George Pelecanos - The Night Gardener

They were the death photos of Jacqueline Taylor. In the photos she was laid out on her back, naked on a large sheet of black plastic. By the time the sister had identified her, she had been cleaned up, but these were the shots taken when she had first arrived at the morgue. The stab wounds were most prominent on her neck and one of her breasts, which was nearly severed. Her eyes were open, one more widely than the other, which made her appear to be inebriated. Her tongue was swollen and protruded.

'Look at that hair trail,' said Antonelli, putting his feet up on his desk. His trouser hiked up, revealing an ankle holster and the butt of his Glock.

Bakalis studied the photos one by one without comment. The mood was not festive, despite the fact that they had caught a killer. No one could be happy with the results in this particular case.

'Poor old gal,' said Green.

'Him, too,' said Ramone. 'Guy was a solid citizen up until a year ago. Loses his job, falls in love with the pipe, watches his wife shack up with an asshole who parks his laundry in the same place Tyree's kids are sleeping…'

'I knew his older brother,' said Green. 'Shoot, I used to see William out there when he wasn't nothin but a kid. His people were good. Don't let no one tell you that drugs don't fuck you up.'

'Even if he pleads,' said Rhonda, 'he'll catch eighteen, twenty-five.'

'And those kids'll be messed up for life,' said Green.

'She must have been some woman,' said Bakalis, still studying the photos. 'I mean, he was so torn about losing that thing he had to kill it so no other man could hit it.'

'If he hadn't been smoking that shit,' said Green, 'he might have thought straight.'

'Wasn't just the rock,' said Antonelli. 'It's a proven fact, pussy will compel you to kill. Even the pussy you can't have.'

'Pussy can pull a freight train,' said Rhonda Willis.

Bakalis dropped the Polaroids on his desk, then touched the pads of his fingers to the keyboard of his computer. But his fingers did not move. He stared stupidly at the monitor.

'Hey, Plug,' said Bakalis. 'How'd you like to type up a subpoena?'

'How'd you like to suck my dick?'

The two of them went back and forth for a while until Gene Hornsby arrived with the bag of evidence. Ramone thanked him and got to work on the booking and attendant paperwork, including the entering of the case details in The Book. This was a large tablet detailing open and closed homicides, officers assigned to the cases, motives, and other elements that would be helpful to the prosecution effort and also serve to memorialize basic city history.

By the time the detectives had checked out for the day, they had worked a full shift and three hours of overtime.

Out in the parking lot of the VCB, located behind the Penn-Branch shopping center in Southeast, Gus Ramone, Bo Green, George Hornsby, and Rhonda Willis walked to their cars.

'I'm gonna take a nice hot bath tonight,' said Rhonda.

'Don't you need to run your sons somewhere this evening?' said Green.

'Not tonight, praise God.'

'Anybody up for a beer?' said Hornsby. 'I'll let y'all buy me one.'

'I got practice,' said Green, who coached a boys' football team in the neighborhood where he'd come up.

'What about the Ramone?' said Hornsby.

'Rain check,' said Rhonda, who knew what the answer would be before it came from Ramone's mouth.

Ramone wasn't listening. He was thinking of his wife and kids.

Diego Ramone got off the 12 bus near the Metro station and walked over the District line toward his house. It had not been a good day at his middle school, but it had been a typical one. He had caught trouble, like he had caught trouble a couple of times every week since he started going there. He wished he could have stayed at his old middle school in D.C., but his father had insisted he transfer into Montgomery County, and things had not gone too well since.

Mr Guy, the assistant principal, had called Diego's mother earlier in the day to tell her that Diego had refused to give up his cell phone after it had rung inside the school. The truth was, Diego had forgotten it was on. He knew it was against school rules to have it on inside, but he hadn't wanted to give it up, on account of his friend Toby had got his phone taken away for weeks after a similar thing went down. So he'd told Mr Guy, 'No, I'm not gonna give it up, 'cause it was an honest mistake,' and then Mr Guy had taken him down to the office and called his mother. Mr Guy had said that he could have suspended him for insubordination and that he was cutting him a break. Some break. Diego was still going to hear about it from his father. Besides, being suspended was more fun than being in school. In that school, anyway.

Diego walked through a short tunnel under the Metro tracks and crossed Blair Road. He wore a long black T-shirt showing the Tasmanian Devil hand-screened by a friend, one of the Spriggs twins. Under the T-shirt he wore a Hanes wife-beater. It was autumn, but still warm enough for shorts, and his were Levi Silvertabs worn a few inches below the knee. Beneath the Silvertabs he wore SpongeBob boxers. His shoes today, one of three pairs of sneaks he owned, were Nike Exclusives, the white and navy.

Diego Ramone was fourteen years old.

His ringer, a Backyard live at the Crossroads thing he had downloaded onto his phone, went off. He unhooked his cell from the waistband of his shorts.

'Yeah,' he said into the mic.

'Where you at, dawg?' said his friend Shaka Brown.

'I'm comin up on, like, Third and Whittier.'

'You walkin?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Ain't your mother pick you up?'

'I took the twelve.'

His mother had come by the school, but he knew if he got in the car with her she'd want to take him straight home, go on about homework, all that. After some negotiation, it was agreed that he would take the bus and then foot it into their neighborhood, where, he had assured her, his plans were only to meet Shaka and play a little ball. Taking the bus gave him a sense of freedom and made him feel like an adult. He had promised his mother he'd be home well before dinnertime.

'Ain't like you to walk. Soft as you are.'

'Stop playin,' said Diego.

'Hurry up, Dago, I got a court.'

'I'm comin.'

'I'm 'a shred you.'

'Yeah, right.'

Diego ended the call. Before he could reattach the cell to his belt line, his mother rang him up.

'Hello?'

'Where are you?'

'Near Coolidge,' said Diego.

'You meeting Shaka?'

'Told you I was.'

'You have homework tonight?'

'I did it in study hall,' said Diego. It was just a white lie. He would get it done in study hall the next day.

'Don't stay out too long.'

'Said I wouldn't.'

Diego hit 'end.' Having a cell phone was tight, but it could be a curse, too.

Shaka was shooting buckets on the fenced court at 3rd and Van Buren. It was a nice clean court for D.C., with chains and everything, part of the rec center that ran behind and alongside Coolidge High School. There were tennis courts that the adults used, mostly, and a soccer field for the Spanish, and a playground for the kids. Diego had been hanging out here, progressing from the monkey bars to hoops, since before he'd been in Whittier Elementary. He lived with his parents and his little sister, Alana, just a few blocks south in Manor Park.

'You better hurry up,' said Shaka, as Diego crossed the court. 'I'm fixin to burn these chains off the way I'm droppin 'em.'

Diego took off his T-shirt, leaving him in his sleeveless, and wrapped the T around his cell. He placed the package on the side of the court, by the fence.

Diego said, 'Lemme see that rock.'

Shaka bounced the Spalding indoor/outdoor over to Diego, who took a medium-range jumper that hit the back of the iron and did not drop.