Citycide

by Gary Hardwick

  “Just so you know,” said Jesse. “I didn’t want to do this. Michelle wanted to see you.”

  “To make sure I was on her side,” said Danny.

  “Something like that. She prides herself on being able to read people.”

  “It’s okay,” said Danny. “I would have wanted to meet her, too. I can tell she doesn’t like the Mayor—but you do.”

  Jesse was surprised for just a second. “Doesn’t matter what we think of him,” said Jesse. “He crossed a line that he shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” said Danny, “but really what he did was nothing compared to what people do now in politics.”

  “Then why are you still investigating the case?” Jesse said knowingly.

  “Because my case isn’t based on lying about sex or leaning on some woman. My case is murder.”

  They got to a bank of elevators and stopped. Jesse extended his hand and they shook.

  “People tell you that you sound black?” asked Jesse.

  “I’ve heard it a time or two,” said Danny. “Are you and your boss going to look into the dead girl?”

  Jesse looked around to make sure no one was within earshot.

  “We don’t have anything connecting him,” said Jesse. “If you find something, let me know.”

  “Ever heard of a criminal called iDT?” asked Danny.

  “Yes,” said Jesse. “We got wind of him last year. We looked into it with the locals and the feds, but in the end, it was just a lot of talk. The drug world is still mostly a bunch of lost men with guns. In fact, you took out one of the biggest guys on the street, Rakeif Simms.”

  “At least you know about iDT,” said Danny. “Most folk deny it or tell some crazy story.”

  “It was an interesting idea,” said Jesse, “A smart criminal uses technology to buffer danger and control others, but there was one thing missing, how could anyone keep track of all the activity?”

  “Can’t figure that one either,” said Danny. “What about some Aryan power group or terrorists using drugs to raise money? Could it be them?”

  “Not likely,” said Jesse. “We worked with the DEA and ATF trying to get something on them but either they’re not up to anything or they are being really smart about it.”

  “I’d like to see what you have on them one day, if you can,” said Danny.

  “Look, if iDT is like a hardcore black drug dealer thing,” said Jesse, “there’s a one person who might know.” Suddenly, Jesse looked like a man who’d seen something awful.

  “Where can I find him?” asked Danny.

  “Ionia Prison,” said Jesse. “I put him there.”

  It was at least something, Danny thought. Considering all the hell that was about to break loose, he was willing to try anything.

  21

  UNDEAD

  The Ionia Maximum Correctional Facility is located right in the palm of Michigan’s “hand.”

  Here, a convict considered to be highly dangerous is designated as a Level V prisoner. Within the Level V community, is an Isolation and Detention Unit designated for the worst of the worst. Inmates come and go there, but it has only one long-term resident.

  Danny sat waiting to see this inmate, a man named Husam Salah. There had been three other visitors to see Salah before Danny. This was not uncommon. Salah was a prison celebrity, a man who had once been known by the name of Gregory Cane.

  The Detroit News had called Gregory Cane the Devil himself, a cold killing machine, made of muscle, a keen mind and an empty soul. The Free Press’s article was simply titled “The Man Who Wouldn’t Die.”

  Cane had wiped out a female drug crew called The Nasty Girls almost by himself. But in the end, he was outsmarted by Jesse King and ended up in prison serving four life sentences.

  Once inside, like so many others, Cane changed his religion and his name to his current moniker, which literally meant “sword of righteousness.”

  Salah was a massive man, a hulking bundle of muscle capped with a shaved head. One of his eyes was missing; it was a milky white ball that floated and moved at random.

  Danny had seen some disturbing men in his day but none more menacing as the man across the room.

  Born to a drug-addicted mother, Salah’s life had been a hellish existence within the country’s underclass. Legend was he had cheated death so many times, that even he had lost count. Danny’s count was eight, not counting what he’d probably endured in this current hellhole.

