I would’ve had no reason to think they were anything but my parents.
I would’ve had a job as an interior decorator that I loved.
I wouldn’t have been sitting on almost $250,000 that wasn’t mine.
I would’ve had a normal life for a twenty-three-year-old.
Now I was agitated and, knowing I’d never fall back asleep, I got up and dressed and headed for the kitchen.
The second I opened my bedroom door, the tantalizing smell of something chocolate wafted in. Tymon had his back to me and was taking something off the window sill when I entered the kitchen. When he turned around and saw me, he almost dropped the pan.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I live here...remember?”
“Now you’ve spoiled the surprise.”
“What surprise?” I asked.
“Just promise me you’ll act surprised after dinner this evening.”
“You baked me a birthday cake?”
“What are you doing up so early? I still have to frost this thing.”
“Want some help?”
“Well, if you’re not going to leave, then yes, you may as well help me.”
I stared at him while he iced the cake, something I’d never seen a man do before. I don’t think my father had ever set foot in our kitchen. Tymon wasn’t half bad at it.
“You don’t seem to be helping,” he said.
“You don’t seem to need it. So where did you get cake ingredients? I know it wasn’t from this kitchen.”
“There’s a little all-night grocer in Edgewater.”
“You’d better stop doing nice things for me, or I won’t let you leave.”
He laughed. “I dropped off my rent check the other day, and the landlady told me she thought maybe I’d skipped out on her.”
“I can imag—”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I just remembered something.” I jumped out of my chair. “I’ll be right back.”
I returned with the receipt in my hand.
“This.” I waved it in the air.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a receipt for a basement build-out in our house that I found after my parents died. Do you know what that is?”
He took the receipt from me.
“Doesn’t say much more than that,” he said. “Material and labor $278.15. May 5, 1943.”
“That was a few months after Anna was killed. She died on January 23.”
Tymon’s eyebrows arched. “Basement build-out. The only thing I can think of is—”
“It’s a room.”
“What?”
“A room. Like the one downstairs.” I felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “I’ll bet they had a room built in their basement like the one downstairs.”
“Wouldn’t you have seen it growing up?”
“If it looks anything like this one, I never would have even known it was there. And besides, the only things down there were the furnace, hot-water heater, and washing machine. I never went down there.”
“Maybe the safe is in there,” he said.
“I wonder if Berghorn realizes there’s a room down there.”
“You don’t even know if there is a room down there. All you have is a receipt.”
“I’ll bet you any amount of money, there’s a hidden room down there…unless he’s had it torn out.”
“So now what?”
“Now what?”
“What about the room? What can you do about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably just let it eat me up inside until I know if it exists or not.”
Tymon put the finishing touches on the cake and placed it in the pantry.
“Show me your surprised look,” he said upon his return.
“Don’t worry, I won’t disappoint. Who’s going to be here?”
“Never mind. At least something will be a surprise.”
“Tymon, do you think Berghorn had anything to do with Anna’s death?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You answered that quickly. What makes you so sure?”
“The way Henry was talking so openly yesterday, he would have said something. And besides, what motive for killing her would he have had?”
“I suppose you’re right. But Henry knows something about who killed Anna. At least, Minnie thought so.”
“I’m not so sure. He was spilling everything to me. I think if he knew something, he would have said something.”
“Maybe he doesn’t even know what he knows.”
“I’ll connect with him again if you think it will help, but not this soon—”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that.”
“When the time is right, I’ll continue my chat with him. Gracie?”
“Yes.”
“May I take you to dinner tonight—a late birthday celebration?”
“Thank you. I would like that.”
“Pick you up at six then?”
“See you then.”
I went out the front door to retrieve the paper, and when I returned I decided to go to City Hall and do a background check on Berghorn. I didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before to do that.
* * *
I hadn’t been to City Hall in a while, and I hoped my regular contacts remembered me. Research would take twice as long if I had to follow their usual protocol.
My first stop was the County Clerk’s Office, where I found Flora on duty. After some small talk, I handed her a piece of paper with Berghorn’s name on it and asked to see his birth certificate, marriage license, and documents for any judgments or liens against him. She asked me to come back in an hour.
Next I went to the County Archives department to see if he had ever served in the military. He had not, which was odd given he must have been somewhere in his twenties during World War II. Ha! Even they didn’t want him. It also surprised me to find there was no record of him having an Illinois driver’s license. Either he was driving without one or he had an out-of-state license.
When I returned to the County Clerk’s office, Flora handed me copies of Berghorn’s birth certificate and marriage license and told me she’d found no judgments or liens. I thanked her and headed toward Business Affairs to try to find his license to practice law. I had no contacts there and had to take a number and wait my turn.
While waiting, I examined the birth certificate.
Elmer Edward Berghorn, Jr.
