W alk along Chicago’s lakefront, past the North Avenue Bridge and then across a couple of baseball fields. In a hollow just south of the Lincoln Park Zoo you will find a small lagoon, a walking path, and a shade of trees. I got there at a little after three in the afternoon, staked out a comfortable bench, and pulled out Elaine’s street file one more time. I had scrawled Pollard’s name across the top. Below it were five more names. All of them dead. John Gibbons was first; followed by a second cop, Tony Salvucci; the ER nurse Carol Gleason; an EMT named Joe Jeffries; and Gibbons’ immediate boss, Dave Belmont. I was running through it a couple more times when my cell phone buzzed. It was Masters.
“You know the file you sent over to me?”
“Hello to you, Sergeant.”
“Yeah. You know that file?”
I circled Carol Gleason’s name.
“The one from Phoenix?”
“Yeah, Gleason. Is that going to cause me problems?”
“You tell me.”
“I ran the tests you wanted.”
“Against the Gibbons shooting?”
“And Salvucci.”
“Right.”
“The ballistics are a match,” Masters said. “Same gun, nine millimeter, that killed Gibbons was used on Salvucci two years earlier and the Phoenix woman two years before that.”
“There’s one more you’re going to need to run.”
“Already did it. Same nine was used on the EMT, Joe Jeffries, in