by David Simon
“Maybe not,” the manager agrees.
Waltemeyer picks up the burial cards and begins sorting through the lot, looking for burials on or near the eighth of February. To his amazement, the names are strangely familiar. Every other card seems to correspond to a 24-hour report.
Here is James Brown, Gilbert’s murder, that kid who got stabbed to death on New Year’s. And Barney Erely, the old drunk Pellegrini found bludgeoned in the alley off Clay Street a few weeks after Latonya Wallace, the derelict killed when he chose the wrong place to defecate. And Orlando Felton, that decomp from North Calvert Street, the overdose that McAllister and McLarney handled back in January. And Keller’s drug killing from March, that homeboy with the unlikely last name of Ireland who made a bucket of money selling east side dope. Christ, all that cash and his family just dumps him in a potter’s field. Dunnigan’s drug murder from the Lafayette Court projects … the three little babies killed in Steinhice’s arson case … Eddie Brown’s fatal shooting from Vine Street. Waltemeyer reads on, both awed and amused. This one was Dave Brown’s, this one was Shea’s. Tomlin handled this one …
“You really don’t know where he is,” says Waltemeyer, putting down the cards, “do you, Mr. Brown?”
“No. Not exactly. Not right now.”
“I didn’t think so.”
At that moment, Waltemeyer is ready to cut his losses and give up on Rayfield Gilliard; the medical examiners, however, are still insistent. They have a probable homicide and an exhumation order signed by a Baltimore County judge, and therefore Mount Zion is obligated to find the body.
Three weeks later they try again, digging down into the mud a full six rows from the spot where the state reburied Eugene Dale, Sr., in a better box than the one it tore apart. This time Waltemeyer does not ask for the logic behind the manager’s insistence on the new location, in part for fear that there is no logic. They use the same backhoe, the same gravediggers, the same ME’s attendants, who haul the second, heavier corpse to the surface, then check the wrists carefully for any identification.
“This one looks more like him,” Waltemeyer says with hope, checking the photograph.
“Told you so,” the manager says proudly.
Then the ME’s man pulls a sock from the left foot to reveal half of a hospital toe tag. W-I-L are the only visible letters. Wilson? Williams? Wilmer? Who knows and who the hell cares if it isn’t Rayfield Gilliard?
“Mr. Brown,” Waltemeyer says to the manager, shaking his head in genuine amazement, “you are a piece of work.”
The manager shrugs, saying that it looks like the right man to him. “Maybe the tag is wrong,” he adds.
“Jesus Christ,” says Waltemeyer. “Get me away from here before I lose my mind.”
Leaving the cemetery grounds, Waltemeyer finds himself walking with a gravedigger. The workman quietly confirms his worst fears, explaining that back in February, when the ground was frozen and the snow deep, the manager had them dig a mass grave down by the creek; they could get the backhoe down there without getting it stuck. Then they dumped eight or nine coffins into that same hole. Easier this way, the manager told them.
Waltemeyer squints in the morning sunlight as the gravedigger finishes his story, his eyes narrowing across the bleak landscape. From the cemetery entrance at the top of the hill, a good part of the city skyline can be seen: the trade center, the USF&G building, the Maryland bank tower. The spires of mobtown, the harbor city, the land of pleasant living. The natives like to tell one another that if you can’t live in Bawlmer, you can’t live anywhere.
So where does that leave Barney Erely? And Orlando Felton? And Maurice Ireland? What was so wrong, so irrelevant, about them that they could end here beneath this wretched patch of county mud, wasted souls, with their city’s gleaming skyscrapers just close enough to mock them? Drunks, addicts, dope peddlers, numbers men, children born to the wrong parents, battered wives, hated husbands, robbery victims, an innocent bystander or two, sons of Cain, victims of Cain—these were the lives lost by the city in a single year, the men and women who cluttered crime scenes and filled Penn Street freezers, leaving little more than red or black ink on a police department tally board. Birth, poverty, violent death, then an anonymous burial in the mud of Mount Zion. In life, the city could muster no purpose for these wasted souls; in death, the city had lost them entirely.
