The Innocence Game (13 page)

“This was two days before the Wingate boy disappeared. You see we had a pair of Wrangler jeans, size thirty-two, with a hole in the left knee and a rip in the back pocket.”

I looked up at her and waited.

“I gave those jeans to James on May twenty-eighth. He wore them for a few days and gave them back. Didn’t fit. ‘Falling off me,’ he said. That’s when I logged them back in as inventory.”

“On the sixth?”

“Yes.”

“So what?”

“Those are the jeans the police claimed James was wearing on June eighth—the day he’s supposed to have killed that boy.”

“The jeans they pulled the victim’s blood off of?”

Grace nodded.

“How do you know they’re the same jeans?”

“I had stitched up the back pocket with red thread. James saw the jeans in court and said the stitching was exactly the same. Said they had a hole in the knee as well.”

“When did you talk to James?”

“They kept him at Twenty-sixth and Cal during his trial.”

“So you two were friends?”

“He had his demons, but James was a good man.”

“You have a picture of the jeans?”

“No.”

“You ever see them yourself? After James was arrested?”

“I didn’t go down to the trial. Couldn’t take it.” Grace took the log in her hands and flipped ahead a few more pages. “We did a store inventory on June fifteenth. The jeans were still here. Did another at the end of the month.” She turned the log around again so I could see. “The jeans were gone.”

“And you have no record of having given them out?”

Grace shook her head. “Check for yourself.”

“I believe you,” I said and began to flip back through the pages anyway. “So you think someone came in here, took the jeans, and then used them at his trial to frame Harrison.”

“A rip in one knee. Red stitching in the back pocket. How many jeans exactly like that?”

“If they’re going to frame him, why not just get any old pair of jeans? Why come here?”

Grace looked around at the empty corners of her office. “The ministry’s full of snitches. Sell their mother for a fix, a couple of bucks. Hell, they’d do it just for fun.”

“So the cops wouldn’t have a problem getting a pair of jeans out of your inventory if they wanted to? And if they knew they’d once belonged to James?”

“His DNA would be all over them, right?”

I shrugged. “It’s not James’s DNA that’s the problem. It’s the victim’s.”

Grace reached for her log. I held up a hand.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. But we need to look at the hard parts of this as well. Any idea what James might have actually been wearing when he was arrested?”

“I know exactly. Green surgical scrubs. Had them on three days straight. Told me they made him feel like a doctor.”

“I suppose James never saw the scrubs again after he was arrested?”

“Detectives claimed they arrested him wearing the jeans. James told me it fit with Atkinson’s statement.”

I made a few more notes and flipped the inventory log shut. “Did you ever go to the police with any of this?”

“Hell, yes. Police, prosecutor, alderman, newspapers. No one cared. No one believed me.”

“How did the DNA testing come about?”

“James insisted on it. Minute the trial was over, that’s all he talked about. ’Course he had no money.”

“Let me guess, you lent him some?”

“We raised a little bit, but I’m not sure where he got the rest.”

“Who was James’s attorney on appeal?”

“Best I could tell he was doing it himself. You know about his attorney at trial?”

“Seemed pretty useless.”

Grace rolled her eyes and snorted.

“Can I make a copy of this?” I said and put a hand on the log. Grace got up from behind the desk. “We have a copier in the back, if you want to wait. June and July of 1998?”

“May and August as well.”

Grace nodded and left. I wandered back to the front. The Latina was behind the counter, stacking cans of tomato sauce.

“What happened to your pigeon?” I said.

She looked at me, shrugged, and went back to her cans. A middle-aged woman came in with a basket. The girl helped her fill it with food. The woman thanked her and left.

“Are you waiting for Grace?” the girl said.

“Yes.”

“You can sit down if you want.” She pulled out one of the folding chairs, and I sat on it.

“My name’s Theresa.”

“Hi, Theresa.”

“Are you a student?”

“I’m a grad student at Northwestern,” I said.

“I’d love to go there.”

“Why don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. “Just got it done. What do you think?”

“It looks nice,” I said.

“I want to be on T
v
. A newscaster.”

“I’d say you got a shot.”

