As lead detective on the Perez homicide, Cantrell needed to make sense of the chaotic crime scene as well as the players. On one side, he had one Lonzo "Black" Perez, head of a Hispanic crew, local franchise of some national set, whose activities had been slowly amping up as their gang pushed into new territories imposing its will. And whose baby sister was raped and murdered. If something like that was to happen to Cantrell's baby sister, badge or no badge, there'd be hell to pay. On the other side was the mysterious Dred, who'd been a shadowy figure for years, more rumor than anything else until King came on the scene. Suddenly Dred became more active. There were several open cases tied to him — and for that matter, King — that went down with the Colvin affair. No one wanted to look too hard at that as Colvin went down and bodies quit dropping. But the mayor's office, whipped up by the media, pressured the captain on this one. A little girl was dead. An innocent caught in the middle of two junkyard dogs yanking on their junk to prove their manhood. That wasn't going to stand. Hopefully his esteemed partner had something.
"You dig up anything on our case?"
"Like what?" Lee McCarrell sauntered to his desk, a head nod to the filming crew. The crew leapt to readiness, if for no other reason than because Lee made for great commentary, most of which the brass would rather have left on the editing room floor. Still, any opportunity to jam a thumb into their eye he'd take.
"Like motive? Hell, anything."
"Motive? Money, dope, or pussy. That's always the motive."
Cantrell cut a furtive glance at the cameras, but Lee only winked at him, enjoying the bully pulpit they afforded him a little too much. Words had a way of catching up with folks. And Cantrell, over conscious of the cameras, parsed his with care. "Looks like it may have some gang connections."
"That's what I'm saying. Sell the shit and walk away. People will always have their vices. Smokes. Porn. Booze. Prostitutes. Pussy and drugs in one way or another. And someone around to make money off them. Porn does billions on the internet. You don't see bodies dropping over it."
"Well, maybe of AIDS."
"Why you want to go there?"
"I'm just saying…"
"Man wants to enjoy rubbing one out. He don't want to have to think about junkie tracks or AIDS."
"Not to mention all of the exploited girls in the sex trade."
"There you go again. Enough to kill a good hard-on. Well, yours, maybe."
"You can think on AIDS and underage girls and still do that?"
"I can compartmentalize."
"Come here." Cantrell led him out of taping distance of the cameras. Lee had his minute in the spotlight, but Cantrell had some personal things to discuss. "You all right?"
"What do you mean?" Lee's self-pleased grin still contorted his face.
"You've been moody. Distracted."
"You make it sound like I got Detective's PMS."
"I wish you did. A few days from now you'd be fine. But this has been going on for weeks."
"Thought better of making a slumpbuster joke."
"You get that situation with your CI straightened out?"
"I got it handled."
"If IA starts sniffing around…"
"My job on the line?" Suddenly Lee came to attention.
"I'm just saying, I ain't lying to cover your ass. You need to close cases. Without incident. Period."
CHAPTER THREE
Wayne Orkney scratched the scar on the back of his neck. His keloid itched constantly these days, to the point where he considered going to the doctor to see what he could do to get it removed. A hard-faced man, he had the build of a defensive linesman, stocky and chiseled, with the swinging step of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. Passing the Indianapolis Colts training complex, he slowed to a brisk walk along the sidewalk of the West 56th Street corridor of Eagle Creek Park. His early morning amble counted as his aerobic exercise for the day. Despite the fact that he felt twice as good, twice as strong, in the morning, he often carried an old walking stick he'd picked up on a shortterm mission trip to Jamaica some ten plus years ago. This morning he clutched his new collapsible baton in a fist. From the six inches which fit into his hand like a roll of quarters, it extended out to sixteen inches of balanced bludgeon. It was his peace of mind, something to keep whatever predators prowled the early morning at bay.
It seemed that nowhere was safe anymore. It wasn't too long ago they had to haul a body out of the park. Merle and his crazy ass ran across a body. That Walters boy. Lamont "Rok" Walters. A good boy. Well, relatively good. A wannabe roughneck with more attitude than sense, he got involved in some foolishness. What either of them were doing in the weeds was beyond him. If it wasn't a family reunion or barbecue, because nothing brought a fool out like free food or… he couldn't begin to speculate what motivated Merle. It seemed almost criminal for youth to be squandered on the young. From the way the story laid out, Wayne knew King had to be involved somehow, but no one had seen him in weeks. But that was the way things went around here. No, Wayne couldn't hazard much of a guess about much that went on in his world these days.
The front entrance of Eagle Creek Park was a lush lawn of overgrown grass and trees in full bloom. The wind snatched at him, an odd brisk chill. Though late in the season for such a cool morning, he appreciated it for his jogs. Wayne maintained a peculiar pace, somewhere between a stroll and a speed walk, his arms nearly flapping alongside him. He wasn't much for scenery. On some mornings he might spy an errant deer since they ran about like squirrels out here. The smell of rotting meat hit him as soon as he rounded the bend. Wiping his nose, he twisted up his face as if that would cut the smell. A dead raccoon stretched out along the median of 56th Street. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth though its eyes were missing and its belly had been split open.
Vultures circled up ahead, just inside the entrance, with macabre intent. Wayne slowed. The calculations of curiosity stilled his steps — a feeling more than anything else. The sight of the birds, so many of them, circling and settled in the trees like a jury taking in evidence.
Wayne veered off the path.
Rush-hour traffic hadn't begun in earnest, barely a trickle with only the occasional car looking to get on I-465 south. The chain link fence cordoning the park quaked as he tested it with his weight. In a less than graceful scrabble, he made it over and stopped to smooth out his jogging suit once he was on the other side. His breath frosted the air. His stomach both hungry and nauseous.
Wayne had barely waded through the first wall of trees and into a clearing when he saw the body. The skeleton splayed at awkward angles, twisted in brush and leaves. Insects made a home in the remains of his face. Clothes with chunks torn from them as animals had gnawed past them to get to the cool flesh. His shoes were missing. The rent torso laid empty of lungs, kidneys, intestines, and liver; the ribs snatched free. A few fingers had been chewed off.
"Aw… damn." Young dude. Couldn't be but fourteen or fifteen. From what Wayne could see, he'd caught a couple shots in the chest after taking a beating. Yup, these days it was almost a crime to be so young out here. Even as he reached for his cell phone to call the police, another feeling seized him. "Damn it, King. What have you done started?"
The area around 34th Street and Georgetown Road was knows as Eagledale. Back in the 1950s there was such a demand for housing it was one of the planned communities constructed. Little pre-fab, all-aluminum exterior, sidewalks, and concrete streets from $10,000. The boom lasted into the 1960s with schools and churches and the Eagledale Shopping Center constructed.
The nearby village of Flackville — 30th Street and Lafayette Road — which had been around since 1900, was annexed by Indianapolis in 1961. Overshadowed by the expanse of the Eagledale suburb. That was then. The only remainder of Flackville was the eponymous abandoned school building. It was rumored that a group of Haitians owned the building but a church owned the property. With the two groups at odds, the building stood boarded up. Ripe for squatting though no one did. The words "No Trespassing. Especially trucks" spray-painted along its driveway acted as a near-mystic rune, warding off most would-be squatters.