“You understand the murder occurred just around the corner from here?” BJ said.
“Unfortunately, yes. But Mr. El-Amin was here.”
“He never left until the early morning?” Zehra asked while she thought of the DNA proof. “Because other evidence in the case points to him as the murderer.”
“He never left,” he said in a gentle voice.
They talked for ten minutes but the imam never wavered in his insistence of El-Amin’s presence at the mosque. Later, he told them about the community he served. “We are poor, as you can see. Most are from Somalia and have suffered unbelievably. We offer religious training for everyone, especially the children, to keep them law abiding and faithful. We provide food, money, and homes for new immigrants. So many of the Somali people are misunderstood. The worst thing for us was the American movie, Blackhawk Down. It detailed the battle in Mogadishu between U.S. forces and a minority of crazy Somali fighters.”
He raised his arm and swept it over the street before them. “Look at these people. They only want to live peacefully. They love America and everything it offers them. Although we miss our homeland, this is our new homeland.” He smiled at each of them.
Back at his car, BJ said, “Seems believable to me. I watched his facial movements, and this guy seems like the real deal.”
“I know. But what about the DNA? And the fact the murder was just a few blocks away. El-Amin could’ve slipped out for a minute.”
“If he did, he’d have returned covered in blood. The killer hit both of the arteries in the boy’s neck. Even if he jumped back at the right instant, there’d still be buckets of blood flying all over.”
Zehra’s training as a trial lawyer came forward. “Well, he’ll make a great witness. Totally believable to a jury.” She let BJ hold open the door of his Chevy Bronco for her.
BJ popped in his jazz group’s new CD. “I got a friend hooked up with a company in Israel. They do testing on DNA results. Check them for accuracy. Maybe we should do our own, independent test.”
“Why?” Zehra asked. “Our BCA is one of the best in the country.”
“I know. But what would it hurt?” He turned to Zehra. “Can you get the money for a test?” He smiled that beautiful smile that always melted Zehra.
“Aw … Denzel, for you, baby, anything. How soon can your friend do it?”
“As soon as he gets a sample from the BCA-maybe a day. I’ll tell him to rush.”
“Get on it,” Zehra said. She thought of Paul. “BJ, did you ever tell Paul Schmidt from the FBI about the alibi witness?”
“Huh? About Imam Moalim? No, why would I talk to them about anything?”
Eighteen
Carolyn Bechter cruised the Seward neighborhood of Minneapolis in her Mercedes, feeling completely out of place. Although the area showed many sign of revitalization, it wasn’t rich by any means, and her car attracted way too much attention. She turned a corner, parked it and got out, careful to make sure it was locked.
A warm breeze blew up the street carrying the smells of spices and cooking meats. Dressed in a baseball cap, loose sweater, and running shoes, Carolyn wished she’d changed the tight jeans for something more modest. She put on a pair of sunglasses and started up the street.
She purposely came alone. If her instincts were right, this story was big enough to save her career, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Her editor thought she was at the Government Center, covering the court appearance of the guy charged with the murder, El-Amin. Carolyn knew she could get that information from any of the other media sources and feed it back to her editor. He’d never know. In the meantime, she could pursue this lead.
When she saw the Johnson Deli on the corner, it made her laugh. The Scandinavian name didn’t fit, because now it served Somalis and other immigrants in the neighborhood. Probably owned by new people, too. Ben Mohammad worked part time there, and Carolyn meant to interview him.
She stood across the street for a long time, looking at the people in the street-a mixture of white and colored. The whites looked poor, and the colored looked Middle Eastern or African. Carolyn marveled at the difference in clothing. The whites dressed in faded blue jeans and gray or tan sweatshirts for the most part. The other people looked like walking rainbows. Every imaginable color of cloth covered them.
The women, especially, reveled in bright greens, yellow, blues, deep purple. Most wore the head covering but not the young girls.
Many of the men wore beards and small white skull caps.
Carolyn crossed the busy street and walked to the deli. She looked through the large plate-glass windows. A sign inside offered halal meat-whatever that was. She didn’t like spicy food much, but the odors of the store drew her in the door.
Carolyn didn’t understand any of the babbling people at the counter. The deli sold an interesting collection of American junk food, organic food, and foreign things she didn’t recognize.
Several women stood at the counter arguing with one of the clerks. A few glanced over their shoulders at her. Some white women came in and ordered sliced beef from the second clerk.
Where was Ben Mohammad?
Carolyn waited until the American women left. She approached the clerk and removed her sunglasses. “Hi. I’m looking for Ben Mohammad. Is he here?”
The clerk frowned. “Ben …? No one here named-”
“That’s probably the name he uses at school.”
“Oh, you mean Moses Mohammad. Yeah, he works at a school.”
“Is he here?”
“He’ll be back in a minute.”
Twenty minutes later, Carolyn still waited. She looked at her watch. Put her shades back on and pulled the strap of her purse up on her shoulder.
Ben came through the front door.
She intended to cut him off before he had a chance to get to the back and avoid her. Carolyn stepped in front of him. His head jerked up when he saw her. “Hi, Ben. I’d like to talk with you some more.” She spread her legs the width of her shoulders and stared at him. That usually worked with most people. Surprise was a good weapon also.
“Uh … what do you want?” he stammered.
“Just to talk with you. The people I met at the school speak highly of you.”
He didn’t seem to understand what she said. “I don’t have anything …”
“This won’t take long. If you talk to me now, I’ll go away.”
“What do you want?” He had a puffy black face that looked soft, unlike his eyes that were hard, like black marble.
Carolyn heard a shuffling behind her. “I want to know what you do with the young Somali boys at the school. What’s your job there?”
His eyes darted back and forth like they had when she’d met him at the school. “I’m an outreach worker to the Somali community.”
“But you take these young boys on trips, don’t you?” Suddenly, she noticed the store had gone quiet. She sensed more movement behind her. Saw the reaction in Ben’s face. Then the clerk was at her back, shoving her toward the door.
“You’re not welcome in our store,” he shouted.
Carolyn jerked back. No one treated her like this. “You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m from Channel Six TV, and I could have twenty cameras and reporters down here in ten seconds to investigate your shitty little dump,” she shouted.
“You will leave now.” A second clerk moved beside the first one. Two of the African women crowded her on the left.
Carolyn realized the odds were bad. She wasn’t scared and knew she wouldn’t get any more information now. She sniffed at them and turned to leave.
She took her time walking back to the Benz, laughing by the time she clicked the locks open. That little scene proved that her instincts were right. There was something going on with Ben and the school. Otherwise, why would he and his pals react the way they did? She tingled with excitement.