In public, Tony supported the city's position on the killer, that the Handyman was just another criminal, and would. be apprehended in the normal course. Privately, however, he was angry. It was his job to bring in black criminals. That's what they had fought for in Detroit, the right to self-government and policing and freedom from the old days when black men were victims of white men's justice.
The Handyman case stirred feelings of contempt in Tony, and his attempts to rationalize it failed because his feelings ran too deep. All he saw was whites slaughtering black men again. flow many had to die before somebody did something?
Like what you did to Simon?
As quickly as the thought vaulted into his head, Tony tried to push it aside. The case, he thought. He had to focus on the case.
Tony checked his watch. It was almost nine a.m. He had a meeting with the Chief at the mayor's office. Yancy had been everywhere recently, playing down the significance of a white serial killer in a black city.
Tony was sure the meeting would mean more bad news and he wasn't looking forward to it. But at least the mayor's office would be cool.
The lobby of the mayor's office was flooded with reporters, politicians, and several community action groups. There was so much chatter that it was difficult to hear. Tony stood by a group of businessmen waiting for Fuller. It was cool in the waiting area, but the large number of people seemed to suck up the cold air, making it warmer than he would have liked.
Since the Handyman was revealed, everyone with a political agenda had descended on the seat of power. There was a rumor that Yancy was doubling his security and sending his wife on a quick vacation.
Tony knew for sure that Yancy was calling in favors all over town to get positive spins wherever possible. Misinformation was spread about, and Yancy's people even greased a few palms at the TV stations to get advance copy of news reports. Fall was around the corner, and the mayor's race would soon be in full swing.
Chief Fuller walked into the lobby waving at friends and waving off reporters. “Hot as hell out there,” Fuller said.
“Early summer. The worst. We're baking in the office,” Tony said. “So, I can guess what the mayor wants this time.”
“I already had that meeting with him. This is my meeting. I've got some bad news to deliver.”
“What is it?”
“The less you know, the better. I just need you here because you're running the hands-on part of the investigation. Besides, the mayor doesn't like it when other people know things he doesn't,” Fuller said.
“I hear the FBI might be brought in,” Tony said.
“Not true. This is not their turf. Their office put out that story to let us know that if we can't control this situation, they will make up a reason to come into the case.”
“Probably civil rights violations.”
“That would be my guess,” said Fuller.
A pretty woman of about forty came over and smiled at Fuller. “He's ready for you,” she said. “OK,” said Fuller. ''All right, Tony. Hold on.” Fuller and Tony entered the office. It was cool, almost chilly inside. He felt a slight breeze from the central air and caught a floral scent now and then. Tony let the cold air wash over him.
Yancy was there with several of his aides. The aides looked like a law firm in their five-hundred-dollar suits and crisp white shirts. Their faces were fearful and nervous, like spectators at an execution.
Tony fixed his eyes on Yancy, who was moving wildly, frantically, like a child who has to use the bathroom.
“I don't care if the subpoena came from God himself,” Yancy said. “I want don't want people rummaging through city papers! They can't be in my business at a time like this. They're just fishing for dirt.”
“But sir, they are entitled to access by several federal laws,” said a young aide named Dillard.
“Fuck the law! I don't care how you do it. I just want them away from the files until this thing blows over. Is that so goddamned hard to do?!”
“But sir,” said Dillard, “We've exhausted all of our administrative remedies and--”
“You're fired,” said Yancy.
“But sir, I--”
“Get out. I don't need my own people putting limits on me.”
“Well, maybe there arc some things we can do to--”
“Get the fuck out!!” Yancy walked from behind his desk and pushed Dillard out the door. The room was quiet as he walked back to his desk.
“Sir,” said Henry Underland, a longtime mayoral assistant, ''I'll take care of the document access problem.”
“I want it done now,” said Yancy.
“Whatever it takes, sir,” said Henry. He got up and hurried out of the room. Fuller caught Yancy's eye. Tony watched as Fuller gently nodded his head. Yancy returned the gesture. “Take ten, fellas,” Yancy said. The aides almost trampled each other heading for the door. Tony could see their expressions turn to relief as they passed by. He also felt their stress pass into him.
“Whatcha got, Bill?” Yancy asked.
“Harris, we have another problem. I--”
“Spit the shit out, man. I already got problems, in case you haven't noticed.”
“The hair samples,” Fuller said. “They were being tested at T-Labs. They have a contract with the city.”
“Yeah. They find something? What?” Yancy looked excited.
“No, sir. They apparently lost the samples and the test results.”
Yancy sat down slowly. “Jesus fucking H. Christ.”
“Actually, sir, the samples are still there, but the labels were screwed up by someone, mixed up with forensic samples in several criminal investigations. The prosecutor is pissin' mad.”
