Stone Cold

by Joel Goldman

  The room erupted in laughter until Fowler rapped his fist on a desk.

  “Knock it off! Knock it off! Five people are dead. You want to joke about it, do it on your own time. We’ve blanketed the east side since Saturday, knocked on every door, and run down anyone who might have had a reason to kill Chapman or the Hendersons, including Dwayne Reed. All we’ve done is use up our allotment of overtime for the month. That means that everybody except for Rossi and Harris goes back to their other cases and back to their regular schedule. No more OT.”

  “Where do we go?” Rossi asked.

  “My office.”

  Harris clapped Rossi on the back. “Hey, buddy. Sounds like Miller time.”

  Once in his office, Fowler didn’t ask them to take a seat, pointing instead to four three-ring binders on his desk.

  “Those are the Chapman and Henderson murder books. Go through them and figure out what we’re missing, and then go find it. And by it, I mean the killer or killers. The chief is on my ass. If it had only been Chapman that was murdered, he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. But those Henderson kids and the mother,” Fowler said, shaking his head, then looking squarely at them, “that’s a fucking nightmare.”

  “For who?” Rossi asked. “You and the chief or the Hendersons?”

  Fowler glared at him, bracing his hands on his desk. “Just find whoever did this. I don’t care if it was Dwayne fucking Reed or Santa Claus. Find him and try not to kill anyone while you’re at it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ROSSI AND HARRIS WENT down the hall to an interrogation room where they could spread out. A rectangular table and four black chairs were the only furnishings in the white-walled room lit by a pair of naked fluorescent tubes embedded in the ceiling. A raised steel bar to secure a suspect’s handcuffs was bolted to the top of the table. Interrogations could be observed through a two-way mirror set in one of the walls. The linoleum floor was scuffed from heels dug in against hard questions.

  A dozen homicide detectives had worked both investigations, generating enough paper to fill two three-inch binders on each case. Before the investigations were over, there would be more paper and more binders.

  For now there were reports by the responding officers listing the location of each crime and the names and ages of each victim and a summary of each officer’s observations upon arrival. A log had been kept recording the name of every person who was allowed inside the yellow tape at each scene. Every cop who’d worked the cases had filed reports documenting what he or she had done.

  There were photographs of the victims, details on the positioning of their bodies and the condition of their clothing. Preliminary autopsy results described the external and internal condition of each body and recited the cause of death. Initial forensic reports summarized fingerprints and hair, blood, and fiber samples taken from each victim and each scene.

  Every item of physical evidence had been identified, tagged, photographed, and inventoried. Both scenes had been documented with videotape, photographs, and surveys noting all relevant dimensions.

  A list of people contacted through the neighborhood canvass had been neatly typed and was supplemented by statements from those few who had been willing to go on the record to say that they didn’t know a damn thing about anything.

  Rossi leaned back in his chair, feet on the table and the Henderson murder books in his lap stacked one on top of the other. Harris scooted his chair in close, elbows planted on the table, shoulders hunched as he pored over the Chapman books. Neither man spoke, Harris scribbling notes in a pocket-sized spiral, Rossi thumbing pages back and forth, reading and rereading.

  An hour later, Harris pushed his chair back, grunting as he stood, and left. He returned with two cups of coffee, handing one to Rossi.

  “Chapman’s case is simpler,” Harris said, settling into his chair. “So I’ll go first.”

  “After you,” Rossi said with a wave of his hand.

  Harris used his shirt to rub smudges off his glasses, putting them on and sliding them halfway down his nose before consulting his notes.

  “Kyrie Chapman, African American male, age twenty-three, died as the result of a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Judging from the entry angle of the wound and burn marks on the scalp, the shooter was aiming down with the muzzle a few inches from the victim’s head.”

  “Execution style.”

  “That or the shooter was standing on a ladder and capped Chapman when he walked under it.”

  “Bad luck, walking under a ladder,” Rossi said.

