by Marc Rainer
He opened the door to the Jeep.
I hope it really is a good pick…
Trask crossed the Potomac on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, circled around the Lincoln Memorial, and headed east on Independence Avenue, driving along the south side of the Capitol Mall. He saw the usual crowds of tourists on the sidewalks on either side of the Mall, gawking at the huge granite buildings, heading for the Monument or the Smithsonian.
Stay on the Mall, children, he thought. Six blocks the wrong way and you might end up as a statistic. We had hundreds of murders here last year, more if you count the ’burbs.
He turned southeast where Independence turned into Pennsylvania Avenue and crossed over the Anacostia on the Sousa Bridge. Just past Branch Avenue, he pulled into the parking lot of the Penn Branch Shopping Center. From the street the place looked like a 1960s-vintage shopping mall. There was a tax preparation office, a sandwich shop, and some other storefronts along the façade. Once inside, he found the room number for the Violent Crimes Unit of the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police Department.
Trask walked past the detectives’ cubicles in the main room before he found the office of Commander William Sivella. The door was open, and he saw that Barry Doroz was already inside, sitting in one of the worn leather armchairs in front of the desk. Sivella looked up from behind the desk and waved him on in.
“Hello, Jeff. Any trouble finding the place?”
“Not at all. This one’s a lot easier to get to than your old command at 7D.”
The police precincts in the District of Columbia were called districts. Sivella had recently commanded the Seventh District, or 7D, including the southeast area of the city next to the Anacostia River.
“That it is. We’re on a main drag here. The city owns about half the building now. Just a few shops and other offices left. Otherwise, it’s kind of City Hall East.”
“I would have thought that Homicide would be in the headquarters building.”
“It was at one time. Then they split it up and splintered the detectives out to each one of the districts, the theory being that the guys could concentrate on certain neighborhoods and know them better. That system didn’t work. It ignored the mobility that individual killers and gangs enjoy these days. You have one victim in 7D one day, another in 4D the next… same shooter.
“They reunited the unit and stuck us out here. Good thing. Murders grab attention, and high-profile cases mean high-level interest. If I was still in the Daly Building, the chief would be either walking down the hall every five minutes or summoning me to her office every time she got a phone call. I’d never get a damn thing done.”
He looked at his watch and frowned.
“You didn’t see Dix outside, did you?”
“Yeah. Way outside. I just came from Arlington. He was camped out on Juan’s grave.”
“Dammit.” Sivella walked out from behind the desk and sat on the front of it, shoving a stack of case files aside to make room. “I never should have let him partner with Ramirez that long. Over ten years. It’s just hard to break up guys who work that well together. They were the best I had. Cracked every big case I ever gave ’em. Still, if I’d split ’em up, Dix might not be where he is right now. I can’t pull his head out of this. He blames himself for Juan’s murder.”
“How long has he been solo?” Doroz asked.
“Ever since Juan died. I tried assigning another experienced guy to ride with him, but that lasted all of two days. His new partner came in and threw his badge on my desk. Said I could either reassign him or he’d quit. Dix was giving him hell the whole time. I just let Dixon ride alone after that. He’s still a helluva good detective, even working alone. His casework hasn’t suffered, but the rest of his life has. His wife left him last week.”
“Melody’s gone?” Doroz asked. “Christ, they’ve been married over twenty years, haven’t they?”
“Yep. High-school sweethearts. She called me after she moved out, said she’d tried to make a difference after Juan died, but Dix wouldn’t let her. She said he still wakes up with nightmares, just sits in the den and cries at times. If I’d noticed anything on the job other than Dix just being a cranky asshole—I’ve got lots of those—I’d have given him an order to see the department shrink.”
“You can’t let him ride alone on this case, Cap,” Doroz said. “The MS-13 crew’s too dangerous and won’t be reluctant at all to take out a cop working alone.”
“I know that. I hope I picked the right guy for the job. If not…”
Trask looked up after hearing the knock on the frame of the open door. He stood and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Tim.”
“You too, Jeff.”
