The Lightning Rule

by Brett Ellen Block

  He filled them in on what Sal Lucaro and his sidekick had done and informed Fossum of the mix-up between him and Freddie, then Emmett proposed his scheme to fool the guy driving the Delta.

  “So all him and me gotta do is stay put?” As usual, Otis was awaiting a hitch.

  “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Wait. I’m stuck here now?” Freddie was livid.

  “Only for a few hours.”

  “A few hours?” Freddie sank back in his seat, moping.

  Fossum walked Emmett to the door. “I’m not too good with kids. Don’t got nothing ’cept beer in the icebox.”

  “No beer, Otis. Just water for him.”

  “I heard that. Might as well be back in jail.”

  “The boy was in jail?”

  “He’s harmless. Really,” Emmett assured him.

  “I ain’t worried fo’ me. You the one pulling the fasty on a gangster.”

  “It’ll be worth it if it works, right?”

  “Right,” Otis said evenly.

  It was the “if” part Emmett had to worry about. Enough time had passed that the guy driving the Delta would have scouted his car. “Don’t open the door for anybody. Okay?”

  “Shouldn’t’ve opened it for you,” Fossum joked. Then he latched the dead bolt.

  From the lobby, Emmett could see the Oldsmobile idling at the curb. He went out the fire door on the opposite end of the building and listened. The characteristic whap, whap, whap of a handball game was coming from the rear of the tenement.

  The same kids who had acted tough with Emmett and Otis two days ago were circled around the building’s back wall. A black handball was ricocheting off the bricks. The leader, the one who had threatened Emmett, was pitted against a bigger boy and was trouncing him. He wore cutoff dungarees and a loose tank top that swung from side to side as he dove for the ball. Six others were cheering and refereeing the match.

  “Hey you. Remember me?” Emmett strode up to the kid and called him out of the game.

  “Come on, Kenny. We playin’.”

  “Shut up,” Kenny ordered. He caught the handball, putting the competition on hold. “No, I don’t remember you,” he said, though obviously he did. “What chu’ want, honky?”

  “See, you do remember. It’s me. Mr. Honky.” The boys had a laugh. Kenny didn’t. “Let’s you and I take a walk and get reacquainted.”

  Instead of flashing his revolver, Emmett pulled aside his jacket to showcase his badge. He thought of what the state trooper had said, that it entitled the wearer to do anything they saw fit. Emmett considered what he was about to do supremely fitting.

  “Aw, man.” Kenny bounced the ball to a friend and let Emmett lead him apart from the group toward the street. Emmett put his arm around the kid’s neck in a fatherly manner in full view of the Delta coupe. Kenny tensed, as though Emmett’s touch was freezing cold.

  “Kenny, my friend, you and I didn’t get off on the right foot. So let’s start over.” Emmett stopped and put both hands on the kid’s shoulders. To the guy in the Olds, it would read as a heart-to-heart chat. “If I ever catch you pulling that stunt you tried on me with anybody else, I’ll arrest you.”

  “You came here just to tell me that?” Kenny said, annoyed.

  “It’s a big world.” Emmett gestured toward the street where the Delta was so it would seem as if he was warning the kid. “Next person you come on strong to might not be as forgiving as me.”

  “Whatever. Honky.” Kenny shrugged off Emmett’s hands and stalked away.

  Like a silent movie without subtitles, the pantomime was self-explanatory. Emmett returned to his car and drove off. This time, the Oldsmobile Delta didn’t follow.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Miscommunication was that morning’s running theme. The police band had been beset by calls about failed transmissions between cops, state troopers, and the National Guard. All three were on different frequencies. Neither the troopers nor the Guardsmen could get any information on patrol movements or citizens’ calls for assistance because those went directly to the Central Complaints Division, and policemen were radioing in, asking why the aid they were promised hadn’t arrived. Blockades had gone up at 137 intersections, cordoning off a fourteen-square-mile radius of the city, but none of the patrols could contact one another. Every order or request had to be filtered through the Roseville Armory and rereleased over the airways. Emmett was eavesdropping on the crisis when an officer hailed for backup on a breaking and entering at the Sears Roebuck on Elizabeth Avenue.

