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  Someone rapped at the door. Black nodded and one of his boys opened it. Two police detectives identified themselves. Their eyes told the story long before their lips did. They had found Lyonessa's body. Grandmomma's mouth opened, wordless. A tear pooled in her rheumy eyes. The screams would come later. Without a word spoken, La Payasa knew she was to rally the soldiers because the streets would soon feel Black's rage. She knew Black's instinctive thought.

  "Someone burns for this."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Marion County Coroner's Office was a nondescript brick building west of Methodist Hospital, just outside of downtown Indianapolis. The name Doctor Dennis T Nicholas was engraved on a plaque as if to say "the doctor is in". Ghosts in blue scrubs and blue gloves and blue masks, behind plastic face shields, the pathologist on duty was elbow deep in another body while a lab tech took photos of bodies as if for a thug fashion shoot. Posters of human anatomy hung on refrigerators like a child's drawing. Specs of the victims filled a dry-erase board.

  Cantrell Williams stood over the body of a child and his heart mourned that the world was not the way it was meant to be. Right now, this portrait of an angel at rest had no name. There was no trace of the horrors she must've endured during her final hours frozen onto her face, only the face of a doll, a smooth brown framed by dark hair. Wearing a yellow gown over his suit, like an apron as if he prepared to barbecue, Cantrell hovered about the body. He hated the rustle of his mask every time he took a breath.

  He almost didn't notice the cameras.

  Some of the other detectives enjoyed their minor celebrity status. A three-man crew followed him down to the coroner's office as they filmed another episode of The Squad. They shadowed several of the detectives, hoping that maybe something they were working might turn into something more. Cantrell considered them a pain in the ass, more intrusive and a hindrance to real investigative work. Captain Octavia Burke thought it a shrewd public relations move, perhaps shining a bit of light on their dark corner of the universe. Maybe with more attention, the department might get a budget increase.

  His partner, Detective Lee McCarrell, couldn't be bothered to be here. Action junkies hated the waiting and paperwork of the job. At best he would glance at a report or let Cantrell give him the highlights later.

  Cantrell flipped through pages of the report. Diagrams of the head and body, though to his eye, the drawings were too Caucasian. The report was a litany of brutality. Details of vaginal and anal tearings. Wound tracks measured. He fumed to himself that he had to do this on his own. "She got a name yet?"

  "Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez," the first blue ghost said. He cocked his head to the camera, affecting the pose of grief mixed with pensiveness.

  "Guess that makes her official. We got ourselves a bona fide homicide." Cantrell wanted to call bullshit on the doctors, but his own words sounded crafted for effect.

  "When will we have the official report?"

  "Tomorrow. End of the week at the latest. We're getting backed up."

  "Things are heating up. What's the unofficial word?"

  "Someone brutalized this child. Her last hours were filled with pain and terror." The pathologist attempted to pay little attention to the camera, yet carried herself as if on stage delivering lines she'd expect to hear on one of those prime-time cop shows. Cantrell waited for her to deliver a bad pun and dramatically don some sunglasses. "Scrapes along her forearms, a cross-hatched scar across her neck. Skin under her fingernails from where she fought her attackers."

  Good girl, he thought.

  X-rays lined one of the walls, body parts in close up. Shoulders. Arms. Feet. Ribs. Legs. Head. A pastiche of anatomy, no longer recognizable as human. The X-rays showed where the merciful bullet entered and the direction of it. Bruises and welts along her right thigh smeared into a blue-maroon blotch. A scratch mark ran across her shoulder. A red smear like poorly applied blush on her cheek.

  She was twelve years old.

  "Abrasions on her neck, possibly from a stranglehold. A contusion possibly followed with a temporary loss of consciousness."

  "What happened here?"

  "Those marks are several hours old. From tape. Adhesive in the tracks. Looks like she was restrained during the assault. She tried pretty hard to get free."

  "She was a fighter," he whispered in respect and sadness, a mix of mourning and pride.

  "As best she could. We have carpet burns on her legs like she was forced onto…"

  "I get the picture."