  “Getting popped with a .45 is even worse. Bullet bounces around inside your head like a fucking pinball.”

  “So,” Rossi said, dropping his feet to the floor, “the way Chapman went down makes it look personal or like the shooter was sending a message.”

  “Personal sounds like Dwayne Reed.”

  “Anything about Chapman having a beef with somebody, maybe in his gang or another one?”

  “Whole lot of nothing. Marco King in the gang unit is checking with his CIs.”

  “Get back to Marco and light a fire under his ass. Some of those gangbangers will die for the cause before they’d snitch, but a few will drop a dime for the right price. Let’s find out who they’re willing to give up.”

  “I thought you liked Dwayne Reed for all this. Sounds like you aren’t so sure.”

  “I’d bet my left nut that Dwayne is good for all of it, but I don’t want some mealymouthed defense hack saying we made up our minds before we ran all the traps. What’s Chapman’s time of death?”

  Harris flipped a page in his spiral pad. “Between eleven Friday night and one on Saturday morning.”

  “Same window as the Hendersons. Where was Chapman’s body found?”

  “In a Dumpster in an alley off of Independence Avenue half a block east of Brooklyn.”

  “Close enough for Dwayne to have done Chapman and then made it to Henderson’s.”

  “True enough,” Harris said, “unless Dwayne had nothing to do with it.”

  “You got another theory?”

  “Yeah. I had a case just like it last year; same area and same MO. Marco helped me out on it. He told me that stretch of Independence Avenue is Eastside Locos’ turf. They’re a Mexican gang tied into a cartel that ships dope from south of the border all the way up I-35, including a stop in Kansas City to supply the Locos, who sell the shit to the black gangs on the east side.”

  “What happened in your case?” Rossi asked.

  “Gangbanger name of De’Andre Waiters tried to rip off the Locos’ stash. The Locos caught him, and one by the name of Luis Flores got the honor of putting a bullet in the back of his head. They threw his body in a Dumpster like they were taking out the trash.”

  “Did you close it?”

  “Yeah. One of Marco’s CIs tipped him to where we could find the gun. Flores’s prints were in the system and on the gun. When we picked him up, he didn’t deny it, practically bragged about it. Took a deal for life with a shot at parole in twenty-five.”

  “Why’d the CI drop a dime on him?”

  “Cause the asshole was fucking the CI’s sister.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It is when the sister is ten years old.”

  “So you think the Locos may have caught Kyrie trying to steal from them?”

  “Could be.”

  Rossi sighed. “That would let Dwayne off the hook.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Why not?”

  “De’Andre Waiters and Dwayne were in the same gang, so Dwayne would have known what happened to De’Andre. If he wanted to make it look like the Locos killed Chapman, he’d have known just how to do it.”

  “Either way, let’s nail it down.”

  Harris nodded. “How about you? Anything to work with on the Hendersons? What about the gun used to kill Jameer?”

  “Different gun, nine millimeter. It was another close-up, like Chapman, only face-to-face. Close enough for
blood to have splashed back on the shooter. Lena Kirk is testing some fabric we found in the fireplace at Dwayne’s mother’s house. After the way Jameer testified at the Wilfred Donaire trial, if any of the victims’ blood is on that fabric and we can tie the fabric to Dwayne’s clothes, we’ve got him cold.”

  “What about the rest of the Henderson family? Anything in their background that would make someone besides Dwayne go after them?”

  “Not so far. I checked Henderson out after he testified against Dwayne. Best I could tell, they were just a family trying to get by.”

  “What about the way the wife and kids were killed? Any help there?”

  Rossi took a deep breath. “It was fuckin’ ugly, man, what happened to them. Autopsy found flakes of aluminum on the kids’ skulls and in the mother’s vagina. The aluminum is the kind used to make baseball bats. Whoever did this cracked the kids’ heads and then raped the mother with the bat. If he hadn’t strangled her, she would have died from the internal injuries.”

