Authors: David Simon
“He’s alive, right?” Edgerton says.
“Who? The victim?”
No, thinks Edgerton, Elvis fucking Presley. Of course the victim. The detective nods.
“I don’t think so,” says the uniform. “Not for long anyway. He looked pretty bad in the ambo.”
The detective shakes his head. The kid doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with. I don’t do murders, Edgerton wants to tell him. I just handle calls.
“We got you a witness, though.”
A witness. Now it’s definitely not a murder.
“Where’s this witness?”
“Over there by my car.”
Edgerton looks across the intersection at a short, wire-thin doper
who stares back and nods with what appears to be mild interest. This strikes Edgerton immediately, because eyewitnesses forced to remain at the scene of a murder are generally uncooperative and sullen.
“I’ll be over there in a minute. Where’s the victim?”
“Bon Secours. I think.”
“This is the scene right here?”
“This here, and over that way you’ve got some more shell casings. Twenty-twos, I think.”
Edgerton moves slowly into the street, carefully gauging his own steps. Ten shell casings—.22 rifle by the look of them—are scattered across the asphalt, each circled by a yellow chalk mark. The pattern of the spent shells seems to travel west across the center of the intersection, with most of the casings lying near the southwest corner. And at that corner, two more chalk marks note the location of the body when the paramedics arrived. Head east. Feet west at the curb’s edge.
The detective walks the scene for another ten minutes, looking for anything out of the ordinary. No blood trail. No fresh scuff marks. No tire patches. Truly an unremarkable crime scene. In the gutter near the northeast corner, he finds a broken gelatin cap with traces of white powder. No surprise here—the intersection of Hollins and Payson is a drug market after dark. Moreover, the capsule is yellowed and dirty enough to make Edgerton believe it’s been in the street for several days and has nothing to do with his shooting.
“Do you have this post?” he asks the uniform.
“Not usually. But I’m in the sector, so I know this corner pretty well. What do you need to know?”
What do I need to know. Edgerton is beginning to like this kid, who not only knows enough to grab hold of anything at the scene that resembles a witness but is also talking like he knows the area he’s working. In the Baltimore department, this is a situation worthy of nostalgia. Ten or fifteen years ago, a homicide detective could ask a uniform a question and expect an answer. Those were the days when a good man owned his post and one dog couldn’t fuck another at Hollins and Payson without word getting back to the Southwest station house. In that era, a patrolman who worked a post and caught a murder could expect to be asked who hung on that corner and where they could be located. And if he didn’t know, he found out in a hurry. Nowadays, Edgerton tells himself, we’re lucky if the post man can get the street names right. This kid here is a real police. A throwback.
“Who lives in that corner house there?”
“Bunch of drug dealers. It’s a fucking shooting gallery is what it is. Our DEU hit it last week and locked up about a dozen of those fuckers.”
Fuck that. No likely witnesses there.
“What about that corner?”
“Corner house has junkies. Junkies and an old wino. No, the wino lives one house down.”
Priceless, Edgerton thinks. The kid is priceless.
“What about over there?”
The uniform shrugs. “I’m not sure on that one. That might be a real person living there.”
“Did you canvass?”
“Yeah, we did half the block. No answer at that house, and the assholes over there say they didn’t see shit. We can lock ’em up if you want.”
Edgerton shakes his head, writing a few lines in his notepad. The uniform leans over to get a look, just a little bit curious.
“You know this guy you grabbed?” Edgerton asks.
“Not by name, but I’ve seen him around. He sells off this corner and he’s been locked up, I know that. He’s a piece of shit, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Edgerton smiles briefly, then crosses the intersection. The wire-thin dealer is leaning against the radio car, a black beret pulled down straight across his forehead. High-top Air Jordans, Jordache jeans, Nike sweatshirt—a walking pile of ghetto status. He actually smiles when Edgerton walks up to the car.
“I guess I hung too long,” the dealer says.
Edgerton smiles. A homeboy who knows the drill.
“I guess you did. What’s your name?”
The dealer gives it up in a mumble.
“Any ID?”
The dealer shrugs, then pulls out a state proof-of-age card. The name checks.
