The Art of Secrets (13 page)

On THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13, at 1:21 pm,

The City of Chicago Fire Department

closes its official investigation and files this report
.

Summary of Incident:
On October 1 of this year, Investigators Chau and Winter responded to 6313 N. Artesian, Chicago, at the request of Chief Holper. The dispatch time was approximately 1600 hours, arrival at the scene was fewer than ten minutes later. Investigators observed a brick construction, three-story, multi-family residential building, with smoke and fire visible in two windows on the first floor.

No death or injury reported.

The investigation revealed that fire originated near the rear of the residential unit, between the kitchen and the living room. The indicators observed and the evidence taken and analyzed revealed the fire was started by the distribution of a flammable accelerant and ignited by an open flame. A tire iron was found on the kitchen floor. Damage to the rear/kitchen door and lock indicates unlawful entry through the back door of the residence, accessed by the open utility stairs.

Taken into evidence were an aluminum can, a tire iron, a plastic lighter, and cloth “rag” remains that indicate criminal intent.

No criminal suspects have been identified.

Laboratory Analysis:
Attempts were made to take fingerprints from evidence collected, but these attempts were unsuccessful. Laboratory analysis revealed that the flammable liquid was turpentine.

Witnesses:
Residents of the unit arrived at approximately 1730 hours, as workers were still extinguishing the fire and securing the property. Statements made by these individuals testify that all members of the residence were together and away from the property at the time of the incident. (Numerous witnesses subsequently provided corroborating reports.)

During the days following the incident, neighbors were interviewed. No person or persons were observed entering or leaving the property. Nothing “unusual” was reported. The property residents are not considered suspects, nor have suspects been identified.

Property Control and Release:
Department officers controlled access to the scene for a period of one week, after which the building was determined safe for repair/re-oc, and was released to the building owner, who is not a building resident.

Statutes Violated:

IL Criminal Code

720 ILCS 5 Sec 20—1.2 Residential Arson

720 ILCS Sec 21—1 Criminal Damage to Property

720 ILCS Sec 21—3 Criminal Trespass to Real Property

Before school on FRIDAY, DECEMBER 14,

Steve Davinski, senior & Saba Khan, sophomore,

eat breakfast together, in separate kitchens, via text.

Steve:

Big day tmw. How r u feeling?

Steve:

PS. I went to bed thinking about u & woke up thinking about u.

Saba:

As usual, I went to bed thinking abt the fire & woke up thinking abt the auction.

Steve:

But in between, u dreamed abt me.

Saba:

LOL, you love to think so. True fact: I never remember dreams. Sad.

Steve:

Tragic! Esp b/c I am hilarious & handsome in dreams.

Saba:

In your own dreams maybe. PS. I love that you are always like this. Always like . . . you.

Steve:

I guess, hmm . . . well, I am NEVER like . . . Javier.

Saba:

Idea to consider: Try being nice to Javier. Unlike you, most people do not walk into a room assuming everybody will adore them.

Steve:

More people should try it, IMHO. Drink your juice. See u soon.

That evening, after staying at school for an unusual number of hours,

Kevin Spoon, senior,

calls the
Tribune
reporter for a last-minute interview.

Just checking in to say . . . well, thanks. We really appreciate all the coverage you've given to the event. My mom wanted to know if you're putting something in the morning paper, too? Every little bit helps.

Yeah, everything's ready to go. Today after basketball practice, my sister and I set up the gym. Saba Khan helped. Saba and my sister know each other pretty well, but I had met her only once before. It's got to be a weird thing for her to be going through. Not the kind of attention anybody asks for, right?

Steve Davinski stayed, too, to lend a hand. You've talked to him? I bet every school has a kid like Steve, the guy who drops into a project at the last minute and then takes as much credit as possible. I don't mean Steve's a bad guy, not at all. It's good to have someone tall like Steve for hanging signs.

We rolled out the heavy gray tarp over the gym floor, and then set up about fifty rows of folding chairs. And sure, we were talking about what happened to the artwork. We're no different from anybody else. Saba repeated the rumor that a foreign exchange student might have taken it. That could be true. Put it this way: A person would have to be detached to do something like this, I guess. Saba was looking at Steve, as if wanting him to chime in, but he was like, “Don't get me started, I gotta live with him.”

I haven't met Javier. Then again, I haven't met most people at Highsmith. But I know about the escalating cold war between him and Steve.

I could tell the finger pointing was starting to annoy my sister, so I said maybe we should leave the rounding-up-the-suspects to the police.

We set up tables at the front, then spread red and green plastic tablecloths across them. My mom gave us some fake mini Christmas trees—seven or eight of them, different sizes—that she got from a crafts supply store. We put them on the tables and plugged them in with extension cords. We had a couple fake poinsettias, too, that we put on the auctioneer's table. Mom's thinking is, if the event looks like a Christmas pageant, people will be generous and buy more things. I'm telling you, she has the whole thing mapped out in her head. She gave us notes and everything.