  “Man,” Harris said. “I been doing this a long time, and I still don’t know what kind of man does something like that.”

  “I do,” Rossi said. “The same kind of man that cuts another man’s dick off and shoves it down the victim’s throat.”

  “Hey,” Fowler said as he opened the door to the interrogation room. “Things have changed.”

  “What?” Rossi asked.

  “I just got off the phone with Tommy Bradshaw. Judge Upton released Dwayne Reed on his own recognizance.”

  Rossi came out of his chair. “You are fuckin’ kidding me!”

  “I wish I was. It gets worse. Bradshaw says that Reed threatened the doctor at Truman who sewed him up, a woman named Bonnie Long. Said he was going to be waiting for her when she got home from work.”

  Rossi started to leave, stopping when Fowler put his hand on Rossi’s arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To warn the doc, and then I’m going to find Dwayne and put his ass back in jail.”

  “No, you aren’t. Dwayne was probably just mouthing off, but in case he wasn’t, I’ve alerted Truman Medical’s security and I put two uniforms on her house. So I don’t need you warning the doctor or harassing Dwayne Reed. You handle solving crimes and I’ll handle preventing them.”

  Rossi rolled his eyes, giving Harris his can-you-believe-this-bullshit look.

  “I’m not asking your opinion, Detective Rossi,” Fowler said. “I’m giving you an order. You’ll do things my way or you’ll take your cowboy act to the rodeo. Are we clear?”

  Rossi clenched his jaw. “Crystal clear, Commander.”

  “Good,” Fowler said and left, head high, triumphant.

  “What are you going to do now?” Harris asked.

  “Like you’ve got to ask,” Rossi said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ALEX HAD BEEN SWEATING since she left Judge West’s chambers, her encounter with Dwayne on the courthouse steps ratcheting her body temp up another notch. The day was half over and she was as drained as she’d been after running the Warrior Dash, a 5K obstacle course that included mud pools, barbed wire, and fire pits. She did it to test her limits, and when she finished she was elated. Now she was just grimy and edgy, looking over her shoulder, sensing that trouble was gaining on her.

  Needing to calm and clear her head, she went for an aimless walk through downtown, finding herself at the public library, an ornate building that was home to a bank in its earlier life. It was cool inside, the quiet comforting. She sank into a soft chair in one of the reading rooms and closed her eyes and meditated, concentrating on her breathing, shoving Dwayne to the periphery. Half an hour later, she was back on the street.

  She tried Bonnie again, knowing what she had to tell her but uncertain how she would say it. When she got Bonnie’s voice mail, she called the ER, grateful that she recognized the voice of the nurse who answered.

  “Emergency room.”

  “Eddie, is that you? It’s Alex Stone.”

  “Yeah, it’s me. What’s up Alex? You looking for Bonnie?”

  “Yes. I’ve been trying to reach her. You guys must be getting slammed and she’s probably tied up with patients.”

  “Nope. All we’ve got is a kid with a bellyache and an old lady with a twisted ankle. But you aren’t the only one looking for her.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex asked, her voice catching in her throat.

  “Black dude was in here a few minutes ago asking for. Said he had something for her and wanted to know if I knew where she lived.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I didn’t know but that he could leave whatever it was with me and I’d give it to her, and he said no thanks, he was the only one who could give it to her.”

  Alex struggled to keep her voice under control. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Not my day to watch her. You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Just in a hurry. Can you page her and ask her to call me right away? Tell her it’s urgent.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Alex was at the entrance to the parking garage when Bonnie called.

  “I know why you’ve been trying to reach me. The judge let Dwayne go. Don’t worry. I’m fine,” Bonnie said, hurtling her words at Alex, not giving her a chance to say hello.

  Alex leaned against the exterior wall of the garage, relieved that Bonnie was okay but not surprised at the chill in her voice.

