Smoke-Filled Rooms: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said.

  We hurried down the block. A group of protestors were carrying a Vietnamese flag and clapping their hands. Another group followed them, shouting, “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh.”

  Television cameras followed them. I ducked out of the way, pulling Malcolm and Elijah with me. We crossed the street, threading our way through the marchers.

  The cops were setting up barricades at the intersection of Clark and North.

  “Something’s going down,” Daniel said.

  “And we’re not staying for it.” I ducked into the alley. To my surprise, all three boys followed me. We got into the car, and I backed out. I had to stop at the sidewalk and then inch my way through the crowd.

  Instead of turning east, I went all the way to Sedgewick before turning south. I wanted to take Lake Shore home but that wouldn’t be possible. I didn’t think driving through the Gold Coast with a rusted Impala full of black males was a good idea.

  As we drove, squad cars passed us going the other way, their sirens on, lights flashing.

  “Shit,” Daniel said.

  “You knew this was going to happen,” I said.

  “Not yet. We haven’t done anything yet.”

  I glanced at him. He was in the backseat with Elijah. “You came here. In Chicago, I think that’s enough.”

  * * *

  The white Ford followed us south. I was surprised. I would have thought the undercover cop would have stayed to help fight the demonstrators. Apparently, though, he was following orders like a good soldier. I didn’t mind. It was a welcome distraction to the tension in the car.

  Daniel was whispering angrily at his brother, demanding to know what Elijah had been thinking, and Elijah was whispering back, defending himself using his brother’s past behavior.

  I wished I were still in Memphis. I would have taken them to my friend the Reverend Henry Davis. He was a compassionate man with a gift for counseling. He would have found a way to make this family work.

  The Ford didn’t even try to hide. Not that it could have easily. It was nearly 1:00 A.M., and there weren’t many cars on the road. For long stretches, we were the only ones.

  Malcolm occasionally leaned over so that he could look in the rearview mirror. The idea of the cop tailing him disturbed him. I thought it might be a good object lesson about his future.

  I did think it strange, though, that my shadow wasn’t tailing me. I wondered if that blue Olds I had seen earlier in the evening had been following me, and it decided to veer off when it realized another officer was following as well.

  Or maybe the cop had lied to me, although I doubted that. He was one of the many who had been trying to intimidate the leaders of the black community. There was no reason to lie to me.

  The neighborhood was silent as I turned onto our street. Two streetlights were out, not that that was new. They had been out since I had moved in. My usual spot was open, and I parked there. I planned to walk the boys home, and then talk to Malcolm.

  But as I stepped out of the car, all thought of that left my mind.

  There was a dark shape against the stoop, huddled like a bum sleeping off some Wild Turkey. I held up my hand, signaling the boys to wait, and then I walked down the sidewalk.

  As I got closer, I realized the shape was too small to be an adult.

  My throat clenched shut, and I took short, shallow breaths, my eyes seeing what my mind did not want to.

  An arm, sprawled on the brown grass. A sneaker half off a small foot.

  Jimmy, I thought, and hurried to his side.

  NINE

  WHEN I REACHED HIM, I realized his face was wrong. The nose was too short, the jaw too square. I recognized this face too, but it wasn’t Jimmy’s and to my shame, I felt a profound relief.

  I touched the boy’s cheek. It was cool.

  Someone came up behind me.

  “What’s going on?” Malcolm.

  I felt the boy’s neck for a pulse. I didn’t find one.

  “You know Marvella?” I kept my voice calm, my head bent.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Send those two home. Then go upstairs to her apartment.” You got that?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Tell Marvella to call her cousin the cop.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Malcolm,” I said. “Do it before your friend the undercover cop pulls up. Hurry.”

  He hovered for a moment, then backed away. I wished for more light. The silver threads that came from the streetlights weren’t quite enough. I recognized that face, but couldn’t place it. And I couldn’t see what had killed him.

  Daniel’s voice rose just enough for me to hear it. “I’ve got first-aid training. I’ve been planning all summer for something just like this.”

  “Bill said to go home.”

  “Well, he’s not doing anything.” Daniel’s voice grew closer. I heard all three sets of footsteps: Daniel’s easy stride, Malcolm’s frantic one, and Elijah’s soft one. Then I heard a car door slam.

  In a moment, Daniel was over me. “Move.”

  “Back off,” I said. “Malcolm, upstairs. Quick.”

  Malcolm didn’t need a second instruction. He avoided the stairs leading to the porch, going to the back of the building instead.

  “Listen,” Daniel said, “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Really?” I leaned back just enough to give him a view of the boy’s face. “Can you fix that?”

  The boy’s open eyes caught the streetlight. There were marks on his face that I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Jesus,” Daniel said, his tone completely different now. “He’s not—?”

  “Go home,” I said. “Get Elijah out of here. Now.”

  But even as I said that, I heard a whimper behind me. Elijah. “That’s Brian Richardson. What’s wrong with him, mister?”

  “Go home,” I said to Daniel. “Now. The last thing you want to do is get mixed up in this.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Elijah asked again. But something in his voice told me he knew.

