The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  He didn't answer. He didn't look up.

  John’s eyes were fixed on him. "Son, is that what happened?"

  Red lights began whipping over the sky above Broad Street. I heard car doors slamming. Voices on the other side of the wall. Fresh horses, come to spirit our suspect away. John must have called. Backup. FBI backup.

  I kneeled down, trying to look into Mel's face. "You kept one arm in that capstone, hanging there?"

  "I didn't want to kill nobody." His high voice sounded like a sad little girl.

  "Raleigh." John nodded toward the gate. "I'll take it. Phaup, you know?"

  The agents were struggling with the gate. But I knew my next question was the lynchpin. And I might be the only person who thought so.

  Shifting to the side of the crypt, I moved into the shadows. "Mel, did Hamal ask you to kill the girl?"

  He turned his head away from me. His long neck looked as graceful as a black swan.

  “Mel, look at me. What did she do?"

  He turned to me. His brown eyes were molten pools of despair.

  "She wanted to get married. She said if he didn’t get a divorce she was gonna tell on him. She called the detective." Tears spilled from his eyes, falling on the grass like damaged dew. "Hamal said we had to. The police, they was gonna put him in jail."

  I glanced at John.

  “I heard.” He tossed his head. "Go."

  Keeping one hand on the brick wall, I ran deeper into the darkness, disappearing among headstones so old their dates had weathered away.

  Chapter 47

  The blind woman's half-painted house on Ludlow was still the brightest spot on the street. Her Astroturf stoop was hosed clean of city soil, and in anticipation of my visit she was sitting in her spot behind the iron bars with the front door open. Her callused brown fingers brushed the pages of a red leather Bible. When I stepped on the first stair she looked up.

  "You there?"

  "It's me, Miss Williamson."

  She unlatched the iron lock, swinging the bars open. That scent of onions and too many cats wafted out again, hanging on the air.

  "I'm so glad you came back." Her strange eyes roamed the area behind me. "You didn't bring your friend?"

  "No, ma’am. He couldn’t make it."

  "Shame." She closed the bars behind me, locking them. "I wanted to sow another seed in that man's heart. He's close, I felt it. The man’s close to breakin' for the Lord."

  "Yes, ma’am, you could be right."

  We sat on her plastic-covered couch, sipping orange juice. It was a home without clutter. Easy to navigate. And after a few minutes I realized there were no cats. This was the summer mildew scent of a southern home without air-conditioning, the swelter trapped inside between thin walls and old carpet and a fear of being outside.

  I opened my bag, searching for my notes. Earlier this morning in the carriage house, I had collected the notebooks for John. It was his case now. And there would be no more talk of declinations. It was in that first notebook, the one I used that day when we came to Ludlow Street. The blind woman's statement. This time, her words stopped me cold.

  "Miss Williamson, tell me again what you heard," I said.

  Her eyes quivered toward my voice, that kilned blue gaze both eery and tender. "Everybody and their uncle called me an old fool. But I know what I heard."

  "How many screams?"

  "Three. The last one was the longest."

  "What did it sound like?"

  "High and scared, like a woman. Only it wasn't a woman.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Too short for a woman. When a woman screams like that, she keeps screaming."

  "Miss Williamson, why didn't you mention that to us?"

  "You didn’t ask. And I done told you I heard screams. Did I say one scream? I did not. I never said one scream. But your friend wouldn’t give me a chance to 'splain myself."

  "You can explain it to me now."

  "Well.” She settled back into the plastic-wrapped couch. "The high scream sounded real scared. Young, troubled. Worst thing, you ask me. All that energy and a mind that won't leave you alone. Like having a prescription for evil."

  I asked her whether she could identify that scream, if she heard it again.

  “I sure can,” she said.

  “You’re certain?”

  She raised her face with an injured pride. "You're not driving the same vehicle today."

  I drove the Benz today and parked across from her house. "That's correct."

  "And this one's got a funny engine. Powerful, but the back end putt-putts. Like them old foreign cars."

