by Matthew Iden
I ran my finger up the side of the glass, pooling the condensation. “A cop who lives in his own beat could be a local hero or public enemy number one. Were there any run-ins with particular locals? Gangs that might want him to stop busting them?”
“Naturally, he had problems with the local element. Some of it came home to roost. We’ve had our windows broken. Someone painted some lovely things on the front door. My room at school was trashed. But it’s so hard to think one person here would want to…to…”
She stopped and put her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders heaved up and down, but not a sound came from her. I sat very still. She pulled herself together after a moment, then stood up and plucked a tissue from a box on a counter. “I’m sorry. I thought I had things under control.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “It’s never easy.”
She blew her nose and sat back down, closing her eyes briefly, then opening them and looking straight at me. “What else?”
“Did Terrence share his work with you?”
“Well, yes. Can you be more specific?”
“Did you know the men in his department?”
“You mean is it possible that I didn’t know everyone he worked with?”
“Something like that,” I said.
She shrugged. “Of course, it’s possible. But T liked to tell me every little thing. Not just husband and wife stuff. It goes back to why we were here in the first place: to make a difference. He knew I’d want to hear what he was up to, what was changing in the neighborhood. I told him about the kids who were growing up, who might turn into a problem next year, kids he might be able to help before it was too late.”
“You don’t think he glossed over the worst parts, maybe to protect you?”
She sighed and hugged her arms to her chest. “I’m sure he spared me the worst details. It was enough to know someone was shot at the apartments next to the school or there was another stabbing on MLK.”
“Any crime spree he helped stop? Backstreet gambling? Drugs?”
She opened her mouth, probably to say no, then stopped herself, thinking. “There might’ve been one thing. Right before school started, back in August, we had a teachers’ in-service day about a rash of drug sales and drug-related violence on the street. When I mentioned it to T, he said he’d been put on alert about it. He told me—this sounds stupid—that the concern was because the drugs were coming from outside the neighborhood. Drugs aren’t anything new, but we all know, or mostly know, who deals around here, who to avoid, what buildings to stay away from.”
“The known quantity,” I said.
She nodded. “But what had everyone up in arms was that no one knew where these drugs were coming from. And the drugs were bad enough, but you add the fact that the local dealers don’t like the competition and the fear was that we might have a full-on war on the street.”
“Any drugs in particular?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Was Terrence involved in the investigation?”
“I don’t think so, but it’s odd now that you mention it that we never talked much more about it after the one conversation. School picked up and the administration let it drop. The drug war never happened and no news is good news, I guess.”
“Did Terrence work any late nights, extra shifts?”
“That describes most of his career.”
I smiled. “You’re right. Dumb question.”
She smiled back, but the look was tired. Genuine, but without any wattage behind it. “I haven’t been much help, have I?”
“I don’t know yet, Flo,” I said truthfully. “Like I said, it’s the spaces in between that I have to fill in. The things you’ve told me might be just what I need or not at all. I have to talk to a lot more people before I’ll know where the lines connect.”
We were quiet again. The music continued to trickle in, maddeningly unidentifiable. I watched as the ice in my glass melted, the cubes slipping past each other and down, then bobbing back to the surface. Someone was baking cookies and the sweet smell came in on the same breeze as the music.
“It’s been so hard,” she said, finally, her voice warbling as she started to lose control, then regained it. “So hard. His death, of course. And how it happened, how brutal. How terrible. But what hurts most of all is the idea that it might be someone from around here. A boy I might’ve taught or someone T gave a ride after a basketball game. We’ve been trying to help this community for twenty years and someone three doors down might’ve killed my husband. When I walk down the street, people look at me and they say they’re sorry, but maybe they’re the ones that did it or know who did or are happy that it happened.”
This time I reached out and grabbed her hand and squeezed. I didn’t have any better answer for her.
