The Innocence Game (12 page)

“What are those?” I said.

“ViCAP pulled up eighteen more cases that might fit our pattern.”

Havens lined up the folders on his bed. Each file had a photo of a child clipped to its front.

“That’s a lot of kids,” I said.

“We’d have three times this amount if we asked for the ones whose bodies were never found.”

“And you’re telling me each of these is somehow connected to Skylar Wingate?”

“Didn’t say that. These cases fit our general search parameters only. ViCAP runs each case through several more filters before spitting out a final list. Chances are none of these wind up fitting our specific pattern. Then again, we’ll never know for sure.”

“Why’s that?”

“You want some coffee?”

“You gonna answer my question?”

“Let’s get some coffee.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in Havens’s kitchen. I couldn’t find any sign he ever used the place. No pots, pans, glasses, dishes. No food that I could see. Just a coffeemaker, a sack of beans, and a couple of mugs. We sat on stools under the pale light from an overhead fixture and finished off what was left of a pot of blended Sumatra.

“I went over to the law school this morning to do some follow-up on ViCAP,” Havens said. “My professor told me my requests got kicked back.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means someone’s squeezing the information pipeline dry. I can’t get additional data on any of the new cases. In fact, I couldn’t even get into the system.”

“How do you log on to ViCAP?”

A smirk flitted across his lips. “So you think so, too?”

“Think what?”

“We’ve hit another trip wire and the alarms are going off.”

“How did you log on?”

“It was a general log on from the law school. They can’t trace it back to me…or my professor.”

“But they still shut things down?”

“My prof thinks they could have tagged sensitive files in ViCAP and triggered a shutdown if anyone made a request. Sort of a fail-safe to cover their ass.”

“How much does your professor know about what we’re doing?”

“Hardly anything. I’m not saying he’s not interested, but I’ve kept him out of it.”

We sipped at our coffees. In my mind, I pictured a virtual game of chess, except our chessboard was a graveyard and our pawns were dead kids.

“I don’t think I can take all that stuff,” I said.

“All what stuff?”

“Everything you’ve got in your room. What did you call it?”

“The ugly brown room.”

“Right. Well, I can’t store everything you’ve got in there. Hell, I couldn’t fit it all in my car.”

Havens shook his head. “No need. The new cases are useless without access to ViCAP. Everything else is mostly copies. I just have two more boxes I want you to take.”

“Cool.”

“You want ’em now?”

“Sure.”

We walked back into the living room. I picked up the photo of Jake in the boat. It was the only scrap of personal life I could find in the entire apartment. “Nice fish,” I said.

Jake took the photo from me and looked at it as if he’d forgotten who was in it.

“That your brother?” I said.

He nodded. “Sarah tell you about him?”

“A little. I’m sorry, Jake.”

“It’s all right. His name was Charley.” Jake put the photo back on the table. “She tell you I was adopted?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Nice people. Love ’em a lot.”

“But?”

“But nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s just not the same.”

I nodded toward the picture. “I never did stuff like that. And I had a real mom growing up.”

“What’s your point?”

“Just that.”

“Just what?”

“Everyone’s different. And everyone’s got stuff they drag around.”

“I’ll write that down first chance I get.” Havens jerked his head toward the hallway. “You want those boxes or not?”

He led me to a small utility closet. There were two more Bankers Boxes inside, sealed up and ready to roll. I saw a knife and duct tape on the floor beside them. We each took a box and walked down to my car, where we packed them away in the trunk.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

“Wingate’s grammar school. Nine-thirty. And don’t be late.”

I stuck out my hand. We shook, my grip disappearing into his.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Havens said, his voice drifting off into a soft mumble.

“Don’t be.”

“Bullshit. That was an asshole thing to say. I love my family. And I’m lucky to have them.”

“Yeah, you probably are.”

“See you tomorrow, Joyce.”

“Sure.” I climbed into my car and started down the block. In my rearview mirror, Havens stood in the street, hands on his hips, and watched me go.

