by Teri Woods
“You do what I say, everything I say, and I might let you live.”
“Okay, okay,” said Markita as she felt him letting go of her neck.
“Take your clothes off.”
Markita didn’t know what to do. She was standing there desperately trying to think of something, something to do or something to say, that would get her out of the situation she was in.
“What the fuck is you standing there for?” said Terrell as he savagely attacked her, pushing her onto the bed and ripping at her clothes.
Markita tried to fight him, she tried to use her strength, but Terrell was physically stronger, and he hit Markita again, this time on her face, immediately swelling her eye, and it was then that Markita stopped fighting. She let him have his way. As he pulled at her clothes and ripped off her pants, she simply lay there imagining it all as a bad dream.
Terrell raped Markita repeatedly, pinning her down, holding the back of her neck as she lay on her stomach. Then he pulled out of Markita and quickly reinserted himself into her other hole. Markita almost leaped from the bed, but Terrell grabbed her arms and held her tightly. She screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Oh, God, please, no, stop, please no!” she screamed as Terrell ripped into her. She could feel the wetness and suspected that she was bleeding. The only sound besides her cries, was Terrell’s grunting. He sounded like a wild animal.
“Stop it!” Markita screamed. “Please, help, please, stop!”
Terrell held her arms in place and continued to brutalize her anus.
“Stop it, please!”
More grunting.
“Help me, please!” she screamed louder.
Grunting.
“Help me!”
Grunting.
“Somebody help me, please!”
More grunting, followed by a wild cry of carnal pleasure as Terrell exploded inside her asshole. His thrusting and throbbing caused her to let out a blood-curdling cry.
“Shut up! Shut up! You fucking whore, you know you like it.”
Terrell continued to breathe heavily, trying to regain his expended energy. “Markita.”
It was then that she realized he knew her name, and she had never told it to him.
“I have a question for you. And I need for you to be really honest with me.”
“What?”
“I need you to call Gena for me and I need you to tell her to come over here.”
“What?” Markita again tried to force her way out from under Terrell. He gripped her arms tightly.
“You heard me; I need you to call Gena and tell her to come over here. You probably will have to make it sound like an emergency or something.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know where she is. I don’t even know how to reach her.”
“Tell me where I can find her.”
“I don’t know!”
“Where can I find her?”
“I don’t know!”
“Don’t lie to me, Markita,” Terrell said. “I know that she lives here.”
“Gena don’t live here!” Markita struggled to break free. “I don’t know where you got your information from, but they telling you wrong! Gena used to live in the apartment next door, but that was long ago!”
“Her cousin said that you two live together.”
“Her cousin lied!”
“Why would she lie to me?”
“Who the fuck knows! Get off of me!”
“Tell me where I can find Gena.”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know, and if I did, I wouldn’t fucking tell you anyway,” Markita screamed at the top of her lungs.
Terrell scooped her up and wrapped his massive arms around Markita’s neck. He kissed the back of her neck and licked her around to the right side of her ear, and then twisted in one quick, forceful motion. Her neck sounded like a dry twig when it snapped.
Terrell remained on top of her as her body spasmed and convulsed. Once he was finished, he climbed off her and began to search her apartment for evidence of Gena’s whereabouts. Gena had lots of clothing in Markita’s apartment, some of which she had worn recently. It was in an older pair of pants that Terrell found what he was looking for, however. It was a business card for 4-U-Self Storage.
Finders Keepers
Gena knocked on the door more forcefully the second time; still no answer. Markita was known for hopping into the shower or getting lost in a damn soap opera and simply tuning out the rest of world. Oh, come on, Kita, I got to use the bathroom, girl.
Gena knocked once again and then twisted the doorknob to see if the door was unlocked. The knob turned. The door was open all along. She pushed open the front door and crept into the apartment.
“Markita.”
No answer.
The television was on, as were most of the lights. The apartment looked to be even messier than usual, which wasn’t saying a lot, because Markita’s house was always junky. Gena made her way into the bedroom. It was dark, as the bedroom shades and curtains were drawn, and sure enough, Markita was lying in bed.
