Admission of Guilt (The detroit im dyin Trilogy, Book 2) (The Detroit Im Dying Trilogy)

by T. V. LoCicero

  In the front passenger seat George Wolf was particularly interested in the house on the corner about a half-block away. As the sergeant watched through binoculars, a young black man, with a peculiar shambling gait, left the house.

  “There’s Thomas.” Putting down the binoculars, George picked up a radio mike hanging on the dash. “Wolfman to Red Rider.”

  The radio crackled once before offering a response. “Yeah, Wolfie, I see him. Back in a minute.”

  “Copy.” George put the mike back.

  “Who’s Thomas?” asked John in the backseat behind the driver.

  “Informant.” George used his binoculars again. “He found this place last week.”

  John strained to see the house that George was trained on. “And what is this place?”

  “Supposed to be a crack house for America’s Team. The place where they take delivery, cook it up and package it for distribution.”

  With all the houses on this block looking the same to him, John leaned back in the seat. “So what’s happening now?”

  George continued to stare at the house on the corner. “Guy I talked to on the radio is picking up Thomas and getting the scoop about what’s happening inside. Then he’ll call me.” George reached into a pocket and pulled out a blackjack. “Here,” he said. “Anybody comes at you, hit ‘em with this.”

  “Thanks,” said John, half-smiling and holding up the small black club for a closer look.

  “Just be sure you you’re the last one in. In fact, don’t come in ‘till I tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  The radio crackled again. “Wolfie.”

  George picked up the mike. “Come on, this is Wolfman.”

  “C.I. said he thinks we missed it. They moved their start time up, so the big bag is already gone. He says they’re all in the living room, in front, smokin’ and watchin’ porn on the VCR.”

  “How many?”

  “Maybe eight or nine. The works is still all set up in the dining room and kitchen. Also, Wolfie, he says there’s a kid in the basement. Thought he had sticky fingers, so they poled him.”

  “Shit,” said George quietly before pushing the button again on the mike. “All right, we gotta go in whether the bag is there or not. Okay, everybody, let’s move. Have a good one.”

  The driver moved the van away from the curb, heading for the house on the corner. Two other unmarked cars along with a scout car were also converging on the corner.

  John leaned forward in his seat. “Poled him?”

  “You don’t want to know,” said George.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “They tortured him. Made him an example. If he’s lucky, he’s dead.”

  “What did he mean, poled him?”

  The sergeant did not have time to answer. As the van screeched to stop in front of the corner house, George and the officer in the seat behind him jumped out first. With a small battering ram in hand George sprinted for the front door with the cop next to him carrying a shotgun. Other officers, all with guns at the ready, were in close pursuit or running to cover the sides and rear of the house. Up on the front porch the cop with the shotgun grabbed the screen door open, and George screamed, “Police,” as he slammed the battering ram into the front door.

  Other officers were also screaming, “Police,” as George delivered one more blow, and the door gave way. Dropping the ram, George pulled his revolver and charged into the house behind the officer with the shotgun. From the front hall they could see figures ducking into the kitchen at the rear. The cop with the shotgun moved straight for them shouting, “Police! Halt right there!”

  In the hall George turned to his right in time to see two young black males and one black female scrambling out of the living room toward the back of the house. Another black male, slouched in an armchair facing the hall, did not move except to raise a revolver at George’s chest. The man fired immediately, and the cop took the bullet on the right side of his flack jacket. Stunned and off-balance, he still managed to fire twice, hitting the gunman in the right arm and leg.

  The young man screamed as he dropped the gun and writhed in the chair. The cop with the shotgun charged in, leveled it at him and fired just after George tipped the barrel with his forearm. The shot smashed high into the living room wall.

  “Hold your fire, everybody,” screamed George. “Hold your fire! All of you, up against the wall.” He gestured to three others—two males and a female—cowering now on the floor near the wounded man.

  “Com’on, assholes,” yelled the cop with the shotgun, “on your feet and against the wall.”

  “Somebody help me,” whined the young man who’d been shot. “I’m bleedin’, man.”

  Two more officers were in the room now. One of them said, “No shit, you stupid fuck.”

  From the rear of the house came the sound of glass breaking. An officer screamed, “Where the fuck you goin’, assholes? Everybody back inside.”

  With the wounded man still slouched in the chair and pleading for help, his three companions were spread-eagled against a wall as officers patted them down. Two more cops entered and paused to watch the porn film still running on the big screen TV in the corner.

  “Turn that fuckin’ thing off,” yelled George.

  “Aw, Sarge, you’re just no fun,” said one of the younger cops gazing at the TV.

  George yelled, “Who’s got the second floor?’’

  “Secure up here, Sarge,” shouted a voice from upstairs.

  “How about the basement?”

  “Basement secure,” screamed a female officer from below.

  George moved out of the living room, through the front hall and stuck his head out the door. “Johnboy?”

  Two feet from George on the porch, pressed against the wall next to the door, John gripped the blackjack next to his ear. “Yeah, you okay?”

  “There you are. Yeah, com’on in.”

