The Night Gardener

'Least I got an honest opinion out of you.'

'Doesn't mean anything,' said Ramone, mildly ashamed.

'It's more than Garloo's gonna see. 'Cause you know he'll look at that boy and think what he's gonna think, automatic. And I'm not even sayin that Bill's like that. He's just… The man's got a dull mind. He likes to take those mental shortcuts.'

'I just need to get up there and get a look at things.'

'If we ever get there.'

'They give all the real vehicles to the regular police,' said Ramone.

'We do get the bitch cars,' said Rhonda.

Ramone punched the gas, but it only made the engine knock.

The crowd at the crime scene had thinned of spectators and grown with officials and one print reporter by the time Ramone and Rhonda Willis arrived. They found Wilkins and Loomis standing alongside a nondescript Chevy. Nearby, a white uniformed officer leaned against a squad car. Wilkins had a notebook in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.

'The Ramone,' said Wilkins. 'Rhonda.'

'Bill,' said Ramone.

Ramone scanned the geography: the commercial structures, the railroad tracks, and the backs of the homes and the church on the residential street running east-west on a rise at the far edge of the garden.

'Got a call from the office that you were coming out,' said Wilkins. 'You knew the decedent?'

'Friend of my son's,' said Ramone.

'Asa Johnson?'

'If it's him.'

'He was wearing one of those middle school photo IDs on a chain around his neck. His father identified the body.'

'Is the father here?'

'Hospital. His wife lost it completely. The father's there with her now. He wasn't looking so good himself.'

'Anything yet?' said Ramone.

'Kid was shot in the temple, exit wound at the crown. We found the slug. Flattened, but we'll get a caliber on it.'

'No gun.'

'Uh-uh.'

'Casings?'

'No.'

'What're you feeling?'

'Nothin, yet.'

Ramone knew, as did Rhonda and Loomis, that Wilkins had already formed a likely scenario and eliminated some of the other possibilities. The first assumption that Wilkins had made, seeing a black teenager with a fatal gunshot wound, was 'drug thing.' A murder involving business, what some D.C. cops openly called 'society cleanses.' Darwinism put in motion by those in the life.

Wilkins's thoughts would then have gone to murder in the commission of an armed robbery. Except what would a kid this age have, in this middle-income part of town at best, that could be of any real value? The North Face coat, the one-hundred-dollar sneaks… but these were still on him. So this scenario was doubtful. He could have been robbed for a roll of money or his stash. But that would have brought it back to a drug thing.

Maybe, Wilkins imagined, the victim had been hitting some other yo's girlfriend. Or looked at her like he wanted to.

Or it could have been a suicide. But black kids didn't do themselves, thought Wilkins, so that was not likely. Plus, no gun. The kid couldn't have punched his own time card, then disposed of the gun after he was dead.

'What do you think, Gus?' said Wilkins. 'Was this kid in the life?'

'Not to my knowledge,' said Ramone.

Bill Wilkins had acquired the nickname 'Garloo' because of his massive size, pointed ears, and bald dome. Garloo was the name of a toy monster popular with boys in the early to mid-'60s, and Wilkins had received the tag from one of the few veterans old enough to recall the loin-clothed creature from his youth. It suited Wilkins. He breathed through his mouth. His posture was hulking, his walk heavy. He appeared to those who first met him to be half man and half beast. The FOP bar kept a construction paper medallion, strung with yarn, with the name 'Garloo' crudely crayoned across its face, which Wilkins wore around his neck when he was drunk. In the evenings, he could often be found at the FOP bar.

Wilkins had six years to go on his twenty-five and, having lost the desire or expectation for promotion, was left with only the diluted ambition to hold on to his rank and position at VCB. To do so, he would need to maintain a reasonable closure rate. To him, difficult cases were curses, not challenges.

Ramone liked Wilkins well enough. Other homicide police went to him frequently with questions regarding their PCs, as Wilkins had outstanding computer literacy, facility, and knowledge, and was always ready to help. He was honest and a fairly decent guy. A little cynical, but in that he was not alone. As far as his investigative skills went, he had, as Rhonda said, a dull mind.

'Any witnesses?' said Ramone.

'None yet,' said Wilkins.

'Who called it in?'

'Anonymous,' said Wilkins. 'There's a tape…'

Ramone looked over at the uniformed police officer leaning against his 4D squad car within earshot of their conversation. He was on the tall side, lean, and blond. On the front quarter panel of his Ford were the car numbers, which Ramone idly read, a habit from his own days on patrol.

'We're fixing to canvass,' said Wilkins, drawing Ramone's attention back to the scene.

'That's McDonald Place up there, isn't it?' said Ramone, nodding to the residential street on the edge of the garden.

'We'll be knocking on those doors first,' said Wilkins.

'And that church.'

'Saint Paul's Baptist,' said Rhonda.

'We'll get it,' said Loomis.

'They got night workers in the animal shelter, right?' said Ramone.

'We do have some ground to cover,' said Wilkins.

'We can help,' said Ramone, easing into it.

'Welcome to the party,' said Wilkins.

'I'm gonna get a look at the body,' said Ramone, 'you don't mind.'

Ramone and Rhonda Willis began to walk away. As they passed the nearby squad car, the uniformed officer pushed off it and spoke.

'Detectives?'

'What is it?' said Ramone, turning to the face the patrolman.

'I was just wondering if any witnesses have come forward.'

'None as of yet,' said Rhonda.

Ramone read the nameplate pinned on the uniformed officer's chest, then looked into his blue eyes. 'You got a function here?'

'I'm on the scene to assist.'

'Then do it. Keep the spectators and any media away from the body, hear?'

'Yessir.'

As they walked into the garden, Rhonda said, 'A little short and to the point, weren't you, Gus?'

'The details of this investigation are none of his business. When I was in uniform, I never would have thought to have been so bold like that. When you were around a superior, you kept your mouth shut, unless you got asked to speak.'

'Maybe he's just ambitious.'

'Another thing I never thought of. Ambition.'

'But they went ahead and promoted you anyway.'

The body was not far in, lying in a plot off a narrow path. They stopped well short of the corpse, mindful of altering the crime scene with their presence. A technician from the Mobile Crime Lab, Karen Krissoff, worked around Asa Johnson.

'Karen,' said Ramone.

'Gus.'

'Get your impressions yet?' said Ramone, meaning any footprints that could be found in the soft earth.

'You can come in,' said Krissoff.

Ramone came forward, got down on his haunches, and eyeballed the body. He was not sickened, looking at the corpse of his son's friend. He had seen too much death for physical remains to affect him that way, and had come to feel that a body was nothing but a shell. He was merely sad, and somewhat frustrated, knowing that this thing could not be undone.

When Ramone was finished looking at Asa and the immediate area around him, he got up on his feet and heard himself grunt.

'Powder burns prevalent,' said Rhonda, stating what she had observed from seven feet away. 'It got done close in.'

'Right,' said Ramone.

'Kinda warm out to be wearing that North Face, too,' said Rhonda.

Ramone heard her but did not comment. He was looking out to the road, past the spectators and the uniforms and the techs. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked on Oglethorpe, and a man in a black suit leaned against the passenger door of the car. The man was tall, blond, and thin. He locked eyes with Ramone for a moment, then pushed himself off the vehicle, walked around to the driver's side, and got under the wheel. He executed a three-point turn and drove away.