Cold Love

by Conell, Zach

  “That could be it,” Rose muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?” Cillian asked. “Does John Tyler ring a bell for you?”

  “No, but William Henry Harrison does. Well, maybe…” Rose hesitated for a moment, but an encouraging look by Cillian persuaded her to resume her train of thought. “I mean, he was sworn in and died in 1841, so I was just thinking that if the first two numbers mark the beginning and end of his term, it could explain the repetition of 1841.”

  “I think you might be onto something there,” Cillian mused in a low voice. “In that case, 1845 to 1849 would mark the term of the president after John Tyler, which was…”

  “Polk?” Rose suggested.

  “Right you are,” Cillian said, looking at his phone screen. “It says here that James K. Polk served as president from March 4, 1845, to March 4, 1849, when Zachary Taylor took over. Nice one, Rose!”

  She answered his big smile with a modest nod of her head. “We do what we can.”

  “But why these two presidents?” Cillian began thinking out loud again. “And what does the last number, 739, refer to?”

  “I don’t know. Can you do a quick search of those two presidents, with and without the number 739?”

  “Sure.” Cillian opened a digital search engine on his phone and entered the information. “Nothing useful,” he said after trying different combinations. “When I search for the two presidents, I just get a bunch of articles listing all US presidents, and adding the number 739 doesn’t get me anything useful either… I don’t know, maybe we jumped to conclusions with this idea of presidential terms. Or maybe those twos meant more than we assumed and the numbers are all wrong now.”

  “Could be, of course, but…” Rose appeared lost in thought for a second. “I really think we got something here; perhaps we just need to try approaching it from a different perspective.”

  “Fair enough,” Cillian consented. “Let’s do a quick inventory. We have a key to an unknown lock, and we seem to have five numbers of unknown significance, four of which could possibly refer to two former US presidents.”

  “And given the fact that we have this key,” Rose took over, “it would make sense if these numbers conveyed some kind of information about what this key opens, or at least the location of the lock.”

  “Very good point. I hadn’t given that much thought yet. It would indeed make sense if the numbers indicate a place or location of some kind. But how would presidents indicate a location?” Cillian opened a map of Chicago on his phone and held the screen a little toward Rose so that she could see it as well. “Is Chicago home to some kind of memorial for former presidents that I don’t know about? That would be a little far-fetched,” he rambled on. “Or actually, it might be much more straightforward than that,” he suggested as he indicated a big street on the map named “Roosevelt Road.”

  “Of course,” Rose whispered in amazement. “Street names! Half the streets in Chicago are named after former presidents. That is brilliant.” For an instant she looked at him in gleeful admiration, but then she abruptly turned her head to concentrate on the map again. “Here is Harrison Street,” she said, as she pointed to an east-west street in the Loop—the local name for downtown Chicago. “And Polk Street is right below it, here.”

  “But they run parallel to each other, so how are we supposed to know where in the area in between those streets we should be looking?” Cillian traced the streets from east to west across the map. “Oh wait, here across the river, Polk Street turns to the north and intersects with Harrison Street, or rather, it goes underneath the Harrison Street Bridge.” He indicated the location west of the Chicago River.

  “That must be the place,” Rose confirmed. “Can you zoom in a little? I want to see what that building is just southwest of where the streets overlap.”

  “We got ourselves a winner here.” Cillian grinned as he turned the screen a little more toward Rose so she could better see the name of the building.

  “The United States Postal Service,” she read out loud.

  “My guess is we have a post-office box to open,” Cillian said as he held up the metal key to Rose. “PO box number 739, to be precise.”

  Chapter Eight

  About five minutes later, Cillian and Rose were walking out of the main entrance of the university library with all their belongings—including Cillian’s pistols—back in their right place. In addition, Cillian was carrying the copy of Nineteen Eighty-Four under his coat. Their new mutual friend, the unorthodox librarian, had been readily convinced to give Rose a library card and let her check out the book for a week. As they couldn’t be certain that their interpretation of the marks left by Erdmann in the book was accurate and complete, they wanted to keep the copy with them in case they needed it for additional clues or even an entirely new analysis.

