by TG Wolff
“Yeah. That’s right. Lattimore is the dealer accused of killing three teens including Gentile’s younger brother and Moorehouse’s son.”
“Moorehouse said Lattimore was out and she was upset about it. Let’s track her down. I’d like to know where she’s been the last twenty-four hours. Gentile, too.”
“Detectives?” Crime scene called. “Have something for you.”
In the scrub brush that fought for space between the grass and the beach was a pool of vomit. Deep in the green foliage, it wasn’t more than fifteen feet from where the head had come to rest.
The sand was thick and moved easily under foot, but at this transition point, from beach to grass, the sand was thinner, harder. “We have a boot print. Three of them.” Cruz lifted his chin. “Eyes open, people. This suspect left footprints all over the scene.”
“This is going to sound obscene, but it has to be said.”
Cruz raised an eyebrow to his friend.
“A mess like this makes you respect the professionalism of the Drug Head Killer.”
Cruz rolled his eyes, shook his head.
“Did you see the butcher job on the neck?”
“That’s an insult to butchers everywhere.”
“And vomiting on your own crime scene? Not even in the same league as Drug Head.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Goes without saying. Did you notice…this isn’t the Cleveland corporate limit? That’s another coupla miles at West One Seventeenth Street.”
“This scares me, Yablonski. A copycat? Last thing this city needs is a pride of copycats deciding who deserves to live and who deserves to die.”
A uniform met Cruz and Yablonski as they walked into the department. “Ester Moorehouse is waiting in interview.”
“That’s some fast work,” Yablonski said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by. “How did you get her so quickly?”
“She was parading around the Justice Center. That woman can move. I pulled the file on Lattimore and reports from his cases. They are on your desk, Cruz. Made a fresh pot of coffee for you.”
It was good when people knew you, Cruz thought, refilling his go cup with strong coffee. Then he picked up the pages Yablonski set down and read. Lattimore was a small-time dealer, selling to support his own habit. His sheet was filled with petty crimes dating back to his eighteenth birthday and, he expected, well before that. Lattimore’s story was he was standing on the street corner, minding his own business, of course, when three teens approached him. They demanded drugs and, when he didn’t have any, one pulled a knife and demanded money. Fearing for his life, Lattimore pulled the gun he has holding for a friend and had no idea it was stolen. Everything after that was a blur, then he was standing, and his attackers weren’t.
Lattimore had run, concerned there could be others. The woman whose garage he ran into called the police. The knife was recovered. The only prints on it were those of Jimmy Gentile. The gun was recovered. The only prints on it were Lattimore’s. No drugs were found on Lattimore, Gentile, Moorehouse or their friend.
Lattimore was charged with three counts of manslaughter. He was assigned a public defender and refused to plea. He was held as his case proceeded. Dates were pushed back several times for various reasons. Bail had recently been posted by his grandmother.
File in hand, Cruz went to the interview room, pausing to observe the suspect through the glass. Ester Moorehouse sat patiently, her gaze on her hands. Her fingers drummed on the table top, the only sign of impatience.
“Good morning, Mrs. Moorehouse. This is Detective Yablonski.” Cruz read her her rights, which got her full attention.
“Why are you saying that?”
“I have to, ma’am. Do you understand your rights?”
“I understand them. I don’t understand why you’re reading them to me.”
“Ma’am, can you account for your whereabouts the last twenty-four hours?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do I need an attorney?”
“It is your right to have one present.”
She sat quietly, searching his face. “Why am I here?”
“D’Andre Lattimore was found dead this morning.” He said it matter-of-factly, almost cruelly, watching for a reaction.
Ester Moorehouse jumped to her feet, her chair toppled to the floor. Yablonski leapt to his feet, hand on his weapon, ready to step in front of Cruz. Her gaze stayed riveted to Cruz’s face, but her hands trembled. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The seconds stretched into a daunting silence.
Cruz broke the silence, but not the tension. “Mrs. Moorehouse, where were you from noon yesterday?”
Her hand went to her stomach, her fingers splayed over her figureless middle. “I…uh…I think. He is?” Her knees gave way. She knelt on the hard, cold floor. Her forehead rested against the edge of the table, her forearms encircled her head.
There was a sound then. The high-pitched laugh of hysteria. When she lifted her head, her eyes were wild, saliva dripped from her mouth. “Where was I? Where was I? I was here! Check your cameras. Eight hours a day I slept, four I ate and bathed, and the other twelve I was here. Marching and walking and walking and marching because what else does a childless mother do? I really want to know because, because it’s over. There is nothing left to march for.” Her voice faded, her chin fell to her chest and she cried. They were not tears of celebration, of a final justice, but the tears of a woman who had lost everything. “He’s…he’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cruz said.
“How?”
“It’s under investigation.”
“Did the Drug Head Killer get him?”
Cruz looked at Yablonski before answering. “It was made to look that way, but no.”
“But he’s dead. Just like that. It’s over.”
Neither Cruz nor Yablonski responded.
