Children of Chicago Page 13

  “Do you know anyone who’s ever played this game? “

  “No, but even if I have, I’d never tell. I’m not getting mixed up with any of that,” he laughed nervously.

  Washington grumbled in the background. “Good.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Lauren asked Washington.

  “It’s crazy that you believe in this, Frank.”

  He laughed. “I’m not saying I believe in it. I’m not saying I don’t believe in it. I do know there’s some weird stuff going on, and I’d just rather stay away from it. Oh, and there’s just one more thing...”

  “What’s that?” Lauren asked.

  “If at any point you try to stop it, you’re done for.”

  “What do you mean?” Lauren looked over to Washington who rolled his eyes, as if he could not believe she was entertaining this.

  “Exactly that, if at any point you tell him that you’re done, that you no longer want to participate, that you don’t want that person dead anymore, then he comes for you, and kills you.”

  “And how do you know he’s going to hold up his end of the bargain? Like, he’s going to kill your target and then leave you alone?” Lauren asked.

  “You don’t,” Frank said. “Sure, maybe he’ll take out the person you named, but how do you know he’s not going to turn it around on you and ask you to kill people for him instead? You can’t trust these things, I say. Summoning spirits. Communicating with supernatural beings. I know people are curious, they want to see what’s out there, but there’s a reason why these are dangerous games.”

  “Thought you didn’t believe in any of this?” Washington said from his seat.

  “Again, I’m not saying I believe in it. I’m not saying I don’t believe in it. I’m only saying that I’ve heard about it, and I’m not messing with any of it.”

  Lauren thanked Frank and ended the call.

  “Fairy tales? A nursery rhyme to call up some villain to kill your enemies? I’ve heard it all. I tell you this, I’m glad I’m retiring. People around here have lost their damn minds, Medina.”

  “Kids, though?”

  “Look, people do horrible things to one another,” Washington said. “Young people are no different. They can most certainly do horrible things to each other. Last night, an eighteen-year old and a nineteen-year-old beat up a fifteen-year-old on the blue line train so bad they broke her nose. Her face was swollen so bad her eyes were shut. Why? Because they wanted her damn phone. They broke someone’s nose and messed up her face for a phone. Think about that? This case of yours, it’s violent. It’s cruel. The case doesn’t make any sense, but they confessed. Finley and Mohammed confessed to their crime. It’s time to let it go. There’s no reason to give it any more energy than you’ve already given it. You solved the case. Let the law play out how these kids will be punished. They’ll serve their time. You did your job. A good job too.”

  Lauren removed her ponytail, running her fingers through her hair before retying her hair back up in a tight bun. “They confessed to what they did to Evie, but about Daniel, that’s where things get cloudy. They’re not sure what happened. They’re blaming each other, and the Pied Piper.”

  “Is this why you want to talk to Jordan? You think he knows something about this Pied Piper mess?”

  She knew it sounded crazy to him, but she nodded anyway.

  Washington sighed. “Again, let it play out in the courts.”

  “I still need to talk to Jordan.”

  “Whatever, talk to the kid. Just don’t let him think the rest of the police force believes in this nonsense.”

  “Fine,” she raised a hand up, hoping he’d stop, but he didn’t.

  “You’ve got enough work to do out here. You got your bad guys. Anytime you get your bad guy it’s a good day.”

  “Then why do I feel like I didn’t?” Lauren asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  She propped her elbow on her desk and rested her head in her hand. “People are always so horrified when they hear about how bad Chicago is, but you know, it’s always been bad. It’s like this damn city is cursed. Our city was literally founded on a massacre site, Fort Dearborn in 1812. Then we held thousands of Confederate soldiers in a prisoner-of-war camp down south at Camp Dearborn where many died of cold and disease. Then the Eastland Disaster, Chicago’s Titanic, where over 800 people drowned. Then there’s just so much more,” Lauren crossed her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “Chicago fire. Mafia crime bosses. Serial killers. Street gangs. Chicago has it. We have such a bloody past and present that it just makes you wonder.”