She hooded her eyes and frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I’m stupid.”

I was about to say,
Maybe you are
, but was just smart enough not to.

“You thought I was one of the junkies when you saw me outside. Like that guy I was with.”

I shook my head, even though she was exactly right. “I didn’t think anything.”

She turned away in another pout as Grace came back into the room.

“Theresa, they’re unloading some supplies in the alley,” Grace said. “Why don’t you go check them in.”

The girl left without giving either of us another look. Grace sighed and turned back to me.

“Here are your copies. I hope they help.”

“Thanks, Grace. Would you mind…”

She cut me off. “I’ve attached a business card. Anything else you need, give me a call.”

We shook hands and walked to the front door. She stopped me with a light touch on the arm.

“One more thing, Ian.” She took a look around to make sure we were alone. “This is Chicago we’re talking about. Cops, detectives, prosecutors. I know you’re a smart young man…”

“Are you suggesting I drop this?”

“I didn’t say that. Not at all. Just tread lightly.”

“I will.” I held up the pages she’d copied. “Could you answer one more question for me?”

“If I can.”

“This inventory log’s fourteen years old. You want to tell me why you kept it?”

“James was a friend. But if he’d killed that boy, I would have said he got what he deserved. He didn’t do it. And he didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”

“Thanks, Grace.”

“Good luck.” She opened the door and closed it behind me. I walked past the alley where they were unloading supplies. Theresa was there, directing traffic and flashing her dark, unreadable eyes. I kept walking, turning my thoughts to the jeans and Grace’s theory. Even if there was something to it, I didn’t see how we could prove anything. Not without the jeans themselves. It was like everything else we came across. A lot of speculation and precious little fact.

I crossed over Peterson. A half block from the grammar school I stopped. Jake and Sarah were sitting together on the front steps. He reached up and touched the side of her face. She pushed his hand away. Her laughter floated my way on a summer breeze. I walked through the small gate and across the playground. They both saw me at the same time.

“Joyce, how did you do?”

Havens was grinning and didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. I searched Sarah’s face and found a small bit of unease. She knew I’d seen something. I just had no idea what.

“I did all right,” I said. “How about you guys?”

Sarah patted the step beside her. “Sit down and we’ll tell you.”

I looked up at the school’s green metal doors and shook my head. “Let’s find someplace where we can spread out.” I showed them the Street Ministry log. “Got some new information we need to look at.”

We decided to head back to Northwestern and found a table at the Starbucks in Norris, universally known on campus as Norbucks. Havens went up to get some coffee. I took out the ministry log.

“What’s that?” Sarah said.

“I’ll tell you when Havens gets back.”

“We still on for tomorrow?”

“The Fourth? You bet.”

Havens returned with his coffee and took a seat. “Take their time up there.”

“That’s Norbucks,” Sarah said. “Line. No line. They move at their own speed.”

Havens took a sip and grimaced. “Awful.” He stirred in three packets of sugar and took another sip. “Better.”

“What did you find out at the school?” I said.

Havens put his coffee to one side and pulled his chair in close. “We talked to William Bryson. Skylar’s gym teacher. He told us Skylar was nothing special. Nice, quiet. Just another student.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“The police talked to Bryson,” Sarah said. She’d taken out a legal pad and was looking at some notes. “He gave them a statement. Told them he didn’t see Skylar outside of class that day. Didn’t speak with him. Never saw him with anyone suspicious in or near the school. Never saw anyone suspicious hanging around.” Sarah closed up her pad. “A whole lot of nothing.”

“Is there anyone else at the school who was there when Skylar was killed?” I said.

“According to Bryson, he’s the only one left,” Sarah said. “The school board ordered some cutbacks a few years ago and bought out a bunch of people.”

“I stuck my head in the furnace room,” Havens said.

“And?”

“They put in a new system three years ago. Reconfigured the entire space.”

“So the school’s a washout,” I said.

“I’m gonna go back in a day or two,” Havens said. “Maybe have another talk with Bryson.”

“Why?”

“I’m a detail guy. Sometimes people remember things after you give them a little time.” Havens nodded toward the ministry log. “Now tell us about this.”

