Untitled (22 page)

  Marshall suddenly walked out of the room and went back into the bathroom, then he ran upstairs, and came back down and looked at the bathroom again.

  "Something wrong?" asked Sommers.

  "Maybe," said Marshall. "When Rashad hears about this, I'm sure he'll use this to further his bullshit conspiracy theory. We have to keep a presence so that he can't use information from the investigation against us. Go to the local cops and tell them that this case is ours for the foreseeable future."

  "Gotcha," said Sommers. She walked off and proceeded to stick it to the local police detectives.

  "Okay," said Ryder. "That was good, but what's really bothering you?"

  "This crime scene is too good," said Marshall. "Too good."

  "Good?" asked Ryder. "Did you mean to use that word?"

  "No, I mean, yes I did," said Marshall. "I took the behavioralist course at Quantico."

  "We all did," said Ryder.

  "Well, this crime scene doesn't fit the general pattern of a psychopath, but it seems like a forced attempt to do so, like the killer wanted us to think that he's crazy."

  "What do you mean?" asked Ryder. "Of course he's crazy. Only a nut would do something like this."

  "Sure," said Marshall. "But a real nut doesn't
think he's
crazy.
Run with me here. The scene is too neat, a psycho has fits of rage, and makes a mess of things. Second, the victims were made unconscious before they were killed. Although not unheard of, most killers would rather have live victims, as their suffering is what he wants to witness."

  "Because he's probably dreamed or fantasized about it," added Ryder. "I remember that from the FBI course."

  "And these writings in blood are just a little too creepy and weird and they don't really say anything."

  "Jesus, Marshall, do you know what you're saying here? You're agreeing with a potential defense."

  "No, I'm not," said Marshall. "I'm just making sure we don't hand more evidence over to Rashad. He'll say what I just said, but we have to understand it before we can defeat it."

  "True," said Ryder.

  Marshall had covered well. What he was really thinking was that the killer was trying too damned hard to make everyone think he was crazy. Killing is a psychopath's
ob
session
. People who work to make it look as if a nut has done it have killing as their
occupation
. One thing he did know was that the Johnsons would never testify in the case now. And Rashad's assertion that Mbutu was not the man going up those stairs would never get in.

  Marshall looked back at the crime scene with a sense of dread. If he was right, then that meant a real-life conspiracy.

  "I found it!" said a man wearing the forensic tech jacket.

  Marshall turned to see an FBI forensic tech rise from the fireplace.

  "It was stuck in the shaft of the chimney," said the tech.

  He stepped back, and turned to the crowd. In his hands, he cradled the sooty head of the late Mrs. Johnson. Groans and gasps sounded in the room. These were people used to seeing death, but the killing of the elderly couple had left them all stunned.

  "Bag it separately," said Marshall. "Good work."

  Marshall turned to say something to Ryder, when his eye caught something that upset him. He glanced out of the front door and saw Sommers talking excitedly to a Detroit police detective. But that was not what caused him anxiety. It was the sight of CIA Agents Van Ness and Easter sitting in a sedan and quietly driving from the scene.

M
oses sat in a corner of the gym in county jail while the other inmates worked out. He sat with his back against a wall, and the metaphor was not lost upon him. He was in trouble. Marshall had not gone for the bait and had left him in county jail to rot. And to make matters worse, the word was out that someone had put a hit on him.

  Dake and Nita's betrayal was only half over. They had him in jail, but now they had to kill him before he got out of prison. Only that way could they fully consolidate their power in the crew.

  Moses had pled not guilty to the burglary, assault, and attempted murder charges. He stood in court before the same judge who had sent him to prison four years earlier. He could almost hear the judge and lawyers laughing at him. He'd been caught with the goods and the gun. His attorney, Ted Walker, had represented him at the hearing but had resigned by letter soon thereafter. Moses had been so angry that he'd hurt his hand slamming it into a wall. Walker had been bought, which was not hard to do. He was fucked on the case now, but what worried him more right now was the beefy white man staring at him from the opposite corner of the gym.

