The Poet (15 page)

I walked toward the tree and instinctively knew what I was seeing. A one-year anniversary noted with flowers. When I got to the tree I saw that the flowers-bright red roses splashed like blood on the snow-were fake, made of wood shavings. In the cleft made by the first branching of the tree’s trunk I saw that someone had propped a small studio photo of a smiling boy, his elbows on a table and his hands propped against his cheeks. He wore a red jacket and white shirt with a very small blue bow tie. The family had been here, I guessed. I wondered why they hadn’t placed their memorial at the boy’s grave.

I looked around. The lagoons near the barn were iced over and there were a couple of skaters. No one else. I looked over to Clark Street and saw the cab waiting. Across the street from it a brick tower rose. I saw that the sign on the awning out front said HEMINGWAY HOUSE. It was the place the zoo docent had come from before finding the small boy’s body.

I looked back at the photo propped in the tree’s cleft and without any hesitation reached up and took it down. It was sealed in plastic like a driver’s license to protect it from the elements. On the back of it was written the boy’s name but nothing else. I slid the photo into the pocket of my long coat. I knew that someday I might need it to run with the story.

The cab felt as welcome and warm to me as a living room with a fireplace. I began scrolling through the Tribune stories while we drove on to Area Three.

The major facts of the case were as horrifying as those in the Theresa Lofton killing. The boy had been lured from a fenced recreation center at a Division Street elementary school. He and two others had gone out to make snowballs. When the teacher noticed they were missing from the classroom, she went out and rounded the boys up. But by then Bobby Smathers was gone. The two twelve-year-old witnesses proved unable to tell police investigators what happened. According to them, Bobby Smathers simply disappeared. They looked up from their work in the snow and didn’t see him. They suspected he was hiding and waiting to ambush them, so they didn’t go looking.

Bobby was found a day later in the snowbank near the bocce clearing in Lincoln Park. Weeks of full-time investigation headed by Detective John Brooks, who caught the case as lead investigator, never got any closer than the explanation of the two twelve-year-olds: Bobby Smathers had simply disappeared that day at the school.

As I reviewed the stories I looked for similarities to Lofton. There were few. She was a white female adult and he a black male child. As far different in terms of prey as would seem possible. But both were missing for more than twenty-four hours before being found and the mutilated bodies of both victims were found in city parks. Lastly, both had been at children’s centers on their last day. The boy at his school, the woman at the day care center where she worked. I didn’t know the significance of these connections but they were all I had.

The Area Three headquarters was an orange-brick fortress. It was a two-story sprawling building that also housed the Cook County First Municipal District Court. There was a steady stream of citizens going in and out of the smoked-glass doors. I pushed through the doors to a lobby where the floor was wet with melted snow. The front counter was made of matching brick. Somebody could drive a car through the glass doors and they still wouldn’t get to the cops behind the counter. The citizens standing in front of it were another matter.

I looked at the stairs to my right. I knew from memory that they led to the detective bureau and was tempted to ignore procedure and head up. But I decided against it. You break even the mundane rules with the cops and they can get testy. I stepped up to one of the cops behind the counter. He eyed the computer bag slung over my shoulder.

“You moving in with us, are you?”

“No, this is just a computer,” I said. “Detective Lawrence Washington. I’d like to speak with him.”

“And you are?”

“My name’s Jack McEvoy. He doesn’t know me.”

“You have an appointment?”

“No. It’s about the Smathers case. You can tell him that.”

The cop’s eyebrows climbed an inch up his forehead.

“Tell you what, open up the bag and let’s check the computer while I make the call.”

I did what he asked, opening up the computer the way they used to make me do at airports. I turned it on, turned it off and put it away. The cop watched with the phone to his ear while talking to someone I assumed was a secretary. I figured that mentioning Smathers would at least get me through the preliminary round.

“Got a citizen down here to see Larry Legs about the kid.”

He listened a few moments and then hung up.

“Second floor. Up the stairs, to your left, go down the hall, last door. Says Homicide. He’s the black guy.”

“Thanks.”

As I headed up the stairs I thought about how the cop had simply referred to Smathers as “the kid” and whoever he had spoken to had understood what he meant. It told me a lot about the case, more than what had been in the newspapers. Cops try their best to depersonalize their cases. They are like serial killers in that way. If the victim is not a person who lived and breathed and hurt, he can’t haunt you. Calling a victim “the kid” is the opposite of that practice. It told me that a year later the case still had a strong hold on Area Three.

The homicide squad room was about the size of half a tennis court and had dark green industrial carpet. There were three work pods consisting of five desks each. Two pairs of desks faced each other and the fifth, the sergeant’s desk, was pushed in at the end. Along the wall to my left were row after row of file cabinets with locking bars running through the pull handles. Along the far wall, behind the work pods, were two offices with glass windows looking out on the squad room. One was the lieutenant’s office. The other looked like an interview room. There was a table in there and I could see a man and a woman in the room eating sandwiches off deli paper unwrapped and used as place mats. Besides those two there were three others at desks in the room and a secretary sat behind a desk near the door.

“You want to see Larry?” she said to me.

I nodded and she pointed to the man sitting at a desk on the far side of the room. He was alone in the pod. I headed over. He didn’t look up from his paperwork, even when I got to him.

“It snowing out there yet?” he asked.

“Not yet. But it’s going to.”

“It always does. I’m Washington, whaddaya need?”

