The Shoulders of Giants (20 page)

Chapter 31

It was three in the morning before I was through at the police station. I’d told them everything I knew and all I’d got out of them was that the victims didn’t have Z’s cut into their feet. I got a cab back to Bensenville to pick up my car, so I didn’t get to bed until nearer five. When I finally surfaced on Monday morning, I looked at the clock by my bed. Eleven thirty. Eight hours to go until my date with Abby. I had made a reservation at Spiaggia immediately after talking to her, before last night’s big adventure. I was picking her up at her place.

The traffic division of the Cook County Courts, like all the other divisions, has public access terminals where you can look up the details of old cases. I typed in Grant Foster’s name and the date of his court appearance and was rewarded with a few facts about the case. Mostly the ticket number, the verdict, and the name of Foster’s attorney, which I already knew. No details on how to get a transcript, so I asked at the desk and was told I had to go to the Court Reporters’ Office, a few doors down. When I got there I was greeted warmly by a rotund man with facial hair that made me wonder if he did Civil War re-enactments on weekends.

“Help you?” he said.

“I’m looking to get a transcript of a DUI case.”

“Sure thing. I need the ticket number, date, first name and surname.”

I provided them, and he pursed his lips.

“Case this old could take a while to retrieve from storage,” he said.

“How long is a while?”

“Four, maybe six weeks.”

It was my turn to purse my lips. I couldn’t wait four, maybe six weeks to find out if I could trust Abby. I would just have to ask her about it and then trust her or not trust her. Luckily, I was seeing her in five hours

Sitting in the reception area of the Leonard Williams Agency, I flipped through a copy of
Variety
. I was busily reading what new TV shows were filming and where, while the girl at the desk phoned through to let Mr Williams know I was there. On the sofa opposite me sat a man with a small dog. I wondered if the dog did tricks. I was about to ask him (the man, not the dog), when the office door opened. Leonard Williams himself came out of his office and strode over to me. He introduced himself, and showed me into his office, shutting the door behind me.

He was a short man, with a gravelly voice, and he reminded me of Danny DeVito, but with a beard. As I sat, he offered me a cigar. I declined, and he lit one up. Maybe he thought it made him look like a bigshot. Or maybe he just liked cigars.

“How long have you represented Grant Foster?” I asked.

“As long as he’s been in the business. Twelve years, I’d say, but I could check if you want.” He didn’t wait for me to nod or even acknowledge his offer. Instead, he pushed a button on the intercom which sat on his desk. “Janice,” he said into it. “Bring me a copy of Grant’s résumé, please.”

“Did he get a lot of work?”

“He used to. He started off as a model. He was popular right from the start. He got a big contract straight off with Levi’s, did very well for the agency, but it seemed to screw him up a bit.”

“How so?” I asked, taking notes.

“He wanted fame, but when he was suddenly on billboards everywhere from here to Times Square, on TV, in magazines and so on, he found it difficult to deal with. He wasn’t used to having money, either. It didn’t take him long to develop a taste for gambling, which I don’t think has ever left him. Anyway, about nine or ten years ago, he just walked out.”

“Walked out of what?”

“Everything. His life. He left his fiancée, got all his money together, and just headed out. He still had six months to go on his Levi’s contract, which we had to buy him out of. I was pretty pissed about it at the time, but he had brought a great deal of money into this agency, so I got over it.”

Janice came in almost silently, and left a copy of Grant’s résumé on Williams’ desk. He picked it up and studied it.

“I was right,” he said. “Twelve years, he’s been with us. 1995.”

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“He spent three months in Atlantic City, until the money ran out. Frankly, I’m amazed it lasted more than a week the way he played. Maybe he had more than I thought to start with. Anyway, after that, I don’t know where he went. Just that eight months after he left, he showed up here again, looking for work.”

“And you took him back?”

“He’d done well for us in the past,” he explained. “We’re not a big agency, Mr Abraham. We don’t have any real big names. Grant pretty much put us on the map. To be honest with you, it’s why we’ve kept him around. He hasn’t been doing so well in recent years.”

“What’s the most recent project he worked on?”

