It’s not even a matter of starting. She has started a dozen times. Boldly, brilliantly, with a clear idea of where this will go. She can see the whole thing unfolding in her head. How the colors will layer over each other like bridges that will take her all the way to the end. But then it all becomes slippery. It skids away and she can’t keep hold of it and the colors become muddy. She ends up doing half-baked collages of pages torn out of old trashy novels she got for a dollar a box, painting over them again and again, obliterating the words. The idea was to make a lightbox out of them with pinpricks spelling out new sentences that only she would know.
It’s a relief to open the door and find him standing there. She’d thought it was Huxley, perhaps, pre-empting her need. Or Joanna, who sometimes drops off coffee and a sandwich, although she has been coming less often, and her eyes grow harder every time.
‘Can I come in?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says, and pulls open the door, even though he is holding a knife and a pink bunny hairclip from what, eight years ago, if she does the math, but which looks like he bought it from the store yesterday. She realizes she has been anticipating him. Ever since she was twelve years old and he sat down next to her on the grass during the fireworks. She was waiting for her dad to come back from the portapotties because chili dogs never did agree with him. She said she wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers and she would call the police, but actually she was flattered that he was interested in her.
He explained that she was brighter than the explosions that boomed in the sky above the buildings, reflected in the glass. He could see her shine from all the way over there. Which meant he would have to kill her. Not now, but later. When she was all grown-up. But she should watch out for him. He’d reached up and she’d flinched away. He didn’t touch her, or only to take the clip from her hair. And it was that, more than the terrible inexplicable thing he’d said to her, that left her weeping inconsolably, to her father’s consternation, when he finally returned, pale and sweaty and clutching his stomach.
And isn’t that what set her on this course, this downward spiral? The man in the park who told her he was going to kill her.
That’s a terrible thing to say to a child, she thinks, but what she says is, ‘Would you like a drink?’ playing the polite hostess, as if she has anything to offer other than water in a paint-smeared glass.
She sold her bed two weeks ago, but she found a broken sofa on the sidewalk and inveigled Huxley to help her heft it up the stairs and then baptize it, because, c’mon, Cat, he wasn’t going to do that shit for free.
‘You told me I shone. Like fireworks. At the Taste of Chicago. Do you remember?’ She does a pirouette in the middle of the room and almost falls over. When was the last time she had something to eat? Tuesday?
‘But it’s not true.’
‘No,’ she says. She sits down heavily on the sofa. The cushions are on the floor. She had started tearing the seams up, looking for crumbs. A scrap of rock she’d missed. She used to have a Dustbuster so she could vacuum the cracks between the floorboards and pick through the bag when she got really desperate. But she can’t think what happened to it. She stares numbly at the discarded paperbacks with half the stories ripped out, scattered around the floor. It’s been cathartic, tearing the pages out, even if she’s not painting them. Destruction is a natural instinct.
‘You don’t shine any more.’ He holds out the hair clip for her to take.
‘I’m still going to have to go back,’ he says, angry with her. ‘To close the loop.’
She takes the clip, numbly. The pink bunny has her eyes closed, two little Xs and another for her mouth. Catherine thinks about eating it. A communion wafer for consumer society. That would be a good idea for a piece, actually. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I think it’s the drugs.’ But she knows that’s not true. It’s the reason she takes the drugs. Like her vision for her artwork that skids away, she can’t get a grip on the world. It’s too much for her. ‘Are you still going to kill me?’
‘Why would I waste my time.’ It’s not even a question.
‘You came. Didn’t you? I mean, you’re here. I’m not imagining this.’ She wraps her hand around the blade and he pulls it away. The burn in her palm makes her feel alive in a way she hasn’t in a long time. It’s clean and fierce. Not like the needle biting into the skin between her fingers, the crack mixed with white vinegar to make it injectable. ‘You promised.’
