A Trace of Gold: Murder Chicago Style

A Trace of Gold (First Chapters)

Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,

Molten, graven, hammered and rolled,

Heavy to get, and light to hold,

Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,

Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled,

Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old

To the verge of the churchyard mould;

Price of many a crime untold.

Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary—

To save—to ruin—to curse—to bless

—Thomas Hood

He would never have guessed that a man in his eighties could hold out that long. He had beaten the old guy senseless and revived him three times and he finally had to concede that he didn't know any more than when he started, which was squat. He hadn't been sure he could torture an old man, let alone kill one. The old guy's stooped frame and white hair kind of reminded him of his grandfather, or at least what he imagined his grandfather would have been like had he known him. Anyway, it was too late for second thoughts. It was stiflingly hot in the house and hard to breathe with all the dog hair floating around, so he'd taken off his mask. The old guy'd be able to identify him now and he knew he couldn't make a deal with him. Not after killing his dogs. If anything could have made him talk it would have been that. The man wailed through the tape over his mouth when he shot them. In a way he'd be better off dead. If he left him alive the old guy would spend the rest of his life grieving over a couple of mutts.

The old man was still unconscious, which made it easier. He walked around behind him, pressed the little automatic against the back of his head and pulled the trigger, twice. The man jerked a little and slumped forward, straining the extension cord that held him to the kitchen chair. He wasn't sure whether he'd be able to feel a pulse through the latex gloves he wore, so he put his ear next to the man's open mouth and listened for breathing. He was startled by a low, raspy sound as the old man's weight against the cord forced air from his lungs.

He took his beer with him into the bathroom and set it on the back of the toilet while he pissed. He'd brought a duffel bag filled with supplies and he wanted to make certain he didn't leave anything behind, especially a beer can with his DNA on it. He swore when the latex gloves made it hard to zip up his pants. After flushing the toilet twice he went back to the kitchen. He tossed the beer can and gun into his bag. The last thing he did was cut the extension cord that held the old man in his seat. Gravity slowly pulled the body out of the chair. The old man rolled onto his back and stopped, staring up at him from the green and white tiles. He turned the head to one side with his foot while he coiled the cord and tossed it into his bag. That way the old guy could look at his dogs until someone found them. The blood stood out dark on the linoleum, and he avoided the puddles as he stepped over the body. He checked to see that the back door was locked before walking down the steps, out the gate, and into the night.

ONE

It was a muggy day and Sean McKinney was conscious of the perspiration on his back as he walked up the steps of the criminal courts building at 26th and California Streets on Chicago's near south side. He had rehearsed his speech several times in the car on the short drive from the crime lab, but his stomach still tightened as he entered Courtroom 207. The courtroom was a monument to tradition in oak and stone and it smelled musty, with a hint of disinfectant. The smell of law, McKinney thought. He leaned against the cool surface of a marble wall and fiddled with the wedding ring in his pocket, slipping it on and off his finger as he surveyed the room. The judge hadn't yet entered, but the attorneys were at their respective tables. McKinney wasn't quite six feet tall and thin, his unkempt, sand-colored hair and crooked nose making him look more like a middle-aged beach bum than a forensic scientist with the Illinois State Police. He wiped his palms on his chinos as he approached the state's attorney's table. Earlier that week the lead prosecutor, Brian Jameson, had let him know that McKinney's report and bench notes, detailing his examination of the evidence, were not important to the case and would not be shared with the defense.