Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries
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Killing a Snitch
By
Brian Bradford
I dedicate this book to my parents, Bruce and Patricia Bradford, who have stuck with me through all of my bullshit. They have protected my secrets, but never lied for me. My dad made me tough, and my mom made me a thinker. If I didn’t have them both I’d be average at fighting, and writing.
Chapter 1: It wasn’t me!
Saturday March 18, 2019
10:13am
T he sounds of manhood that emanate from chair to chair and out the door of an urban barbershop can only be interpreted by those who frequent the thrones and sit patiently, hanging on to every wise-cracking, taunting challenge, and soothing bit of wisdom tossed around like chips and soda.
“I was in the middle of getting my hair cut!”
Maurice Coles was hyper and agitated anytime he was not high. So, he was talking too fast and too loudly. His eyes were so tiny behind his thick glasses it was obvious why the streets called him “Blinds.”. When he dragged on his Newport, he tilted his head, closed his eyes briefly, and sucked his cheeks in. He could not wait to start talking again.
Detective Christopher Aiden held a pen and a reporter’s pad but wasn’t writing anything yet. A less ominous tape recorder was on inside his pocket.
“So, he pulls up outside,” Blinds says.
“Who?”
“Six Hands.”
“Okay.”
“And this joker Moochie tells me to get up. “I’m like, ‘Wha?’”
“Moochie is the barber?”
“Yea.”
Blinds stops flailing his arms around and looks at the detective incredulously with his mouth open. Blinds’ overgrown mustache stretched over his top lip. “Man, this clown wanted me to get outta the chair in the middle of my haircut! Talkin’ bout, ‘The champ is here’.’” Blinds rolled his eyes, curled his lips, and exhaled through his nose. He leaned forward, arching his brows. “I said, ‘Man, whatever. I know you better finish my haircut.’”.
He paused and waited for Aiden to acknowledge his defiance. Aiden nodded. “Moochie starts talkin’ bout ‘the champ don’t have to wait’. “I told him, ‘“I don’t give a fuck about no Six Hands Johnson. The champ can kiss my ass!’”
Detective Aiden wrote that quote in his pad even though he knew it was a lie. Blinds squinted, trying to read what he wrote. While Blinds dragged on his cigarette, Aiden could tell he was trying to think of a good ending to his story. When he couldn’t think of one, he just told the truth. In a hushed tone, he looked away and admitted, “I just got up.” Aiden started scribbling again, and so Blinds added, “Moochie is a sucker.”
“Who shot this guy?”
“I came and stood over here. Six Hands comes in and starts actin’ like he owns the barbershop. I mean, this lil’ punk comes in here, takes off his sunglasses and goes straight for the chair. I sat in this sorry joint for two hours waiting my turn.”
“Ok,” Aiden said. “So…”
“So, everybody starts talkin’ to him. People that don’t even know him. Hey Champ. What’s up, Champ? Can I wipe your ass, Champ?”
Aiden smirked. “I take it you didn’t like him.”
“I ain’t give a fuck about him. I didn’t wanna get outta my seat in the middle of my haircut.” He dragged on the square again. Slowly blowing out smoke he added, “But I didn’t kill him.”
“Who did?”
“Five minutes later a dude walks in, pulls out a pistol and blasts him three times dead in the chest. I thought, ‘Shit, it’s a good thing I moved outta that seat.’”
* * * * *
Downtown, Lamont “Fats” Harrington was in a private meeting with the Honorable Mayor Roland Brown, but he couldn’t concentrate. Fats sat across from the mayor’s massive desk with a cup of caramel macchiato in his hand. He worried that his shaky hands would spill the coffee, but it was too hot to drink. He didn’t want to put it down on the mayor’s desk or on the floor.
He tried to focus - on where he was, make eye-contact, and listen to what the mayor was saying, but the macchiato was a distraction. Fats thought about how embarrassed he’d be if the mayor asked him a question and he hadn’t been listening. Then he realized that while he had been telling himself to concentrate, he had not heard a word the mayor had said.
