Albert’s demeanor was confused and distraught. O’Donnell had to repeat some of her questions several times until he answered them. Tatum found himself hoping O’Donnell would cut him loose. At some point Zoe came out of the house and stood by Tatum’s side, listening.
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Catherine?” O’Donnell asked.
“No! Everyone loved her.”
“Anyone she had an argument with? Anything out of the ordinary?”
A fragment of hesitation before he said, “No.”
O’Donnell tilted her head slightly. “You mentioned Catherine had been sick this past week.”
“Yes, she missed work.”
“Where does she work?”
“She works as the administrator in my church.”
“In your church? Are you a pastor?”
“That’s right, at Riverside Baptist Church.”
O’Donnell paused for a second to jot that down, and, Tatum guessed, to adjust her view of the case accordingly. He wasn’t particularly attuned to Chicago’s internal politics, but he assumed that a murdered pastor’s daughter, who herself worked in the church, would be a high-profile case, in the eyes of both the media and of officials.
“So she called in sick recently,” O’Donnell said. “How many times?”
“Two . . . no, three times in the past week. But . . . she missed some workdays before that.”
“Did she say what was wrong?”
“No.”
“Did she seem sick to you?”
“Yes. She was tired all the time. Cathy is such an energetic and happy woman, and in the past month . . .” His voice dissipated. The present tense hung in the air, invisible but razor sharp. After a second he cleared his throat. “She missed some of her volunteer work as well.”
“Mr. Lamb,” O’Donnell said. “You mentioned she seemed tired. Did she look sick? Complain about any pains? About a fever? Did she have a runny nose? Anything at all?”
“No, nothing like that. She said she had lady problems.”
“Is it possible that something troubled her? That her problems were personal and not physical?”
“She would never skip work, not for something like that.” His eyes shimmered, wet and desperate. “The church and her volunteer work were everything to her.”
“Where did she volunteer?”
“In the church. As a religious counselor. Our church has two religious counselors, and she was one of them.”
“A religious counselor to whom?”
“Anyone in need.”
“Who did she advise regularly, Mr. Lamb?”
“All sorts. Troubled youths, poor families, people who were losing their way or their faith . . .” His speech slowed down, sounding like a man who was suddenly trying to think faster than he spoke. “Just people in need.”
O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed. She probably noticed Lamb’s behavior as well.
“Troubled people,” she said. “Women. And men.”
“Yes,” Mr. Lamb answered.
“People who were trying to mend their ways?” Tatum suggested.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Ex-convicts?” Tatum asked.
A long silence.
“Was Catherine a counselor to former convicts?” O’Donnell asked, exchanging a quick look with Tatum.
“Some. You need to understand. These people would do anything for Catherine. They would never . . . not this.”
“I understand,” O’Donnell said.
She moved away from the topic, as if it no longer interested her, but the rest of her questions were just fluff, stuff that would lower the pastor’s guard. When, by the end of the interview, she asked for a few contacts, he gave her the details easily. Including the second religious counselor.
Finally, O’Donnell had gotten all she needed, and the pastor left, his body stooped, drained by the worst day in his life.
“Well, you said the person who killed Catherine knew her,” O’Donnell said.
“That’s what I think,” Zoe said.
“If he’s a former convict from her church, he’s not your guy, right?”
“Rod Glover has never been incarcerated.”
“Fine.” Finality entered her tone. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“The autopsy,” Tatum said. “When will it be?”
“Probably first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Can we be present? Once we have the autopsy report, we’ll be out of your hair.”
There was that frown and head tilt again, but she finally nodded. “Fine. Give me your number. I’ll update you once I know the time.”
CHAPTER 5
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Zoe and Tatum waited outside the morgue. The medical examiner, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Terrel, wasn’t thrilled to perform the autopsy with three people watching her. “It’s crowded enough here,” she’d said, gesturing at the rows of body coolers behind her. Zoe had a feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d used that joke. They’d used the time to grab some breakfast in a nearby café, reading the sparsely detailed news articles about the murder. They returned two hours later only to find out the autopsy wasn’t over yet.
Zoe had already lost interest in the case. The homicide of Catherine Lamb in Glover’s previous neighborhood began