FREEDOM

AND

JUSTICE

PETER O’MAHONEY

Freedom and Justice: A Legal Thriller

Peter O’Mahoney

Copyright © 2021

Published by Roam Free Publishing

1st edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

FREEDOM AND JUSTICE

TEX HUNTER SERIES BOOK 7

PETER O’MAHONEY

Also by Peter O’Mahoney

*****

In the Tex Hunter Series:

CORRUPT JUSTICE

POWER AND JUSTICE

FAITH AND JUSTICE

DEADLY JUSTICE

SAVING JUSTICE

NATURAL JUSTICE

*****

In the Jack Valentine Series:

GATES OF POWER

STOLEN POWER

THE SHOOTER

THE THIEF

THE WITNESS

*****

In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:

REDEEMING JUSTICE

FIRE AND JUSTICE

WILL OF JUSTICE

A TIME FOR JUSTICE

TRUTH AND JUSTICE

*****

CHAPTER 1

CRIMINAL DEFENSE attorney Tex Hunter hated the shadows.

It was in the shadows that the corrupt worked, dealing in money and lives with no regard for the innocent. It was where money talked to ensure the guilty walked. It was where the corrupt spoke in whispers and traded in promises, making a mockery of the justice system. The news might be drawn to the light, drawn to the distractions, but it was in the shadows, under the cloak of darkness, that the corrupt thrived.

The streets of Downtown Chicago were busy as the time passed 10pm, with late-night diners seated in restaurants and bars, drunken college students hollering with joy, and the city’s homeless settling into their shelters for the night. As Hunter walked through the damp streets, under the rattle of the ‘L’ train above, he saw the Chicago Police Department patrol car slow down.

He gripped his briefcase tighter as a flurry of January snow danced over the city. These were troubled times for justice in Chicago, troubled times for the system, and the peace of the whole city was hanging by a thread. When he began investigating his latest case, he expected pressure to come from every level of government. He expected them to come after him. He expected the powerful to try and stop him. His family name was associated with causing pain and torment for many, and some would go to incredible lengths to stop him.

Challenging a decades old murder conviction was never going to be easy, it was never going to be a simple case, but when the accused was the centerpiece of a media storm, the stakes increased to explosive levels. Hunter knew the danger, he knew the risk, but this was not a case he could let go. This was not a case he could walk away from. This case was personal.

The petition for post-conviction relief for his father’s sentence, the murders of eight teenage girls in the 1980s, was almost ready to be filed. It was drafted, thirty-six years in the making.

Information traveled fast in corrupt circles, and the word had gotten out that new evidence had landed on his desk. The powerful were talking. The rumors were swirling. The threats were about to arrive.

Hunter crossed the street onto South Wabash Avenue, in The Loop, Downtown Chicago, and the block was unusually quiet. Another ‘L’ train rattled overhead, its tracks raised through the middle of the street. Hunter was aware the PD patrolled the area, but that provided little comfort.

The PD never respected his name. They never trusted him. They got his father’s arrest right thirty-six years ago, they argued. They never got it wrong, they said. Hunter hated that it was him versus the world, that it was his talents in the courtroom against the powerful people of Chicago, but he had no choice. He believed his father was innocent, and he’d spent his whole life trying to prove it.

As the son of a convicted serial killer, Hunter’s life had been littered with torment. The angry mob often took their hatred out on him, as if he was in some way responsible for what happened when he was just ten years old. The Hunter family name attracted abuse wherever he went. When he was young, people spat on him. They yelled abuse from passing cars. They beat him for his father’s convictions.

Hunter saw the patrol car pass again, driving in the other direction. It slowed.

That should’ve been his warning sign. That should’ve been his signal to turn away and walk in another direction. But Tex Hunter didn’t run from danger. He was a fighter. He had to be. His whole life was against the tide.

The lights of the patrol car swirled through the darkness under the ‘L’ train. Hunter looked around. The presence of the patrol car had emptied the street around him. Nobody wanted trouble. The stink of the stale streets filled the air. The noise of the police siren echoed through the surroundings. The noise only lasted a second, but it was long enough for Hunter to stop in his tracks.

“Tex Hunter,” a voice called out, and when he turned, he saw two older officers exit from the police cruiser. “The defense attorney?”

Hunter didn’t answer.

“I’m talking to you,” the leading cop said as he closed in on him. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The leading cop had his thumbs under his belt, his stomach hanging over it, and he was chewing gum while he stared up at Hunter’s tall figure. The second cop, younger by a decade, stood behind them, keeping an eye out for any witnesses.

“Turn around,” the leading cop spat out his gum. “I have a suspicion that you’re carrying drugs. That means I can search you. Get on your knees, big guy. Come down to our level.”

Again, Hunter didn’t respond. He placed his briefcase down and raised his hands.

Hunter didn’t see the third man behind him. A strong crack from a baton went through the back of his knee, and he crumbled. Before Hunter had a chance to react, the third man followed up his attack with a kick, his foot connecting with the side of Hunter’s ribs.

By the time Hunter realized what was happening, another boot connected with his stomach. He felt the air forced out of him and he started to double over. But he quickly rolled to his left, sprang to his feet, and landed a jab, followed by a quick right on the third man’s jaw. The plain-clothed man fell, and as he did, the first cop pulled out his weapon.

“Don’t move!” he shouted. “That’s assault on a police officer!”

Hunter raised his hands as the third man climbed back to his feet. He rubbed his jaw as he stood.

“Get on your knees,” the third man growled. “Now.”

Hunter turned back to the first cop, who indicated he should kneel. The weapon was steady in the cop’s hand. When Hunter kneeled, the third man brought his face within inches of Hunter’s.

“It’s time to let your father rot in jail,” he snarled. “No more snooping around our records. The past is the past. The PD has a reputation to protect, and we’re not going to let you destroy it. Do what’s best for this city—let this case go. Let the old man die in prison.”

The man growled again, and walked over to the patrol cops, whispered something, and the first cop lowered his weapon. The two officers entered the patrol car and drove away without another word. The third man walked further down the street. He entered a black sedan and drove away. Hunter looked around for witnesses, but there were none. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Nobody was brave enough to testify against the cops.

But the attack wasn’t wasted. It told him everything he needed to know—the old records he was reviewing had triggered the right people.

And that meant he was close to the truth.

CHAPTER 2

FREEDOM MEANS nothing until it’s gone.

In those moments that pass without notice, in those forgotten moments of busy lives, freedom is often ignored and neglected, and yet, it is the most essential of all our rights. The right to be free. The right to do as we choose. Some people use that freedom to chase money, some use it to chase a life full of spiritual awakening, and others are burdened with the heavy responsibility to use their freedom to pursue justice.

For Tex Hunter, the fight for his father’s freedom had been drawn out over decades. The strongest memory of his childhood was sitting in the courtroom as a ten-year-old, bewildered by the process, staring up at the judge and jury as they handed down their decisions. He remembered the crowd cheering, some high-fiving, others hugging and weeping tears of joy. He didn’t understand how they could’ve convicted his father. He wanted to shout that they were all wrong, that they’d made a mistake, but he couldn’t get the words out. His father, the man he loved and adored, was handcuffed and taken out of the courtroom to the cheers of the crowd. That day his life changed forever, and the fight began.

Hunter walked deep in thought, hands wrapped around the warmth of his takeout coffee, taking in the winter sunshine as it spread some semblance of warmth over Grant Park. Commonly referred to as ‘Chicago’s Front Yard,’ Grant Park sat on the edge of Lake Michigan, acting as much more than just another green space in Downtown. It was a gathering place for the city’s biggest events, a green oasis in the heart of the city, and a cultural hub that featured some of Chicago’s tourist landmarks, including the famous Buckingham Fountain.

“He was a police officer?” His assistant, Esther Wright, walked beside him, both red leather gloves wrapped around her takeout cup. “Are you sure it wasn’t a mix-up? It might’ve been a case of mistaken identity? Maybe they thought you were someone else?”

“They told me to leave my father’s case alone.” Hunter squinted as he looked up to the cloudless sky. “There was no mix-up. They knew what they were doing. They’re coming and they’re only going to come on stronger the closer we get to the truth.”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” There was concern in Esther’s voice. “Couldn’t you get another lawyer to file the petition? Maybe someone else that you trust? You’re too close to this. You may miss something.”

“No chance. This is my family’s case, and I’m going to see it through to the end.” Hunter paused and looked across Lake Michigan before he turned back to Esther. A group of schoolchildren, bundled up in winter jackets, gloves, and beanies, giggled and laughed as they walked past them. “The cops may apply the pressure, but I’m not going to yield to their intimidation tactics.”

Hunter began to walk again, and Esther strode faster to keep up. She pulled her thick coat tighter, tucking her chin into the collar to escape the cold.

“You know, the cops pulled me over yesterday and said I had to do a drug test,” she smiled. “And I was like, ‘Yep. Cool. Which drugs are we testing?’”

Hunter shook his head, a small sigh escaping his lips.

“Oh, you don’t think that’s funny?” she smirked. “Well, the police said I assaulted a guy with sandpaper, but really, I only roughed him up a bit.”

“That’s a terrible joke,” Hunter suppressed a laugh and looked away. “Your jokes are getting worse.”

“Well, why was the insomniac shot by police?” Esther smiled broadly. “He was resisting a rest.”

Hunter tried to hide his smile, but his dimples gave his reaction away.

“Good to see you’ve still got your sense of humor,” Esther laughed. “You’re going to need it.”

Esther Wright had been blessed with the whole package—tall, blonde, curves in the right places, and a smile that could make the most hardened men crumble. She’d stood by Hunter’s side through thick and thin, waiting for him to be ready to ask her out on a date, but his crusade for justice had been his life’s focus, the fight for his father’s freedom had been his burden to carry.

“Esther, you should take a few months’ vacation,” Hunter stopped near the Buckingham Fountain. “Go to the Bahamas. Get a taste of summer. Sit in the sun. Snorkel. Sip margaritas. Spend your days by the pool. Read a lot of books. It’ll be an all-expenses paid trip, charge it to the firm. You’ve worked hard, and you deserve a break.”

“No way. I’m not that stupid. I can see what you’re doing there, but there’s no chance I’m leaving you to fight this by yourself.” She shivered as a cold gust blew straight through her coat. “I’m not going to run from this now. As soon as you file that motion, the whole city of Chicago is going to be against you. You’ll be getting phone calls from every level of government, media, and law enforcement. You’re tough, but you’re not tough enough to do it alone. I’m not going anywhere. The Bahamas can wait.”

Hunter considered arguing with her, but when he realized it would’ve been futile, he nodded. “Thank you, Esther.”

Hunter stopped as he watched a patrol car pass the end of the walkway. The patrol car eased around the corner, before continuing to monitor the area. Hunter had been holding his breath, and when he realized, he exhaled.

They continued walking in silence for a few minutes before Esther spoke again. “Has your sister confirmed her arrival yet?”

“Not yet.” Hunter shook his head. He thought back to the last conversation he’d had with her. There was little contact between them, but Hunter hadn’t expected anything else. “She’s the key. She has the information that we need to break open this case. She’s been in Mexico for more than thirty-five years. As soon as our father was arrested, she was on that plane headed south. I never realized it, but for all those years, she knew the truth. All this time that I’ve been fighting to find the truth, all this time I’ve been searching for the answers, and now it’s so close. The sooner she opens up about what she knows, the sooner we can lay this whole thing to rest. But we need her testimony.”

“What if she doesn’t come to Chicago?”

Hunter didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. Without his sister’s testimony, without her statement, the motion had nothing to stand on. Her voice, a voice he’d barely heard over the past three and a half decades, was the key.

Hunter and Esther continued walking, making their way around the Buckingham Fountain. One of the largest fountains in the world, the landmark sat at the center of Grant Park, a delight for locals and tourists alike. Another strong gust of wind blew through the park, and they both felt a spray of water as the fountain shot high into the sky.

Esther looked up to her boss as they walked, a hint of sympathy in her eyes. She did her best to hide her own feelings, knowing that things were hard enough on the stoic lawyer. The last thing he needed was another display of emotion.

Just before they reached South Michigan Avenue, close to their office, Esther stopped, her eyes turned down to the ground.

“Everything Ok?” Hunter paused next to her, unsure of what had happened. “Esther?”

“I just had a thought.”

“Care to share?”

“What if there were dirty cops involved in your father’s conviction?” She ran her gloved hand over her loose strands of blonde hair. “What if the reason the PD needs to protect their reputation is that they know there were officers involved in fraudulent behavior?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Hunter looked up towards the skyline of Chicago. “And if it’s true, then we’re in for one dangerous fight.”

CHAPTER 3

ALFRED HUNTER sat on the plastic chair, flicking to page 55 of the book Catch-22. He knew from memory which page he was on. The little things that are forgotten about in day-to-day life were often the big things in prison. The page number of a book, the number of steps down to the laundry, or where the marks were on the walls. Outside the walls, these were insignificant things, things forgotten about in the rush to get somewhere at some time for something, but in prison, in the everyday routine of monotony, the inconsequential became important, and the small details drew major focus. Catch-22 had been donated by the ‘Reading Reduces Recidivism’ program, although Alfred had little hope of ever testing the recidivism theory.

His thirty-six years in the Cook County Jail had been long, arduous, and those decades had all rolled into one long nightmare—relieved, if only a little, by the escapism into the books he read.

“Man, Alfred,” Nolan Smith said as he sat down at the table. “Anyone would think you were working toward a literary degree the way you plow through those books. You’re racing through those novels like you’ve got a limited amount of time.”

“I do have a limited amount of time,” Alfred said, closing the book and looking up. “And I want to get through as many pages as possible. This has been my lifeline to the world outside. It’s my only experience of life. I live outside these walls through the eyes of the author. Seeing what they see, feeling what their characters feel, is the way I forget about how close the end is.”

“Sorry, Alfred. I didn’t mean it like that,” Nolan Smith shook his head, only too aware of the limited time Alfred was talking about. “I was making a joke about your prison sentence, not your cancer. Man, what a way to bring the mood down.”

“I don’t think the mood in here has been up in a long time,” Alfred scratched at his dry skin. Everything itched. Everything ached. “At least not while I’ve been here.”

The common room, used for the prisoner’s free hours during the day, had five metal tables screwed into the floor, four circle seats surrounding each table. Everything in the room was round or smoothed off. There was not one sharp edge to be seen. Each table had one or two men sitting at it. Conversation was rare, there was nothing left to talk about. The place smelled of sewage and body odor, but it wasn’t as bad as the summer days. On those days, when the July heat baked the prison, the smell soaked into every pore, unavoidable and unbearable.

Cook County Jail was the largest single-site prison in the country, and there seemed to be a never-ending line of people desperate to get inside. Corruption inside the walls was well-documented, and although it was beginning to be cleaned up, it had earned the nickname ‘Crook County Jail’ for good reason. It was a gray behemoth, an immoral giant, casting a dirty shadow over the Cook County justice system.

The population of Division 6 was well aware of the prison’s troubles, but the inmates were a stable group. The cellmates were there on long-term convictions, not going anywhere fast, and with little hope of an early release.

“Nolan,” Alfred placed the book on the table and leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee. “Have you ever watched the sun set over Lake Michigan?”

“A sunset over Lake Michigan? You mean from the other side? Can’t say I have. Would love to, though. Imagine that—watching the sun set over Chicago.” Nolan looked at his wrist, pretending to read his watch. “But I’ve still got a few decades to go on my sentence, so there’s not much chance of that ever happening.”

“I’ve been thinking more and more about a place I used to take the family on our summer vacations. An old campground on the Platte River, over in Michigan, way up north.” Alfred smiled as the memories resurfaced. “The place was like a second home for us in the summer.”

“You can’t dream about stuff like that in here.” Nolan looked on as he saw joy dawn across his friend’s face. “Let it go, or it’ll break you, man.”

“They were such magical days,” Alfred continued, not hearing his friend. “There used to be a canoe rental joint near the campground we visited. You know, the kind of place that would hire out canoes and then show city folk how to use them. I used to take all the kids out. Tex and Patrick loved going out on the river, but not Natalie. She loved the water but hated paddling.”

“Don’t think about it, Alfred. You can’t hurt yourself like that, man.”

“Their mother loved the water. She was such a beautiful woman,” Alfred’s eyes looked off to a faraway place. “Her father used to own a boat dealership down in Benton Harbor. Maybe being in the water was in her blood.” He seemed to drift into his memories further as his voice faded out again. He turned back to his friend. “I wonder; do you think you have a choice where you spend eternity once you leave this world? Maybe that’s what heaven really is—choosing where you spend the rest of eternity.”

“Let it go. Don’t keep thinking about your past life outside of here.”

“Me and you, Nolan, we’ve got more yesterdays than anybody. That’s all we own—yesterdays. That’s all we have. Memories of the lives we used to live outside.”

Alfred Hunter’s time was coming to an end. He knew it. He’d known for years. Many years ago, he accepted that the only way he was going to leave Cook County Jail was in the morgue bus as they took him to be buried next to his wife. He once had life in his bones, he was once full of vigor, but the years in the prison, and the slow-growing cancer, had wearied him. His skin was flaking, a mild scratch would make it tear and bleed, and his muscle tone had all but left him. He struggled to move his tall skinny frame around the prison, finding places to sit at every opportunity. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see himself anymore. He saw an old man—wispy gray hair, slumped shoulders, sunken eyes. Time had passed, and the clock was nearing its final hour.

It wasn’t prison life itself that he hated. Although he knew the physical horrors of prison all too well, it was the banishment from his family that broke his heart. It was the exile and separation from society that caused the most agony. Over the years, he’d been beaten, stabbed, and humiliated. He’d battled food poisoning and any number of infections. He’d had just about every bone in his body broken, by the guards, long-term inmates, and overnighters. He spent years in solitary confinement, sending him to the edge of sanity. And yet, it was the departure from his family, the estrangement from the people he loved, that wounded him the most.

“Do you believe in heaven?” Nolan asked. “I don’t know if I do. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. I don’t know what to believe some days. What God would allow all this to happen? And what religion do you even choose? There are so many in here. Everyone is trying to convert someone to something.”

“Religion is a vessel that allows a person to pray to God. It’s the organization that delivers the gospel,” Alfred said. “And all those organizations out there were started by a person. Spirituality, God, divinity—that’s true religion. That feeling, that inner knowledge, that there’s something more than just us. There’s something bigger than us. I know that’s true. And so do you, deep down somewhere inside you.” Alfred tapped his hand on his heart. “I don’t know which man-made religion is closest to the truth, but I do know there’s something bigger than me out there. God, the universe, the spirit, whatever you want to call it, it’s real. I know that in my heart.”

Nolan remained seated, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one side to the other. Nolan had already spent fifteen years behind bars, and as he entered his sixties, the gravity of his decision to shoot his wife, her lover, and two cops was becoming heavier. He’d never see the outside again, never have his freedom back, and that reality hurt more and more each day.

“Do you think God paints the sunset?” Nolan asked. “That’s what my mother used to say whenever she saw a red sunset. ‘That was painted by God,’ she’d say. ‘And it’s better than anything you’ll ever see in any art gallery. Don’t worry about going to Europe to see those fancy old paintings; a sunset painted by God is better than any of them.’ She was a good woman, my mother.”

“Apart from my family, if there’s one thing my sacrifice has made me miss, it’s the view of a stunning sunset. Nothing beat that sunset over Lake Michigan.”

“Sacrifice?” Nolan leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

Alfred looked away and didn’t respond.

Nobody was ever guilty in prison. Everybody had a story to tell, with every single story ending with the word ‘innocent.’ It didn’t matter whether they were caught at the end of a long investigation or picked up in the act with the weapon still hot in their hand, every prisoner was innocent, either framed by a useless lawyer, set up by rogue cops, or failed by the system.

“Alfred? You and I have been in here a long time, but I’ve never asked you about those eight girls. I always thought it wasn’t for me to know.” Nolan shook his head. “And I didn’t want to know. Not my place to ask, I thought. We’ve all had troubles. That’s why we’re here. We’re the bottom of the barrel. But we’re both coming to the end of our time, and maybe…” Nolan shrugged. “Maybe I really do want to know why you killed those girls. They were just girls, man. They hadn’t even lived their lives yet, and you slit their throats. I don’t get that, man.”

Alfred shook his head.

“You’ve done a lot of time, Alfred. You’ve lived thirty-six years behind these bars.” Nolan leaned closer and lowered his voice. “But just once, for an old friend, tell me the truth. Tell me why you did it.”

“What if it wasn’t my time to do?”

Nolan’s eyes grew wide. He sat up straight, the words taking a moment to sink in as he ran the hidden meaning over in his mind.

“What are you saying?” he whispered, leaning closer again. “That you really didn’t do it?”

“The only debt I paid was one of a father who needed to protect his family.”

“Are you telling me you’re innocent? Like for real innocent?” Nolan shook his head again. “Don’t joke with me, Alfred. We’re past that—you and me. We’ve done a lot of time together, and neither of us are ever seeing outside these walls again. It’s time to come clean with me. Tell me the truth.”

“I did the time to protect someone close to me, Nolan. I made a sacrifice.”

Nolan stared back in horror, caught off guard by the admission. “One of your boys?” he whispered.

“No, not one of the boys.”

Nolan began to mouth the name of Alfred’s only daughter, but Alfred held his hand up to stop him from continuing.

They held eye contact for a few long moments before Alfred nodded, confirming the truth.

CHAPTER 4

“WHY WOULDN’T she just fly in?” Patrick Hunter looked at his watch, shook his head, and then groaned loudly. “It could’ve saved days.”

“She wanted to drive.” Tex Hunter was blunt. “She didn’t think it was safe.”

“Safe? Of course it’s safe. She’s scared of shadows,” Patrick looked at his wristwatch again, huffed, and kicked a stone as he walked to the edge of the parking lot. “Everybody who was connected with this case is sure to have gone by now. She’s worried about things that don’t exist. It’s thirty-five years ago.”

Cheers from the nearby playing fields rose through the air. In front of the brothers, in their direct line of sight, were the playing fields of La Villita Park. An impressive 20-acre park in the neighborhood of Little Village, it included artificial and natural grass turf athletic fields, a skate park, basketball courts, community gardens, passive landscape areas, a large playground, a picnic pavilion, and multi-use trails with fitness stations. It would be perfect—except for the looming presence of the Cook County Jail lining the back of the park. The tall razor-topped fences, the dull gray buildings, and the guard towers were an unavoidable mark on the area.

Patrick Hunter sighed again, picking up a small stone and throwing it towards the empty end of the parking lot. While his younger brother had been blessed with the all-around physical package of broad shoulders, towering height, and good looks, Patrick was shorter, leaner, and not as athletically gifted.

Patrick was twenty years old when his father was convicted, and although the infamy of having a serial killer father brought him a lot of attention from girls, the events left a substantial stain on his existence. He spent his college years with his head in the books, studying to become a criminal psychiatrist, determined to understand what drove his father to murder those girls. He wanted to understand, to find a reason, why his father would’ve slit the throats of those girls.

“This has to be it, Tex.” Patrick turned back to his brother. “This has to be where you end the campaign. No matter what happens here, no matter what happens over the next few days, you have to promise that this is where we leave it. Your crusade for Alfred has to end here.”

Tex Hunter didn’t respond to his older brother.

Patrick had never understood his brother’s fight to prove their father’s innocence—he thought it was a fanciful dream, a way to emotionally deal with the trauma of his childhood. The evidence said their father was guilty, as did the courts.

“She’s fifty-five minutes late, Tex.” Patrick looked at his watch again. “Is she even coming at all? Do you think that she’s on her way?”

Tex Hunter waited with his hands in his pockets, leaning against his car. He was beginning to doubt it himself until an old black sedan, faded by the sun, pulled into the parking spot two spaces up. Tex Hunter’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the woman in the driver’s seat.

The driver, the lone occupant, stared back at the brothers.

Natalie Sanchez, once known as Natalie Hunter, didn’t greet them as she exited the car. She had aged gracefully, although the stress of the case showed on her face. Her blonde hair was wiry, her skin was tanned from the southern sun, and she held herself well. She was tall, fit, and still looked strong enough to beat down anybody that tried to challenge her. She had a number of tattoos poking out from under the sleeve of her white t-shirt. She wore jeans and sneakers, and appeared nervous, looking over her shoulder as she approached the brothers.

“Thank you for coming,” Tex Hunter broke the uncomfortable silence. “I know this is hard for you.”

Patrick drew a breath but didn’t speak. The three siblings stood with their arms folded across their chests, legs wide, chins-up, striking the same pose. When they realized it, a slight smile broke out on each of their faces.

“It feels strange to be here, back in Chicago.” Natalie pointed to the Cook County Jail behind them. “So this is where our father has spent the last thirty-six years?”

“It is. He’s still back there, but he doesn’t have much time left,” Patrick said. “It’s time for the truth, Natalie. It’s time to reveal what happened. That’s why you’re here.”

She folded her arms again, looked to the ground, nodding slightly.

“We have to know, Natalie. We need to know now. Enough stalling,” Patrick said, stepping closer to the sister he’d only seen one other time in thirty-five years. “Did you murder those girls?”

Tex Hunter stood silently, near his own car, his eyes narrowing as he waited for the answer.

Natalie looked from one man to the other and, for a brief moment, she looked like she was going to answer, but she shook her head again.

“Not yet.”

“What?” Patrick’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean ‘not yet?’”

“I need to see our father first.” She drew a breath. “I have to speak to him before I share what I know.”

The two men stood still, staring at their sister.

“I have to talk to Dad,” she repeated. “I have to get his permission first to share the truth.”

“Is this ever going to end?” Patrick groaned, throwing his hands up in the air and turning his back to his sister, walking away from her.

“The entrance is this way,” Tex Hunter nodded towards the prison entrance on South Sacramento Ave. The brother and sister walked side by side, with Patrick following a few steps behind, until they reached the outer fence.

“He’s in Division 6,” Hunter said. “It houses the protective custody inmates. He’s been in there for more than thirty-six years. We thought you might want to see him, so we arranged a meeting this morning. You should know that he doesn’t have much time left, and he’s been through hell in there. People targeted our father over and over, and he was public enemy number one for decades.”

Natalie didn’t respond right away. Head down, wiry blonde hair hanging over her face, she moved her foot around in the gravel.

“All this…” she began. “This whole city seems so familiar but yet so different. It’s changed, but it looks the same. It smells the same. Nothing’s changed, but everything has.” She looked up to her youngest brother. “And you’re a man now. You were just a boy when I was sent away. I wasn’t prepared to never come back, but that’s what I had to do. I wanted to reach out to you, to hear your voice, but I knew I couldn’t. Not after what Dad did for me.” She blinked back the tears in her eyes, and then nodded towards the prison. “Can I trust the guards?”

Hunter looked towards the building and contemplated the answer. He wished he could’ve said yes, he wished he could’ve just lied to her and told her what she wanted to hear, but the truth stood in his way.

“I wouldn’t trust them.” He looked back to his sister. “And I suggest you don’t either. But I’ll be next to you every step. I’ll protect you in there.”

“No, I need to do this myself,” she said. “I can’t do this with other people looking over my shoulder.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, walking through the tall wire fence. Hunter stood still, watching her enter the building, waiting until she’d disappeared behind the metal doors.

Patrick was still staring across the playing fields when Hunter returned. The weather was gloomy, casting the day in a dull color. A group of large gray clouds had progressed across the sky, moving with the threat of heavy rainfall.

“You need to keep an open mind when she comes back,” Patrick said. “You know she may be the killer and that our father covered for her. You know she may be a mass murderer. You know she may be mentally unstable. You have to be prepared for that fact.”

“What did you see when she arrived?” Hunter stood next to his brother, watching the game of pick-up soccer that was happening nearby. “With your criminal psychiatrist glasses on, did you see anything that might indicate her guilt?”

“Not a thing,” Patrick shook his head. “My guess is with the amount of time that has passed, she’s more than capable of hiding her emotions behind a front.”

Hunter didn’t answer.

“Coffee?” Patrick asked. “Shall we drive around and find a decent café?”

“No,” Tex shook his head. “I’m going to wait here for Natalie to come back. I don’t want to miss her.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Patrick sighed. “I don’t want you to do this one alone.”

CHAPTER 5

IT WAS three hours before Natalie emerged from the Cook County Prison. As she approached her brothers, she was wiping her eyes. Her eyes were red and puffy, and it was clear she’d spent most of the last few hours crying. The brothers didn’t speak as she approached. They stood next to Tex Hunter’s car, stoic in their stance. Natalie walked across the parking lot and stood in front of them, the silence engulfing the siblings.

After a number of long moments of silence, Natalie finally spoke. “He doesn’t have long left, does he?”

Hunter shook his head.

“I need a drink,” Natalie said. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”

Patrick turned and opened the passenger door to his brother’s sedan, holding it open for his younger sister. She looked over to her car, and then back to the brothers. She drew a breath and nodded. She sat in the passenger seat of the BMW sedan as Hunter went to the driver’s side of the vehicle and Patrick got in the back seat. In silence, the siblings drove five blocks to a Mexican bar, the air hanging heavy between them.

They got out of the car and walked into the bar, with not another word spoken. The bar had five old tables, all different sizes and styles, spread across the concrete floor, and a few patrons sat towards the back of the room. The floor was sticky, the lighting was dull, and the place smelled of tequila.

Natalie ordered a gin-and-tonic, and the brother’s ordered a pint of Goose Island Pale Ale each. Hunter asked the bartender if they had a separate room and placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. The bartender grunted, took the cash, and then waved to the back corner where a sign marked ‘Staff Only’ was hanging on the door. They walked through the white door to a dimly-lit lunchroom. There was an old fridge in the corner, a dining table in the center that looked like it’d been taken from a 1950s diner, and a rusty sink and tap at the back of the room. Patrick sat down first; the vinyl-covered chair rocking as he sat.

Tex sat next to Patrick on one side, with Natalie on the other. She leaned her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders forward. They’d once been a family; one that played board games together, watched television on Saturday nights, and ate breakfast together at the kitchen counter.

The memories of being a happy family were torn from them all those years ago. Tex only had a few memories of Natalie before that time. He remembered his sister putting him to bed when he was younger, laughing and reading to him as he snuggled under the thick blankets on those long winter nights. He remembered her baking in the kitchen, the smell of her cakes wafting through the house. He remembered her driving him to school on occasion, the music too loud with too much swearing. Then, overnight, she was gone from his life, not seen again for more than thirty-five years.

Hunter recognized the woman that sat opposite him, but he didn’t know her. Not in any real sense.

Natalie sipped her drink. After a minute of silence, she set her drink down and stared at the glass while gathering her thoughts. When she finally looked up at the brothers, she had tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry this happened to us,” she blinked back the tears. “And I’m sorry that I left. For so many years, I wished there was another way, I wished there was another answer. Did you feel the same?”

The brothers didn’t respond, waiting for the truth to come out.

“I can’t imagine how hard it was for the two of you during all those years,” she continued. “I can’t imagine how much hatred you must’ve experienced after that trial. I heard about it. Watched it on television. I was in Mexico City then. And I was so angry. I was furious. How could this happen to us? We were a good family. How could this happen to us? We were good people.”

She gripped her glass tightly.

Patrick looked at his younger brother, watching his reactions, but his eyes were focused on Natalie.

“For so long, I was angry,” she continued. “I landed in Mexico, applied for citizenship, and changed my name to Diego. My surname is Sanchez now. That’s my husband’s name, and I took it after we married. Mom and Dad told me to change my name the second I arrived. They told me to distance myself from the name ‘Hunter.’ I felt like I was running away, I felt like I was abandoning everyone, and the anger caught up to me. I was only eighteen, but in an instant, in a heartbeat, my life had changed completely. I got drunk a lot, got into a lot of fights, got into a lot of bad situations, and did some very bad things. Those things led me to prison in Mexico, and that wasn’t a nice experience. The last time I got out, I vowed to clean up my life. It’s what my parents,” she looked up at them. “Our parents, would’ve wanted.”

“You got married and had kids,” Patrick stated, remaining emotionally distant.

She nodded. “I moved out of Mexico City to Puerto Vallarta and got a job. I met a good man, got married, and had two boys. I got a job in a café. I have good friends. I’m part of the community. Life is good. After all those years of turmoil, life is good.” She paused to think about her life, before offering the brothers a small smile. “I couldn’t bear to think about what happened, and I couldn’t think about my brothers. It broke my heart every time I was reminded of Chicago and our happy family. I know our mother passed seven years ago, still locked up. I cried for a month when I found that out, but I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I couldn’t let anyone know about my family’s past.”

“Does anyone know who you really are?” Patrick questioned. “Does anybody know you’re a Hunter?”

“Only my husband. He’s the only one who knows,” she said. “No one else knows I am the daughter of a convicted serial killer. No one else knows about my family’s past.”

“You need to tell us everything that happened,” Hunter pressed. “We need the truth.”

“Our father doesn’t want me to tell you the truth.” She drew a long breath, held it, and then let it go. “He doesn’t even want me in the country. Even after all these years, he still wants to protect his little girl. That’s what he called me just now,” she tried to smile, but it was laced with sadness. “His little angel. He wanted to continue to protect me. That’s why he’s never told the truth. To protect me.”

“Why did you kill those girls?” Patrick’s question was blunt. The time for games was over. “Was it a psychotic episode? Did you snap?”

She looked at him and gently shook her head. “I didn’t kill them, Patrick.”

“Then who did?”

She swallowed hard. “Have you ever heard of a place called The Cinco Casino?”

Tex nodded. The name had come up in his investigations into his father’s case.

“It was originally called the Logan Casino. It was an underground casino run by the mob, operating in our neighborhood of Logan Square, back in the early eighties. It was a well-known secret that it existed. There were cops on the payroll, and the local cops that weren’t getting paid turned a blind eye to it. It was mostly harmless, and the majority of its clientele was made up of regular joes, those needing a break from their normal lives. It was just a place to hang out with friends and have a drink and a gamble. For a few of the guys, it became an opportunity to hit it big, big enough for some financial security, or at least that’s what they believed.”

“What does this casino have to do with anything?” Patrick asked.

“It was where Dad would go Thursday nights,” she said, looking at him. “You remember Dad’s card nights? The friends he used to hang out with?”

Patrick nodded.

“Tex, you were too young to remember, but these guys were his friends. Most of them were the dads of girls from my school. Dad and these guys just got along. They were the Dads of my early childhood friends. He’d go out with them on Thursday nights, place a small bet, have a whiskey and a laugh, and then leave. The casino was originally run by some of the junior members of the mob, but there was never any trouble. In the eighties, the mob still owned a lot of Chicago, and they operated with some level of honor. If you didn’t cross them, you didn’t have a problem.” She drew another long breath. “Then the Marielitos gangs came.”

“Cubans?” Patrick questioned. “They arrived in the early 80s? The migration from Castro’s Cuba to Florida?”

“That’s right.” Natalie tipped her glass to one side, the ice cubes clinking together. “They opened the borders to Cuba, and a mass migration happened via the Mariel Boatlift. The problem was that some of the people that arrived were former prisoners and members of certain crime gangs. They arrived in Miami in the early 80s, but by the mid-eighties, some had tried to move north, and some landed here in Chicago around ’85. The crime gangs from that migration were called Marielitos.

“They tried to muscle in and take over a lot of the mob territory. These Marielitos were operating out of Miami, but they wanted their drug networks to stretch all over the country. There was bloodshed, turf wars, and they took over the casino. They renamed it the Cinco Casino in ’85. Most of the regulars stopped going, and it looked like it was going to shut down.”

“Why are you giving us a history lesson?” Patrick leaned forward. “What does this have to do with the murders?”

“Because it’s relevant.” Natalie drew another breath and then looked at the door. She stood, checked that it was closed, and then sat back down. “One night, Dad and his group of friends, ten of them, go to the card table, and play some poker, just like they always did, but their drinks were spiked. It was a set-up. They left that night confused, and later they found out their group was a million dollars in debt to the Marielitos gangs. $100,000 each.”

“$100,000 was a lot of money back then,” Patrick nodded. “Not exactly money that they could just draw out of their savings at the bank.”

“The Marielitos didn’t know that. They just saw these upper-middle-class Americans with cash, and they wanted some of it. It was the last attempt to keep the casino going, and they needed the money to make the networks in Chicago work. The Marielitos gangs hadn’t been able to make a mark in Chicago, and this was a last-ditch attempt to make their money before things went from bad to worse for them.”

“And the murdered girls?”

“My friends.” Natalie swallowed. “The Dads were told to start paying up their debts, but none of them had the money. They knew it was a set-up, so they thought they could handle it. But they didn’t realize they were messing with ruthless, contract killers.” She blinked back a tear. “The ten fathers were told their daughters would pay the price if they didn’t pay them back the money they owed. The fathers didn’t believe them. They thought they were just threats, just attempts to scare them into paying, but after one week, four of the daughters went missing.”

“The Marielitos gangs?”

“That’s right.” Natalie nodded. “Then there’s panic on the streets. Four girls, all from the same school, my friends, were gone. They couldn’t find the bodies. The news suggested it was a suicide pact, but even then, I could tell something was wrong. Dad was panicking.”

“I remember it,” Patrick nodded. “It led every news bulletin as a suicide pact. That was the start of it. Right from day one, the story was all over the news bulletins.”

“Right,” Natalie sighed. “I was eighteen, and my friends were missing, and there was something really wrong with Dad. The other fathers started scrambling for money, but five days later, four more girls had gone missing. At this point, Dad stopped letting me go outside. They hadn’t found the bodies at that point. I was eighteen, stricken with grief about my friends, not knowing what happened, and Dad wouldn’t even let me leave the house. Nobody knew what happened because there were no bodies.”

“I remember it,” Patrick said. “Our father said he couldn’t let you go out because of the fear on the streets. The news reported the theory that it was a kidnapper targeting teenage girls, and our whole neighborhood was on edge.”

“Someone attacked me one night, a Latino man,” Natalie said. “They tried to kidnap me, but I escaped.”

“There were two waves.” Patrick’s mouth dropped open as he started to piece the story together. “The first four girls, and five days later, the second four girls.”

“And the media scrutiny around the missing girls was feverish. Something had to give. And then Dad just snaps one day. Says he has to get me on a plane to Mexico, that he has contacts there to keep me safe. Mom says that she’ll fly down to meet me later, but before I know it, I’m on a plane to another country.”

“And you’re saying that the Cuban gangs murdered those girls?” Patrick squinted. “But if this is the truth, then why hasn’t our father told us about it?”

“When I spoke to him today, he told me the Cuban Mafia were still strong in Miami, and they would still kill me if the truth came out. That’s why he doesn’t want me to talk. He’s afraid his thirty-six years of sacrifice will be for nothing.” She dabbed her eye with the back of her hand. “He first told me the truth when he put me on the plane all those years ago. Dad didn’t have the money to pay the debt, and he couldn’t keep me safe. If these men wanted to kill me, I’d be dead. He told me that some bad things were going to happen to our family, but Mom would be there for you two. He put me on the plane to protect me from the Marielitos.”

“What did he say?”

“That I was next in line. I was girl number nine. To save me, Dad approached the Marielitos and said that he would take the fall for the murders as long as they promised not to hurt me. The head of the Marielitos in Chicago knew the cops were close to arresting them, so he agreed. The Marielitos took Dad’s wallet and watch and threw them in the graves where they’d buried the girls. They tipped off the police about the whereabouts of the graves, set up witnesses to say they saw Dad in the area, and placed a bloodied knife in the trunk of his car. Then our lives were changed forever.” She looked up to her brothers with wet eyes. “Our father took the fall for the murders to protect me.”

CHAPTER 6

Thirty-six years earlier

“GUILT IS just a word used by some people to give them closure,” the man said, sitting on the edge of the front step as the young boy sat with a basketball in his hands. There was a twinkle in the child’s eyes as he gazed up to his father, a kind of hero-worship only found between young boys and those they considered immortal. Alfred Hunter patted his son on the shoulder and continued, “But guilt is so much more than that. It’s an emotion that manifests itself in the very fiber of a man’s soul, but there’s one place that can never hide emotion. Do you know where that is, Tex?”

The ten-year-old thought for a while, nodding occasionally. “Is it the eyes?”

Alfred looked down at his son and smiled. He knew he was on the right track with him, nurturing him so that he would grow up to be a man he could be proud of.

“Exactly.” Alfred pointed two fingers at his own eyes and nodded. “Right here is where you will find a man’s guilt. The eyes don’t lie.”

Tex nodded.

“Things are going to change over the coming week, son. There’s going to be a lot of confusion, but I want you to remember what I’ve taught you.” Alfred looked out to the front yard. The grass was green and neatly trimmed, the bushes at the edge of the driveway were newly planted but growing well, and the white mailbox had a fresh coat of paint. There was a basketball hoop above the garage door, and that’s where his youngest son spent most of his time. “Tex, I might not be around as you grow up, so I want you to remember that your naivety is one of your biggest strengths, because as you age, you lose that innocence. Up until your mid-twenties, there’ll be a period in life when you can afford to jump first and not worry about the consequences. You’ll have curiosity, an adventurous spirit, and a little ignorance. That’s the perfect combination for adventure. As you move into your thirties and forties, your risks become more calculated because you have more to lose. You get scared of falling. You get complacent. You have responsibilities. You have to make decisions that are best for your family. You have to make decisions that are not just about you. And you have to make sacrifices for the people you love.”

