The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor 10)

“Don’t forget,” Yvette often said with a smile, almost as a provocation, “that dynamite comes in small packages.”

Three hours earlier, just as Javier had backed up the van carrying Principal Bazelon’s body to the Medical Examiner’s Office, his cell phone had pinged, alerting him to a new text message.

When he had looked at the phone’s screen, the message surprised him: YVETTE

HEY, BIG BRO . . . SO SAD ABOUT PRINCIPAL BAZELON

MUST BE VERY UPSETTING FOR YOU TO HAVE PICKED HER UP

YOU’RE IN MY THOUGHTS & PRAYERS

LOVE YOU!

His first thought: What a sweetheart.

Then: How the hell did she find out so fast?

After processing the body of Mrs. Joelle Bazelon into the system that was the Medical Examiner’s Office—putting the body bag in one of the stainless-steel refrigerator compartments, then entering the report and photographs taken at the scene into the computer filing system—Javier had called his sister.

“Hey, I got your text. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, her usual bubbly tone gone. “It’s . . . it’s all just so awful. . . .”

“Yeah. She was a terrific lady. How’d you find out so fast? And that it was me? I mean, I’d barely left the scene”—he paused and thought, Wrong word—“that is, Principal Bazelon’s house, when you sent that.”

“Some guys walking around the neighborhood saw the ME van and stopped to watch.”

She knows those thugs watching from across the street?

Maybe Kim Soo was right. They were wannabe gangstas-from-the-’hood.

“You know those guys?”

“No, not really. They think they’re bad news. Jorge’s little brother, Paco, he hangs with them, which makes Jorge mad.”

Then I was right and Soo was wrong.

I knew I had that gut feeling they were up to no good. . . .

Yvette went on: “Anyway, Paco told Jorge he saw you at the Bazelons’, and Jorge texted me about the ME van and Principal Bazelon dying and all.”

Javier knew only vaguely of either Ramirez brother.

“And then Keesha called crying.”

“Keesha?”

“Keesha Cook.”

“Oh, that Keesha. How’s she connected?”

“She and Sasha live on the same street. Longtime neighbors and friends. And you know Keesha used to come over and hang out.”

“Yeah, I remember that. Okay, it all makes sense now.”

“Word’s gotten out fast, Javier. I mean there’s already a big memorial at the middle school by the back door. People coming by and leaving flowers and stuffed animals. There’s these big white bedsheets that they’re drawing on and writing poems and memories and stuff about her. And there’s already a memorial page dedicated to her on the Internet. People from around the world—and I mean around the world, Javier, like China and shit—are writing about what an influence she was to them. Someone’s even made a page with a map of the world, and every time someone writes one of those notes or posts a photo of them, one of these red pushpins pops up on the map showing where these people are in the world—Africa, Europe, all over. Most of them are in Philly, though, real thick red here, then it gets thinner going out.”

“That’s amazing. All in—what?—just two hours? Amazing, is what that is.”