Hermes went to go make another coffee drink for me, and then the bell above the coffee shop’s front door rang.
I looked over and saw a woman who had to be either Hermes’s cousin or seriously lost.
Her name was Emma Tadic. She was a compact woman with serious curves. Emma arrived in five-inch heels, large hoop earrings, and a black “business” suit. The suit consisted of a jacket and the tightest, shortest dress I’d ever seen. “You must be Mr. Justin Glass.” She walked over to me and held out her perfectly manicured hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” Her speech was clipped by her Eastern European accent.
We shook hands.
Hers were soft.
“You must be the cousin.”
She nodded. “Hermes told me you needed some help.” On first sight, it might’ve been easy to dismiss her as an airhead, some man’s mail-order trophy, but there was intelligence behind her eyes. Wheels were turning.
I nodded toward the street. “Probably saw the line.”
“I did. All want to be your clients?”
“Probably,” I said. “I figure their sons are missing, and they want me to find them. Never thought there’d be so many.” I shook my head, remembering that first conversation with Schmitty about it being common for kids from the Northside to just disappear. As an aside I said, “They probably can’t pay me anything.”
A sadness came through me, and sadness seemed to wash over Emma, too. She went someplace far away in her mind, perhaps remembering all the people in her country who were “lost” during the years of civil war.
Then she came back to the present. Her face hardened. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe just get rid of them?”
Emma shook her head. “Disrespectful to get rid of them without even a short talk.” She looked me up and down, assessing. “Especially when you are running for Congress.” She looked around the coffee shop. “And you cannot hide all day like a little rabbit, either.”
“Hiding actually seems like a pretty good option.” I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. Maybe passive-aggressiveness wasn’t as valued in Bosnia as it was in the Midwest.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Do you have a computer?”
I nodded.
“Just give me your office key. I’ll handle them.” She held out her hand for the key.
I reached into my pocket, found my key ring, and removed my office key. “What are you going to do?”
“Do you care?” Emma took the key, turned, and started walking toward the door without waiting for my answer.
As Emma left the shop, she stopped at the door and turned back to look at me. “You pay twenty dollars per hour, cash, every week. That’s the deal.”
Emma was somebody I couldn’t afford, but I’d figure that out later. Maybe I’d do an advance on a credit card or something.
With her taking over the office, I got in my car for some privacy and called Schmitty.
When he answered, I asked, “Is there a reason that you’re sending these people to me? Punishment? Revenge? Spite?”
Schmitty laughed. “I’m not sending anybody to you. Heard you’ve got a crowd, though. They want you. I’d have thought you’d be happy.”
“Why would I be happy to have a bunch of people who don’t have any legal claims? They don’t even have money to pay me to tell them that there’s nothing that I can do.”
“Politics, my friend.” He waited a beat. “This is great press for you and your campaign.” Schmitty had obviously read the article about me and my purported intention to carry on my father’s legacy in DC. I thought about who could be the unnamed source. I didn’t think it was Buster, since he now worked for Lincoln, which really only left my father. Even though he said that he’d give me time, the old man knew how to pull the levers.
Schmitty continued. “Got it on good authority that there’s going to be another front-page story in tomorrow’s newspaper about you. Profile piece. Big picture of that line of people standing outside your door right now. A headline, something like, JUSTIN GLASS: FINDER OF LOST BOYS.”
“Schmitty,” I said, “I don’t have any intention of running for Congress.”
“That’s what they all say.” Schmitty laughed. “I note, my friend, that you did not unequivocally rule it out. You stated that you do not presently have any intention of running for Congress. Tomorrow, however, is another day with possibly different intentions.”
I closed my eyes. “That’s crazy.”
“Of course it’s crazy,” Schmitty said. “The world is crazy.”
“But it buys you some time. That’s why you’re happy about it.” I thought about the angles that Schmitty and the politicians were playing. “Using me to get these mothers and grandmothers out of your hair.”
“That could be an added benefit, like a bonus,” Schmitty said. “But the truth is these folks won’t talk to us. They don’t trust the police, but they trust you. You’re a Glass. You can help.”
“So a few weeks ago, your colleagues in blue beat the crap out of me, and now you want me to do your investigation for free.”
The anger that I had felt weeks earlier rushed back. I was expected to play along. They had minimized and dismissed me just as they’d been minimizing and dismissing concerns about their relationship with the community for years. Neighborhood beat cops transformed into a militarized force.
“It’s not like that, exactly.” Schmitty started to get defensive, but knew he couldn’t lose my cooperation. He stopped himself, allowing me to correct him.
“It’s exactly like that,” I said. “You’ve got about nine black kids—kids that have been missing for a long time—and you weren’t out there looking for them. You’ve done nothing.”
“We didn’t know about them.”
“You knew about Devon Walker,” I said. “His sister filed the report, remember?”
