“Hey, girls. I’ll see you in a minute. Gotta use the bathroom,” I said, hauling butt, two steps at a time. At the top, I fell on my ass and slid the rest of the way into my room. I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it to catch my breath. I kicked my wet boots off, the cause of my fall. A knock made me jump up.
“Muriel, you in there? Muriel?” Nareece snarled.
I cracked the door. “What is it?”
“Is something wrong? The girls said you came in real quiet and ran up here like someone was chasing you.”
“I had to pee. I’m fine.”
“Well, dinner will be ready in about an hour.”
“I’ll be down.”
“Why you holding the door?” She bumped against it.
“I’m trying to shower and change. Go on now, I’ll be down when I’m done.” I locked the door and listened until her footsteps faded.
My new life sprawled out before me—sneaking around in my own house so that the people who live in it wouldn’t be exposed to unsavory situations. Mostly, I feared Nareece’s escape to zombiehood again if upset by something even remotely traumatic. At least that is how I interpreted the doctor’s summation of her condition. Nareece had ensconced herself in the confines of the house, its upkeep and that of its inhabitants.
The flowery odor of potpourri mixed with disinfectant and furniture polish tickled my nose and boasted the pristine state of my room, not its usual state or my preference. Lived-in, cozy, warm, reflective, would be me.
I appreciated the way I left my room that morning. Boxes that had not yet been unpacked lined the side wall, at least a few days’ worth of shoes littered the floor, a box of Kellogg’s Mini-Wheats, a bottle of water, and a dish of Hershey’s Kisses covered my night table, and for sure, the bedcovers were strategically bunched into a mountain in the center of my most prized possession, a king-size, waveless, soft-side, deep-fill water bed. I swear, though, as I viewed the space now, I second-guessed my recollection. Clearly boundaries needed to be established.
I stripped off my damp uniform, dove on the bed and tore up the covers until I was buried in them, and did the five-minute power-nap thing. That’s all I could control or I would have been out for the night, and I still had to check on Dulcey. Maybe I slept for more like a half hour. It took a few minutes for me to shake off the foggy-brain syndrome, then I went for the shower.
By the time I had finished showering and pulled my hair back in a braided bun, Nareece was yelling for Travis, Elijah, and me to come down to eat. I slipped on some jeans and an orange-and-navy Lincoln University sweatshirt with matching sneakers, compliments of my son, and went downstairs.
Everyone else sat around the center aisle, jabbering and stuffing their mouths with spaghetti and meatballs. I made a plate and slid in between Travis and Elijah.
Travis leaned toward me and said in a muted tone, “You look much better.” He straightened up and took a mouthful of food, a smug expression on his face. After he swallowed, he moved toward me again. I stopped my hand shy of filling my mouth with a meatball, anticipating his words.
“You think you can sneak in this house without anybody noticing? You can’t fool me.”
I nudged him and stuffed the meatball in my mouth.
“I know. Police business. Saving us from all the bad things in the world. Oooooh.”
I nodded and smiled.
I pulled to the curb behind Dulcey’s Jaguar—a gift from Hampton on their sixteenth wedding anniversary a year ago. White on white and loaded. She called it Pearl.
The house was dark. Even the outside light that came on automatically after dark was off. The tapping of my tennis shoes up the walkway seemed loud in the quiet. A broken bell had the button stuck inward, so I knocked, waited, banged, and banged some more. She still did not answer. I used my key. The door creaked when I opened it, sending chills up my back. I called for her. The only response, the small whiny meow of Sam, the cat, who brushed up against my legs, welcoming me. Sam waltzed to the stairway and shot up.
I flicked the light switches inside the door, which illuminated the entryway and the foyer. The air smelled stale, like the house had been closed up for a long time. The foyer opened into the living room on the left and the dining room on the right, which led to the kitchen. Across from the door, between the living room and dining room, a stairway spiraled upward.