“Girl, get your ass up. What are you still doing in bed? We got things to do; come on, I need your help,” said Gena as she tapped on her girlfriend’s shoulder. Markita felt cold.
“Markita?”
No answer.
Gena pushed her friend more forcefully, causing the blankets to move. The dried bloodstain over Markita’s butt became visible. Gena covered her mouth.
“Markita!” Gena shook her friend. “Markita. Oh, my God!” Gena pushed Markita over, to find herself looking into her friend’s open but lifeless eyes.
“Markita!” Gena grabbed her friend’s wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Gena backed against a wall, where she slid down to the floor and burst into tears. She knew what had happened. Whoever had hurt Gah Git had now killed her closest friend. He must have been looking for me. Yes, the crazy man had gone there looking for her, and Markita had paid the price. He had done to her what he had done to Gah Git, but even worse. Gah Git still had some life left in her after he had gone, whereas Markita had none.
Gena wiped away the tears that were pouring down her face. She had lost another best friend, another friend to bullshit. It was the city. The city was taking life away from her, slowly but steadily. It was closing in on her. It was out to get her. She had to get away, she had to run for her life. If not, she too would be dead soon. She could feel it coming. Death was around the corner, and it was creeping toward her. Slowly but surely death was tracking her down.
Gena willed herself to rise. She kissed Markita’s dead, cold, lifeless cheek. She was out of there. Fuck Philly, fuck Richard Allen, fuck Quadir, fuck my entire life. Gena was done; she was ready to go and never, ever look back. Philly had taken her parents, it had taken Sahirah, it had taken Quadir away from her, it had taken Markita, it almost took Gah Git and Gary, and it was about to take Bria and herself, if she didn’t do something about it.
Gena moved away from Markita’s corpse and made her way out to the living room. Should I call the police? Just to get someone here? God, she’ll be lying here all alone for days if I don’t call. I have to do something. But what, what should I do? Before leaving, Gena called 911 and reported the finding of a dead body. She remained anonymous, and immediately hung up the phone after giving the operator Markita’s address. Gena headed down the steps to the front porch of Markita’s house and climbed into her rental. She had to get out of town, and she had to go tonight. She would meet with Rik, square him away, stash her cash, and then leave this place for good. She was heading south, maybe Norfolk, maybe Charleston, maybe Charlotte, maybe even Atlanta. She would know once she got there. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was going tonight. Her life depended on it.
Cornell Cleaver stepped under the yellow police lines and made his way into the apartment. He flashed his badge at the uniformed police officer guarding the door and was allowed to pass.
“What the fuck is IAD doing here?” Detective Smith shouted from across the room. “Nobody’s fucked shit up yet.”
“Curtis Miles!” Cleaver smiled. He walked to where the homicide detectives were standing and shook his friend’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”
“What’s your ugly face doing here?” Miles asked.
“Just passing through,” Cleaver told him.
“Passing through, huh?” Miles asked suspiciously. “Bullshit. Whose balls are you trying to break? IAD doesn’t crawl out of its little cubicle unless it’s trying to bust balls.”
Cleaver lifted his hands and shrugged. “I’m just passing through, Curtis. Honest to goodness.”
Miles waved to the gentleman standing next to him. “This is Detective Harmon Brittingham. He’s one of my best detectives, and he’s going to be the lead detective on this case. Harm, this here is Cleaver; he’s IAD. Used to work for me in Homicide, used to work for me in Vice before that, used to work Narcotics before that. He used to be a real cop once, and now he’s a ball buster.”
“You flatter me with your kind words, Lieutenant,” Cleaver told him.
“You come here to fuck with my guys, you let me know,” Miles told him with a “don’t fuck with me either” look on his face. “Those are the rules of the game. You don’t fuck with my guys without me knowing about it, you got that?”
Cleaver nodded. “Where’s the victim?”
“She’s in the bedroom.” Miles peered up at the door. “Holy fuck, what the fuck we got going on here, a convention? This is a homicide investigation, not a goddamn policemens’ ball! What do you two numb nuts want here?”