  More footsteps behind us. It had to be the undercover cop.

  Daniel seemed to hear them too. Or maybe I had gotten through to him. “Come on, Elijah. Let’s go.”

  “But Brian’s sick.”

  “And Bill’ll take care of him. Come on.”

  They ran across the yard, long loping steps that took them to the end of the block in a matter of seconds. I turned my attention back to the body.

  Brian Richardson. I hadn’t learned his last name. He was the little boy who had wanted to know where Jimmy was, where Keith had gone. The boy who was afraid he’d have to spend the rest of his summer alone.

  “What is this?” The cop. He crouched beside me. His gun was stuck in his belt.

  “He’s dead. You’d better call it in.”

  “You just found him?” He sounded like he didn’t believe me.

  I glanced at him. His beefy face looked tired, his eyes red rimmed. “He’s been dead a while. You’ve been following me. He wasn’t here when we left. You put it together.”

  “I don’t have a radio in the car.”

  “Sure you do,” I said. “It’s under the dash. Go turn it on. I’m sure it’ll work.”

  He glared at me, but got up all the same.

  “And get a flashlight too. The porch light hasn’t worked since I moved here and the streetlights aren’t bright enough.”

  “You’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you with the body.”

  “Then it’s a stalemate,” I said, “because I’m not moving.”

  At that moment, Malcolm came out the front door, Marvella behind him. They stopped on the porch.

  “Go call the cops,” the cop said to Marvella. “We’ve got a problem here.”

  “Who is this guy?” she asked me.

  “An undercover cop who refuses to use his radio,” I said. �
��Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get it for me, would you?”

  She nodded and went back inside. Malcolm hunkered down above the body, staring. He raised his eyes to me. Even in the dark, I could read him.

  “What happened?”

  “I wish I knew.” I turned toward the cop, who was still crouched beside me. “You going to call for help or not?”

  “I got a good look at this kid,” he said. “If anything gets moved—”

  “I know the drill.”

  He frowned, knowing he was beaten. Then he hurried toward the car. He would keep me in sight as best he could.

  “Open the door wider, will you, Malcolm?” I asked.

  Malcolm got up and pulled the front door back. Light spilled out of the building, giving me a clearer view of Brian’s face.

  It was bruised and blotchy, his lip split. There was dried blood beneath his nose. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. What I found myself staring at were small perfect little circular sores on his cheeks and just below his eye.

  Cigarette burns.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  I must have said the words out loud, because Malcolm asked, “What?”

  I shook my head. Behind me, I could hear the crackle of a police radio. Then Marvella came out the door, blocking my light. She handed me a thick metal flashlight—an electrician’s light.

  “It’s all I have,” she said, crouching just like Malcolm was.

  “Would you guys stand back?”

  “Bill—”

  “Please.” I hefted the flashlight. I had a hunch the rest of this wouldn’t be pretty.

  She took Malcolm by the shoulders and eased him up. She tried to lead him to the door, but Malcolm refused. He moved to the side, out of the light.

  No more radio static. A car door slammed.

  I turned on the flashlight. Its beam was wide and stark. Brian’s damaged face looked unnaturally pale. Marvella gasped. I glanced up. She had a hand over her mouth. Malcolm stood beside her, his eyes glistening. He hadn’t moved.

  I shone the light down Brian’s shirt. It was short-sleeved, checked, a school shirt that looked like it might have been one size too small. The breast pocket had been ripped off and recently. The threads still hung there like an afterthought. Buttons were missing. And there was a rip going down the right side.

  All that damage nearly made me miss the entrance wound. A single slit visible only because the shirt’s fabric caught in it, bending the slit open slightly. A bit of blood ruined the checked pattern.

  A knife wound.

  Someone had stabbed this child in the heart.

  The cop crouched beside me. “Bring the light toward me.”

  Suddenly we were colleagues, and I didn’t mind. I moved the light down the boy’s arm, like the cop indicated.

  More cigarette burns, all of them just as fresh as the ones on the boy’s face. The cop was staring at them. I wasn’t. I was looking at Brian’s fingers.

  They’d been broken.

  This child had been tortured before he’d been killed.

  “Holy son of a bitch,” the cop said under his breath.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. I moved the light toward the boy’s legs. He wore cutoffs, just like he had when I’d seen him. They were pulled up and zipped, stained with blood. The splatter pattern suggested the blood had come from his nose.

  There was blood on his bare legs, but no cigarette burns. There were fresh scrapes on his knees and calves as well as yellowing bruises—the kind a kid got when he played hard on a hot summer afternoon. The shoe that was off seemed to have slipped from his foot; someone had bought the sneakers one size too large in anticipation of growth.

  In the distance, a siren wailed.

  “We’re going to have to secure this area,” the cop said.

  I nodded, but continued to move the flashlight around the body. Once the rest of the police arrived, I wouldn’t get another look.

  Footprints in the dry grass, but they might have belonged to Daniel and Elijah. The killer probably used the sidewalk.