“Sacrifices?” Tex sat on the step, bouncing the ball on the step next to him. “Like what?”

“Like for your family. Always protect the people you love,” Alfred reached across and gripped his son’s shoulder, squeezing it with care. “Tex, I want you to live your life by the principles of compassion, integrity, honor, and justice. Repeat that for me.”

“Compassion, integrity, honor, and justice.”

“That’s right,” Alfred looked out to the suburban street as a car passed. “Compassion, integrity, honor, and justice. That’s the motto to live your life by. If you can do that, if you can let those principles guide you, you’ll live a great life, and I’ll be very proud of you.”

“I’ll try.” Tex stood and bounced the basketball between his legs. “Compassion, integrity, honor, and justice.”

Alfred smiled and pointed to the basketball hoop. “Go on, take some shots. I can tell that you’re eager to get back out there.” He looked back inside. “Your mother and I have a lot to discuss.”

The ten-year-old headed to the basketball hoop, shooting basket after basket after basket, followed by the occasional fist-pump when he made a tough shot. Under a basketball hoop was where he felt comfortable. Towering over all the other kids his age, the court was a place where his height was a positive, not something to be teased. That afternoon, he spent hours on the driveway of the family home, shooting three-pointers, free throws, and practicing his lay-ups. The sun had started to dip behind the skyline of Logan Square when he finally decided to head back inside.

He could hear yelling as he approached the front door, and he hesitated. His mother never yelled. She was always calm, always the composed member of the family. The world could be burning, and she would still keep her voice down. To hear her yelling, to hear her upset, shocked young Tex. He stood on the front step for a few moments, listening as the yelling turned to tears.

He opened the door and stepped inside, following the sound. He went to the living room, where his father had his arms wrapped around his mother’s shoulders as she cried into his chest.

“Tex?” Alfred was startled.

“Is Mom ok?” Tex asked. “What’s happening?”

Alfred gripped his wife tighter for a moment and then led her to the couch, where she sat down, a tissue dabbing at her eyes. She avoided eye contact with her youngest child. Alfred walked over to Tex, placed his hands on his son’s shoulders, and knelt down. He looked his son directly in the eyes.

“Tex, things are going to become quite dramatic over the next few years, but I want you to remember that I love you.”

“What’s happening?” Tex’s words were quick. “What’s going on?”

“Look me in the eyes, straight in the eyes, son, and tell me if you see a guilty man.”

“What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter what. Just look at me and tell me if you see a guilty man’s eyes.”

Hunter stared into his father’s eyes. “No, Dad. You don’t have the eyes of a guilty man.”

“I need you to remember that, Tex.” Alfred softened, and wrapped him into a hug. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, I need you to remember that.”

CHAPTER 7

Present day

TEX HUNTER didn’t know where to go. His thoughts were racing at a thousand miles per hour, trying to process the new information and piece the puzzle together. He didn’t say much after Natalie had told them the truth, walking back to his car in a daze. He drove his brother and sister back to their cars and then decided to drive, not to anywhere in particular, and not to any destination. Just drive. He needed to let his mind be free to process. Let his mind work through the thousand possibilities he had in front of him. The car was the perfect distraction. It was a place to think, to ruminate, and to contemplate what had been revealed by his sister.

Natalie had agreed to stay in Chicago for a week and sign a witness statement for Hunter to present to the court. In his fight for justice, in his fight for the truth, she was the key. She gave him an opening, a small sliver of hope, a tiny chance to move the case forward and demand a retrial.

Patrick appeared unfazed by the revelation, but he was unfazed by most things, at least on the outside. He was level-headed and calculated. He booked Natalie a hotel room near the city. Patrick suggested that they meet again in Tex’s office the next day, to begin drafting the witness statement for the court. His calmness in the face of the revelation was a contrast to Tex’s confusion.

Hunter had been driving west aimlessly for an hour, past Naperville, when a thought tracked through his mind. He considered calling Esther, but she would tell him to take time off, take time to process the truth, and Hunter couldn’t stop. He never could stop. There was a lot of information to deal with, the least of which was the recognition that he’d never doubted his father’s innocence. Now that the truth had been confirmed, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, a weight that he’d carried with him for the majority of his life.

As the shock of the revelation began to subside, as his mind began to clear, he turned to what he knew best—searching for truth and justice. He turned south, heading towards the small farming village of Lisbon, Illinois.

Jeff Tannen had been the only one of the other fathers to reach out to Hunter.

The day after Hunter turned eighteen, eight years after the murders, Jeff Tannen stood at Hunter’s front door and offered his hand for Hunter to shake. Hunter shook it, and the man said that he knew Alfred was innocent but there was nothing he could do about it. Hunter asked him how he knew, but he avoided answering the question. They talked for a while on the front step of Hunter’s home before Tannen wished Hunter well, telling him to live his life and forget about the case. The meeting confused Hunter at the time, but the man seemed so proud of himself.

Hunter had kept Jeff Tannen’s details in his phone. He’d reached out a number of times over the years but never received a response. Tannen owned an Angus beef farm, and from what Hunter could gather, he lived alone. Tannen’s family had been shattered after the murder of his daughter, with Tannen’s wife leaving him only a few months after Alfred Hunter had been sentenced.

It took another hour to drive to the farm, and to ensure he could at least meet with the man face-to-face, Hunter held off from calling ahead. As Hunter took the turnoff through Yorkville, his thoughts turned back to his dear mother.

They didn’t expect her to be convicted as well. That wasn’t part of the plan. His father’s plan, Natalie revealed, was for their mother to raise Tex, to be there for Patrick, and to keep in contact with Natalie in Mexico. But due to the public pressure, due to the public outrage, the police charged their mother with being an accessory to the murders. She fought it all the way, using every avenue of appeal, and she died after two and half decades behind bars.

Although she clearly knew it, she never revealed the truth to anyone.

Hunter continued on, the thoughts rumbling through his head, but once he passed the Lisbon ten-mile sign, he got his head back into the game, pushing all thoughts of family and regrets aside.

The turnoff towards the Tannen ranch was five miles from town, all on dirt roads. A dust cloud kicked up behind Hunter, and with the wind following him from behind, he found himself caught in the middle of it. Through the dust, Hunter could make out that on one side of the road there were fields of sweet corn, and on the other, land for cattle to graze.

When he pulled up, the dust finally dissipated, revealing a quaint homestead. The homestead needed a new coat of paint and a new roof, but it looked pleasant. A large clump of trees lined the path next to the house, and behind the trees was a large red barn. Two rusted-out pick-ups taken over by weeds sat next to the barn. Hunter stepped out of the car, pulled his coat tighter as the cold hit him, and was about to head towards the front door when a voice called to him from a distance.

“You lost?”

Hunter turned to see a man standing next to a tractor, a wrench held in one blackened hand as he wiped his brow with the other.

“I’m looking for Jeff Tannen,” Hunter shouted back.

“Out fix’n fences,” the man called. He dropped the wrench into the toolbox near the tractor’s tire and walked towards him. Just before the two men came face to face, the man pulled a cloth from his pocket and started to wipe the grease from his hands. “How can I help ya?”

“Is he reachable? I need to ask him a few questions.”

“I’m Des, his first cousin. Jeff don’t like no surprise visitors, if you catch my drift. If it ain’t a pleasant visit, he might just get pissed with me if I tell you where he is.”

“I’m not here to cause problems for him.”

The man eyed Hunter suspiciously for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

“Guess it’d be ok.” He turned around and pointed to the side of the house. “See that road there? Take it for about half a mile till you reach a gate. Drive through, turn right and follow for another half a mile or so. Go through a second gate and you should find Jeff on the fence line running North.”

“Thank you,” Hunter said, holding his hand out.

The man shook with him, then added, “Just be sure to close the gates, or you’ll end up with an earful from him. I guarantee it.”

Hunter nodded and returned to the car. A minute later, he’d returned to the dust cloud, although this time it blew out behind him. Hunter passed a herd of cattle through the first gate and saw a low-growing crop in the second field as he closed the gate. He scanned the fence line, and just as the cousin had said, there was a man working on a section of fence near the opposite corner of the field. Hunter climbed back into the car and drove the final part of the journey, pulling up behind an old, but well-maintained, pick-up truck.

Hunter stepped out of the car, and Tannen didn’t even look up from the fence. He remained working, tightening the wire along the fence line.

“Not the kind of car we tend to see driving down these roads,” he shouted out, still not looking up. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.”

“The car’s done well.” Hunter looked back at his BMW, dust blanketing the dark metallic black. “And I’m not selling anything.”

Tannen looked up from the fence and stopped working. He looked relaxed as he dropped a pair of pliers into the toolbox. The man was much taller than his cousin, perhaps standing at six-one. He looked like a man who’d spent his years on the land. Gray hair. Weathered skin. Toned shoulders from years of hard physical labor. Calloused hands. Thick forearms. Eyes empty from years alone.

“If you’re not selling anything, then what do you want?”

“My name is Tex Hunter. I’m—”

“Get back in that car and turn around. I don’t want you out here.” The man’s expression turned to stone. The beads of sweat that were glistening off his brow disappeared in an instant, as if his frosty mood had somehow evaporated them. As Hunter watched the man turn back to his job at hand, he was surprised at the speed with which the man had linked his name to a past he must have tried his hardest to forget.

“Mr. Tannen, all I need—”

“All you need is to leave. That business is done, and there’s nothing left to discuss. You don’t belong out here, Hunter.”

“I know about the Cinco Casino. I know what happened.”

The man froze mid-step. Hunter waited. After a long moment of silence, the man turned back to Hunter, his jaw clenched tight, his brow furrowed, and his voice was low. “Don’t ever mention that hell-hole around me again.”

“It’s time for real justice. It’s time to set things right.”

“Justice? Set things right?” Tannen glared at Hunter. “You think you can set things right? What would you know about justice?”

“You came to see me years ago. You offered your hand to shake and told me that you knew Alfred wasn’t the killer. Now, I found out the truth, and I know the killer who took your child’s life wasn’t brought to justice in the courtroom. I know the real killer walked away. I know that you know the truth.”

His anger softened as he looked to the distance. He stared at the woods in the distance, his face losing its tension. “Take some advice and close the book on this saga. Leave it alone and live your life.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Tannen. There’s an innocent man serving time at Cook County. Thirty-six years already.”

The man drew a breath, and then his anger disappeared. He leaned against the fence post, all the tension gone, and took off his gloves. He blew hot air from his mouth onto his fingers, warming them up, and rubbed his hands together.

“How is your father?” the man asked, still rubbing his hands together.

“He’s dying in prison, and he needs to leave this world with dignity.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. He shouldn’t be there, but he was the lucky one.”

“Lucky?” Hunter snapped, caught off guard. “You think spending thirty-six years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit is lucky?”

Tannen looked up at him and nodded a little. “Son, if I’d been given the option to save my little girl, to save my angel, I would’ve jumped at the chance. Thirty-six years in prison to save her life? I’d do that in a heartbeat. Every one of those fathers would have, but we didn’t have the choice. We weren’t given the chance to watch our daughters grow up. We weren’t given the chance to meet their children. There’s no mistake—Alfred was the lucky one. His daughter was allowed to grow up, probably have a family, and live her life. The Hunters were the lucky family.”

Hunter’s mouth hung open.

“You got kids, Hunter?”

Hunter shook his head.

“When you hold a little baby, there’s something inside you that clicks, and you know you have to do everything you can to protect them. That was my job, to protect my family.” He turned and stared at the trees, before dropping his head. “And as a father, I failed.”

Tannen pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his top pocket and put one into his mouth. He lit it with a match and inhaled deeply. He stared at the end of his cigarette and then turned back towards the trees in the distance. Tannen rested against the fence for a long time, staring at the trees, before he spoke again.

“One of them is out there if you want to talk to him.” Tannen pointed towards the trees. “He’s been out there for decades.”

“Who?”

“One of the men you’re looking for,” he said, pointing his cigarette towards a row of trees near the horizon. “If you dig him up.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I hunted one of them down, sometime around ninety-five. I hunted him down like a deer. Stalked him, trapped him, and after he confessed to killing my daughter, I blew his child-killing head off. Put his body in the trunk of the car, and then I buried him over there where I knew he’d be nice and close.” He puffed his cigarette again. “It was just before I came out to see you when you were young, maybe you were eighteen at the time. That day, I was going to tell you that I did it. I was going to tell you everything, the whole truth, but then you said you were going to study law to try and help your father. I figured there was no use complicating matters further.”

A silence fell between the men as they stared into the distance.

“And before you ask, Hunter, the answer is no. No, it didn’t take the pain away. There was a week, maybe a month, where it felt good to have killed the guy, but then the pain returned. That guilt, it came back. It was my fault that my daughter died. They killed her because I owed money, and I only owed money because they tricked us that night. Those Cubans…” He shook his head and then spat on the ground. “I tried to take the pain away by killing a man, and it didn’t do a thing.”

Hunter stared at the tree line in the distance. For all those years, for all that time, he’d been chasing the truth, and now he’d found it, but it was a dead end.

“I moved up to this place a year after my daughter Rebecca was killed,” Tannen continued. “My marriage broke down, and this was my parents’ farm, where I grew up. When I moved to Chicago, I swore I’d never come back here. But life has a way of changing our plans, doesn’t it?”

“I need to see the body.”

“Not likely,” Tannen scoffed. “I wouldn’t remember where I buried him now. It’s been so long. There’d be nothing left of the guy now. You’d have to dig up acres of land to find that guy, and it’s been more than twenty-five years.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“You won’t find much out there. I stripped his dead body naked and burned everything else. I didn’t want to leave any trace of his existence. All you’d find is some bones. It won’t help you much.” Tannen paused and looked at Hunter. He stared at him for a long moment, before he took another long puff of his cigarette, finishing it and dropping it onto the ground. He squashed the butt of the cigarette under his steel-capped boot. “But that’s not all the evidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s only one of the killers. There were three.”

Hunter squinted. “Who are the other two?”

“I don’t know, but even if I could help you, I wouldn’t. I’ve got other family now. Cousins, and they have children, and some of those kids have kids.” He pointed back up the road to the farmhouse. “This farm, and all the people on it, are my family. I still have to protect them.” He coughed, heaving up something stuck in his throat. He spat on the ground again before he continued. “And the descendants of the Marielitos are still strong down in Florida. If they find out that you’re sniffing around their business, they’ll kill you in a second. They lost their foothold in Chicago a long time ago, I don’t think they could take the cold, but they’re still strong down south. I can’t risk my family for this. I already made that mistake once.”

“I need your help.”

“Sorry, Hunter.” He shook his head. “Your father was one of my best friends and I’m sorry for what he had to endure, but he was the lucky one. Out of all of us, he was the lucky one. We all would’ve taken his place to save our daughters.”

“What else do you know?”

Tannen turned and walked to his truck. He reached the door and opened it, before he turned around. “There were a lot of people on the payroll of the casino. Find Detectives Daryl Browne and Sidney McCann. They were some of the cops protecting the Cubans. If either of those men are still alive, they’ll have answers for you.”

Hunter knew the names. He knew the detectives. Both men were there when they arrested his father. Sidney McCann was dead, but the other man was still very much alive.

CHAPTER 8

HUNTER HAD barely hit the Interstate towards Chicago when his cell rang. It was Esther, again. He’d been ignoring her calls, trying to process the new information rolling around in his head. As he drove past the endless cornfields, he answered the call.

“Tex?” She sounded flustered. “You haven’t been answering my calls. How did it go with Natalie? Are you ok? Is everything ok? Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Esther,” he placed the call on speaker phone. “I should’ve called, but I’ve been trying to process the new information.”

“What did she say?”

“A lot.” Hunter tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. “There’s a lot to take in.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Esther asked.

“Not yet,” he paused for a long moment as he passed a semi-truck. “But I will. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you everything down to the last detail, but right now, I have to find Detective Daryl Browne.”

“That old sleazy cop?” Esther’s voice shivered. “Why him?”

“He was one of the men who arrested my father, and he knows a lot more than he told the court. I need to ask him some questions. He testified during my father’s trial, but he didn’t tell the whole truth.”

“O’Grady’s is his local precinct hang-out, but are you sure you want to go to a cop bar?”

“By the time I get to O’Grady’s, it’ll be five o’clock.” Hunter looked at his watch. “Which means most of the cops won’t be drunk yet. We’ll talk soon, Esther. I promise.”

He ended the call.

As the cornfields were replaced by houses on the side of the road, Hunter’s thoughts turned to the first time he’d met Daryl Browne. At ten years old, Hunter was standing on the front porch of their home, basketball in hand, when five police cars raced onto his front lawn, knocking over the mailbox in the process. There were sirens, lights, and yelling. So much yelling. The cops had their weapons drawn the second they stepped out of their cars, pointed towards the house. Alfred called Tex back inside. Once the six cops entered the house, the police cuffed his father, and then beat him repeatedly. Alfred lay on the living-room floor, pleading for his life, but the cops didn’t stop. There was so much blood. His mother was screaming, the cops were yelling, but Tex didn’t say a word at all. He stood silently, watching the brutal beat down take place. The bloodstains remained on the carpet for weeks after that day.

Browne’s path had crossed with Hunter’s in the years since, and each time it was clear that corruption was part of Browne’s DNA.

Hunter pulled into a parking spot off North Milwaukee Avenue, right outside the cop bar, which was in a run-down building, wedged between a dollar store and a local dry-cleaners. The door creaked open as Hunter stepped inside the dimly lit bar, and all ten drinkers stopped and looked at him. One person snarled, another glared. Defense lawyers weren’t welcome in cop bars, and they all recognized Tex Hunter.

The bar was gloomy, with dark wooden paneling on the walls, dark wooden tables, and a dark wooden counter. This was a place where cops wanted to disappear, where they wanted to forget about life for a while.  Behind the counter, which ran along the right side of the place, the shelves were filled with cheap whiskey, tequila, and rum. There were five beers on tap and a blackboard at the end which detailed their limited food options.

Hunter spotted Daryl Browne at the end of the room, seated at the counter, hunched over his drink, staring at the television hanging in the corner. He’d aged since Hunter last saw him. He was heavier. Thicker in the waist. His hair had grayed, and his skin was lifeless and sagging.

“Browne.” Hunter approached him. “We need to talk.”

Two men stood as Hunter went to pass them. Hunter stopped and looked at both the men. They were younger, perhaps in their late twenties, but Hunter was sure he could take them both. One quick left jab, a right hook, followed by two more left hooks, and his problem would be solved. The art of boxing was a skill Hunter had acquired early in life, and it’d served him well many times.

Browne turned his head, looked Hunter up and down, from head to toe, and then looked at the other two men. Browne shook his head to them, and they sat back at their table, keeping their eyes on Hunter as he passed them.

“Isn’t it funny how when a person assists a criminal breaking the law, we call him an accomplice, but when a person assists a criminal after breaking the law, we call him a defense lawyer,” Browne scoffed and waited for Hunter to laugh. When he didn’t, he turned to look at him. “That’s a joke, Hunter. You might want to tell your face.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“I don’t imagine that the son of a serial killer would laugh much,” Browne swiveled on his stool, turning his body to face Hunter. “You’re just like your father. A cold-blooded serial killer. It’s a part of you. I know that and you know that. You’ll end up behind bars with him one day.”

Hunter leaned closer, resting his hand on the bar near Browne’s drink. “I know about the Cinco Casino and the people that protected it.”

Browne’s face remained blank, but he’d frozen. It took a number of moments before he pulled back, turning his body away from Hunter and hunching back over his drink. He took a sip of his whiskey before he responded. “It’d be best if you never mention the name of that place again.”

“I won’t just be talking about it; I’ll be presenting it in court.”

Browne’s head snapped back towards Hunter. “Why?”

“Because I’ll be applying for post-conviction relief on my father’s arrest. I have evidence to challenge his conviction, and the truth is coming out. That truth includes the names of the people who protected the Cinco Casino. You can help me, or you can have your name dragged through the mud that’s going to come up.”

“Careful,” Browne growled. “You don’t want to walk into a cop bar and threaten a cop. You’re a smart man, but that’s not a wise choice. I’ll have you locked up for an assault charge. Every man in this bar would be a witness, and you wouldn’t see daylight for months.”

“Is that a threat?” Hunter leaned close enough to smell Browne’s breath. “Because I’ve got evidence that you’re involved with the casino.”

“Is that right?” Browne sat back. “And what evidence is that?”

“You protected them,” Hunter stood up straight and raised his voice. “You protected the Marielitos. You were in bed with the Cuban gangs.”

That caught the attention of everyone in the bar.

Browne held out his hand to silence Hunter. He nodded to the stool next to him. Hunter stared at him and then Browne nodded to the stool again. “Just sit down, Hunter.”

Hunter sat and waited.

“And keep your voice down,” Browne leaned close. “There’s a lot of guys here that have had run-ins with the Cuban gangs. A lot of the older guys remember the Marielitos in the eighties as well. They’re not exactly popular in these parts.”

“All this is going to be exposed in court.”

“How could you do that? Your father is out of chances. You can’t make another appeal in court.”

“I’ve still got a trick up my sleeve. The petition is ready,” Hunter pressed his index finger into the bar. “I know about the debts owed by the murdered girls’ fathers. I know what really happened to those girls. We’ve got a witness who’s willing to testify about the truth.”

Browne froze again, drink halfway to his mouth. He placed the glass down without taking a sip.

“Be careful, Hunter,” Browne whispered, not looking at him. The warning wasn’t delivered with malice or intensity. It was delivered as a caution, not a threat. “Be careful what you dig up. There are some dangerous people who are still alive and connected to the Cinco. You need to be careful mentioning that name in Chicago.”

“I’ll mention the name in court, and I’ll follow the evidence. Right now, that evidence has led me to dead Marielitos, and now, it has led to you. Who killed those girls?”

“This isn’t a road you want to walk down, Hunter. This is the wrong path.” Browne slid off his barstool, dropped a tenner on the counter and leaned in close to Hunter. He grabbed the sleeve of Hunter’s jacket and brought his mouth next to Hunter’s ear, speaking in a hushed tone. “Don’t mess with these men. They don’t play around. They’ll walk right over you and take your entire family down along the way. They’ll burn this whole city to protect themselves.”

Browne didn’t bother waiting for a response, disappearing through the door without so much as a sideways glance.

CHAPTER 9

THE BOARDROOM in the Law Office of Tex Hunter, Defense Attorney, was spacious, a rarely used room filled with a long glass table, a whiteboard, and ten black leather office chairs. Hunter didn’t like working in such a large space. The view of the Chicago skyline, however, was something that he did enjoy. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to West Jackson Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares of the city.

“The ramifications from this will be huge,” Esther said. “This is going to cause waves through every level of government.”

Hunter leaned back in his chair at the head of the boardroom. He turned the chair to look at the view of Chicago out the large window as low-lying clouds began to descend. They’d spent the past five hours taking Natalie’s witness statement, drafting the ten-page document in her words, finessing her description of the truth, and verifying her recollection of events. Everything in the statement had to be perfect, everything had to be exact. The second the witness statement was logged as evidence, it would become one of the most scrutinized statements in the city’s history.

Natalie had looked exhausted after she detailed everything she knew. There were a lot of tears. A lot of suppressed anger. Natalie had left after lunch, and Patrick drove her back to the hotel in the Wicker Park neighborhood. Tex Hunter, investigator Ray Jones, and assistant Esther Wright remained in the boardroom, trying to take in the barrage of information that had been thrown their way.

“This is amazing,” Jones said as he swiveled in his chair, his large muscular frame almost causing it to collapse. “This is the break you’ve waited your whole life for. This is it. Natalie has given you the chance to get your father out of prison.”

“Once this new statement is filed, our lives are going to become very busy.” Hunter turned his chair back to look at both Esther and Jones. “But it’s time the truth came out, and it’s time my father gets the justice he deserves.”

The office phone rang in the reception area, and Esther stood to leave the room and answer it, but Hunter waved for her to leave it. “All the calls this afternoon can wait.”

“There’ll be more than enough people to spread the news once this gets out,” Jones leaned one heavy arm on the chair next to him, spreading his legs wide. Of African-American descent, Ray Jones was a hard man to miss. His shoulders filled out most doorframes, and he had to shop in specialty stores for big and tall men. His bald head was polished, his face was stern, and his knuckles were scarred. “The media won’t hesitate to run with this, especially with Mayoral elections due in a couple of months. You can bet the house that they’ll make sure the candidates are paying attention.”

“That’s not our concern,” Hunter said. “Our concern is getting this motion through the courts before my father passes away. The State’s Attorney is going to push back hard on this, and we’ll be faced with every delay tactic in the book.”

“And the Marielitos that Natalie talked about,” Esther said. “They’ve got to be a concern.”

“Those gangs are long gone from Chicago. Jeff Tannen, one of the fathers, said that there were three killers, and he knew that one of them was dead,” Hunter leaned his elbows on the table. “And I’m not even sure if the other two killers are still alive.”

“Miami isn’t that far away. There would still be connections to those guys, and some of the gangs down there are known to be ruthless,” Jones folded his arms across his chest. “They’re not exaggerating about the gangs. I had a contact cross them a few years ago, and they came hard and fast for him. Both he and his girlfriend disappeared from their home and haven’t been seen since. They made them vanish without a trace.”

“We can’t stop forging ahead because of a threat. I understand the threat of the Cuban gangs is real, and I understand that they may come for us. But this is personal, and this is something I need to do.”

The office phone rang again. Esther raised her eyebrows, but Hunter shook his head.

He stood, walked to the window and looked down towards the street, watching as a flurry of snow blew through. Both Esther and Jones remained silent, watching him from where they sat. When Hunter spoke again, he didn’t turn back to look at them.

“If either of you chooses to step back from this case, I won’t hold it against you. This is personal, and it’s going to become dangerous. This is something I need to follow through, and I don’t expect you to risk your necks for me.”

“There’s no chance that I’m walking away from this,” Jones scoffed. “I know how much this means to you. I’ve got your back.”

“Stop trying to get rid of me,” Esther smiled. “I told you before—I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” Hunter smiled as he returned to his seat and held his hands out. “Next, we’ve got to review the court file on my father’s case. See if there’s any mention of the gangs.”

“Well, I have some more good news for you on that file,” Jones offered. “I found information about Samuel Thorpe.”

Hunter ran the name through his mind. “Thorpe. One of the witnesses who testified they saw my father near the crime scene.”

“That’s the man.” Jones nodded and opened his laptop. “Yesterday, after Esther called me, I was running names through my database, matching times and dates with names, basic groundwork. And our man Samuel Thorpe…” Jones turned his laptop around, “was lying about his whereabouts on the day he claims to have seen your father near the graves. It turns out that technology has caught up with Mr. Thorpe and his false testimony.”

The office phone rang again, but this time, Esther ignored it.

Hunter scanned his eyes across the information on Jones’s laptop. “How did you find this?”

“Esther called yesterday, and we talked about the case. Out of curiosity, I ran through the names of the people who testified against your father. Old Samuel there had a significant hit. When he testified in the eighties, it was different. Information wasn’t just floating around us all the time, scanning past us in wavelengths. But now, it’s amazing the kind of information you find just floating around. Turns out that a tennis center in California was feeling somewhat nostalgic last year and began to upload old records from past competitions and events.”

Hunter scanned his eyes over the screen a second time and reread the new information. Jones placed a copy of Thorpe’s witness testimony in front of Hunter and pointed to the date he claimed to have seen Alfred near the burial site. Hunter read the copy of the witness testimony again. Samuel Thorpe had been a key witness the prosecution relied upon to identify Alfred as the man he’d seen near the murder victims’ graves.

But as Hunter read the dates again, he saw that Thorpe had been a competitor at an out-of-state tennis competition, finishing as runner-up on the same day he claimed to have seen Alfred at the gravesite, according to his testimony in court.

“He lied,” Hunter whispered as he looked up from the piece of paper.

“He certainly did. Wasn’t even in the state. Thorpe wasn’t even in the Mid-West on the day he claimed to have seen your father.”

“Links to the Marielitos?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure we’ll find a link.”

The office phone rang again and Esther raised her eyebrows. Hunter nodded. Esther left the room to answer the call.

“We need to talk to Samuel Thorpe. If he changes his witness statement, or admits that he was lying that day, it changes the entire make-up of the prosecution’s case,” Hunter said. “Have you got his details?”

“I found some preliminary information on him,” Jones said. “It seems he’s still alive and living in Chicago. I’ll dig a little deeper this afternoon and send through what I find.”

“Good. Then I need you to run a check on the other fathers. I know that five of the fathers committed suicide in the years after the murders. That makes a lot more sense now—they felt like they were personally responsible for the deaths of the daughters. It was too much for them to take. Tannen moved back to the family farm, but there are two more fathers out there that are still alive. Now that I know the truth, I need to talk to them.”

“Consider it done,” Jones said. “I’ll have the details for you by the end of the week.”

“Tex,” Esther walked back into the room, shock spread across her face.

“Who was it?” Hunter asked.

“You’ve been called in for a meeting,” she said, leaning on the back of one of the office chairs.

“With whom?”

“Mayor Quinn,” she said. “She’d like to meet with you this afternoon about a motion she’s been made aware of.”

“A motion?” Hunter squinted. “How could she possibly know already? We haven’t even filed for post-conviction relief yet.”

Jones held his hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I’m the last person those people would want to interact with.”

“Have we been bugged?” Hunter asked.

“I don’t know about that, but one thing’s for sure,” Esther said. “They know, and they aren’t happy about it. They were quite demanding on the phone. When I said you were busy, they said that you’d better find time for Mayor Quinn, or she’ll have the Chicago PD drag you in there.”

“It was Browne,” Hunter groaned. “He must’ve said something, and the words gotten around.”

“Bad news travels fast, especially in an election year,” Esther said. “What are you going to do?”

“If she wants to meet, then we’ll meet.”

“Ok, but please try to keep your emotions out of this. We can’t have you getting angry in there.” Esther’s caring instinct came out. “Just let her talk, let her say what she wants, and then get out of there.”

“Me?” Hunter smiled. “Angry?”

“Yes, you,” she said. “Please, try not to punch any holes in the walls of the Mayor’s office. I don’t want to have to deal with that as well.”

CHAPTER 10

CITY HALL was hectic when Hunter arrived for his five o’clock appointment. There were workers pushing past him, rushing to keep the city running, and the sounds of their frenzied footsteps echoed through the tiled halls. There was an election coming, and a feverish passion was filling the air. People were fighting for their jobs and their livelihoods.

The entrance to the Mayor’s office was deep inside the walls of City Hall, deep in the marbled hallways, marked by a sign above the single glass door that said, ‘Office of the Mayor.’ An American flag stood inside the doors, to the left of a wooden reception desk.

Hunter was aware that this was more than just a trial. It was more than just another case. This was one of the biggest scars on the city in the last forty years. The murder investigation and subsequent trial had always stood out, even in a city with a history as checkered as Chicago’s. With eight murdered girls, eight innocent angels, the story had captured the attention of almost every citizen in the state, with many remaining glued to their television screens throughout the hearings. In the mid-eighties, it was one of the first trials to be broadcast live on television, and the drama gripped the viewers. It was reality television at its most real.

On the day Alfred Hunter had been found guilty, there were people celebrating in the streets. It was mass hysteria. The media ran full-page stories. The news channels had twenty-four-seven coverage. It was the topic on every radio station. A serial killer had been taken off the streets. The justice system had worked. Everyone who worked on the case looked like a winner, and in time, they were all awarded a medal of one sort or another.

Alfred Hunter had been sentenced to the death penalty when first convicted, but numerous appeals had kept him on death row until 2003, when the Illinois Governor commuted the sentences of all death row prisoners. Alfred’s conviction was changed to life imprisonment for each of the murders, to be served in consecutive sentences, meaning he would never see the outside again.

By the time Hunter reached the reception desk, he felt a flood of emotion and apprehension, just like on the day of his father’s sentencing. He gripped his briefcase tightly as he walked through the glass doors and approached the secretary.

“Mr. Hunter,” the secretary said. “Please take a seat. Mayor Quinn won’t be long.”

Hunter obliged, taking a seat on a brown leather couch beside a tall indoor plant. There were five coffee table books about Chicago on display, but he remained sitting with his hands firmly held in his lap. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Acting Police Chief Steven Whaler stepped through the doors. He glanced at Hunter, held his stare for a moment, and then continued walking.

Once at the door to the Mayor’s boardroom, next to the main office, he didn’t pause. He opened it and disappeared inside as the receptionist continued typing on her computer. She only looked up when raised voices could be heard from the office.

Ten minutes after Whaler disappeared inside, the receptionist was paged, and Hunter was given the go-ahead to enter the boardroom. He stood and made his way to the door, opened it up, and entered what he knew to be the snake pit.

The boardroom next to the Mayor’s office was narrow and filled by a long wooden conference table with ten chairs lined around its outside. The room had no windows, little ventilation, and dull lighting. The shadows in the room were long.

On the walls were pictures of past mayors, smiling as they posed, and at the head of the room was none other than Richard J. Daley, Mayor of Chicago from 1955 to 1976, and often referred to as ‘the last of the big city bosses.’

There were five people already seated at the boardroom table, including the acting Chicago PD Police Chief Steven Whaler, the State’s Attorney Paul Fox, lead prosecutor Michelle Law, and at the head of the boardroom table sat Mayor Nancy Quinn herself. She was a tall black woman with a frame that looked like it was chiseled from stone. Dressed in a black dress and black jacket, she presented an image of a woman in control, a woman in charge of herself and her city.

“Mr. Hunter, welcome,” Mayor Quinn stood and gestured to one of the seats nearest to the door. “Please take a seat.”

Hunter nodded his greeting, wary of saying any words in the group of Chicago’s powerful law-makers.

“We were hoping you could shed some light on a rumor that has come to our attention,” Mayor Quinn sat back down and looked around the room at the other faces. “We’ve heard that you intend to file for a petition for post-conviction relief in your father’s case?”

Hunter was slow to respond, choosing his words carefully. “No motion or petition has been filed yet.”

“But you’re going to, aren’t you?” Acting Police Chief Steven Whaler glared at him with contempt. “What’re the grounds for this ridiculous petition?”

“That will all come out if a motion is filed.”

“I assume you have new evidence.” State’s Attorney Paul Fox looked more like a Hollywood actor than a lawyer. His voice was smooth, a deep bass in his tone, and the rumor was that he was positioning himself for a run at the Mayor’s job in the years to come. He presented well—he was well-groomed with neatly trimmed light brown hair and was immaculately dressed in a dark blue suit. “What’s the evidence, Mr. Hunter?”

Hunter remained silent.

“You must know you can’t possibly reverse this conviction,” Prosecutor Michelle Law stated. Law sat rigid, straight, appearing like she had a rod down the back of her shirt. Her tone was cold, as were her eyes. “He’s been behind bars for thirty-six years. You’ve been through every appeal, every avenue, and every chance. I’m interested in your legal standing here—you’re out of options, but we know you. You’ve got everyone in this room worried.”

“Because of the elections?” Hunter turned to face Mayor Quinn.

Mayor Quinn drew a breath, choosing to remain silent, not biting at Hunter’s accusation.

“That’s what this is about,” Hunter continued. “Your whole campaign is to be tough on crime. That’s what people want to vote for. Do the crime, do the time. That’s your whole philosophy. Having a convicted serial killer re-tried under your watch would be perfect attack material for your opposition. Cook County already has the highest exoneration rate in the country, and you don’t want that highlighted during your campaign.”

“I’ll admit there’s a problem with your timing,” Mayor Quinn responded. “Elections are what run this city, this state, and this country. Every vote is precious. The people make a choice, and I don’t want their choices to be clouded by something like this. It’s like that saying— the people should not be afraid of governments, rather, governments should be afraid of the people. And I’m afraid that the people won’t react well to this motion for post-conviction relief.”

“You’re more concerned with the election than the fact that the justice system has put an innocent man away for thirty-six years.”

“I’m concerned about the uproar your motion would cause in this city,” Mayor Quinn said. “This case is bigger than just another murder case. This will be front-page news on every paper in the city, and it’ll make people doubt the whole system. People are already losing faith in the police department. People are doubting the justice system. Citizens are already turning their backs on the people that want to help them. We’re here to serve the people, and they don’t trust us. A case like this, if taken up by the media, could destroy what little trust the public has in the justice system. There would be mass panic on the streets if your father walked free.”

“That’s not my concern.”

“I can make it your concern,” Whaler’s clenched fist pounded down on the table. “There’s a lot of people on the force that remember what your father did. I, for one, do not want a serial killer walking free.”

“Settle down,” Mayor Quinn held out her hands. “The reason we called you here, Mr. Hunter, is so that we can discuss other options.”

“Options?”

“Our election campaign is built around reducing crime in this city,” Mayor Quinn said. “That’s our focus this election campaign. We’re putting our foot down and cleaning up the crime in this city, but it’s so much more than just, ‘Do the crime, do the time.’ We’re funding more diversity in the police force, we’re working on more community outreach programs, and we’re making our justice system better and more efficient. We’re not just interested in arresting people; we’re also interested in helping communities. Part of helping the community will be reducing crime. We can’t do that if we don’t win the election.”

“That’s a lovely spin, but I’m not hearing any options.”

“If there’s no motion for post-conviction relief, then we could help your father,” she glanced at the State’s Attorney, who provided a nod to proceed. “I understand that the cancer means that your father doesn’t have much time left. Five months at the most, I hear. I’m sure we can arrange for your father to be comfortable as he approaches the end. We can even make the calls to set him up in a private hospital room with a window. He’ll still be under guard, but I’m sure he’ll be very comfortable as he approaches the end. He could have endless books, a Netflix subscription, a view out the window, and he can see his family whenever he wants. That’s what all prisoners dream of. Be a good son and look after him. Allow him a few moments of dignity and comfort before he reaches the end. That’s what a good son would do.”

“I’ve lived my life by the values of compassion, integrity, honor, and most of all, justice.” Hunter stood. “I’m not going to change now. The filing of this motion is going ahead.”

“It won’t be easy, Mr. Hunter,” Mayor Quinn also stood. “I hope this meeting has made it clear that you’ll be facing a lot of issues if you choose to file that motion.”

Hunter held Mayor Quinn’s stare before he turned and walked out the door.

The pressure had begun, the threats had started, and Hunter was sure it was only going to increase the closer he came to the truth.

CHAPTER 11

PRISON TIME is the longest time imaginable.

For Alfred Hunter, hours felt like days, weeks felt like months, years like decades, and yet, when looking back, it all felt the same. As he lay on his bunk, he wondered how differently his life may have ended up if he’d made different decisions. He’d thought about it so many times. What would’ve happened if he didn’t go to the Cinco Casino that night? What would’ve happened if he had the money to pay the gang leader? What would’ve life been like if he’d taken the family across the border to Canada? Despite the questions running around his head, despite the years of contemplation, he never once questioned whether he made the right decision to save his daughter. He would’ve made the same decision one hundred times over.

The only view he had of the outside world from where he lay was a small sliver of sky, the brilliant blue punctuated by a single cloud. He missed the colors of the free world. In prison, the colors were dull, mostly grays and blacks, and any other color was well-worn and faded. Alfred had read about Color Therapy, about how yellows make people happier, about how blues make people calmer, and he often wondered if that could be applied in prison.

He could hear the murmurs of some of his fellow prisoners in the common area, a few playing cards, while others enjoyed an old Sylvester Stallone movie on the unit television. He remembered seeing Rambo 3 in the cinema with his eldest son Patrick in the months before he was locked up. He preferred the classics—John Wayne and Steve McQueen came to mind. When in solitary confinement, with months alone, he used to act out an entire movie by himself, playing each role from memory.

He did his best to shut out the sounds of the jail, focusing on the lonesome cloud that hung suspended in the sky. It reminded him of a car he once owned, an old Plymouth, the kind with the huge tail fins that flanked a body as big as a whale.

As he lay motionless, his mind worked itself over and over, remembering snippets of a time before the murders, and the family he had before the dark chapter dragged him from the best things in his life. It felt like a dream. When he had hope, when he had optimism, he’d often fantasize that his conviction was all a dream. That he’d wake up to the sounds of his children, all pleading to play board games, to shoot hoops, or to go hiking for the day.

Just like the lone cloud he was watching, a single tear escaped his grasp, slowly making its way down the side of his face. Seeing the images of his three children young again, their worshipping eyes watching him, hoping to learn something new, hurt beyond belief. He’d been their hero, raising them as best he could, abandoning his own tough upbringing in favor of happiness and guidance. He’d worked hard to be a positive role model, and when it all came crashing down, it ripped his heart out forever.

The cloud reached the edge of his view as the single tear dropped to the pillow. The edge of a second cloud appeared as the first vanished, just as Stallone began to shout about fighting for respect and honor. He couldn’t quite make out the words and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the rest of the day.

He’d spent years, decades, trying to squash any feeling of hope that rumbled to the surface. He did his best to accept his fate. But seeing Natalie in the flesh, hearing her voice for the first time in three and a half decades, awakened those memories. It hurt to think about her, but he was proud. He was proud she made a life for herself. She showed him photos of her husband and children, all smiles and happiness.

