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 Brewster-Douglas 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 the 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.”