Mackenzie Chapman

ENG 106
Brittany Biesiada
September 18, 2014
Draft #1
As the water draws to the top of the beach, a small, disheveled body sweeps
up onto the sand. The ocean trembles as the body is pushed further and further
away. The body lays motionless with no life. Her brown hair, wet and slimy, stays
close against her body as her she is sprawled out onto the sand. She gasped for her
last breath as she looked over at her arm, where the stiches were: the mark that
changed her life forever.
The next day, a man, sitting in his dark office, overlooking the skyline of
Chicago heard his phone ring. He answered it and heard of a runaway teenage girl
who just washed up on the beach of Lake Michigan. He looked up from the book he
was reading and whipped off his glasses. This detective had been waiting for a
thrilling case for years, and now one was right under his nose.
Sarah, he yelled to his secretary, give me information stat on the case of
the runaway girl. I want to know where she lived, where she attended school,
everything. I dont want anything to get past me. Girls who runaway do not just
wash up dead on the beach. Something is sketchy.
A few hours later the information was on his desk. He studied the material
but nothing seemed to satisfy him. He shuffled all of the papers together and shoved
them into his briefcase. He whipped it around his shoulder, grabbed his coat, and

walked out of his office. He stepped out onto Michigan Ave., hailed a cab, and told
them an address: 0408 Fruened Ave. Apt. 215, Chicago, IL.
As soon as he got stepped out of the cab, he saw the apartment where this
girl lived. It was an old disheveled apartment that was tall and narrow. The brick
had moss growing up the side of it, and flowerpots, with wilting plants, scattered
around the front door. He buzzed the apartment and walked up the stairs. He
knocked on the door and was pleasantly greeted by a middle-aged woman.
Hello, Im here to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ken Smith.
Come right in, Mrs. Smith sniffled, I assume you are here to talk about my
daughter.
Yes, I dont want to take much of your time, the detective said, I want to
just ask a few questions.
The two of them walked towards the living room where they confronted Mr.
Smith. As he walked towards the living room, the detective noticed family pictures
on the wall, where everyone seemed to be happy.
The detective began, asking, How was your relationship with your daughter?
Great, Mr. Smith immediately, almost being offended by the question. Sir, I
promise you, we had a great relationship with our daughter. We were so confused
when she ran away last night. She never said anything to us about being upset with
something we said.
Then why did she run away? You are her parents, how do you have no
insight?

We have thought of this question multiple times and we truly dont know.
She fought us a few days before about not wanting to go to school. We never forced
her to attend but we encouraged her to talk to us if something was going on, Mrs.
Smith said, maybe her boyfriend knows more?
She was in a relationship? Where they fighting? Can you get me his
information? The detective responded.
Mr. Smith jotted down the boys information on a post-it note and scooted it
across the end table to the detective. He took the note and slid it into the inner
pocket of his coat. He thanked them for talking to him and answering his questions
and left the house.
A few blocks away, he saw a boy fixing his bike on the sidewalk. The boy was
in a white t-shirt stained with grease he had wiped off of his hands. He had dark
brown hair that was slicked to the side. He had a small stature, not that of a jock. The
detective walked up to the boy, stood above him, looking over his shoulder.
The boy turned around and asked, Can I help you?
I have been told that you know Leah Smith, the detective said.
Know? I wanted to marry that girl one day, the boy said as he starred
blankly into the distance.
Can you tell me what you know? Why did she want to run away?
Sir, I dont know.
Why did she hate school? Where you fighting?

No. We were happy, so happy. She didnt hate school. She hated one class,
government. She said she didnt like the class, the tests, and the people. I didnt want
her to get upset so I would try to change the topic, the boy said distraughtly.
What kind of people where in the class? Who was the teacher?
The class was full of her friends, that was why I was confused, the boy said,
her teacher was new this year, Mr. White.
The detective finished jotting down the teachers name and went back to his
cab that was waiting for him. He fell into the seat and opened his briefcase. He
looked at the report on the girls death. It gave her physical appearance, name, age,
and gender. Under the topic of markings on the body, he read that she had stiches on
her right arm. None of her family or boyfriend mentioned this odd feature, or past
surgeries or accidents that would have caused this. The detective sat confused as he
was rereading all of the information that the family and friend gave him. He called
his secretary.
Sarah, he said, Look at the report on Leah Smith. Is there any information
you forgot to give me showing why she had stiches on her arm?
No, I gave you everything we had, she said, If you look on the small print
underneath the description of the stiches, it said the cut she got was stitched the
night she ran away. The stiches were fresh, sir.
Thank you Sarah, he said, now please go to my computer and search the
name Harry White. What do you see?
Sarah then told the detective all the information she saw. Harry White was a
teacher at Harper High School, teaching government. But previously, he had worked

for the FBI. The detective did not respond to what Sarah had to say. He clicked the
phone together and placed it on the seat next to him. He placed everything back into
his briefcase as he arrived at Harper High School.
He walked in the front doors of the school and asked for Harry White. He
went to the room he was told, it was at the end of the hall. As he walked down the
empty hallway, lined with lockers, he thought about the information he knew about
this man he was about to meet. He walked into the classroom.
Mr. White?
A middle-aged man looked up from behind a stack of papers at the detective
and said, Yes?
Yesterday, a girl by the name of Leah Smith was found dead on the shores of
Lake Michigan. I was told you were her teacher?
Yes, Mr. White agreed, as his face turned to the color of his name.
I have a few questions for you, Mr. White. First, how was your relationship
with Leah? I was told she never wanted to come into this class. Can you tell me
why?
Sweat started to stream off of Mr. Whites forehead. He clenched his fists
together and slowly stood up.
I dont know what you are talking about? I saw Leah after school yesterday
and she was fine.
Oh, after school you saw her. That would mean you are the last person to see
her alive. Sir, do you have something to tell me?
No, it wasnt me, I promise. I am just a school teacher.

A school teacher, sir, with a background in the federal agency, the detective
affirmed.
Okay, yes. But that means nothing.
Why was there a scar on her wrist?
Mr. Whites face flushed as he walked towards the door, I do not know what
you are talking about.
Stop, Mr. White, the detective yelled, you know what happened. Now tell
me.
It wasnt me, Mr. White screeched. I was told by government officials of
this town to find a girl named Leah Smith and put a microchip in her arm. I tried to
get close to her throughout the year, hoping she would trust me, but she only found
me creepy. That is when I started to use force. Last night, I implanted the chip. But
they never told me she would die. I promise.
The detective asked, Why? What does this chip contain?
Important underground information about the mayors funding.
The detective shoved the desk next to him and rushed out of the room. Mr.
White sat stoned, speechless, and still.
The detective went to his office and plugged in the microchip into his
computer. He downloaded all of the programs that the microchip contained. Mr.
White told the truth. On his computer was many illegal acts done by the mayor to
fund the community, and most importantly, himself. He was using the taxpayers
money to fund his new home in California and also he was paying illegal immigrants
to come to the city if they would vote for his next term.

The information of why they chose Leah was also on the file. The person
carrying the microchip had to live on Fruened Ave. Every other letter of the street
name spelled out the name of this underground action: FUND. Also, they wanted a
shy, vulnerable girl who can easily be manuvered into holding the chip. What the
government did not know was how scared and manipulated Leah felt, feeling
pressured to kill herself. And that is exactly what she did.
The detective was disgusted as he threw down the papers on his desk. He
looked at his phone and dialed the phone number for the courthouse.
Hello, may I please talk to the mayor.
He looked up from his desk at his secretary and said, Justice will be served
to those who serve justice.