In prison, Alfred looked forward to the nights the most. Losing himself in sleep was the perfect opportunity to escape from a place where he was destined to die. It was the dreams that kept him sane, taking him back to a time where he was happiest. He had a good job as an accountant, a wife whom he loved and cherished, a home he’d worked hard to own. It was a place where lifelong memories were created, where his children grew up, where he could lay with his wife and feel like the richest man in the world.

Another tear slipped from his grasp as a voice suddenly spoke from the door to his cell. Alfred’s eyes shot open as he flicked the traitorous escapee from his cheek.

“Hunter. Ferguson needs you down in the laundry.” It was Plowman, one of the on-duty officers. He was the youngest of the current group of staff, in the job only a few months and still wet behind the ears. “Now, Hunter. Move.”

“Ok,” Alfred said, moving his feet around and onto the floor. He slid into his shoes and flinched as pain ripped through his side. He felt a hint of panic at that agony, a small reminder of what was to come. The cancer was eating him alive, and his time was almost done.

The officer didn’t bother waiting for Alfred, disappearing back out onto the tier. With the unit laundry joined to the common area by a hallway and a set of stairs, there was no need for an escort.

Once he was properly dressed, Alfred shuffled out into the hall and paused as he watched the unit’s population going about their afternoon business. The closing credits to Rocky 3 were scrolling across the screen as most of the inmates watching turned and broke off into small groups. One of the men began shadowboxing with another inmate, and soon, the pair of them were grappling in a mock fight.

Alfred shuffled his way down to the ground floor of the unit, holding onto the handrail, navigating the metal staircase with extra attention. He’d already lost his footing once on them, ending up at the bottom with a fractured ankle. That was two years ago, the same year of his cancer diagnosis.

The far end of the unit was deserted, with another day almost at the end. The laundry would already have finished the day’s workload, with only one or two inmates left to clean up for the next day. Ferguson was the unit’s supervisor, an officer with a long history in the prison, and not all of it glowing. He was a power-hungry short man, and Alfred knew better than to keep the man waiting.

The hallway leading to the laundry was devoid of life, and as Alfred made his way towards the room, he could hear the clanging of washing machine lids closing, as well as the distinctive sound of a mop being pulled back and forth.

It was that noise that distracted Alfred enough for him not to notice the other sounds, the ones coming up from behind him. It wasn’t until the pain exploded in his knee that he realized something was wrong.

As his leg buckled, pain ripped through his lower back, something dull and hot smashing into his kidney. Alfred felt the world swing sideways as his knees buckled completely, sending him spiraling to the floor.

Before he had a chance to make sense of what happened, pain exploded in multiple parts of his body all at once as his view of the laundry room disappeared in a shadow of swinging legs and batons.

The two inmates working the laundry knew better than to stand and stare at the beating, instead turning their backs and continuing on with their jobs. Beatings were common practice, and when handed out by the officers themselves, it was best not to be a witness.

Alfred did his best to try and ride the assault, curling himself into a ball to protect his face and chest.

He tried to look up as a single baton, swung with ferocity, smashed into the side of his face. The world disappeared into a haze of stars and searing heat. As Alfred lost consciousness, a lone voice followed him down into the shadows, mocking the fallen man with one final insult.

It was the voice of Ferguson, the unit supervisor. “Die already, you piece of trash.”

CHAPTER 12

HUNTER SPENT the evening with his older sister. It was awkward and strained at times, but at others, it was comfortable. There were moments they felt like strangers and moments when they felt like they’d never been apart.

Natalie talked about a life lived in fear. Of always looking over her shoulder. She talked about her children. She described her husband as a good man. She talked about her time in prison and how much anger she had for the situation they were in. She talked about getting help for her anger and moving on with her life. Hunter talked about his life as a lawyer. He talked about the city. He talked about Esther. Together, they laughed about the memories they had of their happy family. They joked about their youth and remembered their friends. They talked about the court case, and the pain that their mother suffered. They talked about Patrick.

But mostly, more than anything, they talked about nothing.

By the time Hunter had looked at his watch, it was 1:05am. He said goodnight to his sister and went home to sleep.

By the following morning, Jones emailed Hunter a file on Samuel Thorpe. Not only had Jones found Thorpe working in the northern suburb of Arlington Heights, but he’d managed to compile a file full of information. It didn’t make for easy reading. Thorpe’s life had been filled with hardship after hardship, most of which seemed to be his own making. He’d had problems with the law, problems with his family, and problems with gangs. And at seventy-five years old, he was still working for a living.

Hunter called Jones as he reached the outskirts of the suburb, heading towards the address of the parking station where Samuel Thorpe was spending his retirement years.

“This is good work, Ray,” Hunter said as he turned off the Interstate. “Any other background information available on this guy?”

“The man sounds like he’s managed to alienate himself from every person and every dream he may have ever had in his life. Twice divorced, the second wife going as far as to take out a restraining order on him. That was back in ’05. None of the three children from his first marriage speak to him due to a fallout over his first wife’s will. She passed in ’09 and left a nest egg of around $250,000. The mother had left her entire estate to her children and good old Samuel decided that he’d try to claim some for himself. He took them to court for it.”

“Bet that went down well.”

“Sure did. Two of his children moved to the West coast, while the third relocated to New York City back in 2015. From what I’ve found, none of them have been back since. None of their social media accounts make any mention of him, there’s no interaction between Samuel or his two grandchildren, and I don’t think there’d be any Christmas cards.”

“Sounds like he has issues.”

“Family issues, as well as financial ones.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Evicted from his rental apartment five months ago for failing to pay, owes credit card debts in excess of thirty-five-thousand, and works two jobs, one of which is as an attendant at the parking station.”

“And the second?”

“Helps out on weekends at an auction house as a greeter.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Hunter said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

He ended the call as he turned into Arlington Heights. He followed the GPS, taking him through a number of backstreets, and arrived outside a parking garage. He parked further down the street and walked up the pedestrian ramp towards the cash booth. The man sitting inside looked to be half the age of the person Hunter was after.

“I’m looking for Samuel Thorpe,” Hunter stated as he walked up to the booth. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Third level if he’s still sweeping the stairwell.” The man didn’t look up from the phone he was watching. “Knowing how slow that grumpy old man is, he’ll be there all day long.”

Hunter left and entered the stairwell. Just as the cashier had said, Samuel Thorpe was sweeping the stairs in one of the building’s two fire escapes. He looked wearied by life, stress, and years of abusing his body. His thin frame was hunched over, as if somehow trying to hide from the world, and his movements were jerky, as if afraid of every shadow.

“Mr. Thorpe?” Hunter asked.

The old man looked up at him with eyes sunken into a gaunt face, the pale blue irises a striking contrast to the yellowing whites.

“Who’s asking?” There was a clear edge to his voice.

“My name is Tex Hunter, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He considered the question for a moment as he straightened his back and leaned on the broom handle. “It’d cost you.”

Hunter took a twenty-dollar bill from his jacket, and the man’s eyes lit up. He snatched at the money and shoved it into his pocket.

“Alright. What’d you want?”

“You may remember my father—Alfred Hunter. You testified at his trial.”

“Ah.” It didn’t take long for the man’s demeanor to change once he realized the purpose of Hunter’s visit. “I really don’t remember much about that. My mind isn’t what it used to be. It was a long time ago. What is it, forty years?”

“Thirty-six,” Hunter stated. “I know that you didn’t see Alfred Hunter at the graves. I know you lied to the police, to the court, and to the media. I know you were at a tennis tournament in California.”

Thorpe shook his head. “I did the right thing. Helped put a serial killer away. Ain’t nothing wrong with what I did.”

“You lied.”

“There ain’t a lot I’m proud of in my life, but testifying in that trial is one of the things I’m honored to have done. I did the right thing. I helped take a killer off the streets and protected the girls of Chicago against that rage-filled killer.” He returned to sweeping the floor, shaking his head. “I did the right thing.”

“They put the wrong man away, and I have evidence of it. I also have evidence that you were in California on the day you claimed to have seen Alfred at the graves. Why didn’t this come out in the trial?”

“Nobody ever asked and I never told them.”

“I’m going to court soon, and they’ll charge you with perjury.”

“It’s too long ago. Nobody cares about that any more.” He stopped sweeping for a moment, and then looked to Hunter. “You said your name was Tex Hunter? What are you—that killer’s son?”

“My father is innocent,” Hunter stated. “What did they give you to lie? Was it cash? A favor? Women?”

“A thousand,” he shrugged. “I owed them five hundred. They said if I testified, they’d wipe the debt, and then they’d also give me an extra five hundred. I didn’t see a problem with it. I took a killer off the streets.”

“Who paid?”

“A man named Paulo.”

“I need more than that.”

“Paulo is probably dead now. It’s been decades since that day, and he was always in trouble. His brother ran the casino.”

“Cinco Casino?”

Thorpe nodded. “Told me that if I testified that I’d seen Alfred Hunter at the walking track on that particular day, he would pay me five hundred in cash. I’d seen Alfred at the casino a few times, so I knew who he was.”

“You need to testify in court about the truth.”

All signs of sincerity left Thorpe’s face, replaced with outright fear. “You want me to say I lied?”

Hunter nodded. “You lied then, but now you will tell the truth.”

“If I did that, I’d be dead before the week is out.” His head was shaking like a pendulum, a horror now filling his eyes. “I can’t do that. I can’t go against those people.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re dangerous people.” He shook his head again. “You’d better just walk away from it.”

“It’s time to do the right thing. A man has been sitting in a prison cell for more than thirty-five years because of your lie. He’s innocent.”

“Innocent? No, he was the killer. That’s what they told me. Even the cops told me he was the killer. We all knew it.” The old man continued to shake his head from side to side, closing his eyes in an attempt to block Hunter out. “No, no, no. I can’t go to court.” He opened his eyes again, staring back at Hunter with horror. “I can’t do that.”

“You will, Mr. Thorpe,” Hunter said. “I’ll subpoena you, and once a hearing gets underway, I will present your lie in court and provide the necessary evidence to ensure everybody knows the truth. You can either take the high ground in this or sit back and suffer the consequences. If you continue to lie, then the court will put you in prison for perjury. We have proof of your lie.”

Fear flooded Samuel Thorpe’s face as he first took a step back, then turned and descended down the stairs to the next floor. He moved with the grace of an alligator with a broken leg, shuffling from sight until nothing of him remained except the echoes from his footfalls.

The meeting left Hunter with one piece of knowledge that was continuing to build—Thorpe was still scared of what the gangs could do.

CHAPTER 13

HUNTER WAS almost back to the office when his cell rang. One glance at the screen was enough to tell him that there were problems ahead. He pulled his car to the side of the road and answered the call.

“Natalie,” he answered the call. “What’s wrong?”

“Tex, we have a problem.”

“I know Dad was beat-up in prison, but he’ll be ok. He’s been through it before. Things will be ok, I promise.”

“No, you don’t understand. Eduardo’s been mugged on his way home from school.” There was desperation in her voice. “He was attacked, and he’s in the hospital. They think he’s got a broken jaw. I knew this would happen. I told you it would. My boys are in danger, and I have to go back.”

“Maybe this is a coincidence, Natalie. You don’t know who threatened the kids. It could just be that your son was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I have to go back.”

“Natalie, we’re so close. Don’t back down now.”

“I have to,” she said. “If I go through with this, they’ll make my boys disappear. I can’t risk that. I can’t risk them. It’s not what our father wanted.”

“Let me come and talk to you. Where are you now?”

“I’ve already left Chicago, and I’m already driving back down the Interstate. You can’t stop me. Sorry, Tex. I really am, but I can’t do this to my family. I want to help, but I can’t risk my boys. Our father would understand.”

She ended the call.

Hunter slammed his hand on the steering wheel five times. He was surprised it didn’t break. He screamed at the top of his lungs, the anguish burning his throat, and then punched the door five times. Once the anger subsided, he sat as traffic continued to pass him, staring at nothing. He sat on the shoulder of the road for almost ten minutes before feeling calm enough to continue on. He drove aimlessly for an hour, considered chasing his sister down the Interstate, but he knew it would be pointless.

It was five o’clock by the time he walked into the office. His head was pounding with frustration and anger. His elbow brushed past one of the hip-high indoor plants that Esther had bought years earlier, and they seemed to be thriving in the office.

“Good timing. I was about to take off for the day.” She had her bag over her shoulder. “How’d it go with Thorpe?”

“Natalie is gone.”

“What?” The revelation caught her by surprise. “Why?”

“They threatened her kids. One of her sons was beaten up on the way home from school.”

“Oh, Tex, I’m so sorry.”

“And Thorpe is refusing to help us. He’s scared and said he’ll stick to his story. We can’t count on him, either. We have the evidence, but he’s going to stick to his word.”

Hunter dropped into the chair opposite Esther’s desk. He looked at Esther, concern washed over her face.

“You’re hiding something from me,” Hunter said. “What is it?”

“It can wait.”

“No, give it to me straight. There’s no use hiding from the truth.”

“The website for Thorpe’s tennis tournament has taken down the information for that weekend.”

“Why?” Hunter squinted.

Esther drew a long breath. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but I contacted them when I saw the information about that weekend was gone. They said that they’d been contacted by a Chicago detective who had requested the information be taken down. The site’s owners, good law-abiding citizens that they are, had no reason to go against an officer’s request and had followed through. They’ve also been told not to release the records to anyone. All traces of the match Samuel Thorpe had played in, the day of the event and all other traces mentioning it have been erased from the internet.”

Hunter threw his head back, leaning on the top of the office chair, and stared at the ceiling.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered, more to himself than Esther. “We’re so close.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back, feeling the emotional toll it was taking on him. She walked around the table and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know how much this meant to you.”

“The site is gone, Thorpe has refused to testify, Natalie is headed back to Mexico. We’re left with nothing but the truth.”

“I don’t know what to say. I wish—”

“Hello,” a voice interrupted. Hunter looked up to see his brother standing in the doorway.

“Patrick?”

“I take it that you’ve talked to Natalie?” He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Have you heard she’s going back to Mexico and isn’t going to testify?”

Hunter rose to his feet, and walked through his office to the side cabinet. He picked up the bottle of the locally distilled Koval Whiskey and grabbed three glasses. Patrick entered the office, followed by Esther, who gently closed the door behind her.

They both nodded when Hunter held up a glass. In silence, they shared a solemn drink.

CHAPTER 14

IT WAS the smell that brought Alfred back to consciousness. Ignoring the pain in his back and sides, he kept his eyes closed as he breathed as deeply as his lungs allowed. It was a sweet scent, one that brought with it a memory from his distant past. The day he’d met the woman he had later married, it’d been the sweet scent surrounding her that had caught his attention. It was the essence of jasmine, rose, and sweet lilac drifting on the breeze.

Alfred kept his eyes closed for as long as possible as he focused on the smell, doing his best to regulate his breathing so the nurse wouldn’t realize he was awake. But whoever she was, she was monitoring him closely enough that she knew he was conscious.

“Mr. Hunter? How are you feeling?”

Alfred slowly began to open his eyes, squinting as the bright fluorescents bit into his pupils.

“Chanel No.5,” he whispered. “That’s what I’m smelling.”

“Your sense of smell doesn’t seem affected,” she said, smiling at him. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” he whispered, as the act of talking sent pain through his chest. “Or beaten in a stairwell.”

“You took quite a nasty fall. Thankfully, the guards found you and brought you here.”

“The guards,” he said, remembering the torrent of kicks that had rained down on him. “What good people.”

“You’ve managed to sustain significant bruising to your abdomen and legs, and you also have a sprained ankle.” She leaned down and looked into his eyes. “But you haven’t broken anything. It could have been much worse, you know.”

“That I believe,” he whispered. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“The doctor has given you some pain meds, and if you need any more, don’t hesitate to call out. You’re—” She was about to say something else when a shadow rounded the door to the room.

“Nurse Simpson? Give us a moment, would you, please?”

It was an officer, and Alfred could see through the crack of the door that someone else was standing behind him. Whoever it was, they had the power to influence with sheer presence, as the nurse’s demeanor changed the second she saw him. She left the room without question, leaving Alfred alone and vulnerable.

Alfred now understood the attack on him. It wasn’t a random beating; it wasn’t a random attack to pull him into line. He’d suffered many of those. Those had come at steady intervals during those first few years, and occasionally in the years since. But the latest beating was different—it’d been a message, and now it was just decoded for him.

“How are you feeling?” It was a man in a suit that spoke first, one Alfred didn’t recognize. Behind him stood Ferguson, the unit supervisor. The man in the suit was considerably younger than his escort, sporting a goatee and shaved head. “You took quite a fall, didn’t you? We’ve come to ask you a favor, Alfred. A favor which a man of your stature should be more than capable of.”

Alfred stared back at Ferguson; his eyes glued to the man as the other approached his bedside. He didn’t respond, waiting for the pain to come.

“We want you to serve out your remaining days right here in the prison hospital, with no court case and no more talk of innocence and corruption and all of those other words that seem to follow you.” The suited man looked around the room and smiled. “You could even remain in this room right here, if you want. Clean, great view, and of course, there’s always the gorgeous tail you can stare at. And she smells wonderful. Much better than the sights and smells of the unit, right?”

Ferguson stood behind the suited man, cracking his knuckles.

“I don’t know—”

“I’m not looking for an answer, old man. It wasn’t a question. If you don’t put an end to this talk of reopening the case, I will personally make sure that you die in your sleep.” The suited man grinned, the man’s face barely inches from Alfred’s. “Do you hear me, old-timer? Do you understand?”

Alfred did the only thing he could do, slowly nodding his forced agreement. He felt caught in a wild-west version of a checkmate, unable to stray from the only answer his afternoon guest had demanded.

“Good.” The man stood upright again and patted Alfred on the shoulder. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

CHAPTER 15

IT TOOK Hunter an hour to find the strength to roll out of bed on Saturday morning. His head had turned into a raging bass drum, his temples thumping as if possessed. The morning sun streaming in through the open window didn’t help his cause. After a quiet drink in the office with Patrick and Esther, where barely a word was spoken, he’d spent the rest of the night in his apartment working towards the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels.

As he contemplated making a final push to get his thumping head out from under the pillow, his doorbell rang, followed by the ringing of his cellphone. He checked the camera on the front door to his apartment and saw Ray Jones standing under the entrance. He buzzed him through.

Hunter winced, grabbed his t-shirt, and swung open the front door. Within a minute, Jones had entered his apartment, watching as Hunter downed a large glass of water, followed by two aspirin.

In River North, just a stone’s throw from Downtown, Hunter’s apartment was an escape from the bustle of his hectic professional life. The tall windows framed the city skyline, the balcony was south-facing and often bathed in sunlight, and the tall ceilings in the twenty-fifth-floor apartment made the entire apartment feel spacious. The apartment had a modern kitchen, which he barely used, a large living space with a comfortable couch and large television, along with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office.

“Ray,” Hunter greeted his friend as Jones came to the kitchen. Hunter filled another glass of water, and offered one to Jones, who declined. “What’s up? It’s…” Hunter looked at his watch. “It’s 10am.”

“Esther asked me to drop by. She said you might need checking on after the way you were yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Hunter rubbed his temples. “I’m fine, but I’m not sure where this will go now. A lot of things fell through. Natalie’s gone, and she’s probably somewhere in Texas by now.”

“Esther filled me in on what happened. She said you looked defeated,” Jones leaned on the counter-top. “That’s not a word I thought would ever describe you.”

“We have her statement, and I’m still ready to file that motion.”

Jones reached across and patted Hunter on the shoulder, and as the emotions in the room got stronger, he looked to the exit. “Alright, well, I’ve got to run. Now that I know you’re still breathing, I’ll be on my way.”

“Thanks.”

Once Jones had left, and the thumping in his head was beginning to dissipate, Hunter jumped into a cold shower, the water cold enough to get his heart pumping. After the cold shower and two cups of coffee, Hunter was at the desk in the office in his apartment, laptop open, reviewing files. The desk faced the window, staring out to the Chicago skyline, inspiring Hunter as he typed.

As the hangover’s effects began to subside, his thinking became clearer. He understood Natalie’s reason to run. He understood her fear. She’d lived her whole life looking over her shoulder. Every shadow could’ve been the gangs coming to make her pay the price for her father’s errors.

Detective Daryl Browne was a different story. There wasn’t a doubt in Hunter’s mind that it’d been the detective who had contacted the tennis website, most likely after being contacted by Samuel Thorpe.

By the time the clock had ticked past 2pm, Hunter had decided to follow a hunch that the soon-to-be-retired detective would be back at the same bar where he’d found him a few days earlier. Older men tended to be creatures of habit, and for a man nearing the end of his career, Hunter had no doubt the man would be laying low from any unnecessary action.

Within thirty minutes, Hunter was back at O’Grady’s.

His hunch proved to be correct, with Daryl Browne again occupying the same spot at the bar he’d been at the previous time. The detective was sitting alone while watching a boxing match on the television.

Hunter ignored the stares as he entered the bar and sat next to Browne. The detective didn’t pay him the slightest attention, continuing to stare at the television. Hunter grunted, and Browne took a glimpse at the man sitting beside him. He looked twice.

“I thought I told you to leave it alone,” Browne grumbled at him. “It’s best for everyone if you just forget about all of this.”

“It was you,” Hunter stated. “Samuel Thorpe phoned you and said he needed your help. You called the tennis center in California and told them to take down the details from the internet.”

“What if I did? That’s my job as a cop,” he smiled a little, showing off his yellow-stained teeth. “You know, harassing witnesses is a crime.”

“So are bribes, payoffs, perjury, and accessory to murder.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what, Detective?”

“Thinking that you’re going to stroll in after all this time and just take out the trash.” He lowered his voice, took a look around, then leaned in, his eyes every bit as menacing as his tone. “I should put a bullet in your head right here and now. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Save yourself while you still can, Hunter. There’s still time,” Browne said. “I called them, and they weren’t happy.”

“Who?”

“The Cubans, in Florida. It’s not the same guys from Chicago, but they’re still connected,” he laughed a little. “They’re watching you now. They’re looking at your every move. So I suggest you either get your affairs in order, perhaps choose which suit you’d like to be buried in, or you can do the sensible thing and leave this alone.”

“Who did you call?”

“That doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that these guys are strong in Miami. They’ve got connections, and they’ve still got the power to make you disappear.”

Browne finished his drink and stood to leave.

Hunter grabbed his arm. “We’re not done.”

Browne shrugged him off. “We are. And if you don’t back off, you can start saying goodbye to those closest to you, perhaps starting with that piece of ass working for you.”

Hunter grabbed Browne by the collar and slammed him into the nearest wall. The other men in the bar stood, stepping closer to Hunter.

“Touchy about her, eh?” Browne laughed. “Look around this bar, Hunter. You wouldn’t get two punches in before you’re attacked by fifteen cops.”

Hunter eyed Browne, and then looked towards the other end of the bar, where five men had stepped forward, waiting for Hunter’s next move. One was holding a pool cue, and another had his hand on a chair.

Hunter released his grip on Browne’s collar.

“See?” Browne scoffed. “You’re not stupid. You can walk away from it.”

Hunter let his arm go, and Browne walked away towards the front of the bar, with several other patrons watching the pair to see whether the exchange really was finished. When Hunter didn’t make a move to follow, they returned their attention to previous dealings.

Browne left the bar, and a minute later, Hunter walked out, scanning the street to see the detective about to climb into his pick-up.

Browne looked up, grinned, and shot back a salute. A few moments later, he was gone, leaving behind a faint blue haze of exhaust smoke.

Hunter stood on the street, trying to suppress the anger still raging inside him. He looked back towards the bar, where two drinkers had followed him outside. He stared at them, tempting them to become the target of his rage, but they turned and went back inside the bar.

Hunter walked back to his BMW sedan and pulled out of the parking spot, his tires squealing as he turned South. He turned towards the nearest expressway, and once safely accelerating onto the on-ramp, he began to settle down. The thumping in his head had all but disappeared, perhaps the first positive thing to happen that day.

His cell began to vibrate in his pocket before he heard the melody of the ring. Hunter reached in to retrieve it, but before he could get a grip on it, his car jolted violently forward. Caught by surprise, he tried to sit up enough in his seat to look in the rearview mirror, but just as he caught a glimpse of something silvery, the car shook a second time.

Hunter wrestled with the steering wheel to keep the car under control. The side mirror was filled with the front of a Ford F-250, the grill focused on him. Hunter turned to look over his shoulder, but the Ford suddenly picked up speed, smashing into the right side of Hunter’s sedan. The collision sent Hunter hurtling towards the edge of the road.

Hunter gripped the wheel, swinging hard right. He braced for impact as the car shifted. The sedan bumped into the side railing, shaking the car, but the impact was minor.

Vehicles began to pull up behind and to the side of his car, people anxiously getting out of their vehicles to check on him. The F-250 raced into the distance. Hunter composed himself and stepped out of the car.

A witness said something about having the footage on his dash-cam, but Hunter wasn’t paying attention. His focus was on the Ford disappearing in the distance.

The message was loud and clear.

CHAPTER 16

THE DASH-CAM footage proved useless. The F-250 was stolen from a worksite an hour before the accident, and the witnesses could provide no description of the driver. Hunter didn’t even get a glimpse of the person in the truck, and the cops only waited five days before they closed the file.

Despite the close call on the expressway, there had been no other attempts made on his life, or the lives of anybody he knew. He asked Jones to follow Esther for two days to make sure no one was tracking her, and when he found nothing, Hunter breathed a little easier.

He walked away from the crash with bruised ribs and added determination. The threats against him were having the opposite effect—the more resistance he found, the more motivated he became. The more threats he heard, the more single-minded his focus.

As Hunter sat at his desk, he allowed himself to take a breather from the case long enough to scan the websites Esther had been emailing him in the five days since the crash. There were several tabs open on his computer screen, each featuring options for his new car. One of them was a larger BMW, while a second was an SUV, complete with a bull-bar. The third option was a beast, a Ram pick-up that eclipsed the size of the Ford that had run him off the road. As he stared at it, he wondered how much it would take to run a truck like that off the road.

“I’ve got something for you,” Jones walked through the office doorway. “You’ll want to hear this.”

“Why don’t you come on in?” Hunter joked.

“You’ll want to see this,” Jones set a large envelope on Hunter’s desk, and sat down. “This might be the break you’ve been looking for.”

“What is it?”

“You remember a few weeks ago when I said I was sending off queries to some cop buddies of mine? You know, to go looking into some old files from your father’s case?” Jones opened his arms wide, proud of what he’d found. “One of them came through for us.”

Hunter reached forward and opened the large A4-sized envelope.

“I’ve known this guy since junior high. He worked a few odd jobs, never really finding his career path, and then landed a job in the records department of the PD. He said the records about your father’s case were incomplete.”

“I’ve been saying that for years. There were missing files that no one could ever explain.”

“Right. So my buddy starts to look at various other files around that time. Your father’s file was 85-5510, so he looks at the files 85-5511 through to 85-5525. And guess what? He found one of the missing files, tucked away at the back of the other boxes. Still all paper files, still all in the same spot that someone hid them thirty-six years ago. Turns out that a psychologist met with your father five times after his arrest, and she had compiled a detailed report on their sessions. But yet, it was never presented in court.”

Hunter pulled out the envelope’s contents, squinting as he read line after line.

“This is good, Ray.” Hunter thumbed the intercom button on his desk. “Esther, could you please come in here?”

Esther joined them a moment later. Hunter handed her the first report. After waiting a few moments for Esther to ascertain its contents, Hunter asked, “Could you please see if Dr. Isabelle Carson is still around? And if so, can you set up a meeting as soon as possible?”

Esther nodded and gave Jones a pat on the back as he stood beside her. “Nice job, Sir.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“That reporter from the Tribune called again,” Esther said. “She asked if you were doing your best to avoid her.”

“Tell her I am.”

Esther smiled and left the office, leaving the two men alone. Hunter looked over the papers and continued reading, flipping through each page, and shaking his head over the information he discovered.

“She even states that it was highly unlikely for one serial killer to have committed these murders,” Hunter said. “Because half the girls had their throats slit after they were dead; the psychologist suggests that it’s not the actions of the same killer.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Because it was a set-up from the very beginning. They slit the girl’s throats later to make it look like the same person.”

“I’m glad it helps,” Jones stood, and Hunter stood as well, shaking his hand solidly. “You could do with a win.”

“Thank you, Ray.”

“Don’t mention it.” Jones left without another word, leaving Hunter to assess and absorb the information.

As he sat alone in his office with the psychologist’s report in front of him, Hunter began to wonder just how many people helped to make the conviction happen. How many people were paid to lie? How many people deliberately hid information? How many more missing files were there?

Esther interrupted his thoughts as she returned to his office. “Dr. Carson retired from her main role a few years ago, but she still practices once a week. She asked what it was about, and I was honest with her. As soon as I mentioned the report, she said she’d be glad to meet with you. She has time this afternoon.”

Hunter smiled. He wasn’t done with this yet.

CHAPTER 17

THE PSYCHOLOGIST’S office was located on the fifth floor of a complex on North Sheridan Avenue, near Lakefront Hollywood Beach. The drive to Edgewater had taken longer than expected, courtesy of a police operation that had blocked a four-way intersection for thirty-five minutes. Traffic had been bumper to bumper, and with no room to turnaround, it left him and dozens of other motorists at the mercy of the officers.

Hunter parked near the beach, and as he exited his car, he stopped to look out at the lake. Under the winter sunshine, he looked at the large body of water and imagined the possibilities that lay before him. He was close to the truth, but it was the conclusion of the journey that scared him the most. He didn’t know who he was without his crusade to prove his father innocent. It was a part of him, an essential part of his life. He’d spent all his adult life fighting for justice, all of his adult life fighting for the truth. If he managed to expose the truth, where would it leave him?

He strode along the bike path towards the building, hands in his coat pockets, with bikes and electric scooters zipping past him with reckless abandon. He walked into the lakefront building, through the foyer and past the elevator. He took the stairs, taking them two at a time. He needed to exert himself just enough to create a distraction from the growing anxiety that had been building deep inside him.

The fifth floor of the building had five offices in total, with the psychologist lucky enough to have her office on the lakefront side of the building. From the moment he stepped through into the small reception area, Hunter could tell that this was a place where rent was paid by the year by people who didn’t spend any time worrying about balancing their checkbook.

“Mr. Hunter?” He looked beside him and saw a tall skinny woman standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a summery dress, brilliant yellow sunflowers cascading down the flowing white gown, matching the brightness of her smile. In her late sixties, she emanated the positive energy of a confident, content woman.

“Yes,” he said, caught a little off guard.

“My apologies. I normally have a receptionist to greet my clients, but Melanie had to rush home early. Isabelle Carson.” She shook hands with him, and then took a red coat off the hook next to the door. “It’s a beautiful sunny day outside. Won’t you come through to the balcony?”

Hunter followed, feeling a little overcome by the brightness of the office. The balcony, as she had called it, turned out to be the rooftop garden, accessed via a small staircase fixed to the side of the building.

The view from the rooftop was even more spectacular, from the tallest skyscrapers to his right, a park to his left, and the calm waters of Lake Michigan in front of him. The temperature was in the low fifties, made even nicer by the clear blue sky, unseasonably warm for January in Chicago.

“I prefer to hold sessions out here when I can. The view helps clients to unwind a little more,” she said as she turned on the outdoor heater. “But I never get to sit out here in January. This is the warmest winter I can remember.”

“It’s been beautiful, although the weather is supposed to change next week. Back to snow,” Hunter said. “This is an amazing spot. What a beautiful outlook.”

“It is. Won’t you sit down?” She gestured towards a group of cane furniture, and Hunter sat in one of the chairs. “Can I get you an iced tea? I was about to get one for myself. I know the cold air says it’s January, but who can resist an iced tea in this sunshine?”

“Iced tea would be perfect, thank you.”

There was a small bar fridge in the corner of the rooftop garden, tucked into a small cupboard. While he waited for Dr. Carson to return, Hunter wondered whether his father sat in the very same place, then realized that he would more than likely have met the doctor in a holding cell somewhere downtown. It was, after all, a police investigation.

“The view from up here certainly helps people to separate themselves from the pressures of down there,” Dr. Carson said as she returned to the table, handing him a tall glass of cool tea. “It’s like a mini escape.”

He sipped and was met with a strong lemon tang. “Thank you, this is great. It tastes like summer.”

“So, I must say that I was very surprised when your assistant called and asked to talk about the case,” she studied Hunter for a few moments and then sat down on another piece of cane furniture. The table between them was also cane, but had a glass top securely fastened into place, with a yellow placemat in the center. “You look a lot like him, you know? You’re bigger and broader than he was, but you have his eyes.”

“The eyes of a serial killer?” Hunter joked. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“And I imagine that’s what you want to talk about. Whether or not Alfred is a serial killer, right?”

“I don’t believe he is, and I’ve never believed that he was,” Hunter stared up to the blue sky. “Do you remember much from back then?”

“I’m not quite that old, young man,” Dr. Carson smiled. “My memory isn’t fading yet.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—” Hunter started, but she interrupted him.

“I’m just kidding. You never realize how touchy people become about their age until you get older. Yes, I remember everything from that time. Your father was a very memorable client. It was early in my career, and I was brought in by the prosecution to interview your father. He was a willing participant in the meetings.” She sipped her iced tea as a light gust blew through. “He was one of my first big clients, and I remember feeling quite nervous the first time I met him. I was told he was a dangerous serial killer, but the more I talked to him, the more obvious it became that he wasn’t.”

“I just found about this earlier today.” Hunter pulled the report from his pocket, unfolded the sheets, and handed them over. “And I wonder whether you could shed some further light on it.”

Dr. Carson’s eyes darted across the first page before she set it down. “I saw your father for exactly five sessions, all requested and paid for by the State’s Attorney’s office. And I can tell you with confidence that it took me only one of those sessions to know your father was innocent.”

“What made you so sure?”

“Alfred wasn’t the first suspected serial killer I evaluated for the court system. There have been many, some before your father, and many more afterward. I went into private practice about twenty years ago, but in that early stage of my career, I dealt with a lot of criminals. And what I found with your father was that the evidence itself pointed away from him.”

“What do you mean?” Hunter asked.

“If anyone actually bothered to look at the evidence, they would’ve found the same thing. Serial killers always have a pattern. Even when they don’t have a pattern, it’s still a pattern.” She took another sip of her tea and continued. “The first indication came when it was pointed out to me that while all the girls had had their throats cut, only half of them were killed by that method. Genuine serial killers don’t operate that way. The other four girls had their throats cut long after they were already dead. My guess is that it was done in a feeble attempt to point to one killer. Secondly, your father didn’t have the essence so many serial killers possess. Right from the beginning, I could see he didn’t have it in him. He had empathy for others. He cared about people. He was genuine. His sympathy for the others was real. That man wasn’t a killer, and certainly not a serial killer.” Dr. Carson smiled as she nodded. “And the third reason is perhaps the most interesting of all. Have you heard of a man named Thomas Malone?”

Hunter searched his memory banks. “One of the murdered girl’s fathers.”

“He was an old friend of mine, and I knew him long before the court had sent Alfred to me. Call it irony, if you will. Thomas told me repeatedly that it was the Marielitos who were responsible. He often spoke about the man who’d been falsely arrested, which is why I was so interested in talking with Alfred when the knock on the door finally came.”

“But your report didn’t seem to make a difference.”

“No,” Dr. Carson said, her face growing stern. “The police decided to conveniently deem my report as inaccurate and moved on without it. I know your father went through numerous appeals, but I was told to stay out of it, or my career would’ve been finished. That’s why I never contacted you, but now,” she shrugged. “Well, my career has just about finished anyway.”

“Who threatened you?”

“You have to remember that this was a different time. Things weren’t as connected as they are now,” she looked off to a distant place. “The whole city was on edge. Politicians, the police, and the State’s Attorney needed to be seen as hard on crime, and they couldn’t release a serial killer back onto the streets. Their case against Alfred was weak, and this report made it weaker, and they weren’t going to let him walk.”

“Sounds like nothing has changed.”

“If your father is innocent, which I believe he is, I’m so sorry for what happened to him.” She leaned forward a little. “I spoke to several officers at the time, but each time I was told to leave it alone. The final straw came when a man named Detective Browne came knocking on my door asking whether my own qualifications were all above board. It was a threat, and then I found a dead cat on the front seat of my car. That was terrifying, and I certainly got the message. I had to leave the case alone.”

Hunter gripped his glass tighter. It seemed as if one officer had ensured his father’s demise almost single-handedly.

“Have you stayed in contact with Thomas Malone?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Dr. Carson shook her head. “I haven’t seen Thomas in twenty years now. I’m not even sure he’s still alive. I do remember seeing a news piece on 60 Minutes about how most of the Dads of the murdered eight had committed suicide. I often wondered if Thomas had done the same.” Sadness washed through her eyes, but she tried to hide it behind a soft smile. “I remember him mentioning something about wanting to find a quiet plot of land somewhere and live out his days alone. He carried a lot of guilt around the death of his daughter and pushed everyone away after her death.”

They talked about the case for another twenty minutes before the temperature started to drop drastically.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Carson,” Hunter stood and placed his glass on the table. “You’ve been so helpful.”

“I hope so. I really am sorry I couldn’t do more for him.” She stood. “I remember seeing you on television during the court case. The camera would sometimes focus on you, the poor ten-year-old kid that was watching his father’s trial. Everybody in the city felt sorry for you at the time. If I can help you in any way, let me know.”

“If I asked you to testify about this report, would you?”

“You’re taking it back to court? Wow,” she said. “And yes, absolutely. I will testify about that report.”

Hunter offered his hand, but rather than shake it, Dr. Carson leaned in and held her arms up. Hunter returned her hug, feeling genuine empathy from the woman.

“Good luck, young man.”

Hunter made his exit, and before he reached the bottom level of the building, he already had his cell out. The line rang several times before it was answered. When Hunter spoke, he felt a refreshed sense of purpose build inside him.

“Ray. I need you to find someone.”

CHAPTER 18

HUNTER SLOWED as he drove closer to the Wisconsin home. He was four-hours from Chicago, north of Green Bay. The snow had been falling in the area for weeks. The temperature had plummeted from the 50s in Chicago the previous day to under 30 in Wisconsin. A light flurry of snow blew through as Hunter sipped on his second coffee that morning.

From what the nearby store owner told him, visitors were a rarity for Thomas Malone. Local store owners always held the best secrets in small towns, and when Hunter slipped her a twenty, the older lady told him everything he needed to know and a lot that he didn’t need to know. She told him that Malone came in for supplies once every two weeks, and often she’d be his only contact with the outside world. She marveled at how a man born and raised in the inner-city streets of Chicago could live a country life, as the silence of the land could be unsettling at times.

She knew of Malone’s family history and told Hunter that Malone had lost his only daughter to a ruthless serial killer called ‘The Chicago Hunter.’ She spat when she mentioned the name of the killer. Malone had mental problems, she said, and she cautioned Hunter about driving out there. Malone was a loner, a loose cannon, a fear-riddled old man with a happy trigger finger, and he wasn’t friendly, she warned him. She said it would be better if he waited in town for Malone to come for supplies in two days’ time. There was a motel up the street, but Hunter declined. He didn’t have that kind of time.

She gave Hunter directions to Malone’s house and told him that if he didn’t call her that afternoon, she’d send the cops out to check on him. She wrote her number on a piece of paper and then sent him on his way.

The road to the house at the edge of the woods was dirt, but it was flat. Hunter had to open two gates, with the wooded drive appearing like the perfect set of a horror movie.

Belinda Malone had been in the first wave of murdered girls. It was devastating, horrifying, but the death of Belinda wasn’t the first loss in the family, with the girl’s mother succumbing to breast cancer only the year before. Hunter reasoned that it was his wife’s death that had led Thomas Malone to the Cinco Casino in the first place, perhaps the perfect escape from his grief. As it turned out, it had been the doorway into hell itself.

As he approached the house, Hunter saw the silhouette of a man on the front porch. He was holding a rifle across his chest.

Malone remained motionless as Hunter parked his car behind an old truck. Hunter stepped out of the car and looked around, focusing on the large red barn for a brief second.

“Not interested,” Malone shouted, making his presence known. He stepped out from the shadows into full view. “Get in your car and turn around.”

Malone looked hardened by his years alone. Dressed in a flannel shirt and dirty jeans that hadn’t been washed in years, Malone presented as an unsteady character. His jerky movements made him appear like a bomb that was due to go off any second. He had little hair left, and his face was reddened by the sun exposure, alcohol, and a bad diet.

“Mr. Malone? I’m not here to sell you anything. My name is—”

“Well, if you’re not selling, then we ain’t got no business. This is a fully loaded gun, and I can bury your body out there. Nobody would ever find your body in these woods.”

“I spoke to Martha at the store. She wants me to call her back this afternoon,” Hunter called out. They faced off for a few seconds before Hunter began to speak again. “Alfred Hunter. That’s what I’m here about.”

The mention of the name caught Malone off guard, and he lowered his rifle to waist level. “I haven’t heard that name for a very long time.”

“He’s innocent, and you can help me prove it.”

“How do you know he’s innocent?” Malone called out, taking a step down off the porch. His body jerked as he did. “What do you know about Alfred?”