  “Wonder what, Medina? If Chicago was built on top of a cursed Native American burial ground?” He smirked.

  “No, not like the movies, but in a way people have always been killed right on the site of this city since before it was a city,” she rubbed her forehead. “I guess I don’t know what I’m trying to say other than Chicago’s always been the kind of place to breed and attract tragedy. It’s not right, but something about this place seems to draw out the worst in people. And if kids are using some game, some nursery rhyme as a justification for killing people, well, that’s all that is, an excuse. It plays into this darkness this city is founded on.”

  Van laughed. Lauren did not hear when he entered, but he was standing right behind her.

  “Couldn’t sleep either, Van?” Washington asked.

  “No, just left some notes here and had to come to grab them, to reread for my report.”

  “When’d you learn to read?” Washington asked.

  “Funny. Relax, Washington. This place isn’t your worry anymore. See you guys later.”

  When he exited, Washington turned towards Lauren. “He’s annoying.”

  “Thanks for leaving me with him.”

  “I had no say in that.”

  Lauren stood up and stretched her arms above her head. “I’m going to go home and try to get some sleep.” She reached for her car keys on her desk and then asked “Should I be worried about him? He asked a lot of questions about Marie tonight.”

  Washington stood up and stretched out his back. “He thinks Marie’s crime scene was tainted. A lot of people think that—or thought that. It was so long ago. Van’s a boy scout. He’s always got to get his nose in something to make sure things are being done the right way. Just ignore him. There’s nothing he’s going to turn up that your dad or I, or the dozens of people we had working on that case for years, didn’t already find. He’s convinced someone knows something more about Marie’s death.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because you were too busy worrying about your dying father and you didn’t need this. Why worry?” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember anything different, do you?”

  Lauren rubbed the side of her head with the base of her palm so hard it was as if she was hoping for some new information to spill out. “I remember leaving school, and I remember waking up at Humboldt Park. That’s it.”

  “You were a kid. A bad thing happened. That’s all. Ignore Van. He’s an ass.”

  Lauren was already halfway to the door when Washington shouted. “You shouldn’t believe in ghosts and monsters, Medina.”

  “Why not?” She smiled as she turned around. Fine, it sounded completely, utterly insane, but these kids believed it.

  “Because we, people, we’re the real monsters in this story.”

  She laughed because he was right.

  “Good luck tomorrow, Medina. I hope you get the answers you’re looking for.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The simultaneous ringing and vibration of her phone woke her. It took a moment for Lauren to register where she was. The sky was a dark blue, with streaks of orange. The sun was rising. It was cold. The cuffs of her pants were wet. She was barefoot. The soles of her feet stung. Ice. Frost. Lauren looked down to her phone in her hand. She looked to the garage in front of her. Lauren wa
s standing in her backyard, facing her garage. The house was behind her. Her mouth dropped. She stifled a scream. Her arms and legs trembled in the early morning chill. The ringing and the vibration fell away. Whoever was calling stopped.

  It was 6:00 a.m.

  She did not know how it was she came to be standing outside, or how long she had been standing here. Her last memory was entering the house, going upstairs and falling asleep face down on the bed. Maybe it was her active mind that willed her body out here. It had happened before, sleepwalking. Stephanie had told her about it and had urged her to get more sleep to prevent it from occurring again. It was called hypnagogia, a mental phenomenon that happened during the fine threshold between being awake and falling asleep. And in that in-between place is where lucid dreaming, sleep paralysis and hallucinations, could occur. The hag, she thought, and then she remembered the hag engraved on the sculpture of The Dream Lady in Lincoln Park. Hypnagogia, the name sounded like some mythological monster, because it was.

  It was then that she realized she was still holding her phone in her hand, and just as she looked down at her hand the phone erupted again. Blinking and buzzing. Lauren dropped her cell to the grass. Fear settled over her. She could not remember stepping outside, but here she was. She allowed the phone to ring. She did not recognize the number and was afraid to touch it for fear of answering a call in this confused state.

