by E. J. Olsen
We turned north on Joseph Campau street. Most of the homes in this neighborhood were over a hundred years old. They sagged, slowly sinking into the ground, exposed wood graying in the cold wind coming off the river. Many were simply gone; replaced by vacant lots, trees, and the tall weeds known locally as "ghetto palms," their fronds brown until spring. Driveways went nowhere, broken sidewalks marked off irrelevant property lines, light poles supported winter-dead creepers. In the summertime, the vegetation would make this urban neighborhood appear rural. Detroit was slowly reverting to the landscape that the French settlers knew, and I wondered how long it would be before the residents began farming again.
It started to snow. Thick flakes floated down, and I knew a blizzard was coming without being told. You grow up in Michigan, you get to know these things. Two cruisers were parked outside a two-story wood frame that was sloughing off the dark green paint of forty years ago. Three uniforms, all women, stood chatting next to one of the cruisers. They stopped talking as we walked up.
Tucker and I flipped our badges.
"What's up?"
A uniform by the name of Biggs spoke up. She was pretty, with big brown eyes and freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was pulled into tight braids under the uniform cap. She was all business.
"The call came in as a 187. A Gerald Holloway. But a neighbor who apparently knew Mr. Holloway stopped us on the way in and told us it was not a homicide but a suicide."
Tucker's eyebrows rose. "The neighbor still around?"
Officer Biggs gestured to an old woman standing on the porch of a ramshackle house across the street. She wore an ankle-length down coat which she clutched at her throat as she stamped her feet in the cold.
"Her name is Helen Bates and she said she was the one who checked up on Mr. Holloway. Apparently, he didn't have anyone else."
"You said she checked up on him. Was he sick?" I asked.
Biggs nodded. "Cancer. He was going downhill and she basically played nurse for him. She said he was in a lot of pain."
"Why did she say it was a suicide?" I asked.
"Mrs. Bates said it wasn't his time yet. Said he was suffering, but apparently not close to passing yet. She said she'd buried three siblings and she knew what cancer looked like.
That's a quote."
Tucker shot me a glance.
I said, "The neighbor mention anything about a visitor?"
Biggs got a look. "Matter of fact, she did. There was this priest who's been stopping by for the past couple of weeks …"
It was identical to the other eight cases—nine now, counting Mr. Holloway. But we'd never had two in one week before. I wondered if the good Father was beginning to enjoy his work.
A telephone pole next to our car was covered with the carcasses of a dozen or so stuffed animals, gray and wet and dead after a long time outdoors. Stapled above the limp bunnies and puppies was a faded scrap of cardboard. I stepped closer. The cardboard still had a couple of flecks of glitter stuck to the edges, and the washed-out magic marker lettering was faded, but legible.
We miss you, Ty!
Sometimes I hate this fucking city.
The Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament was the mother church of the Archdiocese of Detroit, a classic gothic fortress that rose above Woodward. We found Archbishop Wojciechowski in the sanctuary of the cathedral. He was wearing an Adidas tracksuit and giving direction through hand gestures to a pair of guys buffing the marble inlaid floor surrounding the altar. The sound of the buffing machine bounced around the hard surfaces of the cathedral interior and he waved us to a door behind the sanctuary. After a couple of turns backstage, we stepped into a spacious, comfortable office. The Archbishop closed the door and gestured to a couple of plush chairs. He sat behind an enormous desk that looked enough like mahogany to be the real thing. The sound of the floor buffer was a distant memory.
Archbishop Wojciechowski's face said he was expecting us, so we got right to it. I started to explain that we were simply following up on every possible lead, and he waved me off.
"No explanation necessary, detective. The church will do whatever it can to assist the police in stopping these terrible crimes. I assume you're going to ask if one of the priests of the Archdiocese might be responsible?"
"It's my job."
The Archbishop leaned back and made a steeple with his hands, I kid you not. He smiled wearily and explained that the Vatican was very clear on what he called "culture-of-life issues." Suicide, assisted or not, was a big no-no. And no one who called himself a priest would take part in such a sinful act if he wanted to remain a part of the One True Church.