“He’s my father, sir. And I’ve spoken to Dr. Isabelle Carson.”

Malone looked like he was about to have a heart attack. His face became redder, and his breathing shorter. He sat down on the step, leaning forward and heaving in shallow breaths. He placed the weapon beside him and rested his hands on his knees. It was another minute before he caught his breath, by which time he worked up a sweat, despite the cold. He ran the back of his wrist across his forehead, then flicked the sweat to the ground.

“How is Isabelle?”

“Dr. Carson is well,” Hunter took a step closer and held out his hand. “Tex Hunter.”

Malone waved him away, as if the name had little meaning for him.

“Dr. Carson said that you knew my father wasn’t guilty.”

Malone nodded for a few moments before he spoke. His body jerked again. “It was my fault Belinda died, my own stupid fault. It was all my fault. My Belinda, my sweetheart, my little girl, and I let her die. I didn’t think they’d do it. I just thought it was a threat to make us pay. They said they’d hurt someone close to us, and none of us thought they really meant it. And then…” he shook his head again, reliving the pain. “And then she was gone.”

“Did you ever interact with a detective named Daryl Browne?”

“If you knew how many times I tried to give a statement to that man, it’d make your head spin.”

“He refused to take it?”

“I told him the truth about the Cuban gangs. I told him everything. But like the other dads, I was told to forget about that line of investigation. Alfred was guilty, they said, and they weren’t going to listen to any other line of inquiry. We all tried to tell them the truth, but they kept dismissing it. We tried to help Alfred at the time, but the cops wouldn’t hear us out. Alfred was the killer, they were sure of it, but we knew the truth,” his anger started to return. “Every time I went to the cops, the Cubans came after me again. The Cubans threatened me many times, but I had nothing left to lose. I didn’t care. I’d lost my wife to cancer, I’d lost my daughter to those killers, and I was a broken man. All I wanted was the truth for my Belinda.”

Hunter stepped closer. He was treading a fine line with the man. Malone seemed to be teetering between anger and sadness, and one wrong word could set him off.

“Mr. Malone,” Hunter lowered his voice and softened his tone. “It’s time for the truth to come out. I need you to testify in court about what you know. Do you think you could do that? Maybe help me get justice for your little girl?”

Malone considered the request, staring at the ground for a long time.

“My girl is long dead, son. So is my wife,” he said as another jerk went through his body. “They’ve both gone to a better place, and no matter what we do now, nothing will bring them back.”

“You’re right, Mr. Malone. But Belinda’s killer is still out there, and they deserve to be behind bars.”

“We got one of them,” he said without a hint of emotion. “Tannen got one of them. He said the guy screamed like a girl and then cried like a baby. That made me happy, but he wasn’t the man that killed my Belinda. I don’t even know who he was. I don’t know who did it. How can I get revenge if I don’t know who it was?”

“This isn’t revenge. This is about justice.”

“It’s about revenge for me. That ate me up for so long. I wanted to kill the man that killed my Belinda. I wanted to wring his neck. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted it so badly,” the anger grew in his eyes. His fists clenched together. “But I never got the chance. If I knew who it was, I’d kill them in a heartbeat. Can you give me that chance?”

“No, sir,” Hunter’s voice remained calm. “But we owe it to Belinda and the rest of the girls to bring the killers to justice before the courts.”

“Owe it to her?” Malone snapped. The redness in his face returned. He picked up the rifle next to him. “Owe it to her?! What do you know about my daughter? What do you know about how much pain I’ve been through?!” He was shouting at the top of his lungs. “You know nothing!”

“Mr. Malone,” Hunter tried to remain calm. “I need your help.”

“You’re not getting any help from me,” he lifted the rifle and pointed it at Hunter. “Get back in that car and never come back.”

Hunter took a step back. Malone’s years alone, the decades he’d spent by himself, had left him unhinged.

“Mr.—”

“Get back in the car!”

Hunter stepped backward towards his car, his hands held out in front of him.

Once at the car door, he paused, staring up at Malone. Malone didn’t flinch. The rifle remained aimed at Hunter.

Hunter nodded, got in the car, and drove away.

CHAPTER 19

AFTER HE stopped in to let the shop owner know he was safe, Hunter drove the rest of the journey back to Chicago in silence. He turned off the radio, turned off his phone, and took the Interstate back to his home city.

Malone’s refusal to help was another setback, another punch to the guts, and he couldn’t understand it. What father wouldn’t fight for justice for their daughter? What father would let their daughter’s killer walk away? Malone knew the truth, he knew what really happened to those girls, and the opportunity to correct the wrongs of the past was in front of him, but he still refused. The psychological damage of his mistakes had taken its toll on Malone, Hunter reasoned.

With Dr. Carson’s buried statement, as well as Natalie’s testimony, Hunter had enough to file the petition for post-conviction relief. Whether or not it would be heard by the court was a different matter. He was pushing hard, pushing for his opportunity in court, and once the petition was filed, he expected the push-back in the other direction to be just as hard.

Closer to Chicago, with his adrenaline dying down, Hunter turned his cell back on. It rang instantly. He hit the answer call button on the steering wheel.

“Tex, it’s Patrick.”

“Patrick.” Hunter’s tone was blunt. He had little emotion left for the day.

“Have you got time later on?”

“What’s it about?”

Patrick paused while he found the right words. “I’d like to go and see Mom, and I’d like you to be there with me.”

“Ok,” Hunter responded. “I’m about two hours away. Meet you there at five.”

“Perfect. See you there.”

Once he ended the call from Patrick, Hunter phoned Esther and provided her the update on Thomas Malone, his rifle, and his delicate mental state. She listened as he laid it all out for her, and after a few back and forths, he ended the second call, leaving him alone with his thoughts again.

He found it strange that his life somehow went on despite the tragedy that consumed it. His teenage years were filled with corrosive anxiety, only eased by waves of anger and disbelief. He was beaten up many times in response to his father’s conviction, he was verbally abused, and he was ostracized because of his last name. He remembered how all the other mothers withdrew their children from his basketball team and how no other team would let him play. Nobody wanted to be associated with the Hunter name. He remembered teachers spitting at him in the corridors. And he remembered friends who never talked to him again.

But somehow, someway, life found a way to move forward. He put one foot in front of the other. He showed up to school, and then college, no matter how much abuse he faced. At some point, he began to fight back against the cruelty. He began to fight for justice. Throughout his college years, the words of his father continued to echo in his head—compassion, integrity, honor, and justice. It was the last of those central values that drove him the most.

After hours of self-reflection in the car, Hunter reached the gates to the place where his mother had been living out her eternal rest. The Queen of Heaven cemetery in the Hillside neighborhood was a safe place for his mother to spend her perpetual sleep, although her gravestone had been spray-painted with words of hate a number of times.

At the entrance to the cemetery, the grass was neatly mowed, the paths weed-free, and the bushes neatly trimmed, but Hunter didn’t stop there. He walked the length of the cemetery, near the back fence, away from the masses, where they deemed it suitable to bury a woman convicted as an accessory to eight murders.

He saw his brother waiting on a bench towards the back of the cemetery.

“Tex,” Patrick stood and greeted his brother with a handshake. “Thanks for coming.”

Hunter nodded, and they walked shoulder to shoulder towards her grave. Although Patrick had grown up with no doubt about his father’s guilt, which he was now questioning, he had little doubt about his mother’s innocence. He knew they got her conviction wrong. She was charged a year after Alfred was put away, just a few months before another Mayoral election campaign. Again, the campaign was built on being tough on crime. The case against their mother was weak, but the courts found a way to charge her and send her to prison. The Mayor stood on the front steps of the courthouse after that decision, proudly announcing the sentence, taking the credit for putting a murderous person in prison. Their mother died behind bars—an innocent woman broken by the system.

When they reached the grave, they stood in front of her, hands clasped together, heads down, and Patrick said a prayer.

“Amen,” they said in unison when Patrick finished.

It took Patrick a few moments to speak again. “She died knowing the truth, Tex. She knew, right from the start, that our father sacrificed himself to save Natalie’s life. She knew all about it, and yet, she didn’t complain, at least not to me. She was such a kind, loving woman. She had such a caring soul. I don’t know if you remember, but she used to volunteer to cook at the homeless shelters throughout Chicago. Some nights, she would take me along and tell me how important it was to help others. ‘The ability to help others is the greatest gift we have,’ she would say. ‘Don’t waste it, Patrick. Give, love, and help,’ she would tell me.”

“We should honor her memory. We shouldn’t let this beautiful woman’s wrongful conviction stand,” Hunter said. “We owe it to her to fight for the truth. The world needs to know what a beautiful soul our mother was. We can’t let her legacy remain as an accessory to murder. That’s not fair and just to her.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Patrick continued staring at the headstone. “She knew, Tex. All along, she knew the sacrifice that she was making. Both of them knew the truth. Yes, they went to prison for crimes they didn’t commit, but they knew why they had to go to prison. Mom knew why Dad needed to do what he did. They saved Natalie from certain death. And they probably saved both of us as well. We can honor her memory by making sure that Natalie and her family stay safe.”

“What are you saying?”

“Tex, think about this. Think about the consequences for all of us. Think about Natalie and her boys,” Patrick turned to him. “This is what our parents wanted. They wanted to sacrifice their own lives to keep her safe. They wanted to make this choice, and they made it, knowing full well that their names would forever be tarnished. The best we can do is honor their decisions.”

“No, Patrick. The best we can do is bring out the truth.”

“It’s time to let it go. This crusade has kept you from starting your own family. It’s kept you from love. It’s time to focus on building a life with Esther. It’s time for you to let love into your life,” Patrick said. “Love is like the rain. It comes in a drizzle, and then it pours, and then it floods. If you’re not careful, the flood will wash you away, sending you down the river with no hope of return. But that’s a happy journey, and it’s one that you’ve avoided for too long. It’s time to end the drought.”

A cold wind blew across the cemetery, sending a shiver up their spines. The leaves rustled overhead with each gust. The rusting back fence shook slightly, and the rattling sound could be heard throughout the area. The air was thick, and it felt like a January snowstorm was about to blow through.

“I still remember the day they brought you home, Tex. You were all wrapped up in your Cubs nursery blanket. I was ten at the time, and I thought you were so cute. You kept grabbing my little finger when I tried to rub your face, and hung on to it so tightly, as if you somehow knew who I was. I promised then to always look out for you, and that promise still stands today.” He turned to his brother, reaching his hand out and gripping his shoulder. “Just like the promise they made to themselves. Letting this go isn’t about betraying them. It’s about protecting the rest of us who are still here. That’s what our mother would want you to do, just like they did every single day. It’s time to let this case go.”

“Memory is a great deceiver, Patrick,” Hunter said. “It presents itself as something pleasant, but it’s nothing more than just grief and a longing for the past, clouded and changed by hope. Even vivid memories aren’t real. They’re just illusions.”

“Come on, Tex. I know you don’t believe that,” Patrick said. “I know you still think about our mother and what a beautiful woman she was. I know that you still long for the past, the times before this all happened. I know you still think about when we were happy, when we were a family. That’s why you’re addicted to this crusade. You want things to go back to the way they were. But things can’t go back to the way they were. Life has moved on. And so should you.”

Hunter didn’t respond.

He kissed the top of his mother’s gravestone and walked away.

CHAPTER 20

THE INFIRMARY at Cook County Jail may have been substandard compared to every other hospital in America, but for Alfred, it was the best room he’d had for years. The food was better, the staff were kinder, and the smells were so much cleaner. He hadn’t smelled the punch of pine cleaning products in years. It made him smile every time the cleaning lady came past.

But for the first time in years, he’d started to feel the deep sorrow of exile, knowing that he was alone, a captive. The closer the hearing came, the clearer the memories were. The memories that were suppressed for so long were coming back, sneaking into his daydreams, filling his head every time he shut his eyes. The agony of his incarceration only hurt more when he thought about the past.

When he was notified that Patrick was coming to see him on a Monday morning during the second week of his stay, he struggled to contain his emotion. Patrick was the eldest, the most tolerant, but he rarely came to visit. Alfred understood why, but it broke his heart a little every time he thought about it.

Alfred had to be transported to the visitor center in a wheelchair. The nurses had already told him it would be a permanent feature for all his future visits. It didn’t bother him. Wheelchair or not, if it meant he could see his children, then he accepted it. He would have crawled through a river of fire if it meant contact with his family.

Alfred was wheeled into a small booth with a glass partition and given a phone to communicate with Patrick, who sat on the other side. Alfred smiled. Patrick didn’t. They engaged in small talk for the most part, and Alfred was excited to hear from the eldest of his children. They talked about Patrick’s son, Max, and how he was working as a tourist boat operator on the Chicago River. They talked about Max’s hope of buying the tourist boat business one day. They talked about Chicago and the changes that were happening in the city. They talked about the weather. The snow. The wind. The sun. They talked about life, all the while avoiding one topic of conversation that hung heavily over them—Tex’s plan to seek the truth and the petition for post-conviction relief.

Knowing that their time was running out, Patrick broke away from the pleasant topics to raise his concerns about what Tex was planning. Patrick knew he hadn’t gotten through to his brother during their previous meeting by their mother’s gravesite. Now he came looking for affirmation from the only parent still standing, perhaps the only person that was still capable of making sense out of the mess that things had become.

“Natalie told us the truth,” Patrick whispered, careful to keep his voice low enough for the patrolling guards not to hear. “It took us a few weeks to actually process the truth.”

“She said she would tell you,” Alfred stared back at him, his face at first confused before relaxing into acceptance. “Did she tell you the whole truth?”

“And nothing but,” Patrick nodded. “She told us about the Cinco Casino, about the debts, and about the other fathers. She told us why you put her on the plane. And she told us why you’ve never explained the truth to us.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick.” Alfred nodded slowly. “I couldn’t tell you the truth. I couldn’t risk it getting out. I’ve lived thirty-six years in here trying to hide it, and now, life outside these walls is such a distant memory.” He looked at his eldest son. “I don’t even remember what the color pink looks like.”

“You made a sacrifice for Natalie,” Patrick’s jaw clenched, fighting back the emotions. “You did it to save your daughter.”

“I’m sorry that our family had to go through this.”

“I understand,” Patrick composed himself and kept his tone flat. “How are you feeling after the fall?”

“It wasn’t a fall,” Alfred said. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Patrick nodded. Alfred had made countless trips to the hospital during his time in prison, and most occasions were recorded as a ‘fall.’ It wasn’t a coincidence that the falls happened where there were no witnesses, video surveillance, or guards.

“Patrick,” Alfred’s tone lowered. “You have to tell Tex to stop pushing for the motion. It’s over now. The truth is out to all my children. That’s all that matters. There’s no use trying to get an old man out of prison.”

“We’ve just been out to see Mom this afternoon, and I tried telling him that, but he’s driven. It’s an obsession for him. With my psychiatrists’ hat on, I would say that it’s a way to deal with the trauma he experienced as a child, and he’s unable to stop until he proves your innocence.” Patrick leaned in a little closer. “But it’s bigger than just Tex. The Mayor phoned me. She said that it wasn’t in the city’s interest to dredge up a past that’s better left in the past.”

“The Mayor called you directly?”

“The Mayor said that she could make your time comfortable now until the end, but you have to let the motion go. There’ll be no more beatings,” Patrick’s fists clenched as he fought off more emotion. “Why can’t you just ask Tex to abandon the whole motion? It’s your case, and it’s your choice.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I’ve already tried to talk sense into him,” Alfred spoke gently into the phone receiver. “I tried to talk to him, but I can’t say no to him anymore. I can’t go to the grave with Tex thinking I’m a coward. I can’t break his heart again. I just can’t do it. That’s why I need you to stop him.”

Patrick drew a breath before he delivered the next piece of news. “One of Natalie’s sons was beaten on the way home from school. She’s gone back to Mexico to look after him.”

Alfred’s expression turned grave, almost set in stone as he pondered the news. He understood better than anybody the viciousness the Cubans were capable of dishing out. He also understood their reach, having stretched their reign of terror across the country, including into the very prison he now sat in.

“Whatever it takes, Patrick,” Alfred whispered. “You must stop Tex before it’s too late, you hear? You must stop him for me.”

Patrick nodded.

The guard came and informed them that their time was up. Alfred nodded at the woman, while Patrick gave her a smile. They hung up the receivers, and Alfred mouthed two words to Patrick before he was wheeled away. “Stop him.”

CHAPTER 21

‘Dinner at my house.’

The text message from Esther was brief and direct. As he drove through the afternoon traffic, Hunter considered declining the offer, preferring to sit with a bottle of Mr. Daniels and lose himself into a pit of self-destruction. But a second message came through a few moments later.

‘I’m not asking.’

Hunter texted back and agreed to a seven o’clock home-cooked meal at Esther’s house. He drove to his apartment first, the day’s events still running through his head. He showered, not only to cleanse himself, but to wash the entire day away. He wanted to lose the scent of Thomas Malone and his self-pity that could cost a child her justice. He wanted to lose a brother’s fear, a fear the man had been carrying for the better part of his life. But mostly, he wanted to wash away his own failures, the ones that had robbed him of the opportunity to convince either of the men to do the right thing.

The hot water felt better than he could have anticipated, and he spent ten minutes letting the heat wash away his frustrations. Once he was sure he could face civilization again, he threw on a shirt and trousers and made his way to Esther’s apartment in the neighborhood of Bucktown.

He knocked on the door with minutes to spare before 7pm, and was greeted by a woman wearing a floral apron, her hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head and a smear of flour down one cheek.

“Looks like you’re cooking up a storm,” he said, holding up a bottle of red, as well as a white. “I wasn’t sure what we were having.”

“I was planning on a beer,” she returned, leading him through to the kitchen. “But that bottle of red looks good.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Esther’s home was pleasant, a sun-filled two-bedroom unit situated on a quiet tree-lined street. The unit was the perfect mix of modern renovations and rustic charm. It had a large kitchen and living area, a small English-styled yard at the back, and a lovely view of the nearby park from the front porch.

“It’s home-made ravioli and garlic bread,” Esther said as she turned her attention to the pot. “In my twenties, I used to live next door to an old Italian woman, and she spent most nights teaching me how to cook. It took her a long-time, but eventually, I learned the ways of Italian cooking.”

“Did you hear about the Italian chef that died?” Hunter asked as he grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard. “He pasta way. It was so sad that he ran out of thyme.”

“That’s a terrible joke,” Esther laughed. “But at least now he’s a pizza of history.”

Hunter laughed as he poured the wines. Esther finished cooking, served the plates, and they ate sitting around the kitchen bench. He praised her cooking, saying it was the best pasta he’d had in years.

They talked and laughed as they ate, chatting a lot but never really saying anything, swapping jokes and discussing the news, determined to ignore whatever needed to be ignored.

It was one of the best meals Hunter had in a long time, a moment in which he lived his life and didn’t think about his life at all.

Once they finished their meal, Esther suggested they sit out on the balcony. She had a new swing-couch she wanted to show him, and sipping wine out in the moonlight sounded like the perfect plan. She turned on the outdoor heater, and they sat, gazing out to the park opposite.

Initially, the conversation remained where it had been for the majority of the evening, but it soon became apparent that there was something heavy weighing them down, and when she returned with two refilled glasses of wine, Esther asked the question.

“Are you sure everything’s ok?”

Hunter looked out across the nearby buildings, the moon hanging low overhead. She could see him clam up a little, holding the defensive wall at bay for the time being. He took a sip from his drink, held it in his lap, and began to share the day he had in detail.

At first, he held back, but the more he spoke, the more Hunter began to share his emotions, feelings, thoughts, and frustrations. He told her about Malone, about Patrick, and about how he felt this was the end.

When he finished speaking, there was a long silence before Esther offered her own thoughts. She could see he was struggling, his left hand tightly clamped into a fist.

“Patrick is right,” she began and saw Hunter flinch a little. She reached out and touched his hand. “But not in the way he thinks. When I say he’s right, I mean the part about this not being about betraying anybody. Of course, it’s about protecting the family, but not by running away.”

“But that’s exactly what he wants me to do. He wants me to run away. He wants me to give up.”

“That’s the fear in him speaking. If you let this go, then I guarantee you the fear will never leave because those murderers will always have something over you. They remain in control because of that fear. Patrick is scared, yes. So is Natalie. But that’s exactly how these people win—by keeping you living in fear. If you break out of that and confront it, yes, it’s dangerous, yes, it’s scary, but it will also be the way out of this.”

“You think we have enough to fight them?”

“I think we have the best weapon of all to fight this. We have a brilliant lawyer who’s at the top of his game, one who knows how to make things happen, and uses whatever he can in order to get to the truth. And the truth is what this is all about. The truth is what will set you all free.”

Hunter listened, and the more Esther spoke, the more his defensive walls came crumbling down. He’d been fighting to keep those barriers up, to protect himself from Patrick, from the frightened witnesses, from those blocking his way in every direction. But the thing he’d been trying to protect himself from the most was the fear of his own failure.

“You, Tex Hunter, is what will set your family free,” Esther continued. “Not the witnesses, not the victims, not the murderers. You. Your mother and father did what they had to in order to keep you safe for as long as possible. They gave their freedom to keep you safe.”

“She died a broken woman,” he whispered. “She lost everything.” He turned to Esther, his fingers shaking, beginning losing grip on the empty glass. Esther reached for it and set it down on the ground. Hunter struggled, first one tear escaping his grip and then a second. “She lost everything because of this, lost her entire family.” The tear dangled from the edge of his jawline, hung suspended for a brief second, then dropped onto the cloth of the t-shirt, instantly absorbed out of existence. Esther watched Hunter finally give in to the grief that had been ravaging him since childhood.

He tried his best to control the emotions gripping him as the steady stream of tears continued falling. He wanted to hold back, to hang on to every shred of grief. But once he began to let go, it was impossible to hang on to any sense of control. The pain and torment he’d been carrying for so long had waited long enough.

He dropped his head into Esther’s lap as the grief shook him, the weeping flowing from the man in waves. With one hand on his shoulder and the other stroking his hair, Esther comforted him as best she could.

“She’d be proud of who you’ve become,” she said. “Don’t give up yet.”

“Where else can I go? What else can I do?”

“You’ve still got one option left,” Esther’s tone was soft. “You can go to the source.”

CHAPTER 22

HUNTER TOOK a flight south. He needed to stand in the lion’s den. He needed to confront the other people who were connected to the case. With the resistance towards his plans continuing to build in Chicago, he needed a breakthrough, one big enough to smash the walls down once and for all.

He’d been to Florida a few times in his life but had mostly remained on the tourist trail. He remembered a family holiday when he was eight—visiting Orlando and riding the Thunder Mountain rollercoaster at Disney World, walking on the pristine sand of Clearwater beach, and traveling to Cape Canaveral to visit the Kennedy Space Center. He remembered being in awe of the space shuttles, his mouth wide open the entire time as they toured the site, and he remembered his father talking about space with such wisdom. They were good memories. Great family times with the sort of cheesy photos only the eighties could deliver.

But on this visit, he would venture as far from that life as possible, visiting the darker side of the sunshine state.

Ray Jones had contacts in Miami and put Hunter in touch with a member of the Miami Police Department’s Narcotics Unit. Detective Felix Perez had been on the force for as long as Alfred Hunter had been in prison, which meant he would have an in-depth understanding of the Cuban crime gangs. Forty years earlier, Perez had been a fresh-faced police officer when the Marielitos began to arrive from Cuba. He remembered the Cuban crime wave well. He lost a partner in a shoot-out with drug gangs, he lost his brother to an overdose, and he lost his best-friend to a late-night stabbing. The early eighties remained in his mind as one of the most troubled times in the checkered history of Miami.

After arriving at the Miami International Airport, Hunter caught a cab to Miami Beach. The News Flair Café was across from South Beach, separated by a small park and a busy road. There were two lines of Parisian-style café furniture lining the sidewalk, each with a small table between two chairs. Seated outside under the awnings were a number of people dressed in polo shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. The first two men that Hunter walked past were discussing a property deal, throwing out figures in the millions of dollars. What a way to do business, Hunter thought. He was more used to conducting his business dressed in five layers of clothing and avoiding the snow.

Hunter had taken off his jacket and tie, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and donned a pair of dark sunglasses. He spotted a man seated at the table towards the edge of the establishment, sipping coffee in the shade.

“Detective Perez?” Hunter asked the man enjoying the morning view. He looked similar to the photo Jones had shown him—thick mustache, aviator glasses, and a short-sleeve business shirt. He was a broad man with thick hairy forearms, and still had jet-black hair despite being in his mid-sixties. He moved slowly but with purpose.

“Mr. Hunter,” Perez rose from his seat and offered his hand to shake.

Hunter nodded. The waiter came, and Hunter ordered a latte. Perez joined him for a second coffee.

“So my friend tells me that you’d like to talk about Marielitos that went north to Chicago? He said it’s for a case you’re working on. It’s certainly a long way to come for information.”

“Straight to business. I like that,” Hunter said. “Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”

“I don’t usually help defense lawyers. I don’t like you guys.” Perez squinted at Hunter and leaned back in his chair. “But that was an interesting request. I hadn’t thought about those guys in a long time, and if you’re looking into them, then I decided I’m happy to help.”

“Thank you,” Hunter said. “Or if you could point me in the direction of a contact that may be able to tell me more, I would be very grateful.”

The waiter placed the coffees in front of them, and Hunter thanked him.

“It was a nasty time,” Perez said, looking around the half-filled café. “The Mariel boatlift from Cuba brought a lot of crime to these parts. We’d never seen anything like it. I was just a young cop, inexperienced, and it had a lasting effect on me. The people we were previously dealing with had rules. They stayed in their lane. But these Cubans, well, they had no rules.”

“Lots of violence?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. There was a massive crime wave following the arrival of these gangs, and over the next five to ten years, we saw horrific things. People cut up by chainsaws. People shot in broad daylight while lying on the beach. People shot in nightclubs. The criminals that arrived amongst the legitimate refugees destroyed the reputation of the Cubans that were already here.”

“Sounds like you remember a lot.”

“I do. It had a great effect on me. The Columbians and the Cubans. That was the eighties for me. And the Cuban crime wave was the worst of them. The stuff you see sticks in your memory like nothing else.”

“And then they moved north to Chicago.” Hunter sipped his coffee. “That’s what I’d like to know about.”

“By the mid-eighties, they were dominating the drug trade in Miami, and they wanted to expand their distribution networks. They tried to move into Atlanta, Jersey, Chicago, and some even made it as far as Boston. But no networks lasted long. By the time the nineties rolled around, the Cuban gangs had either been forced out of the networks, or they’d been killed. They came back to Miami with their tails between their legs.”

“Any names you can give me that were active in Chicago back then?”

“Paulo Cruz.” Perez looked around the café, checking that nobody reacted to the name. When he saw nobody looking at them, he continued. “That’s the man who ran the Marielitos in Chicago. He tried to make a mark, he tried to make it big, but failed and returned south to Miami. His nephew, Victor Garcia, became big in the Cuban Mafia, and then Paulo was forced out. Even Victor Garcia isn’t the man he once was, but time has a way of changing most things. Victor’s still powerful, but not as violent as he used to be.”

“Paulo Cruz was the man who ran the operations in Chicago?”

“That’s right.”

“And where is he now?”

“He’s been dead a long time. Most of the violent guys tend to meet a violent end. That’s the way of the world, especially in the drug trade.”

“Is there anyone who was linked to Chicago that’s still around?”

Perez nodded and then took off his sunglasses and placed them on the table. He stared at Hunter with his piercing blue eyes. “I have a name for you, but first, I want to make sure that you know what you’re getting into. I don’t want to hear about a report of a Chicago lawyer being found at the bottom of the ocean.”

“I know what I’m getting myself into.”

Perez continued to stare at Hunter. Hunter didn’t flinch.

“Alright,” Perez nodded. “I’ll give you the name, but tread carefully. Yoel Cruz.”

“What’s his connection to Paulo Cruz?”

“They’re brothers,” Perez spoke slowly. “Yoel Cruz is a former top guy in one of the Cuban gangs. He used to be powerful, and his nephew, Victor Garcia, is still very strong. If you cross this man, and he calls Victor, then you’re dead. No doubt about it. I don’t know how much clearer I can be on that. If Victor becomes involved, you’ll have a bullet in your skull by sunset tomorrow. But, having said that, you’ve come at an interesting time—Victor is trying to hold onto power, and the Cruz side of the family is still lurking around. There’s a war within the family, but they’ll still protect each other. And the rumor is that Victor has some of the Miami PD in his back pocket.”

“I need to talk to Yoel Cruz.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Perez nodded and picked up the pen on the table. He wrote an address on the back of a napkin. He pushed the napkin across the table but kept his hand on it. “I’ve been trying to nab him for something big for a while, but I’ve got nothing. If you get any information that could nail him, you need to tell me.”

“I will.”

“Yoel Cruz will talk the second you mention my name. He thinks I’m on his side. He thinks that I’m helping him survive, but I’m not. I gained his trust to try and get information about his family, and it’s worked to some extent,” Perez removed his hand from the napkin with the address. “Keep me updated.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“But Mr. Hunter, I want to make it very clear,” Perez leaned forward again, “Yoel Cruz might look poor and broken, but he’s still dangerous. And you need to be careful what you say to him.”

CHAPTER 23

CRUZ LIVED on the outskirts of Arcadia; his home located on the southern side of the small town. Hunter didn’t have an issue finding the home, although at first, he wondered if Perez had given him the wrong address. The house was a far cry from what he’d been expecting, looking more like it belonged to a retired janitor than a retired crime boss. It was run-down. Damaged. One window had a large crack straight down the middle, kept together by electrical tape. The weatherboard had seen better days. If a hurricane came through, it would tear the place to pieces. If a strong breeze blew through, it would probably fall over. Even the wolf from the three little pigs wouldn’t have a hard time blowing the house down.

Hunter parked the rental car near the entrance, locked it, and walked up the weed-infested path. He knocked loudly on the front door and almost expected it to come off the hinges.

A man in his seventies called out a greeting and came to answer the door. Hunter could see him through the living room window. The man Hunter had flown the entire length of the country to see was a wiry man. He walked with a noticeable limp, supported by a walking stick topped with the head of a lion carved out of wood. The short man opened the door, staring up in surprise at Hunter’s towering figure.

“Mr. Cruz?”

“That depends on who’s asking,” the man was weary of Hunter’s presence. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“A debt collector?”

“No.”

“A hit-man?” Cruz raised his eyebrows. “Has that nephew of mine finally had the courage to knock me off?”

“No,” Hunter said. “My name is Tex Hunter. I’m—”

“A Hunter?” Cruz rolled his tongue around his mouth. “Related to Alfred Hunter, I bet.”

Hunter nodded. “Can I come inside and talk?”

“No,” Cruz waved him away. “You’ve wasted your time coming out here.”

“How so?”

Cruz looked Hunter up and down, and then scoffed. “I imagine you’ve finally figured out what happened to those girls, but I can’t help you.”

“You know what happened.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Cruz looked over Hunter’s shoulder. He coughed and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “I’m not in that business anymore. I can’t help you.”

“You can help me. Detective Perez mentioned that you could.”

“Perez? You’ve been talking to him?”

“He sent me here.”

Cruz’s face went white. He reached over to his right, behind the door, grabbed something, and then stepped out onto the porch. He took a cigarette from the pack he held, held it in his mouth, and then lit it with his lighter. He limped to the edge of the porch, leaned on the railing, took a long drag of the cigarette, and then blew a large puff of smoke.

“Perez has something on me, but as you can see, there isn’t much for me to lose anymore,” he shrugged and opened his palm towards the door. “I guess you know the truth if you’ve managed to track me down.”

“That’s right. I know about the Cinco Casino.”

“It was my brother Paulo that gave the order for those girls. I’ve never been one to use children in such a monstrous way,” Cruz brushed the tip of his nose and looked away. “Paulo, on the other hand? The world cheered the day he was buried, believe me. No great loss there. He might’ve been family, but he was cut from a different cloth. He was left with a lot of mental health issues from our upbringing. We endured a lot as kids. After he died in the nineties, I spread his ashes at the sewage treatment plant, if you want to go and visit him.”

“What about the men who followed his orders?” Hunter pressed on. His tone was firm. This wasn’t time to mess around. “Who are they?”

“Probably all dead by now.”

“I need names.”

Cruz looked up to Hunter, then slowly looked away. “I’ve got nothing to lose,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve got nothing left.”

“Names.”

“The man who brought us to Chicago and gave us an in to the networks was a lawyer named Schultz. He was a mover and shaker. He—”

“Jerry Schultz?”

“That’s him. You know him?”

“I know him,” Hunter said. “As sleazy and as corrupt as they come.”

Jerry Schultz had been the first man to hire Hunter directly out of law school, employing him in his law firm. Hunter lasted five years working for the corrupt deal-broker before he walked out the door to start his own practice. Many years later, long after their acrimonious split, Schultz had told Hunter that he’d been asked to hire him, to keep an eye on his movements in law, but never explained the reason why.

“Schultz brought us up there, told us we could make money, and negotiated the purchase of a few networks from the mob. After a year-long bloody turf war, the mob was happy to sell to us. The Cinco Casino was one of the things they sold us.”

Despite the revelation, Hunter needed to get the conversation back on track. “What were the names of the men who killed those girls?”

“Max Montana was one, but he’s long dead. They never found his body.”

“The other two names?”

Cruz raised his eyebrows. “You know there were three?”

Hunter nodded. Cruz brushed the tip of his nose again, trying to think about what to say next. Hunter didn’t trust the man.

“One was my cousin, Tony Calvino,” Cruz took another drag from his cigarette, “but he’s also long dead.”

“The third?”

Cruz looked out over the yard. “Are you sure you want to know? What if it’s not a name you want to hear?”

“I want to know.”

“Sure,” Cruz flicked his cigarette into the yard. It landed in a pile of trash, along with beer cans, bottles, and needles. “The third man was a detective.”

“A Chicago PD Detective?” Hunter leaned back a little.

“That’s right,” Cruz nodded. “The third killer was a man named Detective Daryl Browne.”

CHAPTER 24

HUNTER TOOK the plane back to Chicago with his head spinning. Yoel Cruz refused to testify, but that was expected. Cruz was open about the murders, he was open about who was involved, but he refused to go on the record. He wouldn’t sign a statement, and he’d deny everything if Hunter tried to relay the information to the police. While he was open about who was involved, Hunter didn’t trust him. Cruz might’ve been hiding information or misdirecting him to avoid incriminating himself.

It took Hunter a day and a half to completely absorb the tsunami of information Cruz had sent his way. By the time his plane landed back in Chicago late Monday evening, he was shaking with anger.

Hunter phoned Esther on the way home and shared the information about Browne and Schultz. They briefly exchanged their shocked reactions to the latest developments before Hunter promised to follow up with her the next day. He called Jones next, asking him to find information about Schultz and his current situation. They also talked about Browne, and Jones agreed to start tracking the man’s movements.

By Wednesday morning, there was one name that kept rolling around Hunter’s head—Jerry Schultz. He knew the man was corrupt, he knew the man was dirty, but he didn’t know he was directly involved in his family’s pain.

Schultz, the former head of a large legal firm, had managed to bargain himself a comfortable cell far from most of the mainstream prisons in the city. Mason Hill was located halfway between Lake Station and Portage, a small 100-bed facility that housed some of Illinois’s wealthier criminals. From what Jones had shared with Hunter, Schultz had access to all the creature comforts of home, including being able to spend his days playing tennis, poker, and blackjack.

Although Hunter had a hand in his demise, he needed to talk to Schultz face-to-face.

Gaining entry into the prison facility proved to be the complete opposite from what Hunter had endured at Cook County. His first impression of this jail felt more like the front counter of a cinema. After little more than a sign-in, and a metal detector scan, Hunter was led through to the visitor room. There was a bank of windows to the left that overlooked the tennis court, an outdoor gym, and a grassed yard.

Hunter entered the open-plan visitor meeting room and looked around. Schultz was sitting near a vending machine, a bottle of water sitting on the table before him.

From a distance, he looked like a man in a country club. Schultz barely looked like he’d aged the past twelve months in prison. In fact, he looked younger than when he went in. In his seventies, Schultz appeared relaxed and calm, qualities Hunter had never associated with the manipulative criminal. The wrinkles in his face seemed to have softened, he’d lost his round stomach, and his skin appeared clearer than Hunter remembered.

“Tex Hunter. The man that sent me to prison,” Schultz said as he saw his visitor approach. The smile was anything but friendly, and both men knew the score from the onset. “I didn’t expect a visit from you. What have you come to do? Gloat? Tell me that you won our little contest? If so, I’m walking straight back out of here.”

“Looks like you’ve got yourself set up nicely,” Hunter mocked. “Must be good for a criminal to spend their vacation here.”

“I’m doing better than your father, that’s for sure.” Schultz jabbed at Hunter. “Must be hard for real criminals to do their time in a box.”

Hunter wanted to reach across and squeeze the gloating expression from the old man’s face with his fists. It took all his effort to hold his temper in check, especially when hearing his father’s name spat with such disdain.

“How is your father?” Schultz grinned. He was enjoying the power play. “Is he still alive?”

“He’s doing well,” Hunter said. “Life’s a dream for him.”

“Not what I heard,” Schultz chuckled before he lowered his tone. “What do you want, Hunter?”

“Answers.”

“For?”

“You and your involvement in the Cinco Casino.”

Schultz froze for a moment before he began to chuckle again. The chuckle turned into a laugh loud enough for the guards to hear. He slapped his leg and continued laughing. It took Schultz a full minute to get himself under control again.

“You certainly are a pit bull, aren’t you?” He waved his finger at Hunter. “You know, Hunter, somehow I knew that if the information were ever to come out, it would be you who would bring it to me.”

“You don’t deny it?”

“Deny it? Why would I deny it? Of course, it’s true. It might have been a secret for a long time, but secrets are meant to be found out, aren’t they?”

There was a moment of hesitation as both men continued to size each other up.

“Why did you do it?” Hunter pressed. “Why did you help the Cubans gain power in Chicago?”

“Money,” Schultz shrugged. He looked away, his eyes searching the room, before he turned back to Hunter. “The Cubans came to me, knowing I had connections to the mob. They wanted a ceasefire, and they wanted me to negotiate it. I was merely the go-between for them to do some deals. The casino was part of a broader deal I negotiated for them, and millions of dollars changed hands.”

“You made a lot of money out of it.”

“And a lot of connections. Our law firm was struggling before the Cubans approached us. They were our ticket to wealth.” He shifted his eyes down to the table between them. “And no, before you think I had anything to do with the murders, I didn’t. Even I have morals.”

“Do you?”

“Screw you, Hunter,” Schultz looked up at him, the anger burning in his wrinkled cheeks. “I know what I did, but I didn’t kill those girls.”

“You may not have cut their throats personally, or put my father in prison, but you may as well have. You were as much a part of that place as the killers.” Hunter pressed his finger into the table. “And I know Detective Browne was one of the killers.”

Schultz sat back, shocked to hear Hunter knew the truth.

“I wouldn’t repeat that, if I were you,” Schultz whispered. “Stay clear of that mess.”

The tension between the men had reached fever pitch, and a passing guard paused beside them.

“Everything ok here?” the guard asked.

“Yes, Officer,” Hunter said, holding his stare on Schultz, and waited for the man to continue on his rounds.

“I need you to testify.” Hunter was blunt. “You need to come to court and tell the truth.”

“Nobody is that stupid,” Schultz laughed again. “You won’t get anyone to testify to the truth.”

“I need it from you.”

“What are you going to do? File another motion for post-conviction relief? You’re out of chances, Hunter.”

“I have a play up my sleeve. There’s still one motion I can file.”

Schultz paused for a long moment, the options running through his head. “What is it?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Hunter said. “And I need your testimony to strengthen the petition. I need you to testify.”

“No, Hunter. There’s no chance of that. I’m going to ride my time out here for another year, then I’ll be released on probation. There’s no way I’m risking my future for that piece of trash you call a father.”

Hunter rose to his feet. He’d heard enough.

He didn’t bother with formalities, turning away from his former boss and walking towards the door.

Schultz yelled something after him, but Hunter refused to listen, wiping away the sound of the man’s voice with a turn of his head.

CHAPTER 25

NOTHING WAS cut and dry for Hunter.

He’d received another phone call from Patrick that evening, but he didn’t answer the call. His voicemail message pleaded with him to let the case go, to forget about filing the petition for post-conviction relief, however, until the request came directly from his father, until his father looked him in the eye and asked him to drop it, Hunter was moving forward.

He ordered takeout for dinner, a container of Ramen noodles. The Japanese dish was one of his favorites, and washing it down with a beer while watching a ball game always proved to be a great escape.

He considered confronting Browne with the new knowledge, trying to pressure him into making a mistake, but he knew Browne didn’t respond well to confrontation. If Hunter reopened the case in court, if he filed the motion, Browne would feel that pressure. That was the way he had to force him into making a mistake.

As Hunter sat watching the ballgame, the empty white takeout box sitting on the couch beside him, he tried to rub the tension out of his shoulders. The tightness in his shoulders had been a constant in his life, right from the day the guilty verdict was handed down. Massage therapists didn’t help, nor did doctors. One psychologist explained that he was carrying a heavy burden, and this manifested itself through shoulder tension. If that were true, Hunter reasoned, then there was only one way to release the burden—by winning his father’s freedom at a retrial.