Born December 1, 1916
Garfield Park Hospital
Mother: Agnes Joanne Berghorn
Father: Elmer Edward Berghorn, Sr.
Father’s Occupation: Self-employed
Nothing very interesting.
He had married a woman named Hazel Osgood on February 14, 1942. Valentine’s Day—how sweet.
When my number was called, I was escorted to a room of ten or so microfilm readers and shown where to find business licenses. They were filed by year, so I had some guesswork to do. Four years for a bachelor’s degree and three more years of law school would have made him twenty-five, putting graduation in 1941, so that explained why he hadn’t served in the war—he was probably in law school.
Two hours later, after scrolling through miles of microfilm, I finally found it—a State of Illinois license to practice law issued by the Superior Court on June 14, 1940.
Next stop, Clerk of the Circuit Court, where I asked for Elmer’s criminal record and was told to come back in an hour.
Thinking that I should have asked Flora for the death certificate for Berghorn’s wife when I was there, I walked back to the County Clerk’s office and requested it. I went back a half an hour later and read what was on the sheet of paper Flora handed me.
Elmer’s wife had died on December 25, 1942—Christmas Day...by suicide. I read farther down the page and gasped.
Next of Kin: Elmer Edward Berghorn, husband, 22
Warren, son, 6 mos
She had taken her own l
ife when their son was only six months old. I looked back at their marriage license. February 14, 1942. If my math was right, Hazel had been five months’ pregnant when they married. During Elmer’s emotional rant, he had said that something wasn’t Hazel’s fault, that it was his fault for forcing himself on her and that but for him she would still be here. His fault that she’d had the baby or his fault that she’d committed suicide? Or was it something else?
I walked back to the Clerk of the Circuit Court to see if they’d found Berghorn’s criminal record. The man behind the counter escorted me to a back room where I was asked to wait for a few minutes. That surprised me. As a regular citizen, all I had was a right to know of the existence of specific court documents—I couldn’t actually view them like law enforcement could.
The clerk returned with a small stack of papers.
“If you want copies, you’ll have to come back. The duplicator is down.”
“Okay.”
This man did not know what he was doing. If for some reason he thought I was law enforcement, he should have asked for my ID. Dilemma time. It was a felony to impersonate a law enforcement officer. But I hadn’t technically impersonated one. It wasn’t my fault the guy was stupid.
This was something I had vowed never to do—intentionally break the law or even overstep boundaries.
I stared at the document on top before deciding what to do. A copy of Berghorn’s law license with the word REVOKED stamped across it in red stared back at me.
I combed through the rest of the documents.
THIRTY-TWO
Happy Birthday to Me
So Berghorn was practicing law without a license. Now that was interesting. I wasn’t sure yet what I was going to do with this information, especially since I hadn’t gotten it on the up-and-up and there was more I needed to unearth in order to have the whole picture. As much as I wanted him to get what he deserved, I made a promise to myself that I would be patient and thorough and take no hasty actions.
Tymon’s familiar knock interrupted my thoughts. I peeked out the side window to make sure it was him and opened the door.
“Ready?” he asked.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the Italian Village, one of Chicago’s oldest restaurants and one of my favorites. I told him on the way that Berghorn had been convicted on eleven counts of tax evasion, embezzlement, money laundering, and bribery.
“How long was he in prison?” he asked.
“I still have to dig up that information.”
I told him about Elmer’s wife’s suicide and the baby she left behind.
We reached the restaurant and parked, and I took his arm as we crossed the street. He gave my arm a little squeeze.
“So what now, Gracie?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He’s practicing law without a license by preying on people who don’t speak English. How low is that?”
“Pretty low.”
“That needs to stop.”
We were seated right away and continued with our conversation.
“So he could go to prison for that as well?” he asked.
“I would think so. And for causing my parents’ deaths…and for breaking into my home. Well, not my home, but...”
“But it should be.” Tymon leaned in and lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m going to anyway. Minnie wanted you to have that house after she died. She said she was going to will it to you.”
“Tymon, I could kiss you.”
He looked scared.
“Don’t worry. I won’t. Here’s the deal.” I told him about Minnie’s draft will. “I think there might be more of a chance of the court legitimizing her will given your statement. I’ll call her attorney tomorrow.”
“You deserve to have it. After all, it’s where you were born.”
“I guess I don’t have proof of that yet, but in my heart, I know it’s true.”
He lifted his water glass up to mine. “Happy birthday, Gracie.”
Dinner with Tymon was enjoyable. After getting the subject of Berghorn behind us, we talked about Anna, my parents, our childhoods, his mother—all things family.