Skylar Wingate’s grammar school was on the Northwest Side of the city. It was housed in a redbrick building and flanked on one side by a cement playground. Sarah and I got there at nine-fifteen. Havens was sitting on the front steps, waiting for us.

“You guys see the papers this morning?” he said.

“I don’t read the newspaper,” Sarah said.

“Online?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t get a chance.”

“How about you, Joyce?”

“I scrolled through a few things.”

“Our pal Rodriguez was in the news.”

“Why?”

“Police finally issued a statement about the body they found in the cave. I thought the press would give it more play, but the kid was a runaway.”

“Which means no one gives a damn?” Sarah said.

“John Wayne Gacy killed thirty-three kids,” Havens said. “To this day a bunch of them have never been ID’d.”

“So?” Sarah said.

“So, do you give a damn?”

“I didn’t know…”

“Exactly. You didn’t know.” Havens dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. Sarah looked like she might take a swing at him.

“Maybe we should focus on today,” I said and pointed to the school’s run of flat glass windows, curtains drawn down tight. “Where are all the kids?”

“Summer vacation,” Havens said. “Place will be a ghost town until fall.”

“And where was Skylar last seen?”

Havens pointed to the far end of the playground. “He walked out of that gate down there.”

“That’s where I’m headed.”

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” Havens said. “Talk to this guy?”

I shook my head. “You two talk. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Havens stood up and headed toward the school’s front door. Sarah gave him a sour look as he went past, wiggled her fingers at me, and followed. I waited until they’d disappeared inside. Then I took out my smartphone and pulled up the news on Rodriguez’s presser. I scrolled through the stories but couldn’t find the name of the victim in the cave or any details on leads. I logged off and listened. In the hush of the school yard, I could hear their voices. The dry whispers of dead children scratching in the shadows.

I walked the length of the playground and stepped through the gate. The homes here were much like those in Evanston, set back from the street, with big yards, long driveways, and tall rows of hedges. Birds chirped at me from the trees. Kids yelled and played. I came up to the crosswalk at Peterson Avenue. Traffic streamed past in both directions. Skylar Wingate would have stopped here and made a choice. He could turn left and walk a couple of commercial blocks before circling back to his own. Or he could stick to the side streets and take the long way home. The police had theorized Skylar took the shortcut—one that took him within hailing distance of the Street Ministry.

I hit the button and waited for the walk signal. Then I crossed Peterson and turned left.

The ministry was housed in a white frame building, with an adult bookstore on one side and a liquor store on the other. It was still early in the morning, and the crowd outside was sparse. Just a boy and girl in their early twenties, tattooed and pierced, sitting with their backs against the building. The boy was the more ragged of the two. He saw me and put his hand out. I found three dollars in my pocket and gave them to him. That seemed to get the girl’s attention. She was Latina, dark hair streaked with gold, eyes trimmed in brown, and a full, generous mouth. It was a face that was hard around the edges, one that would grow old quickly.

I heard a noise and glanced at her hands, folded in her lap. She opened them. There was a small brown-and-white pigeon there. I stepped back, but it just stared at me.

“Yours?” I said.

The girl made a small gesture, and the bird flew off. “You looking for someone?” she said.

I nodded at the building and gave her a name. She shook her head. I gave her another. She stood and motioned for me to follow. The girl was smaller than I thought, with strong shoulders. She moved like an athlete.

Inside, there was a long counter with cubbyholes behind it filled with bags, boxes, and cans of food. The girl pointed to a row of folding chairs and disappeared through a doorway. I sat and waited. Five minutes later, a black woman came out. She was in her mid-sixties, thin, with fine features marred by a jagged scar that started at her lower lip and ended in the cleft of her chin. She gave me a firm, dry handshake and looked me straight in the eye.

“My name’s Grace Washington. I run the shelter.”

“Ian Joyce. I’m a grad student at Medill.”

Grace nodded as if that was entirely expected. “What can I do for you, Ian?”