That night, with the petition drafted and ready, was one of the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long time. After nine hours of uninterrupted slumber, he woke calmly, and prepared to make his move, donning his favorite black suit.

After two coffees, a banana, and an apple for breakfast, he stared at himself in the mirror. He tightened his tie, flattened down his suit. The time had come. The next step had arrived. This was his moment.

Hunter drove to the courthouse in silence, and he remained quiet until he turned onto California Avenue.

“Not now,” he muttered when he saw a dozen police vehicles in front of the building. They took up an entire side of the parking lot. Twenty patrol officers stood outside their cars, and when they spotted him approaching, they moved to one side of the sidewalk, staring at Hunter’s car as it entered the parking lot opposite.

Word of his plan had gotten out.

Hunter reasoned that it was Schultz. He still had contacts in law enforcement, and he must’ve let them know that he was filing the petition for post-conviction relief.

Once Hunter parked his BMW between two of the patrol cars, he picked up his briefcase and stepped out. His stomach tightened as the police presence continued to build, two more vehicles pulling in just as he walked across the road towards the front entrance of the George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse.

Two dozen officers waited for him, forming two lines leading to the entrance, with every eyeball on him.

Hunter passed the first group, and he could hear their murmurs cease, an eerie silence that would have made a deaf man nervous. They stared at him with scorn, the intimidation beyond anything Hunter had ever experienced.

One of the officers stepped into his path, blocking his way to the entrance.

“Be careful, chief,” the officer muttered under his breath. “There are dangerous footpaths around here.”

Hunter went to step around the officer, but a second officer took a step forward, half blocking Hunter’s path. They bumped shoulders, but Hunter didn’t stop.

When a third officer attempted the same tactic of stepping in front of him, Hunter stopped, towering over the man. He glared into the officer’s face and said, “Something I can help you with?”

The man started to grin, but Hunter ignored him and continued walking towards the front door. He walked through security without a problem and stepped into the foyer.

“Mr. Hunter.”

He knew that voice. He turned.

Mayor Quinn, flanked by another officer and the State’s Attorney Paul Fox, began to walk towards him.

“Mr. Hunter, I’m asking you to consider the ramifications of what you’re about to do. Think about the people of this city,” Mayor Quinn stated. “This is bigger than just your case, and I want you to think about the people this case is going to hurt.”

“The people of this city deserve to see the scales rebalance after this miscarriage of justice,” Hunter stood tall as the Mayor and the State’s Attorney stood in front of him. “The time is now.”

“That’s not how this will be perceived, and you know it.” Her voice began to rise, but after taking a quick look around, she lowered it. “There’s so much more riding on this than you could possibly—”

“I know exactly what’s riding on this.”

The Mayor’s jaw dropped open in surprise, and before she could launch a further attempt to change his mind, Hunter continued on into the building.

CHAPTER 26

AS HUNTER waited at the elevators near the back of the foyer in the George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse, his body was filled with nerves. He felt sick to his stomach, his hands were shaking, and his jaw was clenched tight.

“725 ILCS 5/122-1?” A voice called out to the side of him. “That’s what you’re going to file under?”

Hunter turned and saw Michelle Law, one of the lead prosecutors with the State’s Attorney Department. She was dressed perfectly, with not a strand of her black hair out of place. Her suit was creaseless, and her make-up was flawless. She looked healthy, a soft glow surrounding her as she approached.

“How would you know that?” Hunter questioned. “I haven’t filed the motion yet.”

“We’re waiting for it. We were made aware that you were going to file today,” Law admitted. “But there’s a problem with your motion. 725 ILCS 5/122-1 is limited to six months after the trial date, not thirty-six years. I think you’ve miscalculated there, Hunter.”

“It’s six months,” Hunter paused for a moment, “unless the death penalty was imposed as a sentence.”

“Illinois abolished capital punishment in 2003 and hasn’t executed anyone since 1999.” Law ran her hand over her straight hair. “And your father had his death penalty sentence transferred to eight consecutive life sentences.”

“However, the death penalty was imposed as a sentence on this case.”

Law looked at him, speechless. It took her a few moments to process the information, stunned that Hunter had the upper hand.

“Ok. Sure. Nice. The legislation applies to Alfred Hunter,” she whispered. “And you’ll argue that new information has been found, and there’s no culpable negligence on your behalf.”

Hunter nodded.

“I’ll give it to you, Hunter,” she shook her head as she spoke. “You’ve managed to find the one paragraph in the law that will give your father the best chance at further post-conviction relief, but even still, I must warn you—it won’t be easy. We’ll fight you on every step of this case.”

“I expected nothing less.”

“And I don’t think I need to tell you what our tactic will be.”

“To file constant motions to keep pushing this case out past two crucial dates? Yes, I’m prepared for that. First, you want the case to be pushed out past the date when the mayoral election campaign ends. The second,” Hunter paused and drew a breath. “The second target date will be to try and see it pushed back past my father’s death.”

“You have to know that he’s not far away from the end. That’s common knowledge. This petition could spend a year in the system, and, well, there’s no guarantee this will make it to an evidentiary hearing. Even if you win that hearing, it could be another year before his retrial, so he won’t ever see a day of freedom. This isn’t personal—this is the justice system, and this is the way it works. That’s why you should take the deal that Mayor Quinn is offering. Make life comfortable for your father. Let him stay in the nicest hospital room, with the nicest view and the nicest nurse. That’s the best you can do for him now.”

“The best I can do is get those murdered girls justice.”

“Justice?” She shook her head in disbelief. “They’ve had justice for the past thirty-six years. The only thing you’re doing is taking it away from them.”

“I’ll see you in court, Michelle.”

The elevator arrived. Hunter went to step away from her, but she called back out to him. “Tex, how long have you been waiting for the right day to use that part of the law?”

“A long time,” he paused. “It’s the Hail Mary pass. I’ve been sitting on this for years, just waiting to find the one piece of evidence that may overturn this case. And now I’ve finally found it.”

*****

BRIEF

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS COUNTY DEPARTMENT, CRIMINAL DIVISION

PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF ILLINOIS,

-vs-

MR. ALFRED HUNTER,

Petitioner,

PETITION FOR POST-CONVICTION RELIEF

Petitioner, MR. ALFRED HUNTER, by his attorneys, MR. TEX HUNTER, of the law firm of LAW OFFICES OF TEX HUNTER LLC, respectfully requests relief pursuant to the Illinois Post-Conviction Hearing Act, 725 ILCS 5/122-1 et seq., and in support of this request, alleges and states the following:

INTRODUCTION

Petitioner Mr. Alfred Hunter seeks relief based on actual innocence, a claim he has made consistently since his arrest thirty-six years ago. Specifically, this Petition presents (1) the recanted testimony of the State’s key eyewitness, (2) the testimony of a second State witness whose details were not made available to the defense team, and (3) a new witness that alters the entire landscape of the State’s case and would have changed the outcome of Mr. Alfred Hunter’s trial. Mr. Alfred Hunter requests that the Court conduct an evidentiary hearing with respect to this new evidence and ultimately reverse his conviction and order a new trial.

PROCEDURAL HISTORY

On May 5th, 1985, Mr. Alfred Hunter was arrested for the murders of eight teenage girls—Belinda Malone (18), Rebecca Tannen (18), Angela Monk (18), Emily Marsh (18), Heather Clarke (18), Wendy O’Neil (19), Jacinta Smith (19), and Jody Horton (19). Their bodies were found buried in shallow graves at the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve.

The subsequent trial and appeals occurred over the following four years after his charges.

EVIDENCE INTRODUCED AT TRIAL

During the first trial from June 5th, 1986, the State presented 155 pieces of evidence. During the opening and closing statements by the prosecution, it was identified that there were three main pieces of evidence:

- The State’s main eyewitness, Mr. Samuel Thorpe, identified seeing Mr. Alfred Hunter in a remote area of the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve in the days before the discovery of the bodies;

- A bloodied knife was found in the trunk of Mr. Alfred Hunter’s car on the day of his arrest. The blood was later identified as matching Belinda Malone’s blood sample;

- Mr. Alfred Hunter’s wallet was found in the grave of Rebecca Tannen, and his watch was found in the grave of Belinda Malone.

NEW EVIDENCE OF ACTUAL INNOCENCE

The State’s main eyewitness, Mr. Samuel Thorpe, was in California at the time that he claimed to have seen Mr. Alfred Hunter near the graves in the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve. Thus, the main eyewitness account in the State’s case has been proven to be false.

The testimony of two witnesses who were not heard during the original trial, or subsequent appeals, have been added:

Psychologist Dr. Isabell Carson was contracted by the State’s Attorney to interview Mr. Alfred Hunter five times after his arrest. Her report states that she did not believe Mr. Alfred Hunter was the killer. This report was filed incorrectly by the Chicago Police Department and was not reviewed by the defense team, nor was it available in any subsequent appeals;

Mrs. Natalie Sanchez, the daughter of Mr. Alfred Hunter, did not provide a witness testimony. Her statement is attached and states that Mr. Alfred Hunter is innocent. Her testimony was not available at the time of the trial, nor any of the subsequent appeals.

THIS NEWLY DISCOVERED EVIDENCE IS MATERIAL, NON-CUMULATIVE AND WOULD HAVE CHANGED THE OUTCOME OF THE TRIAL

Mr. Samuel Thorpe was the State’s most important witness in the trial. His testimony was the linchpin of Mr. Alfred Hunter’s conviction. Without it—and with all the factors that speak to its reliability now weighing in favor of the defense—the State would never have been able to prevail at trial.

No evidence was presented by the defense to suggest that Mr. Alfred Hunter was innocent at the original trial. Dr. Carson’s medical report would have been enough to raise reasonable doubt about the guilt of Mr. Alfred Hunter. Similarly, Mrs. Natalie Sanchez’s testimony that Mr. Alfred Hunter is innocent would have been enough to raise reasonable doubt about the guilt of Mr. Alfred Hunter.

Thus, the newly discovered evidence provides claims of actual innocence.

CONCLUSION

WHEREFORE, Petitioner Alfred Hunter, requests that this Court:

1. Docket this petition for further proceedings;

2. Grant Petitioner sufficient time and leave to amend this petition to add additional claims and supporting affidavits and factual material as his investigation continues;

3. Grant Petitioner the authority to obtain subpoenas for witnesses, documents and other discovery necessary to prove the facts alleged in the petition, including but not limited to access to the evidentiary material admitted at trial, to which Petitioner and his counsel have not had access;

4. Conduct an evidentiary hearing;

5. Reverse Petitioner’s conviction or order a new trial; and

6. Grant such other relief as may be appropriate.

CHAPTER 27

BY THE time Hunter exited the courthouse over an hour later, the Mayor, the State’s Attorney, and the rest of the intimidation squad had all but disappeared. A single police vehicle remained, but it sat empty, the officers nowhere in sight.

He was surprised to find his own vehicle in one piece, expecting for the squad to have flattened his tires, or at the very least, left some sort of message inscribed on it. But as he neared the sedan, he found it just as he had left it.

During the drive back to the office, Hunter allowed his mind to wander, first about how far Mayor Quinn would be willing to take things in order to shut him down, and secondly how the rest of her squad would retaliate.

But his mind quickly returned to the present as he pulled up to his office building, and his car was suddenly surrounded by microphone-wielding reporters, cameramen, and people holding mobile phones. He ignored them as he drove into the parking garage. It took a few minutes for them to clear a path for him. He drove through the pack, but they continued shouting questions and trying to take the perfect picture.

He parked the car in the underground lot and took the elevator to his office, where Esther greeted him after unlocking the office door, looking a lot less calm than the last time he had seen her.

“Do you have any idea how many of them have tried to get in here? I’ve had to unplug the phone, and the email has been inundated,” Esther said. “They’re like vultures out there.”

“My guess is Mayor Quinn has sent out an APB to every one of her contacts to harass us.”

“Mayor Quinn?”

“We had a little run-in at the courthouse. Seems she’s still against me proceeding with this.”

“They’re worried, aren’t they?”

“About their own necks,” he said. “They’re not worried about clearing an innocent man. They just want to be sure you don’t make them look bad in the press.”

Hunter went to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup, and took it back to his desk in his separate office. Despite the media attention, despite the morning’s drama, he still had work to do on the case. Esther returned to her own desk and continued with her to-do list.

Apart from the constant ringing of his phone, and an overzealous reporter pretending to deliver their lunches, the pair were left alone for the rest of the day, and by the time they said their goodbyes in the parking lot after 7pm, they were sure most of the crowd of reporters had dispersed. They were wrong.

The crowd swarmed as they tried to make their escapes, questions flying from all directions as Hunter watched Esther fight her way through. He relaxed once she accelerated away, continuing to slowly idle his own way free. He phoned Esther after he managed to escape the lunacy, and she assured him that she was fine. They spoke briefly about a plan for the following morning before bidding each other a goodnight again.

It wasn’t until Hunter turned into his own street that the reality of what he was about to go through hit home. He was shocked to see a second media frenzy in front of his apartment building.

Hunter did his best to avoid them, slowing enough to ensure he didn’t accidentally hit any of them. But the crowd was five deep as he wheeled through, many shouting at him through the windows. A couple of them thumped on the side of the car, and Hunter shouted for them to back off. Thankfully, they remained outside of the underground parking garage as the security door lowered.

The frenzy took him back to when he was first harassed by the media. Only ten-years-old, he was walking into the courthouse, into the very place that he now worked, with his mother by his side. They yelled at him. Shoved cameras in his face. Grabbed his shirt to get his attention. He cried that day, under the overwhelming pressure, and his teary photo was splashed in newspapers across the country.

Hunter hadn’t expected the frenzied nature of the media attention to start yet. He knew it would come in time, but the petition had not even progressed through to an evidentiary hearing yet.

He blamed the podcasters and internet sleuths. They’d created a new world of investigations, a world where a person with a phone and an internet connection had hopes of solving the world’s biggest crimes. And they often did, making big names out of everyday office workers.

Hunter went to walk towards the elevator to his apartment but decided against it. The only thing that would rile Mayor Quinn more than the petition was the media attention. He needed to show the power-brokers that he wasn’t scared. That he wasn’t going to run from their threats.

He clicked the button to open the lower parking garage and walked up the ramp to the waiting media pack. Once they saw him, they gathered around. He found a step to stand on, providing a clear view for all the reporters, cameramen, and interested onlookers.

He answered the first few questions with confidence. They were the standard ones—are you confident you can win? Where did this new witness statement come from? The rumors are that your sister is involved? Is Alfred Hunter really innocent, or are you just using the system?

But it was the fifth question that shocked him.

“How would your mother feel if she was alive to see this?” It was a female reporter that had asked the question. “How would she feel about the pain you’re putting these families through?”

He stood with his mouth open, his face not moving until he found the words, “No comment.”

Then the questions flew thick and fast as cameras began focusing in on him, some of the lighting equipment bright enough to challenge the sun.

Hunter took his time to answer as many questions as he could, letting his voice be heard by the city. He talked about the failed processes in the arrest, the lies of the witnesses, and the corruption that had followed many of the people involved in the case. He talked about Alfred, how he was holding on until the retrial, and he talked about his duty to honor and justice.

It was during one question about Alfred’s health that a face stuck out from the crowd. Hunter stopped mid-sentence, staring at the person who waited towards the back of the crowd.

It was the face of Detective Daryl Browne, the man puffing on a cigarette.

Browne smirked, gave Hunter a little wave, and flicked his cigarette into the bushes on the sidewalk. They eyeballed each other for a long moment before Browne turned and walked away.

CHAPTER 28

IN THE weeks following his filing of the petition, Hunter battled the media, police presence outside his office, and comments from people on the street. His face was splashed across every news program, in every paper, and on every social media outlet. The hashtag ‘#TheChicagoHunter’ was trending for days following the filing of the petition. People recognized Hunter in coffee shops, in restaurants, and on the streets. The doorman at his apartment building stopped him as he entered. “I didn’t know you were the son of a serial killer.”

Hunter wasn’t offended. The doorman had merely said what most people were thinking. Once they knew the truth, they looked at him differently. They assessed his every move differently. They were suspicious every time he walked into a room.

A number of internet sleuths had started podcasts about ‘The Chicago Hunter,’ and the case. They’d managed to get their hands on the petition, and they talked at length about what the clues showed. Natalie’s witness statement had yet to make it to public viewing, suppressed until an evidentiary hearing at Hunter’s request. He wasn’t sure if the podcasts were a positive—some seemed to be on his side, while others expressed their outright hatred for Alfred Hunter.

He was used to the pressure; he was used to the fear, but this time, it felt different. It felt heavier. More fearful. More intense.

Hunter sat at the head of the boardroom table, one long leg crossed over the other. He stared at the whiteboard; the plan of their legal moves mapped out in red marker. Esther sat at the other end, papers in front of her, clicking her pen over and over.

The court had reviewed the petition, accepted it at the preliminary stage, and allowed it to progress to the evidentiary hearing stage. Hunter applied for an expedited hearing due to Alfred’s health, and despite objections from the prosecution, the motion was granted.

Over the past weeks, Browne had made no unusual moves. Jones was on his tail most days, but he followed his routine, seemingly unfazed by Hunter’s actions. If the petition and possible trial had made him feel under pressure, he hadn’t shown it.

“This falls apart without Natalie,” Hunter said. “We’ve got her statement, which was enough for the filing of the motion, but we need her in court. We need her on that stand.”

Esther nodded, unsure what to say to him. They hadn’t heard from her in weeks. Calls went unanswered. Texts unread. Emails ignored. The date for the evidentiary hearing was closing in fast, and Hunter had to ensure she made it to the stand. Without her, the case would be thrown out and their chance lost forever.

“Without Natalie, we still have the testimony from the psychologist,” Esther looked at the board, studying the names written on it. “And we have details about the witness and his tennis tournament. That’s enough to prove that Alfred’s constitutional rights were violated.”

“And the prosecution will try their best to throw those two pieces of evidence out,” Hunter said. “We’ve got enough to create doubt, but we don’t have enough for the judge to overturn the original decision. And I have no doubt that Mayor Quinn has already talked to Judge Warren. The judge will be instructed to err on the side of caution, which is their right to do.”

“So we need Natalie.”

“We need Natalie. She’s the key,” Hunter agreed. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got five more minutes.”

There was a faint knock on the door, and Dr. Isabelle Carson popped her head in. Hunter felt a slight weight lifted off his shoulders. She had dressed well for the occasion, wearing a black suit with a white blouse, and her hair was straightened.

“You made it,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“I did, just.” Dr. Carson smiled, nodding as she closed the door behind her. “Thought I was never going to get here with the way the Uber was driving. I’ve got an hour to go over the information with you before the hearing.”

They spent the next hour going over her testimony, detailing the questions he would ask her, preparing her for what was coming next. They ran through the potential questions that the prosecution may present and the best way for her to answer them. Dr. Carson had given many testimonies over the years and was confident in her reports.

Her testimony would be strong, her statement could sway the public, but as perfect as it could be, Hunter knew it wouldn’t be enough to demand a retrial.

Only Natalie’s statement would be able to do that.

CHAPTER 29

HUNTER PUSHED through the doors to the courtroom, blocking out everything he could to ensure his focus remained on the job ahead of him. He was in the room first. It was empty. He stared up to the judge’s chair and then to the American flag behind it. He nodded to the flag, to the scales of justice, and then took his seat at the defense table.

Michelle Law and her team arrived twenty-five minutes later, looking prim and proper, polished and slick. They were the A-team, the team selected with the best chance to have the case thrown out as quickly as possible.

Michelle greeted Hunter, wished him luck, although she didn’t mean it, and then sat down with her team. The crowd began to file into the courtroom next. Patrick sat behind his brother. Despite his opposition to the process, he would support his brother the entire way. Jones came in next, reaching across and patting Hunter on the shoulder as he sat in the front row.

The remaining seats of the courtroom filled quickly. There were media, podcasters, police officers, and interested onlookers. Hunter recognized one member of the crowd as one of his former professors from the Chicago Law School. The professor nodded to Hunter and then made sure that he sat on his side of the room.

Hunter recognized two of the podcasters. One had made quite a name for herself, conducting her own investigations into the murders that happened thirty-six years ago. Kristy Washington had come to the same conclusion as Hunter—there was no way Alfred Hunter was guilty. Her crime podcast was topping the ratings lists, and she was making enough advertising dollars to take a break from her day job. She’d conducted an investigation into Samuel Thorpe, into the arresting officers, and into the times and locations that the girls went missing. Her voice was winning over the public.

The bailiffs readied to wheel Alfred Hunter in next. The door opened to the side of the courtroom, and at the first glimpse of Alfred, a gasp went through the room. He looked frail, ghostly white, and sick. He didn’t react to the crowd. He didn’t have enough energy to react. The life, those last fragments of existence, were fading from his eyes. The light was almost gone. He was closing in on the end, and had little struggle left within him. Alfred was wheeled to his position at the defense table. Hunter reached out his hand and touched his father on the wrist.

The bailiff called for all attendees to rise. Hunter pulled out his notes, set the briefcase back down, and rose with the rest of the courtroom.

Judge Herbert Warren shuffled out a moment later, staring down at them over the rim of his thin-framed glasses. Judge Warren was a heavy man in his mid-sixties with little hair, and his chin waggled as he spoke. Hunter had often wondered how such a pointed nose could hold the reading glasses in place during the man’s many animated displays.

Judge Warren shuffled through some of his own paperwork, gave his ear a scratch, then looked out to the courtroom. He talked to the court about the rules and responsibilities of an evidentiary hearing and how it differs from a trial.

In a trial, Hunter’s focus is to impress the facts upon the twelve individuals of the jury. He had to understand the twelve, he had to know their preferences, and he had to play to their biases. In an evidentiary hearing, the person who would make the decision was the judge, and only the judge.

Judge Warren welcomed the parties to the court, and then invited Hunter to begin.

“This is an evidentiary hearing. I’m very well aware of the history of the case, I’ve read the briefs, testimonies, and statements on the petition, and I’m aware of what the defense would like to show,” Judge Warren’s voice was strong. “However, part of the process is a brief opening statement, as long as it is brief. Mr. Hunter, the floor is yours.”

Hunter stood, and the pit of his stomach tightened. He looked down at his notes a final time, then moved to the lectern to begin his opening statement.

“Thank you, Your Honor. In this opening statement, I will provide a brief overview of what the evidence will show in this hearing, and I will explain why Mr. Alfred Hunter must be granted a retrial.

In May 1985, Mr. Alfred Hunter was arrested for the murders of eight young women whose deaths occurred over a period of five days. The first four girls went missing one Friday night, and five days later, the second four girls went missing. It was another week before the bodies of the girls were found in a grave in the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve. A day after the bodies were found, Mr. Alfred Hunter was arrested.

During the trial, there were many instances of illegal suppression of witnesses and discovery, of which were the basis of a number of appeals. These appeals were rejected over the subsequent four years.

Mr. Alfred Hunter is innocent, and it has been a travesty of justice that he has been in prison for the past thirty-six years.

Before the trial took started in June 1986, Dr. Isabelle Carson was asked to conduct psychology sessions with Mr. Alfred Hunter. At the time, Dr. Carson was a highly respected criminal psychologist in Illinois, and she was contracted by the State’s Attorney to conduct five sessions with the accused. Her voice, her testimony, and her report, have never been presented to court.

The State’s Attorney, along with the Records Department of the Chicago Police Department, either misfiled the report, or they deliberately hid it. Her report was found in a different case file. While this case file was record number 85-5510, Dr. Carson’s report was found in the case file numbered 85-5515. It was tucked in the back of that file, completely hidden from Mr. Alfred Hunter and his defense team.

Mr. Alfred Hunter told his lawyers at the time that he’d had the interviews with Dr. Carson, however, the defense team were told by the prosecution that there was no such file in existence.

Importantly, the report by Dr. Carson clearly states that Mr. Alfred Hunter is innocent.

In this hearing, we will hear from Dr. Carson directly, and she will speak to the report and its contents.

We will also hear from the State’s key eyewitness, Mr. Samuel Thorpe. He testified that he saw Mr. Alfred Hunter at the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve, next to the gravesites, only two days before the bodies were discovered. He testified that he clearly identified the defendant and that the defendant was acting ‘strange.’

However, documents have since been uploaded to the internet that state that Mr. Samuel Thorpe was not even in Illinois at the time. He was in California, playing in a tennis tournament. It is clear he was lying about seeing the defendant at the graves. This was never exposed in the trial or the subsequent appeals.

Without his key eyewitness testimony, the State did not have a case strong enough to convict the defendant.

Lastly, we will hear from Natalie Sanchez, the daughter of Mr. Alfred Hunter, and she will testify that her father is innocent, and she will testify about why she had to leave the country before her father went to trial.

This is very important information and these very important details. These details were either excluded, hidden, or not presented at the original trial.

As such, we will spend the next three days presenting evidence that supports Mr. Alfred Hunter’s claim of actual innocence.

Thank you for your time.”

CHAPTER 30

AFTER BEING invited by Judge Warren, Michelle Law delivered a brief opening statement. She claimed that no statements of actual innocence were being made in the hearing, all the evidence was circumstantial, and she appealed to Judge Warren to throw the case out without further hesitation. Her words were strong, as was her tone, and she was in no mood to mess around. When her short two-minute opening statement concluded, Judge Warren invited Hunter to begin the hearing.

He looked over his shoulder. Spectators filled every empty space in the public gallery. There were five rows of chairs, filled by onlookers, on both sides of the courtroom. One row was filled with media. There were people standing at the back of the room, most of them leaning against the wall with their arms folded. The bailiffs, armed for the occasion, stood at the front of the room, searching for any unusual movements in the crowd. The smell was musty, credited to the overhead heaters. The atmosphere was charged, full of activity and murmurs from the crowd. No one was leaving their seats.

Hunter moved to the lectern and called his first witness.

Dr. Isabelle Carson entered the courtroom with an air of confidence. It wasn’t put on, it wasn’t fake, and it wasn’t for show. She had a comfortable acceptance of who she was, an acceptance of her position in life.

The rules for evidentiary hearings were different from a normal trial, especially in terms of hearsay. The parties were allowed to bring in certain statements in ways that would never be permissible at trial. It gave Hunter more leeway to press upon the facts.

All eyes turned back to him as Hunter prepared to launch into his questions. The time was now. He felt a smile spread across his face, unable to withhold the pride that he had in himself. Hunter turned and saw that Browne was standing in the back row of the courtroom. Arms folded, unshaven, a frown on his face.

They still didn’t have confirmation from Natalie. They still hadn’t heard from her. The whole case depended on her testimony. Without Natalie’s testimony, no amount of evidence from his current witnesses would persuade the judge to order a retrial. He stole a quick glance behind him, doing his best to find Esther, but she wasn’t in the room. Hunter took that as a good sign and turned his focus back to the witness.

He had to keep trying to contact Natalie, but his focus had to be on the case.

It had to be here.

Everyone in the courtroom listened as Hunter asked for Dr. Carson to highlight her qualifications, as well as her history of working with the correctional department. She rattled each answer off like a well-trained soldier, impressing the court and the judge with her professionalism. Once her credentials were sufficiently detailed for the court, Hunter turned his questions to the case at hand.

“Dr. Carson, how many times did you interview Mr. Alfred Hunter?”

“Five times.”

“And was this requested by the State’s Attorney?”

“The official request came from the State’s Attorney’s office, which was signed by the State’s Attorney at the time. That’s who paid my bills in regard to the work conducted.” She was calm and assured on the stand. “During that time in my career, it was very normal for requests to come from either the State’s Attorney’s Department or from the Chicago Police Department.”

“And is this the report that you wrote after you conducted those interviews? Did you make this report available to us?”

“That’s correct.”

“Was this report used in the case against Mr. Alfred Hunter?”

“No, it was not.”

“Were you ever told why it wasn’t presented?”

“No.”

“But you were paid for these interviews?”

“That’s correct.”

“And in this report, did you state that you believed that Alfred Hunter was not the killer in this case?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculation,” Michelle Law shouted. While the objection itself didn’t surprise him, the speed of it did. Michelle Law was ready.

“Your Honor,” Hunter argued. “This is an evidentiary hearing, not a trial. I’m merely asking the witness to state what she wrote in her professional report that was requested by the State’s Attorney’s Office in regard to this case.”

“Overruled,” Judge Warren stated. “Dr. Carson, you may answer the question.”

“Yes. After interviewing Alfred Hunter five times, I wrote that I believed that Alfred Hunter was not the murderer of any of the girls.”

A collective gasp went through the courtroom. Hunter waited until the murmurs died down.

“Dr. Carson, can you please tell us what else was in that report?”

For the next ten minutes, Dr. Carson described what she had reported on at the time—the way Alfred had sat, the way he had displayed empathy through small experiences, the way he had sympathy for others. The incredible details the doctor went into surprised even Hunter. It was as if the woman had been practicing for this moment her entire career, pulling out all manner of facts and figures that left the courtroom listening in fascinated silence.

The more Dr. Carson spoke, the more confident Hunter grew, following up one question with the next, firing each off in rapid succession. Each time an objection came up, Hunter merely sidestepped it, rephrasing and continuing on with his plan. The pair of them appeared like poetry in motion, as if nothing could get in their way.

“Dr. Carson, in your report, paid for by the State’s Attorney, did you state that there was very little chance that these murders were carried out by one person?”

“Part of the task given to me by the State’s Attorney’s Office was to conduct a review of the information gathered by the investigating officers and the Medical Examiner’s Department. After taking into consideration the various ways the girls had been killed, the manner of their deaths, the lack of consistency, as well as the numerous sessions I had with Alfred Hunter…” A pause. She looked at the prosecutor. “Yes, I believed that there was very little chance that these murders were committed by one person.”

The murmurs in the crowd began, and Judge Warren picked up his gavel, slamming it down in rapid succession.

“Order,” he called, and as the crowd ignored him the first time, he repeated the command. “The court will come to order.”

Only once the courtroom calmed down again did he finally hand the witness over to the other side. Hunter sat back down and looked to Alfred, who gave his son a small nod of approval.

“It’s happening,” Hunter whispered to himself. “It’s finally happening.”

CHAPTER 31

MRS. ANGELA Wood, a current Deputy Chief of the Chicago Police Department who oversaw the Records Division, was called to the stand next. She walked to the stand in full uniform, ready for battle. She was a short woman with a curvy shape. Confident, bold, and unrelenting. She looked like she had the fight of a thousand men. She looked ferocious, someone who could take out opposing beliefs with a single snarl. Her dark black hair was pulled back tightly, held in place by a bottle of hairspray, and her make-up was poorly done, not that anybody would be brave enough to tell her.

After Hunter established her name and professional qualifications, he began questioning the witness.

“Mrs. Wood, we understand that you were not in charge of the records department at the time, and we understand that you were not even employed in the Chicago PD at the time of the original trial, however, since the head of the department from that time is deceased, we would like to ask you a number of questions about recording keeping in the department.”

“Objection to the witness,” Law flipped over a page in the file open on her desk. It was clear that this was planned as a response to the subpoena Hunter had sent out. “The witness cannot possibly be asked to answer questions about a case which she knows nothing about.”

“Your Honor,” Hunter argued. “We would like to question Mrs. Wood about the filing procedure in the records department, where she has been in charge for the last fifteen years. If anyone is able to discuss how these files went missing, it’s Mrs. Wood. All the other people who worked in the department at that time are unfortunately deceased.”

“The objection is overruled for now,” Judge Warren was calm. “I’d like to see where this goes. The witness may answer questions about procedures, and the prosecution will have the opportunity to object to them.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hunter nodded and then turned back to the witness. “Mrs. Wood, can you please explain why the evidence submitted by Dr. Carson wasn’t kept with the other files in this case?”

“Mistakes happen, especially with paper filing systems,” Her tone was firm, and her speech pattern was fast. “Our current systems are a lot better than they were in the eighties.”

“If someone wanted to quash that information, would it be easy to hide?”

“Objection. This is purely speculation.”

“Sustained. Careful, Mr. Hunter.”

“Do you know how many other files from the Alfred Hunter case had gone missing?”

“I do.”

Hunter waited, but the woman didn’t continue. “Can you please tell the court how many files that is?”

“Five.”

“Five, including Dr. Carson’s file?”

“That’s correct.”

“And how do you know that a total of five files went missing?”

“Because each file is given a number, and that number is recorded on the head filing sheet.”

“And do you know what was on those missing files?”

“No.” She straightened up. “In the eighties, record-keeping wasn’t as strict as the processes that we have now, and the processes were a lot different. The files were given a number, but it wasn’t always noted what that file contained.”

Hunter nodded. “Did it come out in the trial of Mr. Alfred Hunter that the Records Department was missing five files?”

“No, I don’t believe it did.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wood.”

When asked by the judge, Law walked to the lectern and began her cross-examination.

“Mrs. Wood, were you employed in the Chicago Police Department at the time these records were created?”

“No.”

“And can you testify as to how these records went missing?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

Hunter stood and called his next witness, Samuel Thorpe. Hunter spent little time establishing Thorpe’s history for the court. He wanted to nail the liar on the stand.

Thorpe limped to the stand, head down, avoiding any eye contact with the crowd around him. He wore blue slacks, along with a dark blue shirt that was a size too big. He was frail, scared, and nervous. He broke into a sweat the second he sat on the witness stand.

“Mr. Thorpe,” Hunter stood behind the lectern, his voice firm. “Did you testify that you saw Mr. Alfred Hunter at the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve, where the girls’ bodies were found?”

“I can’t remember.” Thorpe shook his head. “It’s too long ago, and my memory ain’t so good these days.”

“Mr. Thorpe, I have your testimony here,” Hunter held up a piece of paper. “It states that you witnessed Alfred Hunter standing by the gravesites. You picked him out of a police line-up. You stated that you were within fifty feet of the man at the time that you saw him, in broad daylight.”

“Like I said,” Thorpe kept his eyes down. “I don’t remember. It was more than thirty years ago. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast some days.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” Hunter said. “We have evidence that you were in California on the day that you said you saw Mr. Hunter at the gravesite. Do you remember that?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t remember that.”

Hunter entered the print-out that Esther took from the Tennis Website into the court’s records as evidence. It stated Thorpe’s full name and date of birth, and the dates that he played tennis in the tournament in California. The dates matched the dates he testified he saw Alfred Hunter.

“Mr. Thorpe, the evidence here clearly states that you were lying at the time. Will you admit to this court that you were lying about the testimony?”

“I don’t remember that time,” he said again. He waited a moment, and then his jaw clenched. “I helped put a killer away. That’s all I remember.”

“Mr. Thorpe, did you attend a place called the Cinco Casino?”

Thorpe looked away and didn’t answer.

“Mr. Thorpe?” Judge Warren leaned forward on his desk. “Please answer the question.”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Did you have a debt to the owners of the Cinco Casino?” Hunter continued.

“At the time, yes.”

“How did you pay off those debts?”

“I…” he shrugged and scratched his nose. “I helped some people out. That’s all I did.”

“Were you paid to make a testimony against Alfred Hunter?”

“You can’t prove that.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked whether you were paid to make a testimony against Alfred Hunter?”

“Look, it was time ago. I can’t remember everything.”

“Please answer the question.”

Thorpe took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “No, I wasn’t paid.”

“No further questions.” Hunter sat back down. It was the best he could hope for from the reluctant Thorpe.

Law declined the request to cross-examine the witness, leaving Thorpe to limp out of the courtroom.

When Judge Warren called a recess for lunch, Hunter’s attention refocused on the only thing that mattered in his universe at that moment. He spun around, looking for Esther, and found her walking in the courtroom doors as the crowd walked out.

“Anything?” The desperation in Hunter’s tone had returned, leaving the calm and controlled voice long behind him. Esther simply shook her head as she held the cell up.

Hunter’s fist began to clench. He took the opportunity to send Natalie another message himself, the fifth that day.

He was pleading with her to reconsider, to come to her senses, and return to fight for their father’s freedom. After typing the message out, Hunter took a deep breath and hit send.

CHAPTER 32

THE CROWD returned to the courtroom early from their lunch break, eager to watch the drama unfold in front of them. Alfred looked tired as he was wheeled back into the room, wheezing as he sat at the defense table. Hunter spoke a few words to his father and then prepared for the afternoon’s proceedings. Judge Warren walked back into the room, five minutes late, and then asked Hunter to call his next witness. Before he could, Michelle Law stood.

“Your Honor, the prosecution would like to present a motion to dismiss the petition for post-conviction relief,” she held up a piece of paper. “We have a motion to dismiss prepared here.”

The bailiff retrieved the piece of paper from the prosecutor and passed it to the judge. Hunter stared at Michelle Law.

After a few minutes of reviewing the motion, Judge Warren made an announcement. “The court will take a recess for the next fifteen minutes,” he looked over his glasses to Hunter. “And I would like to see you two in my chambers.”

Judge Warren nodded to the bailiff, who called out, “All rise.”

Everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Warren moved out of the chair and towards his chambers.

Hunter turned and shot Esther a wink, then followed the bailiff out the side door. He patted his father on the shoulder as he walked past. The thick mahogany door was left open for the lawyers to enter. Hunter allowed Law to enter first, the prosecutor wearing a grin Hunter recognized as cunning.

“Take a seat, Counselors,” Judge Warren said, sounding regimental in his request. “Let’s discuss where this is going in a more private setting.”

“Thank you,” Hunter replied, sitting down on the leather chair.

Michelle Law sat beside him; her knees pushed a little off-center as her hands sat clasped together in her lap. She sat a little forward, trying to gain every possible advantage she could, even if it meant getting closer to the judge.

While the grin was menacing in itself, Hunter’s brief glance at her was enough to reveal the determination hidden behind the jade-green eyes. This woman was hungry for the win, the type of lawyer that would fight tooth and nail to get what she wanted, and right now, she had the presiding judge on her side.

That was when Hunter realized it wasn’t just the three of them in the chambers at that moment.

There were only three people physically in the room, but there were more people standing beside them in spirit. The Mayor herself, the State’s Attorney, the Police Chief, perhaps even the real power-brokers themselves—those that made deals behind closed doors.

“I’m not surprised Ms. Law has already filed a motion to dismiss,” Hunter said. “The prosecution’s intention is to drag this hearing out as long as possible, however, I must state that in the interests of fairness and justice, this hearing should move quickly. The expedited hearing was approved, and these delay tactics make a mockery of that decision.”

“From what I’ve seen today and read in the files, Mr. Hunter, this case is a stretch at best,” Law argued. “You even have a witness listed on this file that’s not even in the United States.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course they would keep tabs on Natalie Sanchez, his star witness.

“Your Honor,” Law sat even further forward. “The State has filed a motion to dismiss the petition as it’s clear that this petition does not address the claims of actual innocence. Mr. Hunter is clutching at straws, trying to make mountains out of molehills. Not one of his witnesses is going to testify that they saw someone else murder the girls. Not one of his witnesses is going to testify that they saw Alfred Hunter somewhere else at the time of the murders. Not one of his witnesses is making claims of actual innocence. All that’s being presented is circumstantial, and that’s not enough to overturn this conviction and demand a retrial.”

“These are valid arguments,” Judge Warren stated. “I will need to review the witness testimonies filed with this petition.”

“Your Honor,” Hunter began again, but Warren held his hand up, cutting him off.

“This isn’t something that’s up for debate, Mr. Hunter. I will consider Ms. Law’s request just as I would a request from any lawyer. I’ll see you both in the courtroom shortly. That will be all.” He dropped his eyes down to the paperwork sitting before him, effectively ending the meeting. Law looked across at him, the hunger in her eyes amplified by the same menacing grin.

“Unlucky,” she whispered once they were both back out in the courtroom.

Hunter returned to his seat, feeling the weight on his shoulders every step of the way. He could barely breathe properly as he sat down.

“He’s considering the motion to throw the case out,” Hunter said as Esther leaned over the bar that separated the lawyers from the crowd. “This might be the end.”

“What?” Esther asked. “Not now?”

“They’ve got their claws into everybody,” Hunter said, keeping his voice low. “All of them.

The bailiff gave the all rise command, waited for the judge to return, then called the procession to order. Hunter sat back down and prepared for the worst.

“There are many sides to consider in any case, and for a final decision to be made, one must take into account as much information as possible,” Judge Warren began. Hunter swallowed as he readied himself for the inevitable. “But this isn’t just any case, and given the complexity surrounding it, I’m going to call an extended recess to consider this motion. This court will reconvene Monday morning at nine o’clock.”

He rapped the gavel down a single time as Hunter looked at his opposition. Law’s grin had vanished, replaced by a look of confusion at the announcement.

As he packed his things into his briefcase, Hunter felt a glimmer of hope light up, a tiny speck of light burning way back in the shadows. He hadn’t expected it, instead waiting for the final curtain to fall. It hadn’t, and by some minor miracle, the judge had thrown him a bone.

This was his chance. And he wasn’t going to waste it.

CHAPTER 33

THE TIME ticked past 5pm on Friday.