Chapter Seven
The black bronze of the lion’s head was hot as a branding iron in the late May sunshine, and it hurt, but I kept my hand on its mane anyway. Frozen in its protective crouch, the life-sized statue glowered over the low granite wall, ready to pounce on anyone foolish enough to threaten the two bronze cubs it guarded.
I left the lion in its permanent state of readiness, rubbing the sting from my fingers as I walked. Following the circular wall, I let my eyes wander over the almost twenty thousand names of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, all cops killed in the line of duty. They went on and on. Wreaths on wire stands lined the tops and bottoms of the walls, remainders of the annual ceremony held just a few weeks before to honor all the fallen officers of the past. And add new ones to the roll. Halfway around the loop, I came across a young woman kneeling next to the wall, taking a rubbing of a name with charcoal and paper. There weren’t any tears, but her face was pinched and red. I veered to one side and moved past her quietly.
I hadn’t meant to stop. I’m not nostalgic. Sentiment makes me cynical and uncomfortable. But, on the way back from the Witherspoons’, my hands turned the wheel and—almost without thinking about it—I steered my car straight downtown and on to the memorial.
The site was in Judiciary Square across from the venerable Building Museum, what was once the Civil War Pension Office, a monument for a different generation of heroes. I’d been at the dedication of the memorial in 1991, standing in a row of other MPDC cops, all of us in our dress uniforms which we wore almost exclusively, it seemed, for the funerals of other cops. Fitting, I supposed. The feel of the uniform, like the emotion of the ceremony, had been unfamiliar. While I had agreed with the motive of the idea, I had been impatient at the time with the pomp and circumstance of the event. And not a little bit cynical. The granite slabs and bronze statues seemed a grand, hollow tribute, the kind of architectural statement that stood in for meaningful action a lot in DC.
But I had a different perspective now. Twenty more years as a cop, in a strange way, had mellowed me. I’d seen a lot of people killed, many hurt. Retirement and a battle with cancer had brought dimension to my view. I didn’t have to accept the sentiment that others wanted me to see, I could decide for myself. I was looking at inanimate rock and metal, but the shapes had no particular value…unless I wanted them to. A monument was what you made of it. An empty gesture to some. Lasting motivation to others.
Each of Bloch’s murdered cops would go through a review process to make sure their circumstances merited their names being inscribed on the wall. The cases would have to be nominated and their department, in turn, would be contacted to provide details of how and when each cop had been killed, and whether their death had been in the line of duty. It was doubtful anyone would stand in the way of the nominations, but it was still a sad and sterile bureaucratic process meant to recognize someone who’d given their life for their job. The paperwork and phone calls and interviews would stick in the craw of anyone who was in charge of their buddy’s case, make them wonder why the honor wasn’t automatic.
I knew all this because I’d just gone through it. For nearly six months of the previous year, I’d shepherded my form
er partner’s case through the process, making sure that he got the recognition he was due. Killed while helping to save Amanda, he hadn’t even been working on an official investigation, which had made things difficult for the bureaucracy. But I’d made it my obsession for a good chunk of last year and part of this. If determination was all it took, his name would’ve been up a month after he’d been shot. The board had eventually seen it my way.
Cynicism had intruded at times. Not much of a trade, a life for some letters in stone. But the honor meant more to me than I’d thought. I’d been here just a few weeks ago—this time as a civilian—as the new names had been read off the list in a simple, horrible rhythm. I’d squeezed my hands bloodless as the names rolled over us, then walked away stiff-legged and barely under control when it ended. Not an empty gesture, after all.
And now I found myself standing in front of the slab where his name had been etched, looking at the single number and letter that indexed him, making him easier to find in the little white books at the entrances of the memorial. JIM KRANSKY. The last one on the block.
I rubbed my shoulder where I’d been shot by the same man who killed Jim. There shouldn’t be anything to regret. But the simple fact that I was alive and he wasn’t broke the logic. It seemed wrong. I stood there, looking at the wall. A soft breeze stirred the perfectly manicured trees. A siren wailed ten blocks away.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” I said out loud.