She grabs his hand and he sneers, but momentary panic glances across his features mingled with distaste. She knows that look, she’s seen it in people’s faces when she spins them her story about needing bus fare because she was mugged and she has to get home. Isn’t this what she’s been waiting for? Killing time. Because she needs to get to the place where the pictures in her head make sense. She needs him to take her there. Blood spattered on the canvas. Take that, Jackson Pollock.
Jin-Sook
23 MARCH 1993
CHICAGO SUN-TIMES
BRUTAL MURDER OF PASSIONATE HOUSING WORKER ROCKS CITY
by Richard Gane
CABRINI GREEN: A young social worker was found stabbed to death yesterday morning at 5 a.m. underneath the El line on the corner of West Schiller and North Orleans.
Jin-Sook Au (24) was a case worker for the Chicago Housing Authority (CHA) in one of the city’s most notorious housing projects. But the police refuse to speculate if the murder was gang-related.
‘We’re not releasing details at this time, in the interest of investigating all possibilities,’ Detective Larry Amato said. ‘We’d like to encourage anyone who may have any information to come talk to us urgently.’
Her body was discovered two blocks away from the trendy restaurant and comedy club district of Old Town. No witnesses have yet come forward.
CHAstaff and residents of Cabrini Green have reacted with shock. CHA spokesperson Andrea Bishop said, ‘Jin-Sook was a bright young woman whose passion and insight made a real impact. We’re deeply saddened and horrified by her loss.’
Tonya Gardener, a Cabrini resident, said that Ms Au would be sorely missed in the community. ‘She was real decent at explaining. You felt like you knew what was going on, even if she couldn’t do nothing about it. She was good with the kids. Always bringing them little presents. Books and such, even though they asked for sweets. Inspirational things, you know. Martin Luther King’s biography or Aretha Franklin CDs. Strong black role models the kids could look up to, you know?’
Ms Au’s parents were unavailable for comment. The Korean community has been rallying to support the family and will be holding a candlelit memorial at the Bethany Presbyterian Church on Thursday. All are welcome to attend.
The photograph accompanying the news story shows a body covered up by a blanket in the no-man’s-land between a parking lot and a ramshackle house under the El support struts. The area is fenced off, but that hasn’t stopped people using it as an impromptu dumping ground; a bag of rubbish that didn’t make it to the corner for collection is cosied up next to a dead washing machine laid on its side.
An upset young beat cop is waving his hand towards the lens, hoping to obscure the shot or dissuade the photographer.
If the reporter’s camera had panned left by an inch, the camera would have caught a pair of burlesque butterfly wings pinned against the fence by the wind, unrecognizably ripped, half-concealed by a plastic Walgreen’s bag tangled up in the elastic, but still with a sheen of radium paint.
But then the red line El goes rattling overhead and the backdraft whips it away to join the rest of the city’s jetsam.
It does not appear to have been a robbery. Her book bag has been tipped out next to her, but her wallet is untouched, still zipped up and with $63 and change inside. There is also a hair brush with several long black hairs that will be identified as hers, a pack of tissues, cocoa-butter lip balm, CHA case files on the families she was working with, a library book (Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler), and a video tape ‘Live from All J
okes Aside’, a local all-black comedy club. The kind of aspirational items she was known for. The cops do not realize that there is a baseball card missing – of a famous African-American player.
Kirby
23 MARCH 1993
‘Give me everything you’ve got.’ Kirby goes straight to Chet.
‘Chill, dude, this isn’t even your story,’ Chet says.
‘C’mon, Chet. Someone must have done a human interest story on her. Korean-American girl working in one of the city’s toughest neighborhoods? That’s too good to resist.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos Dan phoned this morning and said he’d hang me with my own balls after he’d cut them off with a pair of kiddy’s safety scissors. He doesn’t want you getting involved.’
‘That’s very sweet of him, and also absolutely none of his beeswax.’
‘You’re his intern.’
‘Chet. You know I’m scarier than Dan.’