  “Manager says they stole twenty-four rifles. That’s more than the whole department’s got.”

  It was true. The rioters were becoming better armed than the police, and Emmett didn’t want to dwell on what was liable to occur come nightfall if the frequencies didn’t get in sync. He was sitting in his car outside Evander Hammond’s house, paging through the boy’s file, hoping for some divine inspiration. Hammond’s body had been found in April, making his case the oldest of the bunch. His left pinkie finger had been severed. Assuming the killer was going from left to right, that made Evander the first victim. It was a big assumption, one of many. Emmett hadn’t ruled out the possibility that the murderer might have collaborated with somebody to disarm teenagers as large and powerful as Hammond and the rest, however he continually gravitated toward the notion of a lone assailant.

  Thieves operating in pairs or groups were splashier about their heists and often trashed the places they robbed. There was security in numbers, a freedom to flaunt their crimes. Sophisticated burglars who worked alone were careful. Were it not for the missing items, most homeowners would never realize someone had been in their house. These murders had a meticulous quality that bespoke a cautious, plotting, self-reliant person, similar to a rogue thief. While a rogue usually had a signature method for breaking in, popping the locks or removing windowpanes, a consistent distinguishing pattern, this killer was continually changing.

  The physical similarities of the victims suggested they were handpicked, yet the method of death varied, as did the location of the body dumps. To stab somebody to death, the assailant had to get close to his victims, a choice that struck Emmett as calculated, however the victims’ builds implied that they would be able to fend off any attacker. Incapacitating a kid that young and that size would take a sly, inventive mind. Everything about the murders screamed how smart the perpetrator was, only when it came to the killer’s identity, the cases went mute.

  Emmett skimmed through Hammond’s file a final time. In the crime scene photographs, Evander’s body was splayed across an alley adjacent to a construction site. Stalks of rebar sprouting from newly poured concrete were visible in the background, a veritable metal jungle. The blood from Evander’s chest wound had seeped out onto the dirt alley in a practically perfect circle. Emmett closed the case. He couldn’t look at it anymore.

  The three-story tenement on Bruce Street where Evander Hammond had lived was painted a muddy taupe, the nondescript hue that resulted from mixing together different colors of remnant paint. The steps had been coated too, and the wash was worn to the wood down the middle of each stair, indicating the path most traveled. Emmett was on the path least traveled, a path that was quickly approaching a dead end.

  When he got no answer at the Hammonds’ door, he knocked on the apartment a floor below hoping someone would point him in the right direction, as the girl with the baby had.

  “Who is it?” a male voice demanded gruffly.

  “This is Detective Emmett of the Newark Police Department,” he shouted through the door. It was painted the same shade as everything else and peeling as well. The landlord had probably gotten a discount and blended indoor paint with outdoor paint. That was why it wouldn’t stick to anything. “I’m trying to contact the relatives of Evander Hammond.”

  “What fo’?”

  “That’s police business, sir. If you open the door, I’ll gladly show you my badge.”

  “Don’t got to.
I can tell you a cop by how ya talk.”

  Having a conversation through a closed door wasn’t that different from having one with a person who didn’t speak the language. Emmett talked louder and kept his sentences simple. “Then can you tell me how I can get in touch with someone in the Hammond family?”

  “Boy’s father is the janitor at Peddie First Baptist. You could find him there.”

  “Thanks,” Emmett said to the closed door.

  He was about to walk away when the man asked, “You after who murdered Evander?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “When you find ’im, do us all a favor. Lock him up an’ throw away the key. Hear?”

  “I hear you, sir,” Emmett replied. “I hear you.”

  The Oldsmobile didn’t reappear in his rearview mirror the entire trip over to the church. Emmett had lost the guy, at least for the time being. If Kenny mouthed off to him the way he had Emmett, the kid probably wound up with a black eye to rival Edward’s, but once the driver figured out that Kenny wasn’t Freddie, he would return to Emmett’s house or give up altogether. As Emmett arrived at the church, he prayed he would never see another Delta 88 as long as he lived.

