（Sometimes. Sometimes we do.） “The government suspected Mr. Carpenter of robbing a series of stores over a four-month period. They received historical CSLI for his cell phones during that period. They came up with almost thirteen thousand location points for his movements during that period—or about a hundred per day. They were able to map out his movements and place him at or near the scene of four different robberies at the time they occurred.
“But did they violate his rights? That was the controlling question in Carpenter: Does the Fourth Amendment require a warrant for the government to access this highly valuable but highly private cell-site location information?”
? ? ?
When the afternoon class is over, I return to my office. I open up the Chicago Tribune for today—Wednesday, November 2—and reread the article on page three: POLICE PROBE DEATH OF GRACE VILLAGE WOMAN
The wife of a prominent hedge-fund investor was found dead in her home Tuesday morning in the western suburb of Grace Village in what authorities are calling “suspicious circumstances,” though Grace Village Police Chief Raymond Carlyle said there was no reason to believe that others in the community were at risk.
The Cook County medical examiner’s office identified the victim as Lauren Lemoyne Betancourt, 39, who lived with her husband, Conrad, 54, in a home in the 1000 block of North Lathrow Avenue. They had no children together.
Carlyle said police were called to the home at approximately 7:30 a.m. Tuesday morning after Mrs. Betancourt was found dead by an individual who cleaned the Betancourts’ home.
“Preliminary information gathered at the scene indicates that the death occurred under suspicious circumstances,” Carlyle said in a written statement released by the village. “However, none of the injuries appear to be self-inflicted.”
Not self-inflicted? Depends on how you define that term, I guess.
I scoop the paper up, walk down the hall, and drop it into a garbage can. I feel a bit guilty about not recycling, but I’ve done worse.
I’d love to go online and read more about the current updates. I’m reading an article published in this morning’s paper edition, meaning it was written last night, Tuesday night. And now it’s late afternoon on Wednesday. I can only imagine what they’ve found since then.
But I can’t check. Searches I do on my phone or computer are discoverable. So I’m stuck with archaic newspaper reports, stale as month-old bread by the time I read them.
My cell phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello, this is Simon.”
“Simon? This is Jane Burke. I’m a sergeant with—”
“Jane Burke? From Grace Consolidated?”
“—department.”
We talked over each other. I know who she is. I know where she works. I didn’t know if she’d catch the case, but she was as likely as anyone. It’s not a huge police force.
“Jane Burke from Grace Consolidated? Class of ’03?”
“That’s me, yes.”
“Sorry, I think we talked over each other. Did you say you’re a sergeant?”
“Yes, I’m a sergeant with the Grace Village Police Department. I was wondering if you’d have a chance to talk with me.”
“Well, sure. Is this . . . something official?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay. Well—can you tell me what about?”
“I’d rather we discussed it face-to-face, if that’s okay.”
Right. She wants to see my reaction when she tells me that Lauren Betancourt was murdered.
“Oh, okay,” I say.
“Is it okay if I stop by your house later? Tonight?”
“Sure, I’m free,” I say. “Just tell me what time.”
80
Simon
I walk two blocks north from the block where Lauren lives, roughly tracking the route that Christian took a few minutes ago, though he was walking fairly fast, while I choose to emulate the cool-customer former president whose costume I’m wearing. It’s getting a little nippy out here, me with only a suit and no overcoat, though the full Obama mask does keep my head warm.
I reach the elementary school, listening for any sounds behind me, glancing back for any obnoxious flashing lights, listening for any sirens. Nothing so far. No police vehicles speeding toward Lauren’s house. They’ll either come pretty quickly or they won’t come at all.
I walk behind the school and stand by the dumpster, which hides me from the street. I let time pass. I need time to pass. I hope it goes fast. The less time I have to think, the less time to make myself crazy.