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“He’s here. In the area. He lives on the South Side of Chicago, just a bit south of the Loop.”
My mouth was suddenly dry.
“You won’t contact him?”
“Are you nuts? Of course not,” I said, knowing I was lying. “All this is in your email?”
“Yes, in greater detail. I could have withheld his current address, but hey, you’re the client and you deserve everything I found.” She paused for a minute. “I just sent it over to you. Take a look and let me know if you have any more questions. I also attached my invoice. Thankfully, what you owe is a good bit less than what I quoted. God bless the internet.”
I stood to go back inside. I’d be missing work again, but I had to see where this guy was. He could be the key to everything. “Thank you so much, Harriet. I’ll get your payment right out. Venmo okay?”
“Sure. Now remember, no contact, especially not in person.”
“Of course. Um, is he on social media?”
“Not at all, so don’t think of even checking that out.”
“I wasn’t.” I lied again. I was suddenly impatient with her, wanting to get to my laptop and see more. I bid Harriet McGill a hasty goodbye and headed back into the condo.
The first thing I did was call work. Fortunately, my boss’s phone went immediately to voicemail.
“Becky? So sorry, but I’m under the weather today. I think it’s just that summer bug that’s going around. I took a COVID test, and it’s not that, so I hope to be back in the office tomorrow. I know I’ve been missing a good bit lately, but you know what I’m going through, so please be understanding.” I hung up, not caring whether Becky Osborne was understanding or not.
I hurried back to the second bedroom, where there was a small desk set up with a MacBook Air that Marc and I shared for home use. I immediately signed into my Gmail. There was Harriet McGill’s new message, in bold. My finger hovered over the keyboard for a moment. I was unsure if I wanted to open it. I knew I would, but I recognized this could be a life-changing moment. There was no guarantee that the truth would set me free or even improve my life in any way. I drew in a deep breath and clicked on the email to open it.
Before I even began reading, I knew this would send me down a road that I may regret traveling.
But the switch had been flipped, and I was like an addict whose drug of choice had been set in front of him. There was no turning back.
I skimmed the email and opened its attachment. McGill had outlined the basics and here were the details—arrest dates, times of incarceration, a long list of prior known addresses (none in St. Clair), and details about Walker’s height and weight, date of birth (1958), and other personal details. But the one detail I both dreaded and was dying to see was there, near the bottom.
Keith Walker’s last known address was on Roosevelt Road, just west to the Loop, heading out toward the western suburbs of Cicero and Berwyn.
I googled the address and then went to the Chicago Transit Authority’s Trip Planner. I could take two L trains and a bus and be outside the address within a couple of hours.
Hey, I now had the day off and even though the prospect of questioning this person made me sick to my stomach, I knew I’d be unable to stop myself. I printed out the route from the CTA trip planner, folded it, and put it in the pocket of my jeans.
As I headed out the door, I refused to think of anything at all, and certainly not what might await me at the end of my multi-part public transportation journey.
VI
When people think of Chicago, they often think of world-class architecture, the ocean-like expanse of Lake Michigan at its eastern border, Millennium Park, the Loop, and Water Tower Place.
Many tourists never see the urban blight parts of the windy city. There’s really no reason to, unless you’re tracking a man who traffics in child abduction and god only knows what else.
The part of Roosevelt Road I stood on after the bus dropped me off was essentially charmless. Weed-choked vacant lots, litter, and a series of brick buildings, some red and some white, told a tale of urban decay and despair. Areas like these were where hope came to die. To the east, the skyscrapers of downtown rose up, majestic glass and steel castles, but they might as well have been in another world.
The air was choked with smog, hazy. The only smell was exhaust fumes.
There was a ministry/shelter that catered specifically to men across the street. Near the corner of Central Park Avenue (a misnomer for this poor neighborhood) was a white-brick, three-flat apartment building. It appeared to rise up out of cracked concrete and weeds.
This was where, according to Harriet McGill, Keith Walker, aka Chris Sgro, now resided.
Poor him. I mean,literally, poor him. The building looked like it could be swallowed up by the ground around it. There were several broken windows, a few more that were boarded over with cheap particleboard. Intact windows, grimy, sported sheets and blankets as draperies. The front door’s long rectangular window was also boarded over and the wood had been gang-tagged. What vegetation there was near the three-steps leading up to the front door were yellow, dead.
Did anyone actually live here? If I were driving by, my first thought would becrack house. I’d remind myself I wouldn’t want to be passing through the neighborhood after dark.
I took another gander at my surroundings. The streets were eerily empty. The only sound was the occasional passage of a car, truck, or bus. Further west, I spotted a sign that looked to be that of a convenience store and there were some signs of life in front of it. Three or four men milled about outside, wearing ribbed tank tops and baggy jeans.