He was thinking about the shooting at Moochie’s Barbershop. He was worried. The mayor was talking with his hands about the “young punk tryna to run game on an ol’ school vetran.”. The last thing Fats had on his mind at that moment was the upcoming election. When Mayor Brown rolled his eyes at the ceiling Fats glanced down at his cell phone.
Nothing.
He knew he needed to be here when the shooting went down. Having a meeting with the mayor was going to be one of the greatest alibis in criminal history.
“He’s trying to get kids from Howard to go around registering voters and talking about he’s the new thing and all this crap,” the mayor said.
When Fats thought about his situation, he concluded that he was being ridiculous. He told himself that the day would ultimately be anticlimactic. There was no way the killing would go off as planned, without hitches. Most likely that fake gangster won’t even show up and then he’ll have some lame ass excuse, like his car broke down or something. Fats almost laughed at himself.
“The people that he’s signing up ain’t even from here. They movin into DC every day and movin the Black folk out, and that’s who he’s signing up ta vote!” Fats knew the mayor had two tongues; one for white people and one for the folks. Mayor Brown thought Fats would appreciate the latter, but he miscalculated. “White folk want to take over this city, man.”
Fats said nothing. He imagined the scene at the barbershop. It was absurd to believe he could actually put a hit on someone and get the deed carried out. The tough talk and peer pressure had gotten him drunk and before he knew it the boy had shook his hand and promised to “take care of dat”.
Fats wasn’t a killer in any sense of the word. He wasn’t the type to commission a murder. He thought about the magnitude of ending a human being’s existence. He thought about possibly incurring the wrath of God for having such audacity. This time he did laugh at himself.
“We can’t let people from outta town tell us who should run our city,” Mayor Brown said. “They don’t know what’s best for us.”
When the little phone vibrated, Fats knew it was Moochie trying to tell him that the boy didn’t show up. Or that the boy changed his mind or postponed. He looked down and saw it was Terrance. His heart stopped when he saw the message “It’s done”.
Fats straightened up and tried to stay calm, but it felt like his shirt collar had suddenly warmed and tightened. He used an index finger to loosen it up a bit. He dried sweaty palms on his slacks and exhaled hard. His plan had been to stay in the office as long as possible after the shooting to make sure the alibi stood up. But when he thought about the fact he had just had a friend killed he wanted to vomit.
“So you wanna use the club for a fundraiser?” Fats said. “That’s what you’re gettin at right?”
“Exactly, you read my mind.”
“I can turn the fourth floor into a restaurant. You can get about 250 people up there. I’ll give you the food, wait staff, drinks, all that, it’ll be laid out. You charge your supporters a stack each and you walk away with a quarter mil.”
“I wish. I may get half that much.”
“Nothin to sneeze at.”
“Please. I’ll have my victory party at your club and you’ll clear three times that much.”
&
nbsp; They laughed. It took twenty minutes to plan the dinner before the mayor got a text message and grimaced. He looked gravely at Fats.
“What?”
“Your old friend Six Hands Johnson …he was just shot and killed.”
“What?!”
The mayor closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Damn.”
“Your coffee is getting cold,” the mayor said.
“Yea, I know you’re busy. I’ll wrap this up and take it with me.”
Mayor Brown looked at him over his glasses. Fats saw the mayor was definitely perturbed.
* * * * *
Detective Christopher Aiden looked around the crowded crime scene. His partner, Detective Melissa Taylor was outside interviewing a female witness. There were four uniforms from the beat wasting time. An officer from the Criminalistics Major Crime Scene Team was in the shop taking pictures, fingerprints, and DNA samples. Deputy Chief Alfred Gillespie was on his way and it was possible that the lieutenant, chief and mayor would all be visiting and snoopervising.
It obviously wasn’t a robbery. The BMW belonging to William “Six Hands” Johnson was still parked outside and his Rolex was still on his wrist. His left front pocket held $5,500 in cash and the other front pocket held another two grand. He was wearing a long necklace that alternated gold and platinum links. Blood from a hole in his chest dripped on and from the medallion of diamond encrusted boxing gloves. The shooter never said a word to Johnson or any of the eleven witnesses.
