Police established a large perimeter that blocked off Chamounix Drive, Ford Road, Greenland Road, Strawberry Mansion Bridge, and the two roads that go from the bridge to Martin Luther King Jr Drive north- and southbound.
At the sixth hour, Fran and I left, having found no more shell casings or other firearms evidence. I had just pulled onto our street when I received a call that the divers had found a weapon. Fran beat me back.
A Smith & Wesson semiautomatic had been found a short distance downriver from the bridge and twenty feet down. The gun was put in a container the size of four shoe boxes, with river water added to slow rusting. The slightest bit of rust could render the evidence useless because rust alters the individual characteristics that are necessary to identify which gun fired which bullets.
We wouldn’t know for sure if the gun from the river was the gun used to kill our victims until we tested it and matched the bullets from the victims and the casings we found to the gun. There might even be fingerprints on the weapon to identify the shooter. It could take months to solve, but Officer Aubry’s murder put all cases on the back burner until we ran out of evidence to follow.
When we got to the lab, detectives from the scene had already submitted the gun and other evidence to the Evidence Intake Unit. I signed the transfer of custody while Fran retrieved the evidence bin. I asked the evidence supervisor to buzz me if any other evidence was turned in, then followed him downstairs.
Fran set the container with the gun in it on my desk. He took a couple of large envelopes that contained four small bags, each containing a single fired cartridge case, to do a microscopic examination.
First thing to do was a visual inspection, even before taking the gun out of the water.
When I removed the top from the case I noticed the serial number had been obliterated by an abrasive method. I snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and flipped the firearm over, keeping it in the water to prevent rusting. When I took it out, I would have to dry and lubricate it, which would destroy any microscopic markings. I had to keep it submerged throughout the examination. The right side appeared intact, with normal wear. From the left side I noted that the clip was still inserted well into the magazine. On the top of the slide, near the rear sight, was a deep indentation in the metal. Another mark caught my eye.
I grabbed a magnifying glass and made out a fingerprint on the surface of the frame. “I never thought I’d see this,” I mumbled.
“What was that? Talking to yourself again?”
“I think we got a fingerprint. Take a look.”
Fran rolled over in his chair to look through the magnifier while I set up a video camera. He raised the firearm near the surface of the water for a clear shot. I also took a few digital shots, then took the case to the crime scene guys, who took more pictures with more sophisticated equipment. If they could lift a good enough print, the Fingerprint and Identification Unit could do a search of the national data base.
When I returned to the lab with the case, I took the gun from the water, disassembled it, dried all the parts with compressed air, then lubricated them.
Fran’s examination of the cartridge cases established they were all the same caliber, fired in two different guns, one with a conventional type firing pin impression, the other with a clock-type impression.
We finished just after 2:00 a.m. My neck, taut with muscle knots, cracked with each move right, left, back, forward. My shoulders ached from hunching over. I reached behind my neck and pressed on the knots that refused to surrender.
“We may have stumbled on something really big,” Fran said. “There are a few Mafia cases where the bodies were never found. Other members of the DePalma family.”
“You really think the Mafia would use Fairmount Park as a dumping ground?”
“No matter who they are, they were killed and dumped, and whoever is responsible, well, we’re much closer to finding out who it is and putting them away.”
“You’re right. I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t care or no big deal. Just thinking about that officer’s family. Zoila said he has a wife and four boys. He didn’t have a damn thing to do with any bones. Wrong place, wrong time is all.”
“He was doing his job.”
“Yeah . . . Like the two other officers killed so far this year who were just doing their jobs.”
Fran scooched up to me in his chair, using his feet as the engine. He stopped short of ramming my knees.
“What’s going on with you, Miss M? You sound like a disgruntled employee.”
“Nothing. I’m just saying.” I attempted to turn my chair back around to my desk, not wanting to get into a conversation about my personal issues right then.
