Chapter 37

Vince clicked on a blinking icon, and Nicole’s memory stick opened up. I was immediately lost. Fortunately, Rodriguez seemed to know his way around.

“The latest file on here was updated this morning. That means she probably ran a backup to whatever she did for you.”

“Can you find it?”

Vince opened up what looked like a spreadsheet and began to read.

“This is it,” he said. “Elaine Remington. Is that your client?”

I nodded.

“See these bar graphs in green?”

I nodded again.

“That’s the DNA profile from her shirt.”

Vince clicked and scrolled a bit more.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think this is the matching profile.”

Vince pointed to another set of graphs, these in red.

“Looks like she might have a match at twelve different loci.”

“That good?” I said.

Vince looked up from the computer.

“That’s very strong. You got a pen?”

I pushed one across the desk. Rodriguez began to make notes.

“Best I can figure, this is the case number from the matching profile. Can we get online here?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Jump into our police database,” Vince said. “See if I can track this case number.”

I nodded to my Mac.

“Be better if we can’t be traced.”

Rodriguez shrugged.

“You’re probably right.”

“Intelligentsia is down the street,” I said. “They have a Power-Book we can rent and a DSL line.”

Vince pulled the memory stick and we headed out. It was close to noon, and the shop was quiet. I got a coffee, black. Rodriguez got an espresso and logged on to the Chicago PD server.

I waited and sipped. Vince clicked and scrolled. Fifteen minutes later he sat back, looked at me, again at the computer screen, then closed it down.

“What is it?” I said.

Vince glanced around the almost empty coffee shop. Maybe there was a villain hidden in the Arturo Fuente whole-roasted coffee beans, on sale at $8.99 a pound, but I didn’t think so.

“Talk to me, Vince.”

The detective pulled the PowerBook open again and swung it around so I could follow along.

“What did Nicole tell you about the match?”

“She said it matched a profile in CODIS.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Best I can tell, your sample matches semen found on at least two female vics in the John William Grime murders.”

I flashed back to Ray Goshen and his broom closet full of horror.

“Grime? As in the serial killer?”

Rodriguez nodded.

“Not possible,” I said. “Grime was on death row when Elaine Remington was attacked.”

“I didn’t say it matched Grime himself,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s back up a minute. In 1995 they pulled fifteen bodies from under Grime’s house. All female. Most of them were clothed. Some were wrapped up in sheets. As you can imagine, a lot of physical evidence.”

“They got a whole wing devoted to Grime over at the warehouse.”

“Yeah well, last year Nicole’s lab director decided to process some of the Grime stuff for DNA.”

“The case was solved,” I said.

Rodriguez held up a hand.

“‘A matter of Chicago criminal history,’ the director argued. Anyway, everyone expected any genetic profile to be consistent with Grime.”

“Didn’t happen that way?” I said.

“They found Grime’s DNA on most of the evidence. I mean, his semen was all over the stuff. But there was a second, unidentified profile.”

“Semen?”

“On the clothing of two of the victims.”

“Why didn’t this make the news?”

Rodriguez took a breath.

“The lab was surprised, and at first there was a lot of conversation. Then people started to think it through. Grime’s victims were mostly hookers. It would be normal for them to have other customers on the night Grime picked them up.”

“The same unknown on two different victims?”

Vince shrugged.

“Maybe coincidence. Maybe not. Bottom line: the DA’s office decided to let it lie.”

“And now this.”

“Yeah, now this. A rape two years after Grime went to jail turns up the same unknown profile. But that’s not the only problem.”

“Jennifer?”

“Yeah, Jennifer Cole. But it’s not what you think.”

All I could think of was the face of a twelve-year-old blurred by a piece of police car Plexi.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Earlier this week Nicole ran the semen we found in the alley off Belmont. It came back to the Grime file as well.”

“The same unknown?”

“Actually, no. The semen we found in that alley was a perfect genetic match to Mr. Grime himself.”

“Impossible.”

“Not really. You ever hear of a guy named Norm Shannon?”

I shook my head.

“Guy in Milwaukee last year. Linked to three separate assaults through DNA. He’s sitting in a cell waiting for trial when a fourth attack occurs. Shannon’s semen is found inside the fourth victim. He files motions everywhere, attacking the credibility of DNA, saying how can it be, demanding his release.”

“And?”

“Turns out Shannon masturbated into a package of mustard, mailed it to this woman from prison. She inserted it in herself and claimed she was raped. All for fifty dollars.”

“Damn.”

“Woman copped to the whole scam,” Rodriguez said. “Didn’t work, but hell, it was a nice try.”

“And you’re thinking that’s what Grime did?”

“I’m thinking Grime had an accomplice in his original murders. One we never knew about. One Grime is still in contact with.”

“And this guy is still active?”

“Looks like it. I think Grime somehow got this guy his semen and told him to drop it at one of his attacks. Who knows why. Just for fun. Anyway, that attack turned out to be Jennifer Cole.”

“And now you think Elaine Remington’s shirt can help ID this guy?”

“I think that is what Nicole was going to tell you at the lab.”

We sat quietly for a moment, staring at the file Nicole had left us, the lead she had unwittingly died for. Vince clicked on another icon, and a newspaper photo came up, a group shot of men sitting around a mahogany table. The caption read GRIME PROSECUTION TEAM. Vince zoomed in on the photo.

“Appears Nicole was already pulling background on Grime.”

“Yeah,” I said, and scanned the blurry faces. A lot of them looked young. Never one to miss a microphone, Gerald O’Leary was front and center.

“E-mail that to me, will you?” I said.

I gave Rodriguez my address.

“When’s the execution date?” I said.

Vince clicked through the file.

“Looks like he might go within the year.”

“Where is he right now?”

“Death row at Menard. Down near Saint Louis. What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I need to talk to Grime.”

Rodriguez thought that was pretty funny.

“He’s been on death row for a decade,” the detective said. “Never sat down with a cop. Never gave an interview to the press.”

“He’ll see me.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a year from the needle and I’m the guy who’s going to set him free.”

Rodriguez shut down the computer and drained his espresso.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“If you’re going to get inside a room with Grime, there’s someone you need to talk to. I’ll set it up.”