Wearing only a hoodie and undisguised by sunglasses, bandana, or mask, the shooter walked in calmly, stopped in front of Johnson, and pulled out a black pistol. Johnson made a move for the shooter and the guy pumped three in his chest then walked out. No one followed the shooter out of the barbershop or saw a getaway car. Moochie called 911. Three other barbers were in the shop, all serving customers, and three guys were waiting. One lady had been in the shop. She was standing next to her five-year old son while he was getting a cut in the chair right next to the victim.
Aiden’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the Caller ID and read, “Caleb.”. It was his oldest son. He sighed and put the phone back in his pocket.
Detective Aiden knew it was unusual that a shooter in DC would be that brazen in broad daylight. The city had too many murders and half went unsolved, but most were done at night. Drive-bys were rare and walk-up hits before noon were highly unusual.
The local television stations’ news crews were arriving. Crowds were forming in the street. It wouldn’t take long for the word to spread to every corner of the city. Local boy who turned troubled past into a world championship gets killed in cold blood. That would sell well.
Aiden noticed the luxurious look of Moochie’s Barbershop. The waiting chairs weren’t the fifty-year-old mix-match colored seats you find in most barber shops. These were the old seats from RFK Stadium and the old Capital Centre. Some were painted burgundy and gold, others were red, white, and blue with “Bullets” printed on them. There was a college section that had Hoyas chairs, Terrapin chairs and Bison chairs. The floors were dark stained hardwood. No coat racks were screwed to the wall. Instead, there were lockers with names like Riggins, Monk, and Ewing. The walls were full of framed jerseys autographed by Redskins, Wizards and Hoyas. Autographed boxing gloves of all sizes and basketballs rested in glass cases. It was an upscale barbershop. Big time pro athletes and celebrities got styled there. Big time hustlers, too.
Aiden was a boxing fan and knew a little about Six Hands Johnson. He knew Six Hands had a lot of enemies in DC’s streets. Six Hands had been a relatively no-name, up-and-comer before he got lucky and knocked out a world champion. Suddenly, he was the biggest name in the sport. Johnson was successful enough that the rumors had started about him “forgetting where he came from.”.
Aiden stood about where he thought the shooter had been. He turned to look at the door and tried to visualize the shooter walking into the shop. Did he come down the street or up the street? Who would have seen him before the shooting? Who heard the shots? Who ran to the window of their apartment or storefront? After the killing did he walk up the street? Or did he run down the street? Did he have a getaway car? A driver?
Aiden walked outside the shop and looked up and down the block. The sidewalk was roped off with yellow tape and a crowd had gathered behind it. He scanned the crowd but ignored the nosies craning their necks for a peek inside Moochie’s Barbershop. They most likely didn’t see, hear, or know anything of significance. He looked beyond the crowd.
Across the street, a man was begging for money as customers exited a neighborhood convenience store. His clothes and face wore ground-in dirt that had accumulated over months. He never so much as glanced across the street. Aiden figured that he had seen everything and knew the killer was gone. There was nothing left here to interest him. Aiden started to cross the street. He must have felt him coming because he turned, and made eye contact with Aiden. That’s when Brooks interrupted.
“Ay, yo...Detective Aiden,” he shouted.
Aiden was the lead detective, but Detective Branson Brooks was assigned to support him. Aiden resented Brooks. He hated to see him, hear his voice, or smell the cologne he poured on every day. Aiden had disliked Brooks since the first day he’d met him five years ago.
They tried to be cordial to each other, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Three winters before, Aiden was the lead detective on a high-profile case the department desperately needed to be cleared. The “Southwest Slugger” was the name around the department for the perp who beat a guy to death with a wooden baseball bat in the parking lot of Jefferson Junior High School one night. A year after the attack, the Washington City Paper published a story about the case, detailing the department’s investigation and the lack of an arrest. The article was slanted to emphasize the extremely high overtime hours that Aiden billed. The story featured a sidebar that compared his overtime hours, salary, and clearance rate to one Detective Branson Brooks. Brooks billed half as many overtime hours and solved nearly twenty percent more murder cases.
