56: Special Agents Frank Poole and Stewart Diener sat in Poole’s Jeep Cherokee about half a block down a quiet residential street from 519 Forty-First Place.
Poole studied the property through the lenses of Zeiss 526000 binoculars, heavy but extremely effective.
The house was small, probably two bedrooms, maybe one bath. Single story. The light-green paint was faded and chipped. A chainlink fence surrounded the property. A FOR RENT sign hung sideways at the gate, held in place precariously by a single black twist-tie in the corner. The sidewalks, yard, and driveway were all buried under at least a foot of snow. Nobody had shoveled here in some time. There was no car in the driveway. Heavy drapes drawn over the windows prevented him from seeing inside.
“Both the birth certificate and passport were shipped here. Security footage at the DMV has Libby obtaining the driver’s license herself using the false docs three days after she was released from Stateville Correctional,” Diener told him.
“Looks abandoned. No footprints in the snow leading up to the house. Can’t see inside, curtains are drawn.” Poole lowered the binoculars. “Probably some kind of drop house. Whoever helped her get the documents used this place for the address, nothing more.”
Poole zipped up his jacket and wrapped a scarf around his neck. “I’m going to get a closer look.”
Diener eyed the falling snow. “When’s this shit supposed to let up?”
Poole didn’t much mind the snow. Sometimes the ugly of the world was better left under a blanket of white.
The Jeep door groaned as he swung it open. Poole slammed it behind him. Sometimes the driver’s side door didn’t close well in the cold. He heard Diener get out and round the car, his shoes crunching in the snow.
They followed the sidewalk until they stood across from the property, then crossed the street. Poole had yet to see another car. Traffic appeared limited to only residents. That would make this a bit of an odd choice for a mail drop. Most preferred high-traffic areas. People tended to notice strangers in quiet neighborhoods, and those utilizing mail drops did not like to be noticed.
Images of Libby McInley’s house flooded Poole’s mind, specifically images of what he’d found inside. A sour taste filled his mouth. He wished he could forget such things, but his mind was rather insistent on keeping them at the forefront.
There were two mailboxes, both on a post at the edge of the property’s sidewalk. The one on the left was meant for newspapers, had no door, and was empty. Poole opened the metal box beside it and extracted the few pieces of mail. “Publishers Clearing House addressed to Libby McInley and a veteran’s donation card addressed to Resident, both postmarked this week. Somebody’s watching this box,” Poole told Diener before putting them back inside.
Diener glanced around the street. “About half the driveways have been shoveled recently. Once we check the house, we should speak to the neighbors. Quiet street like this, we’re bound to find someone with eyes on this place.”
The gate in the chainlink fence was frozen shut, and Poole had to beat on it a bit before the latch snapped open. The gate swung with reluctance through the thick snow, and they followed the sidewalk to the front of the house.
“Frank.” Diener said his name quietly, a gloved hand pointing at the door. The deadbolt was missing, nothing but a gaping hole where it once was. The doorknob looked loose. The top was scratched and dented. Someone had hit it with something. Scuff marks marred the frame.
Poole unzipped his jacket and reached inside for his gun before trying the door. He pointed a finger at Diener, then at the side of the house. Diener drew his own weapon and disappeared around the corner in search of a back door.
Poole reached for the doorknob. Although it turned, he had to hold it steady. The bolts tasked with holding the assembly together had been either removed or unscrewed, and the entire cylinder felt like it might fall apart in his hand. The latch released with a click. He gave the door a gentle push.
The door opened on a small living room. Someone had taken a knife to the cushions of a dilapidated brown leather couch. Piles of stuffing floated through the room, tumbleweeds of white. The heat was off.
“This is the FBI. I need you to step out into the open!” His voice echoed through the house, the kind of sound that only came from an empty, forgotten place.
He stepped inside.
Graffiti covered the walls. Multicolored gang tags, names, and random sayings—Dasha Loves You, Little Mix, and X-Train Chirps. Poole had no idea what half of it meant.
