The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  She pointed her pencil at a club chair that faced her desk. "Update."

  I sat down. "Yesterday I knocked on doors with John. The only witness is an old woman who is nearly blind. She probably can't read a stop sign six inches away."

  Phaup nodded. She suspected as much. "You checked into the backgrounds on the two dead guys?"

  "The two deceaseds,” I said, “are Hamal Holmes and Detective Michael Falcon. I met with the mother and widow of Mr. Holmes. They weren't cooperative. And they probably won't be in the future. I haven't gotten to the detective's...."

  I let my voice trail off. Phaup wasn't listening. Head down, she was shuffling notes on her desk. This happened. Too often. According to John, who was the source of most office gossip, Phaup was on the fast track at Bureau headquarters when she sent an email to the wrong recipient. In fact, she sent the criticism to the supervisor she was griping about. Ever since, she had bounced from one field office to another, before finally landing in Richmond. We were among the Bureau’s smallest operations.

  I watched her peel paper from several of her piles, looking at them with a slightly baffled expression. Inevitably, her nickname was Foul-up.

  "Here they are." She looked relieved, holding up two pink message slips. "I got a call from People Magazine. That's right, People. They're writing a story about some rapper from Richmond. He grew up on Southside. He called the magazine. He told them that Richmond cops are racist-- that's why he became a rapper. And now People wants a comment from us on the, quote, serious racial problems in Richmond, end quote."

  She placed that pink slip near her phone.

  "And then I got a call from the Richmond PD. The chief. Apparently nobody called to tell him about this civil rights case. Raleigh?"

  "I didn’t think it was wise. We’re investigating one of their own."

  "Touch base, act nice. Just don't tell him we're closing it."

  I nodded and wondered how stupid she thought I was.

  She sighed, as if to say, Very stupid. "I should probably assign a senior agent to this case, just to get it wrapped up fast. But I thought you could use the experience. So for the instruction factor, I’ll reiterate. This case needs to be resolved, now."

  "Resolved?" Resolved meant we actually got answers. “Or closed?”

  "Do not split hairs with me, Raleigh. Close it. Or it goes to John."

  John, who also didn’t care what happened out there.

  Phaup was lost in her papers again, and since I could never tell when these meetings were over, I waited to be excused. Out her corner window, the pale morning sky looked as milky as quartz. Down below, in the parking lot, our front gate guards were examining a FedEx truck before allowing it next to the building. When I glanced back at Phaup, she was adjusting herself.

  I looked away again.

  Among her other questionable habits, the woman tugged at her bra straps and pantyhose, constantly shifting the undergarments into place. She reminded me of a nervous third-base coach.

  "Call the police chief today," she said, drawing her hand from her blouse. "Tell him we appreciate his cooperation, want to work together, et cetera, et cetera. Then close. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am." I took that as my exit and stood up.

  "Raleigh."

  I sat down. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Things at home--they're ... all right?"

  I probably should’ve told Phaup the truth. I should’ve said my mother seemed better lately. Almost normal, sometimes. I should’ve. But my gut sense was telling me that if I said anything even close to that, I’d soon find myself investigating fertilizer theft in Sioux City, Iowa. I was a young agent, and I wasn't supposed to get my first choice of placement. The early years meant getting shipped anywhere, at any time. But I was here, living in my hometown, because of “a hardship issue.”

  I had to take care of my mother.

  So, God, forgive me.

  "Things are very bad,” I said. “Really rough."

  Phaup pursed her lips. She managed to nod. "You’ll let me know when that changes?" she asked.

  "Of course," I lied. "Absolutely."

  Chapter 7

  The River City Diner served the best grease in town. After an order of Eggs on Horseback—two eggs riding a strip steak—I drove down Main Street to Ninth and spent the next fifteen minutes circling the block for a parking space that was within walking distance of the Richmond Police Department.