I looked at the two detectives in the other pods. Nobody even glanced at me.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you alone, if I could. It’s about the Smathers kid. I have some information on it.”

I could tell without looking at them that this made the others look over at me. Washington, too, finally put down his pen and looked up at me. He looked like he was in his thirties but already there was a dusting of gray in his short-cropped hair. Still, he was in good shape. I could tell that before he even stood up. He also looked sharp. He wore a dark brown suit with a white shirt and striped tie. The suit jacket could barely contain his massive chest.

“You want to talk to me alone? Whaddaya got?”

“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you alone about.”

“You’re not one of these guys wants to confess, are you?”

I smiled.

“What if I was? Maybe I’d be the real thing.”

“That’d be the day. All right, let’s go in the room. But I hope you’re not going to waste my time-what’d you say your name was?”

“Jack McEvoy.”

“Okay, Jack, if I kick those people outta there and you waste my time, they and me aren’t going to be too happy about it.”

“I don’t think it will be a problem.”

He stood up now and I could see that he was shorter than I had thought. He had the lower half of another man’s body. Short, stubby legs beneath a wide and strong upper torso. Thus the name the desk cop had used, Larry Legs. No matter how sharply he dressed this oddness in his physique would always betray him.

“Something wrong?” he asked when he came around to me.

“Uh, no. I was … Jack McEvoy.”

I put down the laptop and held out my hand but Washington didn’t take it.

“Let’s go into the room, Jack.”

“Sure.”

He had traded the snub of my stare for one of his own. It was okay. I walked behind him over to the door of the room where the man and woman were eating their lunch. He glanced back once, looking down at the satchel I carried.

“Whaddaya got in there?”

“Computer. A couple things to show you if you’re interested.”

He opened the door and the man and woman looked up.

“Sorry, folks, picnic’s over,” Washington said.

“Can you give us ten, Legs?” the man asked before getting up.

“Can’t do it. Got a customer here.”

They rewrapped what was left of their sandwiches and left the room without a further word. The man gave me a stare that I interpreted to be annoyance. I didn’t care. Washington signaled me in and I put my computer case down on the table next to a folded cardboard sign with the no smoking symbol on it. We sat down on opposite sides of the table. The room smelled like stale smoke and Italian salad dressing.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Washington asked.

I gathered my thoughts and tried to appear calm. I was never comfortable dealing with cops, even though their world fascinated me. I always felt that they might suspect something about me. Something bad. Some telling flaw in me.

“I’m not sure where to begin. I’m from Denver. I just got in this morning. I’m a reporter and I came across-“

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. You’re a reporter? What kind of reporter?”

I could see a slight pulse of anger beneath the dark skin of his upper left jaw. I was prepared for this.

“Newspaper reporter. I work for the Rocky Mountain News. Just hear me out and then if you want to throw me out, that’s fine. But I don’t think you will.”

“Look, man, I’ve heard about every pitch in the world from guys like you. I don’t have the time. I don’t-“

“What if John Brooks was murdered?”

I watched his face for any sign that he might already believe this. There was nothing. He gave nothing away.

“Your partner,” I said. “I think he might have been murdered.” Washington shook his head.

“Now, I’ve heard everything. By who? Who killed him?”

“By the same person who killed my brother.” I stalled a moment and looked at him until I had his full attention. “He was a homicide cop. He worked in Denver. He was killed about a month ago. They thought at first it was a suicide, too. I started looking into it and I ended up here. I’m a reporter but this isn’t really about that. It’s about my brother. And it’s about your partner.”

Washington creased his brow into a dark V and just stared at me for a long moment. I waited him out. He was at the cliff. He either went over with me or he threw me out. He broke the stare and leaned back. Out of his inside coat pocket he took a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He pulled a steel trash can over from the corner so he could use it for ashes. I wondered how many times he had heard people tell him that smoking would stunt his growth. He cocked his head when he exhaled so that the blue smoke went up and hovered against the ceiling. He leaned forward across the table.

“I don’t know if you are some nut or not. Let me see some ID.”

We were going over the cliff. I took out my wallet and gave him my driver’s license, press card and DPD police pass. He eyed them all closely but I knew he had already decided to listen to the story. There was something about Brooks’s death that made Washington want to listen to a story from a reporter he didn’t even know.

“Okay,” he said as he handed the IDs back. “So you’re legit. It still doesn’t mean I have to believe a word you say.”

“No. But I think you believe it already.”

“Look, you going to tell your story or not? Don’t you think if there was something not right that I’d be on the fucking thing like … like-What do you know about it, anyway?”

“Not much. Just what was in the papers.”

Washington stubbed the cigarette out on the side of the trash can and then dropped the butt in.

“Hey, Jack, tell your story. Otherwise, do me a big favor and just get the fuck out of here.”

I didn’t need my notes. I told the story with every detail because I knew each one of them. It took a half hour during which Washington smoked two more cigarettes but never asked a question. Each time he kept the cigarette in his mouth, so the smoke curled up and hid his eyes. But I knew. Just like with Wexler. I was confirming something that he had felt inside his guts all along.

“You want Wexler’s number?” I asked at the end. “He’ll tell you everything I just said is legit.”

“No, I’ll get it if I need it.”

“You have any questions?”

“No, not at the moment.” He just stared at me.

“Then what’s next?”

“I’m going to check this out. Where you going to be?”

“The Hyatt down by the river.”

“Okay, I’ll call you.”

“Detective Washington, that’s not good enough.”