Easy Innocence (8 page)

She stared up at the TV. A pretty boy with a blow-dry haircut breathlessly proclaimed that last week’s offensive play by Number 49 was a masterpiece. She hardly listened, preoccupied with another issue—this one of her own making. When she interviewed Claire Tennenbaum that morning, she’d had the stack of discovery documents with her, and she pored through them at strategic points during the conversation. She’d let the girl think she was a cop—at least, she hadn’t said anything to contradict it.

The problem was she wasn’t a cop any more. And it was against the law to impersonate one. Ironically, when she was a cop, she’d learned it was okay to lie in certain situations. She’d watched O’Malley extort information from suspects by playing them off against each other, insisting—falsely—that one was framing the other. The tactic usually worked. But Claire Tennenbaum was a kid. Lying to a kid—even misleading her— didn’t feel right.

There was another problem too. Georgia no longer had the insulation that being a cop provided. What if Claire Tennenbaum told her parents she’d been questioned by a cop, and her parents called to verify it? When they found out she’d been posing as one, she could be in trouble. She stared up at the TV, willing her stomach to stop churning.

Ten minutes later Owen arrived with her food. “Burger and fries. Rare.” He set the plate down. “You could do the breast stroke in the blood.”

She took a bite. “Perfect.”

He went back behind the bar, but she knew he was pleased. She remembered the first time she’d come to Mickey’s. Matt had brought her here one rainy spring night three years ago. He’d said it was a comfort zone, the kind of place where people knew you on the surface and didn’t need to dig any deeper. He’d been right. To this day she wasn’t sure Owen knew she—or Matt—had ever been a cop.

She watched Owen flip a white towel over his shoulder. They’d come here so often that she knew the rhythms of the place. How many times an hour Owen wiped down the bar—about twelve. How many TV stations Owen would let customers watch—only two. How many brands of bourbon he carried—seven. She recalled one night, giggling, a few brews to the high side, when she tried to swipe Owen’s towel, just to see what he’d do. She figured he’d freak out and frisk everyone in the place ‘till he found it. She sneaked up behind Owen, ready to snatch it off his shoulder when he whipped around to face her, and the chance was lost. Matt laughed so hard he knocked over his beer. They used Owen’s cloth to wipe it up.

Now, she dipped a fry in ketchup and crammed it in her mouth. When would she stop using Matt to mark time? They’d split up two years ago, but he still haunted her dreams, his face appearing unbidden when she was cuffing an offender, writing tickets, doing laundry. She saw his crooked grin, the way he pushed his hair off his face. Once he’d let it get so long that Olson threatened to buck Matt back to patrol if he didn’t get a hair-cut. That afternoon Matt came back from lunch with a shaved head. She remembered how he walked up and down the hall past Olson’s office—it had to be twenty times—before the Chief finally noticed. And never said a word.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Those were the heady days. When the touch of his finger sent shivers down her spine. When just being alone made them tear their clothes off, drunk with the smell, taste, and feel of each other. She thought it would never end. She took another bite of her burger. It was starting to taste like cardboard.

THE SOCIAL
worker rooted around in a pile of olive green folders, extracted one, and scanned the first page. “Oh, here we go.”

Georgia sat across from Carol Moore, a young woman with ash blond hair and enormous glasses. She was wearing jeans and a ribbed sweater, and she looked like she’d just graduated from high school. She and Georgia sat on either side of a metal desk in the North Shore Mental Health Clinic. The clinic operated out of an Evanston building near Oakton and Ridge that had once been a parochial school. A quick glance around revealed the same peeling paint, green walls, and chipped tiles Georgia remembered from St. Michael’s. A grimy, institutional odor seeped out of the walls. Georgia remembered that too.

“Cam Jordan has been my client for over a year,” Moore said.

“That doesn’t sound like a long time.” Georgia breathed through her mouth.

“Let’s see. I took over from...” Moore paged through the file. “... Margie Hanson. She got married and had a baby. And before that, Shauna Alexander was his caseworker.”

