by Brad Parks
“What do we know?” I said.
“At eight thirty- seven, a caller who identifies herself as a Ludlow Street resident hears five shots and immediately calls the cops.
“The police say they were down there in less than ten minutes to comb the neighborhood,” Peterson continued. “They were smart enough to start in the vacant lot next to the church, and they found a young black male against the fence in the back, exactly where they found the bodies earlier this week. And I mean exactly. There were fresh bloodstains on top of the old ones.”
“Hooo-lee smokes,” I interjected.
“The kid was apparently a real mess. Those five shots the caller heard? The cops think all five bullets went, bam, right in the coconut. The captain wouldn’t give much detail, but can you imagine five shots to the head? If you’re talking about a gun with any amount of punch at all, that kid probably doesn’t have much of a head left. They’ll be picking pieces of brain off that fence for hours.”
Peterson’s usual talent for embellishment wasn’t failing him in this critical moment. I just hoped that particu lar bit of creative writing didn’t make it into the next day’s paper. “Anyway,” he went on, “they’re not going to bother taking the kid to the hospital. He was pronounced dead at the scene. It will be straight to the morgue for him.”
“A ny I D?”
“No. Not that they’d tell us if there was. But the captain said half the reason he was giving us so much information so quickly was that they may need the public’s help in figuring out who the kid is. He wasn’t carrying a wallet and his face is so messed up they’re going to have to hope his prints are in the system. If not, it’s wait until his mama comes looking for him.” I felt a momentary sadness for this kid’s mama, whoever she was.
“The captain say whether he thought it was the same killer from before or is it just some copycat?” I asked.
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Peterson said. “The captain wouldn’t even discuss it with me. I’ll read you the quote: ‘At this point, we’re just sticking with what we know. We are not speculating as to motive or connection to other crimes.’ ”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I mean, the first thing got enough publicity that it could be a copycat. The first time it was one shot in the back of the head. This time it was five shots . . .”
“Unless that signifies it’s the fifth victim,” I interrupted. “Yeah, I thought about that,” Peterson said. “Look, I don’t know. But I got a story to write. Thompson says we can get this thing in second edition if I hurry.”
“No byline, remember?”
“Believe me, I remember. I don’t want anyone blowing up my house.”
The call ended just as I made the turn onto Ludlow Street. A few blocks down, I was stopped not by the police but by the size of the crowd that had gathered. A homi cide provides this weird kind of live theater for people who grow accustomed to living around it. Once word gets out someone has gotten shot, it’s not unusual to get a decent- sized collection of gawkers, gossips, and busybodies trying to sneak a glance at the victim to see if it’s someone they know.
Plus, once all the flashing lights start whirring and the cops blanket the scene, there’s no safer place in the city.
Y
ou have to be careful what questions you pose to bystanders at a crime scene, because the power of suggestion can be strong. For example, I would never ask, “Did anyone see a white van driving off?” Because maybe the first person you talked to wouldn’t have seen the van, nor the second. But eventually word gets around the Bird Man is asking about a white van and, lo and behold, someone who wants to get a little attention will say they’ve seen it.
So as I waded through the throng, I tried to stick to nonleading questions—simple stuff like if anyone knew who the victim was or had any ideas about what had gone down.
Over the next five or ten minutes, as I worked my way closer to the crime scene, I heard the usual assortment of theories. Half the people were absolutely certain it had something to do with the earlier Ludlow Street murders. An equal number were just as convinced it was unrelated. The shooter was believed to be a local drug dealer named Antoine, a rogue Newark cop who went by the street name “Radar,” or a jealous boyfriend who found another guy making time with his girl.
The shooting was everything from five shots (the supposedly correct version), to one shot (always popu lar), to a massive gun battle that nearly clipped an innocent bystander (according to the man who claimed to be the innocent victim and wanted my opinion as to whether he could sue someone and recoup damages on account of the trauma he suffered).
But no one had much of an idea who the victim was. That was a constant.
Finally—after receiving enough double takes from people who couldn’t believe a white guy was in their neighborhood at such a late hour—I made it to where the yellow police tape separated the civilians from the professionals.
The cops had put up some portable lights, allowing me to see into the back of the vacant lot. Sure enough, the body appeared to be exactly where I had seen the bloodstains earlier in the week. The corpse was covered with a white sheet, with only the sneaker-clad feet sticking out. I was beginning to think we were just going to have to wait on the police for an ID.
And then I saw it, lying no more than three feet from the body: a backpack adorned with soda can tabs. Rashan Reeves’s backpack.
I dropped to one knee. It was either take a knee or topple over. A few hours earlier, Rashan Reeves had been riding in my car, asking me about what it was like to be a newspaper reporter, alive and inquisitive, possibly beginning to consider a world with alternatives beyond pushing drugs. And now he was just one more dead drug dealer, his life—and whatever potential he had— oozing out of him onto the dried weeds in some frozen vacant lot.
I felt like crying. And screaming. And ripping out every damn last one of those weeds so that maybe, come springtime, I could plant flowers there instead.
