'I get the picture.'
'How much more do you want to know?'
'How much more do you have?'
'Significant trauma and tearing to her vagina and anus.'
'I've got enough.' Cantrell turned to the camera hoping the disgust on his face didn't play as unconcern.
For the last year or so, other than the occasional hiccup, the streets had been calm. King and his Youth Solidarity organization, unorthodox methods and all, had been an effective rule. But things on the streets had heated up. It started small, a match or a tussle here and there as if testing the waters. Then an attack. Then a rape. Rumor had it that the Latinos had raped a black woman. Not that any such crime had been reported, but the rumor had life and power of its own. Now bodies were dropping. With this many bodies falling, it would only be a matter of time before the Feds came in with RICO and the Patriot Act behind them. Too much talk of drug wars and gangs put a rarified scent into the air — cutting through even their terrorist mandate — and the Feebs would come in like it was mating season ready to hump anything that moved. Federal indictments had a way of driving people mad. Cantrell hoped to put the cases down before things got any further out of control.
The squad room was little more than a sanctuary of desks. Three long rows of them, overgrown and strewn with paper and stacked folders. Brown folders lined up on them under a fluorescent glare. Every now and then, slips of pink paper sprang up beneath wayward piles in response to the constant bleet of the phones. Every bit of open space was an opportunity for another file to land on a desk. Mismatched file cabinets stood like soldiers at attention. A stereo rested on top one of them; an American flag magnet clung to another.
'What do we have?' Captain Octavia Burke cut an imposing figure despite barely passing the height requirement to join the force. A full-figured woman in a gray business suit, she wore her glasses low on her nose in a tacit declaration that she was smarter than whoever she deigned to talk to, detective or chief alike. Before her promotion, she'd been Lee McCarrell's partner also, so perhaps working with him was a fast track to promotion. Like the mayor's detail, if the mayor was a mediocre redneck detective who had managed to not be fired.
'Suspicious vehicle driving real slow in the parking lot. Opened fire. Folks scattered. Scooped up the girl.'
'A kidnapping?'
'Can't tell if it was intentional or she was an easy opportunity. Then the shit jumped off.' Cantrell turned to the cameras. 'Can I say shit? Anyway, they went up High School Road.'
'Where's Lee?'
'Checking in with one of his CIs.' Cantrell handed her his report and studied her desk. He hated lying to the captain, but he needed to cover his partner's back. His confidential informant was actually off the books and was too plugged into the streets to not be into some dirt herself. And his partner was sleeping with her.
'Let's start at the beginning.' Octavia did that thing with the glasses again. Most days she still missed the rush of being a detective. She missed the opportunity to read people. She missed unraveling mysteries. Like the bullshit story Cantrell handed her about his partner. Lee McCarrell might have been a good cop at one point, but he often succumbed to the need for short cuts. Not necessarily lazy, but he often made poor decisions. And his partners were often the ones left holding his bag of shit.
'Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez. Went to Jonathan Jennings Public School 109. From the amount of bruises, she went through hell in her last hours.'
'What about the family?'
'Hispanic. Grandmother worked nights as a maid at the Speedway Lodge. Mother and father both deceased. There's an older brother. Lonzo 'Black' Perez. He's in the system.'
'Gang?'
'And drugs.'
'This related?' Octavia paced behind the desk reading the report.
'Things have been heating up. King's been out of play…'
'Let's not confuse a community activist with someone doing police work.' The mention of King James White caused her to bristle. Whenever his name came up, bodies fell and the police were left with more questions than answers. A whole lot of mystery — and things she didn't want explanations for — and open cases. She hated the paperwork and going before the bosses with a plate full of 'I don't know'.
'He runs a program. Gets gang members off the streets. Finds them work. Does after-school tutoring.'
'Riiiiiiiiight. Well, the community is under siege and we're stretched thin running around after something has jumped off in order to get ahead of the problem.' Octavia pushed the glasses high on her nose with a sigh. 'What about the vehicle?'
'Robbery investigation unit informed me that they recovered a car matching the description in my report.' For a brief, beautiful moment, he broke his own rule. He had hope. But he soon paid the price and was dashed against the rocks of reality. 'The car was a burnt husk. Torched in order to hide any evidence. They got it over at Zore's Towing. Even the VIN was totally gone. A hot burn, probably gasoline used as an accelerant. The forensic team was called in and they found a hidden VIN. It traced back to one Garlan Pellam… who had reported it stolen a day earlier.'
'I know that look, detective. What is it?'
'The owner, Mr Pellam. He's not in the system, but he is on the radar of the Gang Task Force. Known associate of many of Dred's crew.'
'And the report that it was stolen…'
'… feels a little too convenient.'
'Might be worth a conversation. Anything on Dred? DOB? Photo? Sheet?'
'We got nothing. A name. A nickname probably, unless you believe his momma took one look at her beautiful baby boy and decided to call his bald ass 'Dred'.'
'Keep your ears open just in case. What's your next step?'
'Got some witnesses coming in to give descriptions of the shooters. Looks like two perps. Black. Working on ID-ing them.'
'See if you can speed up the DNA tests from the fluids on the body. And keep your partner in line. A lot of eyes are on him.'
As lead detective on the Perez homicide, Cantrell needed to make sense of the chaotic crime scene as well as the players. On one side, he had one Lonzo 'Black' Perez, head of a Hispanic crew, local franchise of some national set, whose activities had been slowly amping up as their gang pushed into new territories imposing its will. And whose baby sister was raped and murdered. If something like that was to happen to Cantrell's baby sister, badge or no badge, there'd be hell to pay. On the other side was the mysterious Dred, who'd been a shadowy figure for years, more rumor than anything else until King came on the scene. Suddenly Dred became more active. There were several open cases tied to him — and for that matter, King — that went down with the Colvin affair. No one wanted to look too hard at that as Colvin went down and bodies quit dropping. But the mayor's office, whipped up by the media, pressured the captain on this one. A little girl was dead. An innocent caught in the middle of two junkyard dogs yanking on their junk to prove their manhood. That wasn't going to stand. Hopefully his esteemed partner had something.
'You dig up anything on our case?'
'Like what?' Lee McCarrell sauntered to his desk, a head nod to the filming crew. The crew leapt to readiness, if for no other reason than because Lee made for great commentary, most of which the brass would rather have left on the editing room floor. Still, any opportunity to jam a thumb into their eye he'd take.
'Like motive? Hell, anything.'
'Motive? Money, dope, or pussy. That's always the motive.'
Cantrell cut a furtive glance at the cameras, but Lee only winked at him, enjoying the bully pulpit they afforded him a little too much. Words had a way of catching up with folks. And Cantrell, over conscious of the cameras, parsed his with care. 'Looks like it may have some gang connections.'
'That's what I'm saying. Sell the shit and walk away. People will always have their vices. Smokes. Porn. Booze. Prostitutes. Pussy and drugs in one way or another. And someone around to make money off them. Porn does billions on the internet. You don't see bodies dropping over it.'
'Well, maybe of AIDS.'
'Why you want to go there?'
'I'm just saying…'
