After a while Ramone said, “Diego seems okay. He’ll never forget this, but he’s handling it pretty well.”
“He had a rough day, all in all. On top of everything, they went and sent him home —”
“For laughing during a fire drill. I wonder how many white kids laughed.”
“Now, Gus. Don’t go hatin on white kids.”
“Fuck that school,” said Ramone. “I’ve about had it with that bullshit, too.”
“Easy, soldier,” said Regina, brushing hair off his forehead and kissing him behind his ear. “Your heart’s gonna get to fluttering, you’re not going to be able to sleep.”
They wrapped their arms around each other, and he felt his breathing slow. And holding her, smelling the scent that was only hers and feeling the buttery skin of her cheek against his, he thought, This is why I am married to this woman.
This is something I will never have with anyone else.
T
HE PASSING OF
Asa Johnson made the second page of Metro in the next morning’s
Washington Post.
The event carried more weight than the usual one- or two-paragraph mention given black victims under the Crime or In Brief headings, informally called the “Violent Negro Deaths” by many area residents. Johnson, after all, was not a project kid. He was a middle-class teenager, and a young one at that. What made him newsworthy was that his age at death was part of a disturbing trend.
In the middle of the summer, a six-year-old boy, Donmiguel Wilson, had been found gagged, bound, and asphyxiated facedown in a bathtub, dead for several hours in an apartment in Congress Heights. That horrific event had made the
Post
’s front page. The random shooting of Donte Manning, nine years old, while he played outside his apartment house in Columbia Heights, had also warranted extra press, and outrage, back in the spring. The year’s murder rate was down, but juvenile murders were higher than they had ever been.
The statistic dogged both the mayor and the D.C. police chief. It wasn’t just the bad press that bothered them, though that, of course, added to their anxiety. Everyone, even the most hard-hearted, felt a chill when a child was murdered for no other reason than the fact that he or she had been born and raised in the wrong section of the city. Any time a kid was killed, police, officials, and citizenry alike were reminded that they lived in a world gone terribly wrong.
Still, Asa Johnson’s death, not yet officially classified as a murder, did not draw the type of attention or prioritization afforded white victims or black preteens. There were other murders to investigate as well. Several bodies, in fact, had dropped in the past couple of days.
Rhonda Willis had caught one of them, a shooting victim found overnight in Fort Slocum Park, a few blocks west of the community garden on Oglethorpe Street.
“You wanna ride out there with me?” said Rhonda, seated at her desk in the VCB. It was early in the morning, not yet nine. Gus Ramone and Rhonda Willis were pulling eight-to-fours for the next two weeks.
“Sure,” said Ramone. “But I need to talk to Garloo first.”
“Go ahead. We already got an ID on my decedent. I’m gonna run his name through the system, get some background.”
“Let me do this and I’ll be ready to go.”
Garloo Wilkins was in his cubicle, reading something on the Internet. He closed the screen as Ramone approached. It was either sports or porn sites for Garloo. He was into fantasy baseball and mature women with big racks.
Wilkins’s desk was clean, with his files aligned neatly in a steel vertical holder to the side. There were no religious icons, family shots, or photos on his corkboard, except for a Polaroid, taken from an evidence file, of a local go-go keyboardist and murder suspect fucking a young female from behind, smiling as he stared into the camera. The musician had been questioned but never charged due to lack of evidence and witnesses. It had not been one of Garloo’s cases, but the whole of the unit had been angered by the suspect’s ability to evade arrest, and the photo was a reminder that he was still out there, having fun and breathing free air. Also on Garloo’s desk was a lighter lying atop a pack of Winstons. The lighter had a map of North and South Vietnam on it. Wilkins was ex-army but had been too young to serve in that war.
“Bill.”
“Gus.”
Ramone pulled someone’s chair over and had a seat. “What’s shaking on Asa Johnson?”
Wilkins reached over and pulled the file out of the holder. He opened it and stared at some unmarked paperwork. Ramone eyed the top sheet. There were no notes scribbled upon it. Usually a well-worked case had notations written in the margins and greasy fingerprints staining the manila. This one was bone clean.
