The Innocence Game Page 5

  We listened as the elevator thumped its way back to the ground floor. Then we were alone. Just us and the murders.

  “Why did you tell him 1988?” I said.

  “Because I didn’t want him to know what year we were actually after.”

  “A little paranoid?”

  “Come on.” Havens led me down one row and up the next, reeling through a decade of Chicago crime. Finally, we came to stacks of boxes with case numbers that began with “98” and “99.” We each took a row. Havens, of course, found it.

  “Here.” He pulled out a white evidence box numbered 98-2425. The label read: WINGATE HOMICIDE. The box itself was sealed up tight. Havens took out the knife he’d flashed in the woods the night before.

  “You came prepared,” I said.

  He cut the seal on the box without a word. Inside we found a handful of folders fat with documents.

  “I thought Sarah was going after the paper trail?” I said.

  “She’s gonna get whatever documents were filed with the court,” Havens said. “These must have been their working files.”

  I pulled out one of the folders. It contained various police reports filed at the time of the disappearance, along with a sketch of the neighborhood. Jake dug deeper in the box and came out with a clear plastic evidence bag tagged the date the body was found and bearing a scribble that was some cop’s initials. Inside the bag, a young boy looked at us out of a thin wooden frame. The glass in the frame was cracked; the boy’s smile splintered in a dozen different directions.

  “There was a lot more stuff here at one time,” I said.

  “No kidding.” Havens turned the box around so I could get a look at what was scrawled in marker on the side.

  WINGATE EVIDENCE

  1 OF 4

  “So we have some documents, a photo, and three missing boxes of evidence?” I said.

  “Looks like it.” Havens had found a small stepladder and started to climb.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Maybe the other boxes were misfiled,” he said, poking around on one of the upper shelves.

  “Or maybe the county destroyed them. How about the old man downstairs?”

  “How about him?” Havens stared down at me from atop the ladder. He was already covered in dust.

  “We could ask him to put a trace on the boxes,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m sure they have everything up here on computers.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  Havens came down off the ladder and wiped a grimy line of sweat off his forehead. “Seriously, would you trust that guy? There’s nothing up there that says WINGATE.”

  “So you think the shirt’s gone?” I said.

  “We don’t have it, that’s for damn sure.” Havens picked up the box we’d found and started walking back down the aisle.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  Havens answered without looking back. “To make some copies.”

  I unpacked the files and laid them out on a table. Police reports, witness statements, sketches of the crime scene, investigators’ notes.

  “Cops call this their murder book,” Havens said and began to make copies. I picked up an autopsy report and leafed through it. According to the coroner, Skylar Wingate had been stabbed three times, none fatal, and strangled with a long green cord before he was put in the water. The cord was still around his neck when the police found him.

  “Why dump a kid in the river and then pull him out and bury him?” I said.

  “I told you,” Havens said. “The killer’s got some fixation with water.”

  “Why?”

  “These guys sometimes have rituals. Things they like to do during each kill.”

  We talked about the body of a ten-year-old boy like so much chattel. In the worn corridors of the evidence warehouse, it seemed perfectly normal.

  “You think there’s any chance the body we found in the cave was done by the same guy who did Wingate?” I said.

  Havens shook his head. “Not likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like you said last night, Wingate was fourteen years ago.”

  “So you think we just stumbled onto the cave by coincidence?”

  “Didn’t say that. Remember, I’m the one who led you to the woods in the first place. By the way, did you notice there was nothing about the body in the papers today?”

  “Might have been too late for the morning edition.”

  “Nothing online either,” Havens said.

  “You think the cops are keeping it quiet?”

  “Either that or no one cares.”

  I leafed through the rest of the autopsy report. No obvious sexual trauma, although the coroner did note evidence of bruising, identified as possible bite marks, around the shoulders and neck. I put down the report and picked up a small square envelope. I could feel the stiff edges of the snapshots inside and pulled them out.

  “Crime scene?” Havens said.

  I shook my head and shuffled through the stack of photos.

  “What is it?”

  I looked up. The copier flashed and thumped, throwing angled shapes across Havens’s face. “Take a look for yourself.” I pushed one of the photos across. Skylar Wingate sat on a stripped-down cot. His hands lay in his lap, one folded over the other. His hair was wet and combed back from his forehead. His eyes searched the corners of the photograph, looking for a familiar face, someone who’d take him home.

  “Looks like the guy took pictures,” I said, “before he killed him.”

  I fed Havens another photo. We’d moved closer. The ten-year-old was belly down on the bed, hands and feet bound, head craned awkwardly toward the camera. The green cord was around his neck now and taut, one end trailing off the edge of the picture. The boy’s face was quiet, eyes still large with fear but resigned to whatever might come. The next three photos were all tight shots. My eyes glided over each. Features bulging, as the rope tightened. Lips parting. The silent hiss of the boy’s breath. I glanced at Havens. He seemed a mile across the table. I pushed the photos away.

