As the Wicked Watch(63)

“What does Seth do for the state crime lab?” I asked.

“He doesn’t work for the lab directly. He accredits public and private labs that have a staff of more than ten people.”

Maybe my prayers are working. This guy is the forensic equivalent of a CIA operative. I’m impressed. April’s forthrightness melted my skepticism and I felt compelled to share something about myself.

“You know the leading forensic pathologist in Cook County? Dr. Marvin Chan?”

“Of course!” she said, “but I don’t know him, personally. Seth has met him. He has a lot of respect for that man.”

“Dr. Chan is a dear, dear friend of mine,” I said. “I spoke with him earlier today.”

I felt the need to clarify: “But not pillow talk, let’s be clear. We met when I was in grad school.”

I was reticent to tell April about the tissue sample that Dr. Chan had sent out for analysis in the James case. Come to think of it, Masey hadn’t been the focus of her conversation thus far.

“Interesting,” she said. “Does he give you scoops?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but yes, he’s a good friend.” My mother has a saying: “It’s one thing to tell your business, it’s another to tell someone else’s.” Dr. Chan and I have several years of friendship on April Murphy. I wasn’t about to break his confidence for her on day one. “Dr. Chan is out of the country right now, so I’m not sure how much help he’ll be at the moment.”

“Hmm. Well, I think we could make quite a pair, Jordan,” she said.

You could be a valuable source, April, but a pair sounds exclusive, and that’s not what this is. April is amiable, but with sources, especially new ones, I try and do more listening than talking so that I don’t inadvertently say something that April could take back to a competitor, unwittingly or not.

“One thing is for sure, after hearing about all this evidence bungling, at such a high level, I’m going to track analysis of evidence in this case very closely,” I said.

“Hey, mind if I grab a coffee and a muffin really fast?” April asked.

“No, go right ahead,” I said.

“Okay, great. I’ll be right back.”

“You mind if I look through these?” I asked pointing to the neat brown legal folder.

“No, go ahead. Just keep the pages in order. There’s a method to my madness,” she said.

I found it interesting that April described the Dallas–Fort Worth crime lab as one of the best in the country. But I suspect further analysis would show that the way crimes are prioritized has a lot to do with it. Chicago crime isn’t all gun violence and gangs, but because those crimes occur more frequently, they receive more attention than kidnappings and serial murders.

I’d ignored several pings from my cell phone while listening to April’s story. I had three text messages. One from Pamela: I’m parking. One from Joey: What’s up? And one from Mrs. Bennett: Hi, Jordan. How are you? Saw your report the other night. Great job! Are you free for dinner Sunday?

Margaret Bennett’s husband, Robert, was a college buddy of my uncle Stew’s, my dad’s much older brother by twelve years. When he learned I was moving to Chicago, he arranged for me to meet the Bennetts. Since then, they’ve become my great-aunt and -uncle away from home. Mr. Bennett is a financial wiz and has given me excellent advice on my taxes, and Margaret, whom he calls “my Maggie,” is a renowned art curator, and she exudes all the elegance, style, and finesse that comes with that title. I relish Sunday dinners with the Bennetts. It makes me feel like I’m back in Texas with my family. After nearly fifty years of marriage, they still seem genuinely crazy about each other and they still look good. A beautiful older Black couple, they’re aspirational.

I returned Pam’s text: OK, we’re both here. I’ll see you soon. And Mrs. Bennett’s: Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. Yes, I’d be delighted to join you this Sunday. To Joey: In mtg. Call U back.

I looked up just as both Pam and April were walking toward the table. I slid out of the booth and stood up to greet Pam and, no question in my mind, to hug her, too. I held out my arms and she practically fell into them. I stumbled backward a bit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught April’s sympathetic expression.

“Pamela,” I said, releasing my grip. She pulled away. “Have a seat here next to me.”

Pamela looked up just as April took her seat on the other side of the booth. “This is April Murphy with Women United Against Violence.”

“Ms. Alonzo, thank you for meeting with me today. You have my sincere and heartfelt condolences,” she said. “I’ll do anything I can to help you. That’s a promise.”

Pamela dropped her head and looked up, tears welling in her eyes.

“I appreciate that Ms. Murphy, but it’s too late to help me. My child is already dead. But maybe we can help the next one.”

April took Pamela by both hands. “I know you’re right, but that breaks my heart. I haven’t lost a child, but I lost my mother to violence when I was in high school. I can’t change what happened to her, but I do this work because of her. I guess that’s why I can’t let it go.”

I fought back the tears, because I understood that mandate. I’ve used it myself to fill the void of having someone you love ripped from existence.