The Innocence Game

by Michael Harvey

  “What happened to your pigeon?” I said.

  She looked at me, shrugged, and went back to her cans. A middle-aged woman came in with a basket. The girl helped her fill it with food. The woman thanked her and left.

  “Are you waiting for Grace?” the girl said.

  “Yes.”

  “You can sit down if you want.” She pulled out one of the folding chairs, and I sat on it.

  “My name’s Theresa.”

  “Hi, Theresa.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “I’m a grad student at Northwestern,” I said.

  “I’d love to go there.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  She rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. “Just got it done. What do you think?”

  “It looks nice,” I said.

  “I want to be on TV. A newscaster.”

  “I’d say you got a shot.”

  She hooded her eyes and frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe I’m stupid.”

  I was about to say, Maybe you are, but was just smart enough not to.

  “You thought I was one of the junkies when you saw me outside. Like that guy I was with.”

  I shook my head, even though she was exactly right. “I didn’t think anything.”

  She turned away in another pout as Grace came back into the room.

  “Theresa, they’re unloading some supplies in the alley,” Grace said. “Why don’t you go check them in.”

  The girl left without giving either of us another look. Grace sighed and turned back to me.

  “Here are your copies. I hope they help.”

  “Thanks, Grace. Would you mind …”

  She cut me off. “I’ve attached a business card. Anything else you need, give me a call.”

  We shook hands and walked to the front door. She stopped me with a light touch on the arm.

  “One more thing, Ian.” She took a look around to make sure we were alone. “This is Chicago we’re talking about. Cops, detectives, prosecutors. I know you’re a smart young man …”

  “Are you suggesting I drop this?”

  “I didn’t say that. Not at all. Just tread lightly.”

  “I will.” I held up the pages she’d copied. “Could you answer one more question for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “This inventory log’s fourteen years old. You want to tell me why you kept it?”

  “James was a friend. But if he’d killed that boy, I would have said he got what he deserved. He didn’t do it. And he didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”

  “Thanks, Grace.”

  “Good luck.” She opened the door and closed it behind me. I walked past the alley where they were unloading supplies. Theresa was there, directing traffic and flashing her dark, unreadable eyes. I kept walking, turning my thoughts to the jeans and Grace’s theory. Even if there was something to it, I didn’t see how we could prove anything. Not without the jeans themselves. It was like everything else we came across. A lot of speculation and precious little fact.

  I crossed over Peterson. A half block from the grammar school I stopped. Jake and Sarah were sitting together on the front steps. He reached up and touched the side of her face. She pushed his hand away. Her laughter floated my way on a summer breeze. I walked through the small gate and across the playground. They both saw me at the same time.

  “Joyce, how did you do?”

  Havens was grinning and didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. I searched Sarah’s face and found a small bit of unease. She knew I’d seen something. I just had no idea what.

  “I did all right,” I said. “How about you guys?”

  Sarah patted the step beside her. “Sit down and we’ll tell you.”

  I looked up at the school’s green metal doors and shook my head. “Let’s find someplace where we can spread out.” I showed them the Street Ministry log. “Got some new information we need to look at.”

  We decided to head back to Northwestern and found a table at the Starbucks in Norris, universally known on campus as Norbucks. Havens went up to get some coffee. I took out the ministry log.

  “What’s that?” Sarah said.

  “I’ll tell you when Havens gets back.”

  “We still on for tomorrow?”

  “The Fourth? You bet.”

  Havens returned with his coffee and took a seat. “Take their time up there.”

  “That’s Norbucks,” Sarah said. “Line. No line. They move at their own speed.”

  Havens took a sip and grimaced. “Awful.” He stirred in three packets of sugar and took another sip. “Better.”

  “What did you find out at the school?” I said.

  Havens put his coffee to one side and pulled his chair in close. “We talked to William Bryson. Skylar’s gym teacher. He told us Skylar was nothing special. Nice, quiet. Just another student.”