“This your right address?”
The dealer nods.
“What was the shooting about?”
“I can probably say what it’s about. And I can say what it looked like from down the street, but I didn’t see who it was did it.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see them?”
“I mean I was too far. I was down in the middle of the block when they came up shooting. I didn’t—”
Edgerton cuts him off as another radio car, cruising south on Payson, pulls to the curb. O.B. McCarter, having returned to Southwest patrol after being detailed to homicide for the Karen Smith case, leans out the driver’s window and laughs.
“Harry Edgerton,” he says, unable to contain himself, “is this your call, man?”
“Yeah,’ fraid so. You been to the hospital?”
“Yeah, I been there.”
Fucking McCarter, thinks Edgerton. He’s been gone from homicide three weeks and I haven’t missed him even a little bit.
“So? Is he dead?”
“You got a suspect?”
“No.”
McCarter laughs. “He’s dead. You got yourself a murder, Harry.”
Edgerton turns back to the dealer, who is shaking his head at the news. The detective wonders whether his witness is putting on appearances or is genuinely upset about the murder.
“Did you know the guy?”
“Pete? Yeah, I knew him.”
“I got his name as Greg Taylor,” says Edgerton, checking his notes.
“Naw man,’ round here, he was Pete. I just talked to him a couple hours ago. This is some shit.”
“What was he about?”
“He was selling burn bags, you know. He was selling people shit. I told him that shit would get his ass killed …”
“You told him, huh?”
“Yeah. You know.”
“You kind of liked the guy, didn’t you?”
The dealer smiles. “Yeah, Pete was okay.”
Almost despite himself, Edgerton is amused. His victim was working out on Payson Street, selling baking soda to junkies at $10 a cap—an act of unrestrained capitalism guaranteed to bring a man more enemies than can ever be put to good use. Christ, Edgerton tells himself, my luck is turning. Every doper along Frederick Avenue must have hated this sonofabitch and I find the one guy who’s a little sorry to see him dead.
“Was he out here tonight selling burn bags?” Edgerton asks.
“Yeah. Off an’ on, you know.”
“Who’d he sell to?”
“Boy named Moochie bought some. And a girl with Moochie, she
lives over on Pulaski. And then these other two came by in a car. I didn’t know them. Quite a few people paid money for that shit.”
“What happened with the shooting?”
“I was down the block. Didn’t really see from where I was at, you know.”
Edgerton shakes his head, then gestures to the back seat of the radio car. The dealer climbs in and Edgerton follows, slamming the right rear door behind him. The detective cracks the window, lights one cigarette and offers another to the dealer. The kid takes the offering with a soft grunt.
“You been doing all right with me so far,” says Edgerton. “Don’t start fucking up now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been straight with me up to this point, so I haven’t dragged your ass downtown like I normally would. But if you’re gonna hold back …”
“No, man, no,” says the dealer. “It’s not like that. I told you I saw the shooting, but I was down the street coming up from where my girl lives. I saw them chasing Pete and I heard the shots, but I can’t tell you who they were.”
“How many were there?”
“I saw two. But only one was shooting.”
“Was it a handgun?”
“No,” says the dealer, stretching his arms to the length of a long gun. “It was one of these.”
“A rifle?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“I don’t know. He was right there when I first seen him.”
“Where’d he go afterward?”
“After?”
“After Pete got shot. Where’d the boy with the rifle run?”
“Back down Payson.”
“South? That way? What’d he look like? What was he wearing?”
“Dark coat and hat, I think.”
“What kind of hat?”
“You know, like with a brim.”
“Baseball cap?”
The dealer nods.
“How was he built?”
“Average. Six feet, you know.”
Edgerton throws the last third of his cigarette out the window and
reads through the last two pages in his notepad. The dealer breathes deep, then sighs.
“Ain’t this some shit.”
Edgerton grunts. “What?”
“I just talked to him a couple hours back. I told him that this shit was gonna get his ass killed. He just laughed, you know? He laughed and said he was gonna make a little money and then go buy his own shit.”
“Well,” says Edgerton, “you were right.”