“I’m working on a story. Actually, it’s something that happened quite a while ago.” My eyes drifted to the doorway behind her.

“Would you like to discuss this in my office?” Grace said.

“That would be great.”

We walked down a short hallway to a small room with a desk, chair, and filing cabinet. I sat. Grace closed the door and took her place behind the desk.

“How can I help you, Ian?”

I took out the notes I’d made on James Harrison and held them in my lap. “It’s about a murder, ma’am.”

Grace arched an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

“In 1998 one of your clients, a man named James Harrison, was convicted of killing a local boy. Skylar Wingate.”

“I knew James.”

“I know. Your name was in one of the police files.”

“I see.”

I shuffled my notes in my hands. “I’m in a seminar where we take a look at old cases.”

“Cases where you think the convicted man might be innocent?”

“Exactly.”

“And you want to take up James’s case?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You know James is long past caring whether he was innocent or guilty? They killed him in his cell.”

“I know, but if he was innocent, we think it should be looked at.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many convicted killers have you met, Ian?”

“None.”

“Uh-huh. You know about the DNA? The match to James’s pants?”

“We think it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I can’t tell you everything, Ms. Washington, but it just doesn’t.”

“Sounds like you think you know something the rest of us don’t.”

She sharpened her eyes a touch, but I kept my mouth shut.

“All right, Ian. What is it you want?”

“What did you talk to the police about?”

“Nothing. They came in, wanted to see where James slept, poked around for a while, and left.”

“Did they take anything with them?”

“This all happened years ago.”

“Are you telling me you don’t remember?”

“They took everything James owned, which wasn’t much.”

“Did they ask you any questions?”

“I don’t think they were very interested in asking questions.”

“Do you think James did it?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Did you think he did it at the time?”

“No.”

“What about the DNA?”

Grace got up from her chair, walked over to the filing cabinet, and came back with a thick folder. She opened it and gave a soft sigh of surprise.

“What is it?” I said.

“Nothing.” She took a photo out of the folder. “You ever see a picture of James?”

“Only his mug shot.”

She slid the picture across. It was taken on a sunny day, in front of the ministry. James Harrison was sitting on the curb, elbows on his knees, the butt of a cigarette caught between forefinger and thumb. He had skin the color of beaten copper, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes shot through with jaundice.

“How old was he?” I said.

“That was taken maybe a year before he was arrested. I’d say he was around thirty, thirty-two.”

“Looks awfully skinny.”

“When he wasn’t drunk, James was a junkie. Lived on the streets for eight years.” Grace slid the picture back into the folder. “He was a regular here. Nothing special. Just a sweet man. Quiet.”

“Not the kind to kidnap a kid off the street and kill him?”

“James was more likely to be killed himself. Just had that sort of luck. You asked about the DNA?”

“Yes.”

“The police claimed to have found that boy’s blood on a pair of James’s jeans.”

“And?”

“First of all, the witness who said he saw James with the boy. Wearing those jeans.”

“Robert Atkinson?”

“Right, Bobby Atkinson.” Grace shook her head at the name. “Junkie.”

“Like Harrison?”

“Hardly. Atkinson would say anything the police wanted him to say.”

“So you think he was lying?”

“Maybe not out-and-out lying, but Bobby wasn’t the most reliable guy. He’d give you half a story and let you fill in the rest. Then swear up and down that’s how it happened.”

“Where’s Atkinson now?”

“Dead.” Grace held up her folder. “And then there’s this.”

She slid the folder across the desk. Inside I found a stack of papers stapled together. At the top of the cover page was the Street Ministry’s name and
may—june—july 1998
printed in block letters.

“That’s the inventory log we keep for our clothing and food supplies,” Grace said. “We record what we take in here.” She opened the log and pointed to one set of numbers, then flipped to another page and showed me a second. “And what we give out here.”

I scanned the log. Each day had its own page. Grace directed me to the entries for June 6, 1998.