Yancy buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath. “OK, here's what we do. Fire the lab, have the city lawyers sue the company and everyone connected. Stop payment on all monies going to them. Then hire another company and get their president to make a press statement. We'll start a rumor that we obtained some leads off the samples before the screw up, then go to the media today. I'll have my aides tie up any other loose ends.”
“Got it,” said Fuller.
“Who knows about this?” asked Yancy.
“So far, the head of the lab, the prosecutor, and us. Inspector Hill here is just finding out.”
“OK. This one's on your head, Bill.”
Tony was about to say something but thought better of it.
“Yes, sir,” Fuller nodded to Tony and they walked out as the nervous aides rushed back in.
“Holy shit,” Tony said.
“I said it was bad.”
“This will demoralize the men. I'll have to do some damage control of my own.
“Got anything we can be happy about?”
“No. We're still investigating the hit that was made on that crackhouse on the southwest side and the other murders.”
“This is gonna be tough on all of us. The state troopers will help out, but for the most part, it's our show.” Fuller took a few steps. “I thought the loss of those hair samples would kill him. He's probably gulping down pills like nobody's business.”
“Pills?” Tony asked.
“The mayor has a mild heart condition. listen, don't repeat that. He's concerned about his image.
“No problem.”
“I know we have some big hurdles, but the harder you work, the sooner we get this fuckin' guy and be done with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They shook hands and parted company. Tony walked past the gallery in the waiting area feeling like every eye was on him. It was a rotten break, Tony thought. An unbroken chain of evidence was paramount to a criminal investigation. You could not convict without relevant, admissible, untainted evidence.
The evidentiary chain had been broken by a chain of fools. Now, even if they had a suspect, they could not match his hair to that of the samples. Hair had been found only on the first victim, Floyd Turner, so there were no more samples to be had.
Tony l
eft the mayor's office and went back to 1300. He entered the Sewer and was hit by a wave of heat. All the windows were open but it was still hot. Jim had not returned yet but had called in. He would not be happy when he heard about the blunder at T-Labs.
Tony took a moment and delivered the bad news to the men. They groaned and cursed their frustration. Tony assured them that this was a minor setback and returned to his office, still angry.
There, the day's mail overflowed in his in-box. One letter had been placed in his chair. The assistants always put what looked to be personal mail aside. The letter had no return address and was addressed only to “Officer Hill-- Detroit Police.” Tony looked at the postmark. The letter had been written over six months ago.
“What the--”
He opened it. It was several pages long and written in a scrawl that was barely decipherable. He went to the last page to see who wrote it.
Tony stopped breathing for a moment as he read the name Irene Simon, Darryl Simon's sister.
2
Set Up
T-Bone loved the heat. He was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts as a warm breeze caught him on the outdoor deck. A light sweat glistened on his arms and legs.
T-Bone studied the notes he had made on the Prince's plan to make the new drug. It was a great idea, but it would be costly and dangerous. Many people might die and fortunes would change forever.
The house in Southfield was one of T-Bone's many unofficial residences. He liked to come here when it was warm. The small house had a large yard and caught the morning sun. K-9 nestled quietly under a tree in the large backyard, looking at the sky.
He hadn't slept well since the child was killed in the crackhouse hit. He was a great many things, but not a baby-killer. He had chewed out Frank, all the while knowing that Frank's whacked-out partner had done it.
The pressure from the cops was unbelievable. You would think that someone assassinated the President. His rollers were picked up all over town and he couldn't call in his police connections to help. That was the rule with the cops. Cooperate for the money; but extreme situations didn't count.
He hated being powerless this way. So many of his people were in prison that sales were going down and the suburbanites were getting afraid to come into the city, and that was much of his market.
The killings did, however, have a good side. People were more afraid of the Union now than ever before.
More troubling to him was the fact that the Handyman had been identified as a white man. How could that be? In a city like Detroit, any white man would stand out. This troubled T-Bone. Now he began to think that the person behind the killings was no mere rival.
T-Bone suspected Santana at first. Even though he had scraped together the money to pay him, Santana was an evil bastard who carried grudges, sometimes to fatal extremes. But Santana assured him that he was not behind it, and had confidence in T-Bone despite their recent problems. But T-Bone understood that the South Americans were liars by trade and sometimes sent warnings of just this type.
Recent events had left T-Bone feeling like a loser, just like his father had always called him. Big Teddy always said the word like it was an undeniable truth. And whenever things went bad, T-Bone heard that voice mocking him, tearing away at his heart. He supposed that he still had something to prove to his father.
He laughed at the thought. Big Teddy was a mindless old wreck in an old folks home, eating oatmeal and vanilla wafers for lunch. And yet, his father was often on his mind, taunting and laughing at him each time he failed. This time, however, 'f-Bone was gonna get the last laugh, on Big Teddy and everyone else in Detroit.
T-'Bone had contacted the Prince again and set up a meeting for next week, more eager than ever to begin his ascent out of the business. 'f-Bone understood that meeting with the Prince was dangerous, but these were dangerous times. If the plan worked, he would move into production of the new crack, avoid the cocaine shortage, and have plenty of money to pay that bastard Santana.