Georgia fidgeted. Passed from hand to hand, Cam was just another file to these people. A case number to justify their budget.

“You
have
met with him?”

“Of course.” Moore looked offended. “And now that he’s in the news, we’ve gotten more calls. We can’t comment, of course.”

“As I told you, I’m a private investigator working on his case. Anything you can tell me about his mental state would be helpful.”

Moore nodded. “I talked to the director before you came, and—” She looked up. “Hey, am I going to be called to testify?”

“I don’t know if there will be a trial.”

“But is it a possibility.”

“Yes.”

“I just wondered, you know.” Moore flipped up a lock of hair. Then she went back to the file. “The last time he came in was almost five months ago. In June.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Every six months. Unless there was a crisis.”

“Only twice a year?”

“Do you know how many clients I have, Ms. Davis? Some are victims of abuse. Child abuse. Sexual abuse. One of my clients was put in a cage by her father for two years. Another has been in thirty foster homes. Between home visits, clinical practice, and writing reports, it’s a miracle I see him that much.”

Not something we’d want brought out in a trial, Georgia thought. She could just imagine Ramsey: “With forty-two clients and only two visits a year, in reality, you have no idea whether he was violent or not, do you, Ms. Moore?”

Aloud she said, “What can you tell me about those visits?”

“His sister brings him in. I talk mostly to her. It looks like she takes good care of him. He’s always been calm. Not agitated. At least the times I’ve seen him.”

“Is he on any medications?”

She frowned, pulled her glasses down her nose, and sifted through the file. “There’s a note from Margie that he was on Seroquel for a year. And Remeron. But it doesn’t say if they helped. I don’t know if he’s still on the meds.”

“What do those drugs do?”

“One’s an antidepressant. The other is specifically for bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.” She looked at Georgia. “Psychopharmacological agents can improve quality of life for the mentally ill. But the best catalyst for change is still a positive and trusting relationship with a therapist.”

“But you weren’t that therapist.”

“I told you. We only see patients during physical or mental health crises. And check-ups. There’s nothing here about any other therapist.” She closed the file. “I’m guessing there wasn’t enough money for it.”

Georgia motioned toward the file. “May I look through that? Make some copies?”

“The director said you need to put any request in writing. Then it has to go before our internal committee for approval. And then to the state.”

“Well then, may I look through it so I know which reports to request?”

“I’m sorry.” Moore leaned back with an expression that said she was really doing Georgia a favor. “But I can tell you what they say.”

Georgia bit back a reply. It infuriated her when people doled out information a bit at a time. They were usually sadists. Assholes who liked to watch people beg. They’d have to subpoena the records if they needed them. “Go ahead,” she said tersely.

Moore took her time reopening the file and looking through it. “It doesn’t appear that there was any instance of real communication—at least while he was here. When he did talk it was mostly the repetition of certain words, or phrases from nursery rhymes.”

“Are there any notes about his sexual offense?”

“Let’s see...” She pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “Everyone agrees he masturbated in public. But apparently, there was some question about physical contact. His sister contends he never touched the woman in the Forest Preserve. The couple said otherwise, of course.” She read on. “Apparently, he had a history of being abused. His father beat him.”

“Yes, I know.”

She tipped her head. “That could be a contributing factor.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked up. “You know. If an individual was abused themselves, they’re more likely to—Oh.” She stopped. A frown creased her forehead.

“What?” Georgia said.

“Well, it says here the couple dropped the case a few months later.”

“Dropped it? How come?”

“Apparently, they separated and got a divorce.” She snorted. “Guess they found other lawyers to give their money to.”

If the couple dropped the case, without a conviction, how had Cam been labeled a sex offender? Georgia made a note to follow up. “Is there
anything
in his file about him being violent, threatening violence, or doing harm to anyone?”

Moore looked through the file one more time. She shook her head.

“Do you think it’s possible that someone like him, given his record, could suddenly snap and murder a complete stranger?”

Moore gazed at her. “Anything is possible with mentally impaired individuals. But, based on his file and my experience with him, I would be surprised.”

