One of the kids was a little Black boy with braces. He was smiling and talking loud with his friends until he noticed Fats. He dropped his head and eyes immediately. Fats gave him a head nod. The kind of head nod that only goes down. When an older Black man nods up at you it means, “Keep up the good work.” A nod down means, “I’m watching you, punk.”
Fats ducked into the church. At the altar, he prayed for the forgiveness of his sins and promised to fast for thirty days. He begged and he sobbed. He rocked back and forth and he squeezed his eyes and hands really tight. He shook his head “no” as if he were wrestling with the spirit. Anyone watching could see this man had a serious problem that needed bringing to the altar.
He was back in the truck and heading for the stores before a fifteen-minute quarter could tick off the meter.
He called Terrance.
“Yeah?”
“Ay boy, you weren’t playin’ were you?”
“Na, I told you I handle business.”
“I see,” Fats said.
“Can I get paid?”
“Yeah, yeah. Meet me at the club tonight.”
“Cool.”
Fats hung up the phone and sighed loudly. “That was almost too easy.” He threw the phone in the trash before going in the bank and getting Terrance’s five thousand dollars.
* * * * * *
Saturday, 11:05am
Brooks drove around to Knuckle’s Boxing Gym. Knuckle’s was a small room above an auto garage off of South Carolina Avenue. No one outside of the boxing community - boxers, trainers, managers, promoters, or journalists - would have noticed the place. Brooks jogged up the narrow stairs and opened a fog--stained glass door.
Most of the walls inside Knuckle’s were covered with posters and pictures. The posters were old promotions of boxing cards and of ring girls. The pictures were of all the great Black boxers and the last wall was lined with a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Banners hung from the ceiling congratulating Golden Glove champions who had come through Knuckle’s.
There was half of a boxing ring up against the left wall. Brooks figured that practicing in such close quarters had to have helped Will develop his famously fast fists. There were a few heavy bags, some speed bags, some weights, and a bench. By any accounts this gym would be described as tiny.
Inside, the gym smelled like hard work. There were usually desperate men punching bags and jumping rope as if their lives depended on their next fight. Usually there were boxers grunting and trainers pacing and screaming instructions. This day, the boxers were sitting around shocked and quietly talking about their stablemate.
Brooks sat and listened. His shield dangled from his necklace and he held a reporter’s pad and pen in his hand. The boxers noticed but ignored him. They looked at each other and at the floor. Several kept mumbling, “I just can’t believe this shit, man.” They took turns telling stories about their friend, Will “Six Hands” Johnson.
Brooks learned that Six Hands worked out six days a week from 9 to 5. It was a true workday complete with a 1-hour lunch break. He called it “going to the office” and Johnson never took sick days, leave, or vacation time. The champ trained year-round.
After the gym, he went to an office on Alabama Avenue, where he ran a charity for at-risk kids. Sometimes he slept on the couch there. He had endorsement deals with Everlast and Super Water worth $3 million a year and leveraged those for sponsorships for his job fairs, health fairs, community block parties, and after-school tutoring programs.
The boxers said Johnson didn’t smoke, drink, or curse and that he got down on his knees and prayed every night. He was an usher at his church, never missed a Sunday, and tithed ten percent of his purse to the church after every fight.
“The gym would be deader den a motherfucka,” one guy said. “I’d be tired and bullshittin’, jus’ goin’ through the motions, ya know. Man, Six Hands walk in this joint and the lights got brighter!”
Everyone laughed in agreement. “Man, Chuck Brown would come through the speakers…”
The men nodded and smiled more. One guy started and then they all joined in. They all sang:
All that I got is all that I need
I got you and baby you got me
What more can I ask for?
A beautiful life
“Man, Six Hands loved that motherfuckin song!” a man said as he walked away.
A guy seated in a folding chair shook his head. “That boy loved him some Chuck Brown.” He didn’t bother wiping the tear that rolled down his cheek.
“Everybody be like ‘the champ is here’. Man, niggas get to working out hard as shit then!”
More laughter.
“When the brothers saw Six Hands knock that motherfucker out and win that belt!” the first guy said. “Mufuckas knew this shit could really pay off, you know. And seeing a world champion every day, in your gym … working out right next to the motherfucker punch for punch…that shit made a nigger feel better about his chances in life, you know?”
“Yeah man.”
“So who wanted to kill him?” Brooks asked.
Everyone stared at him. No one answered. One guy glared at him. He was old enough to have a few gray hairs on his chest. Too old to be a competitive boxer, he must have been a trainer. After the long pause, Brooks continued, “Nobody?”
“What?” It was the older dude. “You the police so you just walk in, sit down, and start listening to niggas’ conversations?”
“I heard about you. You’re the trainer, um…I forgot your name, but you’re one of the guys that he fired a few months ago, right?”
Dave the trainer was quiet now. He looked away and shifted his weight. His muscles tensed.
“That was nothin’. Me and Six Hands ain’t have no problems.” Some of the faces of the other boxers believed that statement.
“So, you kept working out here, I mean, after he fired you?”
“I got other fighters here that I train too, you know.”
