For the first fifteen minutes or so, I ran through the primary facts of the case for those who hadn’t been there the night before. Then I turned it over to Paula. She bounced up and talked us through the photos on the wall.
“The cutting styles indicate a variety of weapons, strength, and ability,” she said, using a red laser pointer to highlight the slashes, punctures, and severing that had been done to the Cox family.
“At least one blade had a serrated edge. One was unusually large – possibly a machete. The amputations, wherever they occurred, were never done cleanly. Rather, they were the result of repetitive trauma.”
A detective named Monk Jeffries asked a pretty good question from the front row. “You think they were practicing? Had never done this before?”
“I couldn’t say,” Paula told him. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah,” I put in. “It’s like they were practicing, Monk.” I had my own opinion about the murders. “There’s something very young about this crime scene.”
“As in inexperienced?” Jeffries asked.
“No. Just young. I’m talking about the cutting, the broken bed, the vandalism in general. Also the fact that this was probably done by a group of five or more. That’s a big group of intruders. When I intersect all those factors, I get a few possibilities: gang, cult, OC. In that order.”
“Gang?” another D-1 asked from the back. “You ever see gang violence like this massacre?”
“I’ve never seen violence like this, period,” I said.
“I’ve got twenty bucks on OC. Any takers?” It was Lou Copeland, a competent but thoroughly obnoxious D-1 with Major Case Squad. A few of his cronies laughed.
Not me. I threw my clipboard across the room. It struck the wall and fell onto the tile. That wasn’t like me, so it made an impression.
The room was quiet. I walked over to pick up my notes. I saw Bree and Sampson exchange a look I didn’t like. They weren’t sure that I could handle this.
Bree took it from there, and she started handing out assignments. We needed people recanvassing the Cambridge Place neighborhood, riding the lab for fast turnaround, and calling in any chits we had on the street for information about last night.
“We need your best work on this one,” Bree told the group. “And we want some answers by the end of the day.”
“What about–?”
“Dismissed!”
Everyone looked around. It was Sampson who’d spoken.
“You all have any more questions, you can reach Stone or Cross on their cells. Meanwhile, we’ve got a buttload of fieldwork to do. This is a major case. So get started! Let’s hit it, and hit it hard.”
Chapter 7
THE TIGER WAS the tallest and strongest of ten well-muscled black men racing up and down a weathered asphalt basketball court at Carter Park in Petway. He understood that he wasn’t a skillful shooter or dribbler, but he rebounded like a pro and defended the basket fiercely, and he hated to lose more than anything. In his world, you lose, you die.
The player he guarded called himself “Buckwheat” and the Tiger had heard that the nickname had something to do with an old TV series in America that sometimes made fun of black kids.
Buckwheat either didn’t mind the name, or he’d gotten used to it. He was fast on the basketball court and a steady shooter. He was also a trash-talker, as were most of the young players in DC. The Tiger had picked up the game in London instantly while he was at university, but there wasn’t much trash-talking in England.
“You talk a good game, but you’re going to lose,” the Tiger finally said as he and his opponent ran up the court, shoulder to shoulder. Buckwheat turned off a screen and took a bounce pass in the left corner. He proceeded to bury a long, perfectly arced jump shot even though the Tiger bumped him hard after the release.
“Fuckin’ ape,” the other man yelled as the two of them ran back the other way.
“You think so?”
“Oh hell, I know so. ’Nother minute, you be the big monkey watchin’ on the sideline!”
The Tiger laughed but said nothing more. He scored on a rebound, and then Buckwheat’s team raced the ball up the court on a fast break.
Buckwheat caught a pass in full stride and brought it hard to the hoop. He had a step on the Tiger and called out, “Game!” even before he went up for the winning dunk.
He was airborne, graceful and athletic, when the Tiger hit him with all his force and weight. He took the six-foot-three man down, drove him into the metal pole supporting the basket. The man lay sprawled on the asphalt with blood streaming from his face.
“Game” shouted the Tiger and raised both arms high over his head. He loved to play basketball – what great fun it was to beat these loudmouthed African Americans who didn’t know anything about the real world.
On the sidelines, his boys cheered as if he were Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant rolled into one. He wasn’t any of that, he knew. He didn’t want to be like Mike or Kobe. He was much better.
He decided life and death on a daily basis.
He walked off the court, and a man came up to him. This particular man couldn’t have been more out of place, since he wore a gray suit and he was white.
“Ghedi Ahmed,” said the white devil. “You know who he is?”
The Tiger nodded. “I know who he used to be.”
“Make an example of him.”
“And his family.”
“Of course,” said the white devil. “His family too.”
Chapter 8
I PUT IN a call for help to my friend Avie Glazer, who headed up the Gang Intervention Project in the Third District. I told Avie why it was important to me.
“’Course I’ll help. You know me, Alex. I’m more tapped into La Mara R, Vatos Locos, Northwest gangs. But you can come over here and ask around Seventeenth and R if you want. See if anybody’s tuned in.”
“Any way you could meet us?” I asked him. “I’ll owe you one. Buy you a beer.”
“Which makes it how many total? Favors and beers?”
That was his way of saying yes, though. Bree and I met Avie at a shitty little pool hall called Forty-Four. The owner told us that was how old he was when he opened the place. Avie already knew the story but listened politely anyway.
“Seemed like as good a name as any,” the owner said. His whatever attitude struck me as that of a long-term stoner. For sure, he wasn’t making his nut on billiards and sodas. His name was Jaime Ramirez, and Avie Glazer had advised me to give him room and a little respect.
“You know anything about the murders in Georgetown last night?” I asked Ramirez after we’d chitchatted some. “Multiple perps?”
“That was some awful shit,” he said, leaning on the bottom half of a Dutch door, a brown cigarette held between stubby fingers and tilted at the same angle as his body.
He chinned up at the television in the corner. “Channel Four’s all I get in here, Detective.”
“How about any new games opening up?” Bree asked. “Players we might not have heard about? Somebody who would wipe a family out?”
“Hard to keep up,” Ramirez said and shrugged. That’s when Glazer gave him a look. “But yeah, matter of fact, there has been some talk.”
His dark eyes flicked almost involuntarily past me and Bree. “Africans,” he said to Avie.