The Innocence Game Part 12

"It's not a joke," Z said. "Maybe I should have told you this in our first cla.s.s. If so, I apologize. But here it is. Don't screw with a Chicago cop. They can be ruthless, extremely violent, and largely devoid of conscience. If you threaten them, they'll do whatever they have to in order to protect themselves or whatever else they feel needs protecting. They carry a badge. They carry a gun. And some of them don't think twice before using either."

"I suspect we might have gotten a little taste of that already," Havens said. Then he described our trip to the evidence warehouse and my traffic stop.

"And you didn't feel the need to mention this when Rodriguez was here?" Z said.

"I don't remember him asking about it." Havens smiled. We all did. Except for Z.

"What did they get out of the car, Ian?"

"Paperwork from the Wingate file. Police reports, case notes. Stuff like that."

"And you kept no copies?" Z said.

"Those were the copies," Havens said, cutting me off. He didn't want Z to know about the notes I'd reconstructed from memory, which was fine by me.

"So you have nothing from the warehouse?" Z said.

"Hardly." That was Sarah. Hard to believe, but I'd almost forgotten about last night-the vodka, the beach, the swim.

"How so, Ms. Gold?"

"Big picture? Jake gets a letter about Wingate. We go to the crime scene and the police find another body nearby."

"You heard the detective. No plausible connection to Wingate."

"Still," Sarah said, "it happened. Fact. Then we go down to the warehouse, and all the evidence is gone. I mean, the box is there and a few sc.r.a.ps, but everything else is gone."

"Evidence often disappears," Z said. "Especially in older cases."

"Our point is this," Sarah said. "We think there's something wrong here." She paused. Havens and I nodded in agreement. "Someone doesn't want us to look at this case. And we don't understand why."

Z creased her upper lip with her knuckle and sank into a frown. I thought she might have forgotten we were there when she suddenly spoke. "How did you guys feel about my bringing in Rodriguez today?"

"I thought it sucked."

"Don't pull any punches on my behalf, Mr. Havens."

"How would you feel, if you were sitting in our seats?" Havens said.

"I'd probably feel like I got sandbagged."

"Exactly."

Z turned to me. "What do you think, Ian?"

"I think you struggled with the decision but thought Rodriguez was a homicide cop and it was better we talk here than downtown." I paused. "But I gotta agree with Jake. From where we sit, it sucked."

"Fair enough. The next question is this: Do you still trust me?"

"Do you trust us?" Sarah said.

Z tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "I can't say I'm thrilled with what you've been up to. But I'm impressed. And a little intrigued."

"That's not an answer," Sarah said.

"I guess I'm going to have to think about it."

"Right back at you," Sarah said.

Z rocked lightly in her chair. I thought she might get up and leave. Suspend the seminar. Pull the next three students off her waiting list and start all over. I couldn't half blame her.

"You honestly don't think there's something wrong here?" Havens said.

"I can't tell you how many cases I've looked at, Mr. Havens, where I knew something was wrong. I knew it. But I couldn't prove it. The facts just weren't there. Sometimes they even pointed in an opposite direction. So I kept my mouth shut and watched the bad guys walk. Hardest part of the job, and a lesson you all need to learn. You heard Rodriguez. It's not what someone did. It's what you can prove."

"We need a little more time with Wingate," I said.

"You've had three days and nearly gotten arrested twice."

"That's not a problem," I said.

"For you, maybe not. For the university, it's a big problem."

"You still haven't told us what you think of the case," Havens said.

"I told you it was intriguing. Which means nothing. Based on what I've actually seen, your investigation is at a dead end."

"We still have a couple of leads to run down," I said.

"And you don't want to tell me about them?"

"We want you to trust us," Sarah said.

Z's fingers sounded like dead bolts as she drummed them on the desk. "Trust is a two-way street."

"We understand," Sarah said.

"I'm good with that," Havens said.

I just nodded.

"Okay. One more week." Z slipped on her gla.s.ses. "Right now, I need each of you to write up a memo on your trip to the forest preserve, as well as everything you remember about the evidence warehouse. Then I need a summary of where the investigation stands and what your next steps might be. Please give me as many specifics as you can spare."

"I've got a question," I said.

"Where would we be without it, Mr. Joyce?"

"The notes we generate in this cla.s.s, could they wind up in the hands of your friend Rodriguez?"

"You mean voluntarily?"

"I mean at all."

"If the university should get subpoenaed, I would hope we would fight it as protected material under the First Amendment."

"You would hope?" Sarah said.

"No guarantees the school would fight. And certainly no guarantees we would win."

"How about you?" Havens said. "Would you turn our stuff over to the cops?"