Cleaver turned and spied Ellington and Davis making their way toward them.
“What the fuck is vice doing here?” Miles asked.
“We heard that she was connected,” Ellington told him.
“I haven’t heard that,” Miles shot back.
“You’re Homicide, not Vice, so you wouldn’t have heard that, now would you?” Ellington asked in an aloof tone of voice.
“Letoya, you’re looking mighty tasty as usual.”
“And you’re still looking desperate, Lieutenant.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Good, since she’s never met you.”
Lieutenant Miles threw back his head in laughter. “I see your tongue is still sharp.”
“And I see that your belly’s getting rounder. Picking up some weight, are we?” Ellington placed her hand over Miles’s stomach and giggled at his belly.
“Watch it. Moves like that make it turn hard.”
“How would you know?” Ellington smiled. “You haven’t seen that shriveled little piece of meat since Nixon was in the White House.”
The detectives and officers around the room laughed heartily.
“What we got here?” Davis asked, peeking through the bedroom door.
“Female, black, early twenties, death by strangulation, looks like. Coroner’s on his way; we’ll know more then,” Harmon Brittingham explained. “You wanna see some weird shit?”
The detectives followed Brittingham into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers, displaying Markita’s naked body. “She got fucked in the ass, probably right before her death.”
“Or perhaps even during,” Ellington suggested.
“Sick bastard,” Cleaver chimed in.
“Judging from the amount of blood, it wasn’t something that she did on a regular basis,” Brittingham advised.
“Raped?” Davis asked.
Harmon Brittingham shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a forced entry. No pun intended. No forced entry into the apartment either.”
“She knew the perp,” Cleaver added.
Brittingham shrugged. “Apparently. It looks like the sex was consensual. I mean from what I can tell, she let the guy in, she’s not bruised or beaten, so it looks as if she voluntarily had sex. But something went wrong. No telling what made it turn bad.”
“The apartment looks like it’s been ransacked,” Ellington observed.
“Talked to the neighbors, and apparently the victim kept a pretty messy apartment,” Brittingham explained.
“Any leads?” Cleaver asked.
“Forensics are on their way. We got semen, tissue maybe, definitely skin cells, sweat, perhaps some hair. All the usual trace elements from sexual intercourse,” Brittingham advised.
“Whoever did this doesn’t give a fuck if he’s caught,” Davis observed.
“He’s probably not planning on being in town long enough to give a shit about any evidence,” Ellington said.
“All right, spill it!” Miles ordered, watching Ellington and Davis summarize a case, although he had no clue what they were summarizing.
“What?” Ellington asked.
“What the fuck are you working on that made you show up here today? And how did you come to the conclusion that this son of a bitch is planning to skip town? I want to know what you know, Detective, and I want to know now!” Miles said forcefully.
“Remember the assault on the old lady that happened last month sometime?” Ellington asked. “The really brutal one?”
Miles scratched his head as he tried to remember. “I think I do. The old woman from the projects. She was raped. Fucked in the . . .”
“Jesus!” Brittingham whistled. “Same fucking MO. You think they’re related?”
Ellington nodded. “I know they are. The girl that he was looking for when he attacked the old lady was her best friend,” said Ellington, pointing to Markita’s dead, naked body.
“Why in the fuck didn’t you say so when you first walked in?” Miles shouted. “What, is this a fucking poker game or something? We holding our cards close, Detective?”
“What the fuck does Vice have to do with any of this?” Brittingham asked.
“The girl’s husband was a major dealer who got popped. He was a Vice target. She was also a Vice target. Her new boyfriend popped her husband; he was a major dealer, and a Vice target, and then he got popped,” Ellington explained.
“Who’d he get popped by, her third boyfriend?” Miles proclaimed. “Talk about some bad-luck pussy.”
“So who are we after here?” Brittingham asked, just wanting his job to be as simple as possible.
Ellington shrugged. “I wish we knew. The only thing we do know is that this guy is a fucking nut case.”
