The Fall(39)

Once I’d freed up most of it, I was able to pull out what essentially was a front panel, opening up to reveal the back. The other side proved that those meters were nothing but fancy props, their mechanical workings not hooked up to anything other than a power source. The touchpad, however, was authentic. The sheathed red, blue, green and yellow wires were connected in a complex configuration, and fed into the wall with the rest of the wiring.

So why have the fake meters and a larger than average box to house them in? None of it made sense until I pulled the panel out a little more and found a large envelope. The edges had yellowed either from time or moisture in the wall and judging from its tattered appearance it had been awhile since it had seen the light of day.

The skin on the back of my neck tingled in warning. Deep down I knew I had no business looking into whatever was contained in that envelope. But I couldn’t help myself, my curiosity getting the better of me as to why Michael had gone to such great lengths to hide this folder.

The minute I pulled out its contents I knew exactly why.

Inside were a birth certificate, notepaper, paper clippings, file pages and old photos—pieces of a puzzle that was obviously Michael’s life. I was caught feeling like an intruder while the investigator in me needed to know more.

Shoving the envelope under my arm, I did my best to right the meter box to the way I’d found it. Of course, it wouldn’t stand up under close inspection. The caulking was missing from most of the edges of the panel but if no one paid too much attention, it would look as ordinary as I’d found it.

I folded the chair and carried it back to the kitchen along with the envelope. I had no idea how much time I had before Michael got back, but I assumed when he said he didn’t know how long he was going to be, it was probably going to be a while.

Please, Lord, let him stay out a little longer, I silently whispered as I emptied the contents onto the table, the papers and photos scattering across the white plastic surface.

The police officer in me took over; examining each note, photo or shred of paper like it was important evidence in a murder trial. Slowly the man who had come to my door a few nights ago was starting to take shape.

He was abandoned at birth and left on the steps of Saint Margaret’s, barely clinging to life. Hospital reports—which he’d either stolen or hacked into the system to get—suggested he hadn’t been expected to make it through the night. Two nuns whose names were Sister Catherine and Sister Mary had apparently found him and rushed him to the hospital. And judging by the notations in the file, they had sat in at the hospital for days until he finally pulled through. No parents were listed on the birth certificate issued by the state, the name Michael Gabriel had been given to him by either one or both of the sisters.

The story then continues with documents from child welfare—once again probably illegally obtained—each page bringing with it one tragic heartbreak after another.

Michael was fostered a number of times. His first foster parents returned him to the state because he was inconsolable and cried too much after only three months. And then he was removed from the second family when he was three after he was found to be living in unimaginable filth and neglect.

It went on and on, the child being passed around like an unwanted toy until he reached the age of ten when he apparently found a stable home.

Social worker notes labeled him a “problem child, with an inability to show empathy or love.” Another caseworker went so far as to call him a “psychopath with criminal tendencies.” Page after page of psychological notes on how damaged he’d become and not a single mention of a prescribed treatment plan, therapy or a family who had loved him through his trauma.

Nothing.

They’d given up on him. Condemned him to the man he’d become.

The last of the notes said he’d run away as a teen. A police report was filed three days after he had apparently gone missing, but there were no notations on what investigations had been done. It seemed with his disappearance and his past problematic behavior, everyone just gave up on him all together. His file closed.

There were a few photos. Most likely taken by caseworkers on visits at different times. Each photo was a headshot, Michael staring directly into the lens of the camera. It was eerie taking that step back in time. His hair the same shade of brown but his skin was a shade paler. He looked thinner too, almost smaller and younger than the ages noted on the back. His face however hadn’t changed. It was completely empty of emotion, like he had known they had given up on him too. The little boy who stared back at me had the eyes of a lost soul, those deep pits—desolate.

There were no further notes or files as to what happened to him after he left his last foster home. No school records continuing after that date, no records for the DMV, registration to vote or service records of any kind. There weren’t even medical records; and as far as the state of Illinois was concerned Michael Gabriel was still listed as a missing person.

That’s what he had meant last night, when he’d said they wouldn’t be able to place him in the car with me.

He was a ghost.

There were so many missing pieces. Like, how a man who, according to records, barely attended high school seemed smarter than some college students. Or how he’d managed to buy property, register a car, get a license and at the very least exist, when on paper he didn’t.

I reexamined the envelope wondering if there was something I’d missed, or if there was a hint as to where more might be found. And there, stuck in the crease at the bottom, I found a tiny holy picture.