by J. D. Barker
Poole stood up and stretched his legs. He picked up one of the Polaroids and walked over to the whiteboard, held the picture up against the one they discovered in Libby McInley’s house. He had initially hoped they came from the same camera. A long shot, to be sure, but he needed a common thread, something to connect all the pieces.
The pictures had not come from the same camera.
Analysis indicated the photos of the children were taken with 780 Turbo Polaroid film, while the photo discovered at McInley’s house had been taken with PX 680 Color Shade FF. He also learned that Polaroid cameras were much like the barrel of a gun. Each camera left a unique pattern on the photos printed, a series of fine lines too small for the human eye to distinguish but enough to identify pictures taken with the same camera with the aid of a microscope. All of the photos Bishop provided in that box had been taken with one camera. Serial numbers embedded within the film traced back to manufacturing dates and told them that the pictures had been taken over a two-year period sometime in the late nineties.
Poole’s phone rang, and he shuffled back to his desk.
Diener.
He pressed the Accept button.
“Frank? I’ve got something. You were right.”
“The IDs?”
“Yeah. Illinois Vital Records received a request for a replacement birth certificate about a year ago, April 10, 2014, through their online portal.”
“While McInley was still in prison.”
“Yeah. The request was submitted by Kalyn Selke—well, someone pretending to be Kalyn Selke. They supplied all the necessary information: name of the hospital at birth, city and state of birth, mother’s maiden name, father’s full name. They stated the reason for the replacement as ‘lost in fire.’ They even submitted a photo ID with Libby McInley’s picture. It was bogus, but nobody bothered to run it. The replacement went out on May 2, 2014. About a week later, on May 8, 2014, a passport application was received using the birth certificate and three utility bills—electric, phone, and cable—all for the same address, the same place the documents shipped to—a residence in Brighton Park. I’m heading over there now.”
Poole’s chest tightened. “Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.”
54
Clair
Day 3 • 1:31 p.m.
“How long is this going to take?”
Klozowski raised a hand and waved her off, his eyes fixed on his computer monitor. “I’m trying to find a good camera angle. Tell me when you spot something that—”
“That one!” Clair shouted out.
“Hell, Clair-bear, how about using your inside voice?” Nash said from over her shoulder.
Clair leaned in and touched the monitor. “That’s the back door of the fish store. What street is this?”
Kloz clicked on the information tab next to a graphic of a CCTV camera. “Corner of Sixteenth and Mortimer.”
“Can you get in any closer?”
“I’m at full zoom right now. What day do we need?”
“He said the tank was stolen about a week after Christmas,” Clair said. “He didn’t file a report until January fourth. Maybe start with December twenty-seventh to be sure?”
Kloz let out a breath. “That’s a big window.”
“Better to cast a big net.”
Nash leaned in on the other side. “I thought these things let you search by make and model?”
Kloz leaned back in his chair. “How about a little personal space? You smell like radishes.”
“I had a salad for lunch,” Nash said, stepping back. “I’m trying to make a conscious effort to eat healthier.”
“You had a McDonald’s salad for lunch, and it was swimming in ranch dressing. That’s one of the most fattening things on the McD’s menu.”
“Bullshit.”
“I shit you not.”
“Focus, gentlemen!” Clair said. “Can you search by vehicle type?”
Kloz shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“That’s not exactly an answer.”
“The cameras can’t identify make and model of a vehicle, but they do read and record all the license plates. I can cross-reference that information with DMV records and—”
“So as long as our unsub didn’t swap plates on the vehicle, you can search the plates captured by the cameras and isolate all 2011 Toyota Tundras passing through this intersection without the need for a time or day,” Clair interrupted. “Do it.”
Kloz began typing. “I work better with coffee.”
“You find something, and I’ll buy you Starbucks for a month.”
“That’s wonderfully generous of you, but it doesn’t solve my current situation.”
Clair rolled her eyes at Nash. “Go get him something to drink.”
Nash opened his mouth, prepared to argue, then thought better of it. He headed toward the small break room in the corner of the IT department.
Clair lowered her voice, leaned in closer. “Have you talked to Sam?”
Klozowski’s gaze remained fixed on his monitor. “We’re not supposed to contact him. I would never consider violating a direct order.”
“I’ve tried him three times. I keep getting voice mail.”
“Nash called too, a few hours ago. Same thing,” Kloz said quietly.
A list appeared on Klozowski’s screen. He selected a number of items and clicked Enter. “Look, the last thing I want to do is sound like the only grown-up in the room. Porter’s my friend too, but he fucked us. The feds swooped in and took over the 4MK case, I’m good with that. That’s how things happen in the real world. I washed my hands of it and moved on. You did. Nash did. Porter should have too.” He stopped typing, his shoulders slumped. “You did back off, right? You don’t have a secret crime-fighting lab somewhere?”
He started typing again before Clair could respond, then went on. “I like my job. I wish to succeed at my job, so I do what I’m told. Maybe that makes me a little weird, but I sleep like a baby, not a worry in my head. Oh, boy.”
“What?”
“Toyota Tundras are popular.”
“How many do you have?”