On the main tables, we arranged the best donations: vacation rentals, a night cruise on Lake Michigan, wine baskets, spa certificates, and lots of expensive tickets to sports games and theater. That's the stuff to mention, okay, if you put something in the paper? And off to the sides, we made room for the sadder-looking junk Kendra and I collected: used furniture, dishes, even those random paintings that may be too worthless for anyone to buy, much less steal.

Saba was looking over the items, sort of shaking her head in disbelief, like the idea was finally becoming real to her. She turned to Kendra and me with this apologetic expression and said, “It's amazing that you guys are helping my family like this. If I ever stop saying thank you, you have my permission to pinch my arms and remind me.”

I didn't want Saba to feel bad or anything, and it seemed like the right time to tell her my own good news: By helping to organize this fundraiser, I found the perfect material for my college application essays. Planning this auction got me into Harvard—Early Action!

Yeah, thanks. Obviously I'm stoked about it. Dream come true, right?

So, like I explained to Saba, this project has been a win for both of us.

But then Steve Davinski muttered something sour like, “Gee, Kevin, it's completely awesome this situation is working out so well for you.”

And now there was this weirdness among the four of us when nobody said anything. I stood there, like . . .
what?
Am I supposed to feel guilty for getting into Harvard? Or for saying that I did? Or for using Saba's fundraiser in my essays? I mean, give me a break. Kendra had her reasons for leading this thing, and I had mine. It's not a crime.
And it's naïve to think that people go around helping people without some motivation, without expecting something in return, right? My sister and I have been working our butts off to make this thing happen. And Steve Davinski, of all people, has the nerve to criticize me for trying to take advantage of that hard work?

Sorry to get so fired up. My whole point was that Saba didn't need to feel grateful. She's not in our debt,
not at
all
. That's the only reason I told her about Harvard.

Two seconds later, Saba looked at the clock and said she needed to go. Steve was only too happy to give her a lift in his car, and then Kendra and I were alone. Kendra told me to settle down, and the rest of the work went quickly. When we were done, we turned off the gym lights and went to find Dr. Stickman. The halls were deserted. It wasn't until then that I realized how hot that dang building was. My clothes were soaked with sweat, and I couldn't wait to get outside. As usual, my sister was starving.

We got to the main office, and through the glass doors we saw Dr. Stickman standing near the counter in her long wool coat.

Kendra grabbed my sleeve and was like, “Oh, snap.”

I told her it was fine—staying late could be the principal's small contribution to this effort. I mean, the school has gotten some incredible publicity, thanks to you guys.

The principal straightened her back when we entered, like she'd been standing there asleep on her feet. She smiled and asked if everything was set up, and we told her it was. We finally walked out of the building into the cool air. As Dr. Stickman was activating the alarm system, she said, “Look at you both, you're sweating!”

“It's a ton of work,” Kendra said, a little defensively.

Dr. Stickman said, “I know you kids must be disappointed . . .”

Before she could continue, I said something like, “Who knows? Maybe those paintings will be found someday, and we can use them for some good.” I really believe that.

Dr. Stickman said to Kendra, “Your brother is quite an optimist.”

“Oh, he's cheesy all right,” Kendra said. I could tell the only kind of cheese she wanted at the moment was the kind with ham on a sandwich.

The principal said she would see us first thing in the morning, and she walked off toward the parking lot.

Anyway, sorry, I've been talking too long. So, like, will we see you there tomorrow? Are you sending a photographer? If you can send a photographer, that would be fantastic.

The following day, on DECEMBER 15,after an eventful morning,

Saba Khan, sophomore,

withdraws to her bedroom, washes her hands, and opens her notebook.

If only there was a quick, painless way to lift the memory of this messed-up day out of my head + transfer it onto these pages . . . Then maybe I could rip up the paper, launch the stupid, sad confetti out the window + let it flutter down like toxic snow onto some poor, unsuspecting fool's head. Sorry, stranger. Tag—you're it.

If only.

Dr. Stickman asked us to arrive early this morning so Papa could sign contracts with the auctioneers + the school. When we left the lobby, Dom the doorman (cup + saucer) wished us luck. It was frrr-eezing outside. Our neighbor “Hannah from down the hall” had told us there would be cameras, so Ammi asked me to “dress up” in something traditional. Only for her, I wore my salwar kameez. I should have worn leggings under my pants, because the heat in the Ford never works. (Clueless me.)

On the ride, Salman asked where we were going. (Clueless Salman.)

Ammi told him, “Our lives changed on the day of the fire, remember, baby? Today life will change again.”

“This time for the better,” Papa added.

Nobody said it out loud, but we were all feeling sick that the Darger paintings hadn't been found in time. We expected that once the police had identified the thief, the artwork would be returned. They seemed so confident that the art teacher had taken it. So why didn't we have the artwork?