Gilliard and Dale and Erely and Ireland—they were all beyond reach. Even if someone wanted to rescue a loved one and preserve the memory with a real headstone, in a real cemetery, it was no longer possible. The unmarked graves and the manager’s pathetic card file had seen to that. By rights, the city ought to build some kind of monument to its own indifference—Tomb of the Unknown Victim, it could be called. Set it up at Gold and Etting with a police honor guard. Drop a few shell casings in front of it and then chalk off a fresh human silhouette every half hour. Get the Edmondson High School band to play taps and charge the tourists a buck and a quarter.
Lost in life, lost in death. The brain-deads running Mount Zion had pretty much seen to that, thinks Waltemeyer, giving the muddy slope a last look. For $200 a pop, this alleged manager was willing to use any hole he could find, because what the hell, it was ridiculous to think that anyone was ever going to ask for one of them back. Waltemeyer thinks of their first encounter with the cemetery manager. The poor bastard probably shit blue when we showed up with that exhumation order.
After the second attempt, there will be no further excavations for the lost Reverend Gilliard. With a spate of murder charges already filed under Miss Geraldine’s name, this one will have to slip away. The pathologists, the lawyers, the cops—no one has the stomach to risk disturbing any more graves. For Waltemeyer, however, such sentiments come too late. True, the Geraldine Parrish investigation has been his career case, and his unstinting pursuit of it has secured his reputation as one of the homicide unit’s seasoned veterans. Nonetheless, his adventures in Mount Zion mark him with repute of an altogether different kind.
As if disinterring the odd, innocent body isn’t hard enough for a Catholic conscience, he will return to the office one day in January to find a new nameplate on his desk, the kind of thing you can order from any office supply store.
“Det. Digger Waltemeyer,” it reads.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 5
“I don’t like the way he’s laying,” says Donald Worden, leaning over the bed. “Up on his side like that … like somebody rolled him.”
Waltemeyer nods in agreement.
“I think,” adds Worden, looking over the rest of the room, “that this one’s gonna come back from the medical examiner as a murder.”
“I think you’re right,” says Waltemeyer.
There is no overt trauma to the body, no bulletholes, no knife wounds, no bruises or contusions. A little bit of dried blood is visible around the mouth, but that could be the result of decomp. There is also no sign of struggle or ransacking in the motel room. But the old man is on his right side beneath the sheets, his back arched at an awkward angle, as if someone had pushed him into that strange position to check for signs of life.
He was sixty-five and white, a Southern Maryland man well known to the employees at the Eastgate Motel, a $25-a-night collection of double beds and bad wall prints on old Route 40 in East Baltimore. Once a week, Robert Wallace Yergin would drive to Baltimore from his home in Leonardtown, check into the Eastgate for a night, then spend the evening bringing young boys to and from the room.
For that purpose, at least, the Eastgate was situated perfectly. A few blocks from where Pulaski dead-ends into East Fayette Street, the motel is only blocks from the edges of Patterson Park, where $20 will pay for the services of a blond-haired billy kid anywhere from twelve to eighteen years old. The pedophile trade along Eastern Avenue is an old phenomenon, known to men up and down the East Coast. A few years back, when the vice squad wrote a warrant on a child pornography ring, they actually recovered some guidebooks to homosexual prostitution i
n major American cities. In Baltimore, the guides noted, the most promising locales were Wilkens near Monroe Street and Patterson Park along Eastern Avenue.
Not only is Robert Yergin’s affinity for boys under the age of majority known to the desk men and cleaning crew at the Eastgate, but the employees are able to identify and describe the sixteen-year-old who has been Yergin’s constant companion for the last several months. The kid is a Baltimore boy, the employees tell Worden, a street waif who for a pound or two of flesh had found a home with the old pervert down in the country. When Yergin came to Baltimore to troll for teenagers, he’d bring the kid, who would spend his time visiting friends from the old neighborhood.