In the living room, the drapes were closed, blocking off the bay window that faced the street. I walked through to the kitchen. It was spotless except for the stale smell of old food and grease. I called out for Dulcey again.
I walked back to the foyer and climbed the stairs. My heart pounded. I could not breathe. Her bedroom door loomed before me. I knocked and whispered her name. No answer. I turned the doorknob and slowly inched it open. Dulcey lay on the bed in a fetal position. I sucked in my breath and crept up to her. I touched her shoulder. She turned toward me and groaned. I jumped back and yelped.
“Damn, D, you scared me half to death.”
She ogled me with eyes glazed over, as though she didn’t know me. I wasn’t sure if she had just woken up, or if her lack of awareness indicated a problem. I shook her shoulder lightly and called her name a few more times before she nodded and acknowledged me in a lucid manner.
She smiled up at me. “Oh, girl, I guess I passed out. Long day at the shop, and this medicine makes me so I don’t know whether I’m dead or alive. Got me wishin’ for death sometimes.”
I took off my sneakers and climbed on the bed facing her. “You ain’t dead and ain’t gonna be dead anytime soon, so stop talking that mess.” I wrapped my arms around her as much as I could and massaged the sides of her neck.
She lay quiet for a few minutes with her eyes closed. They opened and searched around to regain her bearings. Her gaze settled on me. “Hey, Miss M. How you doing, girl? You kill anybody yet behind those hot flashes?” She cackled and snorted like a sick pig.
“I’m glad you find going through the change, a woman’s right of passage, so amusing. Just because yours has passed does not give you license to crack on the rest of us poor souls who are trudging down this path, struggling to maintain a sound mind.”
“Oh, girl, please, you ain’t never been, nor will you ever be of sound mind.” We laughed. Dulcey choked on her weak titter. I ran to the bathroom for a glass of water. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sipped the water I offered, then waved it away. It took a few for her to catch her breath.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said, wanting her to rest some more. “I wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”
She smiled up at me. “The way you looking all pale and wide-eyed, you probably thought death sure nuff found me.” She gave me a double take. “What is up with your head, Miss Mabley? It looks like you just got out of the shower and brushed it back outta the way.”
I nodded. “Yep, that would be about it. Can’t you just once say I did a good job fixing my hair? Just once.”
“You need help, chile,” she said, attempting to stand.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to move. Go on back to sleep.”
“Nice. You come into my house, wake me up, and tell me to go back to sleep so you can go home.” She brushed my hand from her shoulder and pushed herself to a standing position. “I’m hungry. You can make me food.” She sighed and gave me a strained look. “I’m not the least bit hungry, but I need to try eating something.”
I got up beside her and took her arm, gentleman fashion.
She patted my hand. “Hmm. You’re going to tell me what my husband has gotten hisself into,” she said.
I smiled up at her. “Yes, I am.”
Dulcey sat at the kitchen counter while I warmed a can of Progresso chicken noodle soup on the stove. I filled a large bowl and set it in front of her; cut a slice of pumpernickel bread and spread it with butter and put it on a napkin beside her bowl. She pretended to eat some soup, moving it back and forth and
around with a spoon. I watched her play with it for a bit before confiscating the spoon and hand-feeding her.
“Eat or I’ll be forced to pour it down your throat.”
“Yeah? I’d like to see you try that.” She opened her mouth and ate all that I offered.
“What ’bout that tree-athlon you been training for, how’s that goin’?”
“I’ll be ready. I’m supposed to do my first swim in the river Monday. The thought of it really scares me. There isn’t any side of the pool to grab ahold of if I get tired or feel like I’m not going to make it.”
“You mean as in quit? Girl, please, you ain’t never been nor will you ever be a quitter.” This time Dulcey squawked loud and clear and long, sounding like a goose, but nevertheless, music to my ears.
I told her everything about Hamp’s situation.
“I’ll crucify them misguided, good-for-nothing, nose-picking, ass-hanging Negroes my damn self. They be done wished Mr. Calvin came for their butts when I finish with ’em.” Dulcey slammed her first into the table, upsetting the bowl of soup and the glass of water I was drinking. I went for a dishcloth.