  “You all right?” Havens said.

  I nodded.

  “Nasty prick.” Havens rearranged the shots in the probable sequence in which they were taken. “Must have rigged the noose up so Skylar hung in bits and pieces. That way he could snap off pictures as the kid strangled.”

  “Why would he do that?” I said.

  “Same reason he buried Wingate’s body instead of leaving it out on the riverbank. So he could revisit the crime scene. Revisit his trophy.”

  “Why leave them behind with the body?”

  “To show off, maybe. Make a statement to the cops. He probably took other pictures he kept with him.”

  I moved the photos around so I could see them better under the light. Then I put them back in their envelope. Havens was working the copier.

  “How long is this going to take?” I said, my voice suddenly rich with anxiety.

  “The copies? Half hour. Maybe less. You in a hurry?”

  “I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the county’s dusty tomb—away from hammers and ropes; autopsy reports weighing spleens, hearts, and livers; and the long, gray evidence boxes, stacked up around me like so many coffins.

  “I’ve got to head back to my apartment after we get done,” Havens said.

  “Okay.”

  “You think you can take this stuff in your car?” He pointed to the pile of copies he was making.

  “Why don’t you take it?”

  Havens stopped copying. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not crazy about being here.”

  “Really?” Havens looked around the warehouse like, Where else would anyone want to be.

  “I can take the stuff,” I said. “Let’s just hurry up.”

  It actually took us the better part of an hour to finish. As we walked into the sunshine, I shook off the malaise of the warehouse and th
ought about what we’d found. I still wasn’t sure about all the questions, but I had a funny feeling the answers might be buried somewhere in the documents we loaded into my car. Someone else, apparently, had the exact same feeling. Except they didn’t think it was funny at all.

  13

  I’d just come up on the intersection of Roosevelt and Canal when I saw the blue flashers in my rearview mirror. A voice came over the PA system.

  “Turn off onto Canal, sir.”

  I drove for a block and a half before pulling into an empty lot near the Pacific Garden Mission. An unmarked black sedan stuck to my bumper the whole way. A couple of bums were hanging around outside Pacific. Otherwise, we were alone. A middle-aged white guy in a shiny suit got out of the car. His partner, a little younger and black, stayed inside. The one who got out was all forearms and fists. He had thinning red hair, gray sideburns, and dark sunglasses. He gave me a quick look at a silver detective’s star and put it back in his pocket.

  “License and registration.”

  I handed over my license and dug my registration out of the glovie. He took both without a word and headed back to his car. I pulled out my phone and punched in a number. Sarah’s voice mail picked up on the first ring. I watched the cop car in the rearview mirror as I spoke.

  “Sarah, it’s Ian. Listen, I’m driving back from the evidence warehouse and just got pulled over on Canal Street, south of Roosevelt. It’s an unmarked car. I can’t read the tag number, and I have no idea why they stopped me.” The sedan door swung open, and the detective got out. “He’s coming back. I’ll call you when I can.”

  I cut the line and shoved the phone into my shirt pocket.

  “Step out of the car, Mr. Joyce.”

  I got out.

  “Give me the phone.”

  “Why?”

  He pulled it out of my pocket and checked the last number I’d dialed. Then he slipped the cell into his pocket and put a hand on the butt of his gun.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “No sir, I don’t.” My heart was fluttering inside my rib cage. My voice sounded strong.

  “You made a lane switch back on Roosevelt and failed to use your turn signal.”

  “Turn signal, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  I couldn’t help but look at the paperwork from the warehouse, sitting in the backseat of my car.

  “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” the detective said.

  “How about you just write me a ticket?”

  “Are you carrying any contraband in the vehicle?”

  “Contraband?”

  “Drugs, firearms, things of that nature?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you mind if we take a look?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “That right?”

  “Yes. And I’d like my cell phone back if that’s okay.”

  The detective smiled behind his sunglasses and dropped his voice as if someone in the empty lot might be listening. “Here’s how this works. You consent to the search of your car, or my partner calls in a canine unit. We cuff you and put you in a squad car until the dogs show up. Probably about an hour or two. Then we run the fucking dog around for five minutes and, surprise, surprise, he hits for the possible presence of contraband. Then we search your car anyway. Only it’s two hours from now, and we make it hurt. So, it’s your choice, smart guy.”

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the backseat of the sedan as the two Chicago detectives opened up the doors to my car, popped the hood, and began to take things apart.

  At the end of the day, they confiscated twenty-three dollars I had in my pocket and another eight in singles they found in the center console as “possible drug money.” They also took an empty gas can, a Cubs cooler with three warm beers in it, and all of the paperwork from the backseat. The white detective leaned on the hood of my car and wrote out a receipt for the confiscated property.

  “Can I get your names?” I said.

  “It will be on the receipt.”