But none of that was going to do any good. So I just did my job. I pulled out my cell phone and called Peterson, informing him the victim was Rashan Reeves of Newark.
“How do you know?” Peterson barked.
“Because I interviewed him earlier this eve ning. He copped to being a drug dealer in the network that sold ‘The Stuff.’ He even told me how he got recruited.”
“Uh-huh,” Peterson said, and I knew he was writing as fast as he could.
“Here, let me just dictate. You ready?”
“Shoot.”
The words came racing out of me.
“Another dealer connected to the brand of heroin known as ‘The Stuff’ was killed in Newark late last night,” I began.
“Rashan Reeves, twenty-two, appears to be the fifth victim in a lengthening chain of violence that continues to unsettle New Jersey’s largest city. His body was discovered in the same Ludlow Street vacant lot where four of his fellow dealers were found dead earlier this week.
“Newark police have not yet confirmed that this most recent victim is Reeves, identifying him only as a young black man who was shot five times in the head. Police also would not speculate whether the two Ludlow Street crimes were connected.
“But shortly before his death, Reeves told an Eagle-Examiner reporter he had been dealing ‘The Stuff’ for four months, ever since his release from East Jersey State Prison.
“Reeves was carrying four gruesome postmortem photographs of the Ludlow Street victims and a memo penned by a person who claimed to have killed them. In the memo, the killer— identified only as ‘the Director’—writes that he eliminated the four dealers as punishment for selling a weakened version of ‘The Stuff’ to their customers.
“Reeves was killed less than three hours after the interview ended, possibly in retribution for having spoken to a reporter.”
“Slow down, slow down,” Peterson said. “This is great. Are you sure it’s all true?”
�
��Never been more sure,” I said, then helped Peterson with the details and background he needed to finish off the story.
“Tell Tina to stick this on A1 next to the story about the fires,” I said.
“Oh, and Peterson?” I added. “Screw the new policy. Put my byline on it. I want this guy to know I’m coming for him.”
The Director had little trouble deciding what approach to take with Rashan Reeves. It was partly based on the psychological profile in Reeves’s Department of Corrections dossier, which Alvarez had been nice enough to provide. But it was also based on the Director’s instincts on where Reeves could be most easily exploited.
Greed. It was Reeves’s weakness. It was many people’s weakness. The Director made the phone call himself, telling the young dealer he was aware of the visit he had just made to Hector Alvarez’s house with the Eagle-Examiner reporter. The Director did not hide his disappointment and told Reeves he had considered terminating their contract. But, the Director explained, that would scarcely solve the publicity problem if the reporter were to publish Reeves’s story.
So the Director made Reeves an offer he was sure the reporter could not match: in exchange for retracting his story and ending all contact with the reporter, Reeves would be given a leased Lexus. He would be allowed to use the car as long as he continued his loyal service. Did that sound fair? the Director asked.
Reeves had practically jumped out of his skin to accept. Sure he wanted a new Lexus. Didn’t everyone?
Having thrown out the bait and set the hook, the Director needed only reel in his catch. It was easy enough. The Director told Reeves that, since he was to be the primary driver of the new Lexus, he would need to be a cosigner on the lease. Could he meet with the Director at eight o’clock with his blindfold on, like it was their normal weekly product delivery?
Of course he could. The young man was remarkably guileless. Reeves had asked only one question: “What kind of Lexus will it be?”
They settled on an LS 430 and the conversation ended.
The Director had the “lease” ready by the time he picked up Reeves. It was really just a sample lease Monty had downloaded off a car dealer’s Web site and then hastily altered. The Director insisted Reeves read the entire thing before signing it. The young man anxiously pored over the document, skimming maybe a quarter of the paragraphs and understanding even less. Then he signed it, scarcely able to believe how his dung pile of a life had suddenly turned into a hill of diamonds.
The Director told Reeves they were going to pick up the car at the dealership, with a quick stop at Ludlow Street on the way. The Director spun a tale about wanting to clean up the four dealers’ shrine just a bit, and asked if the young man might help. The Director could only chuckle later: Rashan Reeves didn’t have the slightest inkling what was happening, not until nanoseconds before the first bullet entered his skull.
It had all been so easy. Then again, the Director reminded Monty as they drove off, the situation was only partly contained. There was still the matter of the reporter. Carter Ross was clearly a more sophisticated enemy.
But killing him would be just as easy. Because the Director had a plan, one that involved exploiting Ross’s greatest weakness.
His curiosity.
CHAPTER 9
She came to me in the middle of the night, waking me without a sound. At first, I couldn’t even be sure what was happening. I was on Tina’s couch, but it was almost as if the couch were somewhere else. The living room of my boyhood home in Millburn? The mess hall at the summer camp I went to as a kid? I was still groggy, confused.
But it was definitely Tina’s couch. It had to be, because it was Tina on top of me. She had changed into the black cocktail dress, the one with the keyhole neckline she wore the other night. I could feel her entire body pressing against mine with an urgency that didn’t seem real.
