I slouched against a rusted girder Nelson Algren would have been proud of, about a block from the corner of Lake and Wabash. I could see the train up on the tracks, a forensic team working on the hole where a window used to be. There was a traffic jam of cop cars and firemen below, mingling with an avalanche of media. Already most of the details had hit the radio. The local folks might not be geniuses, but it didn’t take a genius to connect Southport to the Loop and come up with one hel of a story. On the cab ride down, I listened as a jock named Jake Hartford took cal s, opinions on everything from who the serial kil er might be to why the city had already dropped the bal. Al of this delivered in the highest decibel, the black-andwhite shrieks of daytime talk, opinion delivered without any obvious facts or apparent need for them. Up on the tracks, I could see the smudgy outline of Rodriguez, talking to another detective and looking down at the mob on the street. I couldn’t see Rodriguez sweat, but I could feel it. After a minute, he took a cal. Now I couldn’t hear him swear, but I could feel that even more. He snapped the phone shut and searched the rafters of the elevated for some guidance. Then he walked back to the first detective, whispered in his ear, and headed down to the street. I headed that way as wel. We met in front of Gold Coast Dogs, with about a dozen reporters and a half dozen cameras between us.
“Detective, do you have any leads on either of the shootings?” The question came from a breathless blonde Channel 10 had hired about a month and a half ago. She probably hailed from somewhere in North Dakota and had never ridden an L train in her life. Stil, she was easy to look at. In local news, that counted for a lot.
“We’re working both crimes scenes, col ecting evidence, taking statements. We should know a lot more once that process is completed.”
Rodriguez’s cop voice was in ful throat, deep and measured. He never made eye contact with the horde. Just looked beyond the cameras, probably wondering why he ever got out of bed in the morning.
“Detective Rodriguez, are you working both cases together or are these separate investigations?”
That was John Donovan, Chicago’s senior crime reporter. He was the lead dog, and the rest of the pack knew it. So did Rodriguez.
“We have separate teams working each case. There wil, however, be some overlap.”
“Meaning you, or some other detective, wil be working both cases?” Donovan said.
Rodriguez nodded. “Probably.”
“Which means you suspect the two shootings are connected?” Donovan said.
“We don’t know what to suspect at this point,” Rodriguez said, voice rising as the media began to write their own story. “There are significant differences in these two crime scenes. Given the circumstances of the shootings, however, we’l certainly be looking into any possible connections.”
“Have you got any concrete evidence the two are connected?”
That was from an olive-skinned woman with a notebook and pencil, standing at the back of the crowd, just in front of me. She was slight, maybe thirty years old, with glasses that had slipped halfway down her nose and a look of intel igence you don’t often see in a gathering of the media.
“No, we don’t have anything specific that connects the two,” Rodriguez said. “But, as I indicated, we’re in the early stages.”
Several reporters jumped in, yel ing questions, one over the other. It was Donovan who broke through the maelstrom.
“Detective, does Chicago have a spree kil er loose in its public transportation system?”
Rodriguez paused, eyes searching, then resting on me. I could see a smal, sad smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at Donovan and offered up the sound bite everyone was waiting on.
“John, I’l be honest. At this stage, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Rest assured, however, the entire weight of the Chicago Police Department wil be brought to bear on these cases, and we wil get some answers.”
“When?” Donovan said.
“Soon, John. Sooner rather than later. That much, I can promise you.”
With that, Rodriguez ended the press conference. Several people continued to yel questions, but the detective waved them off. After a few minutes, the crowd began to dissolve. The print reporters went back to reporting. The TV folks shot pictures and put on makeup. RODRIGUEZ DRIFTED ACROSS Wabash and met me at the corner of Randolph.
“Let’s get a coffee,” he said.
I nodded and we walked back across the street.
“Why am I not surprised you’re here?”
I shrugged. “What did you expect?”
“Exactly. What do you think?”
“About what?” I said.
“The press.”
“Hysterical, as usual. Maybe even more so.”
“This is going to be a fucking zoo.”
“You got that right.”
We walked into a Starbucks and ordered. Then we sat by the window and looked out at the street.
“You got one shooter here, Vince.”
Rodriguez stared me down over his cup of coffee. “You sure about that?”
“Seems logical to me.”
The detective took a sip. “One’s a walk-up with a handgun. The other, a sniper with a rifle.”
“You thinking they’re not connected?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “I didn’t say that. Just doesn’t fit the normal pattern.”
I shrugged. “It’s the same guy.”
“Or guys,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s talk about your al ey.”
The detective placed a napkin between us and sketched out the scene at Cornelia. “You turn the corner here and see a set of footprints tracking al the way down this al ey. Right?”
I nodded.
“Okay, the snow had been fal ing ten minutes. Correct?”
“Tops,” I said.
“And there’s just one set of prints?”
“Just the one.”
“But when you fol ow the prints, the guy is waiting for you. Halfway down the al ey, behind a Dumpster.”
“Maybe he doubled back?” I said.