“Maybe the boy is the one who took the car,” says the twenty-five-year-old employee from housecleaning who found the body. “He might have just borrowed it or something.”
“Maybe,” says Worden.
“When you came in here and found him,” asks Waltemeyer, “did you touch him or roll him over or anything to see if he was okay?”
“No way,” says the employee. “I saw he was dead right away and just left him be.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?” asks Worden. “Anything at all?”
“No, sir.”
Worden gestures to the young man, drawing him across the room for a private conversation. Quietly, and in a way that the employee immediately recognizes as truthful, Worden explains that this death is going to be a murder. Worden tries to reassure him: We only care about the murder.
“Don’t be offended,” the detective says, “but if you touched anything from the room, if you took anything from the room, tell us now and it won’t go any further …”
The employee understands. “No,” he says. “I didn’t steal nothin’.”
“Okay, then,” says Worden.
Waltemeyer waits for the young man to leave, then looks at Worden. “Well, if he didn’t get the wallet,” says Waltemeyer, “then someone else must’ve.”
That’s what it’s beginning to look like: Man meets boy, man gets undressed, boy strangles man, steals cash, credit cards and Ford Thunderbird and drives off into the Baltimore sunset. Unless, of course, the kid who lived with him did it. Then it’s man meets boy, man lives with boy, boy finally gets sick of playing grabass and chokes the living shit out of the landlord. That would play, too, thinks Worden.
The lab tech on call is Bernie Magsamen—good man, Bernie is, one of the best—and so they take their time with the scene, pulling fingerprints off the nightstand and the used drinking glasses near the bed and in the bathroom sink. They get a good sketch and several photographs of the body in that bizarre position. They go through the old man’s belongings carefully, looking for what is missing, what may be missing, or what is there that shouldn’t be.
They do this because they know they’ve caught a murder; they know it and act on it with the same resolve by which other men would declare the scene to be a motel room or its occupant to be dead. To Worden and Waltemeyer, the death of Robert Yergin is a murder even though the victim is sixty-five and overweight, fully primed for a heart attack, a stroke or some other natural death. To them it’s a murder, though there isn’t a suggestion of any struggle or any trauma to the body; it’s a murder, though there isn’t a hint of petechial hemorrhaging in the whites of the eyes—the postmortem telltale that so often occasions strangulation. To them it’s a murder even after Worden finds the victim’s wallet still fat with cash and credit cards in a jacket pocket, suggesting that anyone who killed the old man did a lousy job of robbing him. It’s a murder because Robert Yergin, who takes to bed young boys he barely knows, is lying there in a weird position without his 1988 Ford Thunderbird. What else does a good detective need to know?
Little more than three hours later, Donald Worden is standing next to Donald Kincaid on the opposite side of town, staring at a thirty-foot smear of drying blood that ends in a red-purple lake after traveling the full length of a vacant West Lexington Street rowhouse. And although the man whose carotid artery painted this picture is still clinging to life at Bon Secours, this, too, will come back a murder. Worden knows it, not only because so much blood has been sprayed across the dirty hallway tile, but also because he has no viable suspect.
Two whodunits in one night—the new standard by which a Baltimore detective can be judged. Any professional can work a series of mysteries on successive nights or handle dunkers in tandem on a rough midnight shift. But what prompts a man who inherits one open case file to then answer the telephone three hours later, grab a fresh pair of plastic gloves and a flashlight, and leave out for a West Baltimore shooting call?
“Well, well,” muses McLarney the morning after, as he stares at the fresh names on the board, “I guess it’s finally reached that point where Donald won’t trust anyone else with a murder.”
This is the Donald Worden around whom Terry McLarney built a squad, the Worden that Dave Brown can never please, the Worden that Rick James loves to call his partner. Two crime scenes, two autopsies, two family notifications, two sets of interviews, two batches of paperwork, two trips to the police computer for sheets on two separate sets of players—and not a word of complaint from the Big Man. Not even the barest suggestion that Waltemeyer may want to go it alone on the Eastgate murder, or that Kincaid will have to make do without a secondary for Lexington Street.