  “Anything else?” I said.

  “The police talked to Bryson,” Sarah said. She’d taken out a legal pad and was looking at some notes. “He gave them a statement. Told them he didn’t see Skylar outside of class that day. Didn’t speak with him. Never saw him with anyone suspicious in or near the school. Never saw anyone suspicious hanging around.” Sarah closed up her pad. “A whole lot of nothing.”

  “Is there anyone else at the school who was there when Skylar was killed?” I said.

  “According to Bryson, he’s the only one left,” Sarah said. “The school board ordered some cutbacks a few years ago and bought out a bunch of people.”

  “I stuck my head in the furnace room,” Havens said.

  “And?”

  “They put in a new system three years ago. Reconfigured the entire space.”

  “So the school’s a washout,” I said.

  “I’m gonna go back in a day or two,” Havens said. “Maybe have another talk with Bryson.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a detail guy. Sometimes people remember things after you give them a little time.” Havens nodded toward the ministry log. “Now tell us about this.”

  I told them about the inventory. The jeans. And Grace. When I was finished, I sat back and waited.

  “So Grace thinks the cops stole a pair of Harrison’s jeans from her inventory and planted the victim’s blood on them?” Sarah said.

  “The jeans came in as evidence at trial,” I said, “but only as to blood type.”

  “And Harrison paid for his own DNA testing on appeal, which would have confirmed his conviction if he’d lived?”

  “That’s right. Came back a hundred percent belonging to Skylar.”

  “Do you believe her?” Havens said.

  “Grace? Yeah, I do. At least I believe she thinks she’s telling me the truth.”

  “If she’s telling the truth, it might explain why they’d want to get rid of all the physical evidence,” Havens said.

  Sarah nodded at my pile of notes. “You remember seeing anything in the evidence warehouse about what Harrison was wearing the night he was arrested?”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a report filed.”

  “Of course there was a report filed,” Havens said. “And they would have changed it to show he was wearing jeans. We’re not going to find anything there.”

  I was about to respond when my phone buzzed. It was Grace.

  “Mr. Joyce?”

  “Hi, Grace.” I glanced at Sarah, then Havens, who toasted the call with his cup of Norbucks.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “There was one thing I forgot to mention.”

  “Okay.”

  “When James had his DNA testing done, I wrote down the name of the scientist. He was a very nice man and did the work for a fraction of what it cost anywhere else.”

  “Did he think James was innocent?”

  “He did. Until the test results came back. Anyway, I don’t know if he’s worth talking to. You probabl
y already have his name.”

  I motioned for a pen and paper. Sarah slid both across the table.

  “Actually, I don’t have his name. Why don’t you give it to me?”

  “It’s Sam Moncata. He used to work for the FBI. Now I guess he’s on his own. Very nice man.”

  I nodded and scribbled. Grace gave me Moncata’s address and the last phone number she had. I thanked her and was about to hang up when I thought of something.

  “Grace, have you kept in touch with Mr. Moncata?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, if we show up at this guy’s door out of the blue, asking about an old murder …”

  “If it will help, you can tell him you talked to me. He’ll remember.”

  “Thanks, Grace.”

  “Good-bye, Ian.”

  I hung up.

  “What is it?” Havens said.

  “Grace at the Street Ministry. She remembered the name of the guy who did the DNA testing for Harrison.”

  “That’s the last guy we need to talk to,” Sarah said.

  “Wrong,” Havens said. “First of all, our job is to find out the truth, right?”

  “So now you think Harrison’s guilty?” Sarah said.

  “I think we’re gonna need to find a hole in that DNA match sooner or later. If this guy made a mistake, maybe we can sniff it out. He also might have gotten a look at the jeans.”

  I sat up in my chair. “You think he has them?”

  “I doubt it. Still, he’s worth talking to. Besides, what else have we got? I say give him a call.”

