Ruth’s phone rang, and she sighed when she saw who it was.
“You’ve called like 100 times,” she said after she answered.
“Exaggeration. Plus, I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about me. I need an update.”
“This is so not legal, Lauren.”
“I don’t need to know anything about the case. I just need to know if Fin’s been seeing things. If you think she’s been seeing things or hearing things. Anything. I just need to rule out any other kids doing something like this.”
“Have you ever heard of patient-doctor confidentiality? I could lose my license.”
“There could be other people at risk. I need to know if she’s been seeing anything...unusual.”
“You are asking me to risk my job.”
“Trust me, Ruth. I won’t tell anyone we’ve talked.”
Ruth picked up the pen that was on top of her notepad. She proceeded to tap the top sheet of paper with the pen.
“Just tell me something. Something that’ll come out public anyway, something I could use.”
“She’s seeing things. She’s hearing things. I can’t rule out anything at this time, but hallucinations and a fixation with what so far seems to be a fictional boogeyman. I’m sure her lawyer will want to admit it to court for a possible insanity plea. Possible early onset of adolescent schizophrenia, but...”
“Okay, schizophrenia, what does that even mean?”
“I didn’t say she suffers from schizophrenia, Medina. I’m saying it’s possible. We’ll need to formally evaluate her...”
“Ruth, come on. It’s me, and what’s with the Medina crap?”
“You ran off and got married...and you use people, Lauren. That’s what you do. You use people to help you out with whatever case you’re working on, and you used me. Hell, you are using me right now.”
“I deserve that, and I didn’t ‘run off’ and get married. We had been broken up, for a long time.”
“Three months,” Ruth corrected. “Three months, and you probably did to him what you did to me, because I heard about the divorce. People get close to you, and you just leave them or push them away. Tell yourself whatever it is you need to so you can get through your day, but you’re a selfish and awful person sometimes.”
“I’m not doing this for me, Ruth, believe me.”
Ruth flung the pen across the room, because if there was anyone she could never say no to, it was Lauren. “If Fin does have adolescent schizophrenia, it would explain a lot. There’s a range of issues it can pose. Problems with thinking and behavior, disconnected emotions. They have an inability to function as a normal person would, often because they are wracked with delusions, hallucinations...”
“Seeing things? Hearing things?”
“Yes, both visual and auditory hallucinations are possible.”
“And Ramsen? Mo, I mean.” Lauren asked.
“He’s with the general population, in juvenile detention. I gather he went along with it, believing in all of it for her. There’s shared delusion I’m seeing here. It’s more common within a family, parents and children believing the same delusion, or siblings believing in the same delusions together. It does happen between those who are not related. It’s rare, but it happens. Chicago has a strange history of children killing children. The Leopold and Loeb killing is one that pops into my mind. I was obsessed with that case in grad school.”
“That was the 20s wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, 1924, they were both University of Chicago graduates. They plotted to commit the perfect crime because they thought they were invincible. They thought they were literally supermen. They believed they were so brilliant they could outsmart everyone. They kidnapped and killed fourteen-year-old Bobby Franks and were sure they would get away with it. But they were sloppy. For how confident they were, they completely botched the crime scene, and they were caught.”
“Bobby Franks,” Lauren said. “That’s the one gravesite I just can’t seem to find.”
“You always did like spending a lot of time at Rosehill Cemetery. By the way, I’m very sorry about your dad. I sent a card, but figured you were too busy—like always—to respond.”
“Thank you...I’ve gotta go, Ruth, but thank you. Really. This helps tremendously.”
“I miss you sometimes, and I did really love you once, Lauren. I hope you know.”
“I loved you, too,” Lauren said.
“Good luck, figuring this out, Detective.”
As soon as the call ended, before Ruth could place the phone on her desk, it rang. It was the attending psychiatrist.
“Dr. Margraff here...”
“It’s urgent. Fin said there’s something that she wants to confess to you, and we need you here now.”
CHAPTER 16
“I don’t think I can do this,” Lauren paced Liz’ office. She had called her ex-girlfriend, Ruth, and then sat in her car and read the pages Jordan had handed her. As soon as she was done, she walked right back into the writing center.
“I know I said I would mentor him, but he hates me, and this kid needs more help than I can offer. I can’t give him what he needs,” she said. Lauren would figure out another way to do this, but right now she could not give this much of herself. So much of her had already been taken.
Liz sat calmly at her desk and spoke only when Lauren stopped talking. “What did he ask you to do, exactly?”
“Read this,” she raised the sheets of paper in the air. “He’s reading this Friday at Hadiya’s funeral.”
“Our kids go to funerals sometimes. You should know that, Lauren. Death is as much a part of their lives as school is. Some of these kids don’t even have the option to be a kid. That’s taken away from them. The reality of their life out there,” she nodded towards the large window that looked outside onto the street. “I think you might know a little bit about that given what you do for a living. Do you realize that less than twenty percent of our children in Chicago Public Schools will go on to earn a bachelor’s degree? What happens to our other kids? Many of them find meaningful work, yes, but many of them are underemployed or unemployed. These kids come here, and that’s the first big step. They care. They are asking us, the adults, for help, and that’s what we are supposed to do—help. Sometimes help is as simple as listening. I want you here, I really do, but you need to want it too.”
