The Innocence Game Part 21

I heard her. In my ear, all the way back to my car. That's when my cell phone buzzed. I half expected it to be Theresa, dropping the other shoe. Instead, it was the father of a dead girl, wanting me to buy him lunch.

29.

I met Ned Rolland at a Popeyes on California, just a block from the Criminal Courts Building.

"They only give us a half hour," he said and moved his eyes toward the line at the counter.

"Maybe we should order?" I said.

"Good idea."

He got the six-piece fried chicken dinner with sides of Cajun rice and mac and cheese. I ordered a large c.o.ke.

"You ain't gonna eat?" Ned looked like he didn't trust anyone who didn't eat, so I got a two-piece dinner. We took our food to a booth by the front window. He dug in. I picked at my food and watched.

"What do you do at the courthouse?" I said.

Ned stripped a chicken leg naked and dropped the greasy bone onto a small but growing pile. "I clean the bathrooms." He took a sip from his soft drink. "You been down to the courthouse?"

"Not yet."

"Uh-huh." Ned laid waste to a second leg of chicken and opened up the container of rice. "You smell like smoke."

I smiled. "Been a long morning."

"You said something in your message about my daughter, Rosina." Rosina Rolland was the name I'd copied off the tombstone Z had visited in Calvary Cemetery. Ned was Rosina's father. I'd done some research online and called him after I left Calvary. "Playing a hunch" is what journalists in the movies called it. Felt like fishing without a pole to me.

"I'm a student at Northwestern's journalism school," I said. "I've got this cla.s.s where we reopen old murders and try to find out who really did them."

"Rosina wasn't murdered. She died in a car accident."

"Your daughter's buried in Calvary Cemetery in Evanston."

"You don't think I know where she's buried?"

"Yes, sir. I was just wondering, why all the way up in Evanston? I mean, she grew up on the South Side, right?"

Ned halted a forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"I was wondering, sir ... and I know it's none of my business ... but who paid for Rosina's burial expenses?"

"That's what you want to know? Who paid to bury my daughter?"

"Yes, sir."

Ned put down his fork. "Why?"

It wasn't going particularly well, but I didn't see any choice at this point, so I barged ahead. "I think you're wrong, sir. I think your daughter might have been murdered. Or at least it wasn't an accident."

I could see the spark in his eye, the almost involuntary nod of the head. Ned Rolland's only daughter had been dead a long time, but he was still a dad. Which meant I had half a chance.

"I don't know who paid for the burial," he said.

"But someone did?"

"Yes. They insisted Rosina be buried up in Evanston. The whole thing cost some money, so I thought ..."

"You did what was best for your daughter. Would anyone else know who paid for the arrangements?"

"Someone from the police called and said it was taken care of. That's all I know."

"You don't remember a name?"

"It was twenty years ago."

"How about the funeral home?"

"Funeral home was on the South Side. Burned down a long time now. Why you so interested?"

I shook my head. "If you can't give me a name, it doesn't matter."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Ned Rolland wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin and packed up the trash from his lunch. Then he got up to leave. I stayed where I was.

"You coming?" he said.

"I'm just gonna sit for a minute if that's all right."

I felt his weight slide back into the booth. "Hey."

I looked up.

"You studying to be a journalist?"

"That's the idea."

"And you think you're gonna get anywhere giving up that quick?"

"I'm not giving up. It's just ..."

"You said my daughter was murdered. I'm not saying you're right. I'm not saying you're wrong. But there's a few things that always bothered me."

"I'm listening."

"Now you listening." Ned shook his head. "You got an hour?"

I checked my watch. Havens was supposed to pick me up at three for our appointment with Moncata. "Sure."

"Good. I've got something at home you might be interested in."

"What about work?"

"Thirty years scrubbing toilets, I'm ent.i.tled to an afternoon. Finish your chicken and let's go."

30.