  John followed as George walked back into a putrid smell in the living room. “Asshole here got off a shot, but the vest took it.” George fingered the damage to his flack jacket. “Probably so high on the stuff they’re smokin’, thought he’s in a movie. Still so much in the air, we’ll all be flyin’.”

  “All right!” piped one of the cops still watching the porn.

  The wounded man quickly locked on John. “Please, man, help me. I’m dyin’ here.”

  George barked at the cops watching the TV, “Get him outta here.”

  A black female officer walked into the room, glancing quickly at the porn, three white women working on hugely endowed black man. “Sarge, you want to look at the basement?”

  “No, but I guess I have to.”

  “It ain’t pretty.” The female cop led the way.

  Leaving, George turned to the TV watchers. “I said turn that fuckin’ thing off.”

  John followed him through the dining room where packaging paraphernalia covered a large table—trays, scales, envelopes, rubber bands, tiny plastic bags and a sealer. Against two filthy walls three people were being frisked and handcuffed. And in the kitchen—like the other rooms dirty and littered with trash—boxes of baking powder and a bottle of ether sit on the counter while the old gas stove was covered with blackened baby bottles used to cook the coke. Two young men who had tried to flee out the back were also up against a wall.

  Still following George and the female officer, John, negotiated a darkened staircase to a filthy basement with a stench even more disgusting than on first floor and with the broken discards of a lifetime littering the stained cement floor. The light from one bare bulb in the middle of the room showed them two red-smeared baseball bats abandoned next to a black youngster about fifteen, lying face down in a pool of blood. He was naked, his body badly bruised and lacerated. His legs were spread, and three feet of a broom handle extended from his bloody rectum.

  “Jesus Christ,” said George quietly.

  “They sharpen a broom handle,” said the female officer, “and shove it up as a ki
nd of coup de gras, while the others all stand around and watch and learn the lesson.”

  “Oh, my god!” said John moving to get a better look at the side of the boy’s face.

  “Just hope he croaked before they did that, “ said George.

  “Yeah, for sure,” said the female cop.

  John was close to the boy now, staring down at his face. “Oh, Christ! No! Mark!”

  “Shit,” said George. “You know him?”

  John turned away, his head swimming, his voice choked with tears. “Yeah, I know him.”

  Chapter 38

  Fay moved some scripts to sit on the cluttered couch. “I talked to John Giordano this afternoon.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the ex-teacher we interviewed for the doc.”

  Frank finally looked up from the Times. “Oh, yeah, how’s he doing?”

  “Still no teaching job. I wanted him to introduce us to some of his former students who are working the streets, but he wouldn’t do it. Said we’d just give them a big head, make them think they’re something special, just make their sad little lives seem glamorous.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “But he did tell me where to stake out and shoot some dealing on the street in broad daylight. Said if we picked out one or two of the kids and paid them for their time they’d probably talk to us if we did them in silhouette.”

  “Good.”

  “But he was disappointed we haven’t finished the doc yet. I told him these things take time, and we’d have it on asap.”

  Frank looked up from the paper. “You know, I’ve been thinking. I bet we could take his interview and just string together some bites. Call it “Personal Perspective” or “My Turn” or something like that. With the right intro it could be effective. Maybe run it on the 5 or the 11?”

  She nodded. “Might be good. And a tease for the doc. I’ll work on it.”

  Chapter 39

  “Can you move a little closer together?”

  Fay glanced between the small monitor propped up next to her and the two kids sitting several inches apart on the van’s back bench. On the second bench with her were the curly-haired Marty and his Betacam, and, with his headset in place, burly James was somehow folded on the floor, the tape deck and its meters sitting next to him. Behind the kids was a large white card about 4 feet square, blasted with the light from a sun gun. The result on the monitor: the kids’ normally dark faces were rendered in black silhouette.

  Jimmy shook his head. “She don’t like to be touched.”

  The girl, maybe half Hispanic, slid on the bench until she was up against him. “Don’t matter long as you keepin’ your hands still.”

  “That’s better,” said Fay. “Okay for you, Marty?”

  “It’s good. We’re all set.”

  Finally. She was always impatient with their set-ups, but on this one, the identity of these kids was at stake. She held up the monitor to show them. “See, we can’t really tell what you look like. This is how it’ll be at home.”

  Jimmy frowned. “That’s ugly. Can’t tell nothin’.”

  “Well, Batman, that’s the point.” They had decided she should call them Batman and Chink. Fay lowered the monitor. “You didn’t want to be identified and, I think, with good reason. So this way we can see and hear you, but people won’t know it’s you.”

  Chink said, “What about voices?”

  Fay: “I told you, you got my promise we’ll change ‘em.”

  Chink: “Let’s hear ‘em.”

  James: “We can’t do that here. We’d have to do it back at the station.”

  Chink shrugs. “Then let’s do this here. We losin’ cash big time with the little bit you payin’.”

  Fay nodded at Marty. “Okay, then, let’s roll.”

  Marty said, “We already are.”

  “Okay, let me start with you, Chink. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “What school do you go to?”

  “Don’t go to no school.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t like school.” She shook her head, and the ends of her cornrows vibrated.

