Right as Rain

He picked up his phone and hit Janine's extension.

'Yes, Derek.'

'Anything on Kane's address?'

'I've got it out here. He lives with his mother, apparently.'

'What about his phone number?'

'I've got that, too. But it cost us twenty dollars. I put it on your credit card.'

'Damn.'

'You can get anything off the Internet, for a price.'

'Ron out there?'

'Uh-huh.'

'What's he doin'?'

'Looks like he's reading the newspaper to me.'

'I pay him to read the paper?'

'You know I don't get into your business, Derek.'

'Print out a copy of that page where you gave them my Visa. I need to show it on my expense sheet.'

'I already did it.'

'Good. And call Lydell Blue over at the Fourth District, see if he ran a sheet for me yet on Ricky Kane.'

'I'll do it.'

'I'll be out in a few.'

Strange finished reading the transcripts. Much of the information had been duplicated in the newspaper and television reports. He carefully read Quinn's statement and the corroborating statement of his partner, Eugene Franklin. Then he read and reread the testimony of Ricky Kane.

On the night of the shooting, Kane, a restaurant and bar worker, was driving across town after his shift at the Purple Cactus, a trendy eatery on 14th and F, when he pulled over on D Street to urinate. Kane explained that he had downed 'a beer' after work, had begun to feel the effects of a weak bladder, and saw that D Street was deserted as he drove east. Standing beside the open door of his Toyota, 'I pulled out my penis and prepared to urinate,' when a Jeep, 'the military-looking kind,' came from around the corner, its brights tapped on, and stopped behind his Toyota.

The lights from the Jeep were in his eyes and blinding as Kane 'tucked myself back in' and zipped up his fly. A 'large black man' came through the glare of the lights and was upon him at once, yelling in an extremely agitated manner for Kane to produce a license and registration.

'What did I do?' Kane asked the black man.

'You were pissin' in the street,' said the black man. 'And don't even think of lyin' about it, 'cause I saw you holdin' your little pecker plain as day.'

The man was broad, 'like a weightlifter,' and taller than Kane by a head. Later, Kane would be told that the man's name was Chris Wilson and that he was an out-of-uniform cop.

Kane said here that he detected the strong smell of alcohol on Chris Wilson's breath.

When a man had been drinking, even one beer, thought Strange, it would be difficult to smell alcohol on another man's breath. Strange made a line through this statement with a yellow accent marker.

'Who are you?' asked Kane. 'Why do you need to see my license?'

'I'm a cop,' replied Wilson.

Kane was frightened, but 'I knew my rights.' He asked to see Wilson's badge or some other form of identification, and that's when Wilson 'became enraged,' grabbing Kane by the lapels of his shirt and throwing him up against the car. Kane suffered severe back pain immediately, he said.

'Aw, shit,' said Strange, under his breath. That was for the benefit of a future lawsuit, right there. Greco opened his eyes, lifted his head up, and looked up at Strange.

Kane claimed to have 'a moment or two' of blackout then. He next recalled lying on his back in the street, with Wilson crouched down upon him, one knee on his chest. There was a gun in Wilson's hand, 'an automatic, I think,' and he was holding it 'point-blank' in Kane's face.

Kane said that he had never known that kind of fear. Spittle had formed on the edges of Wilson's mouth, his face was 'all twisted up with anger,' and he was repeating, 'I'm gonna kill you, motherfucker,' over and over again. Kane had no doubt that Wilson would. He was 'embarrassed to say' that when Chris Wilson pressed the muzzle of the gun to his cheek and rolled it there, Kane 'involuntarily voided' his bowels.

Strange read the police report from the scene. Going by the statement of one officer who reported that he detected a strong fecal smell coming off him, Strange concluded that indeed, Ricky Kane had dirtied his drawers that night.

Kane said that at the point when Wilson had him pinned to the ground, a marked police cruiser pulled onto the scene. Two police officers, one black and one white, got out of the cruiser and ordered Wilson to drop his weapon. Kane's description of the events that followed were roughly in keeping with the statements made by officers Quinn and Franklin.

Strange opened his newspaper clipping file. He went to a section he had marked, an interview with Chris Wilson's girlfriend, who had been with him earlier that night. The girlfriend confirmed that Wilson had been drinking on the night of the shooting and that 'he seemed upset about something.' She didn't know what it was that was making him upset, and he 'didn't say.' He made a mental note of the girlfriend's name.

Strange dialed a number, got the person he was trying to reach on the other end. After some give and take, he managed to make an appointment for later that afternoon. He said, 'Thank you,' and hung the receiver in its cradle.

"Scuse me, old buddy,' said Strange, pulling his feet gently from beneath Greco's head. 'I gotta get to work.'

Strange got into his leather. The dog followed him out of the room.

In the outer office, Strange stopped to talk to Janine while Greco found a spot underneath her desk.

'You talk to Lydell Blue?'

Janine Baker handed him a pink message note, ripped off her pad. 'Lydell ran Kane's name through the local and national crime networks. Kane has no convictions, no arrests. Never got caught with a joint in his sock. Never got caught doing something besides what he was supposed to be doing in a public restroom. No FIs, even, from when he was a kid. No priors whatsoever.'

'Okay. Remind me to give Lydell a call, thank him.'

'He said he owed you. Somethin' about somethin' you did for him when the two of you were rookie cops. Good thing you still know a few guys on the force.'

'The ones who aren't dead or retired. I know a few.'

'Hey, boss,' said Ron Lattimer from across the room. Ron wore a spread-collar shirt today with a solid gold tie and deep gray slacks. His split-toe Kenneth Coles were up on his desk, and a newspaper was open in his hands.

'What?'

'Says here that leather of yours is out. The zipper kind, I mean. You need to be gettin' into one of those midlength blazers, man, with a belt, maybe, you want to be looking up-to-the-minute out there on the street.'

'You readin' that article about that book came out, on black men and style?'

'Uh-huh. Called Men of Color, somethin' like that.'

'I read the article this morning, too. That lady they got writing about fashion, she's got a funny way of putting things. Says that black men have developed a dynamic sense of style, their "tool against being invisible".'

'Uh-huh. Says here that we black men "use style like a sword and shield",' said Lattimer, reading aloud.

'All of us do?'

'See, now, there you go again, Derek.'

"Cause I was wonderin', that old man, practically lives out on Upshur, with the pee stains on the front of his trousers? The one gets his dinner out the Dumpster? Think he's using style as a tool against being invisible? I seen this young brother gettin' off the Metrobus yesterday out on Georgia, had on some orange warm-up suit with green stripes up the side; I wouldn't even use it to cover up Greco's droppings. And look at me, I went and forgot to shine my work boots this morning…'

'I get you, man.'

'I just don't like anybody, and I don't care who it is, tellin' me what black men do and don't do. 'Cause that kind of thinking is just as dangerous as that other kind of thinking, if you know what I mean. And you know some white person's gonna read that article and think, Yeah, they spend a lot on clothes, and yeah, they spend a lot on cars, but do they save money for their retirement or their children's education, or do they do this or do they do that? You know what I'm sayin'?'