  "How much more do you want to know?"

  "How much more do you have?"

  "Significant trauma and tearing to her vagina and anus."

  "I've got enough." Cantrell turned to the camera hoping the disgust on his face didn't play as unconcern.

  For the last year or so, other than the occasional hiccup, the streets had been calm. King and his Youth Solidarity organization, unorthodox methods and all, had been an effective rule. But things on the streets had heated up. It started small, a match or a tussle here and there as if testing the waters. Then an attack. Then a rape. Rumor had it that the Latinos had raped a black woman. Not that any such crime had been reported, but the rumor had life and power of its own. Now bodies were dropping. With this many bodies falling, it would only be a matter of time before the Feds came in with RICO and the Patriot Act behind them. Too much talk of drug wars and gangs put a rarified scent into the air — cutting through even their terrorist mandate — and the Feebs would come in like it was mating season ready to hump anything that moved. Federal indictments had a way of driving people mad. Cantrell hoped to put the cases down before things got any further out of control.

  The squad room was little more than a sanctuary of desks. Three long rows of them, overgrown and strewn with paper and stacked folders. Brown folders lined up on them under a fluorescent glare. Every now and then, slips of pink paper sprang up beneath wayward piles in response to the constant bleet of the phones. Every bit of open space was an opportunity for another file to land on a desk. Mismatched file cabinets stood like soldiers at attention. A stereo rested on top one of them; an American flag magnet clung to another.

  "What do we have?" Captain Octavia Burke cut an imposing figure despite barely passing the height requirement to join the force. A full-figured woman in a gray business suit, she wore her glasses low on her nose in a tacit declaration that she was smarter than whoever she deigned to talk to, detective or chief alike. Before her promotion, she'd been Lee McCarrell's partner also, so perhaps working with him was a fast track to promotion. Like the mayor's detail, if the mayor was a mediocre redneck detective who had managed to not be fired.

  "Suspicious vehicle driving real slow in the parking lot. Opened fire. Folks scattered. Scooped up the girl."

  "A kidnapping?"

  "Can't tell if it was intentional or she was an easy opportunity. Then the shit jumped off." Cantrell turned to the cameras. "Can I say shit? Anyway, they went up High School Road."

  "Where's Lee?"

  "Checking in with one of his CIs." Cantrell handed her his report and studied her desk. He hated lying to the captain, but he needed to cover his partner's back. His confidential informant was actually off the books and was too plugged into the streets to not be into some dirt herself. And his partner was sleeping with her.

  "Let's start at the beginning." Octavia did that thing with the glasses again. Most days she still missed the rush of being a detective. She missed the opportunity to read people. She missed unraveling mysteries. Like the bullshit story Cantrell handed her about his partner. Lee McCarrell might have been a good cop at one point, but he often succumbed to the need for short cuts. Not necessarily lazy, but he often made poor decisions. And his partners were often the ones left holding his bag of shit.

  "Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez. Went to Jonathan Jennings Public School 109. From the amount of bruises, she went through hell in her last hours."

  "What about the family?"

  "Hispanic. Gran
dmother worked nights as a maid at the Speedway Lodge. Mother and father both deceased. There's an older brother. Lonzo 'Black' Perez. He's in the system."

  "Gang?"

  "And drugs."

  "This related?" Octavia paced behind the desk reading the report.

  "Things have been heating up. King's been out of play…"

  "Let's not confuse a community activist with someone doing police work." The mention of King James White caused her to bristle. Whenever his name came up, bodies fell and the police were left with more questions than answers. A whole lot of mystery — and things she didn't want explanations for — and open cases. She hated the paperwork and going before the bosses with a plate full of "I don't know".

  "He runs a program. Gets gang members off the streets. Finds them work. Does after-school tutoring."

  "Riiiiiiiiight. Well, the community is under siege and we're stretched thin running around after something has jumped off in order to get ahead of the problem." Octavia pushed the glasses high on her nose with a sigh. "What about the vehicle?"

