Warpath

by Ryan Sayles

  “On my way. I assume this is about giving someone some help.”

  Giving someone some help is our code phrase for fucking up someone. If a man can’t stop himself from beating his kids, I consider it help to break that man’s back. It’s harder to punch a child when you have to lean over a wheelchair to do it.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what happened, Graham.”

  “Gang. Drive-by...they hit the wrong house,” Clevenger says. His voice is coming from a desert somewhere far away where shattered men go when they’ve lost their way. “They killed Grandma.”

  4

  In the days following the hit attempt that left me with a damaged brain and no job, Clevenger was there.

  In the days following the drug case that hammered coffin nails into six drug peddlers and hammered a revenge-needle into my neck, Clevenger was there.

  In the days following me coming to in a hospital, delirious and confused, enraged and swimming in the after-effects of a designer drug that did more killing than drugging, Clevenger was there.

  My old partner in the homicide bureau, the detective who took my place as reigning king, the only man who is my family now.

  As a homicide detective I got my ass in deep trouble. Rather than fire me I was transferred away from Graham and into Living Hell: stolen autos. To get any action I started volunteering for undercover buys on a big bust against a drug cooked up by Satan himself. Called The Big Fry, it was cheap and lethal. The first dose killed some users outright, let others live just to rot them out slowly. But with some it caused what we coined as Gray Matter Detonation, which was a fancy term for becoming a vegetable. Imagine a bunker-buster of a stroke with permanent bloodshot eyes, drooling lips and absolutely nothing else. No response to stimulus. Confined to diapers and IV diets. Damnation this side of hell.

  And then there was another group, small. Handpicked by Fate herself to suck it slowly. The smeared. They have a bizarre brain chemical reaction that foils the drug’s ability to kill instantly. Instead, like acid flashbacks, the drug pops back up here and there. Just in bursts. Smears.

  I helped another detective named Garrett take down some folks associated with Big Fry, and their associates found me one day and shot me up with a lethal dose. Left me for dead. I found a hospital before death found me. But the dose wrecked my brain before giving up. I’m smeared.

  So imagine me in some recovery ward, in and out of consciousness for days. Nearly sixty, still built like a bull surrounded by all those nurses, having what they called “an episode.” Disassociation from reality.

  Me snapping out of it, wrapping the lines and wires around my fists like chain around a street boxer’s knuckles, yanking. Flying off whatever tenuous handle medical staff had established for me. Wanting to make sense of it, wanting revenge of my own, wanting to beat and claw and destroy my way back to a frame of mind that wasn’t composed of threads and flashbacks.

  The smears like waterfalls of boiling oil colored like rainbows, each one washing ice over my mind. That consuming needle of brain-freeze stabbing down my neck, radiating a sensation close to death but too much of a cocktease to really be it. Red to orange to brown to purple to blue to black to unconsciousness. I couldn’t handle it. It was like filling a turkey baster with liquid agony and shooting it behind my eyes.

  I’d go apeshit in that room. Storm the hall, gown flapping in the wind and blood pouring down my arms from the IVs I had just torn out and flung across the room. Shameful. But if I could kill a mountain of people to regain what that single injection had taken from me, in those moments, Big Fry smears painting nightmares on the canvas of my everything, I would do it. I would kill until I had it back.

  Clevenger was there. Other than him, I had no one. No one except Clevenger and his wife Molly. People with no reason to love me but who still did. Beyond partners, beyond boys in blue looking out for their own. We’re family.

  I know we brawled. Probably more than once. But despite whatever foul words I spouted, whatever taunts and chest-poking, Graham just cared for me enough to wrestle a destroyed and naked old man back into his bed. Pin him down until his episode passed. Until he finished disassociating from reality and came back to all those nice, clean associated people.

  My captain never came to visit. The guys I worked beside, they never came. Garrett kind-of had an excuse because the same guys who hit me got their mitts on him. He lived. Barely.

  It was just me, Clevenger and Molly, the incessant beeping of the monitoring equipment, the loving spirit of my dead wife who no doubt watched over me and all my nightmares in that damn hospital.

  And I was there way too long.

  5

  Evening, Sunday

  Saint Ansgar’s finest are there when I arrive.

  Night is heavier here than it was back at my place. The street lamps hum in tones of piss yellow and ill green up and down the street. Emergency lights spill LED red and blue in alternating punches along the homes. The bitter tinge to the air feels purposeful tonight; as if evening were a woman baring her teeth at what has occurred here.

  Clevenger stands on the porch, running a hand through his hair. The brilliant red caresses him and he looks soaked in blood. The blue washes over and he looks like a phantom.

  Behind him, the scene of the crime is really nothing more than an unassuming one-story ranch. The house faces east with a two-car driveway but only a one-car garage. A picture window, some decorative shutters and his grandma’s flower garden. Looking at the garden, which is still a bare patch of earth waiting for warmer climates so it may be planted, like Graham. A bare patch of humanity, now. Just waiting.

  I get out of the car, crush my smoke onto the concrete. A homicide detective walks about, speaking with a CSI tech. Another tech is busy placing numbered markers next to bullet holes in the house so he can take photographs. Other markers are scattered like a game of marbles in the street, each standing sentinel over a spent shell casing.

