Stanton motioned for the musicians to play a hymn as he walked around and touched the bowed heads of many in the front rows. As the music softened, he called those who wanted to take Holy Communion to line up in the middle aisle. The boy who had handed him the Bible now passed him the Communion tray and held on to the chalice. I had taken as much as I could tolerate, so I made use of the commotion to slip out the door unnoticed.
In the van, I turned on some vintage Biggie and waited. Thirty minutes later, the first trickle of people slid through the door and out into the dark street. Minutes later, they came out in heavy waves, hustling into their cars, hopping on their bikes, and getting into the back seats of rideshares. They seemed so happy and peaceful, the vulnerable innocence of the ignorant. Stanton finally appeared carrying a small trash bag. The kid who had handed him the Bible was at his side. They exchanged a few words; then the kid hugged him and walked south as Stanton watched, his look lingering too long. When the kid had disappeared in the shadows, Stanton walked into the alley around the side of the building and then reemerged a few seconds later without the bag. He pulled out his phone, and the display lit up his face. He looked like he had been crying. He walked to the corner of Ashland, and a minute later a car pulled up to the curb. He got into the back seat, and I watched as he slithered away underneath the orange glow of the streetlights.
13
THE NORTH SHORE OF Chicago is a wealthy enclave of homogenous small towns elegantly clustered around the less populated portion of Lake Michigan’s shoreline. Even their names sound superior—Winnetka, Kenilworth, Lake Forest, and Glencoe. I had read somewhere that not only did the North Shore have some of the wealthiest zip codes in the entire country, but three of the towns ranked in the top 5 percent for US household income. Full of rambling mansions and scenic vistas, this moneyed corridor of power has been a longtime location favorite for Hollywood, featured in iconic movies such as Risky Business, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and Home Alone.
After a dizzying array of winding roads and security checkpoints, I arrived at the Gerrigan compound. It sat on the east side of Sheridan Road, staring into Lake Michigan as if daring the waves to encroach on its tediously manicured lawns. Violet had agreed that I could come and look at Tinsley’s room in the hope that I might find something that would help.
After I received clearance at the guard booth and the heavy iron gate allowed me onto the property, I followed a meandering brick driveway that itself must’ve been a mile long. The Gerrigan landscape was nothing short of breathtaking, not one blade of grass or one boxwood hedge branch out of place. I had the urge to touch them to see if they were real.
I’d as yet had only a glimpse of the property, but it was obvious the Gerrigans employed a small army of servants to maintain their gargantuan estate. It reminded me of something I had once heard my father say: “Rich people aren’t always the best dressed in the room, but their houses are masterpieces.”
I passed by several buildings, most of which would’ve been exceptionally large houses on their own. Then the driveway took a quick turn near the top of the hill, and the extent of the Gerrigan wealth became clear. A stone-and-ivy behemoth sat atop a massive clearing, so large it looked like they had taken several houses and welded them together to make one. I noticed three security guards making best efforts to be inconspicuous. One was on the east side of the roof, pacing slowly, sunglasses on and a wire running into his ear. Another was stationed near the seven-car garage, tucked behind a large maple. The third was sitting in a golf cart between the front lawn and a formal garden heading off to the side of the house. They were all packing underneath their jackets.
Gerrigan seemed to have no problem protecting his homestead. Made me wonder why with all his resources he couldn’t do a better job protecting his only daughter.
As I reached the top of the limestone steps, the substantial black door swung open. A slim Filipino woman with round glasses too big for her face and a light-blue uniform too big for her body greeted me with a pleasant smile and slight bow of the head. She escorted me through a labyrinth of cavernous rooms with the grace of someone who had grown bored with their mind-numbing lavishness. We stopped at what looked like a sunroom. It was all glass and pastel-colored furniture. The sun was bright, but not hot. Soft classical music piped in from the ceiling speakers. Violet Gerrigan was in the far corner of the room, sitting in a chair that looked more like
