“What do you mean? He wanted her dead.”
“This is way beyond wanting someone dead. This guy destroyed her.”
He thought about that one. “We’ll never know why he did that. Not until we catch him. Even then…”
“Any idea why Elana Paige was at the train station in the first place? That’s a long way from the college.”
“Her car was in the parking lot. The crime scene guys found a camera bag about ten feet from the body. Nice camera inside, but it was damaged when it hit the floor.”
“Why leave the nice camera if you’re already stealing her jewelry?”
“Too hard to carry, I guess. Or too obvious if you’re trying to blend into the crowd.”
“So she was a photographer, you’re saying.”
“Well, she was taking a photography course at Wayne State, at least. Maybe she figured she could get some great shots at the old train station.”
“I though you handled things well with the family,” I said. “The brother was about to go off.”
“You realize,” he said, “that you belong to me now. Until we catch this guy. I’ll clear it with your sergeant.”
“Anything I can do. Of course.”
He nodded. “I’ll let you keep looking. Let me know if you get a hit. I’m not going anywhere.”
Neither was I. Another hour passed. Maybe two. It was hard to tell at that point. I had gone through all of the mug shot books. I hadn’t found my man. They got the sketch artist in, and we worked out a sketch. Problem was, although I could still picture him exactly in my mind, the sketch came out looking like a young black man with high cheekbones and a short afro. In other words, like half the male population in the city.
We tried refining it, but in the end we had to send out what we had. Five foot ten, 170 pounds, muscular build. Jeans, gray shirt with a torn right sleeve, basketball shoes. Last seen fleeing north on Trumbull Avenue. We sent it to every precinct in the city, and to every neighboring suburb. We sent it to the Michigan State Police. We sent it to the FBI.
Elana Paige had now been dead for six hours.
It was going on eleven o’clock when I finally left the station. I had processed an official statement, describing everything I had seen and done. I had tried to eat some dinner. I had gone back over the mug shot books. Detective Bateman told me to go home, to get some rest, and to be back at the station early the next morning. We’d see if we picked up any hits on the bulletin overnight and then go from there.
“We’ll start working the neighborhoods,” he said. “Somebody saw this kid. I promise you that.”
“I hate the fact that he’ll sleep in his own bed tonight.”
“Let him sleep. Let him believe he got away. If he does, he won’t leave town. Or he won’t hide. Either way, we’ll get him.”
I said good night to the detective, and to all of the four-to-midnight-shifters I saw on the way out. They were almost done with their day. Mine had lasted fifteen hours.
I got in my car. I had an eight-year-old Chevy Celebrity back then. About all I could afford on a Detroit cop’s salary, with a wife who had quit her job to go back to school. I started driving down Woodward, to hit that freeway that would loop me back through the city and then west to Redford, but then I blew right by the on-ramp and cut over to Corktown. I drove by the stadium one more time. A dark gray monolith now. I drove up Trumbull, daring my man to be outside walking around in the night air, confident that he’d gotten away with his crime today. I slowed down whenever I saw someone. Usually two or three of them at a time, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, staring back at me in my civilian car. I didn’t see the man I was looking for.
I got home at midnight. I lived in a little brick house on a block of little brick houses, in one of the original Detroit suburbs, now a working-class enclave for folks like me, who didn’t want to live in the city itself but didn’t have the money to move out to Livonia or Dearborn Heights.
I parked the car in the thin little driveway that ran between my house and the house next to me. I got out and took a breath. The dog was barking next door, just like every other time I came home.
I went inside, took off my clothes, and lay on the bed without turning the lights on. I could hear Jeannie breathing on the other side of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot to call you.”
She didn’t say anything for a while. I thought maybe she was asleep.
“I was worried,” she finally said. “You promised me you’d call if you were going to be late. You remember?”
“There was a murder. A woman who’s taking classes at Wayne State. Her name’s Elana Paige. Do you know her?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar, no.”
“She was taking a photography class.”
Another few moments of silence. The dog stopped barking.
“Who killed her?”
“Some kid. Seventeen, eighteen years old.”
“Did you catch him?”
“No. Not yet.”
That was the last thing I said before I closed my eyes. There was nothing else to say anyway.
In my dreams I was standing over the dead body again, but a strong wind was blowing through the building. Then I was chasing the young man in the jeans and gray shirt again. Chasing him and chasing him and never catching him, down a set of railroad tracks that went on forever.
CHAPTER NINE
I had left my cell phone in the truck, as usual. I picked it up as I drove away from Mrs. King’s house. I had a voice message from Sergeant Grimaldi. I pulled over and listened to it, then called him back. He answered on the first ring.
“What can I do for you?” the sergeant said. “You’re not back in Paradise already, are you?”
“No, I spent the night down here,” I said. “It was a long day, and I didn’t feel like driving five hours.”
“That sounds smart. So where are you now?”
“I’m just driving around the city a little more. I still can’t believe what I’ve been seeing.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s like postwar Berlin or something. Although, at least, they rebuilt Berlin. Detroit, I guess they’re just gonna let it rot.”
“Well, I hope not, but…”
“Alex, what’s on your mind?”
“Listen, this is going to sound a little crazy.”
“I can do crazy, believe me. Let me have it.”
“You said you called me and you called Detective Bateman, right? About Darryl King getting out?”
“I did.”
“How is the detective, anyway?”
“He’s not the man he was,” the sergeant said. “Put it that way. But I’m pretty sure he still sees himself as the star of his own personal prime-time crime drama. Even now that he’s retired.”
You didn’t spend enough time with him, I thought. You never saw the other side of Detective Bateman, when he turned off the charm and got down to real police work.
“Well, he was a character,” I said, figuring this wasn’t the time to be the detective’s publicist. “But do you think there’s any chance I could talk to him?”
“I’m sure he’d love to hear from you. You want his number?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
A moment of hesitation. “Why do you want to call him, anyway? Just to catch up? Or is there something else on your mind?”
“If you want to know the truth,” I said, “something’s been bothering me about that old case.”
“Yeah, see, I wasn’t even going to go there, but now that you mention it…”
“Wait,” I said, “how do you even know what I’m talking about?”
It was the same feeling of disorientation I’d felt at Mrs. King’s house. How come everybody thinks they know what’s going through my mind today, when I don’t even know myself?
“I know what’s bothering you, Alex, and I don’t blame you. That was a high-profile case, probably the biggest of the year. Bateman made a lot of hay out of it. You might even say it made his career.”