The Innocence Game (10 page)

“Big picture? Jake gets a letter about Wingate. We go to the crime scene and the police find another body nearby.”

“You heard the detective. No plausible connection to Wingate.”

“Still,” Sarah said, “it happened. Fact. Then we go down to the warehouse, and all the evidence is gone. I mean, the box is there and a few scraps, but everything else is gone.”

“Evidence often disappears,” Z said. “Especially in older cases.”

“Our point is this,” Sarah said. “We think there’s something wrong here.” She paused. Havens and I nodded in agreement. “Someone doesn’t want us to look at this case. And we don’t understand why.”

Z creased her upper lip with her knuckle and sank into a frown. I thought she might have forgotten we were there when she suddenly spoke. “How did you guys feel about my bringing in Rodriguez today?”

“I thought it sucked.”

“Don’t pull any punches on my behalf, Mr. Havens.”

“How would you feel, if you were sitting in our seats?” Havens said.

“I’d probably feel like I got sandbagged.”

“Exactly.”

Z turned to me. “What do you think, Ian?”

“I think you struggled with the decision but thought Rodriguez was a homicide cop and it was better we talk here than downtown.” I paused. “But I gotta agree with Jake. From where we sit, it sucked.”

“Fair enough. The next question is this: Do you still trust me?”

“Do you trust us?” Sarah said.

Z tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I can’t say I’m thrilled with what you’ve been up to. But I’m impressed. And a little intrigued.”

“That’s not an answer,” Sarah said.

“I guess I’m going to have to think about it.”

“Right back at you,” Sarah said.

Z rocked lightly in her chair. I thought she might get up and leave. Suspend the seminar. Pull the next three students off her waiting list and start all over. I couldn’t half blame her.

“You honestly don’t think there’s something wrong here?” Havens said.

“I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve looked at, Mr. Havens, where I
knew
something was wrong. I knew it. But I couldn’t prove it. The facts just weren’t there. Sometimes they even pointed in an opposite direction. So I kept my mouth shut and watched the bad guys walk. Hardest part of the job, and a lesson you all need to learn. You heard Rodriguez. It’s not what someone
did
. It’s what you can
prove
.”

“We need a little more time with Wingate,” I said.

“You’ve had three days and nearly gotten arrested twice.”

“That’s not a problem,” I said.

“For you, maybe not. For the university, it’s a big problem.”

“You still haven’t told us what you think of the case,” Havens said.

“I told you it was intriguing. Which means nothing. Based on what I’ve actually seen, your investigation is at a dead end.”

“We still have a couple of leads to run down,” I said.

“And you don’t want to tell me about them?”

“We want you to trust us,” Sarah said.

Z’s fingers sounded like dead bolts as she drummed them on the desk. “Trust is a two-way street.”

“We understand,” Sarah said.

“I’m good with that,” Havens said.

I just nodded.

“Okay. One more week.” Z slipped on her glasses. “Right now, I need each of you to write up a memo on your trip to the forest preserve, as well as everything you remember about the evidence warehouse. Then I need a summary of where the investigation stands and what your next steps might be. Please give me as many specifics as you can spare.”

“I’ve got a question,” I said.

“Where would we be without it, Mr. Joyce?”

“The notes we generate in this class, could they wind up in the hands of your friend Rodriguez?”

“You mean voluntarily?”

“I mean at all.”

“If the university should get subpoenaed, I would hope we would fight it as protected material under the First Amendment.”

“You would hope?” Sarah said.

“No guarantees the school would fight. And certainly no guarantees we would win.”

“How about you?” Havens said. “Would you turn our stuff over to the cops?”

“Are there any surprises in there?”

“That’s not the answer we’re looking for,” Havens said.

Z sighed. “Provided you haven’t broken any laws, I would, of course, keep any work product confidential. If I find something that’s troubling, then we talk about it. Before anything goes anywhere. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” I said. My classmates agreed.

“Okay,” Z said. “Here’s how it’s going to work. If you get any leads, any hard evidence you think someone like Rodriguez might be interested in, you bring it to me. Immediately. Understood?”

We all nodded again. And, in doing so, promptly broke rule number one.

“Good. Get going on your memos.” Z dismissed us with a wave and reached into the bottom drawer of her desk for some aspirin. She slugged them down with a Coke.

