Jillian Abbott's - Queens Noir

“That’s what I’m thinking too, but if there was,” I lean in, “what would it be?”

Spurlock furrowed his brow. “Meaning?”

“The parents seem to think their son was murdered.”

“Okay, kid, I’ll indulge you, I’ve got nothing but time, right?” He shuffled through a stack of bulging file folders before selecting the thinnest one. “Here we go.” He took a swig from his mug and whipped on his reading glasses. “Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two, found hanged in his own bedroom, March 2.” He paused at the date, gave me the once-over, continued reading from his notes. “Apparent suicide, no suspicious circumstances, blah, blah, case closed.”

Spurlock sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“Wait a minute.” I flipped through my own notebook. “If you began your investigation on March 2, why did the call come over my scanner just two days ago?”

“Ahh,” the detective laughed. “They won’t stop, these people. I closed this case one week after it happened, and they’ve been phoning 911 ever since.” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d arrest the two of them for Aggravated Harassment if it weren’t so damn sad.”

“So there’s nothing? Nothing to suggest the murder that the family thinks occurred?”

“Nope.” Spurlock reopened the folder and flipped through the paperwork. “The sister gave me a couple a names of some friends of his, who turned out not to be friends at all. The boy didn’t have any friends.” He handed me the list. “Church members. A bit too pious for my tastes, but hey, to each his own.” He closed the folder and switched off his desk lamp. “Like I said: case closed.”

Of course, there was no story. But I went ahead and crafted a lead and pitched it to my editor.

Jamaica, Queens — A twenty-two-year-old man was found hanged in his bedroom under mysterious circumstances. Family members suspect foul play.

He glanced at it before tossing it aside. “We don’t do suicides.”

Still, I wanted to see Janette again. I steeled myself for the journey. It took me nearly two hours: the F train, then the Q76 bus to the end of the line. The bus wove its way down residential streets before groaning to a halt at the concrete 165th Street terminal in Jamaica, Queens.

It was bedlam. Greyhound on crack. People mobbed each designated bus slot, frantically directing the drivers into their respective spaces. An open, buzzing vegetable market operated behind the commuters, and as the day was a hot one, clouds of flies swarmed crates of long onions and collard greens. An old woman wearing a hairnet sat on a folding chair selling spices and exotic remedies sealed in plastic baggies. There was too much going on here; I was used to separation: a bus terminal being a bus terminal, a vegetable market being a vegetable market. Here, in Janette’s neighborhood, everything was everything all at once.

I cut behind the terminal through the Colosseum Mall and down tight aisles displaying brightly colored skirts and cell phone accessories. Out on the other side stood the First Presbyterian Church of Jamaica; Edwin’s funeral had been held there.

“Yo, man, you good?” A guy about my age peered at me from beneath an open car hood.

“What? Oh, yeah man, yeah.” I kept moving.

Jamaica Avenue, almost there. On the “Ave,” all the girls resembled Janette, with their manicured hands, toes, and eyebrows. Women sashayed bare-legged, wearing tight clothes; streaked, braided hairdos; metallic purses; chatting casually on headsets while munching on meat kebobs and cubes of sugared coconut.

I was tripping.

“Help? A little help?” A thin, thin, thin woman with a red cap pulled so low that she had to raise her chin to look at me blocked my path. “Ice-e?” She extended a cart toward me with a brutal shove. A regulation grocery cart, sealed in duct tape, enclosed with a plastic lid, a cardboard cut-out of brightly colored ice creams taped to its sides.

“Whoa,” I muttered, gripping the cart to keep from being run down. A plastic wheel jumped the rim of my sneaker, leaving a marked trail.

“Ice-e?” the woman repeated sternly.

I hadn’t noticed the man next to her. The old cat was just squatting there on the balls of his feet, arms extended at awkward angles from where they rested on each knee. In front of him stood a stack of newspapers and, atop the stack, a neat pile of quarters. I recognized the paper, a freebie like mine, but here on the street it cost a quarter.

I slapped some coins in his palm and snatched up a copy. The lead caught my eye:

Jamaica, Queens — A young man recently found hanging in his bedroom has been identified as Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two. Family members say the list of suspects is numerous and have sealed off the scene of the crime — the home — until further notice. The police have no comment.

The Crusading Home of Deliverance was located in a sprawling Victorian residence. It wouldn’t have been recognizable as a church were it not for the small cardboard sign and handmade cross posted in a none-too-clean bay window. I checked Detective Spurlock’s directions several times before rapping on the front door.

I’d tried to contact Janette after seeing the brief article about her brother in the competition, but she wasn’t taking my calls. So what was I doing? Seems I needed to know what happened to Edwin Stuckey after all.

“Are you here for evening service?” A smiling elderly woman dressed in white opened the door. I could see behind her into a drab parlor containing metal folding chairs, a podium, and what looked like a small organ.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m here to see Reverend Pine.”

Did I have an appointment? she inquired, continuing to smile.

I admitted I didn’t but assured her it was important, that I was here about Edwin Stuckey.

“Edwin. Yes.” She bowed her head. “We are still mourning his loss, but happy for his deliverance.”

“Yes, well... Reverend Pine?”

I followed the woman into the room and took a seat in the back row. The room was large and half-filled, all its occupants black, conversing in hushed voices.

“Son?” A slim, natty man dressed in a three-piece suit charged toward me with his hand extended. “I’m the Reverend Pine, and I welcome you to our sanctuary.” He shook my hand with an intense vigor before adjusting his chunky glasses and straightening his tie. “We can speak briefly in my office. I’ve got service in an hour and I must prepare.” He cleared his throat. “You understand.”

I studied the hallway he led me down. On either side of the wall were photographs of the reverend with parishioners and community dignitaries. His office, lined with two bookcases of theological texts, contained more of the same.

Reverend Pine took a seat behind his desk. “You’re here for Edwin?”

“Yes, sir.” I shifted in my seat. “I’m a reporter for the—”

“ Weekly Item . I know.” He smiled wryly.

I peered up at him sharply.

“I keep myself informed, son.” He laughed and adjusted himself in his seat. “See, my congregation is this here community, and we are all interested in Edwin’s well-being. We even trust that you are interested in his well-being.”

I was suddenly growing wary of this man and his glib talk of dead Edwin’s well-being.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of shop you’re running here—”

“There’s no need to be disrespectful.” Reverend Pine pinned me with his gaze. “What do you want to know? Edwin Stuckey saw a flyer for our church revival last summer, showed up at our doors, and we welcomed him.”

“So why does his family think he was murdered? Why did his sister give the names of members of your congregation to the police?”