  The city's cop shop was built into a bump of city land. It looked like some hasty urban bunker. And maybe that was appropriate for a city detonating with daily robbery, assault, and murder. But the postage-stamp-sized lot meant no parking, not even for the department’s cruisers. Finally I stuck the K-Car on some gravel that charged five dollars an hour, all the way over by J. Sergeant Reynolds Community College, and walked. The morning heat mocked me.

  Inside the department, sweating like I just ran a 10K, I showed my identification to the guard behind the bulletproof glass. She buzzed the double doors, and I walked down a hallway lined with yellow ceramic tile and softball trophies. At the vending machines I turned right and stopped at a pebble-glass door marked Room 102. Through the bumpy glass I could see the outline of the person inside. Which meant they could see me standing there, too. But after I knocked, they waited. Hoping I would go away.

  I knocked again. "Detective Greene? Raleigh Harmon, FBI."

  I heard a chair scraping back, and the shape grew larger on the pebbly glass, coming forward like a dark shadow. When the door opened, I was holding up my ID.

  Detective Nathan Greene was a bit taller than me, about five-ten. His black Afro was cut short, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His forearm had a blue tattoo of an anchor. Navy guy, I decided.

  "What?" he said.

  “The Bureau conducting a civil rights investigation.”

  “And?”

  “And I need to ask you a couple questions. About your partner. Detective Falcon?"

  He turned, walking into the room, leaving the door open.

  I was getting used to it. I stepped inside, closing the door.

  The office had no windows. Just concrete blocks painted a depressing beige, like vanilla with no flavor. Two desks. One was empty, nothing on the surface. He sat behind the other one. I took the splintered oak chair that faced both desks. The chair looked like a cast-off from some elementary school closed for asbestos pipes. When I sat down, it squeaked.

  "Detective Falcon was your partner, is that right?"

  He gazed at me levelly. He had a thick black mustache, shaped like a bat in flight.

  Buying time, I opened my notebook and pretended to read the pages. "Police report said nobody saw Detective Falcon going into the building on Saturday.” I looked up. “And he didn't radio his location."

  The detective leaned back. I was perversely satisfied that his chair squeaked, too.

  “Do you have anything to say about that?” I asked.

  "Mike worked SWAT for eleven years. The only reason he quit was because his wife worried. So the guy gives up the take-downs, hoping to stay alive, and gets killed watching a bunch of cry-babies call themselves victims."

  "Which brings up another question.” I smiled. “Why would a veteran detective be working crowd control -- on a holiday weekend? Shouldn’t that be street patrol?"

  "Ask management. They're the ones pulling us for these dumb festivals. We also work backup for night cops."

  "Why?"

  "Manpower shortages."

  Phaup used the same excuse for closing cases before any work was done.

  "Were you working out there on Saturday?"

  "No. Mike pulled the weekend. I’ve got night cops."

  I didn’t like the expression in his eyes so I began flipping the notebook pages, buying time, hoping he'd warm up. But he didn’t, and I decided the best tactic was to play novice agent.

  "Here's what I don't get. Detective Falcon supposedly followed Holmes into that building, but he didn't radio anyon
e to say he was heading in?"

  "‘Supposedly’?"

  "Did I say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think he followed Holmes in. I mean, why else go into an empty factory."

  He waited. Then: "But."

  "But he didn't tell anyone he was in pursuit? Why? If he followed Holmes in, it had to be for breaking and entering."

  His eyes were the color of cold tar.

  "The questions are a pain, I get it. But explain it to me so that it makes sense, okay?"

  "Mike would take care of it himself."

  "He was a cowboy?"

  "No, he had no problem working with people. But we only had four guys out there on crowd control, with six hundred angry people. Mike wouldn't haul somebody else into his problem. We’re detectives. That's how we work. Get things done instead of filing paper."

  I ignored the dig at the Bureau. Every cop knew we were one long food chain of government approval, even for the most minute movements.

  "And what about the roof?" I asked. "What happened up there?"

  "You want me to guess. I don't guess."

  "Try it one time."

  Detective Greene's face remained unreadable. He was probably very good at his job.

