“Your daughter’s body isn’t here anymore. They took her to the morgue,” she said. “And they will perform an autopsy. After the autopsy, her body will be released to the funeral home, and you can give them the outfit to dress her.”
He gazed down at his bag helplessly as a tear dropped from his chin to the ground.
“Do you want me to take this to the morgue?” O’Donnell asked. “I can tell them.”
Tell them what? Tatum wondered, but he could see the relief in the man’s face. He’d heard what he’d wanted to hear, took comfort in the detective’s authority and businesslike manner.
“Yes, thank you,” he whispered.
“Mr. Lamb, do you think now you will be able to answer a few more questions?”
“Yes. I . . . I am sorry about before. I just couldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .”
“It’s quite all right, sir.” O’Donnell flipped a page in her notebook. “Can you please tell me—”
“Is that the other detective?” The man gestured at Tatum.
O’Donnell glanced back. “What other detective?”
“Shouldn’t there be two detectives? Don’t you investigate in pairs?”
“Yes, we do.” O’Donnell seemed momentarily taken aback.
There was some sort of issue there. O’Donnell’s partner obviously wasn’t around, and she didn’t want to tell the man that. Perhaps she wanted to avoid the way it would look—as if the police only sent one detective for Catherine Lamb’s death. He stepped forward. “I’m Tatum Gray. I’m working with Detective O’Donnell.”
Mr. Lamb nodded, distracted. Tatum met O’Donnell’s eyes as she frowned at him again—apparently all he could get from the detective were frowns.
She turned back to the broken man. “Can you tell me again what happened this morning?”
“I called Cathy . . . Catherine. She was sick yesterday. She’s been sick a lot lately, so I was worried. She didn’t answer her phone. I called several times, and she didn’t answer. So I came over. I thought maybe she needed help.”
“What time was that?”
“Time . . . I don’t know.”
“When did you call her first?”
“Around eight.”
“And how long until you decided to check up on her?”
“Half an hour, I think.”
“Right after your last phone call?”
“Yes . . . no. I called her twice on the way.”
“So you left around eight thirty, called twice more on your way. And what time did you arrive here?”
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk. It must have been around quarter to nine.”
O’Donnell nodded, writing it down in her notebook. “You knocked?”
“Several times, and she didn’t answer, so I tried the door. And it was unlocked.”
“Is it unusual for Catherine to leave her door unlocked?”
“Yes. She always locks her door.”
“Go on.”
“I came in. It was messy, and there was a blanket on the floor. With stains. And her . . . I could see her hand peeking out from under the blanket.”
“Mr. Lamb, are you sure the blanket was on her when you came inside?”
“Yes!” His voice rose, cracking. “It was on her. I pulled the blanket away, and she . . . she was cold, and her clothes were torn. Blood and bruises all over her body. I called her name, and I shook her. She was stiff.” The man’s eyes turned distant as he recounted the nightmarish moments. “I dialed nine-one-one.”
“And then what did you do?”
“They said they’re coming. And her clothes were torn. So I . . . I covered her again. And then I got out of the house. I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t stay there. I waited outside until the police arrived.”
“She had a necklace on when we got here. A silver necklace with a cross. Was it on her throat when you found her?”
“Yes. She almost always wore that necklace.”
She kept asking him about his actions, going through the details carefully, while Tatum listened. 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.