  While walking across the university campus toward the subway station, both were experiencing strong yet mixed emotions. On the one hand, they were hyped up about their apparent breakthrough, but on the other hand they also felt a tad anxious to get to the post office as soon as possible to collect whatever reward for their sleuthing they might find there.

  As a way of distracting themselves, they had struck up a conversation about the appalling policies of Mayor Gullfay. Cillian was happy to learn that, like him, Rose fiercely opposed the mayor’s zero-tolerance policy and doubted that the City of Chicago Fair of the Future would bring the city anything other than the increased police surveillance announced by Gullfay the day before. Cillian expressed his agreement and was just asking Rose if she had heard about the alleged violent practices of the zero-tolerance unit when he heard a somewhat familiar voice calling his name.

  “Cillian Cantor, is that you?”

  When Cillian turned around, he saw a skinny middle-aged woman with a pretty but heavily made-up face and short black hair in a long beige overcoat walking up to him from across the little square he and Rose had just entered on their way to the station.

  “My god, it is you. What an awfully nice surprise to see you here,” the woman continued. She had a sharp, unpleasant voice and spoke in a posh British accent.

  “Dr. Leamington, the pleasure is all mine,” Cillian lied as he shook hands with the woman whom he now recognized as a former client. After running short of money about seven months ago, he had contacted her through a classified ads website where she had asked for the assistance of a passionate amateur sleuth in locating a lost family heirloom. Cillian had been offered the job only to learn that the lost “family heirloom” was in fact Genevieve Leamington’s drug addict son whom she wanted the unlicensed detective to locate for her. Cillian had taken the job anyway and managed to track down Luther Leamington in about a week, finding the prodigal son asleep in a pile of his own vomit in a decrepit squat in one of the “Special Needs Neighborhoods” at the southern end of the city. After dragging the junkie halfway across town to his mother’s house, Cillian had been richly rewarded by Dr. Leamington, who was overjoyed to be reunited with her darling child. Cillian had been more than happy to part ways with the unbearably pretentious client, especially because her royal fee had enabled him to focus on Amanda’s disappearance without taking any more cases for about two months.

  “You know, it’s so funny, I always hoped our paths would cross again, and look, here I run into you on my very own campus. How marvelous!” Dr. Leamington tattered on. “Oh, I actually don’t think I ever told you, Cillian, but I am the dean of the social science faculty here.” As she said this, she spread her arms wide in a theatrical gesture to indicate the vastness of her sphere of influence. “And who might this lovely lady be?” the academic diva asked as she turned to face Rose.

  “Rosalie McCormick,” she introduced herself. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Genevieve Leamington. Enchanté, as the French say,” the dean replied with a fake smile.

  “I know,” Rose replied. “My father mentioned you a couple of times.”

  “Interestin
g, and who might your father be?” Dr. Leamington wondered.

  “My father is… I mean, was Professor Erdmann,” Rose replied in an unsteady voice. Cillian tried to send her a sympathetic look, but Rose didn’t notice it as a result of Dr. Leamington’s demanding presence.

  “Oh, my poor girl,” she patronizingly addressed the twenty-five-year-old woman. “My dearest condolences. I am so terribly upset about his passing.” She dramatically pressed the palm of her hand on the side of her face as she said this, a gesture which to Cillian came across as rehearsed. “In addition to being a highly esteemed colleague—highly esteemed,” she emphasized, “he was also a very dear, intimate friend.” Cillian was disturbed by the way the dean raised her eyebrows at the word “intimate,” as if hinting at a romantic history between her and Rose’s father. It just then occurred to Cillian that he didn’t know anything about Rose’s mother or how she was doing. He therefore made up his mind to ask about this at the next appropriate occasion.