  The man had been watching him for about ten minutes. He looked like a hitter, thought Moses. He was hard and tough and had that air about him that said that he had given up on every moral principle of normal life. He was heavily tattooed and had scars over his arms and face. It was a grotesque sight seeing the colorful designs over the raised scar tissue.

  Moses decided to test the man. He moved away from the corner and walked toward the door. The man didn't move. But when he did leave, the man walked out behind him a second later.

  In the hallway, the guard was gone, a sure sign of a hit. When you took someone out you had to pay the guard off, so you didn't compound your own situation. Moses didn't have much time. He had to take the hitter out and not get tagged with the blame. If he was caught assaulting the man, he'd never get out of prison.

  Moses pulled out the thin metal bar he'd been hiding in his pants. It was iron, dense, and portable. He'd paid a lot for the item, but it was worth every dollar, favor, and packet of drugs he'd paid for it.

  Moses turned suddenly and moved back to the door of the gym. The hitter was coming out, a screwdriver in his hand. Moses swung the metal bar, striking the hitter squarely on the temple, tearing a gash in his head. The hitter dropped his shank and fell to his knees. Moses swung the bar again, breaking the man's jaw, and spraying blood on the doorway. The hitter fell back inside the gym, blood pouring from his face.

  Moses ran as quickly as he could back to his cell. He wiped the bar clean of his prints and tossed it in another inmate's cell. Soon, the wing was put on lockdown. The would-be hitter was taken to the hospital, and the inmates in the cell where Moses had thrown the metal bar were taken away for questioning.

  Later, Moses sat in silence in his cell. His cell mate, a young Latino boy called Turgo, read a book and coughed loudly from a cold he'd acquired.

  This was just the first attack, Moses thought. They'd come after him in numbers the next time. He'd have to have a gun to fight them off, and even the best ounce of homegrown couldn't buy that in jail. He could seek help from some of the gangs inside, but the price was too high, and it was not money or cigarettes he was talking about. He was not about to punk himself, have sex with another inmate for protection, but the alternative was surely death.

  Moses was brought in for questioning on the assault. He was taken into the chief of security's office. He sat outside with about ten other men. Guards stood over them, watching. Moses recognized some of the men as being associated with prison gangs. These men were probably habitual offenders who had been institutionalized to their bones. They embraced the social order of prison. Not many things scared him, but these men did.

  Moses was taken into the office. He sat in the room with the chief, Harry Witherspoon, a burly man everyone called Spoon.

  Moses sat on an old wooden chair. Even though Spoon's office had nice, comfortable furniture, cons were made to sit on the hard chair as a reminder of their lack of worth. Against a wall, Moses could see outside through a window. A commercial truck was unloading supplies.

  Spoon's window had just been put in the wall. It was made of glass, but it also had a grate on it. It should have had the thick, bulletproof glass used in prisons, but the security glass was on order and had not come in yet.

  It was unusual for a prison office to have a window in it. Paranoid penal officers never wanted there to be any way for anyone to get out other than through the main entrance. But the county lockup was not a maximum security prison, and Spoon was terribly claustrophobic. He insisted that the window be installed to keep himself from going stir-crazy.

  Out of the window, Moses could see the street. The county lockup was downtown right near a commercial district.

  "The man who was beaten was in a gang," said Spoon. "A rival gang has been blamed for the attack. If you know anything, you'd better tell me now."

  "I told you all I know," said Moses. "Just take me back to my cell."

  "You're not going back," said Spoon.

  Moses was shocked for a moment. Spoon's demeanor

was hard and unemotional, as though he meant that Moses was never going to see the light of day again. Then Spoon added: "The feds are taking you. That's why we did this tonight. Normally, we'd wait for morning, after tempers cooled. But they want to take you right now."

  Moses breathed easier. His brother had finally come through, he thought. "Okay, I'm ready to go."

  "Why do the feds want your lousy ass?" asked Spoon.

  "I got connections," said Moses.

