by Jeff Elkins
The first stage of Chris and Jose’s energetic morning walk lasted six hours. Leaving Imani’s, they traveled north on President Street to Pleasant, where they crossed under Interstate 83 and made their way to Franklin. They followed Franklin to Pennsylvania Avenue, where they took Liberty Heights. From there, they went north to Forest Park, looping back south until they were on the northwest side of Leakin Park.
It was a journey Mencken was painfully unprepared for. While Chris and Jose were still spry, Mencken was dragging his feet. He longed for a place to sit and relax. His feet ached and his jeans were beginning to rub his thighs raw. A few times on the journey, Mencken considered calling out to the pair ahead and begging them to slow down. Every shop they passed brought with it the temptation to pull up and try to find the duo later, but Mencken never gave into the temptation. Discovering them in the midst of a nefarious deed was too important. His desire to catch them drove him forward, one agonizing step at a time.
At nine o’clock, Jose and Chris turned back east, following Windsor Mill road through the middle of Leakin Park. Trailing the two travelers through the overgrown woods was difficult. Rather than sticking to the roads as they had been for most of the morning, the pair took a semi-scenic route, trudging through rougher, uncut terrain. Realizing shuffling through the underbrush was a noisy endeavor, Mencken allowed more distance between himself and his quarry.
They emerged from the woods somewhere in the Poplar Grove neighborhood. Quickly Mencken found himself in a warehouse district he had never seen. He was stunned, stumbling through large brick box-like buildings. Until today, he thought he’d covered every inch of the city. Now, he wondered how many hidden corners there were that he’d never seen. While finding new places in a beloved city might be exciting for some, for Mencken it was unsettling. It meant there were things happening, potential stories of which he was unaware. He made a mental note that he would need to explore this area more on his own when all of this was over.
At Baltimore Street, the pair cut southeast to Pratt. Mencken’s confidence began to return. He’d walked Pratt a thousand times. They passed the Ravens’ Stadium and Camden Yards. They strolled through the Inner Harbor, passed the concert arena, and stopped back to the foot of interstate 83.
Once they reached the high-trafficked streets of Downtown and Mencken saw people talking and laughing, people making phone calls and reading newspapers, Mencken realized how strange the walk had been. Chris and Jose hadn’t stopped to speak with anyone. They weren’t running an errand or heading to a specific destination. They hadn’t picked anything up, dropped anything off, or stalked anyone. At the same time, their walk wasn’t exercise. They weren’t keeping a consistent pace or pushing themselves. Occasionally, especially downtown, they slowed to a stroll. Other times, in empty spaces mostly, they almost jogged. At all times, the two were hyper-vigilant, looking down every alley and peering down every side street, observing every sound and every movement. It was almost as if they were searching for something. As if the entire city were a haystack, and they were looking for a needle.
At the end of President Street, they came to a twelve-story parking garage intended for patrons of the waterfront Marriot. Mencken watched Chris and Jose enter through the car entrance. They proceeded up the ramps, unfazed by the incline. Mencken’s legs screamed in protest at the thought of pursuing the would-be-killers up the steep ramps.
Mencken stopped, bent over, and rubbed his calves and thighs. His jeans were soaked with sweat. His feet had moved from pain into a raw numbness. This isn’t at all how he had thought the day would go. He had expected Chris and Jose to lounge somewhere until the hitman and his protégé got a call from whomever gave them orders. Then they would snap into action, and Mencken would be there to catch them in the act. He had not foreseen an incredibly boring tour of the city.
He looked at the ramp. He didn’t think he was capable of tackling the inclines. He’d probably fall dead of exhaustion and dehydration somewhere on the second floor. His gut told him they were going to the roof. They seemed to be on the lookout for something. The roof made sense. Once they had cleared the first floor, Mencken took the elevator up. He beat them to the top. Stepping off the elevator, he searched for somewhere to hide. The lot was littered with cars, but most were small and isolated. There was a white pickup truck parked in a corner. It appeared to be the only vehicle big enough to give Mencken cover. He lay on his stomach and scooted underneath it. From his resting place, he could see almost the entire top floor. It was perfect.
