The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  “Cecille?” I said, wondering what kind of drugs she was taking. “Your daughter Cecille took off?”

  She scowled. "I'm talking about Cherry."

  "Cherry...."

  "Cheraine. My daughter Cher- aine?"

  The younger sister, mentioned in the police file. "Yes, of course. Your daughter Cheraine."

  "She’s not my daughter no more. That girl done took off for the last time. I’m tired of keepin’ her kids while she goes has herself a good time. What, I’m Mary Poppins?"

  Before I could answer in the negative, she narrowed her eyes.

  "But you asked about Ceelie."

  Maybe she wasn't that high.

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm looking into the circumstances surrounding Cecille’s death. I realize it was several years ago but there might be some new information."

  “You know something?” Her stare was level, straight as a surveyor. "You tell me. My heart done broke over that girl."

  From my purse I took out a picture cut from the newspaper. Detective Falcon’s police photo. "Did you ever meet this man?"

  She smiled. Her face softened, as if she was surprised by a good memory. "Yeah, Detective Mike.” But the smile suddenly faded. She shook her head slowly. "I don't know how Cherry's gonna take that news."

  "She knew Detective Falcon?"

  "No, Hamal. She and Hamal." She tossed her head toward the playground. "Them's his kids."

  I turned a half circle. A tingling sensation ran across my shoulders and down my arms. Sitting in the swings, the children twisted the chains into tight helixes, cranking the tension before letting go, spinning themselves into vertigo. I almost felt as dizzy. Less than two miles from this apartment, in a house on Castlewood Street, a young widow had even more children. Taking my last shred of benefit of the doubt, I asked about the children’s ages.

  "Hamal Jr.’s nine. Came along the year after Ceelie died." She scratched her head, doling out the other ages. Her fingernails were long and sparkled with a pink glitter polish.

  My heart was pounding. “How did she know Mr. Holmes?”

  "You want to know for real? I’ll tell you. He buried my girl decent. That Hamal, he took care of people. Even paid for her coffin."

  "You’re saying Mr. Holmes knew Cecille too?"

  “No.” She shook her head. “He just wanted to help. That's why everybody's upset, him dying like that. He was good to people. And Cherry, when she finds out, she’s gonna lose her mind.”

  I lifted the detective’s picture again. "Do you believe what they’re saying, about the detective.”

  "Not 'specially. But don't matter what I believe. Truth's got its own way of going, you know."

  I asked about the funeral, how Holmes paid for it, but she lifted a finger. The bright pink polish looked discordant with her hair.

  “Hang on a sec.” She closed the door.

  I turned, watching the children. They were throwing gravel into the mud puddles created last night. The oldest, Hamal Jr., was lifting bigger and bigger stones, trying to create the most splash. I felt an almost unbearable sadness.

  Mrs. Saunders opened the door. She was holding a paper fan, the simple kind with rounded cardstock paper glued to a wooden tongue depressor. She showed me both sides. One had the twenty-third Psalm; the other advertised the Hope Eternal Funeral Home.

  "I keep it, for remembering," she said. "He laid her down in those green pastures."

  I nodded, writing down the address for the funeral home.

  When I looked up, she was waving the fan through the humid air, blowing back the orange hair and the wet streams that carved down her hollow cheeks.

  ===============

  The awning above Hope Eternal Funeral Home was frayed and sagged, dripping with remnants of rain. Black iron bars covered the windows. And although the name implied infinite optimism, the atmosphere inside felt like every other funeral home: weirdly maudlin, vaguely spooky.

  I walked down a cold hall that smelled of embalming fluid and cigarettes. A door marked OFFICE was cracked open two inches. I knocked on it softly.

  “Come in.”

  A thin man stood by the room’s one window, holding a cigarette. The window was cracked open like the door.

  "Hello, I was looking for the funeral director,” I said.

  “That would be me. Douglass Canes." He strode toward me, moving the cigarette to his left hand. His shake was firm and bony.

  I introduced myself. Once again I left off any FBI affiliations, but I casually mentionned “law enforcement agencies” were looking into the circumstances surrounding some recent deaths. I left the connection open, hoping he would make his own presumptions.

