Pop Goes the Weasel

to let the homicide investigation take on an almost aerial view. Everything emanates from the body.
    Sampson and I walked the entire crime scene, from the basement to each floor and on up to the roof. Then we walked the neighborhood. Nobody had seen anything unusual, which didn’t surprise either of us.
    Now came the really bad part. Sampson and I drove from the woeful tenement to Nina’s apartment in the Brookland section of Washington, east of Catholic University. I knew I was being sucked in again, but there was nothing I could do about it.
    It was a sweltering-hot day, and the sun hammered Washington without mercy. We were both silent and withdrawn during the ride. What we had to do was the worst thing about our job — telling a family about the death of a loved one. I didn’t know how I could do it this time.
    Nina’s building was a well-kept brownbrick apartment house on Monroe Street. Miniature yellow roses were blooming out front in bright-green window boxes. It didn’t look as if anything bad should happen to someone who lived here. Everything about the place was so bright and hopeful, just as Nina had been.
    I was becoming more and more disturbed and upset about the brutal and obscene murder, and about the fact that it probably wouldn’t get a decent investigation from the department, at least not officially. Nana Mama would chalk it up to her conspiracy theories about the white overlords and their “criminal disinterest” in the people of Southeast. She had often told me that she felt morally superior to white people, that she would never, ever treat them the way they treated the black people of Washington.
    “Nina’s sister, Marie, takes care of the kids,” Sampson said as we rode down Monroe. “She’s a nice girl. Had a drug problem one time, beat it. Nina helped her. The whole family is close-knit. A lot like yours. This is going to be real bad, Alex.”
    I turned to him. Not surprisingly, he was taking Nina’s death even harder than I was. It’s unusual for him to show his emotions, though. “I can do it, John. You stay here in the car. I’ll go up and talk to the family.”
    Sampson shook his head and sighed loudly. “Doesn’t work that way, sugar.”
    He snugged the Nissan up to the curb, and we both climbed out. He didn’t stop me from coming along to the apartment, so I knew he wanted me there with him. He was right. This was going to be bad.
    The Childs apartment took up the first and second floors. The front door was slightly ornate, aluminum. Nina’s husband was already at the door. He had on the proletariat uniform of the D.C. Housing Authority, where he worked: mud-stained work boots, blue trousers, a shirt marked DCHA . One of the babies snuggled in his arms, a beautiful girl who looked at me and smiled and cooed.
    “Could we come inside for a moment?” Sampson asked.
    “It’s Nina,” the husband said, and started to break down right there in the doorway.
    “I’m sorry, William,” I spoke softly. “You’re right. She’s gone. She was found this morning.”
    William Childs started to sob loudly. He was a powerful-looking workingman, but that didn’t matter. He held his bewildered little girl to his chest and tried to control the crying, but he couldn’t.
    “Oh, God, no. Oh, Nina, Nina baby. How could somebody kill her? How could anybody do that? Oh, Nina, Nina, Nina.”
    A young, pretty woman came up behind him. She had to be Nina’s sister, Marie. She took the baby from her sister’s husband, and the little girl began to scream, as if she knew what had happened. I had seen so many families, so many good people, who had lost loved ones on these merciless streets. I knew it would never completely stop, but I felt it ought to get better. It never did.
    The sister motioned for us to come inside, and I noticed a hall table on which there were two pocketbooks, as if Nina were still about. The apartment was comfortable looking and neat, with light bamboo and white-cushioned furniture. The whir of a window air conditioner was constant. A Llardo porcelain figure of a nurse stood on an end table.
    I was still sorting through details of the homicide scene, trying to connect the murder to the other Jane Does. We learned that Nina had attended a health-care charity dinner on Saturday night. William had been working overtime. The family called the police late Saturday night. Two detectives had shown up, but no one had been able to find Nina until now.
    Then I was