The Innocence Game (5 page)

I came up against the slick trunk of a tree and wound my head and shoulders around it. Through a tangle, I could see the river, alive in the night. Straight ahead, the trees marched out in a checkerboard pattern. To my right, a riot of vegetation grew in a twisted mass. I let my eyes defocus and reassemble the scene. The tangle separated into bushes and branches, humpbacked roots, and, at the very center, a large, flat boulder. On the boulder sat something. Something breathing.

A pair of yellow eyes stared intently up the slope. Toward the cave. The eyes blinked once and a soft moan issued. It was an aching that pricked the back of my neck. I slipped down to my belly and crawled forward. I’d covered maybe ten feet when there was a thrashing and rolling above me. A slide of rocks rumbled down the slope, followed by the hammer of feet. Yellow eyes rose up from his perch. His silhouette turned to look at me, as if he’d known I was there all along. Then he was gone. I scrambled to my feet. Havens was somewhere nearby, whispering my name. A roar in the darkness.

“Over here,” I said and fought my way out of the trees. Havens pulled me to the ground.

“There was something there,” I said. “Got spooked when you came down the hill.”

“Something? Human or animal?”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Forget about it,” Havens said. “We’ve got bigger problems. Definitely human problems. Come on.”

The man with the yellow eyes ran smoothly, silently, navigating a slalom course of limbs and roots, hunks of bushes, and chunks of trees. All twisted and curved in the night. Once he’d called in the body, he knew it was dangerous to come back. And knew he couldn’t resist. He loved to watch the police when they found one. Loved to watch them work. So he’d made his plans and marked out his escape. If anyone did manage to follow…He gripped the handle of the knife dangling from a cord around his neck. Well, he had a plan for that as well.

A half mile later, he stepped out of the tree line and into a residential cul-de-sac. His heart rate registered a blip past sixty. His walk was cat quiet. He made his way slowly down the block and thought about the encounter in the woods. He’d sensed something familiar. Something disturbing. He turned the corner at Devon Avenue. There was a Metra stop less than a mile away. As luck would have it, a train into the city was arriving just as he got there.

Jake Havens and I scrambled back up the slope and found Sarah, sitting a good distance from the entrance to the cave. From the top of the ridge, I could see the reason for Havens’s concern. A line of flashlights snaked out from the forest preserve’s main parking lot, twisting through the woods, heading straight for us. In the lot itself were four or five sets of flashing blue lights. Squad cars. I grabbed Sarah by the arm and motioned for Havens to follow. We kept low, skirting the edge of the slope for maybe fifty yards. I checked the lights again. They were closer now. I heard the pop and squelch of a police radio, then a muffled curse. Sarah gripped my hand. Havens seemed calm, perhaps a little curious to see what I had planned. The footing was firmer here, a hardpan of rock dropping away. We went down quietly and were quickly swallowed by the trees. I moved uphill, keeping Sarah’s hand in mine. I didn’t know if Havens was still with us, but he wasn’t making any noise, and that’s what mattered. We climbed for about a quarter mile until we picked up a trail. Then we broke into a light jog. Two hundred yards later, the trail ended in a small, sheltered space. From this vantage point we had a clear view of the woods. A loose necklace of lights hugged the river’s edge, moving steadily in our direction. They stopped occasionally, clustering together and then spreading out again.

“What do you think they’re looking for?” Havens said.

“What were we looking for?” Sarah said.

The flashlights winked as they ducked in and out of cover. For a few moments the lights disappeared altogether. Then they were back, closer now, growing larger in the night.

“They’re climbing,” I said. We scooted back into the tree line. The lights stopped and started, zigzagging up the slope we’d just navigated before huddling again. One light blinked out. Then another.

“They found the cave,” Havens said. A third and fourth light disappeared, leaving just one outside.

“Come on,” I said. “If we hustle, we can still get your car out of the auxiliary lot. Once they call in the body, everything’s gonna be shut down.”

“Shit,” Havens said.

I nodded. “Bet your ass. This way.”

