Butcher gave his statement to the police only three weeks ago, after reading about the case in the newspaper—meaning that by that point, the police had long ago arrested Sammy and fixed their focus on him as the murderer. Once the police decide they have their man, it’s game over for them. I knew that the prosecution would go to great lengths to discount Tommy Butcher’s testimony and, if possible, discredit him personally.

For starters, Butcher’s statement to the police came roughly a year after the murder, which would make someone wonder how he could be so sure about the precise date that he saw the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene. And undoubtedly, Butcher’s memory would be expected to be faulty, after he’d spent a night in a bar. But maybe something had stood out that made him remember the event particularly well. Maybe the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene had said I just killed Griffin Perlini as he sprinted by.

He’d asked to meet at a coffee shop near 87th and Pershing, which was near a job Butcher was working. Tommy Butcher was a principal at Butcher Construction Company, a family-owned construction firm that had offices in the city and in a large downstate town called Maryville, principally known as the home of Marymount Penitentiary. Butcher Construction had built the addition to the prison and did some other work in that area, but mostly the company did public construction jobs here in the city. Fair or not, you think of big city contracts, you think connections. You think corruption.

Butcher looked like a guy with a lifetime in the trade, a wide guy with half a head of hair; a rough, tan complexion; and a meaty hand that engulfed mine when he greeted me. He sized me up and didn’t seem too disappointed, though I couldn’t guess what criteria he was using. Having had some experience with contractors when Talia and I did some renovation work on our home, I generally put the integrity of construction types right up there with politicians and car salesmen.

“Doing the new park district building over at Deemer Park,” he told me, as we waited for coffee. “City’s throwing a shit-fit because we’re two weeks behind schedule.”

I thought he was trying to tell me that he didn’t have much time for me, so I got right to asking him what happened.

“I’m over at Downey’s,” he began. “Having a few drinks. I left about ten, maybe, something like that. I’m walking east, I guess—yeah, east on Liberty and I’m going by this building. It’s got a walk-up, a staircase, up to the front door. Looks like a real fleabag place, so it fits right in with the surroundings, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. So anyway, this black guy comes out of the door real fast, right? And he’s flying down those stairs. His jacket’s flying open kind of, while he’s running and all, and I see this guy has a gun stuffed in his pants. So me, I don’t want no part of this guy, right? So he goes running past me, and I’m not getting in this brother’s way, right? Guy flies right past me and that’s about it.”

I nodded. I was scribbling some notes.

“And so, yeah, I guess it sure seemed like this guy wasn’t running away because he’d done something good. But what am I gonna do? I didn’t do nothing. What am I gonna do, call the cops and say I saw a guy running?”

“Nothing for you to report,” I agreed.

The coffee arrived, and he filled it with cream. “Nothing to report. Right? Am I wrong?”

I’d already answered that question. There’s no crime in running out of a building, and Butcher hadn’t known that someone had been shot.

“So then, okay, I’m reading about this guy who’s been shot at this building, and I’m thinking back, and then I check my calendar and yeah, I was pretty sure that was the night I was at Downey’s, and I call my brother Jake and we think about it and then we’re sure. It was that Thursday, September 21. And I’m thinking, holy Christ, I gotta tell someone.”

It sounded plausible. It would be a lot better if I could come up with a black suspect, and even better if Butcher could ID that suspect. But I didn’t have anyone, not yet, at least.

“Can anyone confirm you were at Downey’s that night?” I asked. “You mentioned your brother.”

“Yeah, Jake, my brother. He could say.”

“Who else?”

He shook his head. “Just me and Jake.”

I asked him for brother Jake’s contact information. He gave me a cell phone number.

“You pay with a credit card?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. Why, someone’s gonna say I wasn’t there?” He didn’t seem happy about the prospect. I figured Tommy Butcher was used to being in charge and didn’t appreciate dissent.

“It won’t be me. I’m on your side.” I thought that last point was worth making. I wanted it to be us against them. I wanted to harden his resolve for the inevitable doubts that would be forthcoming.

“Do you remember what he was wearing, this black guy?” I asked.

“I remember the gun, mostly.” That stood to reason. Most witnesses, when they see a gun, don’t remember much else. They find themselves predominantly concerned with whether that weapon might be pointed at them in the immediate future.

“The man seen leaving Griffin Perlini’s apartment was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and a green stocking cap,” I said. It was simply a harmless, innocuous observation, not a blatant attempt to coach the witness.

He thought about that for a minute. “Coulda been,” he said. “Coulda been.” His fingers played on the table. Then he nodded at me. “Your guy got a chance to win this case?”

I shrugged.

“I mean,” Butcher continued, “paper said this douche bag got killed, this guy Perlini, right? They said he killed your guy’s sister. So I guess that gives your guy a pretty good reason to do what he did.”

“If he did it,” I answered.

He exhaled out of his nose, a wry smile, like I’d just made a joke. I thought he was suggesting to me that a jury wouldn’t convict a guy avenging his sister’s murder. He was thinking, perhaps, that I had a pretty good case. I needed him to understand otherwise. I needed him to understand his importance to my case.

“Problem is,” I said, “Perlini was never convicted of killing my client’s sister. They couldn’t make a case against him. He walked. So I can’t get up and say that to the jury. I can’t say Sammy was doing this for his sister, because there’s no proof of it.”

My explanation seemed to trouble Tommy Butcher, which was precisely my intention. “I mean, we all know Perlini killed her,” I said. “I just can’t prove it. Not yet, that is.”

Butcher repeated my words. “Not yet.”

“Not yet. I’m trying. But digging up an almost thirty-year-old case—and I’m not a cop, I don’t have an arsenal of investigators or anything. I’m trying, but it’s going to be hard. And I don’t have much time. So you’re the best I have, Tom.”

Butcher thought about that, his lips pursed. “You’re gonna try to solve an old case like that?”

It wasn’t typically my practice to share my strategy with a witness. But he seemed genuinely sympathetic to Sammy’s plight, and we were forming some kind of weird bond. I didn’t want to freeze him out and kill the soft, warm chemistry.

“I’m going to try, yes. Because it’s all I have, Tom. I mean, all you can say is there was this black guy, which is great, but you can’t even say what he was wearing. So what can I do? The best I can do is a one-man investigation into what happened way back when, and hope I can come up with something.” I shook my head. “Because if I can’t, I’ve got you against about ten witnesses.”

It wasn’t quite ten. I was laying it on a little thick. But I was also finding that, as much as I was snowing this guy, I was speaking the essential truth.

“Listen.” He knifed his hand down on the table. “Look. This is, like, privileged, right?”

Wrong. This guy had no privilege with me. But I wanted to hear what he had to say, so I didn’t rush to disabuse him.