Wilkins closed the file and replaced it. He had recorded nothing in it, but the handling of the file added to the drama he was trying to project. Apparently he had some news.
“We got a probable time of death from the pre-autopsy notes. The ME says between midnight and two a.m. Gunshot wound to the left temple, exit at the crown.”
“What about the slug?”
“Came from a thirty-eight. Clean enough to get markings. We could match it if we found the weapon.”
Ramone nodded. “Any foreign substances in the blood?”
“None. There was powder residue found on the fingers of his left hand. I’m assuming he raised that hand in some kind of defense before he was shot.”
“Okay. That’s forensics. What about on the investigative end?”
“Canvasses turned up goose eggs. Except for that old lady, thought she heard the snap of a branch. So no witnesses whatsoever. Yet.”
“Anything come up off the tip line?”
“Nada.”
“What about the tape of the man who called in the body?”
“I’ve got it,” said Wilkins, pulling a cassette dub from an envelope in his top drawer.
“Mind if I listen to it?”
Garloo Wilkins and Ramone walked back to the audio/ video room. On the way they passed Anthony Antonelli and Mike Bakalis arguing over Redskins trivia.
“Art Monk had the most yards receiving in eighty-seven,” said Bakalis.
“It was Gary Clark,” said Antonelli. “Hell, Kelvin Bryant had more yards that year than Monk.”
“I was talking about wide receivers,” said Bakalis.
“Clark
was
a wide receiver, dumbass.”
Ramone went into the room with Wilkins, fitted the tape in the machine, and hit “play.” He listened to the voice of the man calling in the body, and the dispatcher, who was unsuccessfully trying to get the man to identify himself. Ramone rewound the tape and listened to it again.
“What are you hearing?” said Wilkins, seeing a look of discovery, or maybe recognition, pass across Ramone’s face.
“I’m just listening for ambience,” said Ramone.
“No caller ID,” said Wilkins. “It’s gonna be harder than my dick to find this guy.”
“Uh-huh,” said Ramone.
“And you know how hard that is,” said Wilkins, grinning to reveal a row of horse teeth. “So hard a cat can’t scratch it.”
“Okay,” said Ramone, not hearing Garloo’s words of wisdom but listening intensely to the familiar voice coming from the machine, those long Maryland
O
’s of the P.G. County working-class white boy, the slight slur brought on by alcohol.
“We find the dude who made the call, maybe we got a wit. Shit, maybe he’s the hitter,” said Wilkins.
“Your words to God’s ears,” said Ramone. He listened to the recording a third time, removed it from the player, and handed it to Wilkins. “Thanks.”
“What, you thought you were gonna recognize the guy’s voice or somethin?”
“If you play it backwards at a slower speed, he confesses,” said Ramone.
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” sang Wilkins, channeling Brian Wilson. It actually made Ramone smile.
“What now?” said Ramone.
“I’m going to visit the Johnson home today. Check out the kid’s room and shit.”
Don’t fuck it up, thought Ramone. With those ham hock hands of yours.
“I guess I’ll get a list of the kid’s friends from his father,” said Wilkins.
Don’t forget the school, thought Ramone.
“You don’t mind I talk to your son, do you?” said Wilkins.
“I did, and he doesn’t know anything. But you probably should, for the report. Call Regina at my house, and she’ll tell you the best time to come by.”
“Thanks, Gus. I know you got a personal thing with this. I’m gonna stay on it.”
“I appreciate it, Bill,” said Ramone.
Ramone joined Rhonda Willis. On their way out the door, Antonelli asked them where they were going, and Rhonda gave him the courtesy of relating the details on her new case.
“The decedent has a list of priors, some grand thefts, some drug related,” said Rhonda. “WACIES gave me some of the names of his accomplices. They were in that game, too.”
“Sounds like a society cleanse,” said Antonelli.
“Could be,” said Rhonda. “But you know I work them all the same way. ’Cause God made them innocent to begin with. Ain’t a one of ’em started out wrong.”
She and Ramone went out the door. Garloo Wilkins was smoking a Winston down to the filter, standing on the sidewalk bordering a parking lot filled with personal cars, trucks, and SUVs, and police vehicles.
“Looks like Garloo’s goin hard at it,” said Rhonda when they were out of his hearing range.
