Apparently no one had noticed Frank Odenkirk as he was leaving the airport. His clothing still hadn’t been recovered. The M.E. reported that he had definitely been sodomized after he was killed. As I had suspected, there was no semen. The killer had used a condom. Just as with the Jane Does.
The police commissioner was involved in the Odenkirk case and was putting added pressure on the department. It was making everyone angry and a little crazy. Chief Pittman was riding his detectives hard, but the only case he seemed interested in was the Odenkirk killing, especially since a suspect had been arrested in the German tourist murder.
At around eleven that morning, Rakeem Powell stopped by my desk. He bent low and whispered, “Might have something interesting, Alex. Downstairs in the jail, if you’ve got a minute. Could be a first break on those two murdered girls in Shaw.”
The jail was down a set of steep concrete stairs, just past a tight warren of small interrogation rooms, a holding room, and a booking room. All over the ceiling and walls, prisoners had scratched their street names or used black ink from fingerprinting to write the names. This was incredibly dumb of them, since it gave us information for our files.
It’s purposely kept dark down in the jail. Each cell is six by five feet, with a metal bed and a combination water fountain/toilet. Sneakers had been tossed in the hallways outside several of the cells. It’s what experienced prisoners do who won’t take the laces out of their sneaks. Laces aren’t allowed in the jail for safety reasons.
A small-time drug runner and petty thief named Alfred “Sneak” Streek was seated like the Fresh Prince of D.C. in one of the holding cells. The street punk looked up at me as I entered his cell. A slicky-sick smirk crossed his face.
Sneak was sporting wraparound sunglasses, dusty dreadlocks, and a bright-green and yellow crocheted hat. His white T-shirt had a drawing of Haile Selassie’s face and read HEAD HUNTER. RASTAFARIAN.
“You from the D.A.’s office? I don’t think so. No dealee, no talkee, my man,” he said to me. “So get lost.”
Rakeem ignored him as he spoke to me. “Sneak claims to have some useful information about the Glover and Cardinal homicides. He would like us to extend him some courtesy in return for what he claims to know. He’s jammed up on a charge that he may have broken into an apartment in Shaw. He was caught coming out of a bedroom window with a Sony TV in his arms. Imagine that. Not very Sneaky of him.”
“I didn’t rob no ticky-tacky apartment. I don’t even watch TV, my man. And I don’t see no assistant district attorney present with the au-tho-rity to make a deal.”
“Take off your sunglasses,” I said to him.
He wouldn’t look at me, so I took them off for him. As one well-known street saying goes, his eyes were like tombstones. I could tell at a glance that Sneak wasn’t just running drugs anymore; he was using.
I stood across from Sneak in the jail cell and stared him down. He was probably in his early twenties, angry, cynical, lost in space and time. “If you didn’t rob the apartment, then why would you be interested in seeing a lawyer from the district attorney’s office? That doesn’t make too much sense to me, Alfred. Now here’s what I’ll do for you, and it’s a onetime offer, so listen carefully. If I walk ou
t of here, I don’t come back.”
Sneak half-listened to what I was saying.
“If you give us information that directly helps solve the murders of those two young girls, then we will help you on the robbery charge. I’ll go to the mat myself. If you don’t give up the information, then I’m going to leave you in here with Detective Powell and Detective Thurman. You won’t get this generous, one-time offer again. That’s another promise, and as these detectives know, I always keep my word.”
Sneak still didn’t say anything. A glaze was coming over his eyes. He tried to stare me down, but I’m usually better at it than the average TV booster.
I finally shrugged a look at Rakeem Powell and Jerome Thurman. “Okay, fine. Gentlemen, we need to know what he knows about those murdered girls in Shaw. He gets nothing from us when you’re finished with him. It’s possible that he’s involved with the homicides himself. He could even be our killer, and we need to solve this thing fast. You treat him that way until we know differently.”
I started to leave when suddenly Sneak spoke.
“Back Door, man. He hang at Downing Park. He, Back Door, maybe see who done those girls. That’s how he say it at the park. Say he saw the killer. So how you gonna help me?”
I walked out of the cell. “I told you the deal, Alfred. We solve the case, your information helps, I’ll help you.”
Chapter 34
MAYBE WE WERE CLOSE TO SOMETHING. Two Metro cruisers and two unmarked sedans pulled up to the fenced-in entrance of tiny Downing playground in Shaw. Rakeem Powell and Sampson came with me to visit with Joe “Back Door” Booker, a well-known neighborhood menace.
I knew Back Door by sight and spotted him right away. He was short, no more than five-seven, goateed, and so good with a basketball that he sometimes played in work boots just to show off. He had on dusty orange construction boots today. Also a faded black nylon jacket and black nylon pants that accordioned at the ankles.
A full-court basketball game was in progress, a fast, highlevel game somewhere between college and pro in terms of athletic ability. The court couldn’t have been more basic—black macadam, faded white lines, metal backboards, and rims with chain nets.
Players from two or three other teams sat around waiting their turn to play winners. Nylon shorts and pants and the Nike swoosh were everywhere. The court was surrounded by four walls of heavy wire fencing and was known as the cage. Everybody looked up as we arrived, Booker included.
“We got next!” Sampson called out.
The players on and off the court exchanged looks, and a couple of them grinned at Sampson’s one-liner. They knew who we were. The steady thump, thump, thump of the game ball hadn’t stopped.
Back Door was on the court. It wasn’t unusual for his team to hold winners for an entire afternoon. He had been in and out of reformatories and prisons since he was fourteen, but he could play ball. He was taunting another player who was on the court in gray suit pants and high-tops, his chest bare. “You suck,” said Back Door. “Take those church pants off. I play you in baseball, tennis, bowling, any game—you suck. Stop suckin’.”
Rakeem Powell blew the silver referee’s whistle he always carries. Rakeem works as a soccer ref in his spare time. The whistle is unorthodox, but it gets attention in noisy places. The game stopped.