Lauren rocked side to side on her feet, unsure of what else to say.
Liz pointed at an empty seat across from her. “Sit down, you officers make me all nervous when you’re always standing the way you do.”
Lauren gave a single dry laugh and sat down. It made her feel as though she had been called into the principal’s office, seated across from Liz who was sitting behind a large wooden desk. It clashed with the rest of the clean, open space of the center.
“It was my mother’s desk,” Liz said, noticing where Lauren’s eyes were drawn. “It’s big, and the wood is chipped and scratched in places, but it was my mother’s desk at the school she taught at for forty years. When she retired, she had the desk moved to her home. It sat in her basement until she died, and after she died, I brought it here. My mother couldn’t leave me much, but she left me this desk, and this desk reminds me of what I need to do each day.”
“And what is that?” Lauren asked.
“Show up. Be good to them. Make this a place they feel safe, full of people that want to help them. I have to save these kids,” she leaned forward and interlaced her fingers in front of her on the desk. “If I don’t save them, these streets are going to take them.”
Lauren believed Jordan had nothing to do with the graffiti, and for that, she wondered what was the point in coming back. Maybe he knew something else that could point her in the right direction. She had not thought this mentorship through. She could not get close to people.
Liz opened her hands. Lauren passed the sheets of paper. “What did he want you to do exactly? Edit this?
”
“Read it.”
“He just wanted you to read it?”
Lauren lowered her face into her hands. “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well, and this is...much more than I can handle right now.”
“Coffee?” Liz asked.
Lauren groaned “Yes, please,” from behind her hands.
“Give me a minute. The coffee machine is in the break room. I’ll be right back.”
Lauren lowered her hands and looked down at those sheets of paper on that scratched, worn hardwood desk. It was a desk children had leaned on over the years, and where a teacher had graded papers late into the night. She looked at those white sheets of paper with black writing with dread. This is why she did not get close to people. When she got close to people bad things happened. She did not want anything bad happening to Jordan. He had already suffered enough. Lovers, and now a former husband, were abandoned before they could see the complications, and before they could fall down a hole they could not crawl out of. She had no real family, at least she avoided all of her cousins or distant aunts and uncles. Lauren needed to keep people at a comfortable distance, to protect them. Children were capable of such wicked things, but Lauren wholeheartedly believed Jordan was not involved in this like Evie or Mo. Jordan, she believed he was just a little boy whose friend had died.
So, she had read without expectation.
I promised you I’d meet you at the park that day. I was on my way, but the bus broke down. It seems like every time I depend on something it breaks down. I didn’t call you because I figured you were with your cousins, and I just didn’t want you to be upset with me, for being late. I’m always late. I don’t mean to be.
There’s so much that I want to say, but I feel like I’m drowning without you. You were my best friend. You were my only friend.
When you got your college acceptance to Northwestern University to study writing, I didn’t tell you, but I cried. I’ve never been so happy for someone, and I was happy because you were going to get out. I wanted you to get out. I could see you, moving to New York or Los Angeles after college. You were going to write for TV, movies, magazines, games. You were going to live your dream, and I was so happy for you. I remember how excited you were for me when I got into UIC. I was sad I didn’t get into some fancy private school, but you were so proud of me for getting into the University of Illinois at Chicago. You were really happy for me. You were always happy for me. You were always there for me when no one else seemed to be.
I texted last night to tell you I missed you. I don’t know if your mom turned it off yet, but I just sat there with the phone in my hand, waiting for you to respond. Maybe, somehow, through the ether of time and space you could text out some letters and tell me you missed me too. I knew you couldn’t. Still, I hoped somehow you could see the text I sent you, you can read this letter, and you can know how much I miss you.
There’s this nursery rhyme—Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a big fall. I looked it up, and the first time it was recorded was in 1797. I like to think if I say it out loud I’m connected to everyone who has ever said it in time. Maybe you said it when you were a little girl in school. I’ll say it out loud right now and hope I’m somehow with you. Funny, I feel like I’m him, Humpty Dumpty, broken and shattered, and I really don’t know if I can ever pull back all of these pieces of myself together again and be whole without you.
I hate this. I hate that you’re gone. I hate that the city you loved so much did this to you. I hate that your happiness has been taken away from me, from all of us. I hurt for you.
Lauren took a deep breath and let the soft whistle of her exhale wake her from out of the tragedy of those words. She had been exposed to the hurt, at the location of crimes, and at funerals, but those were mostly the words of adults. This was a child dealing with trauma, and she did not know how to properly process childhood trauma, because all she did with her own childhood trauma was to tuck it away, pretend it never happened and pretend it was not still here, festering.