  “Thank you.” Rose sounded insincere. “I’m sorry, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Of course, dear. I’m sure you have a lot of arrangements to make, sadly. Could you just tell me when the funeral will be? I would very much like to attend,” Dr. Leamington asked eagerly.

  “Next Tuesday or Wednesday probably,” Rose projected. “But I haven’t finalized the arrangements yet. I will make sure to send you an invitation. I’ll get your office address from the university website.”

  “Oh, just take my card. Here,” the dean insisted as she handed Rose a business card with a photo on it of herself from the waist up in a purple sheath dress with a black feather boa around her neck. Calling her “pretentious” would be an understatement at this point, Cillian reflected cynically.

  “Sure, I’ll let you know. Goodbye.” Rose wrapped things up, offering her hand rather indifferently.

  “Thank you kindly, take care. And please know,” Dr. Leamington spoke softly as she held on to Rose’s hand, “that you can visit your father’s office anytime you want. Just let me know when, so I can open it for you. It will probably be vacant for a while. Your father is irreplaceable.”

  “Thank you. I’ll think about it.” Rose gave her a polite nod and turned away.

  “And Cillian, dear,” the dean addressed him as if he were a close friend, “I hope to see you again very soon. Perhaps on Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  “That would be lovely,” Cillian replied with a disingenuous smile, before trotting off to catch up with Rose, who was already walking ahead.

  “I’m sorry if it just seemed like I invited myself to your father’s funeral,” Cillian told her once he was sure the dean could no longer hear them. “I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” Rose replied amiably. “Of course you’re invited to the funeral. I didn’t tell you yet because I still have to make the final arrangements. And by the way, compared to that woman, you wouldn’t be too forward even if you tried. My gosh, what a snobbish old bat that is.”

  “I know. I’ve worked for her,” Cillian remarked gloomily.

  “Well, I pity you,” Rose mocked him.

  “No need. I already do plenty of that myself,” Cillian said with an ironic smirk.

  About an hour later, they entered the post office between Harrison Street and Polk Street. At the suggestion of Cillian, they had purposely traveled on the “L” to a station one stop away from the post office and walked the rest of the way to make it easier to determine if anyone was following them before reaching their destination. But they had not detected anyone on their tail, so after making sure that no one inside the post office was paying any attention to them either, they located PO. box 739 where Rose tried the key. To their relief it fit, and she smoothly opened the little door. Inside they found an envelope with the word “Rosalie” written on it.

  “Let’s go outside and find a quiet place to open it,” Cillian proposed. “Just to be on the safe side—there are cameras here.”

  “Sure,” Rose consented as she took the envelope out of the box and put it in the pocket of her coat. She was glowing with excitement.

  Chapter Nine

  Within ten minutes they found a relatively isolated, empty seating area not far from the Chicago River bank.

  “This is perfect,” Cillian said, looking at Rose, who nodded in agreement. They sat down next to each other on a small, snow-covered wooden bench overlooking the river. Rose took off her gloves. Her hands trembled as she fished the envelope out of her pocket and opened it. It contained a short letter, handwritten by her father and addressed to her, as well as a USB drive. She held the letter open in front of her so Cillian could see it as well. Her lip trembled as they both read it in silence.

  Dearest Rosalie,

  If you are reading this, it means that I am dead. It also means that we understood each other far better than you probably ever thought. I have missed you terribly over the last three years, and there are a thousand things I would like to tell you, but I have to be concise, for I am very short on time and I want to make sure that you can receive this message.

  The USB drive contains a large number of data files and one audio file on which I attempt to clarify the significance of the data. Please listen to my explanation and decide for yourself what you want to do with this. Please choose on the basis of your feelings, not your thoughts. There are no right or wrong choices in life, just choices that help you to feel better or worse.

  I am terribly sorry to leave you like this; I hope you can forgive me. Please be careful.