Esther had rushed back to the office after Judge Warren called a recess for the weekend, and Hunter took a detour to the Cook County Law Library to give himself time to think amongst the previous precedents recorded. The Law Library was located on the 29th floor of the Richard J. Daley Center in the center the city, and the view of Chicago was unmatched in any other library in the state. Although he could search the precedents online with his legal resources, he found being surrounded by books on law, surrounded by such history, provided him a sense of purpose.

After an hour in the Law Library, most of the time spent staring at the skyline of Chicago as the sun dripped over the horizon, Hunter packed his briefcase, returned the books to the shelves, and returned to his office. It was only a short drive, a few blocks through the afternoon rush.

As he walked in the door of his office, Esther had a big smile across her face.

“Natalie?” Hunter asked hopefully. “Tell me it’s Natalie.”

“Not yet, but I’m still working on that.”

“Then why the smile?”

“Because I was thinking about the time.”

“The time?”

“Yeah. You know, I asked the boss in my previous job if I could leave early one day, and he said yes, as long as I made up the time. I said, 'Sure, it's 25:30pm.’

Hunter shook his head.

“Oh really? No laugh?” Esther smiled. “Well, I was invited to an ‘Open Mike Night,’ which I thought was a comedy night. Great, I thought, until I showed up and I realized I was invited to an autopsy for Mike.”

Hunter shook his head, looking away, but again, his dimples gave his smile away.

“Good, I got a smile,” Esther said. “Now, I’ve got two pieces of good news. Number one—I just got off the phone with Stacey Dalton.”

“Dalton,” Hunter said. “I can’t place the name.”

“Emily Marsh was one of the murdered girls. Stacey Dalton is her older sister.”

“She called here?” Hunter felt the small flame of hope burn a little brighter. “What did she want?”

“She’d like to meet you tomorrow morning. She’s seen the case on the news, and it’s triggered something for her. She’d like to talk to you face to face.”

“Where?”

“Humboldt Park. Western end, ten o’clock.”

“Humboldt Park. That’s near Logan Square. Most likely where the Marsh sisters grew up.”

“It is.” Esther nodded. “She’s waiting for you to confirm that you’re available.”

“Let her know I’ll be there,” Hunter said. “And the second piece of good news?”

“You’ll like this,” she said. “Thomas Malone called.”

Hunter’s mouth hung open.

“That’s right. He said he was using the phone at the shop,” Esther said. “He’s driving to Chicago as we speak. He’d like to testify in the trial.”

“Are you serious?” Hunter leaned forward. “Thomas Malone has changed his mind?”

“He asked me to book a hotel for him, and he’ll testify. He’d like us to pay for the hotel, and I said that’d be ok. I’ll take it out of the petty cash account. He’ll be here tomorrow night to draft a statement, and then he’ll stay until he’s asked to testify. He also saw the case on the news and said that he was impressed that you actually did it. He wants to know who really killed his daughter, so he figures if he testifies, he’ll be closer to the truth.”

Hunter smiled and paused for a moment. He leaned on the edge of the desk to catch his breath. Esther stood by and watched him as he closed his eyes and seemed to disappear for a moment.

“You ok?” He opened his eyes and grinned back at her.

“I thought it was over. I thought we were done. I started thinking that I should’ve taken the deal to give my father a nice hospital room,” Hunter said. “I was so sure we were finished.”

“And now you have a recess and a possible new witness.” She leaned in a little and added, “Looks to me like we’re on the winning side. We might just have to start preparing for a new trial.”

Hunter smiled, nodded, and gestured for the door before grabbing his briefcase. “Dinner?”

“You’re full of good ideas today,” she smiled. “I’ll call Stacey Dalton, and then we should grab dinner.”

Hunter sent a few emails, Esther made a few phone calls, and then they walked out of the building together. Hunter called in a favor and scored a reservation at Cabra Cevicheria. The roof-top restaurant was Peruvian-inspired, full of lively atmosphere, interesting dishes, and breathtaking views of the city. The Michelin-starred restaurant was a first-class dining experience, with bold shared plates, a fun atmosphere, and spectacular cocktails. Hunter wanted to impress Esther, and the chic restaurant was a perfect solution.

Esther smiled as they talked over the numerous plates that came out. She adored his determination, his unwavering integrity, his quest for justice. After two hours of laughing, they finished dinner, and Hunter hailed a cab for Esther. She kissed him on the cheek, slowly, and then looked deeply into his eyes.

He went to say something, but the words didn’t come out. She smiled and left him on the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 34

HUNTER COULDN’T sleep that night.

He tossed, he turned, he counted sheep, and he tried to meditate. But as hard as he tried to dismiss them, thoughts of the case kept rolling back into his head. Did they have enough to demand a retrial? Was there enough evidence to overturn the conviction? If they won this motion, would his father even make it to the first day of the retrial? The possibilities flooded his head, rolling through like trains at Union Station.

By the time his alarm went off the next morning, he’d barely had any shut-eye, but it didn’t matter. The amount of adrenaline coursing through his system would keep him going for days.

He dressed, drank a large mug of coffee, grabbed an apple and a banana, and then walked out the door to meet Stacey Dalton. He drove out to the Logan Square neighborhood, the memories of his time there running through his head. He remembered walking to school through the back streets. He remembered playing basketball at the public courts. And he remembered throwing the Frisbee with his older brother at Palmer Square Park. They were happy memories, ones that he held onto tightly.

He parked and stood at the edge of Humboldt Park, looking over to the playground where bundled-up children ran with unrestricted joy. It was cold, his breath creating a small cloud, and the air felt like it might snow, but he smiled. It was hard not to as he heard the pure delight of children’s laughter.

Humboldt Park, on the city’s Northwest side, was a 200-acre green space within the Humboldt Park community. Full of flora and fauna, the recreational space provided an escape for the local community, with baseball fields, tennis courts, playgrounds, a jogging path, and a small lake. Scattered through the park were statues that represented the various immigrant groups who helped establish the area during the late 1800s, reminding the community how far they’d come from the early days.

“Mr. Hunter?” a voice said. Hunter turned around and saw a woman similar in age to him. She was wearing dark glasses, had her coat collar up, and a beanie on her head. Even if he knew what Stacey Dalton looked like, he would’ve struggled to recognize her under the layers of clothing.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Stacey Dalton,” she said, holding out her hand to shake with him. “Emily Marsh was my sister.”

“Hello. Thank you for contacting me,” Hunter shook her hand. “How can I help you?”

“Thanks for meeting with me,” she looked down. “I wasn’t sure how I’d be received after all these years.”

“How did you think you’d be received, Mrs. Dalton?”

“Stacey, please. Given the amount of time it’s taken me to come forward, I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation.”

“There have never been ill feelings towards you or your family. This hasn’t been easy on any of us.”

“Thank you. I can’t imagine how hard this whole saga has been on you, Mr. Hunter.”

“Tex.”

She looked around the park, smiled, and drew a large breath through her nose, filling her lungs, and then relaxed. “Do you know why I chose this place to meet you?”

Hunter shook his head.

“I haven’t been back here in a very long time. It’s been decades. I was too scared to come back here. I was scared about everything related to my sister. For a lot of years, I felt like I betrayed her,” she began to walk along the path at the edge of the park. Hunter walked beside her. “My sister and I used to play here back when we were younger. A lot younger. Those swings haven’t changed in forty years, still the same red they were back when Emily and I used to play on them. Those trees are where she kissed her very first boy.” She pointed to another tree on the other side of the park. “That one was where I kissed mine.”

They reached another tree, and Stacey reached up to run her fingers across the bark.

“I think this is the tree that we carved our initials in on her sixteenth birthday, promising to be friends forever.” Her voice broke a little, and Hunter took a step back. “Look at this—even the tree has moved on. Everything moves on, doesn’t it? The new layers of bark have covered our carvings, but I haven’t forgotten it.”

Stacey folded her arms across her chest, dropped her head, and continued walking. Hunter didn’t press her. She was working through her feelings, working through the grief she felt, and Hunter gave her the space to do so. They continued walking in silence until they reached a park bench and table at the edge of the park. Stacey sat down on one side, rested the bright red handbag in her lap, and looked back towards the playground. Hunter sat down on the other side of the table.

“I know I probably should have come forward and talked to you, but at the time, I figured there wasn’t anything more for me to add.” She picked at the handbag’s handle nervously before turning to him. “The truth is, I was so sure that your father was responsible for at least some of the murders that I thought at least someone was put away for my sister’s murder.”

“But you didn’t think Alfred Hunter murdered your sister.”

“I know he didn’t.” Stacey shook her head. “At least, I know he didn’t take her from the street like they said in the trial.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I saw who grabbed Emily. I was there when they took her.”

Hunter didn’t respond, working the details through his head.

“I saw them with my own two eyes,” Stacey continued. “It was dark and late, after 11pm. I was looking out my bedroom window, just watching the world go by. It was before we all had phones, and we had to stare out the window for entertainment,” she smiled a little. “And I’m sure I saw Emily at the end of the street, walking home. She was about a block away. There was a white van at the end of the street, and two people got out. I remember there were two of them, one not a lot older than me, maybe twenty years old. They grabbed her late at night and dragged her kicking and screaming into the nearby van.”

“Did you report this to anyone?”

“Of course. I called the police right away. I yelled to Mom and Dad, and Dad ran outside with a baseball bat, but the van was gone. Mom and Dad were so desperate then,” she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. “Emily was supposed to be in bed, she was supposed to be asleep, but she snuck out to see her boyfriend.”

“Emily was in the second wave of missing girls, wasn’t she?”

“Dad told her not to go outside at night. There was already so much drama in the neighborhood after the first four girls went missing, and Dad was so on edge. He snapped at everyone and wouldn’t let me or Emily leave the house or do anything but go to school. Even then, he drove us there and picked us up. We weren’t even allowed to go to the shops by ourselves. It was like that for five days, and then the next four girls went missing, all on that night.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hunter said. “I can’t imagine how hard that would’ve been.”

“It was terrifying. Nobody knew what was happening. Dad took it the hardest,” she grimaced as she fought back the tears. “After your father was arrested, we thought that was it. It would give Dad some closure, but my father killed himself five months later, even before your father’s trial. The grief was too much.”

“You didn’t testify at my father’s trial about what you saw.”

“At the time, I thought they had the right man. I thought Alfred Hunter was the mastermind behind it all. I watched every day of the trial on television. When I had to go to work, I taped it and watched it when I came home. It was the first trial I’d ever seen on television, and everyone was talking about it. There was so much grief in my home, My mother and I cried so much together.” She wiped her eyes again. “We thought they had the right man. We thought the men on the street were working for Alfred, and then Alfred killed them in the woods. We thought…” she grimaced again. “We thought we had justice, and my testimony would only confuse things.”

“Do you remember the detective that you talked to that day?”

“I remember sitting down with two detectives for over an hour, telling them that I saw someone take Emily.” She sighed again. “I’d already given my statement before your father was arrested. Then two detectives visited me and told me to never talk about what I’d seen. They said that my testimony would only complicate the trial, and it could even cause Alfred Hunter to walk. We didn’t want that. They asked me to withdraw my statement, and so I did. I thought it was Alfred Hunter that killed Emily. I thought I was doing the right thing by withdrawing my statement.”

“Was one of the Detectives a man named Daryl Browne?”

“That’s right,” she nodded. “I remember him as such a sleaze. I was grieving about my sister, and he grabbed my butt one day in my own home. The other Detective was talking to my mother in another room, and Detective Browne was with me in my bedroom. He told me I was a good girl for withdrawing the statement, and then he ran his hands all over my body.” A shiver ran through her. “He even grabbed my breasts. I was just sixteen at the time. Dirty, old sleaze.”

“He’s more than that.” Hunter’s tone was blunt. “Much more than that.”

Stacey turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows.

“He’s involved in the murders,” Hunter said. “Your statement wasn’t the only statement that he buried. And I have a witness who said he pulled the trigger for some of the girls.”

A silence fell over them. Stacey’s mouth hung open in shock. She stared into nothingness as she tried to process the thoughts.

“Detective Browne killed Emily?” Stacey broke the silence after a number of minutes. “Why?”

“He was involved in an illegal casino called the Cinco Casino. Your father,” Hunter drew a breath, “Your father owed the casino money, as did every other father of the murdered girls. My father, Alfred, also owed money. The girls were murdered because the fathers couldn’t pay. I know it’s difficult to hear.”

The silence hung over them for another five minutes. Stacey stared at the ground the entire time. Hunter waited, giving her all the space she needed to work through the new information.

“And this is what you’re trying to prove in court?” Stacey broke the silence.

“That’s correct.”

“I called your office because I started to have doubts. With fresh eyes, and the time that’s passed, I started to have doubts about the whole thing. Even my mother had doubts that Alfred did it. And then I saw your father on television, and I heard that you were disputing the charges. With the benefit of age, I thought something seemed off. Emily deserved the truth. That’s why I called you, but I didn’t expect this.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” Hunter swallowed, readying himself to ask the only question that mattered at that point. “Stacey, would you consider testifying to everything you just told me?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “For Emily, I will.”

CHAPTER 35

HUNTER’S HOPE had returned.

His father had often told him that hope was a dangerous feeling, it was a feeling that could destroy the most fragile of egos, but Hunter couldn’t hold it down. It flooded every part of his being, every part of his soul. He was close, all the pieces were there, they just needed to fall into place.

Returning to his apartment building a little before lunch that Saturday, he began to plan the rest of the afternoon, deciding whether a last-minute flight to Mexico was worth the time. The rest of his case still felt weaker than he’d hoped, but when he weighed everything, including Stacey Dalton’s newly discovered testimony and Thomas Malone’s arrival the next day, it might be enough to tip the scales in his favor, even without Natalie.

He parked his car in the underground lot of his apartment building and walked up the ramp to grab a coffee from his local café. As he walked back, coffee in hand, he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked around and saw two older women sitting in a car near the entrance to his apartment building, staring at him.

One of the women exited the ten-year-old Chevy sedan. She was in her seventies, small, light, and looked like a strong gust of wind would blow her down the street. Her weathered face stared back with sunken eyes, her dried lips trying to form words from the gravelly sounds rising from her throat.

“Mr. Hunter, you can’t,” the woman said as she approached. “You can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Hunter, please.” The woman paused and took a breath. She was trying hard to keep her emotions under control. “I’m begging you not to reopen this case. You mustn’t.” Her voice shook, gripped by a grief she’d struggled to control for decades. “You can’t do this to us again.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure who you are?”

“My name is Elizabeth Monk.” The name lit up in his mind like a neon sign. “I am Angela Monk’s mother.”

Angela Monk had been the first name on the list, murdered in the first wave of the killings. Her father, Duncan, had shot himself in the head the following week, ending his life in the bedroom of his slain daughter. The woman standing before Hunter had found his body when she came home from her job that afternoon, having lost her entire family within a matter of days. Looking at her, Hunter could see the entirety of her grief laid out before him.

“Mrs. Monk, I’m—”

“I saw on the news that you are trying to reopen the case. Everyone is talking about it. That’s my Angela. My girl.”

“I understand,” he said, trying his best to sound apologetic. “A lot of new evidence and testimony has come to light, and it appears that—”

“Angela’s killer is rotting in a prison cell. The court said so.” The woman began to sob, a low and heart-wrenching sound that horrified Hunter. Her appearance alone had surprised him, but hearing the grief pour out of her, was soul-shaking. She dropped to her knees, sobbing with a lifetime of anguish and torment.

“Mrs. Monk, I—”

“You can’t do this. Not now,” she began to wail. “Not after all these years. Not to my Angie.” Her sobbing became immeasurable as Hunter dropped down beside her, doing his best to console the woman. “My baby girl died at the hands of that monster. My baby girl had her throat cut, bled out like some farm animal. Please.” She looked up at him, her eyes appearing to sink further into her face as she gazed at him. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he whispered back. “I really am.”

“If you really were, then you would stop this. You will stop it now before more scars are torn open.”

Her words poured from her in an endless wail of wretched grief. Hunter struggled to keep his own emotions in check as he held his arm around her.

The mothers of the girls had so many unanswered questions. The only people who knew the truth about the situation were the fathers and the killers, with the rest of the family members left in the dark. From what he could ascertain, Elizabeth Monk’s husband hadn’t taken the time to share the truth with his wife before ending his life, leaving her to grieve the loss of her entire family.

He couldn’t imagine how difficult the subsequent years had been for the mothers, left alone and broken in a world that appeared to have moved on from the tragedy. Elizabeth Monk had been dealt the cruelest of blows imaginable as a mother, and then been left to fend for herself, dragging her grief-stricken soul through what remained of her life.

“I understand your pain, Mrs. Monk, but I need to do what’s right, and what’s right is to bring Angela’s true killer to justice.” Hunter rubbed her back. “We know who really killed your daughter.”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. She closed her eyes and lowered her face to her knees. She pleaded her case as she lay on the ground, her words turning into a long slur of unintelligible sounds. “Please no. Don’t let that murderer walk free.”

There was little Hunter could do as he watched the woman succumb to her torment.

“You want Angela’s killer behind bars as much as anybody, and I promise you that I have vowed to make this right. The real murderers are still out there. They’re still out there enjoying life while you and all the rest of the families continue to suffer because of their actions. I promise to bring them to justice once and for all.”

It took Hunter a long time to calm the woman down enough to understand her words again, and when she finally lifted herself back into a kneeling position, she stared at him in a way that ripped directly into his soul. She was still weeping, the tears continuing to fall into her lap as Hunter watched on.

“I just want this pain to end,” she finally whispered. “I just want it to be over.”

Not knowing what else he could possibly do, Hunter leaned forward and embraced the broken mother. She leaned in, held him tight, and continued to release her pain into the crook of his arm.

“Thank you for listening to her,” a voice said from behind them. Hunter looked around and saw a woman standing there. “I’m Bev, her neighbor. Liz asked me to give her a ride here. I can take her home now.” She leaned down beside them. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

Mrs. Monk pulled back and gazed up into Hunter’s face again.

“Please do right by Angela,” she whispered to him. “Please do right by all of them.”

Hunter nodded, stood, and helped Bev lift Mrs. Monk back to her feet. A few moments later, Hunter stood by as she fell into the passenger side of the small sedan, continuing to weep into her hands.

“Thank you for listening to her. You’re a good man,” Bev said once the door was closed. “She’s been strong up until this week, but when she heard about the motion for a retrial that was going to be televised, I think it opened up a lot of old wounds for her.”

“Did she ever get professional help? Grief counseling?”

“Not as far as I know.” Bev shook her head. “We talked about it once, ten years back or so. Liz said she didn’t want to lose the pain she felt for her daughter’s death. Said it was the only thing she had left to hang on to, and nobody was going to take it from her.”

“I can’t imagine how painful that is,” Hunter whispered. “That poor woman.”

“I know. She’ll be alright.” She looked down at her friend and then back at Hunter. “You just make sure you know what you’re doing. Because if this doesn’t end where you think it will, who knows what will happen to her.”

Hunter nodded, unable to look away from what remained of Angela Monk’s mother.

Watching the broken woman fall at his feet, listening to her broken soul cry out, it had opened his eyes to the very real pain this case still inflicted on its many victims.

Her grief was as powerful as his determination.

This wasn’t just another case. This wasn’t just another trial. The result of the case had very real consequences.

CHAPTER 36

THERE WAS a single place in the entire Cook County Prison complex that gave Alfred a minuscule sense of normality, something he hadn’t felt in almost forty years. It was the prison yard next to the medical wing, the only place he could see more than a single tree at once, with clumps of them stretching out in all directions across California Avenue. And if the wind was blowing in just the right direction, it also brought the sounds of the outside world to his ears—people working on construction sites, barking dogs, or a steady hum of traffic. A sense of normality. A sense that life still existed outside the walls.

Sometimes, when he was alone with his own thoughts in the medical wing yard, he could feel the heartbeat of something more, something bigger than him, as if all living things were beating in harmony, a glory and a connection that filled him with love. It was there, in those moments, that he felt the presence of God.

Needing a wheelchair, Alfred found himself at the mercy of a helper, someone assigned to push him wherever he needed to go. Sitting in the yard beside him was Bruce Buckman, a fellow prisoner man who’d volunteered for the role.

Buckman had been a prolific armed robber in the seventies and eighties, his run coming to an end when he shot and killed a young police officer during a routine traffic stop. The officer had no idea that Buckman had fled his latest robbery barely minutes before the stop, and Buckman was still high on a mixture of heroin and adrenaline.

The pair had shared a cell for a few years and were now sharing the same hospital wing, their beds just two cells apart. Buckman didn’t mind pushing his old friend around and now enjoyed one of the rewards of the job—rare access to a yard that was off-limits to most.

In his later years, Buckman had found God, listening to the voice of faith and belief that had always been inside him. Faith calmed the anger he carried, and it brought a different perspective to his life behind bars. It gave him a purpose, and as his time neared its end, it gave him solace that God had forgiven him.

The men sat in silence for a long time, basking in the bright morning sunshine as a distant jackhammer continued to come and go on the wind. Hearing it with their eyes closed increased the sense of normality that each man craved.

“Can I ask you something, Al?”

“Go on,” Alfred said, keeping his eyes closed as he watched the strange shapes dancing in the shadows. Turning his face directly into the sun brought yet another strange sensation he had always enjoyed, wondering what made the shapes possible.

“Are you really innocent? That’s what they’re saying on the news. That you really might be innocent.”

The question had never been raised between them, not once during the three-plus decades. Alfred turned and looked at his friend. Buckman had his own eyes closed.

“I just find it curious. I mean, I know everybody is innocent in this place.” Buckman finally opened his eyes and saw Alfred staring. “I mean, for real? Are you really innocent? There are whispers going around the yard.”

“What have you heard?”

“A few things. Wilson in 24, the one with the brother who works at the radio station, said there have been reports you took the fall for the murders. You did it to protect your own kid.” Buckman leaned in closer and whispered, “Alfred, is that true?”

Alfred didn’t answer immediately, rolling the words over in his mind as the jackhammer came back into range. He listened for it, not wanting to lose the only link to civilization at that moment. When it drifted into silence again, he turned to Buckman.

“What else have you heard?”

“It’s not what I’ve heard, old friend. It’s what I’ve seen with my own eyes.” Alfred turned back to him; his face curious. “You know what a Wikipedia page is?”

Although not a computer genius in his old age, Alfred still had a small grasp on the technology that had continued to evolve after his incarceration. He knew enough about the internet to understand that information was found with the stroke of a few keys. He nodded.

“Well, your Wiki page has changed. Someone told me to have a look. Someone edited it to read like someone forced you to take the fall for the killings, and you’re actually an innocent man, wrongly convicted for a crime you had nothing to do with.” He lowered his voice, looking around again. “Alfred, is that true? I’m asking you as a friend.”

“Five minutes,” the nurse called to them from the door.

A guard stood next to her, hands on his hips as he glared at them. Both prisoners gave her a wave and continued enjoying the sun. Having a limit on the amount of time one could enjoy the warmth of the sun’s rays made it all the more special.

The pair sat in silence, one with his eyes closed, watching the strange patterns forming in the light and shadows; the other one waiting for an acknowledgment from his friend. Alfred opened his eyes once the jackhammer faded away again and looked across to Buckman.

“Yes, it’s true,” he whispered, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

Buckman’s eyes grew wider as the words sank in, understanding for the first time the sacrifice his friend had made. Before he could answer, the unit door opened, and they both looked up to see the guard awaiting their return.

Yard time was over.

CHAPTER 37

MONDAY MORNINGS had always felt like new beginnings for Hunter, right from an early age. While sitting in a conference room, he couldn’t help feeling a release of pressure.

He’d spent most of Sunday drafting statements from Thomas Malone and Stacey Dalton. Malone had arrived on Sunday at midday, as promised, and was open to going on record about what he knew. He was unstable, daunted by the number of people in the city, but Esther’s calm tone had guided him through it. Malone was determined to expose his daughter’s killer, and just when he looked like he could snap, he’d calmed himself down again.

Stacey Dalton was nervous. She’d spent much of her life believing that Alfred had a hand in some of the killings, but with a fresh outlook, she began to realize that it wasn’t true.

After working through their statements, Hunter couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, he’d felt real happiness. A sense of contentment, a calmness to his mind. Life, with all its possibilities, was finally working in his favor.

The windowless preconference meeting room was narrow, a single table in the middle with two chairs on either side. It smelled musty, like fresh air hadn’t blasted through the room in decades. The lighting was dim, and the table leaned to the left.

The silence of the meeting room was broken by the door opening, a rush of voices and footsteps filling the air. Two prison officers walked in, followed by a third pushing a wheelchair. Alfred looked up at his son as he was wheeled to the table.

“Thank you, officers,” Hunter said, but the men didn’t respond. The three stared back at him; the contempt scrawled across their faces as clearly as their badges sparkled on their uniforms. None of them acknowledged his comment, simply turning and walking from the room. Only once the door closed and silenced the ruckus from the corridor did Hunter look at his father.

“Today’s the day,” Hunter said. “Today is the day we expose the truth in court.”

Alfred looked at his son stone-faced, unable to reply for the time being. Hunter could see him trying to control his emotions, perhaps overcome at how far this had already gone, with a significant journey still before them.

“Have you heard from Natalie?” Alfred whispered.

“Not yet,” Hunter tapped his finger on the table. “But I’m not sure we need her.”

Alfred nodded slowly. Silence hung over the room once more, Hunter’s smile in contrast to the stony face of his father.

“Son,” Alfred began, his voice low and broken, sounding uncontrolled as the emotions threatened to spill out with the words. It was as if the words had originated in the man’s heart, filled with a sense of pride only fathers were ever truly capable of. “I’m proud of you. No matter what happens in there today, I want you to know that I’m proud of you. You’ve lived your life with—”

“Compassion, integrity, honor,” Hunter stood, walked around the table, and rested a hand on his father’s shoulder, “and justice.”

Hunter reached out and knocked on the door for the guards to open it.

The door opened, and again none of the guards spoke, simply wheeling Alfred out of the room. A moment later, Esther appeared, carrying two coffees and a fresh copy of the Tribune.

She sat in the room, and the pair sipped their coffees while discussing the plan for the day in detail. News of the hearing was on page five, complete with two photos—one of a young Alfred Hunter, and a current one of Tex Hunter. Twenty minutes before the scheduled start time, Hunter rose, gave Esther some last-minute instructions, and picked up his briefcase. “Let’s go make some waves.”

Michelle Law was already sitting at her table when they entered the courtroom, two aides by her side. She didn’t make eye contact, or even acknowledge Hunter’s presence. She had her head down, reading the file that sat in front of her.

Hunter sat at the defense table and pulled what he needed from the briefcase before setting it down beside the table leg. The courtroom filled behind him, Alfred Hunter was wheeled into the room, and then the bailiff took the floor and called for the crowd to rise.

Hunter did as asked, feeling the weight of nerves pushing down on him. He barely heard the words spoken, instead, he watched intently as Judge Warren entered the courtroom and took his seat at the bench.

After settling the court down and returning the attendees to their seats, the bailiff took a step back and handed the room to his boss.

“Your Honor,” Hunter stood. “Before you hand down your decision on the motion presented by the prosecution, the defense would like to add two new witnesses to the petition for post-conviction relief.”

“Objection,” Law rose to her feet. “Your Honor, this isn’t fair to the prosecution. This is the first we’ve heard of any new witness, and this is the first time I’m aware that Mr. Hunter is adding details to this petition.”

“Your Honor,” Hunter stood tall. “The news of this case has been far and wide in the media. The media coverage has caused two people to reach out over the weekend. I could not have possibly found them earlier because their statements, while taken by the police at the time of the murders, were not submitted as evidence during the trial. Their statements weren’t missing from the files, rather, their statements were wiped completely from the record.”

Michelle Law looked at him, squinting. Judge Warren raised his eyebrows and questioned, “And you have evidence of this?”

“You’ll hear from these two witnesses directly today, and they’ll state as such. The first witness is the father of one of the murdered girls, Thomas Malone, and the second witness, Stacey Dalton, is the older sister of one of the murdered girls.”

“And you have witness statements drafted?” Judge Warren questioned.

“We do, Your Honor,” Hunter handed two files to the prosecution and two files to the bailiff, who passed them onto the judge. “These were drafted over the weekend.”

Judge Warren read the first statement from Thomas Malone, his eyes almost popping out of his head as he read halfway down the page. He flicked to the second file, scanning his eyes over it, and then shook his head.

“Your Honor,” Law stood after she glanced over the files. “This is a courtroom, not some wild goose chase based on people’s memories of events that happened almost forty years ago. This information cannot possibly be seen as reliant.”

“I’ll remind you that this isn’t a trial, Ms. Law.” Judge Warren said. “This is an evidentiary hearing for the petition for post-conviction relief. If these witnesses have information that they tried to submit to the first trial but were refused, then I’ll allow it here.” Judge Warren closed the file in front of him. “As for the motion to dismiss, after due consideration of the motion presented by the prosecution, and the facts already presented, the motion is rejected, and I will allow for the case to proceed.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll recess until after lunch to allow the prosecution time to review these new witness statements.”

CHAPTER 38

WHEN THE court reconvened at five minutes past 1pm, the tension was palpable. The courtroom was full again. There was a buzz, a desperate noise, which swept through the place. It took Judge Warren three forceful hits of his gavel on his desktop along with demanding order in his court to calm the room down when he was ready to begin the afternoon’s proceedings.

When asked, Hunter stood and called out, “The defense calls Thomas Malone to the stand.”

The courtroom doors were opened by the bailiffs, and a tense hush descended over the crowd.

Thomas Malone walked into a silent courtroom. If he had his eyes closed, he would’ve thought the room was empty as he shuffled his way to the witness stand. He’d washed his jeans, although there were still stains on them, and he was wearing a suit jacket borrowed from Hunter’s collection for defendants. He looked uncomfortable to be around so many people, scared of all the strangers in the room.

As Malone passed Alfred Hunter, sitting in a wheelchair, he paused and nodded slightly. Alfred nodded back. Malone took his oath, and the clerk stepped back, handing the floor to Hunter.

“Mr. Malone, thank you for coming to the court today. I understand that this is very difficult for you,” Hunter remained seated. “Could you tell the court your connection to this case?”

“Belinda Malone was my daughter. She was eighteen at the time. She was one of the murdered eight,” he said, doing his best to keep the emotions from his voice. “I lost my daughter in the crime wave that came through here.”

The crowd behind Hunter began to murmur. Judge Warren tapped his gavel and called for order.

“My sincerest condolences to you,” Hunter offered before continuing. “Mr. Malone, before we begin, may I ask if you are aware that memory fades over time? In fact, memories can change over time. The more times a story is told, the further it gets from the truth. And what was once a lie may turn into your own personal truth.”

“I don’t know about all that, but I know that the psychologist I saw after my daughter died said that while memories fade, traumatic memories tend to stay clear as day,” his body jerked. “Sorry, the twitching is my body trying to deal with the PTSD I suffered after the event. I tried to get help for it, but nothing worked.”

“And is your memory of the time that your daughter was murdered still clear?”

“As clear as yesterday.”

“Mr. Malone, can you tell the court what you know about the Cinco Casino.”

A murmur arose in the crowd again, followed by another loud rap from the gavel. Once the crowd calmed again, Malone continued.

“The Cinco Casino operated in Logan Square during the eighties. It was originally run by the mob, back then it was called Logan Casino, but then it was taken over by another gang. I’d been going there for around five years, once every two weeks. It was a place where questions weren’t asked when you needed to borrow some cash for a good time.”

“And who was the other gang that took over the casino?”

“They were Cubans. It was around ‘83 when that happened. I remember when they took over,” he said as his body jerked again. “Things changed overnight, and a lot of people stopped going.”

“But not you?”

“Not me. I went to hang out with the guys I knew. I didn’t go for the gambling or the girls. I just went to hang out.” His head dropped, and just when he looked like he was about to relax, his body jerked. “And that place cost my daughter her life.”

The confused murmur in the crowd grew louder, and Judge Warren silenced them again.

“How did it cost your daughter’s life?”

Malone looked away. His jaw clenched as he fought back the tears. “We were set-up.”

“Can you please tell the court how you were set up?”

He shook his head with a faraway look in his eyes. “It was a nightmare. The new owners wanted to make more money from us, so they were trying to pressure us into bigger bets. None of us did it. None of us. We kept refusing, until one night,” he drew a long breath. “Until one night, they spiked our drinks. One moment, we were having a beer, the next, we woke up on the floor of the casino.”

“What happened next?”

“There were ten of us there that night. We were told that we owed a hundred thousand each. We were told that we all made bets and we had a week to pay. It was clear it was a set-up.”

“Did you pay?”

“No. How could we? We were a bunch of middle-aged, suburban Dads. It was the eighties—a hundred thousand then is like a million now. None of us had that sort of money lying around. None of us could afford to pay.” The anger started to grow inside him. “The gang gave us a week, but we didn’t take it seriously. We didn’t believe they were serious. How could they be? They wanted us to find a hundred thousand each in a week. Nobody had that much money. And they told us that if we didn’t pay, they’d hurt our families.”

His fists clenched, along with his jaw. His face was becoming redder by the second.

“Take your time, Mr. Malone,” Hunter said, offering the man a glass of water. Malone took it, sipped, and then took five sharp breaths.

“Four girls went missing the first week,” his shoulders heaved up and down. “The Fathers of all four owed money to the Cuban gang.”

A gasp went through the courtroom, but they quieted down before Judge Warren needed to call them to order. The crowd was hanging on every word that Malone spoke.

“Five days later, four more girls went missing. My Belinda was one of them. It was my fault. It was all my stupid fault.” He began grumbling to himself. “It was all my stupid fault. I cost Belinda her life.”

“Mr. Malone,” Hunter’s voice rose. “Were all eight girls the daughters of men who owed money at the Casino?”

“They were. There were ten men there that night, and all eight girls were the daughters of those men.”

Another gasp snaked through the crowd.

“What about the other two girls? What happened to girl number nine?”

“The father paid the money. Who knew he had that sort of money lying around? He then fled with his family back to his native Germany.” He shook his head. “If I had the money, I would’ve paid. I should’ve had the money. I should’ve been able to save her. I should’ve saved Belinda.”

“And the tenth father? What happened to his daughter?”

“The tenth father was Alfred Hunter.” Malone turned to look at Alfred. Malone’s body jerked again. “Alfred struck a deal with the gang boss—he’d take the fall for the murders, as long as his daughter was kept safe. He told them that they could take his watch and wallet and plant them at the gravesite, they could plant a witness, and they could put a bloodied knife in his car.”

There was no gasp from the crowd this time. They were in shock.

“And did Alfred Hunter make that deal?”

“That’s what I heard,” Malone said. “They told him to stay in prison, or they’d kill his daughter. That’s why he put his daughter on a plane out of Illinois. I don’t know where she went, but he saved her.” Malone’s head dropped. “If I had that choice, I would’ve done the same thing. Alfred Hunter may have spent thirty-six years in prison, but he’s the lucky one out of all of us. Alfred’s the lucky one.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thank you for coming to the court to testify.”

“Ms. Law,” Judge Warren turned to the prosecution. “Do you have any questions for the witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she remained seated behind her desk. “Mr. Malone, were you there when Mr. Alfred Hunter made a deal with the gang leader?”

“No.”

“And did you witness the murder of any of the girls?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malone. No further questions.”

With two simple questions, with two simple queries, Michelle Law had eliminated Malone as a direct eyewitness to the events.

And she had undone all of Hunter’s hard work.

CHAPTER 39

AFTER MALONE’S testimony, Judge Warren called for a short recess to give everybody time to calm down and digest the new information. Alfred was wheeled out by the guards to the holding cell. Hunter opened his files and began to make notes in red pen.

The courtroom remained full behind Hunter, the chatter growing louder by the minute, and Hunter didn’t hear or see Esther enter the courtroom. She smiled as she walked behind Hunter’s table. He held a seat next to Patrick for her. She leaned over the bar and nodded for Hunter to come closer.

Hunter leaned close, wary of her smile. “This is not the time for jokes,” Hunter’s voice was firm.

“I’m not going to tell a joke.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I talked to Natalie.”

“What?” Hunter squinted. “How did you get through to her?”

“She called the office. She finally returned the calls.”

“What did she say?” Patrick leaned across to join in the conversation. “Is she coming back?”

“Last plane tonight.” Esther smiled. “A direct flight.”

Hunter threw his head back in relief. He held his fist together, then brought his index finger to his lips, kissed it, and pointed to the sky. “Thank you,” he mouthed upward. “Thank you.”

Patrick reached across and grabbed Hunter by the shoulder. He gripped it tightly and then patted it again. After all the years of heartache, the case was going in their favor. They were in the box seats.

Twenty-five minutes later, Alfred Hunter was wheeled back into the courtroom, taking his seat next to Hunter. Hunter reached across and gripped his father by the wrist.

“Natalie is coming back,” he whispered. “She’s going to testify.”

Alfred didn’t react. He didn’t nod, he didn’t smile, and he didn’t rejoice. He simply looked ahead at the judge’s seat. He was torn—the more the truth came out, the more he wanted it to, but he also didn’t want to risk the life of his daughter or her family. He didn’t know if the threat still existed, and he didn’t know if Natalie could be kept safe.

Judge Warren walked back into the room, and the courtroom was called to order.

“Mr. Hunter, are you ready to call your next witness?” Judge Warren called to him.

“Yes, Your Honor. We call Stacey Dalton to the stand.”

Some of the reporters began to scribble in their notepads, while others eyeballed the slender woman in her early-fifties as she made her way towards the witness stand. Middle age was working well for Stacey Dalton. After the tragedy of losing her sister, she fell into a bad place in her twenties, but before she turned thirty, she got sober, got a job, and started her career in Human Resources. She grew in confidence and that confidence showed as she walked to the stand. Hunter offered her a brief smile as she passed him.

The bailiff once again temporarily took charge of the proceedings, asking Stacey to place her right hand on the Bible and swear the same oath thousands of others had done before. She sounded calm.

“Mrs. Dalton, thank you for taking the time to talk to us today. I understand that parts of this testimony may be difficult for you.” Hunter walked to the lectern and stood behind it. “Mrs. Dalton, can you please describe how you are related to this case?”

“My name is Stacey Ann Dalton, and Emily Marsh, one of the murder victims, was my sister.”

“Did you testify in the trial against Alfred Hunter?”

“No.”

“Did you make a statement to the police about what you saw at the time your sister went missing?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you later withdraw that statement?”

“That’s correct.”

“And why did you withdraw the statement?”

“Because I was asked to withdraw the statement by two detectives in the Chicago Police Department,” she brushed her hands together. “They explained that my testimony would only complicate matters for the case against Alfred Hunter. They said that they had the killer, and my statement complicated the court case. I wanted to get the killer, and those officers assured me that it was Alfred Hunter.”

“Do you remember the names of the two officers?”

“I do.” She swallowed. “Sidney McCann and Daryl Browne.”

“Do you know if any record of your original statement was kept?”

“I was told that there wasn’t a record of it, and that I should keep my mouth shut if I wanted Emily’s killer to go to prison.”

Hunter nodded. He looked across to Michelle Law, and seated behind her was the State’s Attorney, Paul Fox. Neither made eye contact with him.

“Can you please tell the court what you said in your original statement to the police?”

“I told them that I saw two men take my sister and put her in a van. I saw them with my own two eyes,” Stacey’s voice became firm, full of determination. “It was dark and late, after 11pm. I was looking out my bedroom window, just watching the world go by. I was sixteen at the time, Emily was eighteen. I saw Emily at the end of the street, walking home. She was at the end of the block. She was supposed to be asleep in her room, but she snuck out to see her boyfriend. There was a white van at the end of street, parked under one of the streetlights, and two people got out. They grabbed her, hit her, and then dragged her kicking and screaming into the nearby van.”

“What did you do next?”

“I yelled out to Mom and Dad, and Dad ran outside with a baseball bat. Mom called the police on the home phone. I ran out the door after Dad, but the van had already gone.”

“Did your father tell you not to go outside in the weeks before you saw this?”

“He was acting off. Something was up. Dad wouldn’t let us leave the house. He would drive us to school and pick us up. He wouldn’t let us leave the house. We weren’t even allowed to go to the shops by ourselves. We weren’t allowed to see our friends, and we were allowed to sit in the front yard. Four of Emily’s friends had already gone missing, and Dad was nervous.” She fought back a tear. “And my father committed suicide five months after Alfred was arrested, before the case even made it to trial.”

“And you made a statement to the police saying all this?”

“Yes, to Detective Browne and Detective McCann.”

Hunter nodded. “No further questions.”

Judge Warren stared at Hunter for a few moments, trying to process all the new information that was coming his way.

“Ms. Law,” Judge Warren eventually said. “Any questions for this witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Law remained seated. “Mrs. Dalton, did you see your sister murdered?”

“No.”

“And did you see any of the other girls murdered?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dalton. No further questions.”

CHAPTER 40

AFTER JUDGE Warren called an end to the day’s proceedings, and Alfred was wheeled out to his holding cell, Hunter decided to wait for the rest of the crowd to clear the courtroom before making his own exit. Michelle Law muttered something as she passed him, but Hunter’s attention remained on the case running through his mind.