I tried to get my bearings but there was no time. Tina was demanding every last ounce of my attention. Her eyes were huge and sparkling. It was like nothing else existed but her face, her hips, her hair, her breasts. It was all perfect, all mine to explore, admire, and enjoy.
How had it happened? There had been no seduction that I remembered, no soft music, low lighting, or sloppy drinking. But I guess I knew it was never going to happen the conventional way with Tina. It was going to be her show, done in her way, fitting her schedule.
So, yes, it was happening in the small hours of morning, with her more or less attacking me while I slept. I had no memory of waking up nor of any conversation. Tina never gave me the chance to deny her. Not that I would have. I was just the innocent bystander in her not-so-innocent scheme, allowing her to dictate the action. I almost felt detached from it, watching it all happen from somewhere high above.
But then suddenly I was back in my body and it was time to take control. My mouth began exploring the soft spot where her neck and shoulders met. My hand caressed the curve from her hip to her breast. The keyhole dress slipped away and we were soon one.
It was incredible, the kind of incredible you almost never got the first time with a new partner. There was no awkwardness, no fumbling, no slowing down to make sure everyone was okay. It was just two bodies fitting perfectly into each other and nothing to interfere with the pleasure.
And then I went to finish and . . . couldn’t. I kept at it, thinking I would feel the release any second. But it didn’t happen. I increased my pace, then slowed it, then increased it again. Still nothing. And then I started smelling . . . bacon? And pancakes?
And then I woke up. It was Saturday morning. Tina was nowhere near me and apparently never had been.
I tried to sit up but then immediately lay back down. I needed time to get my bearings and give the throbbing in my pants time to subside. I tried to recap how my Friday night ended: after deciding there was nothing more to be learned at Ludlow Street, I returned to the office and picked up a key from Tina, then went back to her place and fell asleep so quickly I’m not sure I was even aware of closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, it was morning.
So why did I feel so crappy? Let’s see: I’d slept in the clothes I had been wearing for two days; I could carry everything I currently owned in my back pocket; my last three meals had consisted of a bagel, Pop-Tarts, and two slices of pizza; and my sources kept getting bombed, burned, and killed.
Yeah, that would do it. I looked at the clock on Tina’s cable box. It was 9:18. I might have gone right back to sleep except for what had woken me up in the first place—a smell that had wafted in from the kitchen and worked its way up my nose, making my olfactory system convince the rest of me life was worthwhile after all.
Pancakes.
And bacon.
I suddenly found the strength to stand and wobble into the kitchen, where Tina was building a stack of pancakes that could have sated three hungry truckers.
“I think I’m in love with you,” I said.
“Since you’re the first man to say that to me this morning, I’ll let you eat some of this with me.”
Tina had her hair up in a ponytail. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and not a hint of makeup. And she looked absolutely slammin’. (“Slammin’ ” is a word I heard from one of the kids answering the phones at work—apparently it’s a good thing). Most women could summon the right mix of hairspray, makeup, and clingy clothing to look good in a club on a Friday night. It was the true beauty who looked just as good over pancakes the next morning. Tina was one of those.
“Thanks for putting that extra blanket on me last night,” I said.
“No problem. You were drooling a little bit. It was pretty cute.”
She had that morning’s paper sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. We had splashed the ongoing Ludlow Street story all over A1, and the layout people had done a nice job tiling together three photos: the Stop-In Go-Go dancers (all appropriately clad, of course) outside their scorched home; the remains of Booker T Building Five, shot from the top of one of the other bui
ldings so you had a cool bird’s-eye feel; and the sheet-draped body of Rashan Reeves with his sneakers sticking out.
Underneath were two articles: the nonbylined story of all the blitzed buildings that Tommy and Hays had done; and the late-breaking account of Rashan’s murder, with my byline on it.
I was proud of the whole thing. Sometimes we pussed out and pulled our punches on stories like this. It was part of the endless battle that rages in newsrooms across the country, pitting those who worried we would offend readers if our words and images were too graphic against those who felt we were obligated to show the world as it really existed. I was naturally part of the latter camp: a newspaper existed to tell the news, not sugarcoat it.
Our camp was often outvoted. But not this time. “This looks great,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“Your doing?”
“Once the murder happened, I took the night editor’s prerogative to rip up the front page and start from scratch,” Tina said. “I’m sure I’ll take some flack for it on Monday, but I think it looks great, too.”
“Thanks for using my byline.”
“Peterson told me what you said. I wasn’t going to do it, but Peterson fought for you. He pointed out it wasn’t going to do more harm—this creep knows who you are already. And it might even do some good, if people in the community realize you’re the guy on this story and they call you with more information.”
I nodded and waited for more, but she was done. I debated telling Tina about the dream I just had, mostly because it was so vivid I couldn’t get it out of my mind. But, really, how do you start that conversation? So, Tina, I had this dream where you raped me last night . . .
Nope. Not happening. Instead we dove into her stack of pancakes together, dividing the paper then switching sections when we were done with them.
After a leisurely half hour, she got up from her side of the table and came around behind me, placing a pair of warm hands on my shoulders. She began massaging, and I allowed myself to go limp.