Neely Tucker - The Ways of the Dead

“Jamie has it from the feds, the FBI.”

“Good.”

Dictation, then: He narrated Victoria’s view of Sarah crossing the street, omitting that her perspective came from the dance studio. In this telling, she was simply a happenstance witness-accurate, not entirely forthcoming, but not exactly misleading. He said she withheld her last name for fear of possible retaliation. He knocked off the rest on the fly:

“‘Prosecutors have said that this fear of retribution is common across high-crime areas of the city, as witnesses are loath to put themselves at risk of further violence. While the Park View neighborhood is not among the most violent, it does have problems with street crime and robberies. At least one woman on Princeton Place, Lana Escobar, has been killed in the past eighteen months. Escobar was strangled to death on the outfield grass of the Park View Recreation Center, less than one hundred yards from where Sarah Reese’s body was found. No arrest was made in that case. It is unclear tonight-’ Tony, make that ‘ was unclear last night-’ Um… ‘was unclear whether the incident involving Reese was part of the street violence common to the area or was an unconnected tragedy.’ Wait. Make it ‘ random street violence or whether she was a targeted victim.’ There we go.”

He then described the scene on the street, the helicopters overhead, the crowd and its resentful energy, the television antennas, the failing light of day, the horns of stalled motorists in the distance.

He looked at his watch. They were past deadline for the suburban.

“What does that alley look like?” Rubin asked.

“It’s seven minutes after ten.”

“I moved an early version. The alley?”

“The center of police activity. I’m calling it narrow, wide enough for one car at a time. I remember walking through there once or twice before, when I was doing the Escobar thing. It’s pretty nondescript. Alley, dumpsters, needles, condoms, beer cans. It’s the back of all the stores that face Georgia.”

“How far is it off the street?”

“I haven’t stepped it off, but sixty, maybe seventy feet? Doyle’s is a little weird-it has four or five parking spaces in front of it between it and Georgia, this little parking lot.”

“Are the dumpsters right behind the market’s door?”

“Unknown. But they couldn’t be far. The alley bends, okay? It doesn’t go straight across. It bends backward, away from Georgia to accommodate an office building, the one with the restaurant, the Hunger Stopper, on the first floor, and then it comes out onto Otis. Shit. Look up whether that’s Otis Place or Street. The dumpsters couldn’t be in the turn, so, yeah, the dumpster is within twenty or thirty feet of the back door of the market.”

“She was found in the alley between Princeton Place and Otis Place? That’s accurate?”

“Yes. I mean, no-yeah, Otis. I don’t know if it’s street or terrace or whatever.”

“I’m looking at a street map. Princeton Place, Otis Place. Princeton runs east and west. It’s only two and half blocks long.”

“What, it picks up at the golf course and dead-ends into Georgia? The other side of the golf course, that’s whatsit, Catholic University? So yeah, it wouldn’t pick up again over there.”

“Alley is pavement? Not brick?”

“Ah, affirmative.”

“And you’re sure about that location for the alley? It’s not shown on my street map.”

“I’m looking at it.”

“What’s the population back there right now?”

“In the alley? I’m counting two squad cars, three unmarkeds, and a tech van. The van is just outside the alley. What’s Chris telling you about the investigation?”

“Cops are mostly shutting him down. A statement coming at ten thirty from the chief, then the mayor. They’re going to do a stand-up in front of the store.”

“Suspects?”

“Well, the BOLO, if you want to count that. Cops are calling them persons of interest, asking witnesses to come forward. Particularly any who may have been in Doyle’s.”

“How many hacks feeding you?”

“I got Jamie on the FBI and Main Justice. The obit desk, which has the bio stuff on Reese. Got a feed from National. Something about judges being targets of crimes, and another about him being the presumptive next nominee to the Supremes. Research is putting together a list of his recent decisions. Metro has the kid going to the Hazelwood School. That’s like twenty grand a year, you know. Looks like we’re getting a picture of young Miss Sarah from the yearbook. Metro also has somebody out there in the neighborhood, trying for friends and family. We’ll add in the police and the feds when they go on at ten thirty. And there’s you and Chris. How many was that?”

“Like about twenty people who don’t know fuckall.”

“Well, it’s what we do best.”

Sully clicked off the cell and dropped it in his pocket. The rotating lights of the police and emergency vehicles bounced off the houses, scattered through the leaves of the trees overhead. The breeze came back up. The last of the bourbon pulsed at his temples. He tapped his pen against his notebook and his foot against the pavement. Something about the neighborhood was bouncing just beyond the reach of his memory.

The press conference was going to be in front of the dance studio, well inside the perimeter-Chris would cover that-and somewhere offscreen there would be the parental misery of David and Tori Reese, a wound that would never heal. He could give a fuck about Reese himself, Washington parasite that he was, but he felt a twinge in his chest for Tori, the well of sorrow she was falling into, a blackness he knew well enough.

“Keening,” he said out loud to nobody.

And Sarah. He would rather not think about the child’s last minutes, but that was the job. He looked at the moths circling above and found himself wondering why a girl-white, rich-would run into an alley in a neighborhood like this. Had somebody lured her back there, and if so, with what? She had crossed the street for a soda from the store-fine, he could believe that. But why did she leave from the back entrance? A drug buy? Weed?

Drugs, that was the smart money. Sarah, what, goes out back to buy some weed-maybe that was the point of the whole foray from the dance studio-and pulls out too much cash? Maybe that’s what the three black guys in the store were doing, a little dealing. Hey, white girl, you want some quality endo? Y’all come on out back. She goes, pulls out her money, dude grabs it, she bucks, gets the knife, and that’s the end. Or, maybe: She pays and they try to get a little what-what with the transaction. She bucks, the knife, the same.

Maybe a rapist who had spotted her before-she would have been in the same place, same time each week-and finally made a play? He blew out his lips. Possible, but less likely.

Then there was the Big Idea story that his colleagues would love most: Daddy was the target, she was the message. This struck him as the most likely to be bullshit, but if it was true, the killing would almost certainly be a professional hit, designed to be quick, clean, and most likely done efficiently with a firearm. Or maybe the killer liked the knife because, if he was sure of his physical control of the situation, it offered the benefits of silence and no left-behind ballistics.

Of course none of this really mattered-the initial BOLO would fix the narrative on television, radio, newspapers, the national consciousness. Three young black guys, one dead white girl. This was how shit got started.

He looked up and saw three people walk out of the alley. The low yellow light was not good but he recognized the police chief’s short, rotund outline. The other figure, a tall, broad-shouldered dude in a suit, he didn’t know. He guessed FBI. They both turned and went away from him, toward the lights on Georgia Avenue.