The Shining Girls

  Some of them are borderline. The woman who saw her mother’s spirit lingering after a burglary gone wrong, to make sure to tell her to feed the cat. The boyfriend who blamed himself – if he’d just let the muggers take his watch, the gun wouldn’t have gone off, she’d still be alive, and now he sees the same watch everywhere. In magazines and shop windows and billboard advertisements and on other people’s wrists. Do you think it’s God’s way of punishing me? he wrote.

  Kirby deals with these and the others that are clearly non-starters by sending back a brief and sincere letter thanking them for taking the time to write, and including information on free counseling and local victim support groups that Chet dug up for her.

  In all these months, only two seemed worth following up on. A girl stabbed outside a nightclub, who was found with an antique Russian cross around her neck. But the letter was from her Russian mobster boyfriend, who wanted Kirby to negotiate with the police on his behalf to get it back, because it was his mother’s, and he couldn’t exactly approach them directly given that it was his business dealings that got her killed in the first place.

  The other was a teenage boy (wide net, she thought to herself at the time) found in a tunnel where the skater kids hung out, beaten to death, with a lead toy soldier inserted in his mouth. The parents were distraught, sitting in their living room on a couch with a Peruvian throw over it, their hands clasped together as if their fingers had fused, asking if she had answers for them. Please, that’s all they wanted. Why? What did he do to deserve this? It was excruciating.

  ‘Any pictures from J today?’ Dan says, looking over her shoulder. J is their regular, who sends photographs of artfully arranged death scenes of a girl with heavy kohl make-up and red hair. She could be either J herself, if you assumed J was a woman, or J’s girlfriend. Drowned in a fishpond in a floaty white dress with her hair drifting out around her. Dead in a black lace number with elbow-length gloves, clutching a white rose in a pool of blood that looked suspiciously like paint.

  Today’s picture in the black envelope is of J sitting in a leather chair with her legs spread, in hold-up stockings and army boots, with her head tilted back and a spatter of red on the wall behind her, a revolver dangling from her limp fingers with perfectly manicured nails.

  ‘I bet you it’s an art student,’ Kirby complains. They never reply to J. And yet she keeps sending the kinky pictures.

  ‘Better than film students,’ Dan says, casually, filleting the fish.

  ‘It’s still killing you, isn’t it?’ she grins.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I slept with him.’

  ‘Of course you did. He was your first love. Not exactly a news flash, kiddo.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘None of my business,’ he shrugs, like it’s nothing, which gets to her, quite a lot, if she is honest with herself.

  ‘All right. I won’t tell you then.’

  ‘I still don’t think you should do a documentary.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I already turned down Oprah.’

  ‘Ow, shit!’ he says, burning himself on the steam as he drains the potatoes. ‘Seriously? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘My mom did. I was still in the hospital. She got hectic with journalists. She said they were all assholes, either they were basically breaking into my hospital room to get an interview, or they never called her back.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dan says, feeling guilty.

  ‘We had a lot of talk shows wanting me to come on. But it felt so voyeuristic. You know? It was part of why I had to take off. Just get away from all of that.’

  ‘I can understand.’

  ‘So don’t worry. I told Fred where to shove his documentary.’

  Kirby holds a peach envelope up to her nose. ‘This one even smells good. That has to be a bad sign, right?’

  ‘Hope you’re not going to say the same thing about my cooking.’

  Kirby snickers and tears open the envelope. the return address reads: St Helen’s Retirement Village. She pulls out two pages of old-fashioned stationery. The writing goes over the front and back of both pages. ‘Well, read it,’ Dan says, mashing the potatoes. He takes a particular pride in getting all the lumps out.

  Dear Mr KM,

  This is a peculiar letter to find myself writing and I confess that I hesitated, but your (rather obtuse) advertisement in the newspaper demands a response because it ties in with a family mystery that I have long been obsessed with even if it falls outside of your specified time-frame.

