” and left handed.”

“Wow. That’s a lot more than we had before. And it’s not in the papers.”

“Give it time. Also, we have a time of death on Calvin Walsh. Some time after noon, last Friday.”

“From the vitreous potassium levels? I thought it wasn’t that accurate.”

“Yeah, actually, that one required a bit of legwork by us as well. Walsh’s stomach contents showed partially digested chicken and potatoes, and pumpkin pie. I don’t know how the hell they can tell what it is after it’s been chewed and partially digested, and frankly, I don’t want to know. But the point is, the last time anyone saw him was Friday, at work, and on the menu in the factory canteen that day was...”

“Chicken, potatoes and pumpkin pie.”

“Exactly. Stomach contents is notoriously bad for estimating time of death, since so many factors affect the digestion, but it’s consistent with the vitreous results, so it looks like you were right about him being the first victim. Or at least the first of the ones we’ve found so far.”

“You think there could be bodies we haven’t found yet?” I asked, incredulously.

“Anything’s possible. Who knows how long this freak’s been lashing out at society in his own unique way?”

“Did Forensics turn up anything on the Kramer crime scene? I saw they took casts of shoe prints.”

“Almost all the prints matched to reporters and witnesses. One partial print we couldn’t match, but they reckon it’s from a ladies’ sneaker, so chances are it was just some co-ed taking a short cut across the grass before the murder.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“The electrical cable? Common kind of cable, probably from a hairdryer. The really exciting thing is the drop of semen on her thigh.”

“So it is semen?”

“Not only that, it’s mixed with spermicide. There was some internal bruising, like on Susan Patterson, but no semen found inside. I’m thinking the guy used a condom and was a little hasty taking it off after he finished. Didn’t check for spills before he left.”

“So we’ve definitely got his DNA this time?”

“Looks like. The lab guys will run it through CODIS once it’s ready, along with the DNA from that hair that was bothering you. They should have the results in a few days. Anyway, I should get back to ignoring the protesters outside. I’ll email you the profile when it comes in.”

I thanked Scott, and hung up the phone. CODIS is the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System that allows local, State and federal labs to exchange and compare DNA profiles by computer. All sexual offenders since the early 90s are in their database, and some states take a sample from all their felons.

I watched one more news bulletin, which taught me only that I had watched too much news that day, and went out to lunch.

Chapter 21

I’d been rushing my meals lately, only eating because I had to, so for lunch I treated myself to a nice meal for one at a sweet little Italian restaurant on Taylor Street, called Castelletti’s. The meal was good, but the oversized tip I left the waiter was to soften him up, not to praise the chef and the service. Consequently, when I asked him if Mr Castelletti was in today I was not thrown out on the street or hung up by my thumbs. Instead, the waiter walked away and before long a dark haired man in an expensive suit joined me at my table. He had a tattoo of a bloody dagger on the back of his hand.

“Mr Castelletti?” I offered, by way of greeting.

“No,” said Tattoo, “I am a business associate of Mr Castelletti’s. He would like to know why you are asking for him.”

I felt that if Mr Castelletti was that curious, he could just agree to see me, and he would find out. I didn’t suggest this, however, as I also felt that the man across the table may break me in two for insolence. He wasn’t big, in the conventional sense, but he was intense, and looked like he contained as much power in his arms as in the gun that was causing a slight but distinct bulge in his tailored jacket. I quickly decided honesty was the best policy.

“I’m a private investigator. A man by the name of Calvin Walsh has been killed, and Mr Castelletti was seen talking with him recently. I’d like to know what they talked about so that I can rule him out of my investigation.”

The tightly coiled spring of a man went into a back room and re-emerged moments later. To my surprise, he beckoned me in. The room was a small storeroom, shelves stacked high with various foodstuffs. Tattoo lifted my arms and began to pat me down.

“Gun,” I warned him, “under my left arm. Another in the small of my back.” He took both and put them in his jacket pocket then guided me firmly by the arm to the back of the storeroom, where there was another door. He knocked. On a muffled signal from within, he opened the door and helped me through.

A heavyset well-dressed man stood silently to one side of the large oak desk and scanned the room as if very small aliens were about to invade and planned to use this office as their drop-off point. The man behind the desk was maybe sixty, with a deep tan and a lot of silver hair. He smiled as I entered the room, and stood to shake my hand.

“Good evening Mr…?”

“Abraham. Jake Abraham.”

“Mr Abraham. I am Vittore Castelletti. I trust you enjoyed your meal?” His speech was measured, as if English was his second language, but he had no trace of an accent.

“Very much, thank you. And now I have a couple of questions if you don’t mind.” We both sat, he in his high leather-backed antique chair, me in a small wooden chair that put me much lower than his eyeline.

“You want to know about Calvin Walsh?” He said, as he looked down at me.

“Please.”

“He made the mistake of sleeping with a woman very dear to me, so I visited him and asked him to desist.”

“And when he didn’t?”

He shook his head, slowly. “People generally do what I ask. Mr Abraham. Mr Walsh never saw the lady in question again.”

