“But no—no; wait, wait,” the unscrupulous preacher raised one hand upward. In excruciating pain, the other clutched his bloodied, bone-shattered knee. His eyes desperately searched the onlookers he knew so well for compassion but found none. “Don’t y’all see this?” he belted out with tears flowing and his voice cracking. “After all the things I’ve done for each of you—why isn’t anybody stopping him?” His weakening tone vibrated with every syllable that passed across his quivering lips. “Oh my God, one of y’all, please, call the police before he shoots me again! I’m begging in Jesus Christ’s name, help me.”
Reverend Bernard Richards, the head director of West Side Outreach Ministries, lay bleeding to death in the middle of the pothole-filled Detroit street. Residents were stunned but not budging from where they were. Instead, they stood around whispering. Yet strangely, no one bothered to call for help as their once-beloved minister had asked. Not sanctified senior citizen Thelma Gale, who lived in the apartment building on the crime-ridden block. Not nosy Mr. Jessie, the Block Club president, who wanted things to go back to the days of the past. Not Mr. Jessie’s constantly depressed wife called for help. Troubled, drug-addicted teacher, Lynn Banks, teenager Abdul and his little sister all had the opportunity to dial 911 on their cells. Hard as it was to believe, they chose not to. Trinity, a young single mother, nonchalantly cleaned underneath her fingernails while she recorded the altercation soon-to-turn-murder on her Android. It was as if the group was merely watching a movie rather than being firsthand witnesses to a cold-blooded murder about to take place. Nevertheless, none of the preacher’s seemingly loyal parishioners who he “supposedly helped” shed a single tear. He was on his own and had to face the music by himself. God was about to call him home . . . or the devil one. Either way it went, Clay was gonna end his life.
“Look at you . . . the-all-so-great-and-above-the-laws-of-the-hood Reverend Richards. Out here begging the next dude and the neighborhood people for mercy that you shit over on the regular. Imagine that; you acting like a real pussy right about now. A real little bitch around these parts,” Clay grinned, finally feeling a true sense of accomplishment as he went on. “You need to man up ’cause you can’t do jack for me or with me no more. That’s history.”
“No . . . Wait, Clay.”
“No, you wait. Truth is, playtime is over, fool. You earned each one of these hot motherfuckers you about to get. Time for you to go all the way to damn sleep. I’m tight on you.”
“Please, Clay.” In denial, the man’s eyes grew wider while still holding on to hope, holding on to the notion his wrongdoing was bigger than the game itself.
“Tell the devil I’ll see him later. Now, bleed out, bitch nigga.” Clay happily let loose another deadly deliberate round.
Squad car sirens were finally blaring in the far distance answering a mysterious “shots fired” call. All the seemingly innocent bystanders scattered, disappearing into their homes. No one wanted to risk getting questioned by the law. No one wanted to get judged for not being the one who had not called the authorities. There was a motionless body outside of their dwellings. It was sprawled in the middle of the street on display, leaking blood from the gaping bullet holes. Peeking out from behind their curtains and front doors, no one truly cared as the county coroner lastly arrived on the scene. Officially pronouncing the good Reverend Richards dead in the middle of the street, his now sheet-covered body was removed. As far as the neighborhood witnesses were concerned, the reverend was just another casualty; another statistic in Detroit’s ever-rising homicide rate. However, to the Detroit Police Department, he was the front-runner-to-be-elected mayor’s half brother and top priority on the long list of murders to solve. Discovering the true, raw, uncut circumstances that led to a supposedly godly man being laid out in the middle of an open-air, drug-infested street in broad daylight is where they had to start.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Manhunt
There was no question what was going on in District 5 as well as the entire city. The streets were running red in Detroit. With constant meetings with various officials, there were still no solutions in clear sight. For the time being, it was what it was. The criminals did what they wanted to, and the cops did what they could. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse for all parties involved. If things were not and had not been bad enough, now the authorities were dealt yet another bad hand. They had to solve this case of what appeared to be premeditated, cold-blooded murder quickly. The mayor and police chief warned that the feds were only a few dead bodies away from stepping in and taking over. The homicide detectives investigating the multiple murders, including Reverend Richards’s, had no choice but to up their game. They had already asked for the surveillance cameras from the church building which were, of course, handed over. Unfortunately, they were not in the proper position to see much of anything useful. They then had to forcefully subpoena the tapes from the liquor store; yet, as fate would have it, the cameras facing the rear of the store and block were broken. Seemingly hundreds of tips came in to the hotline number that was set up exclusively for murder tips. Each and every one had to be checked out. The officers didn’t want to run the risk of ignoring any possible leads. Doing so may have resulted in allowing a killer to roam free longer than need be. Day and night, night and day, the lines were answered. After several dead ends, the detectives finally got a call that had a strong possibility of panning out. The caller seemed to know what they were talking about but refused to leave any contact information. That small bone was thrown to the cops, giving them hope but didn’t last. They were back where they started, at square one. Sitting around discussing what new jobs they could try to find after surely being fired from their present ones, the tension in the air was serious. With the clock ticking, any hopes of capturing the preacher’s killer grew dim.