As soon as the moral high ground had been staked out, Archbishop Wojciechowski said he would instruct all clergy in the Archdiocese to make themselves available to answer our questions.
"My secretary will get you a list of contacts."
On the way out, Tucker caught me dipping into the holy water font. I hadn't even realized I was doing it. I took one last look at the castle and walked to the car.
The snow had intensified while we were talking to the Archbishop, and there was already a couple of inches covering Woodward. Cars had their headlights on and traffic had slowed to a slippery crawl. I sat in the unmarked while Tucker cleared the snow off the windows with a long brush. He's very conscientious about that sort of thing. I would have used my coat sleeve.
The call from 1300 came in just as Tucker slid the car into traffic.
"This is Detective Stan Greenway. We got a pair of lowlifes down here telling a story you might want to hear."
"Yeah? What's up?"
"We grabbed ' em runnin' shorties around the Brewster-Douglas. Whole lotta rock. They were smartasses until they found out the kids aren't taking the brunt of it. Distribution, minors involvement, large-quantity possession. They had a change of heart and started talking about a certain at-large clergyman."
"No kidding? What are their names?"
He paused. "You remember the Williams twins?"
The Twins. Ronnie and Lonnie. Legend had it that the identical Williams brothers got their criminal start in the old Young Boys, Inc. gang while still attending Birney Elementary. YBI was the brainchild of some west side thugs who used school-aged children to push heroin and coke. The kids were too young to do any serious time if they got caught, and YBI frustrated the department for a long time. At its peak, YBI was the largest drug ring in Detroit, providing nearly forty percent of the city's supply.
When YBI finally went down, their rivals Pony Down (named for the popular gym shoe) moved in. War broke out and the homicide rate shot up, but the Twins read the writing and defected to Pony Down. YBI strongholds like the Herman Gardens and BrewsterDouglas projects went to the Ponies and they enjoyed top-dog status for a while.
Pony Down was busted up by the Feds in '85 and the Twins again managed to dance away without being tied to anything serious. They were now in their late thirties, a little older and slower. Prison would be harder for them.
We hit the lights and skidded down Woodward.
The Motorola was going a mile a minute like it always does when winter weather comes down hard. Traffic patrols shifting to accidents. The commuters get pissed when they can't do their normal eighty miles an hour and start bashing into each other. I turned the radio down and concentrated on helping Tucker see through snow that fell sideways.
1300 Beaubien Street, Detroit Police Headquarters, is a grim citadel that sits on the edge of Greektown's ethnic theme park. The building is old and crumbling, and sometimes I think the only thing holding it together is sweat and tears and fear. The collective pain and trauma of thousands of cops, thugs, and victims seeped into the walls like some kind of bad shellac.
We grabbed a space in the lot across the street and half-skied to the door. Inside, we shook our coats, stamped the slush from our feet. The interview room was painted an awful shade of government green that died back in the '60s. Ronnie and Lonnie sat behind the table opposite th
e one-way glass. They were cuffed together, and a long chain ran from the cuffs to a steel loop set in the floor. At first glance, Ronnie and Lonnie were a pair of working Joes; jeans and thermal Ts under flannel shirts. Both wore heavy work boots and grubby ball caps on their heads. The days of the flashy tracksuits and pristine sneakers were gone. The Twins, like dealers all over the city, had learned to dress to blend in. Detroit kids laughed at the sharp-dressed, colors-wearing thugs in places like L.A. Called them "targets." The new uniform of the day was no uniform at all.
The Williams brothers raised their heads as Tucker and I walked in. Greenway spoke to them.
"Tell the detectives what you said earlier, about the priest."
Either Ronnie or Lonnie said, "We know who he is."
I said, "Which one are you?"
"Lonnie."
"Okay, Lonnie. Who is he?"
Lonnie looked at Ronnie, then back at me. "His name is David Wilkins. Ronnie and I know him from the old days."
"He run with Pony Down?"