  “Why do they call you Chink?”

  “Don’t know. Cause they say I squint all the time, like a Chinese.”

  Jimmy: “She do look Chinese.”

  Fay ignored him. “So how long have you been selling on the street?”

  “Along about two year.”

  “Two years, that’s a long time. Selling what?”

  “Boy, Girl. Mostly.

  “You’re talking about heroin and cocaine?”

  “Yeah, smack, crack.”

  “Now these things are illegal.”

  Jimmy: “The people buy ‘em.”

  “Why do people buy them?”

  Chink: “Cause they love it.”

  Jimmy: “They addicts, man. They gotta have it. We providin’ a service.”

  “Batman, I want to talk to you about this, but right now I’m talking to Chink. Okay?”

  Jimmy shrugged. She’d been fascinated by the girl’s role in this from the beginning of their stake out but decided to interview them together to help make them a little less nervous.

  “So, Chink, why do you sell it?”

  “Cause I like makin’ the cash.”

  “And how much do you make in a typical week.”

  “Typical?

  “Yeah, what do you usually make?”

  Jimmy again: “In a week, maybe 600. I usually make 6 –7 bills.”

  “And you, Chink?”

  “About like that, maybe 600.”

  “Chink, do you like this work?”

  “It’s okay. Bettern’ sellin’, you know, your thang.”

  “Are those the options you see for yourself, illicit drugs or prostitution?”

  “Ain’t never been a ho, ain’t never gonna be. Don’t do no kina drugs.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Lotta different places.”

  “So you’re on the street a lot? How long has it been?”

  “Couple years.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “Foster home.”

  “What happened to that?”

  The girl paused, then said, “Man there was feelin’ me up. So I run away.”

  Jimmy said, “I told yous she don’t like no touchin’.”

  “Did either of you know the young man who was found tortured and murdered in a dope house last week?”

  Jimmy: “Yeah, Mark, I know’d him.”

  Chink: “Yeah.”

  “Why did that happen to him? Do either of you know?”

  Chink looked at Jimmy who said nothing. “He done some stupid ass thang.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I can’t be sayin’.”

  “Was he holding on to too much money?”

  “Could be. I don’t know nothin’.”

  “Chink, in five years, what do you see yourself doing?”

  “Five years?” The girl seemed dumbfounded.

  “Yeah, in five years. What are your dreams? What do you want for yourself?”

  She stirred and moved slightly away from Jimmy. “For me? I wanna run the deal. Like that bitch worked it before Rick.”

  “Rick? You mean Maserati Rick?”

  “Yeah, Rick.”

  “Chink, a lot of smart people say one of two things will happen to someone like you. Either you’ll go to prison or you’ll end up dead. What do you think about that?”

  The girl’s brown eyes were blank. Fay glanced at the monitor’s inscrutable silhouette, then back at the stoic face.

  “Don’t matter.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? This is about your life.”

  “Don’t matter. Nothin’ for me to do ‘bout that.”

  “No options, Chink? No other possibilities in life for you?”

  “Fate gonna take care a that.”

  “So you just leave things up t
o fate?”

  A shrug and a nod. “Ain’t nothin’ nobody can do ‘bout livin’ and dyin’, ‘cept fate.”

  Chapter 40

  At the far end of a large, loaded parking lot serving the Lakeside Mall, a two-year-old red Topaz moved slowly down one aisle and up the next. Clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, and dressed in a dark suit and tie, John in his mother’s car was looking for the right empty parking space. Finally, he rolled up on one that fit his needs: the car in front had been backed in. He turned in and shifted into park.

  The Topaz idling, he was out quickly, his eyes sweeping the area, darting over and between cars, searching for any kind of movement. With no one nearby, he carried a screwdriver to the back end of the car in front. Looking around one last time, he ducked and quickly removed the screws securing its plate.

  His third in three days. He was becoming an old hand at this.

  Chapter 41

  On the backyard patio at Danny Welland’s house there was another party well under way. As on previous occasions, several teens were drinking, smoking, dancing and necking. Under a large tree to one side of the patio, three girls were chatting and passing a joint. One of them said, “If my mother found me doing this, she’d chain me in a closet and toss the key.”

  Her friends giggled as she pulled a drag.

  On the street nearby John slowed the Topaz and parked on the spot that gave him that open view of the backyard. With the binoculars he slipped low behind the wheel and scoped the patio. His slow pan across two couples necking on lounge chairs stopped on a group of young girls.

  His heart jumped.

  This was fate. Too incredible to be anything else. Fully prepared, fully expecting, to wait and watch for at least a week, he was only on day three. His first stop after checking the yacht club, and he was watching one of the girls hand Megan a joint.

  Putting down the binoculars, his heart still pounding, he reached under the seat to retrieve Harry’s .22. The revolver still looked and felt strange in his hand, and he put it back under the seat. He picked up the binoculars again. As if on cue, Megan had her small purse now on a strap over her shoulder and looked to be taking her leave. She waved to her host and moved off the patio. John quickly shoved the binoculars under the seat, put the car in gear and, grateful for the engine’s quiet purr, drove away.