We wound through the trees and back to Caldwell Avenue. Havens took off at a jog down the street. Sarah and I went to find her car. Havens kept his lights off as he tiptoed his Honda out of the parking lot. Sarah and I followed him down Devon. We’d gone less than a mile when three more squad cars and an ambulance roared up, sirens blaring, flashers scarring the night. We pulled over and watched them go past. Then we slipped out of Chicago and back into Evanston.

It was almost midnight by the time we hit downtown Evanston. Havens found a spot on Sherman Avenue near Emerson. Sarah pulled in behind him.

“I need to get your cell phone numbers,” she said as she climbed out of the car. We exchanged numbers, then stood on the corner. I felt the dead boy in the cave, staring at the three of us.

“I should get home,” I said, checking my watch.

“I’m not sure I can sleep,” Sarah said.

“Me, neither,” Havens said. “Nevin’s for a beer? Maybe a little postgame?”

“This isn’t a football game.” I was surprised at the tension in my voice and chalked it up to fatigue.

“Relax.”

“We found a body tonight, Havens. Do you understand that?”

“I know what we found.” Havens glanced anxiously up and down the empty block.

“I could use a beer,” Sarah said quietly.

I shook my head. “You guys go ahead. I’m just gonna walk home.”

“How about we give you a ride?” Sarah touched my sleeve and tried to catch my eyes.

“It’s not far.”

“How about we walk you?”

Somehow I found myself nodding my assent. And so the three of us started walking west along Emerson.

“Weird how we found that cave,” Havens said, turning to me.

“Luck, or bad luck, depending on how you look at it.”

“Someone was there before us,” Sarah said. “Maybe they called the police.”

“Maybe,” Havens said.

“Should we tell them we were there?” Sarah glanced anxiously at both of us.

“And let the cops know we were trampling around in their crime scene?” Havens snorted. “That would be the end of our careers at Medill. Real quick.”

“What if the cave is related to what we’re working on?” Sarah said.

“Seems unlikely,” I said. “I mean Wingate happened almost fifteen years ago.”

“Let the cops handle the cave,” Havens grumbled. “We’ve got our own murder to worry about.”

We were out of the downtown area now. There was a park on our left. A couple of kids played a lonely game of one-on-one on a basketball court lit up like a stage. Otherwise, everything was dark and the night had suddenly gone quiet. I lived in the house I grew up in, on a cramped side street called Astoria. The neighborhood was poor by Evanston standards, which was to say not abject poverty, just a dreary sense of never quite making the grade. Most of the homes were two-story frames, with a patch of crabgrass out front, a patio of poured cement in the back, and generations of beaten-down anger in between. I wasn’t ashamed of where I lived. I just didn’t want Jake Havens and Sarah Gold anywhere near it. We got to the top of Astoria and I stopped.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Which one is yours?” I could feel Havens’s eyes crawling down the block, opening doors to people’s lives and sniffing around inside.

“Down there,” I said and pointed vaguely.

“The green-and-white one?” Havens said.

“Yeah.”

There was an awkward pause before Sarah leaned in to give me a hug. “Put something on those scrapes.”

“Get some ice for your face. Tomorrow, Havens.”

“Keep a lid on what we saw in the cave, Joyce.”

“No kidding.”

Havens grunted, and the two of them walked away. They made a handsome couple as they left. Young and poised, heads held high, strides in perfect sync. I waited until they turned the corner, convinced Havens would sneak back down the street. When he didn’t, I walked toward my house.

The shades were drawn on the second floor. All the lights were out, save for a bloom of yellow in the living room. The front door was old and heavy. The key turned easily in the lock. Once inside, I kept my keys in one hand and walked down the long hallway of my youth. At the end was the door to the bedroom I’d shared with my brother. Beside it was a second door, with another lock. It led to the cellar.