“Here you go,” Liz said handing her a mug of black coffee. Lauren took a sip and even though it was hot she could tell it had been brewed hours earlier. “I was thinking, maybe give it some time, or not. It’s totally up to you. We’d love for you to work with Jordan, but I get it. Mentoring does come with its responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is sometimes internalizing the hurt some of our kids carry.”
“It’s fine,” Lauren said, downing as much of the harsh liquid she could. She set the mug on that big wooden table with the scrapes and scratches. Leaving another mark.
“I’ll be here tomorrow morning,” she said.
“Are you sure? I know there’s been a lot going on for you, and I just want to make sure this is a positive experience for you—and more importantly for Jordan.”
Lauren folded up Jordan’s speech and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “Yes, it’s just overwhelming.” She thought of anything to say on the spot that might sound like the right thing to say. “I can handle it. He deserves someone.”
“I’m glad, Lauren. I’m delighted. Remember, he just asked you to read it. While I know that it sounds like a lot and in many ways, it is a lot, just remember that he just needs someone. He just needs someone to listen, or in this case, read what he has to say.”
“Right,” she nodded and promised she would be back again. As she stepped outside, she called Van and asked if anyone had heard about Evie’s condition. She was stable, he said, but her parents still did not want her to be interviewed. It was too soon. The surgeries had all been a success, but there had been many, and many more would come in the future.
“I need to know as soon as she can talk. It’s important,” she told him, but he questioned her when she said this. They did have their suspects in custody after all.
“Right, but what about motive?”
He laughed. “It’s Chicago, take your pick. There isn’t much to over analyze here.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to her as soon as her parents say we can. I’m the lead on this.” She hung up without saying anything else.
Outside, the sun was so bright she covered her eyes for a moment, allowing her vision to adjust. An old woman leaned against an empty storefront window that had long ago been a bakery. The glass of the storefront was covered in posters for concerts long ended. The woman’s eyes were clouded over with milky cataracts, and memories. As soon as the woman noticed Lauren watching her, she grinned an open-mouthed toothless grin. Lauren turned her head down, shoved her hands into her trench coat pockets and kept walking.
“It’s just an interview, Mom...”
Lauren looked up before she nearly collided with a girl who was on her phone.
The girl stopped, smiled and said “Sorry,” before ducking into Logan Theater. Lauren felt like she’d run head-first into a brick wall. The girl looked just like Marie, but as a teenager—large green eyes, long dreamlike curls that cradled her face and cascaded down her back. Lauren stopped, pretended she was searching for something in her messenger bag as she watched the girl enter the chaos of renovation and was greeted by a man who led her away for that interview. Lauren and her father had been following the reconstruction of the Logan Theater carefully, how the theater that was originally built in 1915 was purchased by a controversial real estate developer, who many claimed would make this theater the center of Logan Square’s gentrification. Lauren remembered visiting long ago, before they closed it, and it sat empty for nearly a decade. Even then, it had long ago lost its magnificence. The floors were sticky, the popcorn stale, and cigarette smoke lingered in the air and within the fabric of the frayed red velvet seats. Still, for just two dollars, this place had taken away all of her dad’s hurt. He could laugh with deep joy at old showings of Back to the Future, Once Bitten or Little Shop of Horrors. Or, on Halloween—those were the best—when they would catch a marathon of black and white screen legends Frankenstein, the Wolfman, or their f
avorite, Dracula. Lauren was happy the movie theater she’d so loved as a child was being given new life.
Lauren continued walking, passing Intelligentsia Coffee and waiving hello to the familiar barista, a nail salon, before coming to the empty and closed Uncharted Bookstore, where she stopped. Her car was just a few feet away, but she heard something. It was a musical note. Like, when a band first hits the stage and the first chord of a guitar vibrates, announcing to the audience that music is coming. It was so soft, so subtle, but it was close, behind her right ear. Lauren spun around. There was no one. Perhaps it came from a passing car, or from an apartment window. She turned, and her foot caught something. She tripped and found her balance before falling forward.
The object she’d tripped over was a man’s leg. She was sure she had not seen him moments before, but that was impossible from how settled in this space he was. His legs outstretched before him. The smell that emitted from him was rotten, sour and sickly sweet. He made no comment. He merely continued to sit there, eyes burning into Lauren.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, and with that he adjusted himself, pulling his legs away from the sidewalk and tucking them under himself. He sat on top of a collection of clothes and worn, soiled bedsheets. A dark green duffle bag against his back served as a pillow. A shaggy, brown dog slept beside him, not flinching once during this meeting.
He pointed to the empty storefront that once housed thousands of used books. “When you read all the books they are here,” he pointed to his temple. “You can’t unread what you’ve read. The words are seared on your brain. You might as well say them all aloud. Say the words. That’s all you have to do.”
He dug his hand in his torn coat pocket and produced a gold harmonica. It was the same type of harmonica Lauren had set inside Diana’s coffin at her funeral. Diana had treasured it so much Lauren thought she should take it with her. It was an 1847 L.E. Seydel—limited edition. Only 170 of them were made. German silver reed plates with stainless steel rivets. Each had its number 1-170 laser engraved to the left-hand side, and of course, they were gold coated.
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