A young woman had the children huddled around her. About a dozen of them. God, they’re so small! Talking softly among themselves were three policemen in uniform, two in plainclothes. Two lab technicians were repacking their cases. And curiously, no one stood on or near the ubiquitous chalk outline on the floor.
The Post photographer, Harold Dorgan, followed Yocke in. He began taking pictures of the children and the young woman trying to comfort them.
The lieutenant was in his forties. His shirt was dirty and he needed a shave. He also needed a breath freshener, Yocke soon discovered. After Dorgan had taken a dozen pictures, the lieutenant told him that was enough and shooed him out.
The victim’s name was Jane Wilkens. Age thirty-six. Unmarried. Mother of three children. Killed by one .357-inch-diameter slug that had gone through her entire body, including her heart, and buried itself in the wall near the rear door. Wilkens had started shouting as the gunman burst through the door with the pistol in his hand. As he came at her he pointed the weapon and fired one shot from a distance of perhaps five feet. She was still falling when he ran by her. He jerked open the door to the playground and ran out.
No one saw which way he went after he went through the door. The playground was surrounded by a five-foot-high fence that an agile man could vault anywhere he wished.
The pistol had not been found, so searching officers had been advised to proceed with caution. “Maybe a thirty-eight Special,” the lieutenant said, “but more likely a three fifty-seven Magnum. Damn bullet went through plaster, a layer of drywall, and shattered a concrete block. Almost went through it.”
“A cop was chasing this guy,” Yocke murmured.
“Yeah. Patrolman Harry Phelps.”
“Why?”
“Because he ran.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a couple cruisers pulled up over on Grant and a bunch of those kids took off like jackrabbits. Officer Phelps ran after this guy. The suspect pulled a weapon, looked back over his shoulder several times at the officer, and charged into this church. Officer Phelps kept coming, heard the shot, and stopped by the victim to administer first aid. She lived for about fifteen seconds after he reached her.”
“So Jane Wilkens would still be alive if Phelps had not elected to chase this guy?”
“Whatever you’re implying, I don’t like it,” the lieutenant snarled. “And I don’t like your face. Phelps — Officer Phelps — was doing his job. We’re trying to police this shithole, Mr. Washington fucking Post!”
“Yeah, but—”
“Get outta my face!”
“Listen. I—”
“Out! This is a crime scene. Out!”
Jack Yocke went.
Dorgan was sitting on the curb in front of the church. Yocke sat down beside him. The overweight cop attending the door ignored them.
“What d’ya think?” Dorgan said.
“I don’t think. I gave that up years ago.”
“I’m going to walk over to Grant and snap a few, then head back downtown. I think I got some good shots of the kids. Really tough on them to see that.”
“Yeah.”
“Try not to get mugged.” With that Dorgan rose, adjusted his camera bags, and trudged away. Yocke watched him go.
The curb was cold on his fanny. He stood and dusted his seat, then walked back and forth on the sidewalk.
After a while the kids came out. Each of them was carrying a little brown paper bag. Yocke watched them disappear into the projects.
A few minutes later the cops began dribbling out. When the lieutenant came out he ignored Yocke and climbed into the passenger seat of a cruiser. The uniformed officer with him got behind the wheel.
Yocke saw the man coming a block away. With his hands in his jacket pockets, his head up, he walked rapidly in this direction.
He’s coming here, Yocke decided, and watched him come. About forty-five, he had short gray hair. His chocolate skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones and jaw.
The man looked at the cop and Yocke and went up the three steps and through the door without pausing.
Yocke leaned on the little railing that protected what had once been grass. The temperature had dropped at least five degrees and the sky was grayer. He was wondering whether he should return to the office or try to get back inside when a drop of rain struck him.
He set off through the projects, back toward the car. Droplets of rain raised little puffs of dirt beside the empty sidewalks. He met a policeman coming the other way. The officer had his pistol in his right hand, down by his leg, and was talking on his hand-held radio. He ignored Yocke.
The pool car was still intact. All four wheels still attached, the windshield unbroken, the doors still locked and closed. Another miracle.
Yocke drove slowly through the projects as rain spattered the windshield. On impulse, he went back to the church and parked in front.
All the cops were gone.
Yocke locked the car and went inside.
In the foyer he paused and listened. The door to the day-care center was still open and he could hear voices. He walked toward it.
The young woman who had comforted the children was crying on the shoulder of the man Yocke had seen enter, the man with the gray hair and the skin stretched tight across his face.
“You a reporter?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Yocke looked at the children’s chairs, decided they were too small, and lowered himself into a cross-legged position on the floor.
“I want you to write this down. Write it down and write it good. It’s all the writing that Jane is ever gonna get.”
Yocke got out the notebook.
“Jane Wilkens was the mother of my children. Had two kids by her. We never lived together. Asked her to marry me years ago but she wouldn’t. She knew I used to be on heroin and if I lived around these damn projects, I’d go off the wagon. But she couldn’t live anywhere else. This was where her work was, these kids. These kids were her work. She was trying to save some of them.
“She grew up in the Jefferson projects, but got herself out. Got an education. Got a scholarship to George Washington and got a degree in biology. Went to Pennsylvania and got a masters. She worked for a couple years as a microbiologist, then gave it up and came back here to this church to run the day care. Work with the kids.”
“Why?”
“You been in those projects? Really looked? Try to imagine living in there. No privacy, walls paper thin, kids abused and hungry, trash everywhere, light bulbs out, doors kicked in, liquor sales out of one apartment and crack out of another, the white women from the suburbs buying theirs down on the streets, the smell of shit and piss and filth and hopelessness. Yeah, it stinks. It gets in your nose so bad you’ll never get it out. I smelled it again coming down the street this evening.
“So the kids are growing up in this manure pile, growing up like little rats, without love, without food, without anybody to hug them. Jane wanted to give them what their mamas couldn’t. She wanted to give them a little love. Maybe save a couple. Can’t save ’em all, but maybe save a few. Their mamas — all strung out, head nursing, whoring, whatever will turn a dollar to get the stuff from the number-one man.”
“She took two kids to the emergency room last week,” the young woman said. “One was starving to death even though she was eating — eating here, anyway — and the other had a bacterial infection of the lungs. Jane did things like that all the time.”
The man shook his head, faintly irritated. “But Jane never tried to shut down the trade,” he said slowly, “never interfered with anybody’s addiction, never passed judgment, never talked to the police. She just tried to save the kids. The kids …”
“What’s your name?”