The victim’s family called and complained about Aiden’s lack of communication with them and a lack of developments. They asked if a new detective could be assigned to the case – the guy from the newspaper article. The mayor encouraged Sergeant Gillespie to oblige the family. Brooks made an arrest in two weeks. Whenever asked anything about the case, Brooks had the irritating habit of beginning his answer with “It was easy…”.” The Southwest Slugger was going to trial soon, and Aiden knew he’d hear more and more about his being old and washed-up in the coming weeks.
“Aiden,” Brooks started. “Whasup.You know who that is in there?”
“Yes, Detective Brooks. He was Six Hands Johnson.”
“Yeah.” Brooks wasn’t hiding the fact that he was surprised Aiden was assigned to another high-profile case. He frowned and looked at the ground for an answer. “You’re the lead?”
“Yeah, why? You got a problem?”
Before he could answer, Deputy Chief Alfred Gillespie pulled up and nearly jumped out of the car before it stopped. He ducked under the tape and approached quickly.
“You cannot screw this up,” he forced through his teeth. “The department is sending over a PR girl right now to handle interviews. Don’t say anything at all to the press. Where are we?”
“Guy walked in and popped him three times in the chest and walked out,” Aiden said. “We’re interviewing witnesses and canvassing the area.”
“Have you traced his last 24 hours?” Gillespie asked.
“Not yet,” Aiden said.
“Any known enemies?” Gillespie asked.
“Fats Harrington,” Brooks said.
"The nightclub owner?” Gillespie asked.
“Yeah. You know, Harrington was his manager for a while and then Six Hands fired him a few months ago. Word on the street was that Six Hands couldn’t come home.”
Aiden and Gillespie looked at the barbershop.
“No, it’s more urgent that you stay here and interview eyewitnesses,” Aiden corrected. “You can go to the gym later.”
“No, no, go on over to Knuckles and see what you can find out,” Gillespie said.
“But Sarge, there’s no way…”
Gillespie dismissed Aiden with a hand and contorted his face in annoyance. Aiden looked away, steamed.
Brooks headed for his car.
“You can’t do that. This is my scene,” Aiden said.
“We need to find out who he talked to over the last 24 hours, why he was here…” Gillespie started.
“I know, but I think we can…” Aiden stopped and turned to look for the homeless. He was long gone. The twenty-year veteran detective knew it was not a coincidence.
Chapter 2: The Champ
W illiam Johnson was born to a crack-addicted mother and his father spent more time in prison than out. Feeling guilty for being such a useless parent, Will’s mom insisted the boys call her Thelma rather than “mom”. Will and his older brother, Melvin, lived in shelters and motel rooms until Will was in the fourth grade. Then Thelma qualified for a section 8 apartment and they moved into the Lincoln Heights Projects.
Every night the boys and their mom ate dinner at Martha’s Table Community Center. As a child Will thought everyone in America ate dinner with their friends from the neighborhood around a long cafeteria table. All of his clothes came from the charities, or hand-me-downs from Melvin, and the family never had a car. Restaurants were for birthdays only, and they caught the bus to the mall to buy what they needed, never what they wanted.
In the eighties it wasn’t cool to be poor. Will stole from convenience stores, not because he wanted to be a knucklehead, but rather, he was too embarrassed to use food stamps in front of his friends.
He lived and went to school in an all-black neighborhood. Most of the kids at school wore the latest Guess jeans and Ralph Lauren shirts. Some of their parents had jobs and were even considered “middle class”. But even the kids from the projects had Jordans and a little gold jewelry. So, Will was an easy target for jokes. He rarely had a fresh haircut or new shoes so the girls considered him “dirty”. By seventh grade, Will was fed up.