The Innocence Game Part 6

12.

The elevator clanked to a stop and the old man pushed the folding gate open. I stepped out first. Jake Havens followed close behind. We were on the third floor of the Cook County evidence warehouse. A layer of dust tickled my nose, and I could sense the ma.s.sive height and depth of the room. The old man flicked on a flashlight and skewered us with it.

"You say you're from Medill?"

I nodded. "We're researching a murder."

The old man held the light close to his chest so it lit up his jack-o'-lantern grin. "You ever been up here?"

I shook my head. He scratched out a laugh and shuffled off. Jake's voice ran beside me like a dark current through a cold river. "Just act dumb. He'll get bored and leave. Then we get what we came for."

Somewhere in the darkness came a thump, followed by a low hum. Strands of light filtered down from the rafters, casting lopsided shadows on the rough brick. We were standing at the edge of a room that was maybe a football field long. Three double rows of green shelving stretched themselves the length of the room and all the way to the ceiling. The shelves were crammed with boxes of all sizes, dimensions, and colors. Some were labeled and taped up tight; others were cracked and ripped, their sides oozing contents. Stuffed between the boxes were more plastic bags, as well as individual items. In a single glance, we saw a meat slicer, a toilet seat, and a set of hammers. I picked up a black pot. It didn't have an evidence tag on it or any other identifying feature.

"Why do you suppose this is here?" I said.

"It's a murder weapon," Havens said and held up a sheaf of papers he'd found on a nearby shelf. "On February eighth, 1978, Jessica Watson threw hot water over her husband and scalded him to death. Jessica claimed she was abused and had acted in self-defense."

"What happened?"

Havens flipped forward a couple of pages. "At trial, the prosecution showed there were second- and third-degree burns over most of the husband's upper body but none on his wrists." He looked up and smiled. "Want to guess why?"

"No idea."

"She tied him up with rope before dumping the water on him."

"And the rope protected his wrists?"

Havens handed me the case summary. "Jessica got forty to life. Pretty light, if you ask me."

I glanced through the report and back at the pot with newfound respect.

"Getting a good eyeful?" Our guide was back, the sour smell of sweat and cheap tobacco celebrating his arrival. He took the iron pot from me and put it back on the shelf. "Don't be touching anything unless you're wearing gloves. What year did you say?"

"Nineteen eighty-eight," Havens said.

"This way." He walked us halfway down the room. "First two digits of the case number tell you the year of the crime. Eighty-eight starts here. And make sure to use the gloves." He pointed to a box of latex gloves stuffed up on one of the shelves. "Copy machine is by the elevator. Bring all your copies downstairs when you're done, and I'll sign you out."

We listened as the elevator thumped its way back to the ground floor. Then we were alone. Just us and the murders.

"Why did you tell him 1988?" I said.

"Because I didn't want him to know what year we were actually after."

"A little paranoid?"

"Come on." Havens led me down one row and up the next, reeling through a decade of Chicago crime. Finally, we came to stacks of boxes with case numbers that began with "98" and "99." We each took a row. Havens, of course, found it.

"Here." He pulled out a white evidence box numbered 98-2425. The label read: WINGATE HOMICIDE. The box itself was sealed up tight. Havens took out the knife he'd flashed in the woods the night before.

"You came prepared," I said.

He cut the seal on the box without a word. Inside we found a handful of folders fat with doc.u.ments.

"I thought Sarah was going after the paper trail?" I said.

"She's gonna get whatever doc.u.ments were filed with the court," Havens said. "These must have been their working files."

I pulled out one of the folders. It contained various police reports filed at the time of the disappearance, along with a sketch of the neighborhood. Jake dug deeper in the box and came out with a clear plastic evidence bag tagged the date the body was found and bearing a scribble that was some cop's initials. Inside the bag, a young boy looked at us out of a thin wooden frame. The gla.s.s in the frame was cracked; the boy's smile splintered in a dozen different directions.

"There was a lot more stuff here at one time," I said.

"No kidding." Havens turned the box around so I could get a look at what was scrawled in marker on the side.

WINGATE EVIDENCE.

1 OF 4.

"So we have some doc.u.ments, a photo, and three missing boxes of evidence?" I said.

"Looks like it." Havens had found a small stepladder and started to climb.

"What are you doing?"

"Maybe the other boxes were misfiled," he said, poking around on one of the upper shelves.

"Or maybe the county destroyed them. How about the old man downstairs?"

"How about him?" Havens stared down at me from atop the ladder. He was already covered in dust.

"We could ask him to put a trace on the boxes," I said.

"Yeah, I'm sure they have everything up here on computers."