  When the caller finally gave up, she bent down and picked up her phone and held it at her side. She turned around and faced the house that she grew up in. The house that she inherited, a Chicago worker cottage. Worker’s cottages were built in the city as early as 1830. These were modest, utilitarian buildings made of wood. Some later versions were built of brick, but not hers. The Chicago worker’s cottage are either one or one and a half stories in height, with gabled roofs that faced the street. Their basic styles have remained the same, but they have varied over the decades in some accents, from Greek Revival to ornate Queen Anne. Yet, no matter how they have been adapted over time, their influence on this city remained. It mocked her. All of its windows were illuminated. Each and every light in the house appeared to have been turned on. She had no memory of turning on all of those lights. Lauren sucked in a breath, pulling in crisp morning air into her lungs. It was time to face to ghost within.

  Lauren proceeded to walk toward the back porch that led up to the first floor door. Once she reached the wooden steps she counted in her head, up the number of each step —one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. She shuffled across the small wooden deck and opened the back door. It had been unlocked, so she had no doubt that it was her, in her sleepwalking state, who had turned on all of the lights and walked to the backyard. She locked the door behind her, took a seat at a kitchen table, and slipped on her house shoes. She looked to the cabinet where she stored the coffee—and that now radiated energy from the key. She could hear it calling to her. It knew she was cold. It knew she did not want to return to this home, just like the poor little boy in “The Golden Key” who was forced to fetch wood in the deep snow, and who then did not want to go home. Instead, he wished he could light a fire and warm himself a little. As he scraped away at snow, he found a golden key. He felt what it opened must be nearby, and so he dug out more snow and found an iron chest and believed precious things would be found in that little box. He found the keyhole, turned, opened the lid, and the story—the very last story collected by the Grimms brothers—concluded with “and then we shall learn what wonderful things were lying in that box.” A mystery that was agonizing. The brothers had left her and the world and all of history to wonder what curiosities, what secrets lay within. Now, she had her own version of the golden key and she feared discovering what lay within that room. Now was not yet the time.

  It was then that she noticed how much colder it was inside the house than it was outside. She stood up, grabbed her faded navy-blue academy sweatshirt and pulled it on. She walked over to the thermostat and raised it. The house would warm soon. Then, she walked up the stairs to the second floor. She started in the master bedroom. She walked to the end of the bedroom, making sure nothing was out of place, and then she turned off the bedroom light before entering the master bathroom, looking it over, and then turning off the light there as well.

  She proceeded down the stairs to the basement. There, she turned off the light to the laundry room, small bathroom, and then she stood in the middle of the open space for a moment. The finished basement was brightly painted white. Her father had installed drop lighting a few years back. He would hold Christmas parties here for his co-workers, and during the rest of the year, this was where he would come to watch the Bears, Bulls, Black Hawks, Chicago Cubs, or the White Sox play on his large screen television. Unlike many Chicagoans, her father held no allegiance to either the Chicago Cubs or the White Sox. “We have two baseball teams and that is an incredible thing,” he would say as he watched their games and cheered both teams on. When the Cross Town Classic would roll around in summer—when the Cubs and Sox would play each other—her dad would just enjoy the game, content with either outcome.

  The White Sox were as mythical as the Cubs. The Chicago Cubs were well-known for the Curse of the Billy Goat, when Billy Goat Tavern owner William Sianis was refused entry into a game with his pet goat, named Murphy, in 1945. He cursed the Cubs saying simply “Them Cubs, ain’t gonna win no more.” And they didn’t win a World Series for seventy-one years, until the curse was lifted by his ancestor. Decades before Sianis, it was eight players of the White Sox, later nicknamed the Black Sox of 1919, who threw the World Series for money in a gambling syndicate. Even the most enjoyable and wholesome things can hold a history of wickedness.