  Your loving father,

  Reinhart Erdmann

  There were tears in her eyes when Rose finished reading. Cillian wanted to say something, but she beat him to it.

  “All right,” she said in a repressed tone as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “Let’s check out that file.” She took her tablet computer out of her purse together with a pair of in-ear headphones, which she plugged into the device before handing Cillian one of the earbuds and putting the other one in her ear. Cillian followed her example. Then Rose took the pen drive from the envelope and inserted it in the tablet’s USB port. The contents were as mentioned in the letter, but once Rose had located the audio file, she hesitated to open it.

  “It’s over twenty minutes long,” she said as she inspected the file information, for no apparent reason other than to postpone playing the file.

  Cillian understood that she was a little reluctant to expose herself to the voice of her deceased father, as it would undoubtedly be a very moving if not heartbreaking experience. After a while, Rose took a deep breath and played the file. The first second contained only noise, but then a voice became audible. As Cillian had expected, Reinhart Erdmann spoke in a thick German accent, but he was nevertheless very easy to understand.

  Rosalie, my darling, I hope this finds you well. I have a whole lot to tell you and very little time, so excuse me for speaking a little like an auctioneer. I fear that what I am about to share will seem incredible and might be rather much to take in at once. It has actually taken me quite a while to prepare this… ‘lecture’ I would almost say from sheer force of habit, but I need to tell the full story in order for you to make sense of it. So please, bear with me to the end.

  About a year and a half ago, the dean of the social science faculty, Dr. Leamington, informed me that someone from the mayor’s office had asked her if anyone on her academic staff would be interested to write a report about the implementation of Mayor Gullfay’s zero-tolerance crime legislation in the ‘Special Needs Neighborhoods,’ as he has labeled them. The mayor’s office employee didn’t want Dr. Leamington to reveal his identity to the researcher and offered a substantial donation to the faculty funds, to be paid up front. I will refer to this person as ‘Mr. X’ from now on.

  Dr. Leamington brought the request to me because of my background in qualitative research comparing the effects of government efforts to reduce crime in impoveris
hed neighborhoods with the impact of citizen’s initiatives with the same aim. I decided to take the job, despite the peculiar conditions set by Mr. X, because it was an ideal opportunity to criticize Gullfay’s shortsighted populist policies on the basis of qualitative evidence.

  After Dr. Leamington had accepted the assignment on my behalf, the financial donation was paid promptly. In addition to that, Mr. X sent Dr. Leamington a file that supposedly contained dozens of anonymous testimonies by SNN residents taken by Mr. X and his staff, which he wanted me to use for my report. Naturally this aroused my suspicion, firstly because with reports like this it is customary for the researcher to collect his own data, and secondly because the testimonies completely contradicted my predictions, as they painted a rosy picture of the effectiveness of zero tolerance in reducing crime.

  As a scientist, my first aim was to attempt to verify Mr. X’s data, which was difficult because I didn’t have the names of the interviewees. Therefore, Dr. Leamington and I agreed that I would begin interviewing SNN residents myself, while trying to validate Mr. X’s testimonies by asking my interviewees to read and evaluate them. Naturally, Dr. Leamington did not disclose this to Mr. X.

  Over the next half year, I managed to interview over two hundred residents of Special Needs Neighborhoods about zero tolerance and got them to appraise Mr. X’s data. Everything was going well, and I was getting some very interesting yet upsetting results. In sharp contrast to Mr. X’s testimonies, virtually all the SNN residents I talked to described zero tolerance as not only counterproductive but unlawful because the police raids mainly targeted low-level criminals and many innocent civilians, and the zero-tolerance officers used ruthless tactics against residents, including extrajudicial killings! A handful of residents had managed to film some of the events they described to me, and the shocking footage I was shown of the police incursions clearly confirmed their stories. Unsurprisingly, when asked to evaluate Mr. X’s interviews, all of my interviewees rejected them as lies.