“So, you trained him from the amateurs up until…when did he fire you?”
“Like I said, me and Six ain’t have no problems, so you’re wasting time. You should be out there looking for his killer.”
“Who wanted to kill Six Hands?”
“If anybody in this room knew that then we wouldn’t be sitting in this room."
“What about the promoter? What’s his name?”
“Who Fats?” Dave asked. Two of the boxers slowly got up and walked away.
“Yeah, Fats Harrington.”
Dave looked around. “What about him?”
“Did he have a problem with Will Johnson after you all got fired?”
“I dunno. You’d have to ask him.”
“What about the other one?”
“I don’t like talkin’ to the police.”
“Theodore Pearson. Did Theodore Pearson have a problem with Will Johnson?”
“Ask him.”
“Where is Theodore Pearson now?”
“He ain’t hard to find. He’s got an office downtown. Lawyer.”
“Here’s how you can reach me,” Brooks said as he handed him a business card. “How can I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t,” Dave said and walked away.
* * * * * *
Saturday, 11:18am
Inside the Chishlom campaign headquarters, the key members of the staff were sitting around the conference table laughing about the guy with no front teeth. Chisholm volunteers had been on the corner of 14th & U Streets for two weeks now. That morning Mayor Roland Brown’s volunteers showed up with their signs and megaphones. The Brown volunteers set up directly across the street from the Chisholm campaign. At one point a homeless man kept crossing the street, back and forth yelling, “Fuck bofe of y’all!”
Travis Wheeler, the campaign’s most loyal and most-abused volunteer, was imitating the guy when Councilman Thomas Chisholm walked in and interrupted, “Have y’all heard about Six Hands Johnson?” He was sniffling, moving and t
alking a mile a minute. His eyes were as wide as the mouth of a 40-ounce beer bottle. He closed the door with his foot and sipped his coffee. Travis quietly took a seat and picked up a pen.
The tall candidate had skipped shaving that morning and sported a light shadow over his light skin. Councilman Chisholm dropped his papers and folders on the table and exclaimed, “Six Hands Johnson was just shot and killed in a barbershop on H Street.”
“What?” Travis said.
“That’s right. We can use this.” He lowered his head and raised his eyebrows and looked as if he was peering over invisible editor’s glasses while pointing to people around the room.
“Who is…or I guess, who was Six Hands who?” Alicia asked.
“Six Hands Johnson was the lightweight champion of the,” Chisholm started.
“I thought he was a middleweight,” Travis said.
“Okay. Middleweight, whatever,” Chisholm continued. “Anyway, he was raised in Barry Farms,”
“Lincoln Heights,” Travis corrected again.
“Okay, Mr. Wikipedia, would you like to take over?”
Travis opened his mouth to begin explaining. Still staring at him, Chisholm continued before Travis could get a word out, “The point is he was from DC, born and raised in this city. He went on to be a world champion and today he was shot and killed in broad daylight in front of plenty of witnesses.”
Chisholm looked at Alicia Battle, his press secretary, and said, “Get out a press release saying it’s a travesty, violence is at an all-time high, criticize the mayor - but not the police -, and add some stuff about when I’m mayor, I’ll see to it that blah, blah, blah.”
Alicia scribbled on her reporter’s pad and whispered. ”Blah…blah…blah…Got it.”
“Okay, I gotta get down there while the news cameras are still on the scene,” he said. “I’ll see you guys at seven, right?” He turned and exited just as fast as he had come.
Councilman Thomas Chisholm represented Northeast’s Ward 5 community. He was 40-years old and serving his second four-year term. He was running for mayor and with the election less than 90 days away polls showed him in a tie with the incumbent Mayor Roland Brown. The other three candidates had all but given up and conceded.
Travis was standing again, trying to finish his story. Chisholm interrupted again. “Hey Travis,” he said as he opened the door. “Get the guy from that grassroots stop the violence thing and set up a meeting tonight around six.”
“Which one?” Travis asked.
“What?”
“It’s two organizations like that in DC. You got -”
“Get both of them.” And he was out of the door again.
“Okay,” Travis continued in a lower, less excited tone. “So, when this guy first came down the street -”
Chisholm returned. “Travis, which one gets the most money from the mayor?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s what all these community service grassroots bullshitters are after, grant money. Which one of the stop-the-violence hustlers is getting the most money from the mayor?”
“I’ll find out.”
Thomas Chisholm went to Morehouse on an academic scholarship. He pledged a fraternity before graduating with a BS in History. He met his wife while at Georgetown Law School and they quickly had three sons then two daughters. He was hired by a small K Street firm and had become a star in the Mergers & Acquisitions Department. He won his city council seat easily. The voters were impressed that a young African American had made a million dollars outside of entertainment, sports or drugs.
Four years later, he had been re-elected in a landslide. Chisholm didn’t chair any committees on the council and he didn’t propose any legislation at all. He didn’t piss anybody off. Now he wanted to be mayor. His campaign had been getting rave reviews by the media and Chisholm’s confidence had started to grow by the minute. He fully expected both daily newspapers to endorse him.