“Actually, he was in rehearsal for a play when he died. Community theatre. The director was an old friend of his, so he was doing it for nothing.”

“What did he do for money?”

“Got me. He used to hit me up for loans every now and then, but I had to draw the line after a while.”

“Any idea who he placed his bets with when he was in Chicago?”

“He had a bookie on speed-dial. I don’t know if the guy was legit or not.”

“This play he was rehearsing. I’d like to speak to the people involved in that.”

“Well, they’re still in rehearsal,” he said. “They’ve had to find a new leading man, obviously. I’ll give you the address.”

“Incidentally, did you represent his fiancée?”

“Shelley wasn’t a model, she was a photographer. Actually, that’s how the two of them met.”

“Shelley?”

“The one he walked out on all those years ago.”

“No, I meant Emma McKinley, his most recent fiancée. She’s an actress, apparently.”

“Never heard of her, sorry.”

Williams walked me to the door of his office and, as I left, beckoned the man with the dog to go in. I made a mental note of what they looked like, so that when they were famous I could say ‘I knew them when.’

I looked at my watch as I got into my car. Three thirty. Four hours until I was due to pick up Abby.

From what I’d learned so far on Grant Foster and Calvin Walsh, I couldn’t see any connection between them. They were both white, single and in their thirties, but then Richard West was black, married, and in his twenties.

The more people I asked, the more likely it seemed that these were stranger killings. That there was no connection between the victims. The only thing they each had in common was the last person to see them alive. Perhaps they symbolized something in the killer’s mind. This was not surprising – most serial killers pick strangers as their victims, but if it was true that meant the only thing to be investigated was the forensic evidence, and only the police can do that. So I would go on asking questions, and hope something fell into place.

On the way back to the office, I bought a Tribune.
Scott
wasn’t answering his phone, so I called Lucy, who was rapidly becoming my favorite slightly illegal friend. I gave her Grant Foster’s cell phone number and asked her for a list of his most frequently called numbers. She called me back within an hour. There was one number Foster called far more than any other, and when I dialed it a man with a thick Bronx accent answered.

“Yeah?” he said.

I didn’t really know how to begin. Asking ‘are you a bookie?’ seemed like the kind of thing that would arouse suspicion unless the gentleman was entirely legitimate.

“Hi there,” I said, “can you give me odds on the Niners to win on Sunday against the Steelers?”

“+ 350. You got an account with me?”

“Not yet. Grant Foster put me on to you.”

“Don’t talk to me about that bum. He’s cut off. I don’t do business with people who don’t pay. You a friend of his?”

“Not really,” I said, which was true. “He told me he paid you what he owed. You’re still not taking his bets?”

“He told you he paid? He’s a lying scumbag. Anyways, not my problem any more. I sold his debt to a collector.”

“Big guy with a goatee and a tan?”

“Yeah, Carlton Pepper. Anyways, you want this bet or not?”

“Actually, I’m not sure the Niners can do it this week, thanks.”

I tried Scott again with no luck, so I did a web search for Carlton Pepper and found a registered address for his debt collection agency which looked at least semi-legit, then I started reading the paper. The update on the ‘Zorro’ murders had been relegated to page five. People were already getting bored with the story. This was the fourth day without a body. In a way, it became even scarier for that. The paper once again recapped all the victims, this time including Stacey Lloyd, the teenager who had been found in the Forest Preserve in DuPage.

I made a list of all the victims, went through my files and my notes and wrote down when they were each killed. First was Calvin Walsh, Friday before last, in the afternoon. Susan was abducted sometime after eleven that night, and she was dead by Sunday morning. Richard West was last seen at around 11pm on Saturday, and died during the night. Melissa Adams was shot in the head on Oak Street Beach in the early hours of Monday morning, the 17th. All in all, a busy weekend.

Julie Campbell was next. The English hitchhiker found dumped by the side of the Eisenhower. She was killed around 6 o’clock Tuesday morning.

Grant Foster was stabbed through the neck on Wednesday, and that afternoon the same killer shot Stacey Lloyd with a twelve gauge shotgun.

Finally, Linda Kramer, the most recent victim, lost her life on Thursday night.