I opened my laptop and created a new document titled
wingate investigation
. I snuck a look at my classmates. Sarah smiled back. Havens gave me a quick nod. We hadn’t told Z about the two old cases we’d connected to Wingate for a simple reason. Sixteen years ago, she’d been the lead reporter on one of them: an inside look as investigators worked the disappearance of Billy Scranton. Havens shared the
Tribune
stories with us just before we walked into Z’s class. It was good stuff. Good enough to win our professor her first Pulitzer.

Conflict of interest, indeed.

We walked out of Fisk at a little after eleven. The campus was ripe with summer. Lawns, thick and lush. Trees, dappled with touches of late-morning sun. Along the paths, flowers bloomed in rushes of color: pinks and blues, orange, lavender, and carpets of yellow. No one spoke as we walked. No one was anxious to break the spell. We passed through the university’s main gate and stopped at the corner of Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road. A lime-green VW rolled up to a red light. Z was behind the wheel. None of us said a word. The light changed, and she accelerated away.

“Nice color,” Havens said. “Think it works with her hair?”

“Shut up.” Sarah hit the button on the traffic signal. We waited for the light to change again and crossed the street.

“What did you think about Rodriguez?” I glanced across at my classmates.

“I thought we stuck up for ourselves pretty well,” Havens said.

“I thought it was scary,” Sarah said. “And I’m glad we didn’t leave anything inside that cave.”

“You think there’s any chance the boy in the cave is connected to Skylar Wingate?” I said.

“We already talked about this,” Havens said.

“Why did you ask Rodriguez about it?”

“Just to see if he agreed with us. And he did. Too much time between crimes. Unless we find evidence otherwise, end of story.” Havens rubbed his belly and grumbled. “How about some lunch?”

We found his car parked illegally, with an NU parking ticket stuck on its windshield. “Fuck them.” Havens threw the ticket in the gutter and popped the locks. “Get in.”

“My car’s up by Norris,” Sarah said.

Havens waved her into the backseat. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Sarah’s car was in a lot near the student center. She followed us back up Sheridan. I rode with Havens.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Your choice,” Havens said.

“Take a left on Central. About a mile up, there’s a place called Mustard’s Last Stand.”

“Any good?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Mustard’s Last Stand had been a Northwestern staple for forty years. A red-roofed shack jammed next to Ryan Field, it specialized in dogs and Polish, 100 percent Vienna beef, shoestring fries, steamed buns, and all the fixings. Not bad before a football game. Or any other time for that matter. I tried to eat there at least twice a week.

We ordered at the counter. Our grill man was a guy named Smitty. He was from Glasgow. How a Scotsman wound up in Mustard’s was an enduring mystery to everyone, especially Smitty. He’d worked there for five years. Mostly because he was too big to fire and no one could understand a thing he said anyway. Today, Smitty wore the standard uniform, a yellow Mustard’s Last Stand T-shirt and a red bandana around his otherwise bald dome. He was sweating profusely and swatted at a bug that had crawled onto the white wax paper he wrapped the dogs in.

“Ian, how are ye?”

“Good, Smitty. How you doing?”

“I’m a wee bit fucked at the moment. One of the fryers is down and the cunt of a repairman was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“That sucks.”

“I don’t need it, Ian. Last night, I go for a few pints. Celtic are playing Barcelona in a friendly. Messi gets three and my boys get pounded. Fucking Spanish bastards.”

“Next time, Smitty.”

“Aye.” He swatted at another small bug and flicked it away with the back of his hand. For the first time, he registered Sarah and smiled. “Ye brought some friends in.”

Sarah had no idea, I was certain, what the Scotsman had been babbling about. And was appropriately horrified, I was also certain, at the swatting of flies, et cetera. No matter. Smitty loved pretty women. And so the Glasgow accent got that much thicker.

“And what might your name be, lassie?”

“Sarah Gold.”

“Sarah Gold. Now isn’t that just lovely. Are ye a friend of Ian’s?”

“We go to Medill.”

“Medill. How come I’ve never seen ye around here?”

“I usually come at night. After I’ve had a few beers.”