I heard the crack of a gunshot and dove for Dulcey, crashing us both to the floor. A few more pops followed by a deadened silence.
“Dulce, you all right?” I said, jumping up to see what happened. From the side window I could see folks gathering in the street.
“It’ll take more than you throwing me to the floor to mess with all this flesh.”
I helped her up. We hurried to the door.
“Oh, Lord,” Dulcey said, grabbing hold of the railing and limping down the steps, old-woman style. People were gathered on the lawn of the duplex across the street from Dulcey’s house. Dulcey and I parted the crowd, making our way to the center. Billy Teal lay spread-eagled, shot three times in the chest. Billy was Dulcey’s godson. His mother, Cora, knelt over him, holding his hand. She opened her mouth but no sound came out, then she took a deep breath and the air filled with her guttural wail, long and low. Dulcey caught Cora’s arm, pulled her up and embraced her.
“I told that boy time and time again to stay away from them damn gangs,” Cora said. She cried into Dulcey’s chest. “Told him he shouldn’t oughta be selling them drugs that kill people.” Cora pulled away from Dulcey’s embrace. Before Dulcey or I could catch her, she turned in a fury, looking through the crowd that had gathered, found her target, and bolted up to a giant of a guy, muscle-bound to the point that his arms stuck out because they had to. He had a black bandanna wrapped about his head, pulled low over one eye.
“You bastards killed my boy. You and your damn stupid gangs that don’t know nothing but killing. You go to hell! She spit at him, then stumbled back over to where Dulcey stood over the body. “He never listened to me, and now our baby is gone.” She wailed some more. Dulcey held her.
Muscle man pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared. At least I lost sight of him for a moment. I scanned the crowd, filtering through the faces and listening to conversations. Police behavior. I meandered my way to the edge of the lawn and surveyed the neighborhood. Ward Griffin was sitting on the porch railing two houses down, watching. Muscle man stood at his side.
Police cars crammed the street and officers from the Mobile Street Crimes Unit scurried across the grounds, led by Zoila, rounding up known gang members. Zoila and another officer were on Griffin and muscle man. The officer handcuffed them and led them to a police car. Once in the car, Griffin turned his head and caught my eye with a contemptuous smile before turning away. I wondered if he recognized me from his visit to the house to get Elijah.
“They’ll be back on the street by morning,” Zoila said, walking back across the lawn to where I stood. “That is, unless someone steps forward and gives us something.” She looked around at the fifty or so people gawking and whispering amongst themselves. “Someone called it in, which is how we got here so fast. Nobody is owning up to it now. The caller identified Griffin and his sidearm, Magnum. That’s his name, the big guy. The caller said someone was about to die.”
“Why? What’s it about?”
“What else? Heroin.”
“And the kid?”
“I’ll get back to you,” she said as she walked away, waving her hands in the air. “He’s not one we know.”
CHAPTER 13
Two nights after the shooting of Dulcey’s godson, Billy Teal, we got called to another shooting in Fairmount Park.
I parked and walked in to the small clearing along the riverbank below Strawberry Mansion Bridge, where lights blazed around the activity.
Philly’s Fairmount Park is said to be the largest landscaped urban park in the United States. There are those who argued Fairmount was only the third largest park in the US, beaten out by two parks in Phoenix, Arizona—South Mountain Park and Phoenix Mountains Preserve.
The Strawberry Mansion Bridge goes across the Schuylkill River. Divers were going into the water, the clattering of helicopters overhead that were mapping out the area to find the murder weapon. In a case like this, it was all about the current.
“Mabley.” Zoila walked up behind me.
“I don’t see you or talk to you for years, and now we’re hooking up every other day,” I said.