It felt good to lie down, even if it was on the hard surface of a parking lot under a truck. His legs and feet sighed with relief. His mouth and throat were parched. His clothes clung to his skin. He wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep.
A car emerged from the ramp. It was a beat up, brown, BMW from the 80’s. It parked across from Mencken’s position. He couldn’t have placed it better in his line of sight if he’d been directing traffic. To his surprise, Imani stepped from the driver’s seat. She retrieved a brown picnic basket from the trunk, took it to the hood of the car, and sat down, watching the city beneath her.
Moments later Chris and Jose emerged from the ramp. Jose laughed and ran to her. Mencken grumbled to himself, confused as to how the boy still had the energy to run. The three ate and chatted on the hood of the car, watching the city below.
Mencken didn’t like it. Imani didn’t fit into his image of the cold, heartless, lone hitman doing the bidding of the Cabal for the money and the rush of the kill. He wasn’t prepared for Chris: a homeless vagrant, living in the basement of a bar, building a family with a woman Mencken respected, taking picnic lunch breaks at the top of parking garages.
Mencken studied the car, wondering if it was the same one on the night he saved Anita Dickson. Was it the same as the one outside the Cleveland’s house? He fought to recall the other images.
Maybe.
Maybe was the best he could do. He needed to be careful not to rewrite history to support the narrative he was building.
Mencken wished he could hear them. He tried to read their lips, but all he saw was gibberish. He watched the trio with curiosity, wondering what he had missed about Imani, wondering how much about him she had shared with them. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who would be attracted to a serial killer. Maybe she didn’t know? But how could the night of chaos in her bar have happened if she didn’t know? She had to know. She was a part of it. There was no other explanation.
Mencken slid his arms sideways, struggling to retrieve his phone from his pocket. Twice, his elbow became wedged between the exhaust pipe and his chest. Finally, he managed to maneuver the phone where he could see the screen. It occurred to him that he hadn’t looked at his phone all day. His Twitter message box was overflowing with tips, questions, and comments. His email had grown exponentially. Skimming the senders, he found one from Winchell requesting an update on his progress. Mencken wrote back, “Chasing the lead. I think I have him. Waiting for him to act.”
Mencken looked to the three again. They were laughing together. Jose and Imani sat on the hood of the car while Chris stood to Imani’s left. He had half a ham sandwich in his hand. “They’re not going anywhere,” Mencken told himself. His eyelids were heavy. They longed close. He watched Jose pop open a can of soda. “I can take a few minutes.” Mencken allowed his eyes to shut, telling himself he’d only sleep for five minutes or so.
“Hey, you!” the voice yelled. Something was poking Mencken in the side. Trying to sit up, he whacked his head on the metal undercarriage of the truck.
“Get out from under my truck,” a male voice with a deep southern twang demanded. Mencken tried to clear his head. It was his aching in his legs that reminded him of where he was.
“Come on now,” the voice said again. “I’m fixin’ to pull out. I’ve got somewhere to be.” A stick poked Mencken in the side again.
“Alright. Alright,” he said. “I’m coming out.” Gingerly, he slid out
from beneath the truck. Except for the heavyset man in khakis and a blue sports coat standing in front of Mencken, the parking lot was empty. He’d lost them.
“Hey, buddy,” the heavy man said. “That’s just not a good place to sleep. I could have killed you. If I hadn’t of just happen to check my back tire, I might have run right over you.”
“What time is it?” Mencken said, trying to clear his head.
“It’s five-thirty. I’m on my way to dinner. Seriously, I could have killed you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mencken said, walking away. “Sorry. Have a nice night.”
Every step was agony. It took him forty-five minutes to walk the half-mile back to his apartment. Once upstairs, he downed four glasses of water, standing over the sink and refilling each one. He decided that tomorrow, he didn’t care if they were on foot; he would take his motorcycle.
