“That’s what it’s called now,” says Meadows. “I’m old-school. I’ll always think of it as the Chicago Title & Trust Building.”
? ? ?
“So this is where the eight p.m. text messages came from,” Meadows says. “This is the Bucktown/Wicker Park area. You know, by that three-way intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee.”
“I know it better than I care to admit,” says Jane. “From my younger days, of course.”
Meadows winks at her. “So again, looking at the overlapping sectors from these cell towers, it looks like your offender was in this neighborhood right here.” Meadows finger-draws a circle on the projection screen. “North of North Avenue, South of Wabansia, around Damen or Winchester.”
“And what’s there?” Jane peers at the map.
“Some condos on Winchester, which is residential,” says Meadows. “Otherwise, you have some commercial establishments on Damen. An AT&T store, Nike, Lululemon, a pizzeria, and a restaurant called Viva Mediterránea, which I highly recommend, by the way. Great martinis.”
Jane’s been to Viva. Not for martinis but for a man. The martinis were better.
“But unlikely he was texting from Nike or Lululemon or Viva Mediterránea every single night. Most likely,” says Meadows, “he lived right up here in Wicker Park. Probably the 1600 block of North Winchester.”
“That’s your best guess.”
“By far,” she says. “Especially because, that’s where he went after the murder.”
Jane sits forward. “The CSLI—”
“He’s texting her on the night of the murder, on Halloween, right?”
“Right,” says Jane.
“Right outside her house, right?”
“Right.”
“Then the texts stop. That, we assume, is once he’s inside the house.”
“Right.”
“So he’s in the house, he kills her, and then he leaves. But this time, he doesn’t leave his phone off.”
“What does he do?”
“Well, as you know,” says Meadows, “your cell phone will stay active even if you’re not texting or calling from it. It will refresh, update—”
“So you’re saying after the murder, he left it on, and his burner kept pinging cell towers, allowing us to track him.”
“Yes, exactly. And if we isolate on October thirty-first, we have this nice trail.”
Agent Meadows works her computer, popping up a new screen, concerned only with the CSLI from October 31, Halloween. Jane stands up and stares at the trail of cell tower pings and the areas swept in by those cell towers.
“It sure seems to me,” says Agent Meadows, “he headed east from Lauren’s house, he went through some park toward Harlem Avenue, then he got on the Eisenhower, drove to the Kennedy, took the Kennedy up to North Avenue, and then went to his home in Wicker Park.”
Jane looks at Andy. “He probably caught a cab at Harlem and Lake,” she says.
“He could have parked his car there,” says Andy.
“Yeah, but it’s pretty tough to park a car around there,” Jane says. “I’ll bet he took a cab or Uber.”
“Meaning there will be records.” Andy makes a note. “I’m on it.”
“Anyway, so the offender gets home, someplace in Wicker Park near that three-way intersection. And then he sends his last text,” says Jane. “The so-called suicide note.” Jane looks at the transcript of the text messages, the final text Lauren received after her death:
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.
“Time of ten-forty-seven p.m., Halloween night,” says Jane.
“That makes sense,” says Agent Meadows, who doesn’t have the transcripts, only the CSLI information. “That’s the last ping we get on the cell phone. After ten-forty-seven p.m., the signal dies for good.”
“Meaning he turned off his cell phone.” Jane looks at Andy. “And then . . . killed himself?”
Andy shrugs.
“Not sure why he’d bother turning off his cell phone before committing suicide,” Jane says. “What, he’s saving the battery?”