  It feels a little alarming to be sharing this information with you when I have no idea of what your intentions are. What was the purpose of your ad? Academic or some morbid curiosity? Are you a detective with the Chicago PD or a conman who trades on people’s hurt for whatever satisfaction it gives you?

  I’ll spare you further speculation because, I suppose, this is an opportunity that, like all opportunities, carries its own risk, but I trust that once you have read this, you will reply, if only to clarify your interest in this subject.

  My name is Nella Owusu, nee Jordan. My father and mother were both killed during World War Two, he abroad in the course of duty, she in Seneca, in a horrifying unsolved murder in the winter of 1943.

  My siblings – we were moved around between various orphanages and foster homes, but in adulthood were able to reconnect – think that I am inappropriately absorbed with this. But I was the oldest. I remember her best.

  Your ad specified that you were particularly interested in ‘out of place artifacts’.

  Well, when my mother’s body was consigned to the earth and the possessions found on her body released to us, the ‘artifacts’ included a baseball card.

  I mention this because my mother had no interest in the game. I cannot imagine why she would possibly have had a card on her person at the time of her death.

  We can discuss this further, if you can tell me more about the nature of your inquiry, and if I am up to it. I must warn you that I have been unwell of late.

  I trust that you will reply and not keep me guessing as to your motive. Kind regards,

  N. Owusu

  ‘Crank file,’ Dan declares, setting the plate down in front of her on the coffee table.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it might be worth checking out. ‘If you’re bored, I can find you stuff to do. I need background for the St Louis game coming up.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking about trying to write something about all this. Call it the Murder Diaries.’

  ‘Sun-Times would never run it.’

  ‘No, but maybe a zine would. The Lumpen Times or Steve Albini Thinks We Suck.’

  ‘Sometimes you speak a foreign language,’ Dan says, through a mouthful of food.

  ‘Get with the program, dude,’ she shrugs, pitch-perfect Bart Simpson.

  ‘Do. You. Speak. English?’ Dan shouts in the manner of tourists traveling abroad.

  ‘Small press alternative magazines.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me. Talking about not-so-small and alternative. Chet asked me to pass this on. He said he knows no one got stabbed, but he says you’re the only other person in the newsroom who would appreciate the weirdness.’ He goes to get a cutting out of his battered leather briefcase. It’s barely more than a line item.

  DRUG BUST TURNS UP OLD-FASHIONED CASH

  Englewood: A police raid on a local drug den turned up more than crack vials and caps of heroin. Several handguns were recovered from the apartment of Toneel Roberts, a known drug dealer, as well as $600 in expired currency dating back to 1950, originally called Silver Certificates. The bills can be easily identified by the blue seal on the front. Police have speculated that the money most likely came from an old stash and have warned local business owners that it is not legal tender.

  ‘That’s really sweet of him,’ she says and means it.

  ‘You know, when you’ve wrapped up your degree, there’s a chance I could get you a real job with the paper,’ Dan offers. ‘Maybe even in
lifestyle, if that’s where you wanted to be.’

  ‘That’s really sweet of you, Dan Velasquez.’

  He blushes and looks down at his fork with great purpose. ‘Assuming you don’t want to go to the Trib or one of those underground zine things.’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, best you start. You’re going to crack the case and then what are you going to do?’

  But she can tell by the way he says it that he doesn’t believe it’ll ever happen.

  ‘The fish is lovely,’ she says.

  Harper

  10 APRIL 1932

  For the first time he is almost reluctant to go and make a kill. It was the way the showgirl kissed him. Full of love and hope and desire. Is it so bad to want that? He knows he is putting it off, delaying the inevitable. He should be hunting for the future version of her, instead of strolling down State Street like he doesn’t have a care.

  When who should he see but his little piggy nurse, window-shopping and all tucked up nice and tight under another man’s arm. She is plumper, in a better coat. The padding suits her, he thinks, and recognizes the thought as covetous. Her gentleman friend is the doctor from the hospital, with his mane of hair and a fine cashmere scarf. He last saw him, Harper recalls, staring up sightlessly from a dumpster in 1993.

