Done for a Dime

1 Every black-and-white to be spared had come, seven of the ten on graveyard, drawn in once the watch commander broke the Code 33. Dennis Murchison studied the crowd while his partner, Jerry Stluka, parked their unmarked Crown Victoria as close as he could. Onlookers gathered in the battering strobes of colored light. Even though the rain had stopped, umbrellas sprouted here and there. On the perimeter, one older couple, decked in bathrobes and slippers, clutched their pajamas to their throats and craned on tiptoe to see. Murchison and Stluka pulled out their IDs, put the tabs into their jacket pockets so the badges showed, then drew latex gloves from the dispenser on the dash. Stluka, eyeing the crowd, said, "Am I free to assume this officially kicks off Black History Month?" He was sable-haired, muscular, compact. A build referred to as pyknic, Murchison had learned once doing a crossword puzzle. "Got any pills you can take, stem the flow for a little while?" Stulka inhaled through his teeth, a hard, thin whistling sound. "Yeah. Keep 'em with the antiwhining tablets. Want one?" He stretched his glove tight. "Who's I-C?" "Holmes." Stluka cackled. "Sherlock!" Murchison took stock of the faces swinging their way. Young men mostly, some with eyes like stones, full of what-the-fuck and who-are-you. "Once we get inside the tape, do me a favor. Lay off the Sherlock bit. Think you can do that?" Stluka groaned. The pain of it. "Seems to me we could stand to lighten up a little. Get a sense of humor. You want, I could call him Maid Marion like they used to down around Dumpers substation." "Oh yeah. That'll work." "Hey--you want to be treated like one among equals, you take the damn chip off your shoulder." "Whose shoulder? I'm the one asking." Stluka made a little wave to suggest further discussion was beneath him. "I'm ready. You?" They got out of the car and eased their way though the crowd from the back, checking faces. Murchison noted a player or two, known thugs, but that was hardly strange. They lived up here. One guy gripped an open Mickeys, talking smack into a cell phone. Others had their dogs in tow, pits and rotts. The animals strained against their chain leashes, sniffing the air. They'd caught the scent of the victim's blood. Hennessey, who had the hill for patrol that night, stood in the middle of the street, ducking under one neighbor's umbrella as he jotted down her words. The woman wore pink sweats beneath a yellow slicker, bare feet in flip flops, her hair coiled meticulously into French braids. Murchison came up, placed a hand on the officer's arm, and said quietly, "Hennessey Tennessee, toodle your flute." The man was big, Irish--priestly eyes, wastrel grin. "Murch, hey." He nodded toward the woman under the umbrella. "Detective Murchison? Marcellyne Pathon." She had high cheekbones in a round, childlike face. Behind thick horn-rims her brown eyes ballooned. She shook Murchison's hand. Her skin felt warm, her palm damp, not from rain. Nearby, a few young toughs in the crowd drifted back, far enough not to get dragged in, not so far as to leave earshot. "She lives across the way." Hennessey pointed with his pen. Two little girls stood holding hands in the window, silhouettes, peering out at their mother. "Says she heard the shots, they woke her up, but--" "Didn't see nobody." It came out quick. She adjusted her glasses. "I went to the window, you know, looked out, but--" A shrug. "All dark out here, you know?" "Your children hear anything?" Murchison nodded toward her house. Like that, she stiffened. "No, sir. All of us, the girls, tooCorbett, David is the author of 'Done for a Dime', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345447531 and ISBN 0345447530.