  “Can I ask why you took all the files from my backseat? I’m a student at Northwestern, and they’re part of a class project. I don’t see how they could be considered contraband.”

  “It’s all explained here.” The detective ripped off the receipt and held it between his fingers. “You have thirty days to file a petition for the return of your items. If you don’t file a petition, the confiscated materials become the property of the government. If you do file, we’ll either return the items or you can pursue a civil suit to contest the forfeiture. Is that clear?”

  “No. Nothing’s clear.”

  “I’d suggest you head straight home, Mr. Joyce. And be more careful using your turn signal in the future.”

  The two detectives walked back to their car and drove off. I studied the receipt they’d given me. There was no explanation as to why they’d seized anything. Just a lot of checked boxes indicating they had. I stuffed the receipt into my pocket and climbed into my car. Five minutes later, I was on the highway. The white detective had given me back my phone. Sarah had left three messages. She sounded concerned. If nothing else, that made me feel better.

  14

  I’d just pulled up to my house when Sarah called again.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Just got home. Why?”

  “Jake and I drove down to Canal and Roosevelt looking for you.”

  My heart leaped a touch at the idea of Sarah Gold getting into her car and searching for me. The fact that Havens was her passenger? Not so thrilling, but I’d take what I could get.

  “Where are you now?” I said.

  “We stopped at the police station down here. They have no record of your being pulled over.”

  “Maybe it’s not in the system yet.”

  “The cop says it should be. What was the badge number of the officer?”

  “It was a plainclothes detective.” I pulled out the crumpled receipt and gave it a second look. “I can’t read his name or his number.”

  “Hold on a second, Jake wants to talk to you.”

  “Wait …” Too late. Havens came on the line.

  “Are you guys at the police station?” I said.

  “We just left.”

  “You gave them my name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they ask for yours?”

  There was a pause as Havens asked Sarah a question I couldn’t make out, then he came back on the line. “Neither of us gave a name. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you have no way of identifying these guys?” Havens said.

  “I didn’t get a look at their license plate, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Silence.

  “I’m guessing they pulled me over so they could grab the records.”

  “Seems hard to believe,” Havens said.

  “Come up with a better reason.”

  “That case has been sitting there for more than a decade. Anyone could have gone down and looked at it.”

  “Yeah, but maybe no one did. If I’m right, the old man at the warehouse made a call. Or maybe they were already waiting for us outside.” The more I reduced my theory to words, the better it sounded. “Are you and Sarah headed back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s get together tomorrow,” I said.

  “For what? We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  I checked my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Don’t be so sure about that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I clicked off, got out of the car, and walked up the path to my house. The lawyer had told me to sell the place. Bank the money. Buy a condo downtown. Or both. What do lawyers know? I went into the kitchen and sat at the table. I could hear her key in the door. A yell that she was home. My mom wasn’t much of a cook, so we’d go out and get McDonald’s. When I got older, high school age, she told me I should
go out with friends. But I didn’t care. I liked to eat with my mom. Then college came. Right on schedule, she got sick. I got up from the chair and opened a cabinet. There was a can of soup there and some crackers. I poured the soup into a pot and lit the stove with a match. It was an old stove. Lawyer probably wanted to get rid of that, too.

  I walked into the living room. The wooden floor creaked under my feet. I sat on the couch and reread the letter she’d left with the lawyer. Then I put it down and picked up a framed picture I kept on an end table. It was an old print ad for Tide that ran in the Trib. My mom was the star, a young girl pulling sheets off a clothesline. Her eyes were wrinkled, and the sun was on her face.

  “What are you staring at, Ian?”

  I fumbled the picture and heard the crack of glass as it hit the floor. My mom stood in front of me.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said and began to pick up the pieces of glass, jagged and smeared with blood. Then she got a bandage from the bathroom and wrapped my hand where I’d cut it. When she was finished, she looked up at me. Her mouth was stitched into a frightened smile, and I could see my reflection in the black of her eyes.

  “How are you?” she said.

  “I’m fine, Ma.”

  “You look thin.”

  “I started school this week. Graduate school at Medill.”

  “Is it fall yet?”

  “Summer quarter, Ma.”

  “That’s nice.” She sat down beside me. Memories flocked and swarmed around us. She crooked a finger and drew me closer. I moved as if on a string.

  “I should have protected you, Ian. Both of you.”

  The wind rattled a window somewhere in protest.

  “You did what you could.”

  “I should have done better.”

  Her voice was unraveling. I leaned in, trying to catch the words as they crumbled in my hands. And then I was outside her bedroom, in the hallway upstairs, my palm flat against the door. She stood on the other side, fingers tracing mine against the worn wood, listening to the rise and fall of my chest, counting each breath as her own.

  “Ma?” My voice was that of a boy, still drawing warm terror from his mother’s breast. The door creaked open and she stood there, in a black wind, one hand resting on a small, white coffin.