“Could be, could be, I wouldn’t remember that. But the Lawlor boy, he could be a handful. Losing his sis like that straightened him out. She carried the can for him, you see, those times he got caught shoplifting, or when he was in trouble at school. But I guess when Maggie died Wade saw he was going to have to fly solo. Not to speak ill of the dead, but his ma was never going to look out for him. He started going to his classes regular, earned that scholarship to Northwestern to study broadcast journalism—everyone here is pretty proud of what he made of himself.”
A little boy whose bathing suit was drifting to his knees ran up. “Gramma, Gramma, a butterfly drownded in the pool, can you fix it?”
Mavis Chez bent over to look at the bedraggled butterfly. She tugged at the boy’s trunks and suggested they make a little nest for the butterfly. The two disappeared into the house.
“Tommy talked about a picture the firemen took of him. Would you remember that?”
Chez shook his head. “I expect we took his picture when we posed for our annual calendar or something, but I couldn’t tell you anything more specific. He liked to go to fires with us, loved the excitement. He was real proud of having his own fire hat. Netta got a scanner so she could keep track of when we were called out, and she’d drive him over to the fire, if she wasn’t at work. We’d let him help hold the hose if we needed an extra pair of hands—he could remember how to do a job if it was simple and you explained it to him careful. And he was a strong boy, so those hands came in useful on a fire hose—they’re heavy, they’re tricky if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Heavy boy with strong hands. I thought of those big white hands I’d seen this afternoon, around Magda’s neck, or maybe even my own.
Two granddaughters came over, needing Chez to tighten the chains in their bicycles. I spent another half hour with the lively family, but neither Eddie nor his wife could add anything to the story.
I took a slow route back to Chicago, avoiding the expressways, turning the afternoon’s conversations over in my mind. Tommy had been obsessed with Magda Lawlor, used to stand watching her as she sunbathed, as she danced with Link Beringer. Maybe he’d imagined dancing with her himself and she had told him no, or laughed at him. He was prone to sudden rages; he had poor impulse control. He might have shaken her until her neck broke and then laid her in the lake.
I didn’t think he thought in such a complicated way that he’d say, oh, no, she’s dead, better make it look as though she drowned. More likely, he’d followed her to the lake. He’d followed her to the lake and somehow broken her neck, and then watched her, waiting for her eyes to open, for her to say, ‘That you, Tommy? I thought it was Prince Charming.’ ”
I shuddered. But twenty-seven years in the locked ward had calmed him down. It seemed mean of Fred to threaten to take his trucks, but maybe that was kinder than using restraints.
While I was with the Chezes, Murray had been texting me and leaving ever more urgent voice messages, wanting to know what I’d learned from Tommy Glover. Murray so much wanted to prove it was Wade Lawlor who had pressed Weekes into canceling his Madness in the Midwest series that he was ignoring all the other ramifications of the case. He’d even wanted to come with me to Ruhetal, but only licensed members of the bar could go cold-calling on Ruhetal inmates, and it’s easier for camels to make their proverbial journey than for journalists to get into a forensic wing unannounced.
Still, he was entitled to some information; he’d paid his dues by getting the Star to make me professional-quality photos to show to Tommy. When I reached my office, I gave Murray a report.
“The key to the situation may be in an old photograph of Tommy with the local volunteer fire department. He showed it to Leydon, and Wuchnik saw it, too, but it’s gone now. If Leydon took it—I don’t know—I’ve been through her apartment and her car, and didn’t come on anything with a fire department in it. And Wuchnik’s and Jurgens’s places were swept bare. If any of them removed it from Ruhetal, it’s probably in the CID landfill now.”
I also went over my conversation with Eddie Chez, and Chez’s suggestion that it might have been one of their old volunteer-fire-department calendars. Murray said he’d take care of that angle. He could go out to Tampier tomorrow and track down some of the other people who used to be part of the volunteer squad. Somewhere, one of them would have a copy of the picture with Tommy in it.
I locked the photos in my office safe. When I drove home, I found that my cousin had shown up at Mr. Contreras’s place. Petra had spent the weekend in Kansas City with her mother and sisters; tomorrow she’d go back to the Malina Foundation, where they were trying to rekindle enthusiasm for the book club program among the families who’d fled the mayhem of the past month.
“What are you doing?” Petra asked.
“Trying to find an old picture of a suburban fire department.”
“Well, gosh, Vic, that will help Arielle and the Dudek girls come out of hiding, won’t it!”