  I did. Moncata was on his way out the door. I told him we were students. That didn’t get him very excited. Then I mentioned the name James Harrison. And then Grace. Moncata said he could give us an hour. After the holiday. I hung up.

  “He’ll see us on the fifth. In the afternoon.”

  “Where is he?” Havens said.

  “Downtown. Just off Michigan Avenue.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I’ve got some stuff to do that day for Omega.”

  “What’s Omega?” Havens said.

  “It’s a crisis group for women. I volunteer there.”

  I wasn’t sure why, but it pleased me to no end that Sarah hadn’t told Havens about her work at the shelter. Even better, she had told me.

  “That’s cool,” I said. “We’ll meet with Moncata and fill you in later.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Havens zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “What are you guys doing for the Fourth?”

  “Going to the parade,” Sarah said. There was an uncomfortable pause I was more than comfortable with. Sarah, unfortunately, was not. “You want to come?”

  “Can’t,” Havens said. “Maybe later for a drink?”

  Sarah smiled. I sulked the entire way home.

  23

  Over the years, he’d reduced the whole thing to an art form. Long walks, looping in and out of neighborhoods, identifying patterns, trolling for victims. Usually, he was hunting children. Ones who didn’t fit in. Ones who needed a friend. Today, however, was different. Today he was simply looking for a way in.

  The green-and-white house appeared to be all its age in the morning light. On his third pass down the block, he saw the boy leave and noted three men in a black sedan at the corner. The men made their move fifteen minutes later. They forced the front door, stayed for almost an hour, and came out the way they went in. That was four hours ago. Now he approached the house and pushed at the door. It creaked open. His nostrils quivered. The smell of stale fear permeated the space. He wandered through the first floor, stopping here and there to touch something. They’d done a thorough job of searching the place. And hadn’t tried to hide it. He made his way down a hallway. The door to the basement was still locked. He forced it open and walked down the steps. The long, thick table was sleeping under a layer of dust. He wanted to take off his gloves and feel its surface, but couldn’t. Instead, he dropped to his hands and knees in a corner and felt along the floor for a seam. Then he took out a flat bar and began to work. Three minutes later, he’d pried up a foot-square block of cement. He plunged his hand into the dark hole, but it was empty. The man with the yellow eyes cursed. A single word that rang off the brick walls. A car pulled up outside with a squeak of springs. The man fitted the square of cement back into the floor and filled in the seams with dirt. Then he slipped into the backyard and worked his way around the block.

  The boy was just getting out of the car. There was a girl behind the wheel. The same one from the lake. The boy carried himself like a man, but he wasn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. The girl pulled away from the curb. She cruised past the man with yellow eyes, barely aware he was there. He committed her tag number to memory. Then he watched the boy walk up the path to his front door. By the time the boy turned around, the man was gone.

  24

  I stared at the open door for what seemed like a day and a half, then spun around and took a look behind me. Sarah was gone. The sidewalk was empty. I thought about calling the Evanston cops but decided to go inside instead. I got a baseball bat out of my front closet and walked into the living room. They hadn’t trashed the place. Just moved around enough things so I knew they’d been there. I checked the kitchen, then went upstairs. My mom’s bedroom was halfway down the hall. I hadn’t been in it since she’d passed. Now I pushed open the door. Her clothes still stood on hangers in the closet. A hairbrush, some pictures of me, and her jewelry were arranged on the dresser. The checkered band of a Chicago police hat lay in the middle of her bed. I picked up the band and sat with it, wondering how long they’d been here, what they’d touched. I walked back downstairs. The basement door stood ajar. In the cellar, I crouched over the sealed-up hole in the floor. There were fresh chisel marks on the smooth stone. I walked across the room and removed a piece of paneling up high on the wall. Behind it was a camera with a pinhole lens and a portable recorder. I took out the recorder’s memory chip and slipped it into my pocket. Then I went back upstairs and called a locksmith. After that I made a second call.

  Smitty met me in the dirt parking lot behind Mustard’s.