“I want the file on this one,” Miles told her. “I want to know everything that you know, and I want to know it yesterday. I’m getting this son of a bitch off the streets.”
Two dark-suited men stepped into the bedroom. They were young, clean-shaven, well-dressed. They screamed Feds.
“And you two are?” Miles asked, not playing any more games with his crime scene.
“I am Agent Harbinger, and this is my colleague, Agent Covington. We’re from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“FBI?” Miles huffed. “What’s your jurisdiction here?”
“Excuse me?” Josh asked.
“Well, we got Homicide, Internal Affairs, and now FBI. I guess DEA and Customs will show up next, telling me that she was smuggling for the cartel. This whole thing stinks to high heaven. Why are so many noses interested in a young, dead black woman with no criminal record, no known boyfriends, vices, or any other red flags in her history? Why is the FBI here, at a homicide scene? Don’t tell me: She was kidnapped at the age of four? You heard me, why are you here?”
Josh smiled. “Was she a victim of an abduction?”
“Don’t get cute with me, son!” Miles bellowed. “What’s the FBI’s business here? I’m trying to conduct a homicide investigation.”
“We’re conducting a highly classified federal investigation,” Josh told him. “We’re going to take a look around, if you don’t mind. By the way, why did you say you had vice detectives here?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why are they here?” Phil asked Josh. He removed a notepad and pen from his pocket
.
“And why is Internal Affairs here?” Josh added.
“Just leaving,” Cleaver told them. He stormed from the room angrily. Fucking FBI. I needed a chance to search the damn place and these assholes show up. Fuck! I’ll have to come back later when the circus is over.
Ellington and Davis headed for the exit.
“I’ll get those files to you, Lieutenant,” Ellington told him as she left the apartment.
Phil and Josh turned to each other and smiled.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on here?” Miles asked, looking at Harbinger and Covington as the room cleared out.
“Hey, we just wanted to jump-start the marathon,” joked Josh as he patted Covington on the back.
“Yeah, get ’em up and runnin’.”
Let’s Call It a Comeback
Michael pulled up his Lincoln Navigator in front of Gah Git’s house. His mother looked somewhat tired.
“You okay?” he asked as he placed his hand on top of hers.
“Yes, son, yes, I’m fine. You gonna have to help me out this big truck you got,” Gah Git said.
“I’ll help you, Gah Git,” said Bria, hopping out and opening the door for her grandmother.
“Here, I got her,” said Michael, pushing Bria out of the way to assist his mother.
“Dag, Uncle Michael, just push me down the next time,” joked Bria.
“Come on, Mama; don’t pay her no mind.”
“That crazy child right there, is you kiddin’ me?” added Gah Git, agreeing with her son.
“Whatever, say what you want, you know who be in here taking care of you, Gah Git. Uncle Michael’s just a visitor, Gah Git. I’m the one who’s gonna have to take care of you.”
“Lord have mercy, I’ll be all tore up in here with you and your crazy sister,” said Gah Git as she looked at her granddaughter and thought of Irene, the twins’ mother, who had died while giving birth to the girls. Gah Git thought of her daughter, Irene, every day. Everybody did, but no one talked of the twins’ mother, no one really ever said Irene’s name, never. That’s how Gah Git had ended up with the twins. Gah Git brought them home from the hospital and went over to the funeral home the next day and buried her daughter. Gwendolyn’s crazy ass was too busy doing other things, like getting high, to take care of Khaleer, so Gah Git demanded the youngster stay with her. And when Gwendolyn had Brandi, addicted to crack cocaine at birth, Gah Git stepped in and took her from Social Services. Ms. Bradley, the social worker assigned to Brandi’s case, still came by from time to time just to visit with Gah Git. She had been trying to get Gah Git to foster mother some abandoned children in the system, but Gah Git had her hands full. Paula was the only child of hers who seemed to have it together. She worked at the bank as an assistant branch manager, she dated on and off, took her yearly vacations to the Caribbean, and was raising Gary, Zorian, and Avanna on her own.