  "Robbery investigation unit informed me that they recovered a car matching the description in my report." For a brief, beautiful moment, he broke his own rule. He had hope. But he soon paid the price and was dashed against the rocks of reality. "The car was a burnt husk. Torched in order to hide any evidence. They got it over at Zore's Towing. Even the VIN was totally gone. A hot burn, probably gasoline used as an accelerant. The forensic team was called in and they found a hidden VIN. It traced back to one Garlan Pellam… who had reported it stolen a day earlier."

  "I know that look, detective. What is it?"

  "The owner, Mr Pellam. He's not in the system, but he is on the radar of the Gang Task Force. Known associate of many of Dred's crew."

  "And the report that it was stolen…"

  "… feels a little too convenient."

  "Might be worth a conversation. Anything on Dred? DOB? Photo? Sheet?"

  "We got nothing. A name. A nickname probably, unless you believe his momma took one look at her beautiful baby boy and decided to call his bald ass 'Dred'."

  "Keep your ears open just in case. What's your next step?"

  "Got some witnesses coming in to give descriptions of the shooters. Looks like two perps. Black. Working on ID-ing them."

  "See if you can speed up the DNA tests from the fluids on the body. And keep your partner in line. A lot of eyes are on him."

  As lead detective on the Perez homicide, Cantrell needed to make sense of the chaotic crime scene as well as the players. On one side, he had one Lonzo "Black" Perez, head of a Hispanic crew, local franchise of some national set, whose activities had been slowly amping up as their gang pushed into new territories imposing its will. And whose baby sister was raped and murdered. If something like that was to happen to Cantrell's baby sister, badge or no badge, there'd be hell to pay. On the other side was the mysterious Dred, who'd been a shadowy figure for years, more rumor than anything else until King came on the scene. Suddenly Dred became more active. There were several open cases tied to him — and for that matter, King — that went down with the Colvin affair. No one wanted to look too hard at that as Colvin went down and bodies quit dropping. But the mayor's office, whipped up by the media, pressured the captain on this one. A little girl was dead. An innocent caught in the middle of two junkyard dogs yanking on their junk to prove their manhood. That wasn't going to stand. Hopefully his esteemed partner had something.

  "You dig up anything on our case?"

  "Like what?" Lee McCarrell sauntered to his desk, a head nod to the filming crew. The crew leapt to readiness, if for no other reason than because Lee made for great commentary, most of which the brass would rather have left on the editing room floor. Still, any opportunity to jam a thumb into their eye he'd take.

  "Like motive? Hell, anything."

  "Motive? Money, dope, or pussy. That's always the motive."

  Cantrell cut a furtive glance at the cameras, but Lee only winked at him, enjoying the bully pulpit they afforded him a little too much. Words had a way of catching up with folks. And Cantrell, over conscious of the cameras, parsed his with care. "Looks like it may have some gang connections."

  "That's what I'm saying. Sell the shit and walk away. People will always have their vices. Smokes. Porn. Booze. Prostitutes. Pussy and drugs in one way or another. And someone around to make money off them. Porn does billions on the internet. You don't see bodies dropping over it."

  "Well, maybe of AIDS."

  "Why you want to go there?"

  "I'm just saying…"

  "Man wants to enjoy rubbing one out. He don't want to have to think about junkie tracks or AIDS."

  "Not to mention all of the exploited girls in the sex trade."

  "There you go again. Enough to kill a good hard-on. Well, yours, maybe."

  "You can think on AIDS and underage girls and still do that?"

  "I can compartmentalize."

  "Come here." Cantrell led him out of taping distance of the cameras. Lee had his minute in the spotlight, but Cantrell had some personal things to discuss. "You all right?"

  "What do you mean?" Lee's self-pleased grin still contorted his face.

  "You've been moody. Distracted."

  "You make it sound like I got Detective's PMS."

  "I wish you did. A few days from now you'd be fine. But this has been going on for weeks."

  "Thought better of making a slumpbuster joke."

  "You get that situation with your CI straightened out?"

  "I got it handled."