"Are there any surprises in there?"

"That's not the answer we're looking for," Havens said.

Z sighed. "Provided you haven't broken any laws, I would, of course, keep any work product confidential. If I find something that's troubling, then we talk about it. Before anything goes anywhere. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," I said. My cla.s.smates agreed.

"Okay," Z said. "Here's how it's going to work. If you get any leads, any hard evidence you think someone like Rodriguez might be interested in, you bring it to me. Immediately. Understood?"

We all nodded again. And, in doing so, promptly broke rule number one.

"Good. Get going on your memos." Z dismissed us with a wave and reached into the bottom drawer of her desk for some aspirin. She slugged them down with a c.o.ke.

I opened my laptop and created a new doc.u.ment t.i.tled WINGATE INVESTIGATION. I snuck a look at my cla.s.smates. Sarah smiled back. Havens gave me a quick nod. We hadn't told Z about the two old cases we'd connected to Wingate for a simple reason. Sixteen years ago, she'd been the lead reporter on one of them: an inside look as investigators worked the disappearance of Billy Scranton. Havens shared the Tribune stories with us just before we walked into Z's cla.s.s. It was good stuff. Good enough to win our professor her first Pulitzer.

Conflict of interest, indeed.

20.

We walked out of Fisk at a little after eleven. The campus was ripe with summer. Lawns, thick and lush. Trees, dappled with touches of late-morning sun. Along the paths, flowers bloomed in rushes of color: pinks and blues, orange, lavender, and carpets of yellow. No one spoke as we walked. No one was anxious to break the spell. We pa.s.sed through the university's main gate and stopped at the corner of Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road. A lime-green VW rolled up to a red light. Z was behind the wheel. None of us said a word. The light changed, and she accelerated away.

"Nice color," Havens said. "Think it works with her hair?"

"Shut up." Sarah hit the b.u.t.ton on the traffic signal. We waited for the light to change again and crossed the street.

"What did you think about Rodriguez?" I glanced across at my cla.s.smates.

"I thought we stuck up for ourselves pretty well," Havens said.

"I thought it was scary," Sarah said. "And I'm glad we didn't leave anything inside that cave."

"You think there's any chance the boy in the cave is connected to Skylar Wingate?" I said.

"We already talked about this," Havens said.

"Why did you ask Rodriguez about it?"

"Just to see if he agreed with us. And he did. Too much time between crimes. Unless we find evidence otherwise, end of story." Havens rubbed his belly and grumbled. "How about some lunch?"

We found his car parked illegally, with an NU parking ticket stuck on its windshield. "f.u.c.k them." Havens threw the ticket in the gutter and popped the locks. "Get in."

"My car's up by Norris," Sarah said.

Havens waved her into the backseat. "I'll give you a lift."

Sarah's car was in a lot near the student center. She followed us back up Sheridan. I rode with Havens.

"Where are we going?" I said.

"Your choice," Havens said.

"Take a left on Central. About a mile up, there's a place called Mustard's Last Stand."

"Any good?"

"Oh, yeah."

Mustard's Last Stand had been a Northwestern staple for forty years. A red-roofed shack jammed next to Ryan Field, it specialized in dogs and Polish, 100 percent Vienna beef, shoestring fries, steamed buns, and all the fixings. Not bad before a football game. Or any other time for that matter. I tried to eat there at least twice a week.

We ordered at the counter. Our grill man was a guy named Smitty. He was from Glasgow. How a Scotsman wound up in Mustard's was an enduring mystery to everyone, especially Smitty. He'd worked there for five years. Mostly because he was too big to fire and no one could understand a thing he said anyway. Today, Smitty wore the standard uniform, a yellow Mustard's Last Stand T-shirt and a red bandana around his otherwise bald dome. He was sweating profusely and swatted at a bug that had crawled onto the white wax paper he wrapped the dogs in.

"Ian, how are ye?"

"Good, Smitty. How you doing?"

"I'm a wee bit f.u.c.ked at the moment. One of the fryers is down and the c.u.n.t of a repairman was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"That sucks."

"I don't need it, Ian. Last night, I go for a few pints. Celtic are playing Barcelona in a friendly. Messi gets three and my boys get pounded. f.u.c.king Spanish b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Next time, Smitty."

"Aye." He swatted at another small bug and flicked it away with the back of his hand. For the first time, he registered Sarah and smiled. "Ye brought some friends in."

Sarah had no idea, I was certain, what the Scotsman had been babbling about. And was appropriately horrified, I was also certain, at the swatting of flies, et cetera. No matter. Smitty loved pretty women. And so the Glasgow accent got that much thicker.

"And what might your name be, la.s.sie?"