  Salah had sent two men to the prison hospital and was suspected in the death of another. He’d gained size and weight and now looked like one of the bulked up wrestlers you saw on TV.

  Salah had been featured on two TV reality cop shows, had tribute videos on many websites and had been referenced to in rap songs by several rappers. The one Danny remembered was by a group managed by Detroit’s Eminem: “Try me and I’ll have eternal fame. Forever notorious, undead like Cane.”

  The horror of Cane’s childhood and his criminal career mesmerized the minds of a lost generation. The man people had called a monster was now famous.

  Young criminals especially worshiped Salah. They admired his toughness, swagger and outspoken nature. Girls and women admired his unbridled maleness and stunning physique. They wrote fan letters and were known to share intimate information with him.

  This last fact was why Danny was here. Salah communicated with many of the state’s most disreputable criminals. If there was an iDT, Salah would know.

  A young black man in a tracksuit talked with Salah. Salah spoke and the young man nodded dutifully.

  Danny looked at one of the three guards watching Salah and one of them told the visitor to speed it up. The man in the tracksuit took a camera phone picture and then left. Danny walked over to the visiting area and sat before Salah.

  Thick, bulletproof glass separated them. A speaker was embedded in the counter on both sides for conversation.

  Salah’s bright prison uniform was tight against his chest and arms. This was not a man you would ever think of fighting hand to hand, Danny thought. Your initial thought would be to shoot him.

  But this was not what first caught Danny’s attention. It was something else. Salah did not have one tattoo on his body. Inmates were infamous for being covered in ink. Not so for Salah. His skin was dotted with fading scars but other than that; it was pristine.

  “Officer,” said Salah. He stared at Danny with his good eye and there was a slight curve in his lip that could have been a smile.

  “Don’t you mean As-Salam Alaikum?” said Danny with a touch of derision.

  “Not for you,” said Salah. “For you, it’s hello. How-ya doin’? Or maybe you’d prefer, howdy.”

  “I need some information,” said Danny flatly.

  Danny did not show any courtesy to Salah. A con knew cops held them in disdain. Criminals were formal and polite but it was their way of mocking you. Danny wanted Salah to know he was not trying to fool him, that their relationship was the one he was used to.

  “Don’t you wanna know how I know you’re a cop?” Salah’s voice was a gruff rumble.

  “They have to tell you when law enforcement visits,” said Danny.

  Salah smiled a little. His teeth were white and straight, an obvious benefit of incarceration. Danny was betting his natural teeth had been knocked out.

  “You know, in prison all the white men sound like you,” said Salah. “The black rubs off over time. I bet you scare the shit out of white people, though. Of course, Cavanaugh is Irish, right? And the Irish is just niggas with freckles.”

  “Didn’t think there’d be a wait to see a prisoner,” said Danny ignoring his insult.

  “Yeah,” said Salah with pride. “These kids, they make videos, write songs, send money and things to autograph. That kid who just left was a rapper from Chicago. Came all this way for a picture.”

  Salah relaxed a little and Danny saw the muscles flex and tense as he did. He was marking time, trying to stay here as long as
he could. IDU was probably not a place anyone wanted to rush back to, Danny thought.

  In this moment, Danny knew that Salah would not tell him anything. Salah was seasoned, cool and full of himself. He would lead Danny on and in the end give up nothing.

  But Danny had read about Salah’s overpowering religious fixation. Salah’s life had been so terrible, so fraught with death, pain and hopelessness that Salah actually believed that God was against him.

  All the news stories about Salah noted this. His criminal life had been not against rival gangs or in pursuit of money; it had been against the Creator.

  It was his only chance, Danny thought. He had to attack him with what was maybe his only weakness.

  “God sent me,” said Danny calmly.

  Salah flinched a little. He shifted his body in the small metal chair. The faint amusement he’d had on his face faded. This was the killer, Danny thought, cold and devoid of empathy. This was Gregory Cane.

