He nodded.
“What about your briefcase?” I asked. “The one you got from your mother for your birthday?”
His eyes narrowed. “What about it? How’d you know ‘bout that?”
“It was found on what used to be your doorstep the morning after the murders. Some of your former associates from the streets turned it over to us. The clothes inside-red sweats-were soaked with blood.”
“I be a BGD,” he announced defiantly. “I don‘ wear red sweats. Ever!”
As soon as he said it, the frame-up was so obvious I felt stupid for falling for it even momentarily. The color red and BGD do not go together.
“Okay.” I nodded. “I understand that, but somebody wanted us to think you did it. They went to a lot of trouble to make it look as though you had something to do with what happened to the Westons. Maybe they figured that if we didn’t get you for the murder, maybe some of your ex-friends would take care of you just on general principles. So you tell me, who did it, Ezra? Do you have any idea?”
“You already know one name,” he said. “Sam Irwin. If I say the others, I be breakin‘ my word to the Black Gangster Disciples and to Ben Weston both.”
“As far as the BGD are concerned, you’re a marked man anyway. They already told me that. And after talking to them, I can understand why Ben wanted you to stay out of it, to keep your mouth shut. We’ll try not to use your word alone to build our case, Ezra. There’ll be other evidence as well. In fact, there probably already is. Did Ron tell you about Junior, Ben’s son, that somebody tried to kill him again last night?”
“Yes,” he said with downcast eyes. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Don’t you owe Junior Weston the same kind of chance his father gave you? If we don’t stop these guys, they may try again, and the next time they may succeed. I can’t promise that you won’t be called on to testify against whatever police officers are behind this operation, because you probably will be, but I can say you’ll be given the best protection we have to offer.”
He raised his eyes and met mine, but he said nothing. “I’ll ask you again. What happened to your briefcase, Ezra?”
“One-Time took it.”
“A cop took it? Which one? When?”
“Name’s Deddens.”
“Gary Deddens? From Patrol?” I remembered Deddens from Ben Weston’s house. He had been one of the officers left guarding the crime scene, the guy who, along with me, had gone chasing after my would-be assassin. Talk about leaving the wolf to guard the henhouse. No wonder Ben Weston’s Day-Timer had disappeared into thin air.
Ezra Russell nodded. “That’s the one.”
“How did he get it?”
“He’s the bagman. We pay him to let us know where the gang enforcement’s gonna be. Me? I’m the treasurer of the Black Gangster Disciples. I take the money to Deddens in that briefcase my mama gave me for my birthday. Deddens takes the money and then he says he likes the case and that he’s gonna keep that too. And all the time he’s sayin‘ this, ol’ Sam Irwin’s standin‘ off to one side with his knife, sharpenin’ it. So I say fine, you keep it. But when people ax me about it, I say someone stole it.”
“Did Ben Weston know this was going on? Did he know there were cops on the take?”
“Ben knows.”
“Why didn’t he do something about it?”
“Don’t you understand nothin‘?” Knuckles Russell demanded. “He was. He was gettin’ the evidence. That’s why those mothers smoked him. That’s why he be dead.”
“You’ve already named two-Deddens and Irwin. Are there others?”
“Ben says there be at least one more and when he finds him, maybe that’ll be the end of it.”
“Did he mention a name, give you any kind of a clue?”
“Somebody in the gang unit,” Knuckles Russell said softly. “He says somebody who all the time knows what’s goin‘ down.”
Somebody in the gang unit? Who could that be? I glanced at Ron, who was studying his watch. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, “It’s almost time, so let’s go to the funeral. I don’t know if Gary Deddens plans to attend or not, but my understanding is that as many people from Patrol as possible are coming as a group. Since Ben worked both places, I expect CCI will be there in force as well. If Deddens shows up, let’s cut him out of the herd in public, turn it into a media event. Once we do that, all we have to do is watch for a reaction from somebody in the gang unit.”
His suggestion made sense. I suspected that Sam Irwin had been killed as some kind of damage-control measure, in another attempt at pinning the Weston murders on somebody else so business in the protection racket could continue as usual. If we made a big show of picking up one of the remaining conspirators, we would be serving public notice to the contrary.
I stood up. “You’re right. We’d better get going.”
“You’d do that?” Knuckles Russell asked dubiously. “Just on my word?”
I looked Ezra Russell straight in the eye. “Ezra,” I told him, “Ben Weston was your friend. I believe you want us to find the people who killed him every bit as much as we do. Maybe your word alone isn’t enough for an actual arrest, but that, combined with other things we’ve learned, certainly makes it possible for us to ask questions. Just asking may get the reaction we need.”
“Can I come along?”
“You bet. Let’s do it.”
We all piled into Ron’s Reliant. The push of a button sent his folded chair disappearing into the specially designed rooftop wheelchair carrying case that resembles a giant clam shell. We drove back up to the church and parked in an open handicapped zone directly in front of the hearse-filled courtyard.
An overflow crowd had spilled out into the courtyard, where loudspeakers blared a full-voiced choir singing an absolutely mind-blowing version of “Amazing Grace.” In my experience most funerals feature a single soloist, but from the sound of it, the Mount Zion Baptist Church had done far better than that. If the choir was already singing, however, there was no time to stand outside and savor it. I left Knuckles with Ron Peters and tried worming my way into the church.
The cross-shaped sanctuary was jammed to the gills. Five white coffins, three large and two small, were ranged across the front of the church, creating a telling spectacle of loss that brought an Adam’s apple-size lump to my throat. In the very front pew, the top of Junior Weston’s head was barely visible where he sat, statue still, with Emma Jackson on one side of him and his grandfather on the other.
On the far side of the church, a red-robed choir faced across the altar and the middle, forward-facing pews. Opposite them sat a massed group of uniformed police officers, only half of which were from Seattle itself. The rest were from law enforcement departments all over the state of Washington. Maybe some of the African-American officers had set foot inside the Mount Zion Baptist Church before, but if they were anything like me, most of the Caucasians hadn’t and again like me, they probably felt like foreigners, drawn there only by the unifying tragedy of those five senseless deaths.
As I started down the aisle, a deacon moved forward to assist me, but I had caught sight of Sue Danielson seated near the front in one of the middle pews. Obviously, the empty space next to her was reserved for me. With whispered thanks to the deacon, I made my way up the aisle just as the Reverend Homer Walters stepped to the pulpit. I slipped into the crowded pew beside Sue Danielson. She scowled at me but said nothing.
“This is the day that the Lord has made,” he said. “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” A chorus of amens echoed throughout the sanctuary.
The opening prayer was long and moving. Then, one at a time and with heartfelt measured words, Reverend Walters eulogized each of the slain victims in turn. He spoke of Ben Weston’s pride in being a police officer, of Shiree Weston’s work with the church credit union, of Bonnie’s interest in becoming a teacher, of Adam’s hope to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a doctor, and of Doug Weston’s sometimes impish gift for storytelling. Finally, though, Homer Walters pounced on the meat and gristle of his message.
“I will not stand here before you today and tell you that what has happened is God’s will,” he declared. “I will not say that God must have had an urgent need for this man and woman and these three little children and that’s the reason He took them home. No, I will not say that. They have been literally cut down in their primes without so