"Yeah, later on. He's younger than us. This dude Ray-Ray brought him in when he was just a shorty. He was Ray-Ray's cousin."
"Ray-Ray?" asked Greenway.
"Ray Bonaventure. He's dead. Got sent up in '86. Some cracker busted his head in Jackson."
"Okay, tell us about David Wilkins," I said.
"Not much to tell. Ray-Ray brought him in because he didn't have nothin' else. His dad was long gone, and his moms was real sick. She couldn't work or nothin', so David had to Pony up to get some money."
"So why do you think this David Wilkins is the priest?" Greenway asked.
"It was the thing with his moms." Lonnie looked at the floor. "She had the cancer real bad. Real bad. And David couldn't get nobody to do nothin' for her. They'd give her some pills and shit, but never enough. David said she was hur-tin' real bad."
"Didn't she see a doctor?" I asked.
"Yeah, but it was the free clinic, you know? They tried to help her with assistance and shit, but it wasn't enough to get her the right medicines."
Ronnie added, "Or enough medicine. She needed more pain pills but she just couldn't afford ' em. At first, David would tell us how she would be screamin' sometimes cuz it hurt so bad. But after a while, he stopped talkin' about it. He got real quiet."
Lonnie said, "Way we heard it, took a long time for her to die. She was sufferin'."
"The way you heard it?" asked Greenway.
"Yeah, cuz by that time David had stopped comin' around. We just didn't see him no more. We heard he was on the bottle, on the weed, on the pipe, every damn thing. Can't blame him after that shit with his moms. We thought he was gonna show up DOA."
"But he didn't?"
"Naw," said Ronnie. "He showed back up at our crib."
After the seasons had changed a couple of times, David appeared on the Twins' doorstep one day. He was clear-eyed, clean and sober. The Twins described his demeanor as friendly, quiet, and serious. After some small talk, he told them he wanted drugs. "Not that street shit," he'd said. He gave them a list; heavy stuff, major-league painkillers and narcotics. Large quantities. They negotiated a price and a pickup time and he left.
"Okay," I said, "so where can we find David Wilkins?"
Ronnie surprised me. "Downtown. He's staying at that old theater building on, what is it, Bagley … ?"
He looked at his brother, who nodded and said: "United Artists."
"Yeah, that's it. He's staying there."
"He's staying in the United Artists Theater or the office building?"
"The office building. At the top."
I was skeptical. "At the top of the building? And what about the security guard?"
Ronnie and Lonnie traded smiles. "He is the security guard. Some dude out in Bloomfield Hills hired him. He's got a cot and space heater up there."
I looked at Tucker, then Greenway, who shrugged. We all went out.
Greenway spoke first. "I know it seems too neat, but the other stuff they've been giving us has been straight. I think they're serious about not doing the hard time."
Tucker said. "I think so too. I bet they're thinking about some of their old crew who got sent up back in the day. They played both sides, you know. YBI, then Pony Down. Could be that they know they wouldn't get a very warm welcome inside."
"Does anyone?" asked Greenway.
He had a point.
It was still mid-afternoon, but the heavy snowfall made it seem like dusk already. The commute had become a nightmare; businesses were closing early and sending their people home. The streets were fast clogging with snow and cars spun out in every intersection we passed. It was going to be a long rush hour.
The old United Artists building stood eighteen stories above Bagley Street on a flatiron-shaped plot. The narrow end of the flatiron faced Park Avenue, with Grand Circus Park just across the street. At one time, the area was the city's theater district and Detroiters could stroll to any number of ornate movie palaces. The Fox and the State were rescued from the wrecking ball and refurbished, and the Gem had to be moved from its original location to be saved. Most of the other old theaters were either gone or falling to ruin.