  The difference between this homicide and all the others I’ve ever worked is Clevenger. Any other homicide and we’d be standing there, not reverent to the deceased but cautious that we do not disturb any damning evidence. Talking not about how the victim baked strawberry and rhubarb pies for him as a child but instead debating which burger joint had better onion rings or make jokes that would be considered callous or distasteful to those not accustomed to seeing death as a matter of course.

  Graham sees me, nods. No smile. Instead his face hardens and I know what he wants at once. The PD won’t let him near this one. Not in a million years. He’ll have good people on it, but he wouldn’t have asked me to come down here, be at the crime scene, if he didn’t want me on it as well.

  The weight of my revolver settles in against me. Nudging like a hound asking to be unleashed. Give it time. Those responsible will show themselves.

  I look up and down the street. The powerful flash from the tech’s camera bleaches my vision, even as it reaches over my shoulders to attack my eyes.

  Flash. Frozen in time, two neighbors have actually taken a seat on their porch, mugs in hand.

  Flash. Down the block, people in their robes, stand on the sidewalk at what they must believe a safe distance, curious as to the fatal outcome. Gawkers. I’m sure they were woken by the barrage of pops in the early night, and after they heard the wail and shriek of sirens they felt safe enough to come outside.

  I turn towards the house again just as a uniform walks up to me.

  Flash. He’s young, twenty-four maybe. Tight haircut, neat uniform. Very presentable. “Detective Buckner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Clevenger asked me to escort you through, sir.”

  We walk past all the cop garbage, the crime scene tape, stepping around the CSI shit unpacked and piled. Past relics of the deceased; poured concrete statues of a garden gnome and a fawn. A small collection of blown glass decorations. All memories for Graham to avoid right now.

  Flash. Clevenger’s face has los
t weight, added years and not slept in a decade all at once. His eyes glisten but do not run over. His lips won’t move the way he wants them to. I’ve seen it before from the families of other victims. I hate applying that term to Clevenger but it’s the hard truth. Clevenger pats me on the shoulder; he dare not say anything for a moment.

  When interviewing victims beginning with yes or no questions is decent lubricant for the flow of speech. It avoids what might otherwise be difficult terrain.

  “Molly stay at home?” I ask.

  Nods.

  “Been inside yet?”

  Nods.

  “News media arrived?”

  Shakes his head. Good. Shootings are not new to our city and if the camera crews rolled out for every shot fired they’d be constantly running from one to the next. This might draw some vultures though. It’s newsworthy when gangs get it so wrong. And when the victim is an elderly woman—a grandmother of a police detective no less—they’ll smell blood in the water and want to report it.

  Careful, now. “Anyone else inside? Your grandfather lives here as well, right?”

  “Yes.” Spoken delicately, trying to find his voice. “He went with her.”

  Clevenger sounds a fraction more unwavering with each word. He’s a strong man. A deep breath or two and he’ll be where I need him so we can get moving on this.

  “Where did they go?”

  “Anna Long Memorial.”

  “That’s the best one.” Anna Long Memorial hospital is well established in the area as the highest-quality hospital in a five hundred mile radius. It is all the things a hospital should be: clean, hopeful, well-staffed, caring and most of all, healing.

  We both know his grandma died in her bed, but if the ambulance wants to cart her off to the hospital and have her pronounced there, so be it.

  “Have you spoken with the detective yet?” I ask.

  “No. He got here thirty seconds before you did.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Yes. Name’s DeMarcus Collins. I called the captain and said he’s the one I want.”

  “Good for you.” Calling a superior and telling them who they’re going to assign to your case is ballsy. Clevenger learned a lot of ballsy by watching me, however, so it makes me proud for him to do it. With Clevenger being the head homicide detective he knows his men and should get who he wants.

  “I’m going to have a chat,” I say. I step down and walk out into the yard.

  “Detective Collins?”

  He looks up. The man is so black his features get lost in the chill evening. The cut of his face and neck belong to a stone statue. This man could be stomping down a fashion runway in New York City just as easily as arresting bad guys.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Richard Dean Buckner. I know Detective Sergeant Clevenger. He asked me to come here.”

  “I’ve heard of you. He talks about you. So do the old timers at the bureau. Did you really shoot the mayor’s son?”

  Of course they still talk about it. If it were someone else’s story, I know I’d still tell it.

  “Yeah, I did.” I light a smoke. “Back in ’81.”

  “One day you’ll have to tell me about it.”

  “One day.” Not now.

  We stand quiet for a moment. The lightning flash shot of levity from my story fades out as meaningless conversation during hard times does. “What have you got so far?”

  He leafs through two pages of notes. Then: “No ID on the suspects or the vehicle. One neighbor said he was outside and heard the shots being fired but ‘couldn’t recall’ a make, model or color of the car.”

  “They never can.”

  “Yes. Shots were fired around ten-fifteen. We count nine shell casings in the street. We’ve found twenty-eight holes in the house. Detective Clevenger’s grandmother was struck twice, lying in bed.”