As we talked, I was reminded of something I had heard years ago: Family is not an important thing, it’s everything. I had never thought much about that quote before meeting Minnie—her family had meant everything to her. And the same was true of Tymon to some extent—I could see it in his face when he talked about his mother. I had to add Elmer to that list—most of all Elmer.
When we got home, Tymon’s three poker buddies were sitting on the patio drinking beer. They serenaded me with the worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” I had ever heard. It was delightful.
The next day I called Minnie’s attorney—now also my attorney—to tell him that Minnie had told Tymon about wanting me to inherit the house. He said if Tymon came in to make a statement, he would amend it to the petition.
“I have some other news for you,” he told me. “I have a court date for you to claim your parents’ safe deposit box. September 10.”
“September 10? Why so far out?”
“That’s a pretty normal backlog for circuit court.”
“Okay. I’ll try to be patient.”
Two and a half months off. I figured a lot could happen in two and a half months.
* * *
Before I could decide what to do about my newfound knowledge of Berghorn’s shady business practices, I had to make sure I had all the information required to do it right. I had read too many case studies in which someone had gotten off scot-free due to sloppy or insufficient investigative work, and that was not going to be me.
I was aware of four state prisons in Illinois: Joliet, Stateville, Pontiac, and Menard. The first three were relatively close to each other and not that far from Chicago. Menard was much farther, in the southern part of the state. I called the closest three and was told the same thing: prison records were open to the public but only if you came in person. Stateville and Joliet prisons were near each other, both about an hour’s drive from Chicago. Pontiac was an hour farther south. And Menard was at least another five hours beyond that. I asked Tymon if he would like to join me on a trip to Joliet, Stateville, and Pontiac prisons, hoping I would find what I was seeking in one of them and not have to travel all the way to Menard. He said yes and offered to drive.
Stateville Prison in Crest Hill was first on our list. I had heard a lot about this maximum security prison—a fifteen-building compound situated on several hundred acres.
On the drive, Tymon told me about a time when he thought he had seen Anna a year after she died.
“Almost got myself arrested. I was doing some extensive remodeling work in a house on Kinzie Street because one of the kids had left the bathtub water running and flooded the place. What a mess.”
“What section of Kinzie, do you remember?” Our house on Ferdinand was just a block north of Kinzie, but Kinzie was a long street that ran from one side of the city to the other.
“All I remember is there were a mess of railroad tracks across the street. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Anyway, I was going there every day for weeks when one morning I saw this woman pushing a baby carriage. I could have sworn it was Anna. There was traffic, so I couldn’t stop to look at her more closely. I drove around the block, but by the time I reached the spot where I had seen her, she had disappeared.”
“That must have been upsetting.”
“You got that right. In my head, I knew it couldn’t have been her, but my heart wasn’t listening to my brain at the time, and I kept driving around that area looking for her like a crazy person. The next thing I know, a police car is behind me with its flashing lights on. Apparently, someone had called them to say there was a suspicious man in a truck combing the neighborhood.”
“Oh, dear. So how did you explain to the police what you were doing?”
“I told him the truth—that I thought I saw someone I kn
ew and was just trying to find her. He told me if I didn’t leave the neighborhood, I’d be arrested for prowling.”
“I wonder if it was the woman with the baby carriage who called the police.”
“I don’t know, but every day after that, I looked for her on my way to and from that house on Kinzie.”
“You never saw her again?”
“No. I never saw her again.”
Driving up to the prison was intimidating—if the thirty-foot concrete wall surrounding it didn’t remind you of the type of people who were confined within, the numerous guard towers looming over the wall did.
At the main entrance, we showed our IDs and explained the nature of our business. We signed in and then were escorted to the administration building. A guard took us to a small windowless room with a table and four chairs. We sat in silence until an older matronly woman came in and asked us to write down the name of the person who was of interest to us and for what years.
I wrote down ELMER EDWARD BERGHORN, 1944 TO 1958.
The woman glared at me like I had just asked her for a piece of the moon.
“It’s not like we’re the FBI with those fancy computers, you know.”
“I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience, but I am told they are public records, so...”
She left in a huff.
“What? Did I give her too many years to look up?” I whispered.
“Probably. I wonder if they still do malaria experiments on the inmates here,” Tymon whispered back.
“They really did that? I thought those were just rumors.”
“No, I think it’s true. The inmates would volunteer in hopes of a shortened sentence.”
I got the chills. “It’s creepy in here.”
Miss Sourpuss finally returned forty-five minutes later and handed me back the piece of paper. “No one here by that name for any of those years. I’ll show you out.”
“Would it be possible to see inside one of the round inmate houses? Peek through a window or something?” I asked.
She gave me a blank stare.
“It’s just that I’ve heard they’re pretty unique, and we’ve come such a long way...”
“This isn’t a tourist attraction. We don’t give guided tours.”
Regarding Anna Page 23