  "If IA starts sniffing around…"

  "My job on the line?" Suddenly Lee came to attention.

  "I'm just saying, I ain't lying to cover your ass. You need to close cases. Without incident. Period."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wayne Orkney scratched the scar on the back of his neck. His keloid itched constantly these days, to the point where he considered going to the doctor to see what he could do to get it removed. A hard-faced man, he had the build of a defensive linesman, stocky and chiseled, with the swinging step of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. Passing the Indianapolis Colts training complex, he slowed to a brisk walk along the sidewalk of the West 56th Street corridor of Eagle Creek Park. His early morning amble counted as his aerobic exercise for the day. Despite the fact that he felt twice as good, twice as strong, in the morning, he often carried an old walking stick he'd picked up on a shortterm mission trip to Jamaica some ten plus years ago. This morning he clutched his new collapsible baton in a fist. From the six inches which fit into his hand like a roll of quarters, it extended out to sixteen inches of balanced bludgeon. It was his peace of mind, something to keep whatever predators prowled the early morning at bay.

  It seemed that nowhere was safe anymore. It wasn't too long ago they had to haul a body out of the park. Merle and his crazy ass ran across a body. That Walters boy. Lamont "Rok" Walters. A good boy. Well, relatively good. A wannabe roughneck with more attitude than sense, he got involved in some foolishness. What either of them were doing in the weeds was beyond him. If it wasn't a family reunion or barbecue, because nothing brought a fool out like free food or… he couldn't begin to speculate what motivated Merle. It seemed almost criminal for youth to be squandered on the young. From the way the story laid out, Wayne knew King had to be involved somehow, but no one had seen him in weeks. But that was the way things went around here. No, Wayne couldn't hazard much of a guess about much that went on in his world these days.

  The front entrance of Eagle Creek Park was a lush lawn of overgrown grass and trees in full bloom. The wind snatched at him, an odd brisk chill. Though late in the season for such a cool morning, he appreciated it for his jogs. Wayne maintained a peculiar pace, somewhere between a stroll and a speed walk, his arms nearly flapping alongside him. He wasn't much for scenery. On some mornings he might spy an errant deer since they ran about like squirrels out here. The smell of rotting mea
t hit him as soon as he rounded the bend. Wiping his nose, he twisted up his face as if that would cut the smell. A dead raccoon stretched out along the median of 56th Street. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth though its eyes were missing and its belly had been split open.

  Vultures circled up ahead, just inside the entrance, with macabre intent. Wayne slowed. The calculations of curiosity stilled his steps — a feeling more than anything else. The sight of the birds, so many of them, circling and settled in the trees like a jury taking in evidence.

  Wayne veered off the path.

  Rush-hour traffic hadn't begun in earnest, barely a trickle with only the occasional car looking to get on I-465 south. The chain link fence cordoning the park quaked as he tested it with his weight. In a less than graceful scrabble, he made it over and stopped to smooth out his jogging suit once he was on the other side. His breath frosted the air. His stomach both hungry and nauseous.

  Wayne had barely waded through the first wall of trees and into a clearing when he saw the body. The skeleton splayed at awkward angles, twisted in brush and leaves. Insects made a home in the remains of his face. Clothes with chunks torn from them as animals had gnawed past them to get to the cool flesh. His shoes were missing. The rent torso laid empty of lungs, kidneys, intestines, and liver; the ribs snatched free. A few fingers had been chewed off.

  "Aw… damn." Young dude. Couldn't be but fourteen or fifteen. From what Wayne could see, he'd caught a couple shots in the chest after taking a beating. Yup, these days it was almost a crime to be so young out here. Even as he reached for his cell phone to call the police, another feeling seized him. "Damn it, King. What have you done started?"

  The area around 34th Street and Georgetown Road was knows as Eagledale. Back in the 1950s there was such a demand for housing it was one of the planned communities constructed. Little pre-fab, all-aluminum exterior, sidewalks, and concrete streets from $10,000. The boom lasted into the 1960s with schools and churches and the Eagledale Shopping Center constructed.