  “There is no God,” said Salah. “Not your God. Not in here.” He leaned forward in the chair and the guards reacted, shifting their stances. One even tilted his rifle.

  “It don’t matter what you think,” said Danny. “You can change your name and follow some other religion. Call God whatever you want but I am here and He sent me. Talk or don’t talk, it doesn’t change what’s unchangeable.”

  And now Danny waited. If he was lucky, Salah would want to engage him in a debate. So many men in prison educated themselves in religion but did not see that it only furthered their own twisted view of life. Salah had murdered at least four human beings and now he signed autographs like some rock star. That was not redemption; it was blasphemy.

  “And what do you think is unchangeable?” asked Salah trying to look amused.

  “He beat you,” said Danny. “You set yourself against God and now you’re in here, rotting. Your fake celebrity is just a joke for stupid kids who think criminals are like the men in rap videos. They don’t know the truth of what you really are: the garbage decent people put on the curb. God always wins.”

  “You don’t know anything! Salah shouted out before he could stop himself. Danny could see the regret in his eyes the moment he said it.

  One of the guards who was even bigger than Salah walked over. His hand was by his sidearm.

  “You know that’s not allowed, Husam,” said the guard. “You don’t want to talk to this man, I’ll send him on his way but no yelling up in here.“

  “Sorry Kelvin,” said Salah. “No, I’ll finish talking with this one. He thinks he knows but I am about to bestow true wisdom upon him. How much time do I have?”

  “He’s law enforcement, so there’s no limit if you’re cooperating,” said the guard named Kelvin.

  “Okay,” said Salah.

  When the guard was gone, Salah turned back to Danny. His face was back to the expression of false serenity.

  “I’m not gonna run from your accusations,” said Salah. “You understand exactly nothing about me. I‘ve been shot, stabbed and beaten. I’ve got a punctured lung and damaged kidneys and only one eye as you can see.” Salah took a deep breath then let it out. “And I’m still here. God only wins when I’m dead by his hand.”

  Salah still believed in his silly fixation, Danny thought. For so long it was what sustained him, this fictional, self-important battle. He needed it for some reason.

  “Then why don’t you have any tats?” asked Danny. He thought he knew the answer to this but he was curious and wanted to keep Salah talking.

  “Not my thing,” said Salah.

  “Some Christians think tats are evil, signs of demonic allegiance,” said Danny. “They believe it’s a sin against God to mark your body. Not tatting yourself would be worship, right?”

  “You are clever,” said Salah. “You know I won’t snitch. You read about my beliefs and try to use it against me. I am in your system but I am above it. You reduced me to a number but I made that number a man. I am my number and I’m fine with that knowledge.”

  “You’re going to tell me what I need to know because God’s going to make you,” said Danny firmly.

  Salah laughed and it was filled with scorn. “I’m shaking with fear from your white God,” he said. “God of slavery, God of murder, depravity and lies.” Salah dragged out the last syllable of the word “lies” until it sounded like a snake’s hiss.

  “You still don’t get it,” said Danny. “We can be pissed about the hand life deals us but we don’t get to question it. We’re supposed to obey no matter what, love no matter what. This is what men like you don’t understand, what you don’t get from the time you are kids. You don’t talk back to your mama, you don’t break the law and you don’t negotiate with God.”

  Danny could see that he’d struck a cord. He’d summed up Salah’s life in a few tight sentences, a life that was worthless by all societal standards. He was angry, Danny thought, but from somewhere, Salah managed another smile.

  “You can ask your question,” said Salah. “And then, with my grace, you may leave.”

  “I’m looking for a man,” said Danny without hesitation. “A very smart one. He may be one of your followers, or you may have heard about him. He operates in Detroit. They call him iDT.”

  Salah tried to hide his recognition of the name but even with only one eye to reflect his thoughts and his years in prison, he couldn’t. Danny saw the faintest spark of acknowledgment.

