When Lauren became an officer, she checked in the evidence archives for the book, but it was gone. All evidence related to Marie’s disappearance and death disappeared. Misplaced, Washington suggested. That book was lost among the thousands of cardboard boxes, plastic bags and evidence files locked away and forgotten in storage, yearning for their clues to be lifted and a killer to be found.
“You said that you’re looking for the earliest edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that we have?” Sara asked.
“Right, I actually have seen the book before. I’m not sure if you’ve acquired any older editions since I saw this last one, but it’s that one particular edition that I’m looking for.”
“When were you last here?”
Lauren thought back to when she was a high school freshman. “It must have been eleven, twelve years ago...”
“Oh...that is a while back, but you are right, I don’t think we’ve acquired anything new in that area for quite some time. I think what you are looking for is an 1823 copy of German Popular Stories that we have that was translated from Kinder-und Hausmärchen. It’s a first edition, second issue.”
Lauren wanted to shout, “That’s it!” but she restrained herself. “I feel like that has to be the one.”
“The problem is...” Sara began, and Lauren’s heart started to race. She needed to get ahold of that book now. “It’s actually on display in an exhibit that’s due to conclude next week. It’s a short exhibit. I can certainly reserve it for you for next week.”
Next week was too late. Someone else would be dead by then.
“Is there any way to access the book for a private viewing beforehand?”
Sara chuckled. “I don’t think so. The curator would be quite displeased if we move anything, considering there was a recent robbery attempt of another rare book after hours. If you provide us with a warrant we will certainly comply, but otherwise it will have to be until next week, unfortunately.”
Of course Lauren could not get a warrant. How was she supposed to explain any of this to Commander McCarthy? It was Monday afternoon. She could not wait another day. After seeing the graffiti in Humboldt Park, she had a feeling, a horrible, suffocating, sinking feeling that more young people were going to die this week in this city. There was no lawful reason she could present to the librarian for needing this book now. She could not say that this antique book in a rare collection was connected to a greater evil blanketing this city. That book had already destroyed so many lives and would never tire of destroying more.
“What’s wrong, Lauren? Did you forget to pay the piper?” Sara said on the other line.
But it no longer sounded like Sara.
Lauren pulled the phone away from her ear as the woman started growling. A long drawn out laugh pierced through the speaker.
Lauren flung the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a crash. The dent in the wall was apparent. The screen remained intact.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The sound was coming from the guest room mere feet away. Lauren stood up and removed her weapon. She listened as the floorboards moaned under her weight. The slow, repetitive knocking continued.
“Police! Stay where you are!” she shouted.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
It was a single, rhythmic weight. It was not a rat. A rat would scurry and claw across the floorboards as soon as it heard her voice. This sounded heavier.
Lauren pushed the door to the guest room that no one had ever slept it. It did not open into the never disturbed, plain room. Instead, she found herself staring at Diana’s music room, perfectly intact the way Lauren remembered it on the last day. The small piano. The cases of musical instruments Diana had shooed her away from so many times. The dozens of harmonicas that Diana had collected over the years were all opened and tossed beneath what was making that thumping sound.
The body of her sister hung from the ceiling fan in the middle of the room. A rope tied around her neck. Eyes bulging. Hair dripping wet. Her white Polo shirt and khaki skirt— the school uniform she drowned in. Soaked.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The ceiling fan’s blades beat as Marie swayed. Water rolled down her blue face. Large sheets of water fell from above, over her, and into the large pile of harmonicas gathered beneath her as if it was being poured over her head. All of Diana’s harmonicas were collected beneath Marie as if it were some grotesque variation of a bonfire.
Instead of fire, metal.
Marie’s body continued to sway, the fan blades struggling to turn, but unable to against the weight, so it just continued to click away.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Lauren fell back.
Marie’s arm shot up. Her eyes wider now, bulging and black. One finger pointed to Lauren as water rushed down Marie’s contorted and grotesque face.
Lauren aimed her weapon, closed her eyes and fired. She pulled the trigger over, and over, and over again. Unloading the weapon into all that she feared. When the gun emptied, and the room smelled of smoke, she opened her eyes and found herself looking at the empty guest room and a bullet-ridden wall.
There were no musical instruments. There was no piano. There were no harmonicas, and there was no Marie.
Just a plain bed, a nightstand, and a ravaged wall and the smell of gun smoke.
Lauren hoped she had finally exorcised the ghost of her sister from her mind, but she knew the specter of death was still there. It was that book. It had always been that book.
She should not have ignored it for so long, because now it had been opened.
Now she needed to find it and destroy the message within.
CHAPTER 5
“Everyone is bringing you food,” Washington said, standing beside Lauren, both of them staring off into the crowd. “Hell, your freezer will likely be full by the time everyone’s gone, and you won’t have to worry about what to eat for weeks.”
