CHAPTER 22
Chicago, October 29, 2019
THEY DROVE TOGETHER AND FOLLOWED THE CAR IN FRONT OF THEM, which held the social worker and the parole officer. Thomas Mitchell had inherited the cabin in 1994 when his uncle died. Rory had tracked the property the best she could from her father’s paperwork. The uncle had died of pancreatic cancer and had willed the cabin to his nephew. Rory’s father had placed the cabin into a trust. A rental company had taken good care of the place, and according to the financial documents she found in the file, the property had provided a nice source of income over the years. It was a two-bedroom A-frame just outside of Starved Rock State Park, about an hour from the city.
Located so close to the park and the Illinois River, the cabin had been easy to rent over the years. The rental income had been self-sustaining and allowed the management company to stay current with upkeep. Rory’s father had dismissed the management company the previous year, and had carefully documented his monthly trips to keep the cabin updated, surely anticipating his client’s arrival.
When they reached the outskirts of Starved Rock, the social worker slowed in front of her. Rory assumed she was consulting her GPS. The lead car took off again, and Rory followed it through winding roads on the north side of the park. They traveled across bridges, where short waterfalls fell over bluffs and where evergreen pines rose up into the clear October sky. Had she not been on a journey to see the future home of a suspected serial killer, the setting would be majestic.
After fifteen minutes of slow going, stopping at each intersection before deciding which direction to turn, Rory and Lane arrived at the entrance to a long dirt driveway canopied tightly by foliage that had started to morph to fall colors. A mailbox stood isolated, just to the side of the drive, and Rory figured she could check off at least one of the judge’s requests. If anyone wanted to send The Thief a letter, he’d receive it via the United States Postal Service.
She turned onto the driveway and followed the social worker along the uneven path for a hundred yards. The cocooned driveway eventually opened to a clearing in which stood a cedar-sided A-frame cabin. The piece of land was impressive. Rory’s mind imagined an aerial view of the property, which was cut into a densely forested area. The clearing where the cabin stood was five acres of grass and gravel and clay that butted up against the thick forest around it. The end of the driveway led in a circle around the cabin. As Rory drove the loop around, she spotted the river through the trees off to her right. A path was cut in the forest, and a set of stairs led down to a dock that ran out into the water.
“Well,” Lane said from the passenger seat, staring out his window, “you can’t argue that this is anything but the perfect place for a suspected serial killer to hide for the rest of his life.”
Rory shook her head. “And I was thinking how beautiful this place had been for the families that rented it all these years.”
“No you weren’t. You wouldn’t reconstruct deaths for a living if you were really thinking that.”
Rory pulled around the cabin and parked. She grabbed her thick-rimmed glasses from the dashboard, put them on her face, and pulled her beanie hat down her forehead. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said, opening the car door. “This place is creepy as hell. Be right back.”
Rory climbed from the car and met Naomi Brown, the social worker, at the front of the cabin, inspecting the residence as she did. Rory had the key, which she had found in her father’s office.
“Have you been to your client’s home before?” Naomi asked.
“He’s not my client, exactly,” Rory said, shaking her head and adjusting her glasses. “No, I haven’t seen the place.”
The social worker looked at Rory for a moment. It was the confused look Rory often received and always hated.
Rory twirled her finger in the air and pointed at the cabin. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
“There is a list of requirements,” Naomi said. “Including a functioning landline, a current U.S. Postal Service address, and other items. It’s mostly a formality, but since the judge is agreeing to this unique living arrangement, we need to check all the boxes.”
“Then let’s check them,” Rory said as she climbed the steps to the front porch. The wooden boards creaked under her weight. She inserted the key in the door and pushed it open. Ezra Parker, the parole officer, snapped photos of the outside before entering. Inside, they found a well-kept home furnished the way any rental property might be, with a couch and chairs positioned around a stone fireplace in the front room. A kitchen was off to the left, and another room for dining. A screened-in porch on the back of the home offered a view of the sprawling acres that led to the forest, through which the river was visible and reflecting the October sky. Stairs led upstairs to two bedrooms.
The group took thirty minutes to inspect the place. Naomi Brown checked all the boxes to show that the home met the judge’s requirements. Ezra Parker snapped all the required photos.
“Until your client acquires an automobile,” Naomi said, “there is a convenience store half a mile down the road.”
Rory nodded. She had a sudden desire to leave the place, realizing that her authority over Thomas Mitchell’s finances would likely require her to help him with purchases, such as a car. As they headed to the front door, they noticed the red footprints they had all tracked in from outside. Rory looked down at her combat boots, noticing for the first time that they were covered in a crimson dust.
“Sorry about that,” Naomi said. “We should have removed our shoes.”
“What the hell is it?” Rory asked, lifting her foot to examine the bottom of her boot.
“Red clay,” Ezra said. “It’s common around Starved Rock. The soil is saturated with it. It gets everywhere. Your car will be a mess, too.”
Rory looked at the bloodred footprints.
“Time to go,” she said. “I’ll call someone to clean the cabin before his release.”