  “We should move.” The cop almost sounded nervous. He wasn’t used to homicide. He was bad at undercover work too. How raw was he? Raw enough to let me be senior, at least until backup arrived.

  “We’re fine.” The flashlight caught dark drops near my foot. I hadn’t moved since I had arrived. I would wager those drops were blood.

  I looked up. There were no drops on the porch or the threshold. The body hadn’t come from inside the building, at least not through the front door.

  “Marvella, Malcolm, would you make sure no one comes outside, please?”

  Marvella nodded. She led Malcolm inside. They blocked the light for a moment, and then they disappeared.

  “That’s not what I meant by secure,” the cop said.

  The sirens were getting closer, louder, their wail ominous in the quiet night.

  I pointed to the blood drops. “There are none on the porch.” I raised the flashlight, shone it down the sidewalk. Drops dotted the cracked concrete all the way to the street.

  The cop looked at me, his eyes large in the reflected light. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.

  A single car rounded the corner. It was a nondescript sedan with a light that could be removed from the roof. Its siren was off now, but its lights cast red-and-blue circles all over the neighborhood.

  “What’re they doing, just sending one?” The cop stood and headed toward the street, careful to walk alongside the blood trail, not on it.

  I aimed the flashlight at the boy. He’d been dumped here. Placed on these stairs on purpose. His good, uninjured hand crossed his belly. His broken hand was open. So that someone could see the injuries? A medical examiner would have found those. Was it merely coincidence that the arm had been left?

  Or did the other arm bear the same marks?

  I couldn’t raise it and look. I didn’t want to tamper with the body. Instead I studied what I could. The boy’s fingernails were filthy and there was a cobweb matted in his hair.

  Behind me a car door opened and closed.

  “Officer Jack Sinkovich,” the cop I’d been talking to said, clearly by way of introduction.

  “Detective Truman Johnson,” said a deep voice in response. Marvella’s cousin had arrived.

  “Watch the sidewalk,” Sinkovich said. “There’s a blood trail.”

  Johnson didn’t respond. Instead he walked toward me. I glanced up. He was a big man, broad shouldered, large arms and no neck. He was getting thick around the middle. His build and his tendency toward fat suggested he had once been a football player. He still carried himself with an athletic grace.

  “You Bill?” he asked as he crouched beside me. He was careful about where he stepped and how he moved.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for the call.” He said that last under his breath. Then, louder, “What’ve we got?”

  I pointed the flashlight at the boy’s face, then at his arm. Then I aimed it at the entry point on his chest. “Knife,” I said softly. “He was dumped here.”

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  “What?” I asked.

  His gaze met mine. “We got ourselves a pattern.”

  “This has happened before?”

  He nodded. “This is victim number three.”

  TEN

  THE NEWS OF A PATTERN rocked me. I had thought—perhaps because I’d mistaken the boy for Jimmy—that someone had done this to Brian as a warning, as a way to let me know that I was being watched.

  I usually wasn’t this self-focused. I usually had clearer vision. Anything was possible at the moment and I had forgotten that. I had also forgotten that Brian Richardson lived in this building.

  He might have been dumped here because he lived here.

  More sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Are you telling me people have been murdering children?” I asked Johnson.

  “Boys,” Joh
nson said. “Black boys.”

  “You gonna get this case?” I asked.

  Sinkovich had started toward us. Inside the building, I heard an apartment door open.

  “Maybe,” Johnson said. “Things are crazy right now.”

  It took me a moment to understand his words. “You mean you wouldn’t normally?”

  “Do I look white to you?” he snapped.

  I glanced at him. He was still staring at the boy’s ruined shirt. “I thought black police officers had made some strides in Chicago.”

  “We have,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “But interfacing with the FBI is a white thing.”

  “This is theirs?”

  “It will be now. Two victims is a coincidence, or so they tell us. Three, well, the odds against that—”

  “Against what?” Sinkovich stopped beside us.

  “What the hell are you doing here anyway?” Johnson was not polite or subservient to him. He seemed to resent him and it was clear they had never met.

  “Detail work.”

  “‘Detail work.’ Harassment is all it is.”

  “Not my decision,” Sinkovich said. “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Well, get out of my light so I can do mine.” Johnson hadn’t looked up at him. “Move that flashlight on those shoes, would you?”

  I leaned back, careful not to lose my balance, and aimed the flashlight at the soles of the boy’s shoes. The sirens were growing closer, their wails forming a discordant harmony found in Schoenberg. A modern funeral march, played in a key this boy would never have understood.

  “Dirt,” Johnson said. “It’s a start.”

  But it wasn’t the dry brown dirt of the neighborhood. The shoes looked new and the dirt out of place. It was dark and thick, almost like he’d walked through a cloud of ash.

  “What I wouldn’t give to see that exit wound,” I said.

  “We’re not touching him.” Sinkovich sounded panicked.

  “Of course we’re not.” Johnson stood, his knees cracking. He extended his hand. “Mind if I use that flashlight?”

  The investigation had just left my control. I couldn’t argue with him. I had as much information as I would be able to gather on my own.