Clay
Reverend Richards’s homicide was not easily solved in forty-eight hours. A considerable amount of time elapsed. Residents were terrified there was a brutal, coldhearted killer on the loose. Yet, each of the seven neighbors who had stood mute watching him murdered continued to keep their mouths shut. For their own individual reasons, they ignored what they’d witnessed. As strange as it may seemed to persons who were white and lived much different lifestyles, the residents were carrying on with their everyday lives. Whether it was the fact they were being loyal to the local drug dealer or had contempt for the preacher’s recent choices, they chose silence.
However, the crime-solving gods were finally on the detectives’ side. Thanks to an out-of-the-blue anonymous tip, a suspect was named in the high-profile, street-justice-style execution. Breaking news on every television channel, the cops were gearing up as if they were in pursuit of the devil himself after escaping from hell. First, they kicked in the door of Clay’s apartment, then both the spot and the hookup house again. His picture was plastered on every channel and every avenue of social media. People were warned that he was considered to be armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone caught assisting in his avoiding arrest would be charged with obstructing justice and contempt of the law. Hours dragged by. Thankfully, the long, exhausting police manhunt hours finally paid off. Clay Jennings, who had no family to speak of or true friends to count on, was apprehended. Handcuffed and shackled on his ankles, he was roughly thrown in the rear of a squad car. Paraded before the reporters, he was read his rights as he gave them a look of defiance. The often-feared infamous narcotic dealer was soon booked and fingerprinted at police headquarters. The charge was suspicion of first-degree murder.
Stripped of the suede laces from his Tims and the Gucci belt that barely held up his sagging jeans, he held his head high. The suspected cold-blooded killer was not moved. “You think y’all doing something so fucking big? You think y’all got a nigga like me buffaloed? Well, you don’t. I’m a boss through and through, so it’s whatever.” Clay was not shaken one bit when the detectives mocked that he would be going to jail for the rest of his life. “It ain
’t no way in hell I’m going to jail for some bogus shit y’all trying to put on me. Y’all some frauds. I don’t even know why y’all had my picture and shit all over the news like I’m Capone or Bin Laden.” Strong in his pride, Clay failed to blink when the detectives claimed they had the murder weapon and his prints were all over it. He knew they were bluffing then for sure, because he had dismantled the pistol and tossed the various parts here and there into the murky Detroit River. “Man, y’all need to quit bullshitting and get the fuck outta here. Them mind games ain’t gonna work on me. If y’all got a gun I used to do any dumb shit, then by all means, please produce that motherfucker! Please do!”
Staring the suit-and-tie men coldly in the eye, Clay proceeded to smirk when told that they had several witnesses who were more than willing to testify. Although he knew this was the only thing the cops were probably being honest about, he still kept it gangster. He could care less and refused to let them see him sweat. From his point of view, he did what he had to do, and definitely what had to be done. It was the principle of it all. If Clay allowed the crooked man of the cloth to do all the ungodly things he had done and not call him to task, he couldn’t rule the streets as he had been doing. “Yeah, hurry the hell up and lock up my black ass. Then do what y’all do. And remember, I know what damn time it is. Y’all gonna have to show any proof real quick.”
In handcuffs, the crazed, ruthless assailant was led to an empty holding cell on the ninth floor by the lead detective. “Trust me, it’s nothing. I’m a different breed than most, believe that. Get the fuck on and go do y’alls damn job.” Spitting on the concrete floor, a huge glob of saliva barely missed the man’s polished shoes. As the officer stepped back, he slammed the bars shut. Clay showed no real remorse. He looked around at his new short-term surroundings and took a deep breath before exhaling. As he fell back onto the bottom metal bunk, he thought to himself that things had to go down exactly as they did.
You could almost hear the electricity in the stale, mildew air. Clay reflected back to the last month or so and what ultimately got him where he was now; locked up with seemingly no chance whatsoever of beating the case. His demons were the only thing he had to keep him company; and that they did. Clay was used to them taking over his mind, in good times and definitely now, in bad. Unlike the other major Ls he’d taken throughout the years, Clay wasn’t too sure he’d bounce back from this setback.
Fuck that snake. The reverend ain’t know who in the hell he was dealing with this time. They lucky I ain’t put something hot in his head earlier. That dirty rat-ass bastard had it coming. I wish I could kill him all over again. Now, these weak-ass police wanna try to hem a brother up. I know a dude like me gonna get the book thrown at me this go-around. I know one, if not all, of them professional victims out there gonna testify against my black ass. Shitttt, but I ain’t going out like this! They trying to have me fucked up in the brain like my momma was when she left this earth, but it ain’t gonna work. Clay reflected back, and his memories of his mother were nothing good.
* * *
“Damn, I ain’t trying to be funny or no slick shit like that,” Clay frowned, tired of all the mind games his mother had started playing over the past few years.
“Baby, what are you talking about? Come sit down and talk to your momma. She wanna read you something, something that’s gonna make you get right with the Lord.”
