Jack & Jill

seemed to cover everything in Washington, occasionally even murders in Southeast.
    “Does this have anything to do with the child murder last week, Detective? Did you get the real murderer? Is this a serial killer of little kids?” Inez Gomez shot off a clipped barrage of questions at me. She was very good at her job, smart and tough and fair most of the time.
    I said nothing to any of the reporters, not even to Gomez. I didn’t even look their way. There was an ache at the center of my chest that wouldn’t go away.
    Is this a serial killer of little kids? I don’t know, Inez. I think it might be. I pray that it isn’t. Was Emmanuel Perez innocent? I don’t believe so, Inez. I pray that he wasn’t.
    Could Gary Soneji be the killer of these two children? I hope not. I pray that isn’t the case, Inez.
    Lots of prayers this cold, dismal morning.
    It was too harsh for early December, too much snow. Somebody on the radio said they’ve been shoveling so much in D.C., it felt like an election year.
    I pushed my way through the crowd to the dead child lying like a broken doll on an expanse of frost-covered grass. The police photographer was taking pictures of the small boy. He had a short haircut like Damon’s, what Damon called a “baldie.”
    Of course, I knew it wasn’t Damon, but the effect was incredibly powerful. It was as if I had been punched in the stomach, hard. The sight took all the breath out of my chest and stomach, and left me wheezing. Cruelty isn’t softened by tears. I had learned that lesson many times by then.
    I knelt down low over the murdered boy. He looked as if he were sleeping, but having a terrible nightmare. Someone had closed his eyes, and I wondered if it could have been the killer. I didn’t think so. More likely it was the work of some Good Samaritan or possibly a good-hearted, but very careless, policeman. The little boy had on worn, loose gray sweats that had holes in the knees and tattered Nike sneakers. The right side of his face had been virtually destroyed by the killer blow, just like Shanelle’s. The face was crushed, but also pocked with jagged holes and tears. Bright red blood was pooled under his head.
    The maniac likes to decimate beautiful things.
It gave me an idea.
Is the killer disfigured in some way himself? Physically? Emotionally? Maybe both.
    Why does he hate small children so much? Why is he killing them near the Sojourner Truth School?
    I opened the little boy’s eyes. The child stared up at me. I don’t know why I did it. I just needed to look.

CHAPTER
25

    “DR. CROSS … Dr. Cross… I know this boy,” said a shaky voice. “He’s in our lower school. His name is Vernon Wheatley.”
    I looked up and saw Mrs. Johnson, the principal at Damon’s school. She held back a sob; she grabbed the sob back
hard.
    She’s even tougher than you are, Daddy.
That’s what Damon had said to me. Maybe he was right about that. The school principal wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t allow herself to.
    The medical examiner was standing next to Mrs. Johnson. I knew her, too. She was a white woman, Janine Prestegard. Looked to be about the same age as Mrs. Johnson. Mid-thirties, give or take a few years. They had been talking, consulting, probably consoling each other.
    What was there about the Sojourner Truth School?
Why this school? Why Damon’s school?
Shanelle Green and now Vernon Wheatley. What did the principal know, if anything? Did the school principal believe she could help solve these terrifying murders? She had known both victims.
    The medical examiner was arranging for an autopsy to determine the cause of death. She looked shaken by the savage attack the child had suffered. The autopsy of a murdered child is as bad as it gets.
    Two detectives from the local precinct waited nearby. So did the morgue team. Everything was so quiet, so sad, so horribly bad, at the scene. There is nothing any worse than the murder of a child. Nothing I’ve seen, anyway. I remember every one that I’ve been to. Sampson sometimes tells me I’m too sensitive to be a homicide detective. I counter that every detective should be as sensitive and human as possible.
    I rose to my full height. At six three I was only a few inches taller than Mrs. Johnson.
    “You’ve been at both murder scenes,” I said to her. “You live around here? You live nearby?”
    She shook her head. She looked straight up into my eyes. Her eyes were so intense, so large and round. They held mine and wouldn’t