“Six hundred and twelve between December twenty-third and twenty-eighth.”
Nash returned, carefully balancing three Styrofoam cups. He set one down next to Kloz and handed another to Clair.
Clair looked down at the screen. “Can you sort the list by the number of times they appear? Libby McInley working at this fish shop for one day is not a coincidence. If she’s somehow working with our unsub and scouted the place out, that means our unsub didn’t have to, so passes by this camera were probably limited. Higher numbers might be regular traffic patterns, like the same people coming and going from work every day.”
Kloz adjusted some of the entries at the top of his screen, then hit Enter again. “Okay. Highest number of passes is fourteen. One hundred and six single passes, ninety-three doubles . . . I’m gonna sort from lowest to highest, then pull up static pictures.”
Clair watched as the list disappeared, replaced with a dozen images of trucks, all taken from the same angle. “We’re looking for someone towing a water tank.”
Their eyes drifted over the pictures. After a few seconds, Kloz clicked Next at the bottom of the screen. The images were replaced with a new set. They studied the photos, then he clicked Next again, and again after that. They were twelve screens in before they found it. “There you are,” Kloz said.
“Definitely the same truck we saw on the Jackson Park camera,” Nash said.
“We need to run the plate and pull a name and address,” Clair said. “Can you zoom in on the driver?”
“Yep.” Kloz slid a toggle with his mouse, and the image expanded to take up the entire monitor. He double-clicked on the windshield until the driver’s face came into view.
“Oh, balls,” Nash muttered.
“Is that . . . ?” Kloz leaned back in his chair, his mouth open. He rubbed at the back of his neck.
�
�That’s Bishop,” Clair said softly.
55
Porter
Day 3 • 1:35 p.m.
“My chiropractor is not going to be happy with me,” Sarah Werner groaned. She was lying on the desk in the observation room, the computer monitor and keyboard pushed to the side.
Guards had checked on them regularly about every thirty minutes, and Werner waved them off each time.
Porter slid back up in the chair. His everything hurt too.
He glanced at the clock hanging in the corner. “It’s been about three hours. What’s she doing in there?”
Sarah turned her head and looked back through the one-way window. “Still reading. We should have gotten lunch.”
Porter’s stomach grumbled in agreement. “I want to be here when she finishes. Best not to give her time to digest.”
“No words related to food, please.”
“Sorry.”
Porter raised his arms over his head and stretched. He fought back a yawn. “You don’t have to wait with me if you’ve got something else to do. I don’t want to hold you up.”
Sarah did yawn, covering her mouth. “I’ve got absolutely nothing else to do today.”
“No significant other in your life?”
Sarah laughed. “I’m a criminal defense attorney in one of the country’s most dangerous cities. I made the mistake of selecting an office with an apartment above it, which means my work literally comes home with me within just a few steps. Not that location matters, because I spend eighty hours or more a week with my head buried in case files regardless. If I’m not planted at my desk, I’m here or at the courthouse, sometimes the police station. Every decision I make sabotages any chance I may have at a life.” She rolled her head and smiled at him. “This is the closest thing I’ve had to a date in about four months.”
Porter felt his face flush. “Really? How am I doing?”
Sarah turned her gaze back to the ceiling and studied her fingernails. He noticed that they were not too long. If she wore polish, it was naturally toned. “You get points for originality, that’s for sure. Your choice of venue is a bit subpar, though better than some.”
“Maybe I could take you to dinner? Make it up to you?” The words slipped out before Porter realized he said them, and he wished he could take them back.
It was Sarah’s turn to blush. She nodded at his hand. “Maybe you should clear that with home, Romeo. I may be hard up, but I’m not ready to go there yet. I don’t even own a cat.”
Porter’s thumb slipped over the edge of his wedding ring. He looked down at the band. “My wife passed away last year. I probably shouldn’t wear it anymore, but my finger doesn’t feel right when I take it off.”
Sarah turned back to the ceiling. “Our date just officially turned awkward. I’m sorry.”
“I’m out of practice. In high school, I could turn a date south in under four minutes.”
“Oh, big man on campus, were you? I can’t imagine what you were like in high school.”
Porter had to think for a minute, the distant memories teasing at him, barely visible through a long tunnel. “Sometimes all that seems so long ago. Then at other times it feels like yesterday.”
“The type of memory designates the appeared distance in time.”
“What does that mean?”
Sarah let out a shallow sigh. “Oh, something I read in a psychology text as an undergrad. The brain perceives happy times as recent activities when recollecting them. Horrible memories, though, they are pushed way back, sometimes forgotten or blocked altogether. Some sort of defense mechanism, I suppose. Surround yourself with the good, put some distance between you and the bad, that sort of thing.”
“Maybe I should be the one lying down, Doctor.”
“Want to trade?”
“The chivalrous gentleman in me would never subject a lady to this chair. The damn thing is nearly barbaric.” Porter shifted his weight, the cold wood digging into his hind end. “If it was in the interrogation room, I’d get it—keep the suspect on their toes, but in here? Some poor guard probably spends a good chunk of his life in this chair.”
“This desk is sorely lacking a memory foam pad too. No bueno.” She turned back to him, resting her head on a hand. “What do you remember?”