  Back at the window, he blew the smoke outside. But the damp heat pushed it back inside. "What deaths do you mean?"

  "For one, Hamal Holmes. You knew him?"

  "Yes, I did. And the family was heartbroken about the closed casket. But what could I do? We received the body from the medical examiner. I didn’t have much to work with."

  I recalled the coroner's report. It described "insipient brain contusions" erupting across the men's faces. There were also "contrecoup contusions,” caused by the brain ricocheting forward, slamming into the skull. The brain then swelled to gross proportions, contorting facial features.

  "Some years ago," I said, "Mr. Holmes paid for the funeral of a girl named Cecille Saunders."

  "Oh, well, I wouldn't be at liberty to discuss something like that." He picked up a pack of Salems that rested on the windowsill. Shaking out a cigarette, he lit it with the one he had almost finished.

  "Mr. Canes, it’s admirable of you to protect your clients. But Mr. Holmes is dead."

  He puffed. "And my obligations go beyond this life. My services are eternal."

  "So are public perceptions. Did you know that search warrants are public? That means once a search warrant is approved, the newspaper can report all the information. It’s considered a public service. People should know, if there’s an investigation."

  He didn’t even bother blowing the smoke out the window. The gray stream leaked from his slack mouth.

  “Investigation?”

  I nodded, bluffing. No way I could get a search warrant. Not now, not when I was suspended. But he knew something, this chain-smoking funeral director with frightened eyes.

  “Yes, sir. We have reason to believe that Mr. Holmes was involved in something, well, unsavory. You might be able to help clear up the matter. And avoid any need for a search warrant.”

  "Well, in that case.” He smiled. But it was laced with resentment. "In that case, I suppose I have an obligation. To protect my other clients from harm, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Chapter 34

  The boxing gym's tall windows welcomed all the hot sunlight, and it broiled the boys swaddled in heavy clothing. They jumped rope. The nylon strands nicked the linoleum in a steady rhythm, tick-tick-ticking like metronomes set for a death march.

  While sweat poured from the boys, Ray Frey looked unbothered by the subtropical heat. His gray sweats were dry as dust.

  "You're back," he said. "What now?"

  "Now I have more questions."

  "Shoot."

  I asked whether he knew about Hamal Holmes paying for the funerals of strangers.

  “What?”

  I gave him the number. Holmes paid for twenty-four funerals in the last ten years, according to the human chimney named Douglass Canes.

  Ray Frey just shrugged. "I told you about Coretta Scott King. That kid had so many screws loose you could hear 'em rattle."

  After my visit to the funeral home, I had stopped by the Richmond PD and told Detective Greene about the funeral home connection. He cross-checked names that Canes gave me. Every name corresponded to a cold case. Every single one. Now I started reading the names out loud from my notebook, glancing at Ray Frey's weathered face.

  Elvin Johnson, a drug dealer beaten to death in Jackson Ward. Quaniece Blue, an A
IDS-infected prostitute whose body was found decomposing in a dumpster off East Broad Street. Tiny Walters, a pedophile who walked away from prosecution on a technicality. “Tiny Walters was later found mutilated on a Southside playground,” I said. “There are more. But what’s interesting is that Hamal Holmes paid for their funerals. You’re a smart man, Mr. Frey. You can put two and two together. And I think you know that detective wanted to talk to your partner."

  Ray Frey swiveled his head toward the boys skipping rope. Their feet looked leaden, barely jumping. Half had their eyes closed, sweat leaking down their faces.

  "I don't know nothing," he said.

  "You know about his mistress? She had four kids with him.”

  "All I know is he took good care of me and these kids. The rest of that, what do I care? So he pays for funerals – what’re you, the death police?"

  “You must have your own suspicions.”

  The skipping suddenly took on an irregular rhythm. Ray Frey glanced over his penitents.

  "Done!" he yelled.

  The ropes stopped. The boys sank to the floor. Limp, boneless.

  "Why would he want to bury those people?" I asked.