  "My gut feeling," he said finally. "Nothing more. You got that?"

  "Loud and clear."

  "After that guy broke into the building, I think Mike chased him. And I think that guy figured Mike wouldn't run all the way to the roof."

  "Why not?"

  "He wasn't in the best shape. After he quit SWAT, he got heavy."

  "But he chased him to the roof."

  "Right." He took a deep breath, blowing it out through the mustache. "That was Mike. He wouldn't let things go."

  "So they run to the roof and..."

  "And the perp runs as far as he can go. To the corner of the roof. Can't go any farther. That's when he turns to fight. You know this Hamal dude was a boxer--you know that?"

  I nodded.

  "Probably thought he could take him down. But that wouldn't work. Not with Mike.” Another sigh. "And what happened, you know, it happened."

  "Only I don't know what happened. That's why I'm here. I don't know."

  "So you’re asking me?"

  I ignored that dig, too. "According to the ME's report, Detective Falcon never drew his gun. It was still in his holster."

  "We all make mistakes. Long run up those stairs, lack of oxygen to the brain."

  I pretended to write that down and didn't look up as I asked the next question. "Can you think of anyone who wanted Detective Falcon dead?"

  There was a long silence, and when I did look up Detective Greene had thrown his head back. The laughter rumbled up through his throat before bouncing off the concrete blocks.

  "Girl," he said, wiping his eyes. "How long you been in Richmond?"

  "Why?"

  "We're the grave diggers! You want to know who wanted Mike dead? I’ll tell you. Every guy who thought he got away with murder."

  A hard object lodged somewhere near the base of my throat. "You two worked….cold cases."

  He brushed more tears from his eyes. "Right here, tales from the crypt."

  That information was not part of my file on Detective Falcon. "I thought he was a vice cop."

  "Vice, yeah. And I'm homicide. But we run the cold case unit. By ourselves."

  "Since when?"

  "About two years ago. We made bets on who could solve more of the old cases. But a crazy thing happened. We solved them. And people started calling up the department." He raised his voice, sounding like a woman. "'What about my auntie? How come you ain't looking into her murder?' People started to complain so much that management finally told us to take the gig full-time. They even gave us this nice office." He smirked. "But that was before we had 'manpower shortages.' If we tried starting this now, forget it."

  I tried to control my voice, but didn’t succeed. "Judge David Harmon."

  "Who?"

  I repeated the name.

  "Nobody’s taken it to court yet. You know something?"

  I shook my head. No way could I say my dad’s name again, and suddenly the detective's face changed. The brittle surface cracked, revealing something softer beneath.

  “Friend. Or relative?"

  "Father."

  He waited three beats. Four. At five, I started counting the second-hand movement of the clock on the wall. The color of his eyes shifted from cold tar to warm peat. He pointed at a row of metal file cabinets. Gray, stretching from one side of the room to the other.

  "See those? About two hundred cold cases. People are killing faster than we can keep up."

  I wrote some words in my notebook, although they had no connection to anything.

  "If we had ten guys," he continued, "we still wouldn't catch up. I keep telling management, 'How’re we supposed to do this when you make us stand around the Two-Street Festival tagging people for open beer bottles?'"

  I wanted him to stop, quit giving me the reasons. "You two worked together?"

  "Only when invited. Which was never."

  "What case was he working on?"

  "You mean before that thug killed him?" He didn’t wait for a reply. “Remember the Dubois twins?"

  Everyone in Richmond did. Marvin and Martin Dubois had controlled city crime for nearly a decade. Brutal, ruthless, charismatic, they were finally prosecuted for a murder that stuck and sent to death row. But Marvin—known as V—later died inside Mecklenburg Prison, choked to death by another inmate.

  Martin -- known as T -- was executed this summer.

  "Don't tell me," I said.

  "A cold case is a cold case."

  "You’re telling me Detective Falcon was looking for Marvin's killer? A creep takes out another creep, and that's the cold case he picks?"