  Not a bad description of the German car more than fifty years old. "That’s very good."

  "You spill a pin cushion, I can tell you how many pins hit the floor. The Lord gave me this hearing. A gift. What keeps me safe."

  I wanted to jump off the couch and tell John the great news: We have a witness. Not perfect. Not even ideal. But no defense attorney was going to rattle this one. And any jury would believe her.

  But there was no leaving. Hasty exits offended southerners on deep personal levels, and I was dealing with someone who could parse the death cries of men falling through thin air.

  So we sat in her sweltering living room, sipping the watery orange juice, and before long she brought out the worn red Bible. The binding was broken from use but her long fingers brushed over the Braille, absorbing the wisdom, sending forth all that good news.

  Chapter 48

  I was driving across the Mayo Bridge, heading for Richmond when my cell phone rang.

  John. Asking me to pick up the records from the medical examiner’s office.

  "Are you sure?" I asked. My windows were open, and I could hear a loud fulminating sound under the bridge, the river swollen with summer rain. "You don’t want to get the records yourself?"

  I was thinking, Don’t you want to see Bauer again?

  "Too busy,” he said. “Swing by, pick up whatever they've got, and bring it to my apartment."

  My heart snapped with envy. Bitterness. Even after being steeped by Miss Williamson in verses that reminded me only to boast in the Lord, the mean thoughts invaded my mind. I pushed them back, and they pressed forward again. This was my 44. My case. An investigation everybody told me to close.

  And now John was too busy pursuing the leads to pick up some death records and flirt with the ME.

  I steered the Benz downtown, parked in the loading zone, and waited in Dr. Bauer's big office overlooking the Richmond Coliseum. She was not immediately available so I spent my waiting time scanning her bookshelves. Chilling titles. The Medico Legal Guide to Death and Dismemberment. On the wall behind her desk a dry-erase board catalogued the morgue’s pending cases. They were listed by Victim, Where Found, Circumstances, Date Autopsied. Our "Landfill Decomp" was up there, without a name. But I suspected that was going to change very soon.

  When Bauer finally appeared, her short blond hair was wet and tucked behind her ears. Her gamine intelligence seemed even cooler than last time.

  "Pardon the wait," she said. "They brought in a gentleman left in the river for several days. It seems his beloved wife took him fishing then struck the back of his head with a blunt object. Marriage, a real recreational sport. I had to take a shower to get the sense of blessed fidelity off me."

  She flicked a switch on a light box attached to the wall, then slipped in two X-rays, lining them up side by side. The left image, she explained, was from Cheraine Saunders’ dental records at MCV. Two abscessed teeth had been pulled. The right X-ray showed the mouth that belonged to the body found in the landfill.

  Bauer pointed at the matching rectangular gap in the upper left gums. "And both X-rays document a broken bicuspid, right there." She pointed with her little finger. "My dental expert already vetted these. I've enclosed his name for your records. I told him you would call."

  "It's John's case.”

  "Ah," she nodded. “Interesting.”


  "Thank you for your help." I picked up my bag.

  "The nail polish."

  "Yes?"

  "My assistant did a prelim. Not as precise as dental records but it matched her toenails."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. What was the name again?

  "Cheraine Saunders?"

  "No,” she said. “The polish."

  "Cherry Dreams. And not anymore."

  She raised that perfect eyebrow. "I don't follow."

  "Her mother called her 'Cherry.’ A nickname for Cheraine.” I shrugged. “Cherry won't be dreaming anymore."

  Bauer reached up, yanking the X-rays from the light box, dropping them into a large manila envelope.

  "Don't personalize these things.” She handed me the envelope. "Or you'll live to regret it."

  ===============

  From downtown I drove to John's apartment. Given my status, we couldn't meet at the office.

  His hair looked like a throw pillow losing its stuffing. But his eyes were lit from within—clear, luminous as cut gems.

  And I didn't see beer bottles. Anywhere.