Wisniewski was wearing his tailored patrol uniform. About thirty-five, he still had the look of a California beach lifeguard: blond, blue-eyed, and buff. The uniform looked like someone had painted it on him.
“Come in, Tim.” Sivella offered his hand. “You remember Barry Doroz, right?”
“Of course. Bear, how are you?”
“Better than you’re going to be, if my hunch is right.” Doroz glanced at Sivella, looking for confirmation. Sivella nodded.
“What’s going on?” Wisniewski asked.
“I’ve got some good news and, of course, some bad news,” Sivella began. “The good news is that you’ve passed the detective’s exam.”
Sivella tossed a new wallet to Wisniewski, who caught it and opened it to examine the gold shield inside. He smiled and looked up.
“OK. Thanks. What’s the bad news?”
“Because you’re from New Mexico and had the foresight to become fluent in Spanish, the Latino Liaison Division had their sights on you when your name came out on the list. You know, showing the city flag on Cinco de Mayo, translating on high-school career day in certain neighborhoods, being the junior guy with the language skill on somebody else’s cases—”
“That’s OK. I know I have to start somewhere,” Wisniewski said.
“Oh, you won’t be getting off that easy, young man.” Sivella laughed. “I pulled rank and got your ass assigned here. You’ll be working for me in Violent Crimes. Homicide cases. I’m assigning you to the Bureau, Tim. You’ll be a TFO on Barry’s squad working an investigation into at least one murder—probably committed by members of the MS-13. You know the case.”
“The ambassador’s kid?”
“Yeah, the one you called in. Here’s the really tough part. I’m assigning you as Dixon Carter’s partner.”
“Wow.” Wisniewski sank into one of the chairs, even though the others in the office remained on their feet. “I don’t know that I can fill Juan’s shoes…not in Dix’s eyes.”
“Don’t even try to.” Sivella sat down on the front of the desk again. “Just do your job and give him time. You’ll need a thick hide. Think you’re up to it?”
“I guess we’ll see. If not, I’ll be translating and playing the community-relations game in the liaison unit, huh?”
“That’s about the size of it. What do you know about MS-13?”
“A good bit, actually. We used to run into them fairly often in Santa Fe. They spread west from LA and started taking over any turf they moved into. At first they were fighting everybody else: the others gangs, locals. Just before I left New Mexico, they’d started a truce with the Mexican Mafia and were helping to bring dope across from Juarez through El Paso. The guys down in Las Cruces had fits with them. Tough bunch.”
“They’re here now in force,” Doroz added. He patted Wisniewski on the shoulder. “I think the commander here has the right man for this assignment. You’ll need some more civvies. Nothing flashy. Mine is not a formal squad. We’ll see you in the morning across the street from the Triple-nickel. Prepare to be federally deputized.”
“And to meet your new partner,” Sivella said. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“I think I have some body armor in the car,” Wisniewski said.
“Good,” Sivella laughed. �
��Keep the sense of humor. You’ll need it. Take the rest of the day off. I’ll tell Dix, and you may not want to be here for that.”
Chapter Five
August 12, 8:15 a.m.
It was one of the most surreal days Trask could ever remember.
He got to the gang squad early. His original excuse to himself was that he wanted a copy of Crawford’s PowerPoint so he could show Bill Patrick, his immediate supervisor, exactly what he was going to be dealing with. The truth was that he wanted to see how Dixon Carter was going to react to the designation of Tim Wisniewski as his new partner.
As he entered the squad room, Lynn saw him and smiled. He walked to her desk.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I came here to find out. You guys are supposed to tell me.”
Trask saw that Wisniewski was pulling some personal stuff out of boxes and setting up his cubicle. He nodded toward Trask. Trask heard the exit bell from the elevator. Carter emerged, walked briskly into the squad room, and tossed a file into the chair in front of his desk.
“Tim?”
“Yeah, Dix?”
“Let’s go.”
“Where to?” Wisniewski asked.
