Look Closer(97)

Behind him, on the wall, is massive blood and brain spatter.

He is wearing a white T-shirt and gym shorts.

His feet are bare. But next to them, haphazardly arranged as if tossed from his feet, a pair of boots, the color of caramel, with thick treads.

“Mind if I look at the boot?” she asks.

“Be my guest,” says Cheronis. “Photos and video are done. I’ll bag it when you’re done with it.”

Jane, gloves on, lifts up the boot and looks at the sole, just to confirm what she already suspects. The boots are Paul Roy Peak Explorers. Inside, on the boot’s tongue, is the boot size.

She looks at Andy. “Size thirteen,” she says.

He looks happier than Jane feels.

? ? ?

“We removed the gun from his hand,” Cheronis explains. “Obvious protocol. It was a Glock 23, had a nearly full magazine, only two bullets fired. Serial numbers scratched out.”

Two bullets.

“So, suicide?” Andy says.

“Maybe,” says Cheronis. “Look up at the ceiling.”

A yellow sticky tab hangs in the corner, where the wall with the blood spatter meets the ceiling. A bullet hole.

“That’s not the shot that killed him, obviously,” says Cheronis. “Angle doesn’t work at all.”

“A second shot,” Jane says.

“A second shot.”

Jane looks at Cheronis, then Andy. “Maybe not suicide.”

“We don’t have the tox screen back yet, so who knows how full of booze and drugs he was,” says Cheronis. “But I’ll tell you, I’ve seen a lot in my time. I’ve seen a lot of suicides. I’ve seen a lot of hesitation with suicide victims. But I’ve never seen someone turn a gun on themselves and miss.”

? ? ?

“So his name is Christian Newsome,” Jane says, glancing at Andy, who’s thinking about that religious name comment in the text messages.

Cheronis hands her a business card. All green, the color of money. No logo or catchphrase. Just the name, “Christian Newsome,” in a simple black font, then beneath it, separated by a horizontal line, “Newsome Capital Growth.”

In the corner, the contact information:

NEWSOME CAPITAL GROWTH

Grant Thornton Tower





161 North Clark Street


Suite 1320


Chicago, IL 60601

Jane hands Andy the card. “The Grant Thornton Tower,” she says.

“That’s Clark and Randolph downtown,” says Cheronis. “Across the street from the Daley Center and the Thompson Center. Most people know it as the Chicago—”

“Chicago Title & Trust Building,” says Jane. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

? ? ?

“Is this guy married?” Jane asks.

“Not so far as we know. We only found the body a few hours ago, so who knows, but nothing in this place suggests a woman lives here. Or even a second person.”

Jane bends at the waist, not touching the dead body but looking at the bullet wound under his chin, the blood and brain spatter on the wall, the angle of the other shot.

She uses her finger as a gun, sticks her index finger under her chin, then swipes it right, off her chin, and presses down with her thumb, firing.

That’s what happened here. The bullet that didn’t hit Christian was fired into the wall, just short of the ceiling, off to Christian’s right. The only way that bullet could land where it did was if the gun had been fired right by Christian’s face.

It was under his chin, and then it wasn’t. The gun angled off Christian’s chin to the right and fired.

“It’s not hard to imagine hesitation,” says Cheronis. “Not hard to imagine he shoves the gun under his chin, then loses his nerve and moves it off his chin.”

“But he wouldn’t fire the gun,” she says. “Or at least, not intentionally.”

“You’d think not,” Cheronis agrees. “Then again, if you’ve come to the point of suicide, who knows what’s going on in your head? Hands are probably shaking, right? It’s not impossible the gun would’ve gone off. Plus, who knows how many of these pills he took.”

Fair enough.

“Or,” she says, “someone shoved a gun under Christian’s chin, he knocked it away, and the gun went off in the struggle.”

“That is . . . possible, yes,” Cheronis agrees.

“Neighbors hear anything? A struggle? The gunshots?”

“Nope. We talked to all of them. Judging from the timing of the suicide notes, he died around eleven on Halloween night. So most people were down for the night. And Wicker Park, Bucktown, I mean, it’s noisy around here, especially on Halloween night.”

“Suicide note,” she says.

“He sent a text message to this ‘Lauren’ on Halloween night at ten-forty-seven p.m.”

“Right. I have Lauren’s phone.”

“Let’s just make sure we’re on the same page with that.” Cheronis shows her a cell phone, a burner that looks just like Lauren’s, except it has a green cover rather than pink.

Jane takes the green phone in her hand. “How many people he talk to with this?”

“Just the one,” says Cheronis. “Just this ‘Lauren’ woman.”