  ‘Hello, Etta,’ Harper says, moving in too close, almost stepping on their toes. He can smell her perfume. Too-sweet citrus. It smells whoreish. It suits her.

  ‘Oh,’ Etta says, her expression racing through seasons: recognition, dismay, a sharp glee.

  ‘Is this someone you know?’ The doctor gives an uncertain half-smile.

  ‘You fixed my leg,’ Harper says. ‘I’m sorry you don’t remember me, Doc.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he blusters, as if he knows exactly who Harper is. ‘And how is your leg, sport?’

  ‘Much better. I barely need the crutch. Although it still comes in useful sometimes.’

  Etta snuggles in tighter to the doctor, clearly aiming to get under Harper’s skin. ‘We were just off to a show.’

  ‘You’ve got both your shoes today,’ Harper points out.

  ‘And I am going dancing in them,’ she sniffs.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if we’re going to manage that as well,’ the doctor says, thrown by the exchange. ‘But if you like. Hang it all, why not?’ He looks to Etta for his cue. Harper knows his kind exactly. Twisted round a woman’s fingers like a cat’s cradle. He thinks he’s in control, which lets him defer to her because he’s trying to impress. He thinks he’s safe in the world, but he doesn’t know its reaches.

  ‘Don’t let me interrupt you. Miss Etta. Doctor.’ Harper nods respectfully, and moves on before the man can recover himself enough to take offense.

  ‘It was very nice to see you, Mr Curtis,’ Etta calls over her shoulder. Hedging her bets. Or egging him on.

  He follows the good doctor home from the hospital the next night, after his shift. Tells him that he wants to take him out for dinner to thank him for seeing him right. When the man politely tries to decline Harper’s invitation, he is forced to get out his knife, a new one, to convince him to come back with him to the House.

  ‘Just popping in and out,’ he says, pushing the man’s head down to duck under the planks barring the door, closing it behind them, and reopening it sixty years into the future, where the doctor’s fate is already awaiting him. He doesn’t even struggle. Not very much. Harper leads him to the dumpster and then strangles him with his own scarf. The hardest part is tipping him in after.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he tells the puce-faced corpse, ‘you’ll have company soon.’

  Dan

  11 SEPTEMBER 1992

  This is perspective. Being on planes. The world teeny tiny beneath you and far away from a girl somewhere below, as unreal as the flotsam of clouds washed up on the blue of the sky.

  This is a whole other universe, with very explicit rules about how things work. Like sensible instructions on what to do in case of disaster. Inflate life vest. Fit the mask to your face. Assume the brace position. As if any of that would make a difference if the plane went down in flames. If only the rest of life had such facile placebos.

  Keep your seatbelt buckled. Return your tray table to the upright position. Do not try to flirt with the flight attendants unless time is on your side and you still have all your hair and ideally also a seat in business class and a pair of shiny loafers slipped off and neatly set to one side in all that extra leg room, the better to show off your cotton-rich designer socks, my dear.

  This is the last time he gets a seat at the front of economy, where he’s in ear-shot of the champagne being offered behind the curtain and the smell of real food instead of soggy turkey rolls. Especially on the red-eye.

  ‘Now they’re just rubbing it in,’ he mutters to Kevin. But Kevin doesn’t hear him because he’s plugged into his Discman, the earbuds leaking bass-heavy fragments that come out uglier and more distorted than the actual music even, and flipping through travel stories about impossibly out-of-reach hotels in the inflight magazine. It leaves Dan alone in his head, which is, frankly, the last place he wants to be. Not with her in there.

  Distraction is temporary. Oh, he can write out notes, lose himself in player statistics (whoever said sport was stupid never worked through the algebra of batting averages and RBI), but his thoughts loop back like a dog gnawing at a sore on its flank. Worst of all – and this is how pathetic he’s become – pop songs make sense.