“Baltimore. Some MS-13 bangers got whacked in Langley Park a couple of nights ago. They’re doing the autopsy today in the chief medical examiner’s office. I want to see what they have.”
“Mind if I ride along?” Trask immediately regretted asking the question. He was intruding on the new partners’ first job together. The withering look he got from Lynn made him regret his gaffe even more, but he couldn’t un-ring the bell.
“Sure. Come on,” Carter said flatly.
They took the elevator down to the garage and piled into Carter’s green Buick. Trask remembered it as the supposed undercover vehicle that Carter had shared with Juan Ramirez. Everyone in Anacostia had known it was a police car, and they had known the cops in it. “The Twins,” the rest of the force had called them. The very large black guy and the small, wiry Hispanic. Jawing at each other constantly, keeping everyone around them in stitches with their comedy road show, and all the while never missing a thing. Solving cases. Working twenty-hour days. Loving their work.
Poor Dix. Can’t even bring himself to get new wheels. Probably still feels Juan in the other seat.
Carter drove, with Wisniewski riding shotgun. Trask sat behind Tim. The drive up Interstate 95 from DC to Baltimore took the usual hour, an hour in which not a single word was spoken.
Trask’s mind began to drift again. He closed his eyes and released the latches on all the files. Not all of them floated out at once. He’d learned to control them. He was back with his mother, with a doctor of her own choosing, not one of those the school wanted him to see, the ones with the pills. This one was different. He didn’t have to strain to hear voices behind closed doors. This doctor talked directly to him.
There’d been some tests. A deck of cards, more than a hundred shown to him, kept in order. The second time through he’d been able to recall the order perfectly, predicting the next card in the deck time after time. The doctor nodded. “An incredible eidetic memory, photographic recall,” he’d said. “Most lose this ability by your age. Do you have a lot of things that seem to float through your mind all at once?” Yes, sir. “The key to living with your ability is learning to focus on one thing at a time. We’ll work on that. Do you like any games, sports?” “He loves them,” his mother had said, surprised. “I’d always thought that was kind of…” “Inconsistent? Not really. Athletic drama. No predetermined outcome. No plot he’s already read a hundred times. What kind of sports interest you, Jeff?” Football, baseball, he’d said. It was the South, after all. “But he’s so small.” Mom couldn’t help herself. She was worried. Should have been. He’d stayed hurt, played hurt most of the time. She never knew, or that’s what he’d believed.
Trask felt the car slowing as it left the highway.
They reached the ME’s office, introduced themselves to the Maryland State Police officers working the case, and watched as the doc cut into the tattooed bodies. One spent round came out of the head of one of the victims; another had been killed by a shot that had gone all the way through his torso.
The doc handed the bullet to the Maryland guys, who looked at it before passing it to Carter.
“7.62 round,” Dix said.
“Everybody loves an AK,” one of the troopers said.
“It wasn’t an AK.” Carter had the round under a microscope on a counter that ran along the side of the examining room.
“Yeah, yeah. Not a true Russian AK-47,” the trooper shot back, pissed at being corrected. “The usual cheap-ass Chinese knock-off. A Norinco SKS.”
“It wasn’t an SKS, either.” Carter still had the round under the scope.
“Sure it was,” the trooper shot back. “Both the vics were MS-13. Our most probable perps are M-18 types. We’ve had intel they were trying to move into the area. They hate each other, and the gang weapon of choice is the AK—excuse me—the Norinco SKS. They can get one for twenty bucks from the underground dealers, and we have fits matching the round to the rifle—”
“Because you don’t get the usual lands and grooves on the round that you’d see in a good American rifle,” Carter interrupted. “The reason being that the SKS is a Chinese assault rifle, made to stand up in the worst combat environments imaginable, with little or no maintenance. It never jams because the rifle bore is oversized compared to the round. The slug just rattles around on its way down and out of the barrel. It’s accurate at short range, but shit after a couple hundred yards.” He pointed to the microscope. “Not an SKS.”
The troopers, then Wisniewski, then Trask, took turns looking at the bullet, which bore very distinctive rifling marks.