I opened the second door and headed down. I could hear the chatter of rats in the walls as I creaked down the stairs. It was pitch-black, but my feet walked the space like it was my own coffin. I found the string and pulled. A single bulb cast pale light across the basement. I pushed at a mat of cobwebs that hung off a rafter. Black mildew and decay spotted the ceiling. There must have been a leak somewhere. There were leaks everywhere.

I sat on the stairs and looked around. Chains, heavy and tinted with rust, winked at me in the murk. Coils of rope lay at my feet. My eyes went where they always went. To a hole in the floor sealed up with a block of cement and the thick, wooden table, silent in the middle of the room. I could hear the worry of footsteps, skittering back and forth. More rats, only this time they were walled up inside my head.

I stood up and moved closer. Light played off the table’s surface. I touched a gouge in the wood. Memories ran like a pulse through my fingertips. I stayed with it for as long as I could. Then I backed off and sat down again. After a while I switched off the basement light and locked the door behind me as I left.

Dinner was frozen pizza and a cold beer in the kitchen. After that I went upstairs, stripped off my muddy clothes, and stood under the shower. The water was hot and felt good on my skin. It was past one by the time I got to bed. I’d TiVo’d a cooking show off the Food Network and turned it on. I didn’t really cook and didn’t like the show, but the host looked like my mom so I watched. Around three in the morning I went downstairs and walked into my backyard. I lay down on the grass, listened to the night, and smelled the dirt. I counted stars until the sky began to lighten in the east. Then I went back inside and got ready for the day.

The elevator clanked to a stop and the old man pushed the folding gate open. I stepped out first. Jake Havens followed close behind. We were on the third floor of the Cook County evidence warehouse. A layer of dust tickled my nose, and I could sense the massive height and depth of the room. The old man flicked on a flashlight and skewered us with it.

“You say you’re from Medill?”

I nodded. “We’re researching a murder.”

The old man held the light close to his chest so it lit up his jack-o’-lantern grin. “You ever been up here?”

I shook my head. He scratched out a laugh and shuffled off. Jake’s voice ran beside me like a dark current through a cold river. “Just act dumb. He’ll get bored and leave. Then we get what we came for.”

Somewhere in the darkness came a thump, followed by a low hum. Strands of light filtered down from the rafters, casting lopsided shadows on the rough brick. We were standing at the edge of a room that was maybe a football field long. Three double rows of green shelving stretched themselves the length of the room and all the way to the ceiling. The shelves were crammed with boxes of all sizes, dimensions, and colors. Some were labeled and taped up tight; others were cracked and ripped, their sides oozing contents. Stuffed between the boxes were more plastic bags, as well as individual items. In a single glance, we saw a meat slicer, a toilet seat, and a set of hammers. I picked up a black pot. It didn’t have an evidence tag on it or any other identifying feature.

“Why do you suppose this is here?” I said.

“It’s a murder weapon,” Havens said and held up a sheaf of papers he’d found on a nearby shelf. “On February eighth, 1978, Jessica Watson threw hot water over her husband and scalded him to death. Jessica claimed she was abused and had acted in self-defense.”

“What happened?”

Havens flipped forward a couple of pages. “At trial, the prosecution showed there were second- and third-degree burns over most of the husband’s upper body but none on his wrists.” He looked up and smiled. “Want to guess why?”

“No idea.”

“She tied him up with rope before dumping the water on him.”

“And the rope protected his wrists?”

Havens handed me the case summary. “Jessica got forty to life. Pretty light, if you ask me.”

I glanced through the report and back at the pot with newfound respect.

“Getting a good eyeful?” Our guide was back, the sour smell of sweat and cheap tobacco celebrating his arrival. He took the iron pot from me and put it back on the shelf. “Don’t be touching anything unless you’re wearing gloves. What year did you say?”

“Nineteen eighty-eight,” Havens said.

“This way.” He walked us halfway down the room. “First two digits of the case number tell you the year of the crime. Eighty-eight starts here. And make sure to use the gloves.” He pointed to a box of latex gloves stuffed up on one of the shelves. “Copy machine is by the elevator. Bring all your copies downstairs when you’re done, and I’ll sign you out.”

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.