  Peddie First Baptist was a worthy place to say a prayer. From the outside, the church gave the impression of a medieval citadel, built of dark granite with a barreled body, domed roof, and hexagonal spires. A moat wouldn’t have seemed out of character. Its stalwart exterior was contradicted by the vast tabernacle inside, which resembled the amber inner chambers of a spiraled seashell. The pews were rounded into arcs, theater-style, the shape echoed in the curved balcony, the lustrous convex pink marble seats for the clergy, and the arcade of arched windows made of Tiffany glass. The ribs of the gargantuan pipe organ added to the sense of immensity and that all earthly things were dwarfed by faith.

  Emmett hadn’t been to church for years. The majesty of this one humbled him. He had the feeling he was trespassing into a private club from which he had been denied membership.

  A sign in the entry said that the afternoon’s services were canceled. Anxiety over the riot had invaded every corner of the city. When Newark needed the prayers most, the ministers were too fear-stricken to open their doors.

  Hammering resounded through the nave. Beneath the colonnade, a black man with talc white hair was standing on a step stool securing sheets of plywood to the stained glass windows, blocking the sunlight piece by piece. He was almost finished with a window depicting Jesus crowned by a golden halo. A dove soared in the sky above. The plywood had reached Jesus’ neck.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Emmett said.

  The supply of nails held between the man’s teeth prevented him from replying. He finished pounding and spit the nails into his palm. “No services today on account of the troubles.”

  “I’m not here for the service. I’m looking for Mr. Hammond, Evander Hammond’s father.”

  “That’s me.” He got down off the stool. In spite of his hair color, Hammond had the sturdy frame of a youthful man who worked with his body for a living. Evander had clearly gotten his height and strength from his father.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?” Emmett presented his shield.

  Hammond sat heavily on a pew. “Sorry,” he said, scooting in to make room for Emmett, who joined him out of courtesy. He would have preferred to stand.

  Pews, in Emmett’s estimation, were a form of discipline. While smooth, the hard, molded seats discouraged slouching or talking to the person beside you. If you didn’t sit up and face forward, you were bound to be uncomfortable. If that wasn’t discipline, Emmett wasn’t sure what was.

  He and his brother had sat side by side in church from the age when their feet didn’t touch the floor until they were both so tall their knees pressed into the hymnal racks. Like prisoners, they contrived secret codes and games to pass the tedious hours of Sunday mass. They had thumb wars under winter coats and whispered jokes during choir songs that muffled their laughter. That was when Emmett had felt closest to his brother, when they were forbidden to play and talk and had found the means anyhow. Now they didn’t speak unless it was necessary.

  Hammond’s legs were as cramped in the pew as Emmett’s. He was too distracted to care. They sat apart, affording each other extra personal space. Four people could have fit in between them, five if they were packed together for a holiday service. From years of attending mass, Emmett could eyeball a pew and say how many could squeeze in, a skill as valueless as remembering the words to a TV jingle.

  “The news bad or good?” Hammond asked.

  “Neither I’m afraid.”

  “This kinda news can’t be good no matter what, can it?”

  “I’m only trying to get some information, sir.”

  “But nothing’s changed. What’s there to tell? I’d be repeatin’ the same stuff.”

  “Repeating it can’t hurt.”

  “Hurts anyway.”

  Resigned, Hammond looked up at the pulpit on the upper level. The elaborate rostrum was carved of wood with iron railings. Mounted on the podium was the image of a bird with its wings spread as wide as an angel’s. “Ask what you came to ask, Detective,” he said.

  “Tell me about the day Evander went missing.”

  “I was home. Wouldn’t have been ’cept I hurt my hip. Fell off that very stepladder.” He indicated the stool he had been balancing on minutes ago. “I was laid up in bed. Evander came home from school. Asked me how I was feeling. Then said he had to go to the library.”

  “The school library?”

  “No, the big one on Washington. Not much else to tell. He didn’t come home.” That put an end to Hammond’s story.

