As the Wicked Watch(32)

“It’s upsetting to see kids not being given the basics to enjoy in life,” I said. “But obviously I didn’t come here just to talk about the playground.”

“Obviously, you didn’t. So what do you want?”

Jeez, can you be a little nicer?

“Ms. Robinson, I’d really like to interview you on-camera. I told Tanya, your niece, that the only way to keep this story in the news was for us to do exactly what you did with the playground. Never let our foot off the gas,” I said. “The stakes are higher than a swing set.”

I’m aware that I’m pouring it on thick, but if Louise Robinson wants me to beg her to go on-camera, she can forget it. I’m here now, in her house, and I’m determined not to leave without footage. It’s one thing to get a grieving parent to talk on-camera; it’s another to get a professional mouthpiece, like Robinson. Surely she isn’t camera shy. Maybe she’s saving it for the vigil.

On the way to her house, I googled the article she was quoted in about the blighted playground.

“Why did it become such a struggle to get the Park District to respond to repeated requests to improve the conditions of the playground in a community full of schoolchildren?” I asked.

“Oh, it wasn’t just the Park District; it was Lucinda Mitchell blocking us at first, because she didn’t want anybody to find out she was embezzling that money. When they finally did do something over there, we as a community had less than we started with. They took out all the equipment, and do you know they’ve only cut that grass over there TWICE! You hear me, TWICE in two years! After that, they said forget it.”

“Who’s they? The Park District?” I asked.

“I blame them all!” she declared. “The mayor’s office, too. They’re as much to blame for that child’s death as the person or people who killed her,” she said.

Louise had quickly worked herself into a frenzy, so I decided not to bring up the fact that Masey was murdered someplace else and her body was dumped there.

“Ms. Robinson, Tanya said on the phone this morning that people are furious. What are you hearing? Are people concerned there will be other victims? That a killer’s on the loose on the South Side?”

“Our children are dying every day,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “There are always others. Do I think somebody in the community did it? Yes. I do. Do I believe he knew where he was going to stash her body before he killed her? Yes. I believe he did.”

She hadn’t yet answered the second part of my question.

“Are you afraid there will be others?” I repeated.

“God forbid, but yes. So long as he keeps getting away with it, he’ll never stop. His thirst to kill can’t be quenched. He’s already gone after another young lady,” she said.

Wait. What?

“Ms. Robinson, you almost sound like you know who did this,” I said, trading in my low octave for a near shriek. “What are you telling me?”

I wish I had an extra hand behind my back to text Scott, “Get in here with the camera! Now!”

Louise Robinson moved up in her chair and, leaning forward, looked me dead in the face. “What I’m telling you is that people don’t believe what they see with their own eyes. They ignore the truth.”

Why is she being so cryptic?

I listened.

“There is a pathology that runs through our community, Jordan. It places our girls in imminent danger every day of their lives. Before the police fail them, before the prosecutors fail to convict those who would harm them, there is in some cases a failure of the community to protect them.”

She was starting to sound like Superintendent Bartlett.

“How so?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen it before. Some people would rather shame our girls and blame them for being victimized. They oversexualize them before they even get their period. Some women are just as guilty as men. It’s not uncommon to hear, ‘She’s acting grown,’ or ‘She’s acting fast,’ or ‘She shouldn’t have been wearing that. She was asking for it. She should’ve known better.’”

She’s right; it was a familiar refrain.

“I agree with you a hundred percent. But, Ms. Robinson, you said he’s already gone after another young lady. Who are you talking about?”

She leaned back and held on to the chair’s armrests, posturing like a queen on her wicker throne, and with the damnedest look on her face, she said, “Red Moley. And you’d better believe, if there’s one, there’s two.”





7




Scott and I had to hustle to make it to the Chicago Police Department headquarters on time to interview Bartlett. Indeed, he had nothing new to say about the investigation, but what he did say and how he said it was emotive. Sitting behind his desk, in his dress-white short-sleeved uniform shirt, he looked downright despondent when he said: “Every child’s life matters. But as someone working in law enforcement for over twenty-five years, I’ve continually witnessed the unchecked victimization of Black women and girls, and society’s failure to protect them,” he said. “Masey James was more than just innocent; she was golden.” His lower lip quivered. “She was her mother’s pride and joy. Any parent would be proud to have raised such a daughter.”