  I handed him the dental records, along with my notebooks. I explained that the blind woman could identify Mel's scream. Last of all, I handed him the file from Detective Greene.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "The case the detective was trying to close when he died." To make sure he got it, I reminded him that Hamal Holmes paid for the girl's funeral, then made illegitimate children with her sister. "It's all weirdly connected."

  "Yeah, and it gets weirder," he said. "Turns out Holmes went around killing people he thought the city could do without. Pedophiles, rapists. Prostitutes with AIDS. He also took out a bunch of drug dealers."

  And then I knew why Detective Falcon went to interview the death row killer. Holmes probably took out the twins’ crew. And then Cheraine called him. Did she know? Did she know the father of her children also killed her prostitute sister?

  "And your buddy down at the U.S. attorney’s office is writing up some search warrants. We'll serve them for breakfast tomorrow morning."

  "Where?"

  "The boxing gym, for one. That kid Mel claims Holmes kept a weapon in his desk. What are the chances it's a .38?"

  “Better than you think." I described the story that Ray Frey told me, the mental instability that led Hamal Holmes on a road trip to see Coretta Scott King, who then poisoned him.

  "He was crazy?" John asked.

  "Unstable at least. He took care of his mother, and Mel, and the lost boys at the boxing gym.”

  “Must’ve had a twisted sense of duty.”

  “Maybe.” I thought of what May-Ling said. About being too late. “We might never know. Except for Mel. Did he explain what happened on the roof?"

  John stuffed the notebooks in his briefcase. “They had a plan. It was both devious and hare-brained. But you were right about something. The detective did let himself into the building. And he was going to meet someone. He just didn’t plan on meeting Holmes.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yes. The girl. Falcon was supposed to meet her several days before the protest march. On the roof, where nobody could see them. But Holmes found out she was talking, and he killed her. Falcon figured something out, or suspected something. Because he went to the landfill and looked around. They decided he had to go, too.”

  “But how did they get on the roof?”

  “Mel called up Falcon, pretending to be a friend of Cheraine’s. Could they talk? The detecive had to work Southside for that protest, but he promised to leave the factory’s back door unlocked. He would meet her on the roof when he could get away from the protest march. So Holmes and Mel go up there, and Mel hangs over the side. Holmes was going to maneuver the detective into the corner, then Mel could reach up, and pull him over the side."

  John continued packing his briefcase, but I sat down. Something heavy weighed on my shoulders.

  "His weapon," I said. “The detective’s gun.”

  “Hmmm,” John said, not really listening.

  "The detective never pulled his weapon. Because he thought he was meeting the girl."

  John gave a vague nod, too distracted by the thrill to hear me. Closing the case. The big case. Maybe the biggest of his career.

  "Oh, hey." He snapped the briefcase shut. "Remember the stuff you collected from the brick?"

  I nodded.

  "Any of it red?"

  "Yes. Some kind of leather. Suede.”

  "Gloves. Boxing gloves. Holmes didn't know how long Mel would have to hang there. So he had Mel wear a glove on the hand jammed inside that capstone. They figured he’d only need one hand to pull the detective off -balance.”

  "Only it didn't work that way."

  "No. Neither of those geniuses realized how tired Mel would get. You know. You did it.”

  “With ropes it was hard.”

  “Right. And the detective was smarter and stronger than they gave him credit for. Mel said he fought, hard. Holmes had trouble getting him into the corner. And then Holmes got turned around."

  "Turned around?"

  He nodded. “Mel reached up and pulled, just like they planned. Only he grabbed the wrong guy. Yanked his buddy right off the roof."

  "But then the detective --?"

  “Fell trying to grab him."

  "He tried to save Holmes?"

  “Sad, huh. Holmes was falling over the side when the detective lunged, trying to pull him back. But he lost his balance." He paused. “It’s also possible Mel pulled him and just isn’t ready to admit it.”

  But my mind was reeling. I tried to imagine the reaction from the police department. Falcon tried to save Holmes. What would Detective Greene say?