‘Fine!’ He throws up his hands, a movement hampered by the weight of his jewelry. ‘Wait here. And don’t tell Velasquez.’ She knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to practice his arcane arts in the stacks.
He comes back ten minutes later with various clippings about Cabrini and CHA’s general blundering.
‘I got you stuff on Robert Taylor Homes too. Did you know Cabrini’s original residents were mainly Italian?’
‘I did not.’
‘You do now. I got you an article on that, and white flight to the suburbs in general.’
‘You don’t mess around.’
He also produces a manila envelope with a flourish. ‘Ta-da. Korean Day 1986. Your girl came second in the essay competition.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you,’ he says, dipping his mussed-upon-purpose head back behind Swamp Thing. Adding, without looking up: ‘No, really.’
She starts with Detective Amato.
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘I’m phoning about the murder of Jin-Sook Au.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to get some more information about how she was killed—’
‘Get your sick kicks somewhere else, lady.’ He hangs up on her.
She phones back and explains to the duty officer that her call was cut off accidentally. She gets transferred back to his desk. He picks up immediately.
‘Amato.’
‘Please don’t hang up.’
‘You have twenty seconds to convince me.’
‘I think you’re dealing with a serial killer. If you speak to Detective Diggs in Oak Park, he’ll confirm my case.’
‘And you are?’
‘Kirby Mazrachi. I was attacked in 1989. And I’m sure it’s the same guy. Was there something left on the body?’
‘No offense, miss, but we have procedures. I can’t disclose that kind of information. But I will talk to Detective Diggs. You got a number I can reach you on?’
She gives him her number and the number at the Sun-Times for good measure. She hopes this will force them to take her seriously.
‘Thanks. I’ll get back to you.’
Kirby goes through the articles Chet dug up for her. They don’t give her anything about Jin-Sook Au, although she finds out more about unethical real-estate practices and the CHA’s checkered history than she ever wanted to know. You’d have to be unreasonably stubborn and idealistic to try to work within the organization.
She fidgets. She’s tempted to visit the scene, but she goes for the phonebook instead. There are four Aus in the directory. It’s easy to track down the right one. It’s the number that is permanently engaged because it’s been left off the hook.
Finally, she catches a cab to Lakeview, to the home of Don and Julie Au. They do not answer the phone or the doorbell. She sits outside and waits, round the back of the house, never mind that it’s freezing and her fingertips are going numb, even buried in her armpits. And ninety-eight minutes later, when Mrs Au slips out the back door in a housecoat and a cream crocheted hat with a rose on the front, she is waiting for her. It takes the woman ages to walk down to the mini-market, like every step is a duty she has to remind herself of again. It’s all Kirby can do to hang back out of sight.
In the store, she finds Mrs Au standing in the tea and coffee aisle. Holding a box of jasmine tea and staring at it blankly, like it might have answers.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, touching her arm.
The woman turns towards her, barely seeing. Her face is a mask of grief, all deep furrows. Kirby can’t help herself, she’s appalled.
‘No reporters!’ The woman comes to life, shakes her head frantically. ‘No reporters!’
‘Please, I’m not, not technically. Someone tried to kill me.’
The older woman looks terrified. ‘He’s here? We must call the police.’
‘No, wait.’ This is spiraling out of control. ‘I think your daughter was killed by a serial killer who attacked me, years ago. But I need to know how she was stabbed. Did the killer try to disembowel her? Did he leave something behind on the body? Something that was out of place? That you know wasn’t hers?’
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ A cashier has come round from behind the counter to put a protective arm around Mrs Au, because the old lady is flushed and shaking and crying. Kirby becomes aware that she’s been shouting.
‘You’re sick!’ Mrs Au screams at Kirby. ‘Did the man who did this leave something on the body? Yes! My heart. Ripped right out of my chest. My only child! You understand?’
