Chapter 4 - The Corpse with No Name
The private entrance to the Cook County Forensic Institute was tucked away beneath an elevated transit line in an industrial pocket of Chicago.
At two o’clock in the morning, the rain had settled into a thick, suffocating mist that clung to the rusted iron girders above.
Dr. Nathan Cole stood waiting in the concrete loading bay, shivering beneath his white lab coat with an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear.
Dr. Cole had been on the Romano family payroll for nearly twenty years.
Whenever an autopsy required a creative cause of death, Cole was the man who signed the certificate without asking questions.
When the black Suburban pulled into the bay and Alexander stepped out into the fluorescent light, the old coroner dropped his lighter onto the wet concrete.
"Sweet Lord Jesus Christ," Cole whispered, his voice shaking as he adjusted his spectacles.
"I saw your death certificate, Alex."
"I didn't sign it myself—the state police had their own forensic team in Kendall County—but the records came through my office on Monday."
"The records were a fabrication, Nathan," Alexander said, walking past the doctor toward the heavy stainless-steel double doors.
"Where is the casket?"
"We brought it here from Saint Jude’s an hour ago," Cole stammered, hurrying to keep pace with Alexander’s long strides.
"Your grandmother called my personal line."
"She said if the casket was buried in the family mausoleum before you inspected it, she would have Marco burn my clinic to the ground."
"Smart woman," Alexander muttered.
They entered the sterile, brightly lit autopsy suite, where the air was cold enough to see their breath and heavy with the chemical sting of formaldehyde.
In the center of the room, sitting atop a stainless-steel examination table, rested the open bronze casket.
Inside, covered in a black velvet shroud, lay the charred remains recovered from the ravine.
Michael walked in behind them, his face turning green as the smell hit him, forcing him to lean against the tiled wall with a hand over his mouth.
Marco stood by the double doors, his hands resting on his tactical belt, his eyes scanning the security monitors mounted to the wall.
Alexander approached the casket, his expression tightening into an unreadable stone mask.
He pulled back the velvet shroud.
The body beneath was horrific.
The fire had consumed most of the soft tissue, reducing the torso and limbs to blackened, unrecognizable bone and carbonized muscle.
The skull was fractured across the cranial vault, teeth shattered by extreme thermal expansion and blunt impact.
Alexander stared at the remains of the man who had been buried under his name.
"Nathan," Alexander said, his voice flat.
"Tell me what you found when you ran the independent preliminary scan."
Dr. Cole pulled a clipboard from a counter, flipping through three pages of freshly printed radiological scans.
"The Kendall County coroner was either completely incompetent or paid an astronomical sum to overlook the basics," Cole said, his professional curiosity overtaking his fear.
"First, the height."
Cole pointed to the skeletal measurements on the scan.
"You are six feet two inches tall, Alexander."
"This man’s femur length indicates he was five feet nine inches at most."
"Second, the dental work."
Cole held up an X-ray of the shattered jaw.
"You had two titanium dental implants installed in Switzerland after a shooting four years ago."
"This victim has natural molars with silver amalgam fillings from twenty years ago."
"And third, the most important detail."
Cole tapped a high-density scan of the victim’s chest cavity.
"He didn't die from the fire, Alex."
"And he didn't die from the impact of the crash."
Alexander leaned closer. "How did he die?"
"There was no soot in his bronchial tubes," Cole explained grimly.
"He wasn't breathing when that vehicle went up in flames."
"And the hyoid bone in his neck was snapped clean in two."
"He was strangled to death with a wire garrote at least twenty-four hours before your SUV left the road on Sunday night."
Michael let out a choked sound, staggering away from the wall.
"He was murdered on Friday... just like Daniel said," Michael whispered.
"Who is he, Nathan?" Alexander asked.
Dr. Cole hesitated, sliding a thick manila folder from beneath his clipboard.
"When your grandmother called, she ordered me to run an expedited fingerprint reconstruction on the victim’s right index finger, which was partially shielded by the leather glove he was wearing."
"We got a seventy percent match from the state database twenty minutes ago."
Cole handed the file to Alexander.
Alexander opened the cover.
Staring up at him from a department badge photograph was a clean-shaven man in his late forties with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning hair.
The name beneath the photograph read:
LEO VANE. SENIOR FORENSIC AUDITOR. ILLINOIS DEPARTMENT OF REVENUE.
Alexander felt the pieces of the puzzle begin to violently lock into place.
"Leo Vane," Alexander whispered.
"You know him?" Michael asked, stepping forward with wide, terrified eyes.
"He wasn't state revenue, Michael," Alexander said, his voice turning deadly cold.