He had started to act as if he were already mayor. He had a two-car police security service. He regularly used the police escorts, sirens and high speeds, to get to meetings and personal appointments. He told his driver, “Turn on the lights. We need to get to H Street ASAP.”
Chisholm jumped in the backseat of a black Suburban and the security team followed orders. The sirens screamed and the red and blue lights danced. The trucks pulled off and drove past halted traffic while Chisholm typed a message into his iphone. This was a life Thomas Chisholm could get used to. And this murder scene thing was just the type of stuff he had to do to get the job.
He would need practice because Councilman Chisholm lacked swagger. DC is a country bumpkin wearing tails and a top hat – barefoot. A small southern town acting like a big city. Chisholm was smart enough to win Ward 5 but maybe too smart to win the city. He wasn’t a man of the people and he didn’t want to be.
He had been criticized for being bourgeoisie, but took the criticism as a compliment. He got into politics because he believed he was smarter than most people and he could help the masses. He had good ideas and strong management skills so he was positive he could help fix the schools, clean the streets, rid the city of violent crime and open air drug markets and much more. He assumed the long list of people who had tried to govern the city before him simply weren’t as intelligent or focused as he.
He understood that Corporate America didn’t require one to be polite to be successful. Goals are set and met - or heads roll. Not so in politics. No matter how powerful your position you still need to be able to kiss two asses at once to get anything done in Washington. Thomas Chisholm didn’t like puckering up for anyone. Going into the hood and pretending to give a crap about a barbershop murder was all the posturing he could stand.
Chapter 4: The politicians
Saturday 11am
C hisholm told himself to get used to murder scenes. He would have to appear at a few and play for the cameras if he wanted to be the mayor of a major American city. He knew there would be funerals of children where he would have to read official condolences from the city to grieving mothers. There would be many more heinous crimes that required the mayor’s quick and visceral response. The killing of one of the city’s success stories in his ward was merely the first of many memorable times Chisholm would stand behind the chief of police, stare into a news camera and give a “this will not be tolerated” warning to the District’s would-be murderers.
He stepped out of the SUV and buttoned his suit with confidence. He felt like a little boy getting to play grown up for a day. He ducked under the yellow tape and gave a nod to one of the officers guarding the perimeter. The officer stuttered but let the councilman walk by. Chisholm opened the storefront door of the barber shop and immediately saw the bloody white sheet draped over a corpse in Chair 2.
Detective Aiden’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Don’t walk across my scene. You were about to step in my blood.” Chisholm then noticed the puddle of dark blood on the floor. His next step would have put a size 10 Johnston and Murphy footprint in the evidence. Still, he was a bit disturbed by the way the detective put his hand on him and at his tone.
Chisholm noticed a white shirt in the far corner of the shotgun room and used him to ignore the detective. He struggled to remember the guy’s name but still acted familiar when he made eye contact. He said nothing to Aiden other than “excuse me” after he waved and headed around the puddle toward the sergeant.
Up close he saw the name tag and spoke to him by name when shaking hands.
“Deputy Chief Gillespie.”
“Councilman,” Gillespie answered dryly.
“I heard about this on WTOP and came right over,” Chisholm started. “Is there anything the city can do to help you on this?”
“Nah, we got it,” Gillespie said.
“Do you have any leads?” Chisholm asked.
“Well, sure.”
Chisholm waited a beat for more information. “Ok…does that mean an arrest is imminent
?”
“Absolutely.”
Chisholm was put off by the short answers but he understood the problem. In campaign speeches Chisholm had made several comments about the police and teacher unions being enablers for poor performance. Both unions were backing the incumbent Mayor Brown. Plus, as a councilman there was little Chisholm could do as far as applying pressure on rank-and-file officers. When elected mayor, these detectives would have to at least pretend to like or respect him.
The police all acted as if they were too busy to brief him on the situation. He felt out of place and in the way. Chisholm decided to step outside where his skill set was more valuable. But before leaving, he had one last question for the sergeant.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Is that the guy that the paper wrote the profile on?” he whispered.
“Which profile?” Gillespie frowned.
“You know, the one with the low clearance rate and the crazy overtime hours?”
“Yeah, that’s one of ‘em,” Gillespie answered in a monotone. “Detective Christopher Aiden. He’s the lead on this.”
“You’re serious.”
Gillespie looked at Chisholm like he was out of his mind. “He’s a great detective.”
Chisholm looked from Gillespie to Aiden and back then added, “I trust he is, but this is a rather big case. Are you positive?”
“We have three great detectives working this.” Gillespie said. “In fact, I need to have a word with Detective Aiden and Detective Taylor right now. Excuse me.”
Gillespie walked to the front of the shop and huddled with his detectives. Chisholm straightened his tie and headed outside to be seen. “What a prick,” Gillespie whispered.
“If he’s elected, I’m moving to Montana,” Taylor said without looking up from her notes.
“I told you there would be pressure on this one, right?” Gillespie said to Aiden.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And it’s just the second hour,” Gillespie grunted. He squinted out of the window and continued. “We got NBC, ABC, and Fox out there. Later we’ll have ESPN and more.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 5