The Innocence Game (17 page)

“He was the Illinois attorney general,” Havens said. “Before that he was the state’s attorney for Cook County. Dropped dead last year from a stroke.”

“He was also lead prosecutor in the Wingate murder,” I said. Moncata shot me with his index finger. “Bingo. Teddy’s right-hand man was a Chicago detective named John Carlton.” The scientist circled back behind his desk and picked up a couple of the documents we’d given him from the Scranton and Allen murders. Teddy Green’s name was on one. John Carlton’s on the other. “Looks like they handled your other cases as well.”

“What are you saying?” Havens said.

Moncata dropped the documents back onto his desk. “What am I saying? It’s a pattern. In forensic science, we like patterns. You should, too. The fact is that Detective Carlton never met a suspect he didn’t want to beat a confession out of. And Teddy Green liked to win. Period. So they put together a team and started banging out murder convictions. Indigent defendants. Public defenders. One-day trials. Eventually, Teddy got himself elected attorney general. Carlton became chief of detectives. And everyone lived happily ever after. Except the guys they put in jail. What did they wind up getting your defendant on in the Scranton case?”

“They linked Michael Laramore to the victim through hair and fiber samples,” Havens said.

“And how about in the Allen case?”

“Blood typing.”

Moncata snorted. “Pure garbage. I assume the bite marks were never mentioned at either trial?”

Havens shook his head.

“Problem is everything was so long ago,” Moncata said, talking mostly to himself now. “Green’s dead. Carlton, I’m not sure…” He typed a few lines into his computer and nodded slowly. “John Carlton. Took retirement in 2005. Died last year.”

“There’s gotta be something,” Havens said.

Moncata tapped a thumbnail against his teeth and stared at the bite-mark photos still up on the light board. “Leave this stuff with me. I’ll have my guy take a look at the marks. See what we see. Now I really gotta run.” Moncata got up from behind his desk and showed us to the door. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

Jake and I didn’t talk much on the ride back to Evanston. Moncata had thrown out a lot of new pieces, and I think we were both trying to absorb them all. Havens pulled his car up in front of my house.

“Well?” he said.

“Moncata certainly perked up when you mentioned the bite marks.”

“Sure did.”

“Do you still trust him?”

“Not entirely. You?”

“I don’t know. What about Z?”

“What about her? She’s gotta stay in the dark. At least until we know if our three cases are connected.”

“Moncata knew more than he told us,” I said.

Havens’s phone buzzed with a text. He checked it and turned the phone off.

“What is it?” I said.

Havens killed the engine. “I’ve been doing a little digging on how James Harrison died in prison.”

“Yeah?”

“This morning I talked to a retired Stateville guard named Vince Shumpert. He told me the guy who ran the guards inside the Department of Corrections set up Harrison. A guy named Brian Hines.”

“What do you mean ‘set up’?”

“Shumpert said the rumor was Hines paid a gang to kill Harrison inside Menard prison. Then I asked about the other two. Laramore and Tyson.”

“The ones who were convicted on Scranton and Allen?”

“Word is Hines wired those two as well.”

“Wow.”

“Here’s the kicker. The detective Moncata mentioned today as part of the Needle Squad, John Carlton?”

“What about him?”

“Shumpert just texted me that Carlton was Brian Hines’s cousin.”

“Where’s Hines now?”

“Dead from a stroke.”

“Is it my imagination,” I said, “or are a lot of people having strokes?”

An Evanston police car cruised past, silent flashers rolling. We watched until it disappeared down the street.

“You think we’re safe up here?” Havens said. “In Evanston, I mean?”

“Don’t count on it.” I hadn’t told my classmates about the break-in at my house. Or the cop’s hat band I’d found on my mom’s bed. It’s something I’d wonder about later.

“I guess we should call Sarah,” Havens said. “Catch her up.”

The subject had lain fallow, pushed to the back burner by our meeting with Moncata and all the rest. Now there was a shadow in Havens’s voice at the mention of her name, and I knew they’d been together.

“Why don’t you give her a call,” I said. “I’m going to review everything we have. Try to organize things a bit.”

“Okay.” He seemed suddenly anxious to get away. I thought that might be a good idea all around.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said.

“Be careful, Joyce.”

“You, too.”

I climbed out of the car. Havens pulled away from the curb and was gone. I walked into the house and made a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I thought about Jake and Sarah. Not good. I needed to keep myself busy, my mind occupied. I went into the living room with my coffee and a fresh pad of paper. I wrote down everything I could remember from the visit with Moncata. Then I took out the material Ned Rolland had given me and put it in a separate file marked
Rosina Rolland—Accident
. After that I reviewed all the evidence we’d collected, sifting, condensing, and refining until I had it cooked down to seven pages on a legal pad. I pulled an old bulletin board out of a closet, found some thumbtacks and a set of index cards. On the first card I wrote:
Scranton—Wingate—Allen
and thumbtacked it to the board. Then I filled out a half-dozen or so more cards and began putting them up. When I’d finished, the board looked something like this:

I was playing around with the cards, taking some off and rearranging what was left when I felt a breeze. I’d left the front door ajar and got up to close it. Z stood in the doorway. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t.

“Hi.”

“Forgive me for barging in,” she said.

“It’s fine. Come on in.” I walked her into the living room and turned up the lights. My research lay all over the floor. I began to clean up, pulling the index cards off the bulletin board and sticking them in my pocket.

“For the seminar?” she said.

“Yeah. We’ve been working on a few things. You want to sit down?”

I cleared some space on the couch. Z took a seat.

“I’m not really ready to go over any of this,” I said, doing my best to push files out of sight.

“Not a problem.”

I took a spot beside her on the couch. Up close I could see a cloud of red veins running through both cheeks. Her lips were wet and there was a glint of something desperate in her eyes.