"Don't be an a.s.shole."

Havens came down off the ladder and wiped a grimy line of sweat off his forehead. "Seriously, would you trust that guy? There's nothing up there that says WINGATE."

"So you think the s.h.i.+rt's gone?" I said.

"We don't have it, that's for d.a.m.n sure." Havens picked up the box we'd found and started walking back down the aisle.

"Where are you going?" I said.

Havens answered without looking back. "To make some copies."

I unpacked the files and laid them out on a table. Police reports, witness statements, sketches of the crime scene, investigators' notes.

"Cops call this their murder book," Havens said and began to make copies. I picked up an autopsy report and leafed through it. According to the coroner, Skylar Wingate had been stabbed three times, none fatal, and strangled with a long green cord before he was put in the water. The cord was still around his neck when the police found him.

"Why dump a kid in the river and then pull him out and bury him?" I said.

"I told you," Havens said. "The killer's got some fixation with water."

"Why?"

"These guys sometimes have rituals. Things they like to do during each kill."

We talked about the body of a ten-year-old boy like so much chattel. In the worn corridors of the evidence warehouse, it seemed perfectly normal.

"You think there's any chance the body we found in the cave was done by the same guy who did Wingate?" I said.

Havens shook his head. "Not likely."

"Why not?"

"Like you said last night, Wingate was fourteen years ago."

"So you think we just stumbled onto the cave by coincidence?"

"Didn't say that. Remember, I'm the one who led you to the woods in the first place. By the way, did you notice there was nothing about the body in the papers today?"

"Might have been too late for the morning edition."

"Nothing online either," Havens said.

"You think the cops are keeping it quiet?"

"Either that or no one cares."

I leafed through the rest of the autopsy report. No obvious s.e.xual trauma, although the coroner did note evidence of bruising, identified as possible bite marks, around the shoulders and neck. I put down the report and picked up a small square envelope. I could feel the stiff edges of the snapshots inside and pulled them out.

"Crime scene?" Havens said.

I shook my head and shuffled through the stack of photos.

"What is it?"

I looked up. The copier flashed and thumped, throwing angled shapes across Havens's face. "Take a look for yourself." I pushed one of the photos across. Skylar Wingate sat on a stripped-down cot. His hands lay in his lap, one folded over the other. His hair was wet and combed back from his forehead. His eyes searched the corners of the photograph, looking for a familiar face, someone who'd take him home.

"Looks like the guy took pictures," I said, "before he killed him."

I fed Havens another photo. We'd moved closer. The ten-year-old was belly down on the bed, hands and feet bound, head craned awkwardly toward the camera. The green cord was around his neck now and taut, one end trailing off the edge of the picture. The boy's face was quiet, eyes still large with fear but resigned to whatever might come. The next three photos were all tight shots. My eyes glided over each. Features bulging, as the rope tightened. Lips parting. The silent hiss of the boy's breath. I glanced at Havens. He seemed a mile across the table. I pushed the photos away.

"You all right?" Havens said.

I nodded.

"Nasty p.r.i.c.k." Havens rearranged the shots in the probable sequence in which they were taken. "Must have rigged the noose up so Skylar hung in bits and pieces. That way he could snap off pictures as the kid strangled."

"Why would he do that?" I said.

"Same reason he buried Wingate's body instead of leaving it out on the riverbank. So he could revisit the crime scene. Revisit his trophy."

"Why leave them behind with the body?"

"To show off, maybe. Make a statement to the cops. He probably took other pictures he kept with him."

I moved the photos around so I could see them better under the light. Then I put them back in their envelope. Havens was working the copier.

"How long is this going to take?" I said, my voice suddenly rich with anxiety.

"The copies? Half hour. Maybe less. You in a hurry?"

"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the county's dusty tomb-away from hammers and ropes; autopsy reports weighing spleens, hearts, and livers; and the long, gray evidence boxes, stacked up around me like so many coffins.

"I've got to head back to my apartment after we get done," Havens said.

"Okay."

"You think you can take this stuff in your car?" He pointed to the pile of copies he was making.

"Why don't you take it?"

Havens stopped copying. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. I'm just not crazy about being here."

"Really?" Havens looked around the warehouse like, Where else would anyone want to be.

"I can take the stuff," I said. "Let's just hurry up."

It actually took us the better part of an hour to finish. As we walked into the suns.h.i.+ne, I shook off the malaise of the warehouse and thought about what we'd found. I still wasn't sure about all the questions, but I had a funny feeling the answers might be buried somewhere in the doc.u.ments we loaded into my car. Someone else, apparently, had the exact same feeling. Except they didn't think it was funny at all.