“That kind of power is somewhat unusual for a restaurateur.” I pointed out.

“I have earned the respect and loyalty of the community over many years.”

There was no sense in asking him if he had an alibi, as I’m sure he wouldn’t have done the job himself, so I went another way. “Any of your men loyal enough to take matters into their own hands?”

“None would disrespect me by going against my wishes.”

“Could you tell me whether you have had dealings with any of these people?” I placed my list of victims on the desk. He took his time reading it before he handed it back.

“No. I’ve only heard of the others through their connections to Mr Walsh’s unfortunate death.”

“Well, I appreciate your time Mr Castelletti. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you agree to talk to me?”

“You took a direct approach. I respect that.” Respect was obviously a big thing for Vittore. “I have nothing to hide in this matter, and have no interest in wasting everybody’s time.”

It seemed like a reasonable answer, and for a gangster, Vittore Castelletti seemed like a reasonable man. A reasonable, intimidating, slightly scary man. If I was Calvin Walsh I would have done exactly as he asked, but I wouldn’t rule Castelletti out just yet.

Chapter 22

The entrance to the public parking structure at UIC was blocked by protesters. There were more there now than had been on the news earlier, and now there were crowds of people who had come not to join them, but to watch them protest. They were probably also attracted by the small chance that they might get on TV. That chance was getting smaller by the hour, as there was now only one local news crew still hanging around. I suspected that if something interesting didn’t happen soon, they would have to provoke some people or leave.

“Could I see Dr Aronson please?” I said to the secretary in the Behavioral Sciences office.

“Take a seat, please,” she replied, without a hint of a smile, “I’ll just see if he’s in.”

He was.

“Ah, Mr Abraham,” he said, as I walked in to his office for the first time in over three years. “Good to see you once again. To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you finally completed that essay for me?”

I remembered that I did indeed neglect to hand in an essay on the psychology of substance abuse during my final year. As I recall, the night before the essay was due, I was busy getting drunk at a party. I was always a great believer in the importance of thorough research.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could have an extension?” I smiled.

“Is this a social call?” He looked at my bruised eye, which by now was turning a kind of dull yellow, but was too polite to bring it up.

“Not exactly. I’m a private investigator now.” Aronson raised his eyebrows to indicate he was interested. Or perhaps surprised. I continued “Are you aware that two UIC students have been murdered in the past week?”

“I heard. One was a student of mine, Susan Patterson. The other was murdered on campus, last night, I believe. Dreadful business. Are you looking into it? Isn’t that more the realm of the police?”

“Well, I was hired by Susan’s father when she went missing. After she showed up dead, he asked me to stay on the case.”

“I see.” He sat behind his enormous desk and almost disappeared behind a pile of books. He moved the books to one side before he began again. “And how can I help you.”

“What can you tell me about Susan?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping that if enough people tell me enough stuff, eventually, something might begin to make sense. Just tell me your impressions of her, as a student, as a person. Friends, behavior, whatever you can think of.”

“Well, alright then. Susan was a good student. She worked hard, and got excellent results. On the rare occasions she asked questions in class, they were intelligent and thought provoking, and on more than one occasion I had to go and look up the answer. Her essays were always on time, and consistently of a high standard.” He didn’t look in his markbook. He didn’t need to. Aronson was famous for his memory. “She didn’t seem to talk to anyone in particular, and often sat on her own. I don’t think anyone disliked her especially, they just never bothered to get to know her. She made no special efforts in that field either, as far as I could see. Susan never struck me as a happy young woman, but not a remarkably unhappy one, either.”

He paused, and I sensed he was deciding whether or not to tell me something.

“Was there something else?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to succumb to idle gossip, especially if it could affect a colleague’s career.”

“I assure you, anything you tell me will remain completely confidential,” I said, intrigued.

“I want to make it clear that this is unsubstantiated information, and should be treated with the utmost discretion.”

“You have my word.”

“There is a professor in this department who is openly gay. She joined after your time here. There have been rumors that she had had an affair with a student. Now I have no concrete reason to believe these rumors, and they may very well be due to another’s discomfort with her sexuality.”

“But you think maybe they’re true, and you think maybe Susan was the student?”

“As I said, it’s nothing concrete. I saw them talking in the corridor a few times. They seemed… familiar. I’ve been a student of human behavior for many years, and their demeanor just struck me as informal.”

“Who is the professor?”

“Dr Jane Parker. She teaches Comparative and Neuropsychology.”

“Okay. Do you know anything about the other girl that was killed?” I asked.

“Nothing. I never taught her.”

“Well, if you hear anything around campus, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” I handed him one of my business cards.

I showed my old tutor the list of names of the other victims, and asked if he recognized any of them. He did not. He had obviously managed to avoid the news so far that day. Before I left, he told me that I could drop in even if I wasn’t investigating a series of murders, as he was always happy to learn how his former pupils were doing.

Back at the secretary’s desk, I asked if Dr Parker was free. After a quick phone call to check, she pointed me in the right direction and I knocked on the professor’s door. She did not come to the door, choosing instead to sit at her desk and say “Enter” in a loud voice.