“Big deal.” The same trooper spoke up. “The gooks happened to get one of their barrels right.”
Carter looked at him with a hard glare that made it clear the debate was over.
“NOT an SKS.”
He nodded toward the ME.
“Thanks for letting us sit in on your exam.”
Trask and Wisniewski followed him back to the Buick and their assigned seats. The trip back to DC was a repeat performance. No conversation, no radio. Complete silence. Trask nodded off again.
First day of Little League. Not actually Little League. The minor league for Little League. The ones the small kids had to go through to make it to a real Little League team. “Anyone here a catcher?” No hands up. Just mine. If nobody else wants to do it, I’ll get to play. I’ll put on the “tools of ignorance.” Ignore the bat swinging in front of you. Just concentrate on the ball. Focus. Good. Eyes stay open. The bat’s just a distraction. Feel the ball hitting the mitt. What’s that pain? My knees? Another doctor. “Osgood-Schlatter disease, I’m afraid. Best thing to do is limit any sports activity…” “It doesn’t hurt that bad, Mom. Just a little.” The only lie I remember ever telling her. The pain’s just another distraction. Like the bat. Focus on the ball. Ignore the bat, ignore the pain. Concentrate.
The car pulled back into the parking lot at the FBI field office.
After they parked and returned to the squad room, Trask heard Carter speaking to Barry Doroz.
“The Maryland guys think we have a gang war about to break out. Thirteen versus Eighteen. Both the dead kids were certainly MS-13, and the round they dug out of one body was a 7.62, but it wasn’t the usual cheap ammo. It looked like a higher-quality round to me, and it was marked up pretty good. I don’t think it was fired by an SKS.”
“That could just mean that one of the gangbangers got his hands on a better rifle, couldn’t it, Dix?” Doroz had asked.
“It could. I don’t think that’s what happened. I’d like you to have Frank Wilkes take a look at it.”
Trask remembered Wilkes poring over the evidence in the Reid case. He was the best criminologist in DC, an expert in all things forensics, the Merlin of the local crime lab.
“Sure,�
�� Doroz said. “I’ll make the call.”
He reached down for the phone, but it started ringing, and after Doroz answered it, they were off to another ME’s office, the medical examiner for the District of Columbia. Three more gangbangers blown away, this time on DC turf. Trask had a late hearing in the district court, so he drove himself in case the exams took longer than expected.
He watched as Kathy Davis began the autopsy on one of the three newest victims. Doroz and Carter were looking under the sheets covering the other two. Wisniewski stood back, looking over Carter’s shoulder. Frank Wilkes had answered Doroz’ call and was standing at the head of the exam table with Commander Sivella. Wilkes was a thin, studious little man with graying hair and coal-black eyes that peered from behind a thick set of glasses.
“They’re all MS-13,” Carter said. “Found lying on the back porch of a place in Northwest. Georgia Avenue just north of Columbia, about the 3100 block. The tat across this one’s back says Salvatrucha. It’s fresh. He probably got it within the last day or two. The other one has that Horns of the Devil sign on his right bicep. That one,” he pointed to the body on the examining table, “seems to have been a Latin scholar.”
Trask looked at the right side of the dead man’s neck. The Roman numerals XIII stared back at him.
“Here’s your cause of death for this guy.” Kathy’s raised forceps held a bullet extracted from the body on the table. “Looks like a 7.62. Right through the heart, back entry. A front rib stopped it, or it would have gone through him.”
She handed the bullet to Wilkes, who held it up to the light as a narrow ribbon of blood trickled down the white plastic glove on his hand. He put the round under one of the lab’s microscopes.
“SKS?” Carter asked.
“No SKS fired this.”
“How can you tell, Frank?” Sivella asked.
“I’ll have to take it to the lab to be sure, put it into the computer, but the markings don’t look like SKS markings to me. Some newer Norincos will leave fairly sharp lands and grooves, but most of the street guns we see don’t. The marks on this round are more consistent with a very high-quality weapon. Like a sniper rifle. A good one.”