“He’s pacing himself,” said Ramone.
They found a Ford product and got inside. Ramone let Rhonda drive. He wanted to think about the Johnson case. He wondered why he had not yet mentioned to any of his coworkers, including his partner, that the voice on the tape was Dan Holiday’s.
HOLIDAY CARRIED THE POST
out to his balcony and read the article on Asa Johnson thoroughly. He stubbed out his cigarette and took his coffee inside to the second bedroom of his apartment, which he had outfitted as his office. He had a seat at his desk, fired up his computer, and got online. He went to a search engine and typed in “Palindrome Murders, Washington, D.C.” For the next hour he read and printed out everything useful on the subject, some of which came from serial-killer sites, most of which came from the archives of the
Washington Post.
He then phoned the local police union office and got a man on the line who had been a patrolman when Holiday had walked a beat in the H Street corridor. This man gave Holiday the current address of the person he was looking for.
Holiday dressed in his black suit and left the apartment. He had a pickup for an airport run.
THE VICTIM’S NAME WAS
Jamal White. He had been shot twice in the chest and once in the head. Burn marks and notable cranial damage indicated a close-range kill. He was on his back, with one leg folded in an unnatural manner under the other. His eyes were open and fixed on nothing, and his top teeth were bared and protruded over his lower lip in the manner of a slaughtered animal. He had been found on the edge of the park at 3rd and Madison. Blood had bloomed and dried on his white T.
“Nineteen years old,” said Rhonda Willis. “Did a long juvenile stay at Oak Hill and some D.C. Jail time while he was waiting on sentencing. Car thefts, drug possessions, minor sales pops. No violent crimes on his sheet. He came up near Fifth and Kennedy, so you know what that’s about. Residential address is his grandmother’s home on Longfellow.”
“His family been notified?” said Ramone.
“What there is of one. Mother’s currently incarcerated. An addict with multiple larceny convictions. No father of record. There’s a few half-siblings, but they weren’t living with him. The closest kin is his grandmother. She’s been called.”
They talked to the patrol cop out of 4D who had arrived first on the scene. They asked him if he had spoken to anyone who might have seen something, or if he himself had seen anything pertinent to the murder, and the patrol cop shook his head.
“I guess we should, uh, seek out some witnesses,” said Ramone to Rhonda.
“Please,”
said Rhonda. “Let’s go see Granmoms and allow these good people to do their jobs.”
They left the working techs and drove to the grandmother’s row house on the 500 block of Longfellow Street. The blinds were drawn on the windows of the front porch.
“She in there having her moment, I expect,” said Rhonda. “Allowing herself a good cry.”
“You could come back,” said Ramone.
“No, I need to do this. Might as well make it now. She might have something to tell me while she’s thinking on it.” Rhonda looked across the bench at Ramone. “Don’t suppose you want to come with me.”
“I got a few calls to make.”
“Gonna make me fly solo, huh.”
He watched her go to the house and knock on the front door. The door opened and there was darkness behind. A hand reached out and touched hers and Rhonda stepped inside.
Ramone called 411 and obtained the number for Strange Investigations, a storefront operation on 9th and Upshur. Derek Strange was ex-police, now private, and Ramone had used him in the past for discreet information. In return he threw bits of meat, occasionally, back to Strange.
The phone rang and a woman picked up. It was Strange’s wife, Janine.
“Is the big man in?” said Ramone.
“Working,” said Janine. “And rarely here. All you boys like to run the streets.”
“True. Listen, I got a name. Can you get me an address and phone? I need business and residence.”
“All those toys you police have and you’re askin me?”
“I’m not at the toy store,” said Ramone. “Daniel Holiday, spell it like a vacation. Goes by Doc. He has a car or limo service, is what I hear. I imagine he’d name it after himself.”
“Okay. I’ll run it through People Finder. Give me your cell number. I got it on file somewhere here, but I’m lazy.”
Ramone gave her his number. “How’s your boy?”
“Lionel’s in college, praise be. Your lovely wife and kids?”
“All is good. Ya’ll still got that boxer?”
“You mean Greco. He’s under my desk. Got his chin on my toes as we speak.”