Around seven, his cell lit up with Twitter messages. A four-alarm fire at the corner of Bank and Wolf. It felt good to be back into his routine. He grabbed his backpack and headed down the stairs to his bike. He was at the blaze in seconds. Three fire trucks doused three burning rowhomes with powerful streams of water. A crowd had gathered to watch the bout between the sworn enemies, firefighter and fire.
Mencken parked his motorcycle on the sidewalk a block down and walked over. Jostling for position, moving to the front of the mob like someone with authority, Mencken made it all the way to the wooden barrier the police had thrown together. Pulling out his cell, he took a video of the event and immediately posted it to Twitter. It seemed the firemen had given up on saving the three burning houses and were instead trying to contain the blaze.
Mencken scanned the crowd, hoping to find someone who might be able to give him some comment or insight into how the fire started. The only person who stood out was a tiny man standing across from Mencken, at the front of the crowd. The man couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. He was perfectly proportioned, just small, and oddly dressed. The tiny man wore a full tuxedo with tails, a black cummerbund, a bow tie, and a monocle. The only other person Mencken had ever seen wear a monocle was Natty Boh, the mascot of National Bohemian beer.
Even more than the man’s size and clothes, what stuck out was his excitement. Watching the fire, the small man bounced up and down and clapped his hands with glee. Like a child about to see his first movie, his excitement was palpable.
Mencken thought such enthusiasm about a disaster was odd. He decided that this was the man he needed to talk to about what was going on. Surely, this man with all his exuberance would know what had happened. He’d at least have a story to tell. Mencken moved to walk in the man’s direction.
“What’cha doing?” a young voice came from Mencken’s left. He turned and looked down. Jose was standing there next to him, watching the fire.
“Yeah,” a female voice said from his right. “What’cha doing?” Mencken looked to see Agnew on his other side.
“Jose. Agnew,” Mencken said. “Aren’t you missing two?”
“Rothman doesn’t come out for stuff like this,” Jose said.
“Why’s that?” Mencken asked, keeping his eyes on the small man. The man was bouncing from one foot to the other now in a dance of joy.
“Feels it’s beneath him,” Agnew said.
There was a loud bang from the fire as a fourth rowhome started to burn. Mencken’s attention was drawn away for a moment. It was hard not to be entranced by the fire. The dance of the flames called to Mencken. Gazing at the fourth home, watching it burn, Mencken asked, “Where’s your boy Chris?”
“He’s around,” Jose said, not taking his eyes off the fire.
“What did you do today?” Mencken asked.
“Patrolled,” Jose answered.
“For monsters?” Mencken said, with a belittling tone.
“Yep,” Jose said. “Every day’s the same.”
Mencken looked over at the small man again. The man was playing with his monocle, moving toward and away from his eye, as if he were trying to focus it on the fire. Then Mencken noticed a figure behind the man. Was it Chris? It was difficult to tell.
Agnew stepped into his line of view. “What did you do today?”
Realizing he was being diverted, Mencken pushed passed her, moving toward Chris and the small man. The small man didn’t seem to be aware of Chris’ presence. Mencken tried to wade through the crowd, but more people were coming to the barricade to watch the firefighters do battle.
Jose grabbed Mencken by the arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. “How are the stories coming?” he said. “Imani said you had something new? Something big?”
“Get off me,” he said, pushing the teen’s hand off his sleeve. Then looking back up, he searched the crowd for the small man or Chris. Both had disappeared. Mencken looked back to his left. Jose and Agnew were gone too. “Son of a bitch,” Mencken yelled. A day of pursuit and nothing to show for it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mencken was proud of himself. Today, he’d come prepared. His backpack was full of water and snacks, he was in comfortable pants he knew wouldn’t chafe, and best of all, he was on his bike. Already it had been far superior to trying to keep up with these crazy marathon speed-walkers. Unfortunately, it meant Mencken couldn’t have constant eyes on Chris and Jose, as he was having to circle them to keep from being seen.
