Warpath

“Detective Collins?”

He looks up. The man is so black his features get lost in the chill evening. The cut of his face and neck belong to a stone statue. This man could be stomping down a fashion runway in New York City just as easily as arresting bad guys.

“Yes?”

“I’m Richard Dean Buckner. I know Detective Sergeant Clevenger. He asked me to come here.”

“I’ve heard of you. He talks about you. So do the old timers at the bureau. Did you really shoot the mayor’s son?”

Of course they still talk about it. If it were someone else’s story, I know I’d still tell it.

“Yeah, I did.” I light a smoke. “Back in ’81.”

“One day you’ll have to tell me about it.”

“One day.” Not now.

We stand quiet for a moment. The lightning flash shot of levity from my story fades out as meaningless conversation during hard times does. “What have you got so far?”

He leafs through two pages of notes. Then: “No ID on the suspects or the vehicle. One neighbor said he was outside and heard the shots being fired but ‘couldn’t recall’ a make, model or color of the car.”

“They never can.”

“Yes. Shots were fired around ten-fifteen. We count nine shell casings in the street. We’ve found twenty-eight holes in the house. Detective Clevenger’s grandmother was struck twice, lying in bed.”

“DRT?”

“Yes, sir.”

DRT. Dead Right There. Collins’ tone is respectful as he acknowledges her death; he knows I’m a friend of the family and more specifically a friend of his boss.

“What about his grandfather?”

“Untouched. Woke up, said it took a minute to figure out what just happened, then he called nine-one-one. We’d already gotten three calls before him. Already had units on the way.”

“Are you going on the assumption that this drive-by was a fuck up? They got the wrong house?”

“Yes.”

“Check the neighbors? Could it be they were one house off?”

“I’m getting to that, yeah. I’ve been looking up and down the street. Seeing if there is something that stands out. Anything that says gangbanger lives here. Could just be that some punk kid from south of the river was sent by his mom up here to live with grandma and grandpa and trouble followed him. There might be a drug house nestled in somewhere. I’ll get as ridiculous as it takes to figure this out. Right now, if I see a pit bull, a low rider, anyone, anyone trotting around with sagging pants, that’s my suspect. I’ll just have to get him to talk.”

Gears are turning. I take in what he says and it starts to come together for me. “You get many calls to this neighborhood? I’ve been out of the game long enough, maybe things have changed.”

“How so?”

“When I was on the force this place was just like it seems now: a sleepy, older neighborhood. Have things changed?” I’m curious.

“No. Don’t think so.”

“Why the drive-by here at all?”

“Did Clevenger piss someone off? Maybe it’s revenge.” Collins is asking me, as if I’m his superior.

“Maybe,” I say, not meaning it. I look back to Clevenger and my plan is in my mind, swirling. “I’ll see you later, Collins. Do Graham proud.”

“I will, Detective. It’s an honor to meet you.”