Schmitty wasn’t going to get sucked into the argument, because he knew that he wasn’t going to win. “Let’s be practical. The world is the way it is. Neither you nor I can change it overnight, but we do have to get this case figured out. We need the families. The families have the information, but even when we try, they don’t let us get anywhere. That’s why we need you. They’re choosing you.”
There was silence in the conversation as everything sunk in. Just like I wanted to walk away when Tanisha first came into my office, I wanted to tell Schmitty that I wasn’t going to work on an investigation that they should’ve been doing from the beginning. And, just like when Tanisha first came into my office, I couldn’t say no.
I asked, “Have you at least got the rest of the bodies identified?”
“Getting closer,” Schmitty said, and I wasn’t sure whether he was lying. “I can get you a list of possibles, if you keep it confidential. See if any of their parents show up at your door.”
“What about Devon Walker?”
“Nothing much more that you don’t already know.”
I rolled down my window, trying to get some fresh air, maybe catch a breeze. I decided to push him again. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else for me?”
“Well.” Schmitty hesitated, then continued. “All these kids got records.”
“So you think we got kids in gangs killing other kids in gangs?”
“No,” Schmitty said, pausing. “Maybe we should meet and talk. I don’t like doing this over the phone.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dog park was a relatively recent development in the evolution of Lucas Park. In the 1980s and 1990s, the only dogs in the park were strays, and the only people in the park were homeless, looking for a quiet place to satisfy various physical urges.
Now the small park, nestled behind the Saint Louis Public Library, had been miraculously transformed into a space where the downtown condo owners and yuppies took their dogs to go to the bathroom. It’s what the politicians called progress.
Schmitty was already there when
I arrived.
He sat on a bench across from a new children’s playground set. There were no kids playing, and nobody else was in the park, either. It was too hot. A sheen of sweat had already formed on Schmitty’s broad forehead.
I sat down next to him, and Schmitty handed me a large, thin envelope. I opened the envelope to find information about the young men who still hadn’t been identified, including photographs of the decomposed bodies, clothing, and personal items.
Schmitty watched me as I thumbed through the packet. “The parents we can find have been contacted,” he said. “But these families tend to move a lot, and most aren’t excited about talking to the police. There’s a better chance they’ll come to you or the media before us.”
“I don’t really want to be the guy who tells them.”
“Fair.” Schmitty nodded. “But you might not have a choice. If you think you’ve got a match, just play it straight. Check it out, and if you want to give me a call, I’ll send somebody over to break the news.”
“So what about the investigation?”
His body stiffened. He turned and looked me in the eye. “Repeat this to anybody, and I’ll hang you. Understand?”
I nodded, deciding it wasn’t the right moment to educate Schmitty about why it may not be a good idea for a police officer to threaten to hang a black man. Cultural competency lessons were better left for another day. “I get it,” I said. “Understood.”
“My theory—and it’s just my theory—is that this wasn’t gangbangers taking each other out. It’s got nothing to do with drug dealing or even some lonely serial killer or whack-job in the projects.”
“So what is it, then?”
Schmitty rubbed his chin, hesitant to say what he was thinking out loud.
Eventually he said, “They’re too cold, the murders. They’re too calculated, too smart.”
“What do you mean?” I wanted to keep Schmitty talking. “Regular people are smarter than they used to be. Plenty of stuff on the Internet. Watch any police show and anybody would have a pretty good idea about DNA and police investigations.”
“Possible.” Then he came back around. “But we knew all these kids. Too damn well.” He pointed at the envelope. “They were all regulars in the juvenile system. They weren’t misunderstood artists or kids on the edge. Every one of them had done really bad things from an early age, and they were well along in the prison pipeline. No doubt in my mind or anybody’s mind. They were on their way, leaving a long trail of victims in the process.”
“So what? You’re thinking there’s a vigilante?”
“If I was a betting man?” Schmitty nodded. “That’s where I’d go—one of the neighborhood watch people, or the victim of a crime, or someone who knew somebody who got hurt by one of these guys . . . that’s a possibility.” Schmitty’s voice trailed off. “But honestly, there’s too many for that. Unless you’re a complete psychopath, which maybe the perp is, you’d be satisfied after one or maybe two. And carrying off this many without fouling up and getting caught . . .”
I nodded, understanding where Schmitty’s theory was going. “That leaves you with the professionals.”
“Afraid so.” He stood up. “We should be looking hard at the cops that patrol that area, but I doubt we’ll be looking too hard in that direction. The chief doesn’t want that. He told me today that he’s not sure we’d be able to recover, if it’s true. He’d lose his job for sure, and he loves going to all those fancy police conferences and sitting on those panels discussing new police tactics that we never actually implement.”
Schmitty put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed; then he walked away.
The message was clear. If somebody was going to look in that direction, it was going to be me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I drove slowly past my office, stunned that the line of people was gone. I drove around the block a second time, looking in the alleys and vacant lots for any sign of them. I was sure, if I stopped the car, they would reappear.