  "How many times do I gotta—"

  "Mr. Ray, Mr. Ray!"

  One of the boys was pointing at the floor. But he stood behind the boxing ring that blocked the view. Ray Frey ran, scuttling like a crab.

  One kid lay sprawled on the linoleum. Eyes closed, his parched lips were slack. White vomit leaked out.

  "Call 911!" Ray Frey kneeled. Placing one hand behind the boy's neck, he scooped out the vomit. "Ice packs! Now!!"

  Several boys ran to the back of the gym. The others helped the old man strip the boy, yanking off his nylon sweatsuit, stripping him down to his underwear. The white cotton was wet, yellow. I turned away, feeling like an intruder.

  "Mel!" Ray Frey hollered. "Mel, wake up!"

  My back was still turned to them, but I could hear him slapping the boy's skin. On the floor beside me the damp sweatsuit looked deflated. I stared at it, listening to Rey Frey’s cries.

  “Mel! Oh, man, Mel, don’t do this!"

  The nylon was blue. Heavily worn. Almost threadbare in places. Dark blue. Nylon.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Ray Frey was still slapping the boy's cheeks. Mel. That small boxer I saw take a beating in the ring. His bare arms were limp and scratched. A gash sliced across his forehead. His ribcage had scabbed over. Last time I was here Mel wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and headgear. And when he left the ring, he didn't remove the headgear.

  Ray Frey rolled him over, scraping more vomit from his mouth. Another wound marked the boy's right shoulder. The dark skin had abraded to raw pink.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. An ambulance, coming from the Medical College of Virginia a few blocks away. The boys ran up with the ice packs, handing them to Ray Frey. He pressed them against the back of Mel's neck and began rocking, holding the kid’s head in his lap, muttering under his breath. The boys leaned forward, their hands on knobby knees. They formed a tight circle.

  I stepped forward and reached down. Slowly I began folding Mel's jogging suit, placing the clothes on the boxing ring’s mat. A woman cleaning up, that's all. I didn’t turn around but continued to give them their privacy until the medics burst through the door.

  And then nobody was watching me as I picked up Mel’s clothing and stuffed it into my purse.

  Chapter 35

  Three hours later I was searching the streets of Washington for a parking spot that wouldn't get the Benz towed. Since Phaup had confiscated my ID, I couldn't access employee parking. I wound up walking all the way from G Street, feeling like flotsam struggling to get upstream. At 5:30 p.m. on a Friday, people wanted out of the city.

  I was praying Mike Rodriguez wasn't among them.

  At the public entrance, the guard checked my driver's license then phoned Hairs and Fibers. Rodriguez vouched for me, and the guard sent my purse through the X-ray machine. Waiting for Rodriguez, I hid behind a wall of staff photographs that memorialized FBI agents killed in the line of duty. There was one woman; she died by "friendly fire."

  When Mike stepped out of the elevator, his white lab coat was unbuttoned. His face was flushed. I lifted my hand; he walked over to the memorial.

  "You forget your ID?” he asked.

  I shook my head. "Can we talk outside."

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Please?”

  The sidewalk was teeming with people. In the street, cabs stuck in traffic honked. The city buses groaned along the curb, belching noxious diesel smoke. The concrete radiated heat like a brick oven.

  "Raleigh, what's going on?"

  I could have lied, and prayed for forgiveness. Pretend I forgot my ID. Because very soon John Breit would close this case, and the truth would never be known; my city would continue to burn. The temptation to lie, to create some elaborate story that served my purposes, was on the tip of my tongue. And maybe somebody would agree the end justified the means.

  But the most important person who ever lived said it didn't.

  "Mike, why did you take this job?"

  He looked even more puzzled. "Why?”

  “Yes. Do you remember why you came to work here.”

  “Yeah, I had massive student loans to pay off."

  That wasn’t the answer I hoped for.

  "Okay, but after the loans. Why work here?"

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “I don't know, I guess because it matters."

  "It matters, how?"

  "My work makes a difference."

  "Right. That was my reason for working here, too."