By the time I got home, it was just past three. Havens's car was parked in front of my house. I slipped into the front seat.

"Where you been?" he said.

I was tempted to tell him about my lunch with Ned Rolland but decided to keep it to myself for now. Besides, it wasn't like I didn't have plenty of other news. "Street Ministry burned down last night."

Havens whistled. "I'm thinking we got 'em on the run."

"Yeah. Now if we only knew why."

Havens chuckled and slipped his car into gear. "Moncata?"

I pointed to the empty road stretching out ahead of us. "Moncata."

We found Sam Moncata in a midrise not far from Northwestern Hospital. He met us in the lobby and walked us through security. One of the guards asked us to sign in, but the scientist waved her off and pushed us through. We took an elevator to the seventh floor and walked down a long, drab corridor. Moncata stopped before a door that read ITB labs and swiped his ID through a reader. The door clicked and we were inside.

There was no receptionist. No waiting area. Just two more guards sitting behind a desk. They were watching three security monitors and wearing guns. Moncata led us past what looked like several empty labs to a suite of offices. Moncata's was a good-sized affair, with no windows, a wall of books, and a desk covered with pictures of what looked like grandkids. The man himself was small with a high forehead, bright eyes, and compact features. He looked to be in his mid-sixties and, from all appearances, still humming along at top speed.

"You guys said you were students?" Moncata took a seat behind his desk and gestured for us both to sit. I felt like we were talking to our dad. Or maybe on a job interview.

"Yes, sir," I said. "We're in the innocence seminar at Medill. Professor Zombrowski's seminar."

Moncata nodded vigorously. "Yup, yup. Worked with Judy. Sorry I can't give you a lot of time, but we're in the middle of a couple of things."

"You still working for the police?" Havens said.

"Used to. Chicago PD, then the FBI. But I went private long ago. We're a small outfit, highly specialized. The county hires us when they can afford it. Now, how can I help you?"

"We're working on the James Harrison case," I said.

"Yes, you told me as much over the phone."

"I'm not sure if you remember Grace Washington over at the Street Ministry?"

"You mentioned Grace on the phone as well."

"She says you did the forensic work for Mr. Harrison. On his appeal."

Moncata nodded along with me as I spoke. "Sure did. DNA testing on a bloodstain. I pulled the lab work for you." He pushed forward a black binder.

"Sounds like something about the case might have bothered you?" Havens said.

Moncata shifted in his chair so he could get a better look at my cla.s.smate. "And why do you say that, young fella?"

"Busy guy. Couple of students call about an old file, and yet you have time for us."

Moncata obliged us with a smile. "Either of you want something to drink?"

We shook our heads. Moncata got himself a Diet Dr Pepper from a small refrigerator. "You're right." Moncata popped open his drink and poured it into a cup. "Harrison bothers me. Always has."

"Why?" I said.

Moncata slipped on a pair of reading gla.s.ses and thumbed through the binder until he found the report he wanted. "We got a thirteen loci match. No doubt about it. The blood they sent us belonged to the victim." He flipped the binder shut. "I guess the thing that bothered me was that Harrison raised money for the testing himself. I mean, who does that? A guy who's guilty knows how it's gonna come back. Anyway, it always bugged me."

"How did you obtain the sample?" I said. "The one you tested?"

"The clerk's office sent it to us."

"What exactly did they send you?" I said.

"Little swatch of fabric from the defendant's jeans. Tagged as evidence and sealed. I signed for it."

"So you get the evidence, do your test, and return the sample?" I said.

Moncata rocked his head from side to side. "Depends. I mean that's how it's supposed to work, but sometimes I use up all the sample. Sometimes I just keep whatever I have left. Depends on the case. Depends on the court."

"How about in this case?" Havens said.

"Harrison? h.e.l.l, by the time I finished my testing, the man was dead."

"So you never shared your results with the court?" Havens said.

"I forwarded the results, but no one seemed very interested."