Fran pulled it back and sighed like a beast. “This has got to be one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had.”
“Being a police officer can be that way sometimes.”
“It’s not being a police officer I’m talking about. It’s about being your partner.”
I stopped what I was doing, grabbed my bag, and headed out. “C’mon, let’s get some coffee. You drive.”
Fran drove down to Sixth and Market Streets to the Dunkin’ Donuts and went through the drive-up, then pulled to the rear far corner of the parking lot.
“Before you pound on me, I didn’t take this job because of stories about Jesse Boone or Laughton McNair or you being undercover back in the day. That stuff didn’t matter when I requested to work with you.”
“Too bad. You might have changed your mind.”
“So, are you going to tell me or not? I’d much rather you told me than listen to what’s going around the department.”
“You listen to that crap, right?”
“Doesn’t mean I believe it all. I like the stories about your previous partner, Laughton McNair. Seems like he was some kind of secret agent man, suave and mysterious.”
“None of that matters. You’re right, I have not been a very good partner these past few months since you signed on. For that, I apologize. So, let’s move on from here.”
“I’m game for that. I would like to hear the real story though, from you.”
“Sometime, maybe. What about you? How do you know so much about bones? Better yet, why?”
“In the beginning I wanted to be an archeologist, then switched to humans and wanted to be a doctor, a bone doctor of sorts. Things didn’t work out. My parents split and I had to drop out of school.”
“From doctor to police . . . does not sound like a logical path from my viewpoint.”
“My father and four brothers, all older, are all police officers in Richmond, where I’m from.”
“What? You’re from some kind of blue blood family?”
We laughed. Fran nodded. “Something like that.”
“Twenty years ago, Jesse Boone was my sister’s boyfriend. He was twenty-five, she was seventeen, about to graduate high school. He was the son of a hit man for the Black Mafia. She was Carmella. That’s her real name. He abused her and, Nareece being Nareece, she got tired of the abuse and decided to do something about it. So she stole some drugs and money from him. Stupid. Boone caught up with her and . . . he left her for dead. If I hadn’t come home . . . she would be. She ended up pregnant, with Travis.”
“So Jesse Boone—”
“Is Travis’s father.”
“Nareece, I mean Carmella, changed her name and relocated to Massachusetts. Fast-forward twenty years, Boone gets out of prison after serving fifteen years for killing his father. He finds out about Nareece and goes after her again, this time for the two million dollars she stole. I didn’t know about the money. Hell, I didn’t know Jesse Boone was her boyfriend back then and I sure didn’t know that my partner, Laughton McNair, was Boone’s half brother, until about nine months ago. You know the rest. May the devil burn Jesse Boone alive.”
“I heard you were undercover before you got into firearms.”
“When I first got on the force, they needed a sucker and I was it. My job was to get cer
tain information needed to bring down key Black Mafia figures. My cover got blown. They turned me into a heroin addict and dumped me in an alley to die. I guess God had other plans for me and my sister.”
My phone buzzed. It was Calvin. At two thirty in the morning, alarm set in. “I gotta take this,” I said and got out of the car.
“Is Hampton in a safe place?” Calvin asked.
“He’s at the marina. Nobody knows about the boat but us.”
“I have a few more cards to deal, but for now he needs to stay there or at least stay hidden. Griffin is not playing nice.”
“Griffin? Ward Griffin?”
“That would be him. He runs Berg Nation, which is ultimately who Hamp borrowed the money from, though I don’t think he knew who he was dealing with. Ward Griffin, street name War. He is head honcho in the Nation. Ruthless brother. You don’t pay up when it comes due, you die. No extensions. No negotiating. No exceptions. No apologies. Just dead.”
“Shit.” I knew Griffin was a member of the Berg Nation gang, but the leader?
“Yes, that sums it up nicely.”