It was too late for him. Too late for Garcia. And Witherspoon, and Torres, and Okonjo. Too late for twenty thousand other cops. But there were others out there. It shouldn’t be too late for them. It wouldn’t.
I passed my hand over the broad mane of the lion as I walked out of the memorial and, this time, it didn’t hurt at all.
Chapter Eight
There were three of them, hanging on the edge of Fort Stanton Park. If my information was correct the tall black kid was Ruffy. He had on the hip-hop uniform of the day: baggy black jeans hanging below his ass, a black shirt, and a black Raiders team jacket—even though it was 80 degrees most days now. Slouching next to him was B-Dog, about a foot shorter but just as skinny. He had a Pittsburgh Pirates cap on backwards, the brim flat as an iron. Cornrows spilled down his back, tied together with a knotted Rasta bandana. The third kid could’ve just returned from a Redskins tryout. Six-three, maybe two-eighty. This would be Tyrone. A purple Lakers tank top let him show the world what steroids and four hours doing arm curls will do for you, along with the tattoos and cuts that pronounced him a badass. Wraparound shades and a shaved head completed the look.
I parked catty-corner to them and watched for about an hour. Ruffy and B-Dog joked and hassled the girls who walked by. Tyrone kept his arms folded and scared the pigeons away. Three, maybe four times, junkies approached them. They’d talk for a minute then Ruffy would lead them into the park a little ways. The exchange would be made, or so I assumed, and the junkie would shuffle off to Buffalo. Ruffy would come back to the corner and he and B-Dog would pick up where they left off.
I got out of the car. They spotted me before I was halfway across the street and I could see them subconsciously straighten up as they made their assessments. I was a clean-cut, middle-aged white guy in a predominantly black suburb walking towards two known street dealers and their bodyguard. From their perspective, chances were good that I was a cop.
I stood in front of them for a second. When I didn’t say anything, B-Dog put a toothpick in his mouth and said, “Help you?”
“I was looking for the Three Stooges, but you guys will do in a pinch,” I said, then pointed at each one. “Moe, Larry, and Curly.”
“Cop,” Ruffy said to no one in particular. Tyrone tried to stare me into the sidewalk.
No reason to deny it. “Guy got killed around here, not too long ago. I’m looking into it.”
“People get offed all the time,” B-Dog said. “Don’t make it our bidness.”
“Yeah, but this guy was a policeman,” I said. “A cop you knew. You boys grew up around here. You knew Officer Witherspoon. You called him T.”
They didn’t say anything.
“He used to give you rides from the pool in the summer, take you home when he caught you out on the streets and promised not to tell your parents. His wife taught you in elementary school. Their son’s just a few years younger than you.”
They still didn’t say anything. Ruffy fixed me with a slack stare, B-Dog focused on something over my shoulder. Tyrone continued to try to disintegrate me with his eyes.
“The way I heard it, T watched out for the neighborhood. And when he didn’t like something, he took it personally. He probably wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what you’re doing now, but if he could cut you a break, he would.”
“T was all right,” Ruffy said.
“Shut up,” B-Dog said to Ruffy. He looked at me. “Fuck is it to you?”
“The thing is,” I said. “He was looking into something going on around here. Something that was rocking the neighborhood. Something that would’ve concerned you three. A lot. Like a source outside the, ah, family, shall we say?”
“Man, you don’t know what the fuck you talking about,” B-Dog said. “’S a quick way to get yo ass kicked.”
“I don’t know, B-Dog. I’ve been watching you and scoring deals three or four times an hour might seem good to some, but you’re used to doing a lot more than that, right? You guys losing ground to someone, maybe?”
“Man, shut yo mouth. We ain’t losing shit.”
“Your real name is Bertrand, isn’t it? I mean, no one’s actually named B-Dog. Then again, no one’s really named Bertrand, either, are they?”