I told them about the inventory. The jeans. And Grace. When I was finished, I sat back and waited.

“So Grace thinks the cops stole a pair of Harrison’s jeans from her inventory and planted the victim’s blood on them?” Sarah said.

“The jeans came in as evidence at trial,” I said, “but only as to blood type.”

“And Harrison paid for his own DNA testing on appeal, which would have confirmed his conviction if he’d lived?”

“That’s right. Came back a hundred percent belonging to Skylar.”

“Do you believe her?” Havens said.

“Grace? Yeah, I do. At least I believe she thinks she’s telling me the truth.”

“If she’s telling the truth, it might explain why they’d want to get rid of all the physical evidence,” Havens said.

Sarah nodded at my pile of notes. “You remember seeing anything in the evidence warehouse about what Harrison was wearing the night he was arrested?”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a report filed.”

“Of course there was a report filed,” Havens said. “And they would have changed it to show he was wearing jeans. We’re not going to find anything there.”

I was about to respond when my phone buzzed. It was Grace.

“Mr. Joyce?”

“Hi, Grace.” I glanced at Sarah, then Havens, who toasted the call with his cup of Norbucks.

“What’s up?” I said.

“There was one thing I forgot to mention.”

“Okay.”

“When James had his DNA testing done, I wrote down the name of the scientist. He was a very nice man and did the work for a fraction of what it cost anywhere else.”

“Did he think James was innocent?”

“He did. Until the test results came back. Anyway, I don’t know if he’s worth talking to. You probably already have his name.”

I motioned for a pen and paper. Sarah slid both across the table.

“Actually, I don’t have his name. Why don’t you give it to me?”

“It’s Sam Moncata. He used to work for the FBI. Now I guess he’s on his own. Very nice man.”

I nodded and scribbled. Grace gave me Moncata’s address and the last phone number she had. I thanked her and was about to hang up when I thought of something.

“Grace, have you kept in touch with Mr. Moncata?”

“I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, if we show up at this guy’s door out of the blue, asking about an old murder…”

“If it will help, you can tell him you talked to me. He’ll remember.”

“Thanks, Grace.”

“Good-bye, Ian.”

I hung up.

“What is it?” Havens said.

“Grace at the Street Ministry. She remembered the name of the guy who did the DNA testing for Harrison.”

“That’s the last guy we need to talk to,” Sarah said.

“Wrong,” Havens said. “First of all, our job is to find out the truth, right?”

“So now you think Harrison’s guilty?” Sarah said.

“I think we’re gonna need to find a hole in that DNA match sooner or later. If this guy made a mistake, maybe we can sniff it out. He also might have gotten a look at the jeans.”

I sat up in my chair. “You think he has them?”

“I doubt it. Still, he’s worth talking to. Besides, what else have we got? I say give him a call.”

I did. Moncata was on his way out the door. I told him we were students. That didn’t get him very excited. Then I mentioned the name James Harrison. And then Grace. Moncata said he could give us an hour. After the holiday. I hung up.

“He’ll see us on the fifth. In the afternoon.”

“Where is he?” Havens said.

“Downtown. Just off Michigan Avenue.”

Sarah shook her head. “I’ve got some stuff to do that day for Omega.”

“What’s Omega?” Havens said.

“It’s a crisis group for women. I volunteer there.”

I wasn’t sure why, but it pleased me to no end that Sarah hadn’t told Havens about her work at the shelter. Even better, she had told me.

“That’s cool,” I said. “We’ll meet with Moncata and fill you in later.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Havens zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “What are you guys doing for the Fourth?”

“Going to the parade,” Sarah said. There was an uncomfortable pause I was more than comfortable with. Sarah, unfortunately, was not. “You want to come?”

“Can’t,” Havens said. “Maybe later for a drink?”

Sarah smiled. I sulked the entire way home.

Over the years, he’d reduced the whole thing to an art form. Long walks, looping in and out of neighborhoods, identifying patterns, trolling for victims. Usually, he was hunting children. Ones who didn’t fit in. Ones who needed a friend. Today, however, was different. Today he was simply looking for a way in.