  “DRT?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  DRT. Dead Right There. Collins’ tone is respectful as he acknowledges her death; he knows I’m a friend of the family and more specifically a friend of his boss.

  “What about his grandfather?”

  “Untouched. Woke up, said it took a minute to figure out what just happened, then he called nine-one-one. We’d already gotten three calls before him. Already had units on the way.”

  “Are you going on the assumption that this drive-by was a fuck up? They got the wrong house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Check the neighbors? Could it be they were one house off?”

  “I’m getting to that, yeah. I’ve been looking up and down the street. Seeing if there is something that stands out. Anything that says gangbanger lives here. Could just be that some punk kid from south of the river was sent by his mom up here to live with grandma and grandpa and trouble followed him. There might be a drug house nestled in somewhere. I’ll get as ridiculous as it takes to figure this out. Right now, if I see a pit bull, a low rider, anyone, anyone trotting around with sagging pants, that’s my suspect. I’ll just have to get him to talk.”

  Gears are turning. I take in what he says and it starts to come together for me. “You get many calls to this neighborhood? I’ve been out of the game long enough, maybe things have changed.”

  “How so?”

  “When I was on the force this place was just like it seems now: a sleepy, older neighborhood. Have things changed?” I’m curious.

  “No. Don’t think so.”

  “Why the drive-by here at all?”

  “Did Clevenger piss someone off? Maybe it’s revenge.” Collins is asking me, as if I’m his superior.

  “Maybe,” I say, not meaning it. I look back to Clevenger and my plan is in my mind, swirling. “I’ll see you later, Collins. Do Graham proud.”

  “I will, Detective. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Thanks.” I walk back to Clevenger.

  “What do you think?” he asks as I walk up.

  “Good kid. He’s got some ideas.”

  “Yeah. Is he digging in deep about the neighbors?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “My grandparents moved out here from Wyoming in the late sixties. They bought this house then. I remember visiting as a kid. It’s also one of the reasons why I wanted to get stationed here. I know this neighborhood. There is no reasonable gang target on these streets.”

  “I agree.”

  “I don’t want a trial, Richard.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “My grandmother was a midwife for thirty years. My grandfather got the bronze star in World War Two. This is complete bullshit. This should have never happened.”

  “So you ask for the PD detective who is good, but whom you know to be narrowly focused?”

  “Yes.” Calculated.

  “He’ll make the investigation look good on paper. He’ll put forth the honest effort to bring these punks to justice.”

  “Yes.” Frank.

  “And then you ask me to show up.”

  “Yes.” Firm.

  “So there won’t be a trial.”

  “Yes.” Cold.

  I need you to meet me at 3917 Bending Boulevard. North end of the city. Now. Clevenger was very specific about the north end of the city. Bending Boulevard, like several other roadways, run north and south for miles. They cross the river that divides our city in half and continue on their way in both directions.

  The city planners used a central point at the river as zero block and extended addresses in both directions. What that means is there are a shit ton of street numbers that have a counterpart on the other side of the river. There’s a 3917 Bending Boulevard south of the river as well. My guess is that the gang doing the hit meant to shoot up that house and just drove in the wrong direction and killed the wrong people. Fucking idiots, but people are stupider than anyone besides me will give them credit for.

  Clevenger can’t come near this thing. I’m the closest thing he can get to doing it himself. He also must know Collins’ style enough to thin
k he won’t get in my way. It’s a great sucker punch. The PD sees Clevenger wanting their best assets to do the by-the-book investigation. He looks clean. Collins will turn over mountains of paperwork and thousands of dollars in man-hours for surveillance and canvasing.

  Meanwhile, I’ll have all the fun and faster results.

  “You think Collins will figure it out?”

  “Probably not. His worst trait is when he gets focused like this, he sees what he wants to see. I’ve been watching him. He’s looking at all the elderly neighbors as if they have prison tats and a nine millimeter stuffed in their robes. He’ll occupy himself with this street until it goes cold.”

  “Then I guess I’ll leave.”

  “Keep out of the spotlight,” Clevenger says as we shake hands. “We’re on thin ice here.”

  “I know. And, once these retards figure out how fucking stupid they are, they’ll roll a car out for the real address.”

  “We don’t have much time, then,” Graham says, his eyes like great white sharks.

  “Be with your grandfather,” I say. Turn to my car.

  6

  Just past midnight, Monday

  South of the river.

  I drive with one hand on the wheel. My .44 Magnum is in the other. Got to be ready in these parts. From the 3200 block down to the 5100 block of Bending Boulevard is exceptionally ghetto. There’s some burnt-out industrial park-type stuff that bleeds in and out as well, some strip malls that have more bars than glass in their windows, lots of pawnshops, title loan joints and skanky fast food drive-thrus.

  Whores with their poor fat distribution stuffed into leopard print wander about under the street lamps, peddling STDs. Here and there, clusters of young men eyeball any car driving down the road as if any one of them will roll down a back window and open fire.

  It always seems work takes me south of the river. As a cop, this is where the good crime was. As a private detective, this is where the scum flees to because no one wants to chase it down here. Most folks have serious apprehension about following vermin this deep into the nest.