B-Dog had decided that, cop or not, he wasn’t going to be dissed. He jerked his chin towards me. “Tyrone, shut this silly muthafucka up.”
Tyrone started to unwrap the two ham hocks he disguised as arms so he could open his personal can of whoop-ass on me. Which he would’ve, no doubt about it. Hell, I know a couple of tricks, but they won’t do much for a fist backed by a twenty-two-inch bicep. But he’d only gotten his arms half undone when I slapped him with the lipstick-sized stun gun I’d been palming while I talked to them. Somewhat ineffective through clothing, just fine for exposed flesh. Like the kind sprouting out of Tyrone’s Lakers jersey.
A strangled howl erupted from him as something like 200,000 volts went rocketing through his system and then he hit the ground to do the jitterbug. I stepped back and slid my hand down towards my hip. A SIG is a handy bargaining tool when trying to dissuade two gangbangers from jumping you. The next move was theirs, within reason.
Ruffy didn’t take long to make up his mind. He took off across the park, fast, looking like a two-legged spider. It had probably been his M.O. since he was a kid. B-Dog, on the other hand, figured out after a moment that, if I was using a stun gun, I probably wasn’t a cop. He pulled a clasp knife from a back pocket and moved in.
I’d made a big mistake. I should’ve stepped back and drawn my SIG as soon as I’d lit Tyrone up with the stun gun. Instead, my good-cop training had taken over and I had waited to see if something would develop. In the academy, they call it waiting for the “threat of imminent danger.” On the street, they call it stupid.
But another thing the academy teaches is not to rely on your gun for everything. When cops across the country were found with a hand on the butt of their holstered gun, but dead from a stab wound they probably could’ve stopped if their hands had been free, there was a shift in training. Use your brain first, your gun second. In this case, if I’d gone for my gun, B-Dog would’ve opened me up like a birthday present.
So, I gave up on my gun, and just in time. B-Dog came in, swinging the knife in quick half-moons. His technique was wild, trying for a lucky cut rather than working deliberately towards getting me into a position where he could end it. He aimed high, towards my face, hoping I’d flinch. I swatted his arm away two or three times. This gave him the idea that I was afraid, so he moved a little closer. I su
rprised him when I did, too.
B-Dog was used to intimidating junkies and street punks. It didn’t look like he’d ever heard of an arm-bar. But I introduced him to the concept by wrapping my arm through his, grabbing it on the other side, and squeezing. He hollered and tried yanking his arm away, but wouldn’t let go of the knife. I squeezed more. He said, “Shit” and the knife dropped to the ground. I let up on the pressure, which he thought meant I was disengaging, so he pulled away.
But what I was really doing was giving myself room to swing a knee. Which I did at the same time that I yanked his arm and shoulder towards the ground. I wasn’t twenty anymore and cancer does lousy things to your stamina, so I needed to end this quickly. My kneecap connected just above the bridge of his nose. It didn’t feel like much on my end, but his body went slack, and suddenly I was holding a B-Dog-sized bag of Jell-O. The whole thing had taken maybe fifteen seconds.
I dragged him deeper into the park and propped him up against an old playground horse, the kind with the giant spring underneath. He bobbed and bounced as I held him in place. With my free hand, I took my gun out and kept it down by my side, out of sight of the street. No more tactical mistakes. Ruffy might decide to come back and Tyrone wasn’t going to stay on the ground forever.
I shook B-Dog. When he started to squirm and swear, I showed him my gun. Somehow, his hat had stayed on through our little tussle, though it was skewed at a angle and now looked like a cooking pot on his head. He quieted down, but his eyes flicked left and right, looking for a way out. I shook him some more.
“Fuck you want, man?” His tone, so cocksure on the corner, was plaintive and wheedling now.
“I asked you some questions earlier, Bertrand,” I said. “You can probably guess I’m still interested in hearing the answers.”
“Like what?”
“A local cop gets beaten and shot to death. Street business is down. Something bad in the ’hood is about to happen. You’re in the middle of it and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