‘I’m sorry, really sorry.’ Shitshitshit. How could she have got this so wrong?
‘You get out of here, now,’ the cashier warns. ‘What is the matter with you?’
If she still had an answering machine, she might have been able to deflect it. As it is, she gets to the Sun-Times the next morning to find Dan waiting for her in the lobby. He grabs her by the elbow and sweeps her outside.
‘Smoke break.’
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘For once in your life, don’t argue. We’re going for a walk. Cigarettes optional.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She jerks her arm away from him as he walks her out the building and down to the riverbank. The buildings reflect in each other, an infinite city caught in the glass.
‘Hey, did you know about blockbusting? Skanky real-estate agents moving a black family into an all-white neighborhood and then putting the fear into the other residents that it was all going to hell and getting them to sell out at a loss, and taking a fat commission?’
‘Not now, Kirby.’
The air off the water has a bite to it, the kind that sinks itself through your bones into your marrow. A cargo boat trundles along, churning the water in its wake, neatly sliding under the bridge.
Kirby gives in to his silent accusation. ‘Did Chetty rat me out?’
‘For what? Accessing old clippings? That’s not illegal. Harassing a murder victim’s mother, however…’
‘Crap.’
‘The cops called. They’re unhappy. Harrison is apocalyptic. What were you thinking?’
‘Don’t you mean apoplectic?’
‘I know exactly what I mean. As in, rain of fire on your ass.’
‘It’s not exactly anything new. I’ve been doing this all year, Dan. I even tracked down Julia Madrigal’s ex-boyfriend. Who was awful in a really sad way.’
‘Bendito sea Dios, dame paciencia. You do not make this easy.’ Dan rubs at the back of his head.
‘Don’t do that, you’re going to make yourself bald.’ Kirby snipes.
‘You need to calm down.’
‘Really? That’s really what you’re telling me?’
‘Or at the very least be reasonable. Can’t you see how crazy your behavior looks?’
‘No.’
‘Fine. Do it your way. Harrison’s waiting in the boardroom for you.’
A detective, a city editor and a sports reporter walk i
nto a room. There is no punchline. Just an epic shitstorm coming on her head.
Detective Amato is wearing full uniform, complete with bullet-proof vest, to let her know how serious this is. He has old acne scarring on his cheeks, like he’s been sandpapering his face. It makes him look weathered, like a cowboy. A hint of gritty history gives you class, Kirby thinks. But the puffiness in his cheeks and the pouches under his eyes say he’s not getting a whole lot of sleep. She can relate. She spends most of the lecture staring at his hands. It keeps her head down, which makes her seem more contrite.
His wedding ring is gold and scratched and pinches into his finger, which tells her he’s been wearing it a long time. There’s a trace of black ink on the back of his hand, the remnants of a phone number or a license plate he had to jot down in a hurry. She likes him more for that. The speech – she’s not required to respond other than occasionally nod tightly – is all stuff she’s heard before from Andy Diggs, back when he still took her calls and didn’t fob her off to some junior officer to take a message.
It’s not appropriate, Detective Amato says. He’s spoken to Detective Diggs, who is working her case. Yes, still. He filled him in. No one appreciates what she’s going through more than they do. They have to deal with this all the time. Wanting to nail the bad guys to the wall. Doing anything they can to find them. But there is a process.
She’s distorting the evidence with all this speculation and getting witnesses mixed up. Yes, the victim was stabbed and slashed multiple times in the stomach and pelvic area. The cases do have that in common. But there was no object left on the body. The MO was completely different to the attack on her. No restraints. No indication that it was planned ahead. And he’s sorry to speak so frankly, but the attack was amateur compared to what happened to her. Sloppy even. A killer just starting out. It was a horrible, opportunistic crime. They’re not ruling out a copycat murder. Which is exactly why the police have been so tightlipped on all this, because they don’t want to set off any more, and please appreciate that he’s here in an informal capacity and this is all off the record.