  "Don't you get cute with me, you fuck. I know you were involved in that beating, and after the feds are done with you, I'll prove it—"

  A shot went off. A second later, the door burst open as a guard struggled with an inmate over a riot gun. Outside the office, all of the cons who were gathered fought in a freefor-all with guards and one another. Spoon had made the mistake of mixing the gangs, and a fight was the result.

  Moses hit the floor as the riot gun discharged again, hitting Spoon and shattering the window in the office. Spoon fell to the floor. The guard and the con struggled on, falling to the floor, rolling over each other.

  Moses looked at the window. There was still a grate on it, but he would never have another chance like this. More guards would all be coming in just a few seconds, and the entire place would be on lockdown. Right now, no one noticed him in the commotion.

  Moses jumped up and threw himself into the window with all his strength. The grate gave way, and Moses fell onto outside pavement. His body was racked with pain as he hit the ground. He fought it off and moved toward the supply truck.

  Moses heard another shot, and an alarm sounded as he pulled at the truck's rear door. It opened partially, and he squeezed himself through.

  Moses sat inside the dark truck for what seemed an eternity before it pulled off. He could feel boxes on his back. He couldn't go far; they'd miss him and know he'd run. So as soon as the truck stopped, Moses climbed out and ran off. He was on Gratiot, not far from the jail. He wouldn't last long wearing the bright jail uniform, so he crossed the big street and headed for a residential area. He jumped a fence and went into a backyard of a house and just sat for a moment.

  He needed wheels to get away from this area. On foot, he was doomed. He went to the front of the house and looked around. The street was dark and deserted. In the distance, he could see the Renaissance Center towering above the rundown little houses in the area like the Emerald City of Oz.

  Moses saw a car roll down the street. It stopped several houses away. A man got out of the car. He was carrying two white bags that probably had takeout in them.

  Moses didn't hesitate. He ran as fast as he could and jumped on the man.

  "Shit!" the man yelled. He fought, lashing out with a hand that caught Moses in the chest. Moses hit the man hard and grabbed for the keys that had fallen on the sidewalk.

  Moses took the keys and got into the car and drove away. He could hear the man behind him cursing loudly.

  Moses drove eastward. He had many friends in that part of town. He'd have to move fast before the news of his escape hit every ear in town.

  He wondered how his brother's face would look when he learned that he had helped him escape. He had a lot of work to do. He'd have to ditch the car soon, even maybe torch it, then get some decent clothes. Then he'd leave town—right after he killed Dake and Nita.

M
arshall and Danny sat in the back of Vinny's hospital room as Vinny's family members crowded around her. Marshall had only spent a little time talking to Vinny. It was all he could manage with so many people there. He wasn't upset, though. He had other matters on his mind.

  Rashad had learned about the death of the Johnsons and leaked a story to the press. In both Detroit newspapers a story about the murders appeared, questioning whether a conspiracy theory was possible. It wasn't a public support of Rashad's defense, but it was damaging to the government's case.

  There was a big crowd at Vinny's bed. Only a cop was allowed to have so many visitors at one time. Vinny was the ninth of ten children, and it seemed like all of them were in the room, or out in the hallway, waiting to see her. The little room was filled with flowers and gifts from cops and family. Vinny seemed in pretty good spirits.

  The Shaw family was a close-knit group. Mom and Dad were both retired teachers, and the other siblings were all law-abiding-go-to-church-every-Sunday kind of people. They brought light, laughter, food, and gifts for Vinny. They also brought disdain for Danny. At times, Marshall forgot that Danny wasn't black, but the nasty looks from Vinny's people certainly reminded him. They couldn't see that Danny was the same as all of them.

  Marshall had been tap dancing all day, trying to explain to Rashad (and indirectly to Judge Langworthy) that the Johnsons' deaths were not part of some plan to lock up Mbutu. Rashad had almost cheered when he heard the news. This was all the proof he needed. Marshall's challenge would be to keep him from using the Johnsons to influence the jury. Somehow, he knew that Langworthy would allow it to sneak into evidence in some supposedly innocent form.