  “How could you possibly know? I just left the courthouse an hour ago.”

  “Because the hospital’s director of security got a call from the police warning them that Dwayne had threatened me. He summoned me to his office so he could tell me the good news and promise me they’re going to protect me from that fucking asshole client of yours.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, is right. I was in his office when Eddie paged me and told me about your call and the black guy who came looking for me and who wanted my address and who I assume was Dwayne.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “About what?” Bonnie asked, her tone sharp as a scalpel.

  “About what happened and that you had to hear it from someone else. You must be furious with me.”

  “You aren’t the one who let him go.”

  Alex dreaded telling Bonnie that she was the one who had asked the judge to release Dwayne. She’d leave that confession for later, after they’d polished off a bottle of wine.

  “What are they going to do? The security people, I mean.”

  “The police emailed a photograph of Dwayne and it’s being circulated to all the hospital’s guards. And they’re putting a guard in the ER who will walk me to and from my car.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes, it is, in the same way fixing a broken leg is good except that not breaking your leg would be even better.”

  “I know. I get that and I’m really sorry. Tommy Bradshaw says that the police will have a patrol car keep an eye on our house.”

  “Swell. The neighbors will be thrilled.”

  Alex bit her lip. This was Bonnie at her angriest. Cold, clipped, and distant.

  “You sound so calm.”

  “Would you rather I fell apart in front of my colleagues?”

  “No, it’s just that—”

  “Forget it. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

  Alex struggled for something to say. “Just be careful. Please.”

  “Great advice. Thanks,” Bonnie said and hung up.

  Alex pressed against the concrete wall, crunched her eyes, and massaged her temples. An image flashed in her head of Dwayne straddling Bonnie, forcing her legs open, one hand over her mouth, so real she jumped into the middle of the sidewalk, gasping, her heart thumping. Bonnie was safe at the hospital. Alex knew that. But once Bonnie headed for home, all bets were off.

  Whatever did happen, she accused herself, was on her. Though Alex understood that wasn’t true in any rational sense, she understood just as well that the
rational had little chance against the combination of fear, guilt, and anger boiling her insides.

  She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go back to her office, because she’d have to explain to Robin Norris everything that had happened, and why, in spite of that, she had to continue to represent Dwayne. It was an argument she knew she wouldn’t win. As if on cue, her phone rang again. Caller ID said it was Robin. Alex ignored the call, sighing when the ringing stopped and her phone beeped, flashing a message on her screen that she had one missed call and one missed voice message.

  “Crap,” she said, turning the phone off and stuffing it in her pants pocket.

  She thought about going home and having the first of several stiff drinks. She didn’t believe in finding courage in the bottom of a bottle, but it would take the edge off. And leave her borderline incoherent, giving Bonnie another reason to be angry and, worse, disappointed at her weakness. Scratch the impulse to get drunk.

  There was only one thing she could think of doing. Find Dwayne. Talk to him. Tell him that she knew that he’d threatened Bonnie. Tell him that the police were giving her round-the-clock protection. Tell him that Rossi was looking for an excuse to put a bullet in him. Tell him whatever it took to convince him to stay away from Bonnie and hope he’d let something slip that she could use to get him convicted for the Chapman and Henderson murders. Tell him that she was looking out for his best interests. Be his lawyer. Lie to him. And if none of that worked, do whatever it took to protect Bonnie.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  HANK ROSSI HAD A PLAN, and step one was to ignore Mitch Fowler. The idea that a gang of minimum-wage hospital guards could protect Bonnie Long was a joke, almost as big a joke as hoping a patrol car would slow-roll past Bonnie’s house at the exact moment Dwayne Reed was kicking in the front door.

  Step two was to go to Truman Medical Center and have a face-to-face with Dr. Long, a reality check in case she had any doubts about who and what she was up against. He’d lay it out for her and give her a choice. Listen to him or be the next name on Reed’s list.