Warpath

I look up and down the street. The powerful flash from the tech’s camera bleaches my vision, even as it reaches over my shoulders to attack my eyes.

Flash. Frozen in time, two neighbors have actually taken a seat on their porch, mugs in hand.

Flash. Down the block, people in their robes, stand on the sidewalk at what they must believe a safe distance, curious as to the fatal outcome. Gawkers. I’m sure they were woken by the barrage of pops in the early night, and after they heard the wail and shriek of sirens they felt safe enough to come outside.

I turn towards the house again just as a uniform walks up to me.

Flash. He’s young, twenty-four maybe. Tight haircut, neat uniform. Very presentable. “Detective Buckner?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Clevenger asked me to escort you through, sir.”

We walk past all the cop garbage, the crime scene tape, stepping around the CSI shit unpacked and piled. Past relics of the deceased; poured concrete statues of a garden gnome and a fawn. A small collection of blown glass decorations. All memories for Graham to avoid right now.

Flash. Clevenger’s face has los

t weight, added years and not slept in a decade all at once. His eyes glisten but do not run over. His lips won’t move the way he wants them to. I’ve seen it before from the families of other victims. I hate applying that term to Clevenger but it’s the hard truth. Clevenger pats me on the shoulder; he dare not say anything for a moment.

When interviewing victims beginning with yes or no questions is decent lubricant for the flow of speech. It avoids what might otherwise be difficult terrain.

“Molly stay at home?” I ask.

Nods.

“Been inside yet?”

Nods.

“News media arrived?”

Shakes his head. Good. Shootings are not new to our city and if the camera crews rolled out for every shot fired they’d be constantly running from one to the next. This might draw some vultures though. It’s newsworthy when gangs get it so wrong. And when the victim is an elderly woman—a grandmother of a police detective no less—they’ll smell blood in the water and want to report it.

Careful, now. “Anyone else inside? Your grandfather lives here as well, right?”

“Yes.” Spoken delicately, trying to find his voice. “He went with her.”

Clevenger sounds a fraction more unwavering with each word. He’s a strong man. A deep breath or two and he’ll be where I need him so we can get moving on this.

“Where did they go?”

“Anna Long Memorial.”

“That’s the best one.” Anna Long Memorial hospital is well established in the area as the highest-quality hospital in a five hundred mile radius. It is all the things a hospital should be: clean, hopeful, well-staffed, caring and most of all, healing.

We both know his grandma died in her bed, but if the ambulance wants to cart her off to the hospital and have her pronounced there, so be it.

“Have you spoken with the detective yet?” I ask.

“No. He got here thirty seconds before you did.”

“Is he good?”

“Yes. Name’s DeMarcus Collins. I called the captain and said he’s the one I want.”

“Good for you.” Calling a superior and telling them who they’re going to assign to your case is ballsy. Clevenger learned a lot of ballsy by watching me, however, so it makes me proud for him to do it. With Clevenger being the head homicide detective he knows his men and should get who he wants.

“I’m going to have a chat,” I say. I step down and walk out into the yard.