“Aye, a good few pints never hurts.” Smitty gave her his best Glasgow chuckle. He took her hand in his and looked like he was ready to settle in for a nice long chat. Meanwhile, the dog line was snaking out the door.

“Smitty,” I said, “you got some people waiting.”

He waved me away. “Them doggies aren’t goin’ anywhere, Ian. I see the little fuckers every day, and not one has ever jumped up and run down Central Street.”

I pointed to myself and Jake. “We gotta get back to campus.”

“We do,” Sarah said.

The Scotsman reluctantly let go of her hand and straightened. Someone yelled about the hold up. Smitty was oblivious. “What can I get for ye?”

Jake and Sarah ordered the number one: a hot dog, fries, and a Coke. Jake got his with mustard. Sarah dragged hers through the garden. I spent the extra fifty cents and got a number two: a Polish, fries, and a Coke. Smitty piled on extra fries for Sarah. She promised she’d be back.

The outside tables were full, so we sat on a row of stools jammed up against a wall covered in Northwestern and Chicago sports memorabilia. I stared at a picture of the Wildcats’ 1949 Rose Bowl squad. Havens got an
SI
cover of Mike Adamle scoring a touchdown for the Bears. Sarah, a picture of Bobby Hull with all his hair and phony teeth.

“Good fries,” Havens said.

“Great fries.” Sarah took a bite of her dog and dripped mustard and relish down her fingers. “Hot dog’s good, too.”

“Smitty wants to throw you over his shoulder and take you back to wherever he’s from,” Havens said.

“Scotland,” I said. “Glasgow.”

“I think he’s cute,” Sarah said.

“They have a little dug-out basement,” I said. “You access it by lifting up a piece of the floor. Smitty likes to take his women down there. He lays out a blanket for them. Right between a sump pump and the rat traps.”

“Gross,” Sarah said. Havens chuckled. We all dove in to our food.

“What’s our next step with Harrison?” I said between bites of my Polish.

“Z gave us a week,” Sarah said. “From what I’ve seen, it’s just not enough time.”

“It might be enough,” Havens said.

“You know something we don’t?” I said.

“We’ve got a meeting Tuesday with the principal at Skylar Wingate’s school. She wasn’t working there when he disappeared, but she’s going to introduce us to at least one teacher who was.”

“A teacher who knew Skylar?” I said.

“This guy was his gym teacher,” Havens said. “Skylar’s last class on the day he disappeared. The cops were all over him as a suspect, but the guy came up clean.”

“And what’s he gonna tell us?” I said.

“I’m guessing we’ll find out Tuesday.” Havens had polished off his dog in three bites. Now he rolled up the wrapper and swished it into a barrel on the other side of the room.

“Nice shot,” Smitty said.

Havens waved him off and turned back to me. “You don’t like the school idea?”

“It’s not that,” I said.

“You got anything better, I’m listening.”

“There’s one other thing we should probably think about. I got it from the police reports we picked up in the evidence warehouse.”

“One of the things you ‘remembered’?” Havens said.

“Yeah. It was the address and phone number for the Street Ministry. And a couple of names.”

“What’s the Street Ministry?” Sarah said.

“It’s a homeless shelter and soup kitchen,” Havens said. “A couple of blocks from Skylar’s school. James Harrison was living there at the time he was arrested.”

“I was thinking I might check it out while you guys talk to the teacher,” I said. “Two birds with one rock.”

“One rock?” Havens said.

Sarah smiled. “Sounds good, Ian.”

Havens seemed a little hacked off, probably because he hadn’t thought of it. Or maybe because of the way Sarah called me Ian. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it was my daydream, so what the hell. In the end, Havens rolled with the plan.

“I’ll text you guys the address for the school. We’re supposed to be there at nine-thirty.” Havens turned to me. “Is it all right if I leave the files on the other two cases with you? My neighborhood’s had a lot of break-ins this summer, and I don’t want to lose the stuff.”

“Sure.”

The three of us walked out to his car and transferred Havens’s Bankers Boxes to Sarah’s trunk.

“I’ve got a couple more in my apartment,” Havens said.

“You home tomorrow afternoon?” I said.

“Should be.”

“Give me your address and I’ll swing by.”

Havens jotted down the address, then climbed into his car.

“Hold on,” I said and put a hand on the door. “We should talk about Z.”