“Yeah, the talk is either about guns or drugs.” She held up a baggie that contained a powdery substance. “Probably heroin mixed with fentanyl.” She turned to the officer at her side. “Make sure the chem lab lets me know the results as soon as possible.” The officer moved away. Zoila gestured toward the body. “We let him off. Devon Taylor, street name “D”. We busted him a few days ago along with three other men. He got out last night. He’s a minor and we couldn’t hold him any longer. That’s the way it worked out. My bet is his friends thought he snitched. Fact is, boy would be dead soon anyway from an overdose. Stone addict.”
I was struck by how handsome and innocent-looking he was. I stepped back as Hayes stepped in, nudging Fran aside, and crouched over the body. “I’ll have the particulars after an autopsy, though it would appear this young man died from a bullet to the heart,” he said, seemingly putting his pointer finger through the bullet holes in the boy’s chest.
Zoila backed away. I followed her. Fran walked off in another direction.
“Officers Barry Holden and Michael Aubry were parked across from the tennis courts, waiting for the sergeant to come sign their logs about nine p.m. when they heard a gunshot from the far end of Chamounix Drive. They radioed the location and reported shots fired. Aubry and Holden drove toward the direction of the shots. Aubry exited his car, his flashlight and gun in hand. They heard a car start and saw headlights come toward them. As the vehicle approached, two shots rang out and Officer Aubry fell to the ground just as the sergeant was approaching from Ford Road.” Zoila pointed toward where the dead officer lay. “Officer Holden rushed to Aubry’s side. The vehicle, a dark-colored SUV thought to be a BMW X5, made a left and headed the wrong way down Greenland Drive with the sergeant in pursuit. As the vehicle approached the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, one of the occupants leaned halfway out of the passenger window and tossed an object out of the vehicle. The sergeant continued pursuit across the bridge onto Woodford Drive then onto Ridge Avenue, where he lost them around Dauphin and Ridge.”
I watched Fran searching the bridge where the sergeant indicated the object was thrown from the vehicle. Then I couldn’t see him for a few minutes when he stooped behind the railings, a few feet out on the iron girder. I hoped he had found something.
I walked the area around the body, checking the ground to a distance of twenty to twenty-five feet, even though the victim was shot at close range. Maybe they picked up after themselves or shot him somewhere else and dumped the body here, or they tossed the shell casings, thinking we would only go but so far after recognizing that the victim was shot at close range. Also, pistols can eject shell casings a surprising distance in some instances.
The rotting, sweet smells of hundreds of varieties o
f flowers and trees wafted into my nostrils, too much for my nose to handle, and threw me into a sneezing frenzy. By the time I had finished, I was dizzy, spent, and my eyes were swollen. The blurry scene had stilled as I had become the point of attention. After about a minute and no sneezing, the buzz began again. I leaned against a tree to regain my composure, looked down, and there it was at my feet—a shell casing. I bent over to pick it up and noticed an oval-shaped object the color of moldy bread. I called Fran over and pointed it out to him. He examined it for about five seconds and said, “Definitely human.”
“Just like that, you know for a fact that this is a human bone?”
“Maybe a clavicle bone.”
“A clavicle bone?”
“Yep. The clavicle is the last bone to complete growth. Happens when a person is about twenty-five. Human bones differ from animals’ in density and shape. The internal structure is different as well. Few animals have bones, something like four or five percent.” Fran took a few steps away from where I found it and bent to examine the ground.
“Another bone?” I asked in a kind of screechy tone, a bit disturbed by our findings.
“This place could be some kind of dumping ground,” he said.
“How do you go from two bones to a dumping ground? Stay here while I get Hayes.”
By the time Hayes and I got back, Fran had found three more small bones or pieces of bones. Hayes made a quick examination and confirmed the objects were human bones.
Thirty minutes later, a half dozen examiners clad in Tyvek suits and rubber gloves, armed with shovels, handheld rakes, and trowels were digging around where the bones were found. The electric company sent PECO trucks to light up the search area. Four hours later, holes containing bones covered the area. The bones were photographed and documented before being packaged for transport—enough bones for two people, by Hayes’s estimation.
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