  “What are ye all about, Ian?”

  “Nothing, Smitty.”

  He shielded his eyes with his hand and blinked against the sun. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone kicked in your door, Ian. Why aren’t you calling the coppers?”

  “Be better if I don’t. Can I get my stuff?”

  Smitty gave me another hard look, then led me inside, to a small kitchen prep area. He grabbed a handle screwed into the planked flooring and pulled. A section of the floor swung up, revealing a short flight of stairs. We went down, Smitty first.

  “Watch your head,” he said and snapped on a light. The basement was maybe a hundred feet square, the ceiling, barely six feet high. Havens’s boxes were stacked along one wall, between cartons of frying oil and a reach-in cooler.

  “You want to take them out of here?” Smitty said.

  “Just a few things.”

  “Turn out the light when you’re done.”

  Smitty left, and I was alone with the ViCAP files. Everything seemed to be in order. I pulled out the bite-mark photos Havens had shown me, along with a handful of supporting documents. Then I turned out the light. Upstairs, I ordered a dog and fries. I sat at a table outside, ate my dinner, and watched the traffic breeze past. The band from the cop’s hat lay on the table in front of me. Along with the photos and the memory chip from my camera. It was the third of July. I was being watched. And I needed to figure out why.

  25

  A guard tugged open the gates to Calvary Cemetery and waved me in. I waved back and pulled into an empty parking lot. The Fourth had started out overcast, with gusts of rain blowing in off the lake. I locked my car and took a walk among the headstones. Calvary was the oldest existing Catholic cemetery in Chicagolan
d, and I was in the oldest part of it. To my left a statue of an angel looked down, arms spread, face rubbed smooth by the passage of time. Beneath the angel, I found the grave of Kevin Barry Byrne, dead in 1866. Next to Kevin was a large stone with a single line chiseled on it.

  1804–1860 LOST ON LADY ELGIN

  I’d done my homework from the last time I was here. The Lady Elgin was a side-wheel wooden steamship that was rammed by a schooner during a storm on Lake Michigan. More than three hundred people died, many of the bodies washing up on the rocks near Northwestern’s campus. People don’t think they can learn much in a cemetery, but there you go.

  I walked past the marker for Lady Elgin’s nameless victim and came face-to-face with a young boy. He was maybe three feet tall and hewn out of white marble. The boy stood in a small black box with a glass face. The hinges and handle on the box were made of metal and green with age. The boy was frowning at me, wondering what I was doing here with the dead. I tickled my fingers across the top of the box and walked on.

  My brother was where he always was. Under a tree, with a peek at Lake Michigan when it wasn’t cloudy. I took out a tight bunch of flowers and put them on his grave. Then I sat on the grass and stared at his headstone.

  MATTHEW JOYCE

  FEBRUARY 6, 1990–JULY 4, 2000

  I edged a finger into the cuttings on the stone and searched for the right feeling. But there were only the clouds and the smell of rain. The dirt and the grass. And my brother’s remains, moldering in a box below me. So I stopped trying. And the tears came. Hot and wet like always. When they stopped, it was just as quick. And just as mysterious. I wiped my face and wondered if it would always be like this. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle it. I handled it just fine, thank you.

  I stayed at the grave for almost an hour. I didn’t see another soul the entire time. Except for a coyote, looking for his breakfast. He was gray with a swatch of brown over his shoulders and down his back. I watched him until he started watching me. Then I turned away. When I looked back, he was gone.

  I was threading my way back to the parking lot when I heard a footfall. It was a woman, maybe thirty yards away, bundled up against the weather and walking away from me on a path to my left. Something seemed familiar. Was it the cut of her coat? Maybe a flash of color? I turned for a second look, but the woman had disappeared. In the parking lot, two cars had joined mine. One was a beat-up red Toyota. The other, Z’s lime-green VW. I crept into the graveyard again, careful this time not to make a sound.