Lauren did not say anything. She just nodded and held the double whiskey she had poured herself. Each time she tried to take a sip it seemed as though someone stopped to tell her just how sorry they were.
The ice cubes melted. Lauren wondered now if this made her whiskey neat. Funny, that is how her dad drank his; no ice, no water, not chilled, just straight from the bottle—neat.
It was odd seeing so many people in her father’s home. For a moment she became overwhelmed with the thought of all those shoes in her house, walking up and down on her hardwood floors. She wondered if any of those shoes had walked across a murder scene, fragments of blood and brain matter embedded in their rubber soles, and now dragged through her house.
“I’m so sorry.” A woman she did not recognize pulled her into a tight embrace. “If you need anything please reach out to me and my husband.”
“Okay, I will,” Lauren said. She was not even going to pretend to know the woman’s name.
The woman gave her a somber, tight-lipped smile and walked out the open front door where many mourners were making their way.
“You have no idea who that was,” Washington laughed to himself, stirring his drink in a clear plastic cup. Rum and Coke.
“Not a clue, Washington. Not a damn clue.”
“The commander’s new wife.”
“His third?”
“Fourth.” He downed his drink.
The house was stuffed with the smells of the pork shoulder Officer Nieves had roasted the night before, a cheese and guava tart baked by the head of the Office of Emergency Management and Communications, and the dozens of other dishes that covered the living room table, kitchen table, buffet, kitchen counters, and end tables. Food covered every surface. Lauren had never seen so many people in her house.
“Whatever�
��s in the oven smells like apple pie,” she said softly. “Dad was obsessed with all things apple, apple tarts, apple turnovers, apple pie. I’ll miss apple picking with him in the fall,” she laughed to herself, years of memories of driving up to an apple orchard in Wisconsin to pick Honey Crisp, Pink Lady, Granny Smith, Jonagold, and more, all of those moments were packaged into a single thought of childhood joy.
“It’s okay to cry, you know,” Washington said.
Lauren gave him a side-eyed look “I don’t cry,” she said.
“That’s not good for you, holding everything in all the time.”
“If you cry, they can’t rest,” she took a sip of her drink. “There’s this story, ‘The Burial Shirt,’ of a mother who cried so much over her dead child he kept coming to her in visions, telling her he could not rest because his shirt was wet with her tears. I don’t know, I don’t believe in ghosts or anything, but I just don’t want to risk the possibility that he is somewhere else, and he can see me and if I’m suffering then he can’t rest. He deserves to rest after everything...”
“Where’d you hear that story from?” He faced her.
“My mother.”
He nodded silently and turned back shoulder to shoulder with her, watching those in the house talk amongst themselves, eating, or sitting in quiet contemplation.
It was as if all the city’s first responders came to mourn with her because they too had lost one of their own. Lauren tipped the whiskey back. The sting was missing. The water had taken that away.
“What are you going to do with the house?”
Lauren stared at her empty glass. “Keep it, I guess. We sold our condo. Bobby’s living in some apartment somewhere.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot to ask how that’s going. Wait,” Washington looked around. “Where did he go?”
“He left,” Lauren set her empty glass down on a side table. “He likes to do that.”
“Really? Didn’t you leave him?”
“It’s complicated.”
She did not want to talk about Bobby anymore, so she let the conversation drop. She scanned the room and found herself staring at the American flag set in the middle of the living room table in a triangle-shaped display case.
“Each fold symbolizes something,” Washington said. “There are thirteen folds. The first fold symbolizes life. I think that your father would have wanted for you to live your life as fully as you can. He was very proud of you.”
“Funny, he never said anything like that to me. Plus, it’s partly because of him that things have been so difficult.”
“You need to stop beating yourself up. The other officers don’t hate you because your dad was a detective. You’re new. It’s just a bit of hazing. It’ll die down soon.”
Both of them knew that it was more than just hazing. Lauren was hated. All of her colleagues thought she was too young, didn’t have enough experience, and only got where she was because of her dad. Chicago nepotism at its best. It also did not help that she had discharged her weapon more than once.
“Medina,” Commander McCarthy patted her on her shoulder. “Take as much time off as you need.”
She did not want to take any time. The thought of being away from work, alone and in this house made her worry. There was so much to do. Hadiya’s death had set off protests in the community, marches and vigils. Alderman Suarez hinted at police incompetence, steering blame away from him and his community. Someone had to know who fired that gun, yet no one was talking.
“Sir...” she caught him at the door. “I want to come back to work. Tomorrow. A lot is going on right now. The Humboldt Park shooting has people upset.”
“Van can take care of that.”