“I need to ask you a question, Ian.”

“Sure.”

“Why did you take my seminar?”

I shrugged. “I’m interested in the subject matter and was lucky enough to get a spot.”

“How interested?”

“I’m not following you.”

“Perhaps a better way to put it is why are you interested?”

“The criminal justice system fascinates me. This is an opportunity to get involved. Rather than just reading about it.”

“And your goal with all this”—Z gestured to the debris around us—“is to right a wrong? Find a case where a man’s been wrongfully convicted and prove his innocence?”

“Of course. Why all the questions?”

“I’ve been teaching the seminar for more than a decade now. Never had an inquiry from the police until Detective Rodriguez called the other day. That bothers me.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do. Rodriguez is convinced you have an agenda. Some other reason for being in my class. I’d like to know what that might be.”

“I don’t have an agenda, ma’am. Perhaps we, or I, made a mistake going to the forest preserve. But we were eager to get going. Make something happen, I guess. We had no idea there was a body there.”

“Whose idea was it to go into the woods?”

“We decided together. Over a few beers. I know, stupid.”

“Stupid’s one word for it.”

“We’ve apologized,” I said. “I’m not sure what else I can do.”

Z allowed the silence to build. I imagined she’d used the tactic many times in her career as a journalist. Probably to pretty good effect.

“How well do you know your classmates?” she finally said. “Ms. Gold, for example?”

“We graduated together. But I wouldn’t say I know her well.”

Z sharpened her eyes a touch. I wasn’t sure if I was lying, but it definitely felt like it.

“And Mr. Havens?”

“Never met him until last week.”

“You three getting along?”

“Can I ask why you’re so interested?”

“Certainly. It’s a small class. One of the first things I have to do is take the temperature. See who fits together and who doesn’t.”

“We get along just fine.”

“There are always differences between students. Backgrounds, personalities. Some are more…” She paused, eyes searching my living room ceiling for the right word. “More fragile than others.”

“We’re all pretty tough.”

Z studied me. There was a hard cast to her mouth that softened as quickly as it appeared. “That’s good to hear, Ian.” She picked up one of my files without looking at it. “Have you made any progress on Harrison?”

I took the file out of her hand. “I think we’ll have something for you.”

“By next week?”

“I hope so.”

“Wonderful. Well, I guess I’d better get going.” We walked to my front hallway, where she checked her reflection in a mirror. For a moment I saw her as a woman and suddenly wondered what she did with her nights. Boyfriend? Bars? Home with a movie and some takeout? I wondered when was the last time she’d gotten herself laid. Maybe she was reading my mind. Or maybe I was reading hers.

“I’m going into the city tonight,” she said. “A play at the Goodman.”

I didn’t respond.

“Don’t worry, Ian, I’m not asking you to go with me. It’s not like I even have an extra ticket.” Her laugh was loud and harsh. Like the bray of a donkey, except bordering on hysterical.

“I wasn’t thinking that, ma’am.”

She waved a long, thin hand. “Never mind. What are your plans for tonight?”

“I’ve got a few more things here I need to do.”

“I just saw your classmates downtown. At that Irish pub. What is it? Nevin’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Havens and Ms. Gold. Looked like they were having a nice time. Are you planning on joining them?” Another small, hard smile.

“In fact, I probably will.”

“Glad to hear it. Thanks for taking the time to chat. If you need any help, feel free to give me a call. That’s what I’m here for.”

I shut the door behind her and took a look at myself in the mirror. Fucking bitch. Twenty minutes later, I locked up my house and headed out for the night.

They got to her place at a little after one in the morning. I could tell by the mincing steps she took and the way he held her elbow that she was drunk. They stopped on the front porch. She lifted her head and her shoulders shook with laughter. She almost lost her balance and reached out to grab his shirt. An arm slipped around her waist. I moved my eyes to the rearview mirror. A smear of headlights approached. A dark sedan swept past and kept going. Then a second. I turned up the radio and looked back at the porch. They had their backs to me, and Sarah was finding a key to unlock the front door. Jake turned and stared right at me, but I knew he couldn’t see anything. The door popped open. He held it and they both went in. It was three flights up to her apartment, a full minute before a light came on. Then, a second. I watched their silhouettes float back and forth across the room. A hand pulled the curtains shut. Ten minutes after that, the lights went out.

The radio was tuned to an all-news station. They freshened the headlines every six minutes. I listened to three updates and then got out. Havens’s Honda was parked under a streetlight. I looked inside and saw a shovel in the back and a green tarp. I went back to my car. Six updates later, a light in the living room came back on. A hand tugged the curtains open. Twelve minutes after that, Havens appeared on the front porch, alone. I waited until he’d left. Then I waited ten more minutes. I got out of the car, locked it, and walked toward Sarah Gold’s apartment.

The young boy stared at the four-letter word glowing on the screen of his phone.
home
. He tapped the screen and the phone number itself appeared. The 410 area code sent a jumble of feelings through him. Sadness. Warmth. Pity. Fear. He thought he’d be used to being alone by now. But he just couldn’t toughen up. A door kicked open at the far end of the alley. He slipped the phone into his pocket and doused his cigarette.

“Luke? Where the fuck are you? We got a full house in there. God-damnit, Luke?”

The door slammed shut and Luke was alone again. He worked as a bar-back at a place called Timbers in Chicago’s Boystown. He’d only gotten the job because they thought he was gay and might bring in customers. Luke let them think what they wanted. It wasn’t the first time he’d used his looks to gain an edge. Then his fat-fuck pig of a boss had come on to him. Luke should have expected it. Still, it disgusted him. But he needed the money. So he gave the pig some halfway decent head. Not the first time he’d gained an edge that way either.