  He gave a weak shrug.

  I couldn’t let it go.

  "Your file cabinets are crammed with victims, but Detective Falcon wants to find out which con took out a confirmed sociopath?"

  He opened his hands, some kind of supplication.

  "No.” I shook my head. “I need better than that.”

  "Look, all I know is that when T got his date for the death house, Mike went to interview him. It's not like we can interview the guy after they execute him. And it was Mike's case, not mine. I just told you we didn't --"

  "Any notes?"

  "What?"

  "Did he leave any notes?"

  "We don't file paper every time somebody says hello."

  Another dig. And maybe I deserved it, picking on his dead partner. "I'm sorry. It's just --"

  "I get it, don’t apologize."

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It felt personal now, and that was wrong. "Any notes?"

  "I'll look around."

  I tried to gauge the sincerity. Maybe it was there, maybe not.

  We exchanged cards in place of good-bye and I walked down the hall of yellow tile, heading for the police chief's office to perform diplomatic duty. At the front desk, the policewoman said the chief would be ready in ten minutes. Which meant twenty.

  Near the entrance a small waiting room had more of the sulfuric tiles, only these were brightened by sunshine leaking through the high transoms above the door. The sunlight also fell on an elderly black man, sleeping on the plastic chair.

  Detective Greene's card was still in my hand, the paper edges curling from the moisture in my palm. As I was putting it away, I read his name again. He used a middle name for his first. J. Nathan Greene. J probably stood for some southern schoolyard horror. Junius. Jairus. I was sliding the card into my notebook when I saw the embossed lettering on the back. Words printed in blue. I ran my fingertips over the raised letters, taking in their bumpy relief.

  To the living, we owe respect.

  To the dead, we owe justice.

  Chapter 8

  Hamal Holmes’ gym was located on Second Street, between Leigh and Marshall. When I stepped o
ut of the K-Car, a rank odor rose from hot sidewalk. Quickly I fed quarters into the meter, trying to ignore the smells of baked garbage and urine, and crossed the street. But a young guy was staggering toward me, his eyes like pools of blood. When he opened his hand, I dropped the rest of my change into his palm, knowing full well where the money would go, but also certain that nobody’s belly ever got filled by my self-righteousness. He stumbled away with not so much as a thank you.

  I looked for a sign to the gym but there was nothing except a steel door matching the address I had. I opened it, climbed a flight of narrow wooden stairs, and follow the rhythmic sound of skipping ropes. Slapping leather. Grunting.

  Most of the large room was filled by a boxing ring where two black men were sparring. Or one was. The smaller of the two dangled on the braided nylon rope, shifting his head trying to duck his opponent's punches.

  On the other side of the room, a group of younger boys pounded speed bags and skipped the ropes. Talcum dust hazed the air which had the rank scent of male perspiration.

  I looked around, hoping to find somebody in charge, and caught the eye of an elderly white man. He was leaning on the boxing ring’s padded base but pushed himself off and shuffled toward me. Stooped as a vulture, his gray cotton sweats hung from his bony shoulders.

  He barely glanced at my Bureau ID.

  "Name's Ray Frey,” he said.

  His voice sounded like rusty chains dragged over gravel. He continued watching the ring, where the heavy fighter was still pummeling the smaller guy. "Hey, Mel! Watch his left!"

  "Are you the gym’s manager?" I asked.

  "Last week, manager. This week, owner – Mel, what did I say? His left! What's it gonna take, him rearranging your brain?" He looked over, running his eyes over my face. "Owner by default, you could call it."

  He turned back to the ring as the smaller boxer swung. It was a wild roundhouse, and it missed. He immediately covered his head with both gloves, preparing for punishment. The big fighter’s lips peeled over his mouthpiece. Smiling. Savoring the inevitable pain.

  I said, “How is it being the sudden owner?"

  Ray Frey shrugged. The bony shoulders stabbed the sweats like wire hangers. "Not like I won the lottery. Ain't exactly a profitable business we got here."