“I don’t know… I wonder,” I muttered as I pushed aside the thick evergreen branches and made my way into the hideaway. The smell of pine was heavy, even in the cold air. Reminded me that the Christmas season was here.
I could feel the presence of the killer inside the tree branches, challenging me. I sensed Shanelle’s presence as well, as if she were trying to tell me something. I wanted to be alone in here for a moment or two.
It was a small clearing where the murder had actually taken place. Dried blood was on the ground and ha
d even splashed across some of the branches. He lured her in here. How did he do that? She’d be suspicious, or scared, unless she knew him from the neighborhood. It suddenly struck me. The balloon! It was just a guess, but it seemed right to me. The red balloon could have been the lure, the killer’s bait for the little girl.
I crouched down and was very still inside the tent of trees.
The killer liked it in here, hiding in the darkness. He doesn’t like himself much, though. Prefers the dark. He likes his mind, his thoughts, but not what he looks like. There’s probably something distinctive about him physically.
I didn’t know any of that for sure, but it seemed right; it felt right as I crouched at the murder site.
He was hiding in here, probably because there’s something about him people might remember. If so, it was a good clue.
I could see Shanelle Green’s battered face again. Then an image of my dead wife, Maria, came to me. I could feel the rage climbing from my gut to my throat, blowing and billowing inside me. I thought of Jannie and Damon.
I had one more thought about the child killer: anger usually implies an awareness of self-worth. Strange, but true. The killer was angry because he believed in himself much more than the world did.
Finally, I rose up and pushed my way back out of the hideaway. I’d had enough.
“Haul down that balloon,” I called to a patrolman. “Get that damn balloon out of the tree now. It’s evidence.”
CHAPTER
9
THERE WAS SOMETHING distinctive about him physically. I was almost certain of it. It was a place to start.
That afternoon Sampson and I were out on the street again, working near the Northfield Village projects. The Washington newspapers and TV hadn’t bothered much about the murder of a little girl in Southeast. Instead, they were filled with stories about the killing of Senator Fitzpatrick by the so-called Jack and Jill stalkers. Shanelle Green didn’t seem to matter very much.
Except to Sampson and me. We had seen Shanelle’s broken body and met her heartbroken parents. Now we talked to our street sources, but also to our neighbors. We continued to let people see us working, walking the streets.
“I sure do love a good homicide. Love walking the mean streets in the dead cold of winter,” Sampson opined as we went past a local dealer’s black-on-black Jeep. It was blaring rap, lots of bass. “Love the suffering, the stench, the funky sounds.” His face was flat. Beyond angry. Philosophical.
He was wearing a familiar sweatshirt under his open topcoat. The shirt had his message for the day:
I DON’T GIVE A SHIT
I DON’T TAKE ANY SHIT
I’M NOT IN THE SHIT BUSINESS.
Concise. Accurate. Very much like John Sampson.
Neither of us had felt much like talking for the past hour or so. It wasn’t going all that well. That was The Job, though. It was like this more often than it wasn’t.
Man Mountain and I arrived at the Capitol City Market about four in the afternoon. The Cap is a popular gyp joint on Eighth Street. It’s just about the dingiest, most depressing bargain-basement store in Washington, D.C.—and that takes some doing.
The featured products are usually written in pink chalk on a gray blue cinder block wall in front. That day the specials were cold beer and soda pop, plantains, pork rinds, Tampax, and Lotto—your basic complete-and-balanced breakfast.
A young brother with tight wraparound Wayfarer sunglasses, a shaved head, and small goatee caught our immediate attention in front of the minimart. He was standing next to another man who had a chocolate bar hanging from his mouth like a cigar. The shaved head motioned to me that he wanted to talk to us, but not right there.
“You trust that rowdyass?” Sampson asked as we followed at a safe distance. “Alvin Jackson.”
“I trust everybody.” I winked. No wink came back from Sampson.
“You are badly fucked-up, Sugar,” he said. His eyes were still seriously hooded.