“Detective Sampson and I found the pornography,” I said. Then I was silent. I had decided not to make this easy for them. Actually, I agreed one hundred percent with the point Nana had been trying to make.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’re doing here, so let me explain,” Chief of Detectives Pittman spoke up. He and I were not close, to put it mildly. Never had been, never would be. Pittman is a bully and also a closet racist, and those are his better points. He could never seem to see a belt without wanting to hit below it.
“I’d appreciate it,” I said to The Jefe. “I was thinking that maybe you had just been in the neighborhood and you dropped by for my grandmother’s coffee. It’s worth a trip.”
Pittman didn’t come close to breaking a smile. “We received a formal request from the FBI late last night. They’ve asked that you work on the investigation of Senator Fitzpatrick’s murder. Special Agent Kyle Craig strongly suggested that your background and recent experience might serve the investigation well. Obviously, it’s an important case, Alex.”
I let Chief Pittman finish, then I slowly shook my head no. “I’ve got a half-dozen open homicides here in Southeast,” I said. “The case I just worked on should have been solved months ago. Then another little girl wouldn’t have died for no goddamn reason. A homicide detective got reassigned off the killer’s trail back then. Now a little girl is dead. Six years old.”
“This is a major case, Alex,” the commissioner said. He had snow-white hair. His face was bright red, which happened when he was angry or disturbed. The two of us went back some. Usually we went along, got along. Maybe not this time.
“Tell the FBI that I can’t be spared for this Jack and Jill mess. I’ll call Kyle and make my peace with him. Kyle will understand. I’m on several homicide cases in Southeast. People die here, too. We have our own messes, and even major cases.”
“Let me ask you something, Alex,” the police commissioner said. He smiled gently as he spoke. Lots of beautifully capped white teeth. I could have played some sweet Gershwin on them, though maybe some key-slamming Little Richard would have been more satisfying.
“Do you still want to be a cop?” he asked.
That one landed, and it stung. It was a sucker punch, but a pretty good one.
“I want to be a good cop,” I said to him. “I want to do some good if I possibly can. Same as always. Nothing’s changed.”
“That’s the right answer,” the commissioner said as if I were a child who needed his instruction. “You’re on the Jack and Jill investigation. It’s been decided in very high places. You have experience with these kinds of murders, with lunatic psychotics. You are officially off all your other cases. Now, be a very good cop, Alex. The FBI is almost certain Jack and Jill are going to kill again.”
So was I, so was I.
And I felt the very same thing about the Sojourner Truth School killer.
CHAPTER
16
I RESISTED the unique charms of the Jack and Jill case for one more day. Half a day, anyway. I tried
to clear a few things on my watch in Southeast. I was furious about what had happened with Clouser and Pittman.
Shanelle Green had died because more detectives hadn’t been assigned to find Chop-It-Off-Chucky, hadn’t given Alvin Jackson the time of day. The whole sorry affair was race-related, no way around it, and it made me both angry and sad.
I came home early and spent the evening with Nana and the kids. I wanted to make sure they were okay after the murder at the Sojourner Truth School. At least that horror tale had been solved. But I still wasn’t over the child killing. I couldn’t get past it for a lot of reasons.
For half an hour or so, I gave Damon and Jannie their weekly boxing lesson in the basement. To Damon’s credit, he’s never complained that the sessions include his sister. He just puts on the gloves.
They’re becoming tough little pugs, but more important, they’re learning when not to fight. Not many kids mess with them at school, but that’s mainly because they’re nice kids and know how to get along.
“Watch that footwork, Damon,” I told him. “You’re not supposed to be putting out a fire with your feet.”
“You’re supposed to be dancing,” Jannie threw a little verbal jab at her brother. “Step, right. Back. Step, step, left.”
“I’ll do a dance on you in a minute,” Damon warned her off, and then they both laughed like hell.
A little later, we were upstairs in front of the tube. Jannie was crossing her small arms, squinting her brown eyes, and making a tough-as-nails face at me. It was her official, non-negotiable bedtime, but she had decided to lodge a protest.
“No, Daddy. Nope, nope, nopeee,” she said. “Your watch is too fast.”
“Yes, Jannie. Yep, yep, yepeee.” I held my ground, held my own against my chief nemesis. “My watch is too slow.”
“No, siree. No way,” she said.
“Yes, indeedee. No escaping it. You’re busted.”