  More troubling: Janine Falcon.

  "What about the mayor?" I said. "Did Mel explain where Mendant fits in?"

  "Not so much. He seems awfully afraid of Mr. Mayor. But we're serving a warrant at His Honor’s tomorrow. That might clear things up. And I put White Collar on his records. Turns out he’s the real owner of that boxing gym. Money went through that place on a conveyor belt. Or should I say a laundry machine. And yet the place never pays any taxes. Go figure."

  "Is that why Mel went to Mendant’s house last night?"

  “No.” John laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  "Sorry, it’s just funny to me. That kid claims you stole his sweat suit. He got scared because it’s the one he wore on the roof that day. He thought Mendant should know, because you’re an FBI agent. And while Mel was in there spilling beans somebody called the house -- probably our Chinese delivery guy, after he got his money. Mel took off running." He grinned. “Is this a great case or what?"

  His expression was something I'd never seen before on his face. Borderline joy.

  "Hey, Raleigh, I owe you an apology. I gave you a hard time on this. But you were right. All along, you were right."

  "Thanks." The victory felt hollow. "Really. Thanks."

  "And I'll return the favor. Promise. You have my word."

  I smiled and waved him off, fighting back the mean thoughts. How could he return the favor, when he was retiring?

  Still smiling, I said, "Soak it all up, John. Enjoy the glory. Go out in a blaze."

  And I almost meant it.

  Chapter 49

  The late afternoon air felt whispery as I walked home from John's condo building. But the gusting summer breeze had shifted by the time I reached Monument Avenue. Burst of air pushed through the gingko trees, flipping the fan-shaped leaves upside down to show the silver-green underbellies. And the clouds were darkening.

  I took the alley route to the carriage house, still beating back a seething self-pity. It just seemed so wrong. Phaup suspended me for sticking to this case, and now John looked like a genius for cracking it. I could hear the cheers in the office, all the backslapping. John Breit, the agent who solved a Civil Rights case in Richmond and also brought down the city’s may
or.

  The story would go national.

  He would retire with honors.

  For several long moments, with the air swirling around me, I stood at the back fence. In the alley, my sister Helen’s lime-green VW Beetle was parked illegally. I let out a groan. Then I decided misery was misery.

  Walking across the courtyard, I opened the kitchen door.

  My sister was sitting at the table between my mom and Wally. The dog rested at Wally’s feet. And my mother wore red clogs. With a Dutch Master’s cap. She looked like a woman lifted out of a Vermeer painting.

  "Raleigh!" she exclaimed. "You're finally home!"

  She said it as though I was the child who never came around.

  "Now that you're finally here, you can see Helen’s photos. Come and look!"

  "Amsterdam?" I managed.

  "It was amazing,” Helen said. "And I was such a hit, they asked me to come to Brussels in September. My research on van Gogh is absolutely groundbreaking."

  My mother turned to me. Her face was shining with bliss, the good cheer blushing her lips like pink tulips.

  "Your sister is world famous, Raleigh. Wouldn't your father be proud?"

  I sat down and endured fifteen minutes of Helen's photographs. As usual, my sister made ample use of her camera's self-timer, so she could pose in every other frame. And why shouldn’t she? In addition to everything else, Helen looked even more beautiful on film.

  Helen Harmon: her own work of art.

  At the appropriate moments, I smiled. I nodded. Ooh'ing and aah'ing and listening as Helen boasted of her brilliance. Meanwhile my mind ruminated on Miss Williamson's verse from Second Corinthians. And I wondered why God hadn’t sent a lightning bolt to smote my sister.

  She was collecting the photos, stacking them into a neat pile, when she said, "You know what I want to do?"

  I could only imagine.

  "What? What?" My mother asked, excited beyond all measure.

  "Let's all go out to eat. My treat."

  My mother clapped her hands. The bracelets sang. "And let's get dressed up! I want to wear my new hat."

  Helen looked at me. “Well?”