Across the house, a back door popped open with a loud crack. Diener entered the kitchen with his weapon drawn, barrel pointed at the ceiling. He nodded at Poole and turned to the hallway at his right. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, switched on the beam, and held it under his gun, sweeping the light down the hall.
Poole crossed the room and followed him. The drywall in the hallway had been either kicked or punched in—there were dozens of holes from top to bottom. Someone looking for something buried in the walls or kids messing around, there was no way to know for certain. Once gold, now a soiled brown, the carpet stank of urine.
In the first bedroom, they found a mattress on the floor surrounded by empty food and beverage containers. A blanket was bunched up in the corner. Someone had taped newspapers over the windows beneath the drawn drapes. The bathroom had been used recently, but since the water was off, the bowl overflowed with a frozen mess Poole refused to think about. The bathtub had not fared much better. The vanity doors were gone, exposing cracked plastic pipes.
They moved on to the second bedroom.
No mattress here, only a torn sleeping bag and a battered gas camping grill. Someone used it either for cooking or to keep warm, or both. The room reeked of stale pot.
They returned to the living room. There was no basement. The house was deserted.
“I think we’ve got some homeless people flopping here, or maybe it’s a hangout for local kids. Makes sense as a mail drop.” Poole holstered his weapon. “How long has the house been vacant?”
Diener was back in the kitchen going through drawers and cabinets. “More than a year.” He stared down into the sink drain. “Someone poured concrete in here.”
“Kids do that sometimes,” Poole said, studying the graffiti on the living room wall.
Diener went on. “I couldn’t find much information on the property. The original owner passed away, and the house went to his three kids. They all live out of state. It’s been on the market. I think they tried to rent it too—no takers though.” He pulled a dead mouse out from under the sink, holding it by the tail, and tossed it across the room. “I don’t understand why. The place is charming.”
Poole ignored the mouse as it thudded against the floor near his feet. “There could be something here.” He traced the graffiti with the beam of his flashlight.
Diener came over, stepped into the light. “Looks like more kid crap. Vandals, gangs, that sort of thing.”
Poole pointed to a small block of text written in black marker.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
“That’s not kids, it’s a quote from ‘The Chariot’ by Dickinson. And this one.” He located another block of text written in the same hand.
A telling analogy for life and death:
Compare the two of them to water and ice.
Water draws together to become ice,
And ice disperses again to become water.
Whatever has died is sure to be born again;
Whatever is born comes around again to dying.
As ice and water do one another no harm,
So life and death, the two of them, are fine.
“That’s from Hanshan, a Chinese poet dating back to the Tang Dynasty,” Poole said.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I had a girlfriend in college who was into Buddhism. She quoted from this book of poems all the time; this was in there.”
“Figures. Why the underlining?”
Poole thought about it for a moment and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Diener moved a few feet down the wall. “I’ve got another one over here, same handwriting.”
Let us return Home, let us go back,
Useless is this reckoning of seeking and getting,
Delight permeates all of today.
From the blue ocean of death
Life is flowing like nectar.
In life there is death; in death there is life.
So where is fear, where is fear?
The birds in the sky are singing “No death, no death!”
Day and night the tide of Immortality
Is descending here on earth.
Poole frowned. “I think that one is Tibetan, but I could be wrong. I’m not sure why these words are underlined here either, Home, fear, and death.”
Diener scratched at the back of his neck. “Smart kids but still kids. I don’t think this has anything to do with Libby McInley.”
Poole pulled out his phone and prepared to take pictures of the wall. “Why don’t you go talk to the neighbors? I want to document this just in case.”
The agent snorted. “Oh no, I canvassed the neighbors at McInley’s murder scene while you sat nice and toasty back at Metro. If anyone is going back out in that cold on a door-to-door, it’s you.”
Poole looked reluctantly at the wall.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get every inch of it,” Diener assured him.
With a nod, Poole pushed back out through the front door, into the icy air.