Jose and Chris had started off the morning by going north, up Wolfe Street. After passing Hopkins Hospital, the pair took a right on Gay Street and followed it all the way to the Overlea Diner. Once again, Imani meet them in the parking lot with lunch. The ride had been uneventful for Mencken. He tried to stay two blocks behind the pair at all times, turning right or left every five minutes to create more distance between them.
Rather than napping under a truck, during lunch Mencken took up residence at the Pizza Hut across the street. He watched the trio eat together from the restaurant’s window. While this day was far more favorable than the one before, Mencken was hoped he could catch Chris in something soon. He was ready to be back on the beat, hitting the streets, covering the ins and outs of the city. It was only his second day on the stakeout and he was already bored. He thought trailing a hitman would be more entertaining.
There was more wandering after lunch. Chris and Jose headed east on Hamilton Avenue until they hit Perring Parkway. Then they turned south toward Morgan State University. Just as the day before, the pair changed pace on occasion, but was ever vigilant, looking down every street, stopping at every alley.
At 33rd Street something changed. Mencken was two blocks back when Chris stopped moving. It was the first time in two days when Mencken had seen the pair come to a complete halt. Mencken pulled closer, wanting a better look. He watched Chris take something out of his pocket. Maybe a flip phone? Jose scanned the street in both directions. He seemed to be standing guard on heightened alert.
Mencken’s heart raced. If Chris was getting a call, maybe the wandering was about to end? Maybe he was about to jump into action? Mencken wondered who the hit was on. He wanted to get closer, to get a better look at what was going on, maybe even get close enough to hear what Chris was saying, but he knew they would hear his motorcycle approaching. Chris put the phone back in his pocket and the duo broke into a small jog. Mencken’s heart skipped. This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for. He was sure of it. He’d catch them in the act and bring this whole ring crashing down.
At the corner of 33rd and Old York Road, a truck appeared. It was a beat-up, gray, Toyota from the 80’s. Chris and Jose jumped into the bed. As the truck took a left to the south, Mencken strained to see the driver. He thought it was Agnew, but it was difficult to tell. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he could no longer stay so far behind and still keep up. Revving his engine, he maneuvered his bike between cars in the left and right lane, racing to catch the trio.
He turned left and spotted the truck seven cars ahead of him. Jose and Chris were chatting in the bed. It didn’t appear they had notic
ed him. He slowed his pace again, hoping to remain concealed. The pickup continued south on Greenmount. Mencken couldn’t help but try and hypothesize about where they were headed. Maybe this was an errand for Agamemnon? Mencken wasn’t sure which gang was currently in charge in these neighborhoods. Or maybe they were headed back toward City Hall? Would this be another hit on a do-gooder like Anita Dixon? Would they blow up more property? Would they kill another prosecutor like Alexander Cleveland? Mencken was torn. Part of him hoped they were simply headed home, and that no one would be hurt. Part of him hoped a huge story was about to unfold, something that would be enough to prove Chris was the hitman, something that might land him on the front page again. He could taste the Pulitzer.
The truck took a left down a small side street. Mencken slowed not wanting to bump into them on accident. He pulled up at the corner and glanced down the street. The gray pickup was driving slowly down Biddle Street. Chris and Jose were standing in the bed, searching for something, one looking left and the other looking right. Mencken followed, hanging a few blocks behind, doing his best to remain inconspicuous.
The street was a mix of occupied and abandoned rowhomes, with an occasional empty lot where a rundown house had been demolished and the rubble carted away. The pickup slowed and pulled into a parking spot on the street. A block ahead, Mencken saw a small group of tall men. They were strong, bald, and wore matching loose-fitting clothes. The common dress suggested they were part of some strange gang, but Mencken had no clue which one. If they saw the pickup truck, they didn’t let on. Rather, they seemed to be laughing about something.
