As the Wicked Watch(57)

“Do you think he’ll kill again?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But interesting you would ask, because I was about to ask if you thought we are dealing with a serial killer.”

Dr. Chan had planted the seed in my mind a few days ago, but that wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned a suspected serial killer in Chicago targeting Black women. When he first became special consultant to the chief medical examiner, he told me that he reviewed hundreds of cold cases and discovered a dozen unsolved murders of Black women going back eight or nine years. The victims, he said, were characterized as indigent, homeless, or engaged in intravenous drug activity or prostitution. That shouldn’t matter—a victim is a victim. But it could explain why nobody cared enough to find their killers.

“I think it’s a possibility, yes,” I said.

“Me too,” April said.

After a long silence, April spoke. “About a year ago, I teamed up with a group out of D.C., started by a bunch of retired law enforcement officers and prosecutors. They track cold cases. Ever since Ted Bundy, when the FBI first developed personality profiles of serial killers, they’ve been adding on more crime-fighting techniques, like algorithms to identify patterns of behavior and styles of killing. I’m sorry if that sounds morbid.”

“No, not at all. I grew up knowing that I wanted to be a reporter. And one of the people I always envisioned myself interviewing was Henry Lee Lucas. Ever heard of him?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah,” April replied. “I got the chills just hearing his name.”

Lucas was the notorious Texas serial killer who confessed to more than a hundred murders. Investigators kept him alive because they kept believing his stories about hidden bodies, though not all of them proved to be true. He was by far one of the most despicable human beings on earth, but he wasn’t executed. He died of natural causes in prison.

“Listen, when I first moved to Chicago, I drove by John Wayne Gacy’s house, just to see it. I was disappointed when I found out it’d already been torn down,” I said, relaxing into the conversation. April and I had only met, but eventually, I hoped, she would stop apologizing for being interested in murder and realize whom she’s talking to.

“So, all good,” I said. “Continue.”

“Well, we created a database to store and share information. When we hit upon something interesting, we reach out to local authorities to see if they would consider reopening a case,” she said. “Sometimes they do. Sometimes they write us off as crackpots with nothing better to do.”

“You said this group is out of D.C., so do they track cases around the nation, or just in the Chicago area?” I asked.

“No, they’re national, but in recent years, they have been tracking a growing number of unsolved murders of Black women in the Midwest, including Chicago and the surrounding suburbs, St. Louis and Kansas City.”

Oh my God! They’ve picked up on the same trend as Dr. Chan.

“Did they release their findings?” I asked.

“To the police? Frankly I think they were hesitant because many of the victims were women who clearly had struggles, some living on the streets trying to survive,” she went on. “I know. It’s infuriating.”

I huffed incredulity. “Did they come up with a profile of the killer or killers? Do they think there’s one, two, three? What’s the motivation?”

“Unfortunately, they didn’t,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, but the victims’ profiles don’t line up with Masey’s case. I could be way off base here, but I can’t help but wonder how in the hell a girl like Masey James, a good student from a solid, loving family, ended up being murdered in such a terrible way.”

She had no idea what I was thinking.

“That’s something of an indelicate question, isn’t it? How does someone like Masey end up a victim? Aren’t victims always victims?”

“Well, yes, of course! It shouldn’t matter. All I’m saying is that nothing about the way Masey lived and who she was pointed to her life ending in this way,” she said.

I didn’t mean to put April on the defensive, but what’s the point of collecting the data and then not sharing it? “I agree with you there,” I said.

“She’s too young for it to have been a crime of passion. No, this is a psycho. Question is, did this guy lose it one day, because he got triggered, or did he plan this?”

I remained silent as I thought about that.

“You think I’m being irrational, or that I watch too many made-for-TV movies, right?” she asked.

“No, not at all. I was just thinking. I’m impressed, really, by the fact you care this much,” I said to try and soften what might have felt to her like an attack, not simply my journalistic nature. Still, I hesitated to share Dr. Chan’s speculations about Masey’s killer or that he, too, had identified a similarly disturbing pattern among Black female victims in Chicago. I told April I had some other leads to follow, and we promised to stay in touch.

Dr. Chan had been gone only two days, but surely they would fast-track this sample under the circumstances. Calling the lab directly wouldn’t do me any good. I would need a Freedom of Information Act request and maybe even a court order to get that type of information released directly to a journalist. Even Joey might experience a lag unless he was listed as an investigator on the case.