Georgia felt an unexpected sense of relief. “We’ll probably have to subpoena the entire file.”

Moore waved a noncommittal hand. “Whatever.”

Before heading home, Georgia stopped to buy copies of the newspapers. Word about the hazing was splashed above the fold in the
Trib
and on the front page of the
Sun Times
. While experts rued the growing violence among teenagers, Chief of Police Eric Olson denied it would affect the outcome of the case. There was no comment from the State’s Attorney’s Office.

“
SARA HATED
to get up in the morning,” A sad smile flickered across Melinda Long’s face. “I still wake up thinking it’s time to get her out of bed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Georgia said, aware how useless the words were even as they came out of her mouth.

A tall, lanky blonde, Sara Long’s mother retrieved some hangers and garments from the dressing room at New Ideas, an upscale but casual women’s dress store in Northfield. After reading where she worked in the police reports, Georgia decided to take a chance. She wasn’t sure Sara’s mother would be back at work, but she figured it would be less painful to talk outside her home. If she talked at all.

When Georgia walked into the store, she was surprised at its cozy, comfortable feel. A cheerful jumble of brightly patterned sweaters, pants, and even jewelry, New Ideas had a mix of the countrified, horsy fashions worn by North Shore matrons as well as the trendier workout styles favored by the young. Drawn to a rack of sweatshirts and pants, she let her fingers slide down the soft, fleecy garments. She even imagined herself in one of them—the blue one—until she saw the $240 price tag.

“People are shocked I’m back at work,” Melinda said a few minutes later. She nodded toward a woman behind the cash register who was chatting with a customer. “I know Janelle was. But what am I supposed to do? I took a week off, but I just couldn’t bear staring at four walls.” She shivered. “Sara’s brother, Jamie, went back to school. And Jerry’s at work.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“Georgia Davis.” It hadn’t been hard to talk to Sara’s mother. She’d recognized her right away. Melinda had the same blonde hair and slim build as her daughter. When she asked if Georgia needed help, Georgia nodded. The conversation had turned to Sara almost immediately. In fact, her eagerness to talk—especially to a stranger—puzzled Georgia, until she recalled that people dealt with grief in all sorts of ways.

“You’re an investigator?”

“That’s right.”

A strange look came over the woman’s face. “Forgive me, did you say you’re with the police?”

Georgia tensed. She didn’t want to mislead the woman, as she’d done with Claire Tennenbaum, but telling the truth might mean the end to their conversation. Still. “Actually, I’m working for some people who want to make sure the right person is held accountable for your daughter’s murder.”

Melinda clutched the hangars and clothes to her stomach. “You’re working for that—that creature, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But I’m just trying to find out the truth. I have no bias.”

Georgia figured she had about five seconds before the woman kicked her out of the store. But Melinda’s expression was unreadable, and after a moment she headed to a nearby rack and started to hang the garments. “You know, if you had come in here a week ago, I would have thrown your butt out of here.”

Georgia nodded. The woman could see inside her soul.

“I wanted to nail Cam Jordan. I wanted to tear him from limb to limb. Make sure his sorry ass never saw the light of day. It was all so—senseless.” Melinda sighed. “But then, I don’t know. Things started moving so fast it made my head spin. Everything all tied up in three or four days. With a big, shiny ribbon on top. Closure, they say.”

“You had a problem with that?”

“While I was at home, I started to think about it. And now—well—I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, but it does,” Georgia blurted out. “If you have any reason to feel Cam Jordan might not be responsible for Sara’s death, you have to speak out.”

“I don’t
have
to do a damn thing.” Melinda turned around, her eyes flashing.

Georgia’s stomach flipped. Great move, she scolded herself. Her first break in the case, and she’d patronized the victim’s grief-stricken mother. She started to apologize but was cut off by a woman loaded down with jewelry who called over to Melinda in a high-pitched voice. “Do you have this in a six?” She picked up a striped black and white outfit that looked like a zebra costume.