Goshen played a light over lumps of black, coffin boxes of evidence covered in dust. Forgotten by everyone. Cataloged by Ray.
“Here, put these on.”
Goshen handed me a set of latex gloves and a white breather. I started at one end of an aisle. He started at the other. The work was slow, box by box. Pull one off the shelf, open it up, and pick through the pieces of old crimes.
Some of the material was strictly forensic: small plastic bags of hair, blood smears, or nails clipped off a corpse.
Then there was the echo of what was once a life.
In one box, coloring books, the pictures half finished, a child’s name in crayon, smeared with blood.
In another, a CD of Pearl Jam’s Ten, AMANDA scrawled on the cover with a flower. Underneath the CD, a calendar from 1996. Filled with dates that never mattered. People never met. A life never lived and now forgotten.
Two hours into the process, I picked up a small box with 12/24/97 scrawled across the side. My heart tightened for two reasons. That was the day of Elaine Remington’s attack. Even better, the signature on the box belonged to John Gibbons.
Goshen was around the corner working on another aisle. I sliced open the box and found a single manila envelope inside. It appeared to be intact, with Gibbons’ initials and the date written across the red evidence seal. I sliced through the seal and slid out a single item, a green women’s polo gashed in several places and crusted with blood, now the color of rust. I felt a presence at my elbow.
“What you got?” Goshen said.
I showed him the evidence box.
“The date is right and it’s got Gibbons’ name,” I said. “But there’s no case number.”
Goshen picked up the envelope and turned it over. His fingers were thin, nails long and ragged.
“Nothing on the envelope, either.” The warehouse man winked. “Almost like someone wanted it to be lost.”
“I’m thinking this is the shirt my victim was wearing.”
“I’m thinking you might be half-ass right for once. Let’s go back to the office.”
We sat down with two cans of Old Style and the shirt between us. It was almost winter in Chicago but mid- July in Goshen’s cubbyhole. A fan chugged away in one corner. Goshen popped open his beer and pushed half the can past an impossibly large Adam’s apple, never taking his eyes off the shirt. And never touching it.
“Officially,” he said, “this piece of evidence doesn’t really exist. No case number, no log-in report, no other identifying marks.”
Goshen craned his neck, rolled his eyes, and pushed at the shirt with a pencil.
“I got to go out and clean up that fucking mess you made out there. When I come back, I have a lot of work to do. I don’t want you here, and I don’t want any more distractions lying around. You got it?”
I got it.
“You really don’t like the DA, do you?” I said.
Goshen gave me a look of pure nothing and left. Like any good civil servant, he cherished institutional hatred, nurtured the otherwise forgotten slight, and polished a grudge like it was gold. Whatever the DA’s office had done to Goshen, it wasn’t good for them. For me, however, it was a different story entirely. I picked up the shirt carefully, folded it into its envelope, and slipped out of the warehouse. As quickly and as quietly as I could.
CHAPTER 17
I returned to my office and slid the green polo into one of those secret hiding places they teach you in private-investigator school. Also known as my bottom left-hand drawer. Then I turned on the radio. ESPN was doing a hot-stove report on the Cubbies. Be still my heart.
I listened intently, pondering deep thoughts, such as what manner of men might pay Alfonso Soriano $136 million to play baseball and where, pray tell, I might get such a gig. Then I noticed a piece of paper slipped under my door. I walked over and picked it up. Eat-A-Pita was having a special on char-grilled shrimp pitas layered with onions and wasabi sauce. I turned off the hot stove and was about to head out when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but picked up anyway.
“Kelly, it’s Vince Rodriguez.”
The detective’s voice seemed a little stretched. Whatever he needed to talk about, Rodriguez had given it some thought and was uneasy.
“You eat yet?” he said.
I told Rodriguez about the special at Eat-A-Pita. He seemed properly impressed.
“How about I meet you there,” he said. “Half hour.”
I FOUND RODRIGUEZ in a booth by the window. I figured the detective wanted one of two things. Help with a case. Or help with Nicole. I had barely sat down before I got my answer.
“You and Nicole,” Rodriguez said.
“Yeah.”
“Friends since you were kids.”
“Nicole told you all that, huh?”
“A little bit.”
“She grew up a couple houses down the street. Over on the West Side. I looked out for her growing up. Now I think she looks out for me.”
I took a cursory look at the menu and kept talking.
“Why the interest, Detective?”
I tried to keep the grin out of my voice. Across the table, the Unflappable One squirmed.
“She probably told you. We got a bit of a thing.”
“A thing?”
I took a sip of water and waited.
“You know how it is. On the job and stuff.”
A waitress drifted over. We both ordered the special. Rodriguez added an iced tea.
“If she likes you, don’t try to figure it out,” I said. “Just take it as a blessing. Pray she doesn’t wake up one day and change her mind. At least that’s what I’d do. Is that all you wanted to ask me, Detective?”
“Pretty much. I just wanted to see, you know.”
“Whether we were more than friends?”
“Yeah.”
I shrugged.
“Never have been. Just not like that.”
I thought Rodriguez would let it lie. I was wrong.
“Is there something else going on with her?”
“How so?” I said.
“I don’t know. Just seems like there’s some kind of hurt. When you were around the other night, it got a little easier. At least, it seemed that way.”
“How much does she mean to you, Detective?”
“You think I like making a fool of myself in front of an ex-cop I barely know?”
“You give it time. You let her figure it out. Let her figure you out.”
“I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t work together. Maybe that would make it better.”
“Can’t answer that for you.”
Rodriguez emptied a packet of sugar into his tea and watched it dissolve.
“I’m not a guy who’s been married before,” he said. “No divorce or any of that stuff. You were a cop. You know what I mean.”
I did.