  Carefully, speaking slowly, I told him about my suspension. I said my ID had been confiscated for two weeks and at this moment my supervisor was probably contacting the Office of Professional Responsibility.

  "You're kidding, right?" he asked.

  I shook my head. “And I need a favor but don’t want to put you in a compromising situation."

  "You’re a little late for that."

  Behind me a cabbie leaned on his horn and flung curses out the window. I felt like they were meant for me. I started to back away.

  "You're right. Never mind. I shouldn't have come here."

  Mike walked toward me. "OPR is now going to pay me a visit because I just signed you into headquarters."

  I kept moving. "I'm sorry, I'm not thinking clearly."

  Mike pointed his finger. I glanced at the men behind him, three agents muscling out the door and adjusting sport coats over holsters. They came down the sidewalk like a federal phalanx. But one of them rubbernecked a pretty brunette walking past. The others elbowed him, laughing. Mike waited until they passed by, finger still pointing at me.

  "Raleigh, every lab rat in here was rooting for you. Everyone. We cheered when you made it through Quantico."

  "Stop it, I'm sorry, okay? I'm leaving."

  But he grabbed my arm.

  “That’s what tells me the suspension is wrong.”

  I looked into his eyes. Bedrock hard. But clear blue. And something there that was almost pleading.

  "If OPR comes to me," he said. "I won't lie. I'll tell them everything. You need to know that. But you never went cowboy on anybody. You were never a glory hog. And it’s obvious something is bothering you. You look terrible."

  I reached into my purse. The nylon material was rolled tight, still damp with Mel's sweat. “Comparison. For the fibers I collected from the factory wall. The stuff that was on the First Aid tape."

  He stared down at the clothing.

  "And I'm in no position to ask you to hurry," I said.

  "You're in no position to ask anything."

  I nodded.

  He grabbed the bundle. "Give me an hour."

  "An hour? Wow, Mike, thanks—"

  "Don’t thank me. The sooner this is outta here, the better."

  ===============

  The Benz wasn’t past the Pent
agon before my cell phone rang. Rodriguez wasn’t kidding about moving fast.

  "Match," he said.

  "You're sure?"

  “After all this, you're questioning me?"

  "I apologize."

  "The fabric is fairly specific nylon,” he said, speaking quickly. “Rip-stop, water repellent. Manufactured in Southeast Asia. This particular sportswear company discontinued it three years ago in favor of something stronger. I could do more extensive tests if I knew you weren't going to jail.”

  “I’m not going to jail.”

  “The jacket’s right shoulder was heavily abraded.”

  “Yes.” I thought of Mel’s shoulder, the pink wound.

  “Cursory microscope evaluation shows an embedded coarse sand, reddish hue. I scraped and put the sample on Eric's desk."

  "Oh no --"

  "Oh yes, Raleigh. I’m widening the circle of doom. When OPR comes around, I don't want to be the only sucker."

  He hung up.

  And I swung the Benz onto Route 1, heading for the town of Ashland.

  ===============

  Janine Falcon was watching television with her son. A TV show with the big purple dinosaur named Barney. The dinosaur was singing about washing hands, and the Falcon boy moved his chubby body side to side with the music. He tucked his elbows into his ribs just like the dinosaur.

  "You mind waiting?" she asked, as I took a seat in the living room. "I was getting M.J. ready for bed."

  She laid a soft blue blanket on the living room carpet directly behind the boy. With one fluid motion she pulled off his shirt, barely interrupting his view of Barney. The boy's skin was the color of moonstone, so new its vulnerability made my heart ache. I looked away, watching the dinosaur thing in his foam costume bounce across the screen. Barney. He was the color of arsenic and probably just as deadly to the nervous system. I set the files she had lent me on the floor.

  "Did you find anything in there?" Janine Falcon asked.

  I turned to answer. The boy was naked. Naked as Jay Bird. But his mother looked at me, waiting for a reply as if nothing was wrong. I held eye contact and told her that some rather large pieces were missing from the puzzle. She pulled pajamas over the boy's head. Barney's image was on the front. The boy pointed at his shirt and smiled.