Cross Country

the assembled group a few minutes later. “But I’m not going to assume it is. The more we understand, the more prepared we’ll be if this happens again. It might not be an isolated incident.” I figured some of the more jaded homicide detectives wouldn’t agree; they’d be thinking I’d worked one too many serial cases. I didn’t much care what they thought at that point.
    For the first fifteen minutes or so, I ran through the primary facts of the case for those who hadn’t been there the night before. Then I turned it over to Paula. She bounced up and talked us through the photos on the wall.
    “The cutting styles indicate a variety of weapons, strength, and ability,” she said, using a red laser pointer to highlight the slashes, punctures, and severing that had been done to the Cox family.
    “At least one blade had a serrated edge. One was unusually large — possibly a machete. The amputations, wherever they occurred, were never done cleanly. Rather, they were the result of repetitive trauma.”
    A detective named Monk Jeffries asked a pretty good question from the front row. “You think they were practicing? Had never done this before?”
    “I couldn’t say,” Paula told him. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
    “Yeah,” I put in. “It’s like they were practicing, Monk.” I had my own opinion about the murders. “There’s something very
young
about this crime scene.”
    “As in inexperienced?” Jeffries asked.
    “No. Just
young
. I’m talking about the cutting, the broken bed, the vandalism in general. Also the fact that this was probably done by a group of five or more. That’s a big group of intruders. When I intersect all those factors, I get a few possibilities: gang, cult, OC. In that order.”
    “Gang?” another D-1 asked from the back. “You ever see gang violence like this massacre?”
    “I’ve never seen violence like this, period,” I said.
    “I’ve got twenty bucks on OC. Any takers?” It was Lou Copeland, a competent but thoroughly obnoxious D-1 with Major Case Squad. A few of his cronies laughed.
    Not me. I threw my clipboard across the room. It struck the wall and fell onto the tile. That wasn’t like me, so it made an impression.
    The room was quiet. I walked over to pick up my notes. I saw Bree and Sampson exchange a look I didn’t like. They weren’t sure that I could handle this.
    Bree took it from there, and she started handing out assignments. We needed people recanvassing the Cambridge Place neighborhood, riding the lab for fast turnaround, and calling in any chits we had on the street for information about last night.
    “We need your best work on this one,” Bree told the group. “And we want some answers by the end of the day.”
    “What about — ?”
    “Dismissed!”
    Everyone looked around. It was Sampson who’d spoken.
    “You all have any more questions, you can reach Stone or Cross on their cells. Meanwhile, we’ve got a buttload of fieldwork to do. This is a major case. So get started! Let’s hit it, and hit it hard.”

Chapter 7
    THE TIGER WAS the tallest and strongest of ten well-muscled black men racing up and down a weathered asphalt basketball court at Carter Park in Petway. He understood that he wasn’t a skillful shooter or dribbler, but he rebounded like a pro and defended the basket fiercely, and he hated to lose more than anything. In his world,
you lose, you die
.
    The player he guarded called himself “Buckwheat” and the Tiger had heard that the nickname had something to do with an old TV series in America that sometimes made fun of black kids.
    Buckwheat either didn’t mind the name, or he’d gotten used to it. He was fast on the basketball court and a steady shooter. He was also a trash-talker, as were most of the young players in DC. The Tiger had picked up the game in London instantly while he was at university, but there wasn’t much trash-talking in England.
    “You talk a good game, but you’re going to lose,” the Tiger finally said as he and his opponent ran up the court, shoulder to shoulder. Buckwheat turned off a screen and took a bounce pass in the left corner. He proceeded to bury a long, perfectly arced jump shot even though the Tiger bumped him hard after the release.
    “Fuckin’ ape,” the other man yelled as the two of them ran back the other way.
    “You think so?”
    “Oh hell, I know so. ’Nother minute, you be the big monkey watchin’ on the sideline!”
    The Tiger laughed but said nothing