Once the majority of the courtroom had cleared out, Hunter grabbed the briefcase and made his own way from the room, pausing briefly at the door to take a final look back. He smiled. It wasn’t often that he got to smile before the courts, but after thirty-six years, a heavy burden was lifting off his shoulders.

“Mr. Hunter?”

He turned, the voice catching him off guard. He was surprised to see the woman standing inside the doors, alone, without her usual entourage.

“Mayor Quinn.”

“Could I have a word with you?” She gestured towards one of the chairs at the back of the courtroom. Except for the bailiff at the front of courtroom, they were alone. Hunter didn’t sit.

“This room brings back memories,” Mayor Quinn said as she leaned down and ran her fingers across the chair. “Lots of good cases were fought here. In fact, I fought my first case in this very room.”

Hunter remained standing as Mayor Quinn sat on the chair nearest the exit. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She continued. “I got destroyed in that first case. The prosecution lawyer wiped the floor with me. I don’t think I lasted the first week of the trial.” She held up a finger to make a point. “Although the other lawyer did pull me aside later that day and convinced me to join the public defender’s office. I guess, in a way, that man was responsible for setting me on a path to where I am now.”

Hunter waited, not responding to Mayor Quinn, waiting for her to make her point.

“Mr. Hunter, we have a problem.” She looked up to him, but he gave her nothing in return. Her tone had changed from friendly reflection to hardened politician in an instant. “This case of yours isn’t in the best interest of the city.”

“The only people who think this case is bad for them are the politicians facing reelection.”

She stood and pointed her finger at Hunter. “This case will leave a foul taste in the mouths of every law-abiding citizen, make a mockery of our judicial system, and worst of all, reopen the wounds of the families whose tragedies have been allowed to heal with the passage of time. I’ve had Elizabeth Monk, one of the mothers, in my office, pleading with me not to let this case go ahead. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I do,” Hunter said. “She came and saw me as well.”

“Are you heartless then?” She said. “Why would you do that to them?”

“Because an innocent man has been serving thirty-six years for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Is he innocent, Tex? How can you be so sure? I mean, the witnesses you have brought before the courts are a far cry from solid.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows.

“Stacey Dalton checked herself into rehab on three separate occasions since her sister’s murder, twice for heroin addiction. And Thomas Malone? He’s been living the life of a hermit for decades, refusing to get any sort of help for himself,” she said. “Not exactly reliable witnesses, and you know they’ll be torn apart in any retrial.”

“They’re telling the truth. That’s what matters.”

“The truth? For all we know, and for all the witnesses know, Alfred could’ve killed those girls on the orders of the Cuban gang.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hunter said.

“Is it? Because from where I’m standing, there’s nothing to suggest otherwise. All you have is a lot of hearsay and assumptions with which you hope to overturn this conviction. No one saw anybody else commit these murders. No one saw it. You need evidence of innocence to win a retrial. You don’t have that.”

“It’s coming.”

“When? Next year?” she mocked him. “I want you to walk away from this case before it causes even more harm to the people who need it the least. And perhaps even to save your own career.” She took a step towards him, stood square on, and made sure his eyes met hers. “And this time, Mr. Hunter, I hope we understand each other. I don’t know how much clearer I can say this to you—it’s in your best interests not to pursue this any further.”

She eyed him for a few seconds to ensure her message had been received, then she walked purposefully from the courtroom. Hunter remained where he stood for a few moments longer then followed her through the doors.

He stormed through the media pack outside the courthouse, into a waiting car, and then was whisked back to his office in Downtown. As he stepped out of the car, the shadows were already casting long across the streets.

But as he stepped onto the sidewalk, as he stepped into the shadows, he saw the person he was so desperate to see.

CHAPTER 41

HUNTER SLEPT well that night. He didn’t wake, he didn’t stir, and the nightmares didn’t wake him up. He slept solidly, peacefully, with a calmness that had eluded him for most of his adult life. When he woke up the following morning, he was refreshed and calm. Today was his day. Today was the day that all those missing pieces of the puzzle would be presented to the court.

He called Esther. She was all ready, waiting with Natalie.

He checked the news on his phone—the hearing was leading every news bulletin and leading the social media trends. The podcasters were in full swing, posting daily updates from the hearing. He listened to one podcast from Kristy Washington as he drove to court. He liked her tone, she was easy to listen to—friendly, nice, but firm.

The walk into courtroom passed in a blur, and he found Michelle Law already sitting at her table, an hour before the start time. She gave Hunter a quick once-over as he sat down, but she didn’t raise her head from the files.

As the time neared, the guards wheeled Alfred into the room. The crowd filled behind them. It was the final day of the hearing. It was the last chance he had to convince the judge that there was enough new evidence to demand a retrial.

“The court of public opinion seems to be on our side,” Alfred said as he leaned closer to Hunter. His tone was low, but it was raspy. “Even one of the guards shook my hand and said that he would’ve done the same thing for his daughter.”

“It’s not the public we need to convince.” Hunter nodded towards the judge’s seat. “It’s one man—Judge Warren. He has to make the decision whether or not to let this go ahead.”

The morning’s proceedings went by quickly—Judge Warren welcomed the crowd, Michelle Law presented another motion to dismiss, and it was rejected, and then the bailiff called Hunter to call his first, and final, witness of the day.

“The defense calls Natalie Sanchez to the stand,” Hunter stood.

The courtroom doors opened, and Natalie Sanchez entered. She dressed well for the occasion. Esther had purchased a new suit for her the day before, and it fit her strong frame well. Her blonde hair had been combed, but it was still wild and free, if only a little tamed. She walked tall, proud to face the truth that she’d been hiding for decades.

They’d worked until late the night before, working through the testimony, and trying to pre-empt the questions that the prosecution would be present.

“Thank you for coming to the court today,” Hunter stood behind the lectern and welcomed his sister to his world. “I understand how hard this has been for you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled at her younger brother. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Can you please tell the court how you know Mr. Alfred Hunter?”

“He’s my father.”

There were a number of gasps from the crowd. Her statement had been suppressed from the public file on the case, as had her name. There were rumors she was going to testify, but nothing was confirmed.

“And were you living in Chicago at the time of the murders?” Hunter continued.

“Yes, I was living at home with my parents, and you, my brother,” she said. “I was eighteen at the time and was just about to finish high school.”

“And can you please tell the court what your recollections are of that time?”

For the next fifty minutes, Natalie Sanchez detailed what she knew. She testified about the murders, about the deals, and about the threats from the Marielitos. She explained that a Latino man tried to grab her off the street on the day of the second wave, but she fought back, kicking him in the groin and running away. She explained that after the attempted attack, Alfred Hunter approached the gang.

There were tears as she spoke, and Hunter brought his sister a glass of water and a handkerchief. The courtroom listened in stunned silence as she told her story, with many people sitting with their mouths agape. Hunter had never felt as confident about a person’s testimony as he did at that moment.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Hunter said after an hour of testimony.

“Ms. Law?” Judge Warren asked. “Any questions?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” She remained seated. “We have a few questions. Mrs. Sanchez, as you’re known on your Mexican passport, did you see any of these mystery men murder any of the young women?”

“No.”

“Did you see these mystery men kidnap your friends?”

“No.”

“Did you see these mystery men discussing their plans to murder the girls?”

“No.”

“Did you visit the gravesite of the girls and see their deceased bodies?”

“No.”

“Was your father by your side at all times during the five days that the girls went missing?”

“No.”

Michelle Law nodded slowly, looked up at Judge Warren, and raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Sanchez, did you, at any time, witness the murders of any of your friends?”

“No,” Natalie shook her head. “I didn’t.”

Law looked back to Judge Warren and shrugged. “We have no further questions.”

CHAPTER 42

HUNTER RESTED his case. The prosecution called no witnesses. Judge Warren wasted no time in calling for closing arguments. He reminded the lawyers that it was an evidentiary hearing, and that the statements had to be brief and only focused on the evidence presented in the hearing.

The unease in the courtroom was thick enough to cut with a knife. Alfred’s supporters, who seemed to be growing in number by the day, filled the court behind the defense table. There was a restlessness about their movements—fidgeting, breathing heavy, and talking in whispers. They were sitting on the edges of their seats, ready to cheer and holler for the man they now considered a legend.

Hunter took a last look at his notes, walked to the lectern, and began his closing brief.

“Your Honor, thank you for the opportunity to present this case. You could’ve dismissed this hearing any number of times, however, you chose to let the truth come out.

This case isn’t just about justice, and it isn’t just about the processes we have in the system. This case, and this hearing, is about the truth. That’s what we’ve been talking about in this hearing. We’ve been talking about what really happened to the murdered daughters, we’ve been talking about how an innocent man took the fall to protect his own daughter, and we’ve been talking about the reality of the situation.

After the testimonies of Thomas Malone and Natalie Sanchez, there can be little doubt about what the truth is—Alfred Hunter sacrificed his freedom so his daughter could live her life.

We’ve heard that the State’s main eyewitness, Samuel Thorpe, was not even in the state of Illinois when he claimed to have seen Alfred Hunter at the gravesite. Without this State’s main eyewitness testimony, the case falls apart.

We’ve heard that Dr. Isabelle Carson reported that there was no way that Alfred Hunter could’ve been the killer. This report, this crucial piece of evidence, was not presented at the original trial, nor was it available to the defense team.

We’ve heard from Stacey Dalton, who testified that she saw two men kidnap her sister, Emily Marsh, on the night of her disappearance. Neither of those men were Alfred Hunter.

On the basis that the main eyewitness in the State’s case was lying, there must be a retrial.

On the basis of the new evidence, on the basis of the new testimonies heard in this courtroom, there must be a retrial.

And on the basis of the truth, there must be a retrial.

Thank you, Your Honor.”

Hunter walked back to his desk and sat down. Alfred reached across, held his son’s wrist, and squeezed it. There were no words needed.

Michelle Law stood, not even glancing at the defense table, and strode to the lectern. She wasted little time in beginning her argument.

“Your Honor, this hearing has been a complete waste of the State’s time. It’s been a waste of your time, and it’s been a waste of valuable resources. The killer of Belinda Malone, Rebecca Tannen, Angela Monk, Emily Marsh, Heather Clarke, Wendy O’Neil, Jacinta Smith, and Jody Horton is still sitting at the defense table.

Under ILCS 725 ILCS 5/122-1, the defendant can only be afforded retrial if actual evidence of innocence was presented. I have seen no such evidence in this hearing.

All we’ve heard is hearsay evidence that would have no hope of being presented in an actual trial. The witness testimonies have all been based on hearsay. Without proof of innocence, the decision is easy. On that basis, on that legal grounding, you cannot rule in favor of this petition.

No one saw anyone else murder those girls. No one saw Alfred Hunter at the time of the killings. And no one saw anything that proves Mr. Alfred Hunter is innocent.

All we’ve heard is a fanciful story that has been thirty-six years in the making. It’s a theory with no real evidence to back it up.

On the legal standing, and the legal standing alone, you must not rule in favor of this petition.

Thank you, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 43

THE STEAKS were sizzling, the sun was shining, and the smiles were out.

Hunter and Ray Jones shared a laugh, standing next to the barbeque, looking over the two beautifully marbled porterhouse steaks. The porterhouse was truly the best of both worlds in terms of steak, with the classic combination of a tenderloin filet and New York strip steak into one phenomenal piece of meat.

After a morning in the office, Jones invited Hunter to meet over his barbeque for a lunchtime meeting. That was an offer that Hunter rarely refused. In the agreeable Southside neighborhood of Kenwood, Jones had a small narrow home with a small narrow yard. His barbeque grill sat under the patio, with the outdoor bench press, exercise bike, and free weights tucked into the corner. A plastic table and chairs sat near the barbeque, and there was a small shed at the back corner of the grass. His pick-up was parked towards the back gate.

The steaks had been marinating since the previous evening, a special blend of unique rubs and sauces Jones had been taught by his late grandmother, and the smells made the yard come alive.

“The newspapers are running with it,” Jones said as he flipped one of the steaks. The sizzle from the outdoor grill filled the air with smoke and the sweet smell of his secret spices. “They’re no longer calling him ‘The Chicago Hunter’; they’re now calling him The Hero of the Hunters. It’s catchy.”

“Public opinion has swayed in his favor,” Hunter rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “The media has jumped on the bandwagon, and they’re painting him as a hero. After all the abuse he got, they’re painting him as a hero.”

“The father who sacrificed his freedom for his daughter’s life,” Jones said. “I was listening to talkback radio yesterday, and all these dads were calling in saying that they respected Alfred, and they would’ve done exactly the same thing. Some of the men were even crying as they talked about the lengths they’d go to save their daughter.”

Hunter leaned against the post, hands in his trouser pockets, staring up to the sky. It was a clear blue, with one large white cloud sitting on the horizon.

“What about Browne?” Jones asked. “What’s the plan with that dirty old cop?”

“He’s scared, but he’s not running anywhere. He knows we’re close, but he also knows the law. He knows there’s not enough evidence to pin it on him. Even if Cruz testifies that Browne killed one of the girls, it’s not enough,” Hunter sighed. “He’ll walk away from this.”

“And what about Natalie?” Jones flipped the porterhouse again.

“She’s flown back to Mexico to be with her family. They found the person who mugged her son. No gang connections. It was a coincidence. But she’s still lying low for the next two weeks, traveling to another town in Mexico to stay off the radar until the decision from the hearing comes through. She wants to protect her boys, but she’s coming to realize that there isn’t much of a threat left.”

“What are you going to do when the decision for a retrial is handed down?”

“It’s not done yet. We’re still waiting on Judge Warren to deliver his decision.”

“Surely it can only go one way? Surely.” Jones reached down to the small outdoor fridge and grabbed two Cokes, passing one to Hunter. “That’s what the news is saying anyway.”

“You’d think so,” Hunter said as he sat by the patio’s railing, popping the top off his coke. “But I’ve seen stranger things happen in that courtroom.”

They watched the meat sizzle for a bit, faint smoke rising as some of the fat hit the flames. The smell had both men salivating, with the unmistakable scent of maple rising into their nostrils. In front of them, a low-flying helicopter soared overhead, the ABC-7 logo glistening in the midday sun.

“Someone’s making news,” Jones said as he took a drink.

“Luckily, it’s not us this time,” Hunter replied, looking at his watch. “But it’ll come. Judge Warren will wait just until you are sinking your teeth in for the first bite of that beauty.”

They both began to laugh.

With the meat done medium-rare, Jones took the steaks off the grill and placed them onto two plates. They sat at the plastic table under the cover, resting the steaks for five minutes before they dug in. There was no salad, but neither of the men complained.

Hunter’s phone rang, but he ignored it.

They ate in silence, except for the occasional groan of satisfaction. With the Porterhouse steaks finished, they both leaned back in their chairs, smiles spread across their faces. It was a moment of silent bonding.

When the phone rang a second time, Hunter answered.

“The courthouse has called.” It was Esther. “Judge Warren has made his decision on the hearing.”

CHAPTER 44

JONES DROVE his truck through the traffic towards the George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse, and Hunter held onto the door handle the entire way.

“If you were an Uber driver, I would’ve given you one star,” Hunter said as he stepped out of the truck. “I’m lucky to be alive after that drive.”

“Don’t believe all the reviews you read,” Jones said as he locked the truck with a beep. “Take parachute companies—they only get five-star reviews because, well, if the parachute didn’t open, you don’t get a chance to write a review.”

Hunter smiled as they walked out of the parking lot side by side. The George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse loomed large before them, just as it had done many times before. They approached the media pack, and before they made it across the road, Jones held out his fist. Hunter bumped fists with him.

Word had gotten out about the pending decision, and the waiting mass of media that had arrived was enormous. Every media outlet in the city was there, their vans parked across the road in the parking lot. The police had made a partition, and Hunter spotted a number of amateur podcasters to the side of the media pack, talking into their phones.

As soon as Hunter crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk, the horde of reporters rushed to him. The questions came in thick and fast, hounding him with noise. Jones led the way through the pack and Hunter didn’t stop. He didn’t offer any reply to the questions, not even glancing at the media crews. He had a focus. A place to be. He hustled through the media, with microphones thrust at him from all sides as the entanglement of questions drowned out everything else.

The mass hysteria and excitement were silenced the moment the automatic doors slid shut. Two security guards standing inside ensured none of the reporters followed through, giving Hunter some much-needed breathing space.

“Big day for you, I hear,” the guard said as Hunter went through the security checkpoint. “We’ve been warned that there might be media trying to break down these doors.”

Hunter nodded to the guard, the nerves filling his body. He spotted Esther inside the foyer and walked to her. They embraced in a hug.

“You ok, big guy?” She offered her support as she rubbed his back.

“I’ll be better when Judge Warren hands down his decision.” Hunter drew back from the embrace and looked towards the elevators.

Patrick appeared beside them. He offered his hand for his brother to shake. “This is it, Tex. The day you’ve waited for.”

Patrick began to walk towards the elevators, but Esther hesitated.

“What is it?” Hunter asked.

“There’s something you should know.” Esther kept her voice low. “The Mayor and the State’s Attorney paid Judge Warren a visit.”

“How long ago?”

“This morning, a few hours before the word came through of his decision.”

“Do you know how long they were in with him?”

“I don’t,” Esther shook her head. “I just got the heads-up from one of the guards here.”

“The meeting was serious enough for them to make the trip in person instead of a simple phone call,” Hunter said. “That’s not good.”

“Come on,” Esther said, nodding towards the elevators. “There’s only one way to find out what the decision is.”

They walked into the courtroom moments later, the seats already filled with media, concerned citizens, and onlookers. Esther took her seat next to Patrick and wished Hunter luck one final time.

Michelle Law was fidgeting with the notes on her desk, trying to stay calm, as the young attorneys next to her stayed quiet.

Alfred Hunter was wheeled into the room, sitting at the edge of the defense table. He nodded to his youngest son.

They didn’t have to wait long for the bailiff to call the crowd to their feet.

Hunter took a quick look around and saw Jones step in the courtroom doors, taking up a seat at the back of the room. There was a buzz amongst the crowd, a nervous tension.

Hunter turned back and watched closely as Judge Warren took his seat. He looked for any clue about the decision, but Judge Warren didn’t make eye contact with either counsel, turning his eyes firstly to the back of the room and then down to his own bench.

“This has been an interesting evidentiary hearing,” Judge Warren began. “This case has long been part of the psyche of this city, and we cannot pretend that it hasn’t had a bearing on the decisions made in court, both in the 1980s and today. But of course, worst of all, is that eight young women lost their lives all those years ago. While time may fade memories, it doesn’t fade the grief. My condolences to those families.

“The defense has presented a strong case for post-conviction relief. We’ve heard from witnesses who have described an amazing theory about what happened back then. We’ve heard that there were missing police files, and that some Detectives requested witnesses not to record an eyewitness testimony in case the details confused the court proceedings. We’ve heard from a witness who was proven to be lying about his whereabouts, saying that he saw Alfred Hunter near the gravesites. We’ve heard from a psychologist who was sure that Alfred Hunter didn’t murder any of those girls. In all, a very compelling presentation.”

Judge Warren paused and looked at Hunter. He offered no smile, wink, or even a nod. He sighed and then continued.

“However, what we haven’t heard is any evidence that someone saw anyone else murder those girls. We haven’t heard that Alfred Hunter was seen somewhere else. We haven’t heard that Alfred Hunter is innocent. We haven’t heard any proof of innocence.

“There is no doubt that this is an emotionally charged case. One just has to look outside the front doors of this courthouse to realize how much public support Alfred Hunter has gathered over the past weeks. However, I am not here to make an emotional assessment. I am not here to play favorites. My role, as the sitting judge in this hearing, is to make a determination based on law, and only the law.

“As such, due to the lack of evidence presented to show that Alfred Hunter did not commit the murders, the motion for a post-conviction relief is dismissed.”

CHAPTER 45

THE WORLD passed by Tex Hunter in a blur.

He felt like he was a ten-year-old boy again, confused and upset about how the courts could get it so wrong. Alfred Hunter was wheeled back to his holding cell, a number of people congratulated the prosecution team, and the media quickly hurried out the door to go back to work.

Hunter sat at his desk, staring at the judge’s chair, while the courtroom emptied behind him. Once there was only Jones, Patrick, and Esther left in the seats, Patrick reached across and patted Hunter on the shoulder. “Sorry, Tex.”

Patrick walked out without another word.

Jones and Esther allowed Hunter all the space he needed. He didn’t move for fifteen minutes. When he turned, Esther gave him a nod, and Jones raced out of the courtroom to get his truck ready.

Hunter exited the building in a daze. The media were in his face, shouting questions, asking him about his emotions, but Hunter pushed them aside, charging through to the waiting pick-up. Hunter slumped into the passenger seat, Esther behind him, and Jones in the driver’s seat. Jones wasted no time pulling away from the courthouse, cutting through the traffic with aggression.

“Not enough evidence?” Hunter whispered to himself. “How could there not be enough evidence?”

They drove the rest of the journey to Hunter’s office in silence. They walked into the office. Hunter placed his briefcase on his desk and dropped heavily into the large leather chair behind his desk. Jones sat on the other side of the desk while Esther went to the cabinet at the side of the room and removed three glasses. She poured three whiskeys, two straight and one with ice.

“Let’s figure out where we go from here,” Jones said as Esther passed him the drink. “There have to be options.”

“Go from here? Were you not just in the courtroom?” Hunter looked up. “There’s nowhere to go. This is over. After thirty-six years, this is finally over. The only choice we have is to break him out of prison.”

“Then that’s what we do.” Jones’s tone was blunt. “Whatever it takes.”

“We’re not doing that. Let’s remain levelheaded,” Esther said as she sat down. “We can appeal this decision to the Appellate Court. They can review it.”

“Review what?” Hunter’s tone was blunt, angry, but more than anything, it sounded defeated. “That there isn’t enough evidence. Judge Warren was right—in all that, we presented no evidence that my father didn’t kill the girls. We just pointed to the holes in the previous investigation. There wasn’t one piece of evidence that proved he was innocent. That’s what Judge Warren wanted us to do. He wanted us to prove my father’s innocence.”

“We have to try the appeal.”

“It’ll take months before they even look at it. It could even take a year. There’s no way my father will survive that long. He’s already talking about letting go.” The silence descended over them again until Hunter whispered. “Maybe I should have listened to all those people who told me this wasn’t going to happen. Maybe I should’ve given up long ago.”

“You had to try,” Esther said.

“For what? If it wasn’t for me, this entire case would still be sitting in the back of most people’s minds. It would’ve remained in the past, like everything else to do with the case. It would’ve been forgotten about, like a footnote in the history of a violent city.” Hunter stood; his fist tightly wrapped around his glass. “But instead, I’ve opened up old wounds and caused a lot of pain to a lot of people. And for what? For nothing. All of this was for nothing.”

He threw the glass at the foot of the bookshelf, smashing the glass onto the floor.

“Damn it, Tex, stop feeling sorry for yourself!” Esther snapped. She stood and glared at him. Hunter looked at her wide-eyed, caught off-guard by her sudden burst of emotion. “This isn’t over. You’ve never given up fighting, and I don’t expect you to give up now.” She pointed her finger at Hunter. “Don’t you dare give up now.”

Hunter turned to her wide-eyed, never having seen Esther’s angry side before. They held their stares at each other for a few long moments before Hunter nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“We have an option,” Jones spoke up, still sitting in his chair, swirling his whiskey around the glass. “The public is on our side.”

“Go on,” Esther said.

“The Appellate Court isn’t deaf. They know what people talk about. They know that the issues that are presented don’t occur in isolation. And this decision was so close, so tight, that it could’ve gone either way on the basis of law,” Jones said. “If the Appellate Court is in the middle of a decision, then public pressure could sway it.”

“They’re not influenced by public opinion,” Hunter sat back down and drew a long breath. “They are, however, influenced by political power. And politicians are swayed by public opinion. We just need to get the right politicians on our side.”

CHAPTER 46

HUNTER ARRIVED at the Cook County Jail at lunchtime, after he spent the morning filing an appeal with the Appellate Court. He’d spent hours filling in forms, applying for not only a review of the decision to throw out the post-conviction relief motion, but to expedite the appeal decision.

The check-in process at the Cook County Jail was longer than usual. A woman, perhaps in her twenties, was screaming about needing a visit with her husband, who’d apparently had another female visit him. A small crowd of onlookers watched on as the woman began to throw a tantrum, throwing items across the foyer, which then culminated in a crash tackle from an officer.

Hunter waited patiently for his turn, submitted himself to all the usual checks, and followed the officer through to the visitor’s box. As his attorney, Hunter listed all his visits with his father as client meetings, which usually afforded them the comfort of a private room, but this time, a boxed visit was the only option open to him, reducing the pair to a divided booth and damaged phone receivers.

Hunter sat and waited for the officers to wheel Alfred in, and once he saw his father, he felt an emotional cramp bite him hard. Alfred looked bad, a lot worse than he had expected. The news had hit him hard. He looked broken. Lost. Gone. He was knocking at death’s door, waiting for it to open. His skin looked sucked dry of any moisture, his eyes looked absent, and his slow movements showed he had little vigor left.

Hunter nodded his greeting to his father, desperate to contain his emotions as he held the receiver tight.

“Tex,” Alfred spoke softly into the receiver. “It’s good to see you now that it’s all over.”

“We’re not done yet. We’re going to appeal.”

“No, Tex. It’s over. I want you to stop this. I want my children to leave this heartache behind.” Alfred was slow to speak, taking long pauses to catch his breath. “The truth is out there now. Natalie is safe, my sons are well, and I’m sick. I accepted long ago that the world moves on because that’s what life is—a succession of fleeting moments. You get a limited time here on this planet, and the truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive and forget, unless you realize the fight is over, you can’t move forward. Moving forward is an important part of living. You must not stay stuck in the past.”

“We can—”

“Tex,” Alfred interrupted him. “I’ve never been prouder of the man sitting before me today. You’ve achieved something I thought wasn’t possible, not in my lifetime anyway. You’ve brought out the truth about what happened.” A tear dropped from Alfred’s eyes. “I did what I did to save Natalie, and for that, I’m forever grateful to have had the opportunity. My friends…” he paused as he blinked back another tear. “My friends didn’t have that opportunity. They had to bury their daughters, and they all blamed themselves. That would be a sentence worse than death, worse than prison, but it would’ve been a short sentence. It wasn’t a coincidence that most of the fathers committed suicide after the murders. Given the same choice, given the same chance, I would do it all over again.”

Seeing his father shed a tear, for the first time he could remember, threatened to break Hunter’s own stoic resolve. Hunter’s jaw clenched, as did his fists, as he tried to stop his body from reacting.

“We’re going to beat this,” he whispered. “I’ve already filed the appeal in the Appellate Court. It’s not over. I’ve applied for an expedited decision, and we should know within two weeks if this has any chance. It’s not over.”

“It is for me,” Alfred tried to smile, but it disappeared quickly. “My time has come, and it was worth it. It was worth every second.”

The two men sat in silence for a minute, sitting in exactly the same pose, elbows resting on the edge of the table, receiver to the ear, head down, staring at nothing. When Hunter raised his head, he saw his father grimace in pain as he tried to readjust himself in the chair. It ripped his heart in two to watch him suffer.

“Getting old really sucks, you know?” Alfred tried to laugh. “There are three things that show you’re getting old—first, your memory goes, and then…” he shrugged. “Well, I can’t remember the other two.”

Hunter smiled a little.

“After I’m gone, I want you—”

“Don’t give up yet,” Hunter’s tone was low. “Do it for me. You sacrificed everything for Natalie; now I’m asking you to hold on for me. I need you to hold on a little longer while this appeal is processed. I need you to stay alive a few more months. We’re almost there.”

Alfred took a long time to answer, staring off into nothing. After more than fifty seconds, he conceded, “For you, Tex, I’ll try.”

Alfred hung up the receiver and looked to his youngest son with tear-soaked eyes. He nodded, and Hunter nodded back.

CHAPTER 47

HUNTER DROVE back to his office, the thoughts rolling through his head at a thunderous pace. He had to make a media push. He had to appeal. He had to win a retrial. And he had to do it all within five months. His father wouldn’t last longer than that.

Hunter knew he had to push the media into running stories. He would have to give interviews. He’d have to call in favors. After building a sturdy foundation of support, he could turn to politicians and plead for them to also put their support behind a retrial.

Hunter parked in the lot next to his office building as a snowstorm rolled through the city. It was 5pm, but the darkness had already blanketed the streets.

Hunter stepped out of his car and saw the silhouette near the elevator. The five lights near the elevator had all been broken. Hunter considered turning around and taking the stairs at the other end of the building, but he wasn’t a man to run from danger. Not now, and not ever.

Hunter approached the shadow. As he got closer, he could see a short man standing near the elevator, dressed in an oversized business shirt and slacks. He was overweight and of Latino descent. His mustache was thin, and his hairline had receded to the top of his head. Despite his non-threatening appearance, he had the darkened eyes of a killer.

Hunter approached, gripping his briefcase tightly. He turned around, checking his surroundings, and saw a second man at the other end of the level, waiting in the shadows near the exit to the stairwell. The first man didn’t move. Hunter stopped ten feet away from him.

“Mr. Hunter,” the first man said, holding a cellphone in his hand. “I have someone who wants to talk to you.”

“Who wants to talk to me?”

The man didn’t answer, tapping the screen with his fingers, then held the phone to his ear. He waited a few seconds, and Hunter could hear the distinct ringing from where he stood.

“Yes, Boss,” he said. “I have him here.”

The man held the phone out to Hunter. Hunter approached the man, reached forward, and took hold of the cellphone.

“Who is this?”

“I wanted you to put Yoel Cruz in prison,” a gravelly voice said. The voice was confident, strong, but there was no hiding the evil hovering beneath the surface. “I was waiting for it.”

“Who is this?” Hunter repeated.

“Do you really need to ask, Mr. Hunter? You disappoint me.”

Hunter thought fast, returning to the conversations he’d had with Cruz and Detective Perez in Florida. His mind skipped through the exchange and the names mentioned between them.

“Victor Garcia?”

“Very good,” Victor Garcia mused. “Now tell me. Why isn’t Yoel Cruz in prison?”

“I’m not following.”

“You and I have a shared problem. We both want to be free of the thorns in our side.”

Hunter looked up and saw the man from the other end of the parking lot approach. He took off his jacket as he did, and the pistol hanging from a shoulder holster was visible.

“Go on.”

“I don’t care about your father,” Garcia said. “But what I do want is to be rid of someone who I know you also need for your own case.”

“Browne?” Hunter asked. “I already know about Detect-“

“I’m not talking about that fat pig,” Garcia snapped. “Tony is going to hand you something very valuable. This will help us both. I suggest you take a look at it, and then do something with it.”

“What is it?” Hunter asked, more confused than ever. His eyes kept returning back to the gun hanging from the shoulder of the man standing across the parking lot.

“This was supposed to be a ransom video, a threat to the rest of the fathers, but it was never used,” Garcia grunted. “What I want you to do is watch the clip that has been loaded onto this USB drive, then I want you to use it to free your father. I guarantee you that if the information given to you is used in the right way, both of our problems go away. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“I’ve already used that clip once to my advantage, and now you will use it a second time. There’s just one thing you must guarantee me. Both of the men in the video must be dealt with accordingly, do you hear me? Not just one, but both. If you fail me on this, Mr. Hunter, I guarantee your father won’t be alive long enough to enjoy his new-found freedom.”

The call ended with a click in his ear, and, as if sensing it, the first man stepped forward, holding something out. Hunter held his hand out once the man stood beside him and watched as a small metallic object dropped into the palm of his hand.

“I’ll take the cellphone back,” the man said, turned, then disappeared back through the door to the stairwell, followed by his brother.

CHAPTER 48

HUNTER GRIPPED the USB drive tightly as he walked back to his office. He walked in the doors, saw that Esther had left for the day, and then walked into his separate office. He sat at his desk and stared at the USB drive.

Hunter eyed it for a moment, wondering what Victor Garcia wanted him to see which could help them both. Sliding the connector out from the casing, he placed the USB drive into the side of his laptop, waited for the notification to pop up, then opened the only file on the storage device.

It was a video clip, just one-hundred and fifty megabytes in size. Hunter double-clicked the icon and waited for the clip to start playing.

The screen went dark as the timer began to count upwards. When a picture came into view, Hunter stared at the back of a dirty van, two men standing near the doors as he felt his heartbeat quicken in anticipation. The footage was grainy, flickering, and looked like it had been recorded on a hand-held video camera that was common in the eighties. There was no sound.

Hunter watched as one of the men opened the back of the van and reached inside. Shock pulsated through Hunter as he watched the man pull someone out of the van.

It was a young girl, a pillowcase held over her head. She was dragged out of the van and next to a pit. The area around them looked like the woods. Her hands were bound behind her back as she stood at the edge of a hole. The shovel used to dig it had been stuck into the pile of dirt beside it.

Hunter’s hands were shaking as two men came into view, both grinning as they conversed animatedly.

Yoel Cruz had one arm around Daryl Browne. The two men appeared to be deciding who would take the young girl’s life. Browne even waved at the camera.

Cruz held a knife in his hand and kept offering it to the Detective, but Browne shook his head, waving his gun around. After some discussion, Browne holstered the pistol, grabbed the knife from Cruz, and stepped behind the girl. Cruz lifted the pillowcase off her head, revealing the victim’s identity as Hunter’s heart began kicking inside his chest. The girl standing on the edge of the grave was Belinda Malone.

Hunter forced himself to watch the horrifying final few seconds as Browne did the unthinkable, taking the life of an innocent girl. Cruz stood by and laughed as the girl fell into the pit.

The clip stopped as Cruz reached for the blade, walking back towards the second girl. Cruz pointed at the girl and then turned towards the camera and laughed. His golden teeth looked disgusting.

The footage cut out, leaving the screen black. Hunter stared at the screen, trying to comprehend what he’d just watched.

Hunter stood, put his hands on his head, and started pacing the room. It was a ransom video, the most brutal he’d ever seen, designed to make the second wave of fathers pay.

Hunter was in shock, pacing the room in a daze.

As he tried to calm himself, Hunter checked his watch, calculated travel time, then made his mind up to take immediate action.

He picked up the phone, dialed the number for his contact in NBC news, and held the phone to his ear. As he listened to the phone ring at the other end, he swore on his very own soul that nothing was going to stop him from winning an appeal.

The souls of the victims deserved more, and he promised that the time had finally come to deliver.

CHAPTER 49

WITHOUT A source, without telling them where the video came from, all the news networks steered clear of the video. None of them even wanted to view it. They talked about journalistic integrity, which Hunter found laughable. They said that the lines of integrity blurred at times, but without disclosing a source, this video was a clear violation of their rules.

Jones and Esther met Hunter at his office, racing in once he told them about the video. He couldn’t bear to watch it a second time. Esther raced to the bathroom after the video went blank. Jones sat in shock, not moving a muscle for more than a minute.

Hunter talked about posting the video online himself, pressuring the police department to do something about Browne, but when Esther returned from the bathroom, she had a better idea.

Kristy Washington had set up a studio in the garage of her home in Bucktown. It was complete with soundproofing, microphones, lighting, and stands for the cameras. Her crime podcast had expanded into a full-time job, and she was being offered large contracts to sign with the major streaming services.

Hunter sat nervously on a stool at the edge of the garage, his knee bouncing up and down. Esther sat next to him, breathing deeply and remaining calm.

Kristy Washington presented herself well. She was a well-educated woman in her late twenties who had spent the last five years working as a business manager for a large car yard. But cars weren’t her passion. The history of crime in Chicago often kept her awake long into the night. Her podcasts and videos about crime in her home-town were delivered with fire and passion, something that encouraged more than a million viewers to subscribe to her various channels.

“Are you sure you want to televise this before it’s presented as evidence in court?” Washington asked as she prepared the video. “From the little I know about the law, it could damage any hope of winning future court cases, especially related to the jury’s deliberations. Are you sure you want me to talk about the video and then present it on my website? Is this really what you want to do?”

“I can’t present this evidence in court,” Hunter said. “If I tried, the prosecution would have it thrown out in a heartbeat. Without the original camera, there’s no way to validate this footage. I don’t know who filmed it, I don’t know where the file is from, and I can’t prove that it’s legitimate. This is the only way for it to become public.”

“What if it’s a doctored video? What if it’s not real?” Washington raised her eyebrows as she typed into her laptop. “It’d be the end of my career.”

“That’s the risk you have to take,” Hunter said. “This is it—your chance to make it big. You run this video, and we win that appeal. Once we win the appeal, we’ll give you a one-on-one interview with my father. That’s what every news channel in the country wants right now.”

“But they don’t want this video.”

“The real news is what the powerful want to keep out of the papers,” Hunter said. “Everything else is advertising.”

Washington nodded. An exclusive interview with ‘The Chicago Hunter’ was too good a deal to pass up. A one-on-one interview with Alfred Hunter would score millions of views and would run at the front of most news stories. It was the exposure she dreamed of.

The garage studio smell reminded Hunter of helping his father fix their car—a mix of hospital-grade bleach and gasoline. There were a lot of bright lights, and as he took a seat opposite his host, he felt their heat as they pulled beads of sweat from his brow.

“Just relax,” Washington whispered as she checked the cameras. Once she was happy, Washington moved back to the laptop.

Hunter did his best to try and keep up with what was happening, but he soon found his thoughts drawn back to the film clip, wondering just how it would be received by the public. It was horrifying, and he was aware of the ramifications if things went wrong. Washington said she had blurred out the exact moment the violence occurred, along with the girls’ faces, but its impact wouldn’t be reduced.

The recording began with a lengthy introduction from Washington. Her voice was commanding but calming. Hunter could’ve listened to her for hours. She spoke about the history of the case, recounting the horror the city faced during the weeks and months after the girls were taken and subsequently found murdered in shallow graves. She spoke about the recent events that had unfolded in court and the outrage the city felt on behalf of ‘The Chicago Hunter.’ She spoke about the years Alfred had spent in prison. She spoke about Natalie.

She introduced Hunter and asked him a number of questions. He answered them confidently.

Hunter sat quietly by as Washington took the lead while she explained what was about to be viewed on millions of phones, tablets, laptops, and computer screens. She explained that it was a ransom video, designed to encourage the second wave of fathers to pay, but it was never used.

Preparing the viewers for the extremely violent nature of the video and reminding them to exercise caution when sharing it, she hit a button on her laptop for the footage to roll. There was a monitor to the left. Hunter watched as the feed cut from the studio to the clip he’d brought with him.

As promised, when it came to the part where Browne murdered the girl, Washington had used a censoring tool, but there was still enough visible to leave little doubt about what happened.

Washington and Hunter sat in stunned silence as the feed returned to the host and her guest. Despite having seen the footage a number of times, the shock value was still raw.

Hunter looked at his hands while Washington closed her eyes and appeared to try and get herself under control. Thirty seconds after the clip ended, she finally verbalized her feelings, her words the only sound in the studio.

Hunter did his best to answer the final few questions, but it was already obvious there wasn’t much else that needed to be said. His cellphone began to vibrate off-screen almost non-stop, and he could only imagine the response the clip was causing amongst the wider community.

Washington questioned how he’d received the video, and he said that someone involved with the case had now decided to do the right thing and sent it to him anonymously.

Once Washington ended the show, Hunter, Esther, and Washington barely said much. They were all still in a daze, shocked by the barbaric nature of the footage. Hunter thanked Washington, and she thanked him. He left with Esther by his side.

Hunter had taken a shot, a wild left hook, and now it was time to deal with the consequences.

CHAPTER 50

THE CELLPHONE continued to vibrate in his pocket as he drove Esther home through the fading traffic. The video, and subsequent podcast, had been scheduled to be uploaded at eight o’clock that evening, considered prime time for views, and Hunter figured it would’ve been the only thing on people’s screens throughout the city.

The history of the case was enough to draw a lot of attention, and with the recent attempts made for a retrial, it gained major interest amongst the Chicago population instantly.

He pulled the cell from his pocket and stared at the screen as another call was trying to get his attention. When it finally quit, the screen briefly went black, then relit with his generic wallpaper, fronted by the fifty missed calls that had already attempted to persuade him to answer. The news channels were also calling, trying to land an interview with Hunter. Hunter stared at another incoming call, shut the screen off again, and returned the phone to his pocket.

He dropped Esther at her apartment building and thanked her for her support. She offered him a drink, but he declined, preferring to spend the night by himself. He had too much information to process in his mind. He drove the remaining fifteen minutes to his apartment. Thankfully, the reporters hadn’t had time to set up camp yet.

Once inside his apartment, Hunter locked the door, slipped out of his shoes, and headed for the kitchen. He grabbed two glasses, filled one with ice, and took the bottle of JD from the small bar. As he turned towards the balcony, he remembered the little piece of technology still sitting in his pocket, the only link he had to the outside world.

He pulled it out, looked at it for a moment, then set it down on the kitchen counter. As he reached for the glasses, the phone’s screen lit up again, the vibration humming through the silent apartment. Hunter had every intention to ignore all the calls for the night. All he wanted was a few hours to himself and a chance to escape reality and recharge.

But it was the number on the display that caught his attention, a cell number, one he recognized because it ended with 555. It was the temporary number that Esther had given Thomas Malone, allowing him to use one of the office’s spare mobile phones while in the city.

