“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 thepoint 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 note, 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.”
With her gloved fingers, Jane taps on the phone. She finds only one name in the contacts, “Lauren.” She pulls up his text messages. Every text in the months-long text exchange with Lauren’s phone is there. All the way down to the last one:
Mon, Oct 31, 10:47 PM
I’m sorry, Lauren. I’m sorry for what I did and I’m sorry you didn’t love me. But I’m not sorry for loving you like nobody else could. I’m coming to you now. I hope you’ll accept me and let me love you in a way you wouldn’t in this world.
“This all tracks with what we have and what we know,” says Jane.
“Jane!” Andy calls to her. “Jane, you gotta come see this.”
—
Andy is standing in the bathroom, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “See anything interesting?” he says.