T-Bone was by no means a poor man, but he wanted much more than others were willing to settle for. Even a successful dealer didn't make the kind of money he needed. He pictured himself as a multimillionaire, owning shopping malls and Lear jets, a world traveler.
Several years back, T-Bone had visited a legendary dealer who everyone called Captain Jack. Captain Jack had been in the military when he started his drug business. He'd gone on to make a vast fortune, which he invested in legitimate businesses.
When Captain Jack retired, he threw a party. T-Bone was lucky enough to be invited by a silly cokehead named Jimmy who was from a rich family.
Captain Jack lived in a spectacular house in Florida, overlooking the ocean. Guests arrived in limos and flew in on helicopters. Unbelievably beautiful women dripped with gold, diamonds, and sex. The party was a picture of contrasts: congressmen mingled with killers and movie stars with thugs. T-Bone was struck by the sight and he suddenly saw what it was really all about. If you had enough money, legitimacy could be bought.
Captain Jack had talked with him that night and given him the dealer's philosophy, always careful not to make any definitive statements. He said that dealers operate in a different economy. An underground economy that fuels the legitimate one. He said that all business is corrupt. The only difference between a dealer and a CEO is a dealer fucks better women.
But T-Bone didn't have Captain Jack's kind of money, at least not yet. But when he did, he would leave behind second-rate cities like Detroit and inject himself into the big time. The world would be his playground.
Many great fortunes could be traced back to crime, he thought, and in his case, it would be no different.
He finished reading the notes on his plan, then he struck a match and set it on fire. The flame consumed the paper quickly, turning it into dark ashes.
3
Lunch with Lincoln
“I've always wanted to know, Tony. Why do you hate white people.”
Tony was caught off guard by the question. He adjusted his chair. The Traffic Jam restaurant was noted for its fine hamburgers and ambience, but the chairs were very uncomfortable.
Tony sat across from Dr. Louis Abraham Lincoln, an old instructor of his from the night school at Wayne State University. They had struck up a friendship while Tony was taking Lincoln's class on criminal psychological behavior.
Tony had almost forgotten about his monthly lunch with Professor Lincoln until he saw it on his calendar, but he was pleased to see him. He didn't get to visit with Lincoln as often as he'd have liked and he needed this break from the investigation.
What Tony loved about his meetings with Lincoln were their conversations. Even when they disagreed (which was often) they enjoyed discussing and debating the issues of the day. It was a guilty pleasure, because no one seemed interested in actually sharing ideas anymore. People these days got their wisdom from TV or pie charts in USA Today. The lost art of conversation lived at their meetings, even if only for an hour at a time.
Lincoln was a long, gangly man with a scruffy beard and an ever-present pipe. He looked younger than his sixty years and his face had an inquisitive look, one that made you feel he was always suspicious of something. And he was constantly moving, long smooth motions that suggested a gracefulness in spite of his size.
Lincoln asked the question about white people casually and out of the blue, his face never rising from his Caesar salad.
“I never said I hated them,” Tony said.
“I’ve known you for years, Tony. You never have anything good to say about white people and today you seem unusually hateful.”
“People get on my nerves,” Tony took another bite of his burger. “You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do. So, how do you feel about the Handyman being a white person.”
“It makes my investigation that much harder.”
“No, no. I mean, how do you feel personally. What was your first thought when you heard the news?” Tony paused a moment, then,
<
br /> “I thought: again.”
“Whites killing blacks again.”
“Right. Seems like it never ends, you know.”
“Blacks kill their fair share of whites,” Lincoln said.
“It's not the same. I mean, that's a natural function of being oppressed.” Tony gestured with the burger as if it were part of his logic.
“Come now, Tony, you're evading. Every black murderer is not oppressed. Let's forget black political correctness.” Lincoln's voice was playful, even though the words were not. “Is it really worse for a white man to kill a black one?”
“It is if you're black,” Tony said.
“Did you know that thousands of years ago, black men controlled the world?”
“Yes, I did. We were the cradle of civilization.”
“But did you know that during that time, black men, the leaders of the known world, had oppressed people of all colors, held them as slaves, raped their women, killed them for pleasure, and threatened to wipe out their races?”
“But that was ancient times, not like now. We're civilized,” Tony said.
“Those ancestors were not animals. They knew exactly what they were doing. And since then, thousands of other people have been massacred over the years. Why is it then, that American slavery is this eternal sore spot with us?”
“You should know the answer to that. You're black, too.”
“In fact, I do know the answer,” Lincoln said. “It's because we have not accepted that our pain is a ripple in the ocean of humanity. Racism is not about race, it's about humanity.”
“That doesn't make it easier to take,” Tony said.
“You should know. You hate white people.”
“OK, I admit there's no love lost for them with me, but it's only because of all the things they've done to us.”
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