"Leo Vane was an independent forensic investigator hired by the Romano board six months ago."
"He was brought in to audit the international shipping manifests at Terminal 4."
"Two weeks ago, Victor Hale told me that Vane had abruptly resigned and moved his family to Florida due to health complications."
"He didn't move to Florida," Michael breathed, looking at the charred bones on the table.
"Victor strangled him," Alexander said.
"Victor killed him, packed him into an equipment case, and kept him in cold storage in the executive garage until he needed a corpse to take my place."
"Why?" Michael asked, clutching his hair with both hands. "Why would Victor murder a state auditor?"
Alexander turned toward Dr. Cole.
"Nathan, close the casket."
"Leave the body under armed guard."
"If anyone from the city, the state, or the federal government asks for these remains, tell them the coroner's office is under quarantine."
"Understood, Alex," Cole said, quickly pulling the velvet shroud back over the blackened bones.
Alexander turned to Marco.
"Where is Victor Hale right now?"
"He left Saint Jude’s after you departed for Joliet, Boss," Marco replied.
"Our surveillance team tracked his limousine to his private penthouse at the Montgomery Tower on Kingsbury Street."
"He hasn't left the building."
"His personal security guards from Blackstone River are stationed in the lobby and on the thirty-fourth floor."
Alexander pulled his Colt .45 from his coat, checking the chamber with a crisp metallic slide.
"Let's go have a drink with our chief financial officer."
Forty minutes later, the rain had turned into a torrential gale that whipped against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Victor Hale’s luxury penthouse.
The thirty-fourth floor was dead silent.
The two private tactical guards stationed outside Victor’s private elevator were currently unconscious in the service stairwell, their zip-tied wrists bound tightly behind their backs by Marco’s men.
Alexander walked through the double doors of the penthouse without knocking.
The apartment was an architectural masterpiece of cold marble, minimalist art, and dim, atmospheric lighting.
Classical piano music drifted softly from hidden ceiling speakers.
Victor Hale sat in a leather wingback chair beside a roaring gas fireplace, holding a crystal tumbler of single-malt scotch in his right hand.
He did not look surprised when Alexander walked into the room.
He simply took a slow sip of his whisky, lowered the glass to the side table, and looked up at the armed man standing before him.
"You made good time from Joliet, Alexander," Victor said calmly.
"Daniel Cross is dead," Alexander stated, walking across the polished hardwood floor until he stood three feet from the fireplace.
"I assumed he would be," Victor replied.
"Men like Daniel rarely survive their own cowardice."
Alexander dropped the metallic Terminal 4 security keycard onto the glass table between them.
It clattered against the surface with a loud, hollow crack.
"Leo Vane is dead, too, Victor."
"Only he died on Friday."
"With a garrote around his neck."
Victor’s eyes remained completely steady, not a single muscle in his jaw flinching beneath Alexander’s gaze.
"Leo Vane was an ambitious man who looked into ledgers that did not belong to him," Victor said smoothly.
"He discovered that forty-eight million dollars had been siphoned from the Romano shipping accounts over the last eighteen months."
"He was preparing an indictment that would have brought the Federal Bureau of Investigation directly into your living room."
"I solved the problem, Alexander."
"I did what your father would have done."
"You didn't do it to protect the family, Victor," Alexander said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on Marco’s arms stand up.
"You did it because you were the one who siphoned the forty-eight million dollars."
Victor smiled, a thin, patronizing smirk that revealed the utter lack of soul behind his eyes.
"You always were quick with numbers, Alexander."
"Just like your father."
"Carlo had a brilliant mind for balance sheets, but he lacked vision."
"He thought Chicago was the center of the world."
"He didn't realize that shipping containers are the new currency of global empires."
"Where did the money go, Victor?" Alexander asked, lifting the barrel of the Colt .45 until it was centered directly between Victor’s eyes.
Victor did not flinch from the steel barrel.
He slowly leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, looking up at Alexander with cold amusement.
"You think I took that money for myself?"
Victor chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
"Check the account authorizations, Alexander."
"Check the wire transfers to Acheron Holdings in the Cayman Islands."
"I didn't sign those transfer slips."
Victor reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and tossed it onto the glass table beside the keycard.
"Your brother signed them."
Alexander glanced down at the paper.
At the bottom of the wire transfer authorization for twenty-four million dollars, stamped with the Romano corporate seal, was Michael Romano’s signature.
"He signed every single one of them, Alexander," Victor whispered.
May you like
"Your beloved little brother sold your empire to our rivals while you were sleeping."
"And he signed your death warrant to pay off his debts."