Working up the nerve, I parked the car, got out, and ducked inside my office.
Emma Tadic looked up from her computer. “Your office stinks.” Her long fingernails clicked away at the keyboard as she spoke. “But I do my best. Tomorrow I will bring some proper cleaning supplies.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” Then I noticed that the temperature in the office was a comfortable sixty-nine degrees. “You got the air conditioner to work?”
“No.” She stopped typing and looked up at me. “Called my brother. He bring a new one.” There was silence, and then she said, “Don’t worry about the money. I got a good deal for you. You pay him later.”
“I appreciate it.” I ran the financial calculations in my head. “But I’m really not sure—”
Emma raised her hand, cutting me off. “I do not work in a sweat lodge. Don’t worry about the money.” Then she opened the drawer to her desk. She removed a fat envelope. “Take a look.”
I took the envelope from her. Inside there was probably $2,000 in cash. “What is this?”
“I tell them we don’t even open a file unless they pay two hundred dollars. That will get them an initial consultation, and then we decide if we take them as a client or if they have a claim.” Emma took the envelope back from me. “So fifteen families had some money to get started,” she said. “Some pay a little and bring the rest later. Some pay full. Others not pay, but may be back as well.”
“But these are poor people, Emma.” I shook my head. “I never charge for a consultation. I’m not sure I feel right about—”
“Enough.” Emma dropped the envelope into her desk drawer and slammed it shut. “You have bills to pay, including my salary. A lawyer has to see who is really serious, right away. I make no other promises to them.”
“But that’s not how I’ve—”
“You go do some work now. I will get these files set up and then we will schedule the interviews for tomorrow.”
I started to argue with her again, but this time I was interrupted by a phone call. I took the cell phone out of my pocket and looked at the caller ID.
It was Sammy’s school.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vice Principal Jimmy Gieser’s office smelled like rotting flowers. There was a bike helmet in the corner, and my guess was that there was a pile of sweaty clothing somewhere in the room along with the cheap air freshener that he was using to cover up the smell.
“I don’t really want to have this meeting with you, Mr. Glass.” He put his hands on his desk and leaned forward. The vice principal was young. He had probably worked a few years and then got the magic ticket out of the classroom. He was also nervous. “I have the utmost respect for your family. You really should know that, nothing but respect for your family.”
“But . . .” I knew something was coming, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
“There’s a new district protocol. I’ve been looking the other way for most of the year—given that Samantha is obviously bright and has excellent test scores—but our school has to submit a report by the end of the month of all the kids who have missed over fifty days this calendar year.”
“Fifty days?” This shocked me.
He nodded. “She missed forty days last spring, then there was the summer break, and now she’s missed almost every day of the current school year.”
I did some calculations in my head, and it didn’t come close to adding up. I had allowed her to stay home a few times, but . . . Had there even been fifty days of school to miss? Another quick set of calculations. “You’re saying that my daughter has missed about half.”
“Actually more than half.” He looked down at the printed spreadsheet in front of him. “I’d say your daughter has missed about eighty percent this calendar year, starting January 1.” He handed me the list of absences.
“Eighty percent.”
I looked down at the dates. One stood out. It was the day Tanisha Walker hired me to find her brother. The day I came to pick Sammy
up from school and thought I had missed her. She’d lied. Sammy had told me that she’d ridden the bus.
I put the spreadsheet back on the desk. “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” My voice had raised.
Gieser shrunk a little from the challenge. Busied himself with flipping through more sheets of paper. “I don’t want to get into an argument here, Mr. Glass.” Keeping his eyes averted, he passed another piece of paper to me from his file. “But it looks like we did call. We called often, but you never called us back.”
He handed me a call log, a list of the dates and times as well as the name of the school secretary who had called my house. I tried to find a call listed that I could dispute, but the school wasn’t making it up. I had to admit to myself that there had been a lot of calls, and I hadn’t returned a single one.
I had been in my own head, struggling with the darkness. It took so much energy just to get up in the morning and be somewhat present during the day that returning phone calls wasn’t a priority.
I handed the list back, defeated. “What do you want from me?”
“Right now I can keep your daughter’s name off the list if you enter into a performance contract.”
“A performance contract?”
He shrugged as if nothing was in his control, which was probably true. “That’s the superintendent’s new protocol. We sign a contract, which essentially states that you will ensure that your daughter attends school, every day and every class. If you sign the contract, you’re off the list.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “And if I refuse?”
“If you refuse, your daughter goes on the list and we send it to the city attorney. Then he files a truancy petition with the court, alleging that your child is in need of protection.”
“What if I tell you that she’s getting bullied?”
“That’s for the city attorney to figure out.” The young administrator held out his hands again, powerless. “This is what I’m told to do. I don’t control what they do.”
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