“I…I thought it would feel different.” Her colorless face showed nothing but misery. “I was marching. Alone. That criminal just walked away while my son, while those boys never had a chance to grow up. It wasn’t fair.” Her voice cracked, rising in pitch as she struggled to talk. “I thought I would feel satisfied in the end. Something. But it doesn’t fix anything, does it? My baby’s still gone. My baby’s still gone.”
Gentile hadn’t showed for work that day or the day before. His foreman reported he’d been acting strange for the last week and had gone as far as to have him drug tested. The results were negative. A black and white met Cruz at the home of Tony Gentile. Yablonski held the screen door while Cruz pounded on the front door.
“Anthony Gentile. Cleveland police. Open up.” There was sound beyond the door. High pitched chiming, like the crashing of glasses. “Tony? It’s Detective De La Cruz. I need to talk to you about D’Andre Lattimore.” Heavier thuds. A muffled curse. Cruz was ready to okay the forced entry when the deadbolt turned. The white panel steel door opened, and Tony Gentile fell out, reeking of alcohol and vomit.
Cruz caught him before he hit the ground.
“It was awful. It was…it was…” Tony heaved, and Cruz tossed him to the side, letting him empty his gut over an overgrown azalea bush.
Tony’s shoulders trembled, convulsed. He turned his head to Cruz, his olive complexion as pale as paste. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by dark bags. “How does he do it? How does he stand it?”
Cruz didn’t have to ask who he was talking about, none of them did. “You going to throw up again, Tony?”
“Maybe.” He stood tall, fingers curled like claws into the banister, taking deep breaths. “I’m done.”
“Let’s go in the house and talk.”
From booking, Cruz went to D’Andre Lattimore’s grandmother. Faith Ernwell lived in a small apartment in a large building with hallways smelling of mold and a dried cocktail of life. The apartment was neat but sparse. There were no extras in her life, yet she had posted the bond. Sad eyes in a round face peeked under the chain on the door. He did his duty and wal
ked away worried Gentile had killed her, too.
Now he sat in Montoya’s office, feeling as though this one day had lasted three. There was no joy in arresting Tony Gentile. He had confessed, providing ample and graphic details. Crime scene collected the evidence from his home, his business, his truck. Sobering had driven Gentile into a dark place. Cruz put him on suicide watch for his own safety.
“Good work today,” Montoya said. “You closed the case within hours and well before the six o’clock news. Ramsey was happy.”
“I hope it discourages any other potential copy cats.” Silver lining. “Anything new from Kroc or Pelletier?”
“You would have heard. The suspect has gone silent. Again.” Montoya was annoyed. It came through in the flat, low tone of voice, the bite at the end of his words.
“Is there a problem, Commander?”
“Jesus, I want to say upfront I know it’s bullshit. You have the chief and my backing on this.”
He sat up tall, his mind racing through scenarios but settling on nothing. “What?”
“Internal affairs is looking into your relationship with a boy, Jace Parker.”
Cruz stood. “What do you mean looking into? What relationship?”
“You arrested his father.”
“Christopher Parker. He broke the kid’s arm. Yeah, I arrested him.”
“He has accused you of having an inappropriate relationship with his son.”
Cruz stood there, waiting for Montoya to say it was a bad joke, but it didn’t come. “That’s disgusting.” Outraged curled his upper lip. “I have done nothing inappropriate or improper with that or any other child.”
“Prepare yourself, the internal affairs bureau will be thorough. My advice? Get an attorney.”
An attorney. What the hell was going on. “Am I suspended?”
“No, pending the outcome of the investigation. Jesus…”
Cruz walked out of Montoya’s office, out of the department, out of the building. He stood on the corner of Lakeside and Ontario and felt nothing. He was numb. How could anyone think that he…
He started to walk. Blocks later, the numbness faded as his mind began to work.
Betrayal. He worked his ass off trying to catch a serial killer only to be accused of the single lowest form of human behavior.
Anger. He wanted to take Christopher Parker by the neck and…and…
Frustration. Impotency. Helplessness. There was nothing to do but wait for it to happen.
The streets were nearly empty when his walk brought him back to the garage. The streets of downtown emptied fast on a weeknight. Folks headed home to families.
Cruz drove to the place that was home every Monday night. He was late. The parking lot had a dozen cars clustered near the entrance, but there was nobody outside. Cruz backed into a spot, put it in park. He didn’t turn the engine off. He just stared at the plain brick building. Why did he come here week after week? The coffee was horrible, and the chair killed his back. What did he hope to find in there? Help? There was no help.
Cruz shifted the car back in gear.
Two hours later, he pulled into his driveway. He had run out of places to go. Aurora was home. He had hoped she would be out. With her sisters. With her friends. He wanted to be alone.
Aurora walked out of the garage wearing a pair of micro-short bib overalls and a neon pink sports bra. Cruz looked over his shoulder to where his leech of a neighbor would be watching. The curtains moved. He was sure of it.
“What the hell are you wearing?” He snapped at Aurora, hating the idea she was on display in his own backyard.
She looked down at herself. “Just an old pair of shorts.”
“Where’s your shirt? There’s more of you uncovered than covered.”
She flashed a saucy smile. “You usually like that.”
“Not in my backyard!”
She ran her hand up and down his arm. “Bad day?”
