As the Wicked Watch(11)

I pivoted toward Tanya.

“Tanya,” I said.

“Yeah!” She was a different person from the one I’d met less than ten minutes ago.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the discovery before we went on the air,” I said. “In my haste and on deadline . . . and I was worried about getting back across the police barricades. I’m sorry. I had a lot going on in my head. Are you okay?”

Tanya paused, as if she had to think about her answer, her head tilted slightly to the left. “No!” she exclaimed. “I’m scared! What else do you know that you’re not telling me?” she asked.

“That’s all I know, and what you told me was very helpful, by the way,” I said, trying to calm her down. “Thank you.”

A tear slowly rolled down her right cheek. “It’s like we take one step forward and two steps back. We’re trying to build a safe community. How are we supposed to do that now?”

I didn’t have an answer for her.

“I bet it’s that girl,” Tanya said, shaking her head in disagreement with her own words. “I bet it’s that girl,” she repeated.

*

The news conference was pushed back to three-thirty. I hadn’t eaten anything since I left the house. By the time noon rolled around, Scott and I were no longer the only media on the scene. Police had erected privacy crime scene barriers around the spot where the body had been found beneath the “L” tracks and gradually allowed the media, which had blocked traffic on the residential street, to move in closer.

Scott had done his best before the privacy screens went up to zoom in to capture a decent shot of the overgrown lot from behind the barricades. But it was Baby Smierciak who got the money shot. Putting his agility to work, he’d managed to scale a fire escape on the building adjacent to the playground and got off a few overhead shots that provided the best view of the property’s ragged conditions before investigators noticed him and threatened to arrest him.

GOT A GREAT SHOT! UPLOADING IT, he texted, with an image attached of investigators standing around, their necks craned forward, peering down at a dark-colored tarp.

YOU’RE A GENIUS! I texted back.

I forwarded the image to Tracy to accompany my next broadcast. “Hey, this might be good for a teaser before the four o’clock news,” I told her.

By 3:20 p.m., all eyes were on Linda Folson, the public information officer for the Chicago PD. She had just arrived on the scene. She was easy to spot: a tall woman, at least five-eleven, with graying sandy blond hair and a perpetually grim look. In her job, though, it worked in her favor.

At three-thirty on the dot, Folson stood before a podium the department had set up adjacent to the crime scene.

“Good afternoon, members of the press,” Folson began somberly. “Thank you for your patience.”

Then she got right to the point.

“This morning at 8:13 a.m., we received a call from Cook County Sheriff’s Police that a crew of prisoners from the county jail on work detail had discovered human remains under the ‘L’ tracks at 45th Street and Calumet Avenue.”

Folson’s words came in rapid succession. “The victim is an African American female, approximately five feet nine inches tall. The remains are now with the Cook County medical examiner. Police will continue to work here at the scene collecting DNA evidence. We have no further information on the victim’s identity or cause of death. But police have opened a homicide investigation. We ask anyone with any information to call the crime hotline by dialing 311. Also, we’re asking the media to please respect the privacy of the residents here in the immediate area. We’ll update you as information becomes available. That’s all I have. No questions at this time. Thank you.”

Before the word you had left her lips, Folson went into full retreat. She scampered away from the podium quickly, ignoring calls of “Linda! LIN-da!” at her back. Not from me, though. I’d turned to stone.

“Jordan, we’re going back to the desk,” field producer Tracy said through my earpiece. “You’re clear.”

I was grateful. “The victim is an African American female” had temporarily halted my breathing.

Scott saw it in my face. “It doesn’t mean it’s her,” he said, reading my thoughts.

Why would police reveal the race and gender of the victim to the public before they had made a positive ID?

“It’s irresponsible!” I said, incredulous, the words struggling to keep up with my growing outrage. “I mean, isn’t it?” looking at Scott.

“What’s irresponsible? I don’t follow you,” he said.

“For police to release that kind of detail about the victim when there’s a child missing who fits that description!” I said.

Was Pam watching?

Her words were in my head from that day in the booth at the back of the coffee shop at our third meeting. “Masey’s always been tall for her age. She says, ‘Mama, I can’t wait for these little boys to catch up with me in high school.’”

She also told me about a girl who had a “pick at Masey” at her old school in West Englewood.

“I would’ve thought she’d be afraid to mess with my baby. Mase has got about three inches on her.”

Pam went on to explain how her eldest gets up at five o’clock on school days to make it in time for the eight o’clock bell.