  “Never heard of him,” said Salah. “Have a good trip back to Detroit.”

  “See how it works?” said Danny. “You just lied. So now I know that he’s real, not a made up legend but a real person.”

  Salah was silent. The cold, murderous look fought the fake smile on his face.

  “If you say so. This is your game. Not mine.”

  “That’s all I need to know,” said Danny. “You know, I don’t have websites and rappers asking for my picture but I am good at being a cop. It’s what I do. It’s all I do. Yeah, I got what I needed from you.” Danny stood and signaled the guard. To Salah he said, “And remember, Cane, Jesus loves you.”

  “Fuck you!” Salah yelled. He stood up and kicked his metal chair backwards. It hit the far wall with a clang. The click of weapons followed as all of the guards drew a bead on Salah. They yelled loudly, overlapping each other, telling Salah not to move.

  Salah put up his hands in surrender then put them behind his back without being asked. The guard named Kelvin took out a pair of handcuffs and handcuffed Salah. The ones to his ankles followed.

  They took him away and Danny couldn’t help but feel the tragedy in Salah’s life. The man never had a chance and in a way, he was right. Life did seem against him. But Salah didn’t understand that men made this life and it was to them he owed his anger. He owed grace to God. Danny was a lapsed Catholic and even he knew that.

  Danny walked out of the visitor’s area and pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. It had been on during the entire visit with Salah.

  “You still there?” asked Danny.

  “Yeah,” said Jesse King who was on the other end. “Strange to hear his voice again. What was the commotion?”

  “He kicked over his chair.”

  “That’s a no-no.” Jesse chuckled.

  “I’ve seen some hard cases,” said Danny. “But this guy? I feel like I just visited Dracula.”

  “That’s about right,” said Jesse.

  Danny collected his weapons from the security officer and then moved toward the parking area.

  “So now what?” asked Danny.

  “He’s pissed,” said Jesse, “and he has an infraction but I asked the warden not to take away his privileges. I want him on the web as soon as he can get to it.”

  “Won’t he be suspicious?” asked Danny.

  “No. The warden will ask Cane if you insulted him and Cane will lie and say yes and he will be excused,” said Jesse.

  “Okay, I got it from here,” said Danny. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
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  Danny hung up the phone and got into his car. He hoped that King was right and Salah would feel compelled to warn this iDT. If and if he did, he’d do it through the only website they let Salah post to: The prison ministry.

  Danny drove off and looked back at the prison. When he was a kid, he used to think prisons were symbols of civilization, man’s honest attempt at order. Now he wondered if they were just the opposite, monuments to our failure.

  Danny started his car and headed toward the freeway. It was going to be a long drive back home.

  22

  NUMBERS

  Jangle had been thinking about using the yellow strip to contact iDT for days now. Bob was crazy and he was going to cause nothing but trouble starting his own business. He would not be snitching if he told iDT about it because he wasn’t talking to a cop. But it was wrong anyway, he thought.

  Maybe Bob told him about the plan hoping he’d tell iDT. But Bob didn’t know that he had a way of contacting the shadow man. And if he did nothing, then Bob might bring them all down.

  Jangle sat at his computer at the house he’d bought a few years ago. Real estate was so cheap in Detroit that you could get a nice house for very little.

  His neighbors knew what he did for a living. They kept away from him by and large and none of the local players even thought about stealing from him.

  There was very little furniture or food. He mostly ate out of the fast food restaurants around the neighborhood like many people did. He had a big 60-inch TV, Xbox, PS3 and a Wii but the Wii was really for girls, he thought. He ran his women through for sex but it wasn’t really a home.

  He thought about Rashindah and the many nights she had spent here. He remembered her walking naked through the house, looking like one of them women from the movies. What a goddamned shame, he thought.

  The game was getting very complicated and this was no time to make the wrong move. He was paralyzed by the choice Bob and LaMaris had given him, until he contacted Husam Salah.