  On the first floor, she turned off the lights to the living room, dining room, and what had been her father’s bedroom. She quickly turned off the lights in the guest bedroom, merely opening the door and sliding down the light switch. She did not want to look at the spots where she had patched up those bullet holes. Lauren would wait for another day to paint that room. She then walked up to her father’s office door and looked down at the space between the floor and the door. The light was off. She breathed relief knowing she did not need to get the key out from the cupboard today.

  Her phone rattled on the kitchen table. The screen illuminated with that unknown number again. It was probably someone from work she finally reasoned, or someone finally willing to give her answers to a case.

  “Hello,” she said with a croak. Her throat was dry. She needed water. She moved to the sink and poured herself a glass. It had been hours since she had spoken. Her own voice sounded foreign to her.

  “Hi, Detective Lauren Medina?” The voice on the other end waited for confirmation.

  “Yeah,” Lauren said after gulping down the glass of water and setting it on the counter. She could not quite place the voice, but that was not unusual. Her business card had been passed out all over the city.

  “Detective Medina here.” She took a seat at the kitchen table.

  “It’s Elizabeth, Liz Santos with Young Chicago Writers. I’m sorry for calling so early, but I know this has moved so quickly. We got your application, and I got your message and spoke with Earle. We’re very happy to have you join us.”

  Lauren rubbed her forehead. “Right, yeah. Thanks for calling.” She settled down at the kitchen table. Listening.

  “Sorry for calling a few times. We have Jordan coming in at 7 a.m. and want to be sure you’ll be here today. If not, we’ll team him up with someone else for the day.”

  “No, I’ll be there,” Lauren looked at the time. She did not have much time to shower, get ready and make it over there.

  “Great, do you have any questions?”

  “No,” Lauren lay her head on the table for a moment, and then she straightened herself up. “I mean, just not right now, but I’m sure I’ll have some questions later this morning.”

  “We’re always in need of mentors, and I’m happy y
ou offered to help. It’s such a difficult time for Jordan. He’s bright. He’s a wonderful writer, but with the recent loss of his friend I just don’t want for things to...”

  “Turn dark,” Lauren ended her sentence. Whether or not she was going to use those same words, it did not matter. It is the essence of what Liz meant. Getting lost and allowing the streets to feast on your bones.

  “Exactly.”

  “I understand.” Lauren hesitated. “I actually spoke with him Sunday, the night of Hadiya’s murder.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” Liz’s voice grew softer.

  “I was there taking witness statements. I was gone by the time he got there. An officer at the scene got his contact information, and I reached out...”

  “Excuse, me Lauren, but would you mentoring him cross some sort of, I don’t know, department line? Is he under investigation?”

  “No, no, not at all. I mean. I told Washington...Earle that I wanted to mentor, and I know he was a board member there for many years. He mentioned you needed help in the morning and that’s when I had free.”

  “Strange coincidence,” Liz said.

  “I didn’t think it was the same Jordan. That’s totally fine that it is, right?” She continued speaking, without allowing Liz a moment to respond. “But no, he’s not under investigation or anything at all. He’s not even an eyewitness. He arrived just as we were leaving. I know it’s hard to lose someone when you’re so young. I lost someone when I was around that age.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about that. Alright, I’ll speak with him to be sure he’s comfortable with the arrangement. Jordan is usually at our center a few minutes right before seven.”

  “Sure, of course. I completely understand. I’ll be on time,” Lauren walked back over to the thermostat. The kitchen still felt as iced as it did when she came inside. “Can you tell me more about him?” She returned to the chair and crossed her legs beneath her, hoping to get warm soon.

  “Sure. He’s a senior at DePaul College Prep. Smart but needs direction sometimes. His home life is pretty quiet. He lives with his mother, and his father is deployed in the Army right now. His mother works a lot. So, he’s really on his own most of the time. He’s talented, and we’re just hoping to keep him focused. We hope that his mentor, you, can help him with his writing because that seems like an important outlet for him.”