Like many of the vacant towers in downtown, the UA had been invaded by all types over the years. Squatters, bottle bums, and under-medicated street psychotics all left clues to their maladies in the nests they vacated. Recently, the monoliths had become destinations for self-styled urban explorers and curious suburbanites. They posted photos of the crumbling towers on websites, attracting more and more to come and visit the Urban Failure Amusement Park. The police insisted that the building owners seal off the entrances and provide security to keep the junkies or thrill-seekers out, and the owners mostly complied. It seemed that David Wilkins had found a way to exploit this situation and hide in plain sight.
We pulled up on the Bagley side and tracked through the virgin snow that drifted under the old marquee. Most of the doors to the theater lobby were covered with painted plywood and sealed, but the owner had installed a steel security door to allow access to the building when necessary. Tucker tried the door, but it was locked. He pulled a small leather zip-pouch from his coat pocket. Lock picks. I stepped back from the door and looked up and down the street. We had the block to ourselves. I raised my eyes to the building façade and scanned the windows. Nothing.
Tucker popped the lock. We slowly opened the door, and a backwash of foul air hit us. The smells of mold, mildew, building rot, and piss swirled around and it occurred to me that breathing the air might be hazardous to our pulmonary health. Tucker pulled a small but powerful flashlight from his pocket and we stepped inside.
The once-beautiful theater lobby was a disaster of standing water, shredded plaster, and piles of rubble. Something, maybe a rat or feral cat, splashed into a corner and disappeared through a tear in the plaster. We gave the lobby a pass and looked for the entrance to the office tower. After fumbling along dank hallways, we found a stairwell off an elevator lobby that stretched far upward into the musty air. Tucker shined his light. Dust and God knew what else floated through the beams. The stairs were piled with bottles, clothing, fast-food wrappers, and assorted trash. We chose our steps with care and started up. It would be almost impossible to stay quiet as we crunched our way up, and the noise would probably alert any residents to our presence. All we could do was try to minimize our footfalls and maybe the bird wouldn't flush until we were close enough to grab him.
About five floors up, the garbage thinned and we stopped to listen to the building. Silence. We kept climbing. At floor ten, we stopped again. Still no sounds from the floors above. At fifteen, we stepped out into an office corridor that didn't look much different from the day its last occupant packed up back in '75. Marble panels lined the hallway and dark hardwood trim detailed the offices. One of the rooms was piled high with battered steel desks. We searched the whole floor and found nothing but empty offices and dust.
We climbed to the sixteenth floor and into
an eerie red glow. A blood-red hand was painted on the window of the elevator lobby, and it cast the room in crimson light. A few years back, the UA became a favorite for local graffiti taggers and street artists. These guerilla Picassos were inspired to cover the building's windows with unusual and brightly colored images. The UA became a kind of modern folk art symbol. Too bad for art. A powerful local real estate developer acquired the UA for some unspecified future venture and immediately set about "cleaning up" the windows. Either they had missed a couple of windows, or the artists were coming back.
We moved down the hallway. Tucker was ahead of me and he stopped by a blue-colored doorway. He waved me over and nodded in at what had been an office. An attempt had been made to clean the window, but a light aqua tint persisted and the room washed in soft blue light. A bed was laid against one wall, and there were several pairs of shoes lined up along the bottom of a bookcase filled with hardcovers, paperbacks, and magazines, all shelved as neatly as a library. On the other side of the bed was another set of shelves that held toiletries and john paper. A fine coating of dust covered everything and it looked as though the occupant hadn't been home for a long time. A Free Press next to the bed was dated July 2000. We moved on.
The seventeenth floor was empty. All of the hallway and office walls had been removed, the entire level stripped down to the thin concrete support columns. Snow fell past the naked windows in the dimming afternoon light. We moved carefully through the huge empty room, the columns breaking up our sight lines. Tucker suddenly stopped and nodded toward the far corner. There was a doorway to another stairwell, a twin to the one we'd climbed. I glanced back at my partner, who looked impatient. He nodded at the corner again, at something beyond this other stairwell. Off in the shadows, I could just make out the flat panel of a hardwoodtrimmed wall. As we got closer, I could see a darkened doorway with an open transom. One of the level's old offices had been left intact. Tucker and I knew this was where we would find David Wilkins.
