“Not yet.”
Disappointingly, Arthur’s jacket was not a match.
“If you just tell us what you’re looking for, Sergeant, we can…”
Some loud words at Gomez’s end of the line suddenly drew Lynch’s attention. One of the other UJ’s was not as lucky as Arthur. Hay dust billowed as the punk’s face met the barn wall.
“Ow, man! What the hell!? The other cop said she didn’t care about the grass!”
“Grass? What grass? I don’t care about grass, acho. What I care about is your paint.”
Lynch gave Arthur one last eyeball and walked towards the yelling.
“What’s going on, Ernie?”
“Take a look.”
As if playing “pin the tail on the pothead,” Ernie slapped his print-out on the back of his new best friend. The symbols matched, but not exactly. The killer’s was bigger and cleaner. That, however, didn’t stop Lynch from getting into the guy’s face.
“We have a little problem here.”
“The niño’s name is Steve.”
“…Steve. The thing on the back of your gang uniform…”
“It’s not a gang.”
“Shut up. The thing on the back your jacket matches one that we picked up on a security camera couple of hours ago.”
He thrust the picture under Steve’s nose. The lad stopped wriggling around, stared at it for a few seconds, and reacted as though he’d seen a ghost.
“Holy…Samuel. That’s Samuel.”
The detectives would later learn that the jacket symbols were from the Theban alphabet and nothing more than the wearers’ first initials. Steve and Samuel, therefore, had similar but not identical tags. Steve, able to explain the mistaken identity, became immediately more forthcoming, as did almost everyone else. Arthur was silent, but a widened shit-eaten grin revealed his feelings on the matter.
Disconnected, quick-fire information about Samuel went flying at the detectives from five sources. The comments ranged from high praise to throwing him head-first under the bus. Amidst the cacophony, Lynch picked out one snippet of interest. Samuel had a girlfriend. Her name was Kelly, and she was standing third from the left. It was the other girl, Traci the Hello Kitty exhibitionist, that outed her. Kelly was not pleased.
“Thanks, bitch.”
Lynch stepped between them, much to Reilly’s dismay. It was sounding like the whole mess could be resolved quickly if hands could be put on this Samuel guy.
“Let’s take this into town. Come on, everyone. Saddle up.”
In pairs, all six Unjudged delegates were split between the two patrol cars and Reilly’s sedan.
Lynch and Gomez found Gordy smudging up his passenger window with handprints and juvenile finger drawings. Lynch spoke to him.
“Did you see anyone out there you recognized?”
“I told you. I saw them at the concert last year.”
“And that’s it? You can’t tell us anything else about them? You don’t know anything about a guy named Samuel?”
“Not a thing.”
Lynch shrugged at Gomez and started the car.
“Let’s get you home.”
“I wouldn’t want to be you right now, amigo. Sus padres va a estar muy pissed off at you.”
“Yeah, right. You’ll have to wake her up first.”
The individual interviews were conducted two at a time, starting with Kelly the girlfriend and Steve the pothead. Since the two crimes had some overlap, all four detectives participated.
Lynch and Warner took Kelly.
“We were partying at the barn. We all passed out in the loft. The next morning, Samuel was gone. Poof, that’s it. Hey, aren’t you guys supposed to have pastry?”
“You don’t seem that affected.”
“It was March. I’m supposed to care about something that happened in March? We were going out for like three weeks. Whoop-dee-doo.”
“Okay, well, if you’re going to leave it up to us to find him, we’re going to need his last name.”
“I don’t know it.”
“What do you mean you don’t know it?”
“None of us know each other’s’ last names…”
Lynch shot her a look as though he’d just heard the dumbest thing in the world. She continued before he had a chance to comment.
“…or age, or address, or occupation. We know cell numbers. That’s it, and before you ask, I don’t remember his, and I took it off my phone. You have it. Check it yourself.”
“Thank you. We will. We’ll need you to help us with a composite before you go.”
“What? You mean like talk to a sketch artist?”
Overuse of the word “like,” especially when used by someone out of high school, drove Lynch a bit mental.
“I mean exactly talk to a sketch artist. We’re also going to need to talk to the rest of your gang…the members that weren’t at the barn tonight.”
“It’s…”
“Not a gang. Yeah yeah. You guys hang out anywhere besides the barn?”
Silence.
“Please don’t make me ask again.”
She didn’t make him ask again. The bar was called The Iron Wall, and, thanks to Pennsylvania liquor laws, had been closed for almost a half an hour. The information gleaned from the rest of the interviews was nearly identical.
Zed Zed had been driven by one of the uniforms to the station, searched in vain for the murder weapon, and parked in the lot. After fines were issued for the vandalism, the six members of the Unjudged were sent home.
Lynch was seeing double, but he and Gomez couldn’t go home just yet. They had eight more black trench coats to track down. After watching Zed Zed’s taillights disappear down Main Street, they caught up with Reilly, who was just ending his tour.
“Jesus, Jim. Get some sleep for chrissakes.”
“Trust me, if we weren’t talking flight risk here, I would.”
“Is that the composite?”
Lynch had made a copy of the sketch. He’d forgotten it was still under his arm.
“What? Oh, yes. No match yet. You sure you’ve got nothing else from the barn?”
“You mean as in witnesses? None. Those shitheads have been hanging at the old Meadowbrook Farm for months. The neighbors complained a few times in the beginning, but…”
“Okay, okay. You answered my question.”
“Crime Scene has given me all they can for now. I’ll check back…” he looked at his watch. “…later this morning.”
“Sounds good. Sleep well.”
Reilly took hold of Lynch’s shoulder.
“Remember…in the loop. Are you coming in tomorrow?”
“It depends on when the Fed’s get here. I’ll