“No. Shit, Aurora, is there paint on your hands? Damn it. This shirt is ruined.” He tore off the shirt and stuffed it in the garbage can.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t but what’s new. Did you think about making dinner?” He stalked to the back door.
“Why don’t you jump in the shower, wash the day away.” Her soft voice, full of concern, followed him. “I can make us something to eat, then we can sit and talk about what has you spitting nails.”
Talk. That was the last thing he wanted to do. “I’m not hungry. A shower sounds good then I’m going to bed.”
Tuesday, June 5
Cruz sat at his desk, the sun just cresting the horizon. He read reports from various departments and support personnel, wishing one of them, just one of them could write in English. What was happening to the education system that professional men and women couldn’t put a noun-verb-noun together.
He pushed away from his desk hard enough to send his chair into the wall behind him, making a dent in the abused plaster. He swore under his breath as he stomped to the coffee pot. He’d made it himself. He’d drunk half of it himself.
He’d left the house without his starter cup. He’d showered and left the house inside of fifteen minutes. He hadn’t read the daily meditation. He hadn’t eaten breakfast. He hadn’t kissed Aurora goodbye.
He’d just left.
With a fresh cup of coffee, Cruz crossed the room and stood in front of his murder board. He looked over the lives lost. Were they all winners? The pride of society? No. He could admit, privately, maybe some parts of society were better off without some of the characters. He adamantly believed justice came from a process with rules of engagement. Was the system messy? Yes, but it needed to be. Our forefathers fought and died, bled and wept for the right for have the complicated, fucked-up system that presumed innocence.
Cruz looked at the faces of the survivor. Officer Nick Kroc. Shouldn’t he count Francesca Pelletier as a survivor? She had a connection to the suspect. He hated they hadn’t found it. The damn woman had a ridiculous number of connections, even going back just a year. Her career as a reporter. Her volunteering in hospitals. Her active connections to high school friends—one of whom she used to get Aurora into an art show—proving the power of those connections.
Crash!
Cruz looked to the sound, surprised to find a department at full speed. One of the detectives was bent over, picking up files and swearing under his breath. Campbell was a veteran homicide detective who looked like he swallowed a cocktail of ear wax and raw calamari.
“Need a hand,” Cruz asked.
“Naw, I got it.”
“You sure? You don’t look like you got it.”
“Fuck, Cruz. Some days. Some things…”
“It gets to you. What did you pull?”
Campbell collapsed against his desk. In his fifties, the cruelty people extracted on each other was etched in the lines of his face. “A double homicide. An elderly husband and wife killed, apparently for their prescription drugs. He was beaten to death. She was pushed down the stairs. Broke her neck.”
The incidents of break-ins to residences and pharmacies for prescription drugs were on the uptick. The use of street drugs like marijuana, heroin and meth were down. Adderall, Vicodin, OxyContin were up. Notably up.
If the Drug Head Killer thought removing the retailers would eliminate the Cleveland’s drug problem, he missed a basic of economics. Demand had not been eliminated and elements of it had been made desperate.
The hustle of the department was like bongos being played on his brain. He needed some space and found it in his car. Except in the quiet, he heard Montoya’s voice, “inappropriate relationship with his son.”
His stomach rolled. He wouldn’t lose it, he hadn’t eaten since…when? Oh, yeah, before he was accused of molesting a child. He’d left the house without his microwaved breakfast. He left the house hours before Aurora was awake. He thought of the way he behaved last night. He should explain, but he couldn’t tell her
, not until he’d cleared it up.
So, what was his plan? Sleep at work for the next God knows how many days?
That was a shitty plan.
He needed to act like nothing was wrong because there wasn’t, not really. Internal affairs could investigate their ass off, there was nothing to find.
That was a damn good plan.
He dug out his cell phone and called Aurora, knowing it would go to voicemail. “Sorry about last night, baby. Needless to say, I had a bad day. Your painting looks great.” He hadn’t looked but was certain it did. “Meet me at Becky’s for darts with Yablonski and Erin. I’ll make up for being ass of the year. Love you.”
Normal. Everything was nice and normal.
June 7
The people who use drugs are like that guy in the story. Faust. They trade bits of their souls for an hour of fake happiness, believing they can control the monster. It is sad that with the work Francesca, Nick, Jesus De La Cruz and I are doing, so many still fall. .
Some will never believe. Some will never retreat.
The two with me now are like that. I look into their eyes and the light is gone. Tonight I will grant their souls freedom and then post the signs at the gate of those who need it the most.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday, June 11
The call had come in near noon from a patrol officer. Two heads were found on the property of a tall public housing complex wedged between an elevated portion of the West Shoreway and Lake Erie. The prime lake front real estate would have been picturesque if not for the two-story-tall piles of salt and other materials that were the part of the lake front mines. Division Avenue at River Road. Not a part of town many Clevelanders could say they had been to. Two- and three-story buildings dotted the multi-acre campus resembling dorms at a university. Most windows were open as there was no central air conditioning; a few had small window units. The streets were nearly empty except for the predictable trash dumpster permanently parked in the public street at regular intervals.