“In the 1st place,” Papa said gently, “the art teacher should not have been teaching at the school. Men like him . . .”

This line of talk always makes me cringe. On the subject of LGBT issues, Papa's mind is stuck in reverse; nothing I say will ever shift it into forward. (Clueless Papa.) I only said, “From what I hear, Mr. Delacroix is a very good teacher.”

“Saba, read your Quran,” Papa said. “The subject is not ours to debate.”

“All that, in God's hands!” Ammi said impatiently. “When the artwork appears again, it will be sold. We will have that money.”

Next to me, Salman stared uncomfortably out the window. I described some of the items I had seen in the gym on Friday. “It'll be fun to see what people spend money on, you'll see.” I tried to sound cheerful, but even I felt this intense dread. Of course I wanted the auction to be a success. But I dreaded the attention, especially the pitying looks. I didn't want people to feel sorry for us or keep labeling us victims.

I thought about that story, “The Lottery,” where the townspeople choose a random person to kill—like, a sacrifice. Except this was just the opposite. My family was being singled out + rewarded, but just because of our random bad luck.

(Speaking of luck, so Kevin Spoon used my family's bad luck as his ticket into Harvard.
So what
? Steve was supremely pissed on my behalf + that was sweet, but I mean, you've got to hand it to Kevin. He's not relying on any dumb luck to get him where he wants to be.)

(Of course, now I wonder what led Kevin to the auction idea: a pure motivation to help my family,
or
a totally bogus motivation to help my family
because
it would get him into Harvard. I could wonder about these things for a long, long time, until my brain shattered into cold little shards, like windshield ice.)

(Moreover, I ask myself, why should one more dude going to an elite college in Boston affect my life or my plans?)

(At the same time, as much as I totally thank Kevin + Kendra, and bow down like everyone else to their charitable spirit, I want to state for the record that I would be more capable of helping my own damn self if I had access to a
car
, the way they do. The Spoons may be new to Chicago, but you don't see
them
freezing their butts off at the bus stop. Life's different when you're rich + they're doing just fine, so—whatever.)

ANYWAY (*shaking it off*) we arrived at school about an hour before the auction + walked into the gym lobby. As usual, the air felt insanely warm, as if the thermostat was set too high.

By the strange quiet, I knew immediately: something had happened.

I looked around for Steve, but didn't find him. He'd promised he would come early + sit near us at the auction. The slacker never showed at all. So that was the 1st weird thing.

Kevin + Kendra were sitting at the raffle ticket table with a woman I didn't recognize. Maybe their mom? Kevin had his arm around Kendra, who looked upset. I wondered if they still felt awkward about what Kevin had told me about Harvard. I waved, but Kevin only shook his head sadly.

Near the gym doors, Dr. Stickman stood talking to two police officers. I wondered: Why security, with the valuable artwork still missing? People, it's a little bit late for security, I thought. (Clueless me.)

Dr. Stickman turned her head and saw us. She approached us rapidly, her expression very serious. “Mr. and Mrs. Khan,” she began.

“Good morning,” Papa said, shaking her hand formally.

“It is
not
a good morning, I'm afraid,” Dr. Stickman said. “In fact, I have some unfortunate news to share with you.” Beyond her, inside the gym, some activity attracted my attention. Dr. Stickman drew a breath: “We have located the Darger artwork. What I mean to say is, the art has resurfaced . . .”

I suddenly felt too giddy to listen to her story. Slipping past Dr. Stickman, I rushed into the gym to see what had happened.

Th
ank you, God
!
I thought.

10 or more policemen stood in a group, halfway down the main aisle. Surrounding the artwork, I thought. Having the brains to protect it this time. One of them was taking photographs. I wedged myself between 2 of the men so I could see it again. Then my eyes seemed to play a trick on me.

The paintings lay in a pile on the floor. Each page of the album had been ripped out + torn into strips, leaving these hideous shredded scraps. As if that wasn't enough, 3 big sections were
burned
, black wet patches of ash. It appeared that some fool had deliberately set the areas on fire, then came to his senses + doused them with water.

The smell was intense. I reached up to protect my nose + mouth. I stared for many seconds, not believing. This was like a bad dream, more surreal than Darger's original images. Among the ashes, I saw glimpses of things I remembered: pale sky, orange fire, a soldier's black gun, the soiled hem of a little girl's yellow sundress.

Why would someone destroy the paintings on purpose? It seems so cruel. I understand why someone would steal the album, either to keep or sell—but this? No one will benefit from this.

It makes no sense. It makes
zero
sense.

This important art discovery—destroyed. All that money—

gone. My family's biggest dreams—lost.

+ for what?
What
is the
point
?

As long as I'm asking all the unanswerable questions: If I stare at my phone long enough, will Steve ever call me back today? Where is that boy?