“It’s not that...”
“What then?” He cut her off.
“It’s odd. The graffiti at the crime scene.”
“There’s graffiti everywhere.”
“Yes,” she stood in front of the doorway, blocking his exit. “But I feel like I’ve seen this signature before.”
“Medina,” he lowered his voice. “You’re tired. You’ve been through a lot. You’re going to need some time. When my father died, some things needed to be done. His things needed to be taken care of. For that alone, take some time. The work will always be here.”
Commander McCarthy gave her another pat on the back, that awkward pat a coach gives you right before you go into a game both of you know you cannot win. He stepped through the doorway and was gone.
Before she could say anything to get his attention Washington stopped her.
“Look, he’s right you know. You don’t have to worry about proving yourself right now. You can give yourself some time to mourn. Then, when you’re ready, you can come back on board and deal with all of this.”
Lauren shook her head slowly, trying to put the pieces together, but she knew half the puzzle was missing. “There’s just something not right about this.”
“Hadiya’s shooting could have been the wrong place, wrong time. It happens. I don’t think she was the intended target either,” Washington said.
Washington’s wife Loretta appeared. She handed him his jacket.
“I made you a dish of breakfast sandwiches. They’re wrapped up and in the freezer. Just take one out and microwave it for two minutes. If you need some more or anything just call me. I’m home and can help, honestly,” she placed her hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “I don’t mind at all. Frank’s busy with school. Earle’s wrapping things up at work and I’m just at home dealing with this move.”
Loretta had retired last year and now was happily planning their move to Mexico. She was ready to leave this city and was hoping Washington would be prepared to leave it too. They’d fulfilled their parental duty. Their son Frank had made it to college, a freshman studying music at Northwestern University. Washington reminded them at work every chance he got how his wife was counting down the days to his own retirement, and now that day was almost here.
“How’s Frank doing?” Lauren asked.
Loretta smiled. “Really well. He will be performing this Friday in the school orchestra, ‘The Earle King’ by Schubert. It’s a piece he has been practicing for a very long time. It’s challenging. I’m very excited.”
“I’m excited too, for him.”
“I’m going to the restroom. Loretta said. “That should give you two enough time to finish talking about what you don’t want me to hear.”
When Loretta was out of earshot Lauren said, “My son, why do you hide your face in fear?”
“You’re talking crazy again, Medina.”
“It’s from the Earle King poem.”
“You know a lot of weird stuff,” he said.
“You don’t want to leave, admit it,” she said.
Washington drew in a deep breath. “There’s just so much I didn’t get to finish. So much I was never able to set straight.”
“I have to go back to work tomorrow. I can’t let this get cold. Talk to him for me.”
Washington had both hands on his hips and was doing that slow head-shaking-side-to-side-open-mouth-movement he did when he was so frustrated he did not know what to say.
“You need time off, Medina,” he finally blurted. “You need to take care of yourself.”
“I’m not going to let this go. I’m coming in to work later today. I can’t let this be forgotten.”
Loretta returned and was at Washington’s side. “Ready?”
When he did not move, she said “Well, I’ll leave you two. I’ll be in the car.” Loretta gave Lauren a hug and then whispered in her ear to be strong.
“You’ve got to talk to McCarthy for me. It’s Tuesday. Hell, let me finish off this week, and I’ll take a break afterward...”
“What’s so special about this week?” He asked.
“I need to just figure this one out.” She was working against a deadline she could not really share, but still, she could not imagine her life with
out working, without helping people, without putting the pieces back together. Worst of all, she could not imagine just sitting here and drowning in the thick grief that consumed this house. It had been brought in by everyone, dragged into this home on the soles of their shoes, and had been smeared across her living room, and dining room table, a pinch of sorrow added to each dish.
They had all smelled musty, from sitting in the church for over an hour. The sun came out as the casket was lowered into the ground at Rosehill Cemetery. The words of the priest had registered to her only as muffles. As the gravediggers stepped forward to fill the grave she stood there stunned with the realization that the last living member of her immediate family was gone.
Lauren had stood in front of her father’s plot, covered with fresh dirt and could not cry, but when she turned to the plot to the far left of him, away from Marie and Diana she collapsed, and it was Bobby who had cradled her in his arms. “I just miss her so much,” he kissed her forehead and held her until her body could produce no more tears.
When she could finally stand on her own, Bobby had asked her for the keys to her father’s house. He told her he would make sure the house would be ready for her guests. She told him the door was open. Perhaps he assumed she had been so distraught she had forgotten to lock the doors. That was not the case. She never locked her doors anymore. Unlocked doors meant she could run out of the house whenever the memories overcame her. She did not like sleeping in this house alone. Intranquil spirits lived here.
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