The Innocence Game Part 15

"The place we're going to tomorrow?"

"The cops searched it from top to bottom after Skylar disappeared. They spent a day and a half right here." Havens pointed to a spot he'd circled in red. "In the boiler room."

"Why?" I said.

"Don't know, but they searched. So I'm gonna take a look."

"What makes you think there'll be anything left?"

Havens snapped his head up. "Left from what?"

I could feel his eyes on me. Fierce, intelligent, restless. "You're the one with the diagram, Jake. You tell me."

He folded up the drawing and slipped it into his pocket. "You're right. It's a long shot, but I figure it's worth a try."

I glanced past his shoulder, down the dim hallway. "You got a roommate?"

"He's gone for the Fourth. Lives in Columbus."

"And you sleep in here?"

Havens chuckled. "I call it the ugly brown room. I just push some papers off the bed and crawl in. I know, it's weird, but that's how I roll. College, law school, finals. I just sink into the stuff. Literally. And I don't surface until I get it right."

There was a large photo of Billy Scranton in his school uniform thumbtacked to the wall. I pulled it off and held it up. "And this stuff never bothers you?"

"You mean the murders?"

"The murders, the kids, the evidence. You don't mind all of it in your bedroom?"

"You get used to it. I've got a bunch more down here." Havens sorted through a pile on the floor and came up with an armful of folders.

"What are those?" I said.

"ViCAP pulled up eighteen more cases that might fit our pattern."

Havens lined up the folders on his bed. Each file had a photo of a child clipped to its front.

"That's a lot of kids," I said.

"We'd have three times this amount if we asked for the ones whose bodies were never found."

"And you're telling me each of these is somehow connected to Skylar Wingate?"

"Didn't say that. These cases fit our general search parameters only. ViCAP runs each case through several more filters before spitting out a final list. Chances are none of these wind up fitting our specific pattern. Then again, we'll never know for sure."

"Why's that?"

"You want some coffee?"

"You gonna answer my question?"

"Let's get some coffee."

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in Havens's kitchen. I couldn't find any sign he ever used the place. No pots, pans, gla.s.ses, dishes. No food that I could see. Just a coffeemaker, a sack of beans, and a couple of mugs. We sat on stools under the pale light from an overhead fixture and finished off what was left of a pot of blended Sumatra.

"I went over to the law school this morning to do some follow-up on ViCAP," Havens said. "My professor told me my requests got kicked back."

"What does that mean?"

"It means someone's squeezing the information pipeline dry. I can't get additional data on any of the new cases. In fact, I couldn't even get into the system."

"How do you log on to ViCAP?"

A smirk flitted across his lips. "So you think so, too?"

"Think what?"

"We've hit another trip wire and the alarms are going off."

"How did you log on?"

"It was a general log on from the law school. They can't trace it back to me ... or my professor."

"But they still shut things down?"

"My prof thinks they could have tagged sensitive files in ViCAP and triggered a shutdown if anyone made a request. Sort of a fail-safe to cover their a.s.s."

"How much does your professor know about what we're doing?"

"Hardly anything. I'm not saying he's not interested, but I've kept him out of it."

We sipped at our coffees. In my mind, I pictured a virtual game of chess, except our chessboard was a graveyard and our p.a.w.ns were dead kids.

"I don't think I can take all that stuff," I said.

"All what stuff?"

"Everything you've got in your room. What did you call it?"

"The ugly brown room."

"Right. Well, I can't store everything you've got in there. h.e.l.l, I couldn't fit it all in my car."

Havens shook his head. "No need. The new cases are useless without access to ViCAP. Everything else is mostly copies. I just have two more boxes I want you to take."

"Cool."

"You want 'em now?"

"Sure."

We walked back into the living room. I picked up the photo of Jake in the boat. It was the only sc.r.a.p of personal life I could find in the entire apartment. "Nice fish," I said.

Jake took the photo from me and looked at it as if he'd forgotten who was in it.

"That your brother?" I said.

He nodded. "Sarah tell you about him?"

"A little. I'm sorry, Jake."

"It's all right. His name was Charley." Jake put the photo back on the table. "She tell you I was adopted?"

"No."

"Yeah. Nice people. Love 'em a lot."

"But?"

"But nothing." He shrugged. "It's just not the same."

I nodded toward the picture. "I never did stuff like that. And I had a real mom growing up."

"What's your point?"

"Just that."

"Just what?"

"Everyone's different. And everyone's got stuff they drag around."

"I'll write that down first chance I get." Havens jerked his head toward the hallway. "You want those boxes or not?"

He led me to a small utility closet. There were two more Bankers Boxes inside, sealed up and ready to roll. I saw a knife and duct tape on the floor beside them. We each took a box and walked down to my car, where we packed them away in the trunk.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.

"Wingate's grammar school. Nine-thirty. And don't be late."

I stuck out my hand. We shook, my grip disappearing into his.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Havens said, his voice drifting off into a soft mumble.

"Don't be."

"Bulls.h.i.t. That was an a.s.shole thing to say. I love my family. And I'm lucky to have them."

"Yeah, you probably are."

"See you tomorrow, Joyce."

"Sure." I climbed into my car and started down the block. In my rearview mirror, Havens stood in the street, hands on his hips, and watched me go.

22.

Skylar Wingate's grammar school was on the Northwest Side of the city. It was housed in a redbrick building and flanked on one side by a cement playground. Sarah and I got there at nine-fifteen. Havens was sitting on the front steps, waiting for us.

"You guys see the papers this morning?" he said.

"I don't read the newspaper," Sarah said.

"Online?"

"Oh, no, I didn't get a chance."

"How about you, Joyce?"

"I scrolled through a few things."

"Our pal Rodriguez was in the news."

"Why?"

"Police finally issued a statement about the body they found in the cave. I thought the press would give it more play, but the kid was a runaway."

"Which means no one gives a d.a.m.n?" Sarah said.

"John Wayne Gacy killed thirty-three kids," Havens said. "To this day a bunch of them have never been ID'd."

"So?" Sarah said.

"So, do you give a d.a.m.n?"

"I didn't know ..."

"Exactly. You didn't know." Havens dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. Sarah looked like she might take a swing at him.

"Maybe we should focus on today," I said and pointed to the school's run of flat gla.s.s windows, curtains drawn down tight. "Where are all the kids?"

"Summer vacation," Havens said. "Place will be a ghost town until fall."