All in all, I figured the killer could still be someone with a full time job, provided they took Wednesday off, and didn’t need any sleep.

When Scott eventually picked up his phone, he sounded tired but happy.

“We won’t need you to testify,” he began.

“They confessed?”

“Byrne did. He folded like a lawn chair. He confessed to the two executions tonight and three others and he couldn’t wait to roll over on Dugan, Michael Coughlin, the whole Bridgeport Crew. He practically bit the DA’s arm off when he offered the deal.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “He’s getting a deal? Does that mean he’ll be out on the street?”

“Don’t worry. Your name is well out of it. He’ll never know it was you that took him down. Besides, he’ll be relocated as part of the Witness Protection Program. This is big, Jake. There’s one other thing. He also told us the last job he did for Coughlin. Apparently, he and Dugan were sent to strong-arm some P.I. they’d heard was looking into the Patterson trial, opening up the whole thing again. It was never about Susan. They’re not involved in the Zorro case.”

“Did he say why Coughlin sent them?”

“Doesn’t know. Just did as he was told. Other stuff he knows a lot and isn’t holding back, so I believe him.”

“What about the two dead guys?”

“Dealers. They worked for Byrne, but lately they started hijacking his drug shipments on their way into the city. Byrne found out and wanted to know who they were selling them to. They wouldn’t say.”

“And the Zorro case? Jeez, I can’t believe we’re calling it that.”

Scott’s mood audibly altered. Apparently the Zorro case wasn’t going so well.

“Got no eye witnesses. Eight fucking murders, and I have no eye witnesses. We’ve got a security tape you can’t see shit on, of the guy dumping Walsh’s car with Patterson’s body in it, and some short-sighted asshole who disturbed him in DuPage county but has no idea what he looks like.”

“So it’s not good then?”

“People, and by people I mean the papers, so I use the term loosely, are asking why we haven’t released a sketch of the guy yet.”

“What about forensics?”

“We’ve got enough to prove we’ve got the right guy when we catch him, but that’s about all it’s good for.”

“Is the DNA back?”

“The semen found on Linda Kramer’s leg matches the hair found on the headrest in Walsh’s car, so it’s looking very likely our killer is African-American.”

“You remember the reporter who got the anonymous tip about Linda Kramer?” I asked.

“Yeah.” he replied, wearily.

“What happened with that?”

“Well, the news room at the TV station record all the calls they get, in case there’s, like, a bomb threat or something. Plus they keep a caller I.D. log so they can get back to people if they need to.”

“And?”

“We got the tape. The voice was distorted.”

“Why would a witness disguise their voice? It must be the killer.”

“Lab guys did what they could to clean it up, but it’s not recognizable. Best they can tell, it was a woman’s voice, so he must have got someone else to call it in.”

“What about the caller I.D.?”

“That’s the kicker. Number came back to Calvin Walsh’s apartment.”

“So the killer went back there after strangling Linda Kramer?” I asked.

“Nope. Phone company say it’s been disconnected since we found Walsh’s body. Landlord called them to arrange it. You heard of spoof cards?”

“No.”

“It’s like a calling card. Anyone can buy one on the net for about ten bucks. You dial a toll free number, give them your PIN, and then you can call someone and make them think you’re calling from anywhere you want. You can also change your voice. Worse thing is, it’s completely legal.”

“Why would he pretend to be Walsh, though? He must know you found the body.”

“Why else? To fuck with us”.

“What about the card company? Don’t they have the customer’s details”.

“They gave us what they had. Fake name, fake address”.

“Bummer. Still, on the upside, no more bodies have shown up, right?”

“You’d think that’s good, wouldn’t you? And it is, but it means we have to go with what we have. And what we have is shit. No new bodies means no new evidence.”

“Also, it’s kind of eerie.” I added. “I mean, what’s happened to him? Has he just stopped?”

“They don’t just stop. They get caught or they die. Ed Kemper gave himself up, but he was a one-off. No, I reckon maybe he’s got better at hiding the bodies. Up to now he hasn’t made much of an attempt at hiding them, but maybe with all the media coverage and after he was disturbed on Wednesday in the woods… Damn. I thought he was getting cocky but it looks like he’s gone back the other way.”