CHAPTER 14
We stood on the banks of the Schuylkill River about a quarter mile down from the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, the very place two men, one a police officer, died a week ago. I eased my way into the water, shuddering at the feel of the mushy sand and stringy weeds that attacked my feet and legs. I pushed off, away from the shoreline.
“You ready?” Marybeth, my swim trainer asked, with all the concern of a catfish.
I nodded. I was in twenty-feet-deep open water with nothing to grab ahold of if I panicked. Swim or drown. I had to believe Marybeth’s vow not to let me drown.
This was my first time in the river or any body of water for that matter, other than the swimming pool at the Kroc Center. Not being able to swim to the side and grab ahold of anything or to the shallow end and stand caused my heart to race, cutting off my ability to breathe. Marybeth held one elbow, which allowed me to keep my head above the water.
“Muriel, calm down.”
Calm down, she said. Six thirty in the damn morning and I was in the freakin’ Schuylkill River acting like I could swim, with a human fish telling me to calm the hell down.
“I’m right here. I will not let anything happen to you. You can do this. You have swum the distance fifty times. This is a different body of water is all. Breathe, girl. We’ll stay close to the shore so you’re more comfortable. Not too close though, because of the weeds.” She pointed off to the distance. “That parking lot is where we want to get, where the transition area will be.”
The other four women I trained with swam ahead of us with a trainer, in a line, as though synchronized. I claimed the notoriety of being the only one who’d had to learn how to swim, which earned me a designated trainer all to myself.
I nodded confirmation to make the move. The current moved slowly this time of year, though I wished differently so it could push me along. I settled into a steady rhythm, with Marybeth keeping pace on my left. The black water made it difficult to identify anything beneath the surface. Sometimes I could see things. My imagination ran wild about those things coming to eat me alive. I closed my eyes. Still, thinking about it forced panic and shortness of breath, so I opened them. I stopped again and dropped like a rock. Marybeth rescued me and held me above the water again, supporting my elbow while I kicked my legs.
“We’re almost halfway there. You’re doing good.”
“Right.”
“I admire what you’re doing. Not many people your age would go through what you’re going through to do a triathlon to support a friend.”
Your age? I almost puked. I nodded, then made the move to finish the half mile. Your age be damned.
We rounded the slight curve in the river. I felt stronger, more confident. Each time I turned my head sideways to take a breath, I could see the other swimmers sitting on the banks now, watching me. One of them pointed toward us. I imagined they had bets on whether I would make the distance or not as I glided down the final few feet.
What I first thought was a floating tree branch struck me. I reached out to push it away. It wasn’t a tree branch. I sunk, panic-filled. I opened my eyes and screamed, taking in a mouthful of water, choking. Weeds wrapped around my leg. I fought with what strength I had left and pushed through to the surface, sucking for air. Marybeth grabbed my arm and pulled me to the riverbank. We were about three hundred feet from the group, who ran toward us as we climbed to shore and collapsed.
“You saw that, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “A body.”
I took a quick shower and washed my hair, then soaked in the tub. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. I couldn’t squash the visions of bodies under the water, bodies in the park, Jennifer Humphries’s brains blown out. I lifted my hand from the water. I couldn’t hold it steady. I sunk down into the water and held my breath until I couldn’t anymore and pushed myself back up, sucking air.
Nareece stood at the stove cooking bacon and eggs. I looked over her shoulder to nab a morsel, a move that earned me a slap on the hand. She blocked my view and pushed me away.
I grabbed a banana from the counter and sat at the island. “I was not aware you could cook,” I teased. “Never heard tell that you cooked, cleaned, or any of those lowly duties. It was always John . . .” Damn. Silence followed for what seemed like forever before Nareece shut the burner off, turned from the stove, and came and sat down at the counter across from me.
“I’m aware of what’s going on, Muriel. I’m present, here, in the real world. Jesse Boone killed John, my husband, the father of my children, and you sold our house in Boston. The girls and I live here now. You killed Jesse. Travis is my son but you raised him as his mother, and I’m grateful for that.” She took my hand and put it against her cheek. “Without you I would be dead.” She let go of my hand and got up. “I wish we could still have our daily conversations.”