At the sound of voices on the adjacent sidewalk, the dealer slumps down inside the car, suddenly aware that he has been talking on the street with a police detective for a quarter of an hour. Two young boys glide past the car and turn the corner onto Hollins Street, eyefucking the uniforms but never bothering to look into the back seat. Except for the uniforms, the intersection is once again empty.
“Let’s hurry this up,” the dealer says, suddenly uncomfortable. “A lot of people know me around here and this don’t look right.”
“Tell me this,” says Edgerton, still scanning his notes. “There had to be some people out on that corner, right?”
The dealer nods almost gratefully, content to know the price of his own noninvolvement.
“There were five or six people around,” he tells the detective. “A couple girls that live over that way on Hollins with some other boy I don’t know. I don’t know their names but I see them around. And there was another guy who I do know. He was right there when it happened.”
Edgerton flips to a fresh page of his notepad and clicks the top of his city-issue pen. With nothing else said, both men understand that the price of anonymity will be another witness’s identity. The dealer asks for another cigarette, then a light, then expels both the smoke and the name.
“John Nathan,” Edgerton repeats, writing it down. “Where’s he live?”
“I think Catherine Street, right off Frederick.”
“He deals?”
“Yeah. You all have locked him up.”
The detective nods, then closes the notepad. There is only so much cooperation that a detective can expect at the scene of a drug murder, and this kid has just exceeded Edgerton’s monthly quota. Instinctively, the dealer reaches over to close the bargain with a handshake. A strange gesture. Edgerton responds, then offers a last warning before opening the car door.
“If this doesn’t check out,” he says, sliding off the seat with the kid following him out of the car, “I know where to find you, right?”
The dealer nods agreement, then pulls the beret down on his forehead and disappears into the darkness. Edgerton takes another ten minutes to sketch his crime scene and asks the Southwest uniforms a few questions about the name he has just been given. If you see him on the street, he tells the patrolmen, pick his ass up and call homicide.
At half past three in the morning, Edgerton finally manages to get free for the four-block drive to Bon Secours and a visit with his dead man. He’s a big one, too—six-foot-one or so with a linebacker’s upper body and a tailback’s legs. A thirty-year-old addict who lived not a block from where he was shot, Gregory Taylor looks up at the ceiling of the ER through one glazed eye, the other having swollen shut from the fall on Payson Street. Catheters and tubes hang limply from every appendage, lifeless as the body to which they were attached. Edgerton notes the needle tracks on both arms as well as gunshot wounds to the right chest, left hip and upper right arm. All of the wounds appear to be entrances, though with a .22 slug, Edgerton knows, it’s hard to tell.
“He looks pretty mean, doesn’t he?” says the detective to a nearby uniform. “Big and mean. I guess that explains why there were two of them. I wouldn’t want to go out looking for this guy alone, even with a rifle. I’d definitely bring a friend.”
The physical evidence suggests two other things to the detective. One: The killing was an act of impulse rather than premeditation. Edgerton knows that from the weapons involved; no shooter with any semblance of professionalism would carry something as cumbersome as a .22 rifle to a planned drug killing. Two: The shooter was mightily pissed off at Gregory Taylor, ten shots fired being an obvious indication of displeasure.
Leaning over the dead man’s torso, Edgerton draws a human form on a fresh page of his notepad and begins marking wound sites. As he does, a heavyset trauma nurse, her face locked in that unmistakable get-out-of-my-emergency-room expression, walks across the ER, closing the plastic curtain behind her.
“Are you the detective for this one?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need his clothes?”
“Yeah, we do, thanks. There should be a uniformed officer here to bag those. I’ll see—”
“There’s one out in the waiting room with the mother,” says the nurse, obviously torn between the joys of irritation and the satisfactions of efficiency. “We’re going to need this bed soon.”
“The mother is here?”
The nurse nods.
“Okay, then. I need to see her,” says Edgerton, opening the curtain. “One other thing. He didn’t say anything in the ambulance or once he got here?”
“A-D-A-S-T-W,” says the nurse.
“What?”
“A-D-A-S-T-W,” she says with a certain pride. “Arrived dead and stayed that way.”