“Say what, now? Excuse the hell outta me, but since when did you start giving a fuck about me and my well-being, huh, Ma?”
“Baby, I always have cared about you. You’re the only thing that matters to me.” She clutched a Bible she’d no doubt stolen out of a motel room she’d been in with some trick-ass nigga.
“You know we ain’t even like that with each other now, don’t you? When a nigga was little and crying every night for you to stay home and ‘care about me,’ you was out somewhere ghost. So now I’m out here doing me.” Rolling his eyes with intensity, everything about this out-of-the-blue conversation was starting to aggravate the young street warrior in the worst type of way known to mankind.
“Clay, enough is enough! You really need to let go of the past, baby; please. If you haven’t noticed from all your destructive behavior, look around. It’s practically eating you alive. And if you keep skipping school and getting caught stealing, they gonna lock you up.”
“Like you really give a shit. I’m the only one that cares about me. And guess what? When you go off into your little crazy acts, I’m out here getting money for us to pay bills and eat. So fuck what you talking about. Matter of fact, go sit down somewhere and take your medication.”
“Clay, I’ve been telling you for years now, I’m a changed person. For God’s sake, can’t you see that? I’m not that woman anymore!”
“What in the entire fuck! Damn, Ma, shut that shit up and stop trying to drive me crazy like your ass. For once, try to keep it real with me and get off your soapbox. It’s not enough days in the week or weeks in the years to undo who and what you are now. So you can do me a favor and fall all the way back with that get-over-it-and-move-on routine you running. Trust when I tell you, I’m straight on all that. Even who my father really is; I’m straight on that shit too. Save your sob story of redemption for the Lord you all of sudden love so damn much more than them random dudes you been laying up with since I was little. It was bad enough I had to stick ‘Uncle James’s ass way back when, but you still kept bugging.”
“Clay, stop it,” she begged with tears in her eyes, knowing full well her son was telling the truth.
“I will, no problem. Ain’t no thang. I’ve gotta go anyhow. I got real shit to do with real motherfuckers that’s out here in these streets making money.” In his eyes, flat-out, his mother would always be that over-the-top, crazy, pill-popping tramp that he learned his addictive behavior from. As far as Clay was concerned, for that reason—amongst a thousand or so countless other ones the bad seed could easily name—she wasn’t about to get treated with nothing more than a swift fuck-you long and hard and good-the-hell-bye.
It would be days, sometimes weeks, before Clay would show back up at the house. And when he did, there was always drama. Soon, he’d had enough of her erratic mental behavior and stayed gone for good. It had been several months when he had run into one of his old neighbors. Tragically, they informed him that his once-beloved mother had taken too many pills, ran out of the house half-crazed, and darted into oncoming traffic. Her frail body was not strong enough to endure the force of the SUV accidentally running her down. When Clay found that news out, he vowed from that day forward he would never be down and out. He’d always stay on top of his game and never ever allow the next person to drive him crazy like his moms. He would be the controller of his own destiny.
* * *
As Clay was having a not-so-good trip down memory lane going on, one by one, the seven reported witnesses to the good Reverend Bernard Richards’s demise were being rounded up for questioning. Clay Jennings was a citywide known infamous drug lord. He was a street enforcer, extortionist, and repeat offender of almost every law on the books. As far as the Detroit Police Homicide Division was concerned, this blatant, broad daylight murder case would be open and shut. However, things were never as they seemed in the city they were paid peanuts to serve and protect. They would soon be fighting against the odds they had felt were easily in their favor.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Cops
Now that the police had their suspect behind bars on suspicion of murder, they had to make the charge stick. Not only had the anonymous caller given them the name of Reverend Richards’s killer, but the names of some supposed eyewitnesses to the deadly feat. After checking each name out, the detectives were jointly baffled as to why they had failed to speak out. By all accounts, each was a law-abiding citizen. The only reason that could be cited for their silence was fear of retaliation and threats from Clay’s cohorts who remained lurking the streets. Wanting to close out this case and move on to t
he next, the sure-to-be-an-exhausting day was already planned out for the detectives. One by one, the seven reported witnesses to the demise of the good Reverend Bernard Richards, the soon-to-be mayor’s half brother, were brought in for questioning. Clay Jennings was a known drug lord, street enforcer, extortionist, and repeat offender of almost every law on the books. As far as the Detroit Police Homicide Division was concerned, this blatant broad daylight murder case would soon be open and shut.
The first one to get interviewed was Lynn Banks. The detectives thought that there must have been some sort of a mistake when her name came up. Her plate number was supposedly written down, saying her vehicle was parked on the corner the day of the murder. She was rumored to be outside of the car and on the block. With no criminal record to speak of, the detectives wanted to question why someone of her background was even on the drug-infested block in the first place.
“So, Ms. Banks, let me get this right. I’m kinda confused and definitely need some clarity. You were in the general vicinity of the murder that day, correct? And you saying you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary at all, is that true?” the detective skeptically inquired, trying to read her body movements and gestures. “You didn’t hear anything—no gunshots, no people screaming or maybe running away? Come on now, think about it hard.”
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