For the past ten years, Nareece and I talked every day by phone. During the last nine months, when she was in the hospital and nonresponsive, we had not talked, though I had gone to the hospital every day.
“I know you have to work and all, but maybe we can talk by phone while you’re working, like we used to.”
“Sounds good to me. Let’s make it happen,” I said.
Nareece filled a plate with food and set it in front of me. She may have seemed fine to other folk, but I knew there was something off. This person, who walked and acted out like Reecy, definitely was not.
“Hey, Moms, Auntie,” Travis said, interrupting my thought.
“Travis, call the twins down for breakfast, please,” Nareece ordered.
“I already told them to c’mon or they’re going to be late.”
“Call them again, like I asked,” Nareece demanded.
“Auntie, they’re coming.”
Nareece slammed the frying pan down on the stove. “Travis, when your mother asks you to do something, you do it.”
My stomach growled. I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. This was Travis’s to settle.
“Auntie, I already did what you asked me to,” Travis said in an even tone that surprised me. The sweet sound of the twins running and jumping down the stairs came at the end of his last word.
Nareece did not respond to Travis’s remark. She just kept messing with the frying pan, and cleaning up the food she spilled.
The twins raced into the kitchen, a challenge to be the first to climb on a stool. The narrow margin had both declaring it a tie.
“Elijah and I are ’bout to bounce and go over to Kenyetta’s place to catch up with her. She’s been absent for the past few days. Not answering her phone. I’ma make her pay for makin’ me worry about her dumb ass . . . I mean behind.” He gave me an apologetic look for cursing, chuckled and got up to leave.
“Where’s Elijah?”
“Boy is taking way too long to get ready, that’s where he is.”
“Things been
good? I mean with his brother.”
“He’s been cool. Elijah’s keeping his distance. Got a job working nights at the Wawa round the corner on Cleveland.”
“You need to be following suit,” I said.
“Ma. I got this. Be patient. Hey, Auntie, could you please fill Mom in ’bout the job thang?”
“I will, baby, I will,” Nareece called after him in a tone sculpted in joyfulness.
Nareece and Travis were communicating in a somewhat civil manner. Yeah. At the very least they shared information, information I was not yet privy to. I was pleased, or at least, I think I was pleased. Stupid. Of course, I was pleased. Travis kissed Nareece on the cheek and then did the same to me. He lifted my chin and winked at me before leaving. I was pleased.
Nareece explained Travis’s plan to work at the center with Calvin. It was the most animated I had seen her since she came home.
Calvin hadn’t mentioned anything about it. I supposed he never had the chance.
“He’s just like his mother,” she said. “I mean me, Muriel. He’s a lot like you too. You probably don’t remember this, but I always wanted to work with young children.”
“I remember. You worked every summer at camps for kids and babysat a lot. I anguished over the thought that you would pop up pregnant. All you talked about was having babies.” I bit my tongue trying to shove the words back down my throat.
“Muriel, you have to stop acting like you can’t talk around me, like you’re afraid of saying something wrong. It happened. I’m well aware that I gave Travis up and you took him and have been his mother all his life, but I gave him life.” Nareece sucked back tears, then plowed ahead. “He doesn’t call me Ma, and I’m trying to live with that.” She got up and went to the stove.
My cell phone rang. It was Hayes.
Travis’s words echoed in my ears as Hayes opened the door, slid the drawer out, and unzipped the black bag that hugged a lifeless figure. Going over to Kenyetta’s . . . She’s been missing for the past week . . . I’m going to make her pay . . . I was anchored a few feet away. Hayes spread the body bag from Kenyetta’s face. I prayed he would not say anything that would warrant a response, a movement; that he would not re-cover Kenyetta Mae Jones before I looked.
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