“Through the years, many of you may have had personal dealings with Benjamin Weston,” Watty went on. “He was a well-liked, well-respected officer. At this time, however, there’s a distinct possibility that this investigation may turn up some wrongdoing on his part. Our responsibility, as officers of the law, is to find the killer and take him off the streets. If Ben Weston’s reputation ends up taking a beating in the process, that’s life! Our first and foremost duty is to solve these homicides without any kind of whitewashing or cover-up. Again, am I making myself clear?”
There was a second series of nods, this one less general, and it was accompanied by an uneasy shifting of butts on chairs. No one, with the possible exception of Detective Kramer, wanted to hear that Gentle Ben Weston had somehow gone bad.
“Taking all this into consideration, we have to remember the kind of impact this case is going to have on the entire community. Because Ben was an African American and because the investigation may lead to suspects involved in some of the better-known gangs-the Bloods, Crips, and Black Gangster Disciples-we must be careful that no one involved in the investigation says or does anything to further inflame the situation. There are all the usual restrictions about not speaking directly with the media, but it’s not out of line to suggest that we all exercise extra caution in this regard.”
Watty paused and glanced around the room, letting his eyes hold those of each officer for a fraction of a second. Finally he nodded. “All right then. Enough cheerleading. Let’s get started. Kramer, what have we got?”
With that Sergeant Watkins sat down abruptly while Detective Kramer took the floor and assumed the speaker’s mantle. Ever since he showed up in Homicide, I’ve been one of Kramer’s main detractors and not, I believe, without reason. As a partner, he’s a damn prima donna at best, but I have to admit that the military-type briefing he delivered that morning was good, very good, in fact.
The first day following a multiple homicide is like the first day of a war-there are so many things happening on so many fronts that it’s almost impossible to get a clear overview of any of it. Kramer had done his homework. Starting from the collection of written reports by everyone involved, he broke the whole process down into bite-size pieces, going over in detail the pertinent information about the murder victims themselves, times of death, manner of death, etc. He discussed the preliminary autopsy findings as well as what little had so far been gleaned from Crime Lab analyses. He went on to discuss what avenues were being explored in the immediate neighborhood of the crime scene as well as some of the side issues-the questionable bank loans, the involvement of various gang members, etc. At the very end he even threw in a brief mention of the almost fatal attack on yours truly.
When Kramer finished his formal presentation, he called on the officers present in the room to volunteer any additional information that had turned up during the night. Sue Danielson was the first to raise her hand.
“I’ve been in touch with all the schools mentioned on the loan applications,” she said. “All of them cite confidentiality issues, and they all refuse to confirm or deny the attendance of any of the names listed.”
“What do you mean, refuse?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Just that. Evidently, one of the schools gave out unauthorized information on a student years ago and that student ended up as the victim of a serious crime. They all seem to be under orders not to make the same mistake again. The only way we’ll get any real information out of them is with a court order.”
I tried to catch Watty’s attention. “Can we get one?”
He deferred my question to Kramer, who said, “When we get around to it, Beaumont. All in good time.”
In other words, don’t hold your breath.
A brief silence followed before one of the uniformed officers raised his hand. “I’ve been down working the neighborhood canvass. This morning I had a callback from the mother of a paperboy, who told her he’s seen a couple of strange cars hanging around Ben Weston’s neighborhood for the past few days. The kid goes to school at Garfield. I’ve got his name. Do you want me to go interview him, or should somebody else?”
“Detective Danielson, how about if you handle that one?” Kramer said. She nodded.
It was neat the way he did it, giving her something relatively important to do so she wouldn’t have any spare time to go trailing after the school records of those student loan applicants. I figured it was a good bet that Kramer wouldn’t authorize me to go after them either.
“Anything else?” he asked.
I waited to see if someone else would volunteer. No one did. “I may have something to add,” I said.
“What’s that?” Kramer asked bluntly.
“Ben Weston Junior has been moved to an undisclosed location for safekeeping.”
Kramer looked surprised to hear that. “Really. Who came up with that brilliant idea?”
“I did. It came to my attention that his grandfather might not be physically able to protect him properly. Mr. Weston is, after all, up in years and hard of hearing, while Junior Weston must be regarded as an invaluable eyewitness.”
“Do you mind telling us where this ”undisclosed location‘ is so those of us who need to interview him will actually be able to find him?“
“He’s staying out on Beacon Hill with Reverend Homer Walters and his wife, Francine.”
“I see. Anything else?”
I didn’t want to bring up Big Al’s part in the proceedings. “Well, actually, there is one more thing. When I was taking Junior over there, to the Walterses’ place, he happened to remember that the man, the killer, was wearing gloves of some kind, yellow rubber gloves.”
“Do you place any particular importance on this, Detective Beaumont?”
“Only that the killer may be a known criminal with readily identifiable fingerprints.”
Kramer gave a half smile designed to put me in my place. “I think most of us already figured that out. Anything else?”
He glanced around the room. No one on the task force seemed to have anything more to add, but now Captain Powell, who had slipped virtually unnoticed into the chair beside me, raised his hand. When Kramer acknowledged him, Powell strode to the front of the room. He too was wearing a badge with a somber black ribbon covering part of its face.
“In a few minutes, Sergeant Watkins, Detective Kramer, and I will be meeting with the Media Relations folks to decide what, if anything, from this meeting can be released to the public. There will be the usual holdouts, of course, so I don’t need to tell you again that confidentiality is essential, but there’s something else I do feel compelled to add.
“You are all aware that in the past few months there’s been an increase in the number of threats made against the police officers of this city. One of our own is dead, and another, Detective Beaumont here, came very close to taking a bullet early yesterday morning. At this time, no firm link has been made between these last two incidents and the other threats, but it is certainly possible that they are connected.
“Therefore, as you conduct this investigation, I ask each and every one of you to exercise extreme caution. We are dealing with some very volatile and dangerous elements here, and I don’t want to have to wear more than one piece of black ribbon on my badge at a time. Is that clear?”
It was clear, all right, and also extremely sobering. Twice now, in the course of the task force meeting, I had been reminded that I, too, had been a target. I had been so busy hustling around and being a worker bee that I had almost forgotten the bullet that had slammed into the wall behind me. Remembering didn’t improve my outlook on life, and it didn’t change the color of my socks either.
People were fairly quick about clearing the room once the meeting was over. Sue Danielson had been close to the door. I had to push and shove my way through the crush to catch up with her by the time she reached the elevator. “Care to stop long enough for a cup of coffee?” I asked.