“From high school?”
She nodded. “Did you spend a lot of time getting shoved inside lockers, or were you the one doing the shoving?”
Porter chuckled. “I’m sure someone would have locked me in if I fit. I was a bit chubby.”
“You?”
“Oh yeah. One fifty and five-two as a freshman.”
“That’s not too bad. You obviously grew out of it.”
“I was the number one target whenever we played dodgeball. Then, junior year, I shot up nearly a foot. Looked like someone grabbed my head and stretched me out. Felt like that too. I remember it hurt like hell, and I lost all coordination for a while there. My arms and legs seemed too long. I’d trip over myself walking down the hall. I was a mess.”
“I bet nobody screwed with you then, though. You were tall for high school.”
Porter shrugged. “They didn’t really mess with me before. I was a bit of a class clown. Someone tried to pick a fight, I’d crack a joke, all would be well.”
“Too bad you couldn’t hold on to that humor as an adult.” Sarah grinned, her eyes twinkling in the dim light.
“Thanks.”
She swung her legs off the desk and sat up on the edge, smoothing her gray skirt. “What’s your best memory of high school?”
Porter thought about that for a second, drew a blank, then sat back up straight in the chair. “Oh no, I shared something with you. Now it’s your turn. You’re a pretty girl. I bet school was a breeze for you.”
“Huh. I’m not sure what I should read into more. The fact that you called me pretty or called me a girl.”
“Hell, you clearly didn’t skip a single session of that psychology class, did you?”
“Not a one.”
“I’m sure at some point we all became men and women, but I’m not quite sure at what age that occurs. I still feel like a kid, think of myself as a boy,” Porter told her.
“I think it’s around the time we get a mortgage, a real job. When we stop being the responsibility of others and take on responsibilities of our own.”
“When we become fully visible,” Porter said quietly.
“What?”
“Just something in Bishop’s diary. He felt little children were invisible to the rest of the world and become less transparent with age. We’re fully visible as adults, then fade again as we get older until society no longer sees us anymore,” Porter explained.
“Huh. That’s a bit profound. I think I’ll keep it,” Sarah said.
“I prefer not to collect my psychological and spiritual guidance from psychopaths.”
“Yet you recalled the words verbatim.”
The bang at the glass caused her to jump off the desk with a yelp.
Porter stood up, his eyes fixed on the one-way window.
Jane Doe stood there, inches from the other side. The diary pinned against the window beneath her outstretched palm.
56
Poole
Day 3 • 1:35 p.m.
Special Agents Frank Poole and Stewart Diener sat in Poole’s Jeep Cherokee about half a block down a quiet residential street from 519 Forty-First Place.
Poole studied the property through the lenses of Zeiss 526000 binoculars, heavy but extremely effective.
The house was small, probably two bedrooms, maybe one bath. Single story. The light-green paint was faded and chipped. A chainlink fence surrounded the property. A FOR RENT sign hung sideways at the gate, held in place precariously by a single black twist-tie in the corner. The sidewalks, yard, and driveway were all buried under at least a foot of snow. Nobody had shoveled here in some time. There was no car in the driveway. Heavy drapes drawn over the windows prevented him from seei
ng inside.
“Both the birth certificate and passport were shipped here. Security footage at the DMV has Libby obtaining the driver’s license herself using the false docs three days after she was released from Stateville Correctional,” Diener told him.
“Looks abandoned. No footprints in the snow leading up to the house. Can’t see inside, curtains are drawn.” Poole lowered the binoculars. “Probably some kind of drop house. Whoever helped her get the documents used this place for the address, nothing more.”
Poole zipped up his jacket and wrapped a scarf around his neck. “I’m going to get a closer look.”
Diener eyed the falling snow. “When’s this shit supposed to let up?”
Poole didn’t much mind the snow. Sometimes the ugly of the world was better left under a blanket of white.
The Jeep door groaned as he swung it open. Poole slammed it behind him. Sometimes the driver’s side door didn’t close well in the cold. He heard Diener get out and round the car, his shoes crunching in the snow.
They followed the sidewalk until they stood across from the property, then crossed the street. Poole had yet to see another car. Traffic appeared limited to only residents. That would make this a bit of an odd choice for a mail drop. Most preferred high-traffic areas. People tended to notice strangers in quiet neighborhoods, and those utilizing mail drops did not like to be noticed.
Images of Libby McInley’s house flooded Poole’s mind, specifically images of what he’d found inside. A sour taste filled his mouth. He wished he could forget such things, but his mind was rather insistent on keeping them at the forefront.
There were two mailboxes, both on a post at the edge of the property’s sidewalk. The one on the left was meant for newspapers, had no door, and was empty. Poole opened the metal box beside it and extracted the few pieces of mail. “Publishers Clearing House addressed to Libby McInley and a veteran’s donation card addressed to Resident, both postmarked this week. Somebody’s watching this box,” Poole told Diener before putting them back inside.
Diener glanced around the street. “About half the driveways have been shoveled recently. Once we check the house, we should speak to the neighbors. Quiet street like this, we’re bound to find someone with eyes on this place.”