  None of which makes his chances any better than Kevin’s of holidaying at a five-star ski resort in the French Alps with Hollywood starlets. It’s like his divorce all over again. The hardest part of which was not the despair and the betrayal and the horrific things they said to each other, but that splinter of unreasonable hope.

  It’s completely inappropriate. He’s too jaded, she’s too young, they’re both too fucked up. He’s confusing sympathy with infatuation. If he waits it out, it will numb itself. It will go away. He just has to be patient and avoid being a reckless idiot. Time heals. Crushes let up. Splinters work their way out. Doesn’t mean they don’t leave scars that itch.

  There’s a phone message waiting for him at the hotel in St Louis when he gets in. Another pleasantly anonymous room with offensively inoffensive wall art and a view over a parking lot. The only difference between this room and every other one he’s ever stayed in is the red flashing light on the telephone. It’s her, his heart says. And he says back, Shuddup. But it is. Breathless, excited. ‘Hey, Dan, it’s me. Please call me back as soon as you get this.’

  Press one to replay. Press three to call back. Press seven to delete. Press four to save.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, sounding fresh and wide-awake at 2 a.m. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘Me? You’re the one who hasn’t been answering the phone.’ He doesn’t tell her that he tried her from outside the press room, during the yawn-inducing ninth inning. And again from a payphone outside the bar where the guys went for drinks after the presser, where he sipped a Diet Coke and tried to muster enthusiasm for the conversational highlights replay of Ozzie Smith stealing another base or Olivares’ crazy inning. ‘Did you see the way he plinked Arias in the second?’ Kevin raved.

  Or that he’s listened to her message six times in between. One-fourone-one-one-one. You’d think he’d be more excited that his team won.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I went for a drink.’

  ‘With Fred?’

  ‘No, dumbass. Let that go already. With one of the editors of Screamin’ magazine. She’s interested in the Murder Diaries story.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? On top of everything else you’ve got going on?’ Are there degrees of neutral? He tries to gear-shift up. He’s seen television reporters do it. Politely disengaged but with an arched eyebrow.

  ‘It’s a long-term thing. I can send it in when it’s ready. If it’s ready. If I feel like it.’

  ‘So
, tell me how it went with the baseball card lady.’

  ‘It was very sad, actually. It’s not really a retirement village. More of a nursing home. Her husband was there to meet me. He owns a Ghanaian restaurant in Belmont. He says she has early-onset Alzheimer’s, even though she’s only in her sixties. It’s genetic. Her mind comes and goes. Some days she’s really clear and others she’s not there at all.’

  ‘And when you saw her?’

  ‘Not so much. We had tea and she kept calling me Maria, who was a girl in one of the adult literacy classes she used to teach.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘But her husband was great, we talked for about an hour afterwards. It’s like the letter said. Her mom was murdered in 1943, really horrible case, and when the cops finally got round to returning her possessions to the family, there was a baseball card in with the stuff they said they found on her body. It was with her aunt and uncle for a long time and when they passed, it came to her.’

  ‘So which card was it?’

  ‘Hang on, I convinced the woman in the front office to make a copy for me.’ There is the sound of paper being dug out of a bag. ‘Here. Jackie Robinson. Brooklyn Dodgers.’

  ‘Impossible,’ he says automatically.

  ‘That’s what it says.’ She’s defensive.

  ‘And she died in 1943?’

  ‘Yes. I got a copy of the death certificate too. I know what you’re going to say. I know how unlikely it is. But hear me out. There have been killing partners before, right? The Hillside Stranglers were cousins who raped and strangled women in LA together.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Trust me. I think this is part of it. My case. It could be a father-and-son team. An older psychopath who mentored a younger one. Not necessarily related, I guess. He might be ninety years old now, he might be dead. But his partner’s carrying on the tradition of leaving something on the body. Vintage killers plural, Dan. It’s the younger one who attacked me and Julia Madrigal and who knows who else. I’m gonna go back to the early boxes we set aside. This could go way back.’