Hunter debated with himself whether to answer the call or not. He didn’t want to answer questions, not so soon after the video was released, and all the emotions it would have stirred up in people.

“Mr. Malone?” Hunter said. “How can I help you?”

There was a silence on the other end of the phone call. Hunter thought Malone was about to scream at him, abuse him for showing the death of his daughter to the world. He expected him to scream that Hunter had no conscience, no moral compass, plastering his helpless girl all over the internet.

But when a voice finally rose on the other end, it was anything but angry.

“Mr. Hunter, it’s Thomas Malone.” The man was methodical with his words. “I want to thank you for what you did tonight. I saw it on the phone. I’ve been listening to that woman, Kristy Washington. You’ve brought the real truth out, and for that, you deserve a medal.”

“I don’t deserve anything, Mr. Malone. I’m simply doing—”

“I’m going to kill him, you know. I’m going to shoot him and show him what real justice is. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Mr. Malone,” Hunter’s voice was firm. “You can’t shoot him. He’s a cop. Don’t do it. Let me do my job and put him behind bars. That’s real justice. Let him suffer for what he’s done behind bars.”

“A bullet to the head might be too quick for everything he’s done, but it’s the only way I can be sure he’s paid for his crimes. I won’t let him walk away,” Malone said. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Thank you for everything.”

The click as the call cut off sounded like a guillotine slamming down. Hunter pulled the cellphone away from his ear and stared at the blank screen.

He dialed the next number. “Ray,” Hunter said when his friend picked up the phone. “I need to know where Detective Browne is, and I need to know now.”

CHAPTER 51

THERE WAS a list of five possible locations for Daryl Browne’s current whereabouts.

Hunter asked Jones to cover three of them while he searched the first two. Hunter was going to the obvious place first—Browne’s home in Logan Square.

Browne was too arrogant to run, even with the widespread circulation of the footage. His arrogance made him bullet-proof, and he would only run if he thought he couldn’t fight the information, but it was clear that the video didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Browne wouldn’t be arrested over an unverified video, even with public pressure. Suspended, perhaps, but not arrested.

Logan Square was a short drive away. Hunter pocketed his cell and ran to his car. Climbing in, he fired up the sedan and squealed his tires out of his building’s parking lot. Traffic had died down to a trickle, allowing Hunter a clear path.

Time was ticking. Malone’s tone had signaled not just a threat, but also intent. Hunter knew it was just a matter of time before he would find the man responsible for his daughter’s death.

Hunter raced through the streets, screeching around corners, and overtaking cars with aggression.

As he neared the street off West Fullerton Avenue, Hunter slowed enough to blend back into the night. He didn’t want to alarm anyone before his arrival, particularly if an armed man was already waiting in the shadows.

Jones called. He hadn’t found Browne at the first location he checked.

“Do you think Browne is on the run?” Jones asked. “If he’s seen the footage, he might be trying to get out of the state.”

“No chance,” Hunter said. “He knows that the footage means nothing. My worry is Malone. He’ll kill him on sight if he finds him,” Hunter edged to the end of the street where Browne lived. “We’ve got to get to him first.”

“Have you called the cops on Malone?”

“Not yet. If I find him, I want to see if I can talk some sense into him. I need Browne alive.”

“I’ll find him if he’s anywhere near those areas,” Jones called out on the phone. “I’m heading for his former partner’s house to see if he’s there.”

“Thanks,” Hunter said, then ended the call.

Hunter tried to think back to when he had visited Malone’s home and to the vehicle parked in front of the cottage. Was it an old red Chevy pick-up? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he scanned the row of vehicles as he slowly made his way along the darkened street. Parked cars lined both sides, with several pick-ups amongst them.

Browne’s home was a single Greystone with a small front and rear yard, sandwiched between an apartment building on one side and a two-story home on the other. Streetlamps were scattered every hundred yards, leaving the gaps shadowed in darkness.

Hunter passed the home and saw one of the windows illuminated with television shadows. Someone was home. Hunter continued on for a hundred yards before pulling into a parking space. He killed the engine.

Not wasting any time, he climbed out and moved his way along the sidewalk, staying in the shadows. Ahead, the street looked deserted.

He checked his watch. He’d made good time, just twenty-five minutes since the call from Malone, almost 11pm. Hunter took another look around as he closed in on the home. The beating in his chest ramped up with each step.

He saw an old red pick-up, parked covering half the driveway.

Malone was here.

He increased his pace, running towards the home. Adrenaline pumping as he closed in on the target.

A gunshot exploded somewhere ahead of him.

Hunter broke into a sprint without a second thought, racing towards the house.

As he reached the front fence of the home, he heard muffled voices coming from the back. Hunter crouched down and moved along the small path flanking the house. He could hear voices.

“I saw what you did,” Malone’s voice sneered. “You killed her.”

As he rounded the corner, Hunter found the two men in a stand-off, Malone kneeling near the rear fence, while Browne stood frozen on the back porch. Malone had a rifle trained on Browne, his eye staring into a scope. The light from the back porch shone onto Malone, highlighting his face.

“You can’t shoot me. I’m a cop.” Browne held his hands in the air, a knocked over beer can next to him. “Did you hear me? I’m a cop!”

“That didn’t matter when you cut Belinda’s throat!”

“Thomas,” Hunter called out. He was crouched down next to the back porch, hands out in front of him. “Mr. Malone. Don’t do this. This isn’t the way to get justice.”

“This is real justice,” Malone grunted. “This is the justice that my Belinda deserves.”

“Thomas, look at me,” Hunter said. “Thomas, you’re not a killer. You don’t want to murder a man. That’s not who you are.”

“Listen to him,” Browne called out, still standing on the porch in a Bears t-shirt as he held his hands up in surrender. “He’s right. You’re not a killer. You couldn’t pull that trigger if you tried.”

“Answer me one question,” Malone gritted his teeth, fighting the emotions burning inside him. “How many did you kill?”

“None. I didn’t kill any girls,” Browne scoffed. “That video was a fake.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Malone screamed. “If you lie to me again, I’ll kill you!”

“Alright, alright,” Browne tried to calm him down. “Ok. Sure.”

“Sure, what?!”

“Sure, I killed four of the girls. Cruz, the other man in the video, killed one, and Max Montana murdered the other three,” he kept his hands out in front of him. “But you can’t shoot me. I’m a cop. And I can see that you’re not a killer. I can see that you don’t want to pull that trigger. Just put the gun down, and we’ll sort this out another way.”

“This isn’t justice, Thomas,” Hunter called out. “This isn’t the answer. Let me take him to court.”

“He deserves to die,” Malone cried out. “He killed my little girl. My Belinda. My poor, sweet, little Belinda.”

He was sobbing, the barrel of the rifle dipping just a fraction as emotions distracted him.

It was the moment Browne was waiting for. Browne turned towards the back door of the home, but he didn’t move fast enough.

Malone fired twice.

Browne fell hard, crashing into the back door, the blood covering the back of his shirt.

The barrel of the rifle rose as Browne fell.

Malone walked up the steps to the fallen body, standing over him on the back porch. He aimed again and then fired a third time.

CHAPTER 52

HUNTER WAS kneeling beside Browne when the police showed up.

The police officers arrived within a few minutes of the shooting, two of them slowly rounding the side of the home with their weapons drawn. Hunter remained where he was, holding his hands up and explaining the situation as best he could. Needing to be sure of the story, they ordered Hunter to get down on the ground face down, then searched him before confirming his identity.

Malone sat in a plastic chair at the side of the yard, his rifle across his lap, staring at the night sky. He placed the gun down when asked by the police officers, and then lay on the ground, face down. He was cuffed and read his rights.

The paramedics arrived shortly after, with the first team attending to Browne. It didn’t take long for them to declare Browne as deceased. Five more police cars arrived, followed by, of course, the first media crew. The yard was soon full of lights, action, and activity.

As Malone was led out of the yard, hands cuffed behind his back, he turned to Hunter.

“I had to do it, Hunter,” Malone said. “I had to do it for my Belinda.”

Hunter didn’t respond, watching as Malone was escorted down the narrow path at the side of the house. Hunter could hear the news crews shouting questions at him.

Sitting on the edge of the steps that led to the porch where Browne still lay, Hunter put his head in his hands.

A sheet was draped over Browne’s body. Two officers were standing over the body, with a couple of new arrivals coming through the back door of the home. Dressed in plain suits, the detectives peered down at the corpse while the officers briefed them on the developments. Hunter barely heard them as he rubbed the side of his head.

“This is probably the kind of justice he deserved,” a voice said, and Hunter looked sideways to see one of the detectives sitting beside him.

“Detective Knowles,” Hunter said. “This your case?”

Jemma Knowles, a high school classmate of Hunter’s, nodded. “Apparently so,” she said. “I’m going to need to ask you some questions about what you witnessed. We can do it now, or we can do it later. I know you’ve got a lot to process.”

“It’s not justice, Jemma. That’s not real justice.”

“I don’t think he escaped justice, Hunter,” Knowles looked back at the body. “I saw the footage, and I’d say he got what he deserved.”

“What Detective Browne got was an easy way out. That’s not justice,” Hunter said. “Before he was shot, Browne admitted everything. He said he killed four of the girls, Cruz killed one, and another man, long deceased, killed the other three. He said it, and I heard it with my own ears. He got away with murder for a very long time.”

“What goes around, comes around. If you live a life of murder and crime, you can expect it to come back to you. He got what he deserved.”

“But that’s not justice.”

“It sure looks like Thomas Malone thought it was justice.”

“Justice is about following due process and ensuring a man pays for his crimes in our legal system. The shame of being caught, the embarrassment of court appearances, and the pain of having every ounce of freedom stripped away. That’s justice. Browne would have faced at least one life sentence and be made to question his choices each and every one of those remaining days.” He looked behind him and up the stairs to the body covered in a cloth. “But because of a grieving father seeking revenge, because of a vengeful man, he’s been given the comfort of a quick exit, without ever having to face his victims’ families. He didn’t face justice here today. And now another man will face a prison sentence in his place.”

Knowles paused, sighed, and then stood. She patted Hunter on the back and ascended the stairs again, leaving Hunter to stare at the ground.

CHAPTER 53

THE MEDIA ran with Browne’s death, running front-page stories every day for the following week.

Malone was charged with murder, and when they read his charges in court, he pleaded guilty before he pointed to the ceiling and blew a kiss, mouthing the words, ‘I love you.’ The picture of Malone standing in the courtroom with both index fingers pointed to the sky, tears running down his cheeks, was shared wildly on social media.

The public was on Malone’s side. There was little doubt that the seventy-year-old man would be sentenced to first-degree murder, and would most likely see his days out behind bars, but he was smiling in every photo. The great relief, the great revenge that he’d searched for, had been delivered.

It was only a week after Browne’s murder that Hunter heard back from the Appellate Court. Due to the public pressure, and the expedited request, the court pushed the case to the top of the pile.

Hunter read the decision.

*****

BRIEF SUMMARY

ILLINOIS OFFICIAL REPORTS, APPELLATE COURT, FIRST DIVISION

PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF ILLINOIS,

-vs-

MR. ALFRED HUNTER,

Petitioner,

DECISION UNDER REVIEW

APPEAL FROM THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY; THE HON. HERBERT WARREN, JUDGE, PRESIDING.

DECISION OF APPEAL:

JUDGMENT REVERSED AND REMANDED.

COUNSEL ON APPEAL:

TEX HUNTER OF TEX HUNTER LAW OFFICES, LLC, for appellant.

JAMES HUGHES, STATE’S ATTORNEY OFFICE, OF COOK COUNTY, for the People.

Panel JUSTICE COOPER delivered the judgment of the court, with opinion.

Presiding JUSTICE LYON concurred in the judgment and opinion.

JUSTICE PATTERSON specially concurred, with opinion.

OPINION SUMMARY

Defendant, MR. ALFRED HUNTER, appeals from the third-stage dismissal of his post-conviction petition. The defendant argues the circuit court erred in dismissing his petition because he made a substantial showing of actual innocence based on newly discovered evidence.

For a claim of actual innocence to advance past the third-stage evidentiary hearing, the petition and supporting documents must make a substantial showing that the evidence is (1) newly discovered, (2) material and not merely cumulative, and (3) of such conclusive character that it would change likely the result on retrial.

After reviewing the record, we find that defendant’s pleadings made a substantial showing of actual innocence, and the court erred in dismissing the petition.

CONCLUSION

The judgment of the circuit court of Cook County is reversed and remanded.

MR. ALFRED HUNTER’S post-conviction petition is granted. A new trial date shall be set.

*****

CHAPTER 54

THE NEWS of the successful appeal raced through the media like a wildfire. It burned strong, ferocious, and the media covered the story from every angle. The public couldn’t get enough of the story about a man who sacrificed his freedom for the life of his daughter. Just as it had done thirty-six years earlier, talking about Alfred Hunter’s story became a national pastime.

Kristy Washington’s face was splashed all over the world as she took on the role of an expert in the case. She was interviewed by media outlets in Australia, England, Germany, and Japan, and her podcast was ranked number one in five different countries. She signed on with a major streaming service for a series of crime podcasts, in a deal worth more than a million dollars, and landed a regular spot on a morning television program.

Due to the weight of public opinion, a number of politicians came out in support of Alfred Hunter, talking about the great sacrifices he’d made for his family. The courts, under pressure from the public and from politicians, approved Hunter’s request for an expedited trial, scheduling the case in early February, only weeks after the Appellate Court decision to overturn Judge Warren’s decision.

Five days before the retrial, Hunter entered his office at 6am. He’d never been in the office that early. He often worked late, often past 2am, but he never worked early. Over the coming weeks, if he wanted to win the retrial, he would need to burn the candle at both ends.

He’d had hundreds of messages of support—emails, letters, and texts—mostly praising the courage of his father. He didn’t have time to go through them all, although he would respond to them all in time.

At 6:05am, his phone pinged.

Hunter. Time we talked. Michelle Law.

He sat down at his desk and dialed the woman’s number. It was the first time throughout the case she had initiated contact, and his suspicions peaked as she answered on the second ring.

“Hunter, can we meet?” she said, foregoing the pleasantries, although clearly still waking up. “We need to talk about something.”

“Where did—”

“Calvary Cemetery. Give me an hour to get ready.”

She hung up before Hunter could acknowledge her, leaving him listening to the dead silence.

He sat back in his chair and stared out his office window at the view of Chicago. It’d be another few hours before Esther arrived. She was his sounding board, the level-headed one in contrast to his robust determination, but she wasn’t there.

He made the decision to go.

The drive to the cemetery took around forty-five minutes, and he wasted no time getting through the early morning traffic.

He arrived at the cemetery five minutes early. The front gate was open, but the place was deserted. He parked the car just inside the small driveway and stepped out, scanning the nearby rows for his counterpart. There were only half a dozen people scattered between the visible plots, and Hunter wondered whether he had been played.

Locking the car, he began to walk up the middle of the cemetery, the path stretching from one end to the other, with several side paths veering off every few dozen yards or so. The sun had yet to rise above the horizon, and the morning cold bit at any exposed skin. The wind blew strong, dulling most other sounds. The smell of smoke from a nearby fireplace blew in with the wind.

As he neared the center of the graveyard, he spotted a woman standing before a small gray tombstone. She was dressed in a long coat, complete with a black beanie and black gloves. Michelle Law looked up, perhaps feeling his eyes on her. She didn’t move as he approached, looking back at the tombstone, waiting for Hunter to reach her.

“Good morning, Michelle,” he said as he approached. “It’s a bit cold for an outdoor meeting.”

“I don’t have time for chit-chat, Hunter,” she said. “I chose to meet here because I couldn’t risk us being seen together.”

“And you thought a cemetery would be the ideal spot?”

“Meet my father,” she said, motioning her head towards the grave. “He died seventeen years ago. I never met him when he was alive, but apparently, he’s my blood. Cindy Mendel, my birth mother, told me who my father was last year.”

“I thought you were raised as an orphan?”

“I was adopted,” she said. “They were terrible parents, but they were doing their duty. They couldn’t have kids of their own, so they adopted me. They were good people but terrible parents. They were older than all the other parents. They were so removed from what kids were dealing with that they had no idea how to even communicate with me. I appreciate their effort to raise me, but my adoptive parents were nasty, cruel, and mean. Not that I blame them. They did their best.” She pointed to the grave. “After I met my real mother, she told me about Gerald here. She said she’d dated him for a while, and they got pregnant, but then she gave me up for adoption. Gerald didn’t even know I existed while he was alive.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My birth father didn’t even know about me. He didn’t get to make a sacrifice for me, like your father did for Natalie,” she said. “Families are complicated, but you should know that better than most.”

Hunter nodded, not wanting to be drawn into the matter. Law sensed his reluctance to continue and offered him a half-smile. She turned and began to walk with her hands in her coat pockets, head down, chin tucked into the collar of her coat. Hunter followed.

“We have gotten ourselves into quite a situation, Hunter,” she said, keeping her voice low. “And it’s not a good situation.”

“How so?”

“Because my department is stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Tex. Don’t play stupid with me.” She shook her head. “I’ve called you out here because I don’t want to play games.”

“Ok. Let’s not play games,” Hunter said. He put his hands in his coat pockets as another cold wind blew through. “My father’s retrial is starting next week. We have enough evidence to clear him, and the prosecution has nothing. We even have Thomas Malone lined up to testify about what he heard from Daryl Browne. The jury won’t even need an hour before they clear my father.”

“Do you really have evidence?” She turned to him as they walked slowly. “That video that you splashed around the world shows that your father didn’t kill one of the girls, it shows that Browne killed her, but who was holding the camera? Was it Alfred? Were they in it together? Did your father kill the other girls? You can get him off for the murder charge for Belinda Malone, but it doesn’t clear him of the seven other girls. Malone’s testimony is faulty and tarnished, at best.”

“Come on, Michelle. You know this is over. The burden of proof is on you. This isn’t another hearing; this is a new trial. The prosecution has nothing.”

“This is about the law. There’s no way Alfred wins the retrial. His wallet and watch were found in the graves of the deceased. A bloodied knife was found in the trunk of his car.” Law shook her head again. “He’s not winning this retrial.”

“You know he’s innocent,” Hunter stated. “You know that he took the fall to save Natalie.”

“And that’s the problem. We all know it, but you can’t prove it,” Law was silent for a few moments before she turned to him. “You can prove he didn’t kill Belinda Malone, but you can’t prove he didn’t commit the other seven murders. That bloodied knife in the trunk of his car means he’ll be sent back to prison.”

“I’ll be filing a motion to dismiss the case at the start of this trial,” Hunter stopped walking. “You need to join that motion.”

“I can’t,” Michelle whispered. She stopped a few steps ahead of Hunter. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Won’t. There is more at play than this case.”

“What do you believe?”

“Believe?” she laughed. “What do I believe? Since when has that mattered? My job is to deal in facts. The cold, hard facts. We deal in the law, not psychology.”

“From a legal perspective, what do you believe?”

“I believe he’s innocent. Everyone does,” she scoffed. “The witnesses, the new footage, the new testimonies—it adds up to the perfect hero’s story. Everyone wants to believe it’s true because they think they’d do the same thing. But that’s not the question—the question is whether there’s enough for you to win.”

“Why’d you call me out here, Michelle?”

“Because I’m pleading with you to withdraw the case. I’ll arrange for Alfred’s transfer to a nice prison hospital—”

“We’ve been through this. That’s not an option.”

Michelle nodded. “Then I have to drag this thing out as long as I can. You can expect that this retrial will take years to even get before a judge.”

Hunter stared at her. “But you don’t want to do that, do you?”

“It’s not a question about what I want,” Michelle said. “It’s a question about what those in power want. What’s stopping me from joining your motion to dismiss the charges are the people standing behind me. You know who they are, and the kind of power they hold.”

“And a man’s innocence is no longer considered enough to clear him? Regardless of the evidence available?”

“I promise you that I would love nothing more than to walk into the courtroom on Monday and throw the case out. But—”

“If we don’t clear my father, another killer is going to continue spending his life as a free man. Yoel Cruz, the other man identified in the video, can’t be arrested while my father is locked up. You know that. You can’t convict two different people for the same crime and have different theories.” Hunter took a couple of steps ahead, then turned to face her. “This is not what you signed up for. This is not what you spent years in Law School for. You became a lawyer to uphold the law, just like I did.”

Michelle struggled to look into his eyes, but when she did, Hunter still saw what he had hoped would change.

“I can’t. They’ll destroy my career,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER 55

THE FINAL days before the start of the retrial passed by in a haze for Hunter. The conversation he had with Michelle Law continued to play out in his mind as the reality of her intentions set in. She needed to fight him, to deny him the opportunity to clear his father. There were people hiding in the shadows behind the woman, manipulating her like puppet masters, making her decisions for her.

But he found it curious that she hadn’t yet lodged motions to delay the trial. He expected the motions to come thick and fast, but none had been lodged with the court.

Hunter did his best to put together the best defense he could mount, spending countless hours going over every tiny little detail he could find. He knew there would be zero margin for error. With the stakes higher than ever before, this would be the culmination of everything he had ever worked for.

Without Samuel Thorpe’s testimony that he saw Alfred near the gravesites, the prosecution’s case had three pieces of evidence. They had a wallet in one of the graves, a watch was found in the other one, and a bloodied knife in the trunk of Alfred’s car. All the evidence was circumstantial, and there wasn’t enough to convict Alfred. Michelle Law had to know that.

Hunter spent the night before the trial alone, shutting himself off from the world while sitting out on his balcony. He’d abstained from alcohol since the night of Browne’s murder, promising himself to remain in complete control until his father had his first taste of freedom again.

Sitting on the balcony in the dark, with all the lights turned off in his apartment, Hunter watched the city continue on with its business, listening to the constant hum of traffic, watching the occasional aircraft blinking its way through the sky on its way to whatever destination awaited it.

Hunter’s life had built up to this moment. From the moment he first walked into law school to the countless hours he’d spent in the courtroom, it all built up to this. He would need all his skills, all his focus, to win the trial.

He reflected on his father’s conviction and how much it had shaped his life.

While there had been a world filled with barriers before him, his father’s future retrial had provided the drive and ambition to destroy every single one of them. It was that very determination that helped him succeed through every challenge which faced him, eventually leading him to the very spot he now sat in. He was thankful for the experience and grateful for the life he led.

Hunter went to bed earlier than usual, expecting to remain awake for hours. He felt the pressure of the day ahead, the myriad of possible outcomes continuing to play through his mind as he lay his head down on the pillow. Positive that sleep would evade him for hours, Hunter switched the light off and listened to the silence of the apartment.

As his cellphone alarm fired up, Hunter opened his eyes and at first felt confusion grip him as the morning sun almost blinded him. With his attention turned to more pressing matters, he’d forgotten to draw the blinds before going to bed. It wasn’t until he sat up that he realized sleep had come almost instantly, pulling him down into a dreamless state.

By the time Hunter pulled his front door closed an hour later, he was refreshed and ready. He’d expected his morning to be flooded with nerves, but they’d failed to materialize. He felt good, eager to get things underway.

Traffic was typical for Chicago, and Hunter was thankful he left with plenty of time to spare. Esther phoned him as he neared the expressway, asking for any final details she needed to bring with her.

As he drove up 26th Avenue towards the parking lot opposite the courthouse, Hunter spotted the morning media crews. They filled any empty space outside the courthouse.

There was a light flurry of snow drifting through the city as Hunter drove into the parking lot. He parked, took a breath, and then smiled. Today was the day. His day for justice.

Before he could step out of the car, his phone rang, and he looked at the number. It was from Florida.

“Tex Hunter,” the voice said. “It’s Detective Perez.”

“From Florida, yes. How can I help you?”

“You’ve got to win up there this week. We’ve got Cruz under surveillance, but we can’t arrest two people for the same crime. The second you get your father off those charges, we’ll take Cruz into custody. Just give us the word, and he’s gone.”

“Today’s the first day, and the trial is likely to run for three weeks,” Hunter said. “There’s a long way to go, but I’m glad Cruz is under surveillance.”

“He’s not going anywhere. He’s already accepted his fate,” Perez stated. “Good luck in there.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Hunter ended the call and stepped out of the car.

He stood tall, staring at the George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air.

He stepped towards the courthouse, towards the media pack, and began the journey that he’d waited his whole life for.

CHAPTER 56

WALKING INTO the courthouse that morning took Hunter back to the very first time he entered through the glass doors thirty-six years before. He was just a kid then. A kid who’d had little ambition, almost no drive, and a lot of anger. His family had been torn apart, those he cared for the most in the world spread far and wide.

Watching his father go through the murder trial from a distance had been horrendous, leaving a mental scar on his psyche. Not a single night went by throughout the ordeal that he didn’t cry himself to sleep. At the time, he felt little hope for anything. It was as if the world had taken a stand against everything he had ever held close to his heart.

Natalie had disappeared, while Patrick tried to distance himself from the trial as much as possible. He had tried to explain to a much younger Tex that they still needed to live their lives. The world wasn’t going to end because of what their father had done. And then there was their mother, a woman whose spark for life had faded into oblivion. Her blank stare had crushed Tex’s soul, just as her own soul had seemingly departed an emotionless body when she was taken away.

Everybody he ever cared about was gone. But watching the trial in the courtroom had brought something to him he didn’t see coming. It was the lawyers he watched, going about their simple day-to-day business. For Hunter, it was eye-opening to watch how they controlled a courtroom, deciding the very fate of his own father.

Hunter stood just inside the courthouse’s doors, beyond the security checkpoint, and looked out across the main foyer. There were people bustling back and forth, guards watching, lawyers rushing by, some with cellphones pressed to their ears. He was one of them now. He was a lawyer, respected in his field and standing at the height of his career. Today was the day everything he had ever worked towards came to a head. This was it. The young boy who had daydreamed of one day fighting for his father’s freedom had come home, back to where the fight was always going to play out.

“Tex?” It was Esther. “You ok? You’ve been standing there staring into space for the entire time I spent going through security.”

“Good morning, Esther. I’m good. Just reminiscing.”

“I know there’s not much left to say, but I want you to know that whatever happens today, both your mother and father will be proud.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Good luck.” She smiled back and gave his arm a squeeze. “But I hope you don’t need it.”

Hunter walked ahead.

An hour after he’d arrived, Michelle Law and her team walked in the courthouse doors. There were two junior lawyers and an assistant. Hunter looked across at Michelle Law and paused. He had to look twice to confirm it was her. The woman he saw looked nothing like her normal self, usually a vision of confidence, her head held high in preparation for the job ahead. She’d always show up as a true fighter and a significant opponent.

The woman that sat in the prosecutor’s chair was a far cry from the one he had challenged during previous encounters. Her confidence appeared to have evaporated, leaving barely a shadow of its former self behind. She looked nervous to the point of being frightened.

But he also knew that the woman was a seasoned fighter, and regardless of her mental state, she would still deliver a formidable performance. She was born a lawyer, and despite her lackluster appearance today, she would bring nothing short of her A-game to the table.

Hunter prepared himself, both mentally and physically. He opened his briefcase and took out the work both he and Esther had put in over the previous few weeks. They had spent countless hours assimilating everything they could on the case to make sure nothing would be left off the table when the time came to deliver it. Once he was set, Hunter closed his eyes and did his best to block out the rest of the room.

The crowd filled in, and Alfred was wheeled in by the guards. One person clapped as he came in. Alfred didn’t react. He was clinging to life, pushing through the pain, making it through to the trial.

The bailiff called the court to order. The journey had reached its final destination.

Hunter stood with the rest of the crowd and watched as Judge Margaret Kirk took the bench. She was a tanned woman in her fifties, confident and firm. Her brown hair was combed straight, and her red glasses were vibrant. She treated defendants with care and respect, but had little patience for lawyers and their games.

The bailiff called the case number and handed the floor to Judge Kirk.

“Welcome to all parties in the court. Before we begin the voir dire, the jury selection process, we will need to get any pre-trial motions out of the way. Prosecution, do you have any pre-trial motions to file?”

“Not at this stage, Your Honor.”

“Defense?” Judge Kirk turned to Hunter at the defense table. “I see that you’ve filed a motion. Can you please explain your argument?”

“Your Honor,” Hunter stood, but the moment got the better of him. He paused for a long moment before he drew another breath and regained his composure. He looked to his father. Alfred nodded slightly.

“Your Honor,” Hunter began again. “We wish to file a motion to dismiss charges under 725 ILCS 5/114-1 Ch. 38, par. 114-1 (a) (9). The indictment of the charges against Alfred Hunter were based upon the testimony of an incompetent witness, Samuel Thorpe. He’s the centerpiece of the original indictment, and his testimony has been proven to be false and misleading. I ask this court for an immediate dismissal of all charges against Mr. Alfred Hunter, and I ask that the prosecution join this motion to dismiss all charges.”

The courtroom fell into silence as all eyes turned to Michelle Law.

Someone’s cellphone began to vibrate briefly before the call was declined. Hunter looked across at his counterpart, watching as she remained seated, head down, with her eyes closed. He thought he saw a drop of sweat fall from her brow as the judge leaned forward.

“Ms. Law? Do you have anything you wish to say?” Kirk asked. “How do you respond to the motion to dismiss from the prosecution?”

Michelle Law looked across at Hunter, their eyes briefly locking. He could see the defeat in her eyes. She wanted to do the right thing.

Hunter turned and looked into the crowd and saw Mayor Quinn sitting next to the State’s Attorney. She caught his eye and returned a smug grin. Hunter turned back to the prosecutor and watched as she slowly stood. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, a far cry from the commanding tone he’d always heard from her.

“The prosecution joins the motion to dismiss all charges, Your Honor.”

There was silence in the courtroom, a shock blanketing the crowd.

“I’d like you to repeat that, Ms. Law. Am I correct in hearing that the prosecution wishes to join the motion to dismiss all charges?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.” Law looked across to Hunter. “In the interest of justice, the prosecution joins the motion to dismiss all charges against Mr. Alfred Hunter.”

Judge Kirk took a few moments to compose herself. “Then, given the new evidence that has emerged before this retrial, and given the evidence that has been filed during the post-conviction relief hearings, I am satisfied that there’s not enough evidence to charge Mr. Alfred Hunter with murder,” she turned to Alfred. “All the charges against you are dismissed, Mr. Hunter. You are free to go.”

Hunter stared at Michelle in stunned disbelief. She turned and looked at him, nodded, and then began to pack up her things.

The crowd erupted. Reporters scurried out the door, others hugged, while others talked loudly. Hunter turned and saw Esther and Patrick embracing tightly.

Hunter turned to his father, who was still staring at the vacant judge’s seat in disbelief.

“What does this mean?” he whispered with all the remaining strength he had left. “Does that mean it’s over?”

“It’s over,” Hunter kneeled down beside him. “It’s finally over.”

Hunter hugged him. Patrick leaned over the bar to hug his father. Hunter turned and hugged Esther, tightly, and then shook hands with Patrick, and then with Ray Jones. Jones drew Hunter into a hug, patting him solidly on the back. They were cheers for Alfred, hugs from random people who had become addicted to the case.

Hunter turned back to the prosecution desk. He approached Michelle Law and held his hand out.

“Thank you,” Hunter said. “You did the right thing.”

“Don’t think I ever really had a choice,” Michelle looked back at him, tears welling up in her eyes. “But you owe me, Hunter. I may have to come to you for advice about how to set up a private practice because there’s no way my job is still going to be there next week.”

“I owe you,” Hunter agreed. “Whatever you need. I’ve got your back.”

The pair shook before Hunter returned to his father’s side. The courtroom was already emptying out as the reporters rushed to get the story out to the masses.

This was one story they all wanted to be the first to get out in the media.

CHAPTER 57

“HOW IS he?” Esther stood in the doorway of Hunter’s apartment. “How did your father cope with his first day of freedom?”

The breath caught in Hunter’s throat as soon as he opened his apartment door. He couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. Esther looked dazzling in her red dress. The dress ran past her knees, hugging her feminine curves and highlighting her long, slim legs. Her blonde hair was draped over her shoulders, and she smelled soft, almost sweet, with a sensual touch of jasmine.

The elation that he felt seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure, and surrounding it, like a gentle embrace, was a feeling of love. He knew falling in love might hurt, it might end badly, but the time had come. He had to find out for himself. He had to take the risk, he had to jump headfirst into the unknown, he had to take a chance on love.

“Excuse me, mister,” Esther teased. “But my eyes are up here.”

“Sorry. I… You… I just…” Hunter stumbled over his words. “You look amazing, Esther. I don’t know what else to say.”

“You could stop being a pervert and answer my question.” She pulled a strand of blonde hair over her ear, and the grin on her face broadened. “So, how is he?”

“Yes. My father. Right. Yes,” Hunter ran his hand through his hair and looked back towards the guest room in his apartment. “He’s doing ok. The world has changed a lot since he went to prison, and he found it all a bit overwhelming. There are a lot more computers, everything is automated, and everything is busier. This isn’t the Chicago he remembers. And,” Hunter sighed. “And he’s not well. The prison doctor thinks that he may have a month at the most. He’s can barely say a sentence without losing his breath.”

“What does he want to do now that he’s free?”

“The first thing we did was visit my mother’s grave. He spent about an hour there this afternoon. He just sat there, in his wheelchair, and cried. And then he said sorry.” Hunter blinked back a tear. “And he keeps talking about watching the sunset over Lake Michigan. That’s all he’s been saying. He’s been talking about God, and how God paints the sunset. Honestly, he’s on a lot of medication. He’s not making a lot of sense.”

“Is there anywhere in particular that he wants to watch the sunset?”

Hunter sighed and leaned his shoulder against the nearby wall. “As a family, we used to go to Michigan, to the Platte River Campground, in summer. He kept repeating the name as I put him into bed. But it’s about a five-hour drive, and I’m not sure that’d be good for him.”

“If that’s what he wants, you should do it,” Esther said. “He deserves to be granted a few final wishes.”

“You’re right,” Hunter nodded. “But he’s asleep now, thankfully. Patrick is coming past in an hour to check on him.”

It took five hours to release Alfred after the motion to dismiss was granted. Hunter rushed the paperwork, desperate to get his father out the doors. But once the paperwork was processed, it took the guards another hour to wheel Alfred out in a wheelchair. Alfred wanted to say goodbye to the friends he’d grown to know over the years.

With Patrick already waiting, Hunter drove their father to The Queen of Heaven cemetery. Alfred talked to Natalie on the phone, and she talked about returning to Chicago as soon as possible. She promised to return in a month with her husband and two sons.

Detective Perez called Hunter that afternoon. He charged Yoel Cruz with murder the second Alfred Hunter’s conviction was overturned. Hunter thanked Perez, and then organized a bottle of 16-year-old Lagavulin Scotch Whisky to be sent to the detective.

With the case finally over, Hunter needed to grab a drink with Esther.

“Come on, let’s get that drink,” Esther said. “I think we’ve earned it.”

Hunter smiled. He turned and grabbed his jacket off the nearby hook, and paused.

“What’s up?” Esther stood in the doorway, waiting for him. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s one thing I need to do before we go for that drink.”

“What is it?”

Hunter stepped forward.

He bent down and kissed her, one hand gently reaching behind her back as he pulled her in close. Esther flung her arms around his neck, returning the kiss with her own intent.

It was a moment, a connection, a passionate embrace. Outside of the embrace, the world disappeared. They knew all there was to know about each other, but in that moment, in that kiss, they forgot everything.

Their lips parted, and the pair gazed into each other’s eyes. No words were needed.

They could see all they needed in the eyes before them. They came in for another kiss, this time a little more sedated.

When they drew back again, it was the end of a kiss, but for them, it was just a beginning.

CHAPTER 58

THE DRIVE to the Platte River Campground was long, and Alfred dozed in and out of consciousness for most of the five hours. Hunter booked a holiday rental nearby. With Esther in the front seat, and Alfred in the back, they drove. Patrick, and his son Max, would join them the next day.

“Natalie said thank you,” Alfred whispered at one point. “When I talked to her on the phone, she said thank you.”

“You did a lot for her,” Hunter said. “You sacrificed everything so she could live.”

“Any father would,” Alfred replied. “I was the lucky one out of the guys in that casino.”

“I’m going to challenge Mom’s conviction,” Hunter said, gripping the steering wheel tight. “With your conviction overturned, the basis of her charges is lost. As Mom’s been dead for a number of years, the court wouldn’t usually hear the motion, but I’m going to call in a few favors. It’s going to be a lot of paperwork, but I want her name cleared in the history books as well.”

“Thank you, Tex. And thank you for never giving up.” Alfred drew a few short breaths before he continued. “I’m proud of the man you are today. You’re a man full of honor, compassion, integrity, and justice.”

Hunter didn’t respond, focusing on the drive instead. They drove most of the way in silence, except for the occasional quip about their memories driving the roads as a family many years earlier.

The owners of the holiday rental were welcoming. They set up the fire, put wood out for the outdoor fire pit, and made sure the house was suitable for Alfred’s wheelchair. When Hunter picked up the keys, the owners talked about how proud they were to have the Hunter’s staying at their rental. They said that Alfred is the example that every father should be—willing to sacrifice his life for his family.

Once they were set up in the rental, Hunter drove them out to Platte River Point.

The air was fresh, the wind was strong, and the smells were overwhelming. Hunter wheeled his father to the edge of the beach, and he saw the man smile. As the afternoon sun approached the lake, the sky was mostly clear, except for a few clouds on the horizon. In summer, the beach was busy, but in February, Hunter’s car was the only one in the parking lot.

Hunter carried his father onto the beach, while Esther pushed the empty wheelchair. He placed his father back in the wheelchair once they were in position, and Esther wrapped Alfred under a thick blanket. Hunter gathered some old driftwood, dug a hole in the sand, and lit a small fire on the beach.

The sun dipped behind a cloud, and the sky became covered in a soft orange haze. Over the next twenty-five minutes, the color strengthened from orange to pink to a deep, powerful red. Alfred gasped at one point.

“Did you know that bears sit the watch the sunset?” Esther whispered to Hunter as they lay next to each other, near the heat of the crackling fire. “They’re known to sit down and stare at beautiful vistas.”

“I feel like there’s a joke coming,” Hunter said.

“No joke. It’s true. Bears are often seen gazing at beautiful views,” Esther said. “But someone asked me one day if I liked the sun, and I was like, ‘Yeah, you know, it has its ups and downs.’”

Hunter smiled a little.

“And one time, I was thinking about why I love sunrises, and it kept me awake all night,” Esther smiled. “And then, finally, it dawned on me.”

She smiled and looked out to the water.

As the sun started to disappear at the edge of the lake, Hunter watched at Esther. She looked back at him. She smiled softly. And then he knew. He knew, as clearly as he’d ever known anything, as clearly as he knew his world, that he loved her more than anything he’d ever seen, felt, or imagined. He loved her in the depths of his heart, a place that had been blocked, sheltered, and broken for so long.

Esther held his gaze, before she turned her attention back to the sunset.

The view was breathtaking. The redness of the sky had deepened, and the clouds had gathered in picture-perfect positions. The sky above them looked enormous, in only the way a northern sky could. The lake stretched out before them, reflecting the gentle colors, lapping at the shore.

Alone on the edge of the lake, the trio felt tiny under the vast beauty of nature.

The sun dipped behind the lake on the horizon, and the night sky began to fill with stars. Hunter looked across to his father and saw a number of tears running down his cheek.

Once the sun had disappeared, once the redness had drifted into black, Hunter stood and walked over to his father. He placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. He held it on his shoulder, staring out to the last moments of daylight. Alfred’s chin rested on his chest, and he closed his eyes.

And it was there, at the Platte River Campground, under a sunset painted by the hand of God, that Alfred Hunter drew his last breath.

THE END

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Thank you for reading Freedom and Justice, and the Tex Hunter Legal Thriller series.

What a journey this has been. I’ve loved telling the story of the Hunter family over the past seven novels, and hopefully, you’ve enjoyed coming on the journey as well. I’ve loved writing each novel in this series, giving little clues along the way, twisting and turning the whole saga until all was revealed here.

Although this is the end of Alfred Hunter’s saga, Tex and Esther’s story will continue in 2022. There’s still a lot that happens to Tex and Esther, and it’s exciting to see where they go.

I’ve also been working on an epic new legal thriller series, and the first novel, The Southern Lawyer, will be published in February 2022.

Best wishes,

Peter

ALSO BY PETER O’MAHONEY

*****

In the Tex Hunter Series:

CORRUPT JUSTICE

POWER AND JUSTICE

FAITH AND JUSTICE

DEADLY JUSTICE

SAVING JUSTICE

NATURAL JUSTICE

*****

In the Jack Valentine Series:

GATES OF POWER

THE HOSTAGE

THE SHOOTER

THE THIEF

THE WITNESS

*****

In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:

REDEEMING JUSTICE

FIRE AND JUSTICE

WILL OF JUSTICE

A TIME FOR JUSTICE

TRUTH AND JUSTICE

*****

Table of Contents

FREEDOM

PETER O’MAHONEY

Freedom and Justice: A Legal Thriller

FREEDOM AND JUSTICE

TEX HUNTER SERIES BOOK 7

Also by Peter O’Mahoney

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

THE END

Author’s Note:

Also by Peter O’Mahoney