No, sir, Worden’s got himself a fresh pack of cigars, a full pot of coffee and McLarney’s signature on the bottom of a departmental overtime slip. He hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours and if he gets a break in either case, he won’t get near a bed for twelve more. It’s a hard road, a long haul—a ridiculous way for a grown man to earn a living. It’s also about as close to a feeling of immortality as a career cop ever gets.
In the end, he resurrected himself. In the end, he simply waited his anger out, waited for that phone line to light up with the cure that was bound to come. Straight murders, one after another, each one a unique variation of that same eternal evil; just crime and punishment, meted out to a working cop in roughly equal shares. God knows Worden had talked enough about quitting; in this job, he liked to tell colleagues, you eat the bear until the bear eats you, and I’m going to walk before that bad boy gets hungry.
Tough-guy talk. But no one really believed that Donald Worden would loosen his grip on that silver shield. It would have to be the other way around.
Three days after Worden picks up two murders on a single shift, both cases are in the black. The break in the Yergin case comes as a direct result of Worden’s prolonged interrogation of the victim’s teenage companion, a conversation that makes it clear enough that in the absence of any other suspect, the old man’s housemate will remain at the top of Worden’s list. Two days later the kid—still frightened—calls the homicide unit to say he’s heard that some white boys are driving the dead man’s Thunderbird around Pigtown and Carroll Park.
Worden and Waltemeyer drive down to the upper end of the Southern District, where Waltemeyer talks to a few of the older hands with whom he served for so long. The Southern troops are already known for reading homicide teletypes, but for their old bunky Waltemeyer they’ll go so far as to tow every T-bird in the district down to headquarters. An hour after the detectives’ visit, two Southern men stop the right car at Pratt and Carey and take the driver, a seventeen-year-old male prostitute, into custody. Worden and Waltemeyer tag-team the suspect in the large interrogation room until he admits to being in the motel room; unaware that the autopsy proved the death to be suffocation, he claims the old man died of a seizure. When the two detectives complete the statement and leave the room, the kid stands up and uses the two-way window in the door as a mirror, breaking pimples and fretting over his complexion as if he’s still an ordinary teenager, contemplating a Friday night date.
The Lexington Street murder, a dispute over a small narcotics sale, is solved on a recanvass of the shooting scene, when Worden’s photographic memory matches the face of an old man who an
swers a door in the 1500 block with the face of a bystander he saw hanging out on a corner the night of the murder. Sure enough, the old man admits to being a witness and identifies the shooter from a photo array. But it’s still a weak, one-witness case until the suspect arrives downtown, whereupon Worden lets loose with the full blue-eyed, white-haired father-figure treatment and persuades the shooter to give up everything. So effective is Worden’s method that the suspect actually calls the detective from the city jail two weeks later with secondhand gossip about an unrelated murder.
“Detective Worden, I also just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas,” he tells the man who has jailed him. “For you and your family both.”
“Thank you very much, Timmy,” says Worden, a little touched. “My best to you and yours for the holidays.”
Two up and two down. For Worden, the last weeks of a year that was so utterly frustrating now roll effortlessly onward, as if scripted for some cops-and-robbers television show in which all the crimes will be solved and explained before the last commercial break.
Three days before Christmas, the Big Man and Rick James go out on an East Baltimore shooting call, driving away from headquarters on a December night so unseasonably humid that the city is layered in thick, blinding fog. As the Cavalier lurches up Fayette Street, both detectives squint through the mist at the vaguest outline of rowhouses on either side of the street.
“This is fucking soup,” says James.
“I always wanted to work a murder in fog,” says Worden, almost wistful. “Like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yeah,” agrees James. “That guy was always finding bodies in this shit …”
“ ’Cause it was London,” says Worden, pulling slowly through the light at Broadway.
“And it was always some motherfucker named Murray who did it. Murray something …”
“Murray?” says Worden, confused.
“Yeah, the killer was always named Murray.”
“Moriarty, you mean. Professor Moriarty.”