  “Did he go to the library often? Was he doing his homework.”

  “Evander didn’t have much to do with books. Didn’t need ’em. He was street-smart. He lived for music. He’d buy records and sell ’em to kids for a couple cents over what the stores charged so he could buy more. Made decent money too. I didn’t tell that to the police right off the bat. Thought they’d peg him for a punk. He wasn’t. Boys his age can’t get no jobs. No record store would hire him. So Evander was his own record store.”

  To make a profit, Evander had to have been stealing some of the records and buying others legitimately, a common scam. Emmett had arrested a clerk at Bamberger’s department store for turning a blind eye to her friends’ shoplifting, friends who were cutting her in on the money they took in from reselling the stolen clothes at a discount. There was no reason to tarnish the boy’s image and tell Mr. Hammond that his son’s side business wasn’t on the up-and-up.

  “Did you suspect anybody? Any of his friends?”

  “No, sir. Everybody loved Evander. Yeah, he was a smooth talker, always diggin’ for an angle, bucking the system. It was just that he dreamed bigger than most.”

  Hammond’s gaze drifted upward again toward the pulpit. It was flanked by a pair of gilded griffins, mythical beasts with the bodies of lions and the heads and wings of eagles. Legend claimed their instincts led them to buried treasures and that they built their nests of gold, making them tempting targets for hunters and plunderers. Emmett wouldn’t have noticed them were it not for Hammond’s description of his son.

  “Evander didn’t look his age. Didn’t act it either. He was proper. Always said ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Please.’ Before my hair went white, people’d mistake us for brothers.”

  Being mistaken as his son’s brother was a compliment Hammond cherished, as much as Evander’s memory.

  “Why you interested in him after all this time?”

  “Somebody killed your son. I want to know who. Don’t you, Mr. Hammond?”

  “Far as I’ve seen, what a person wants and what they get have a funny way of not being the same.”

  It was a suitable moral for church, for life, and for Emmett’s whole case. He had started out seeing Ambrose Webster as an excuse to get out of the Records Room so he could reopen Vernon Young’s murder. What he had
wound up with was a series of crimes that refused to produce any leads. Emmett may as well have been plugging an electrical cord into a keyhole. The pieces didn’t fit.

  “Minister’s got me puttin’ up these plywood boards to save the windows from getting broke,” Hammond said, seemingly changing the subject. “Have to do the outside’s too. Afraid people’ll throw stones and ruin ’em. What are they gonna do if the windows do get broke, I wonder? Used to be a statue ’a Saint Peter on the roof of this church. Got struck by lightning and smashed to the ground. Nobody ever replaced it. Too much trouble. Months go by and folks forget. Figured that’s what happened with Evander. Too much trouble. With the rioting, I’d ’a thought the police had more important things to do.”

  “This is important.”

  “To the police or to you?”

  “To me,” Emmett admitted, to Hammond and himself. “Look, if you remember anything else, you can phone me.” He gave Hammond his home number.

  “All I do is remember, Detective. Hard to do anything else.”

  Remembering was its own kind of agony, separate from grief. Emmett could sympathize. He slid out of the pew and left Evander’s father to continue covering the stained glass window of Jesus to keep it safe.

  THIRTY-THREE

  So many things to do, so little time. During his lunch break, Meers drove to his favorite Italian butcher’s shop in the North Ward. He held the door for a woman exiting the shop, who was juggling a bundle of parcels.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, averting her eyes from his lame arm.

  “You’re quite welcome,” he chirped politely.

  Meers reveled in the discomfort of strangers. His pitiable appearance put them off, which was fine with him. Let them think he was weak and crippled. He wasn’t. And he could prove it.

  Two small oscillating fans labored to generate a cross breeze inside the butcher’s shop. A mother and her young son were at the counter, ordering. Bored, the boy was mashing his cheeks into the display case, blowing on the glass to steam it, and licking the condensation. It disgusted Meers. Had he ever behaved that badly in public, his father would have throttled him right there in the butcher’s shop. He cleared his throat, a hint to the woman to curb her child.