Pop Goes the Weasel

Jerome would work in one room, Sampson and I in the other.
    Summer school was still in session, and Stamford was busy as a mall on a Saturday. We passed the cafeteria on the way to the classrooms, and it was packed, even at ten-thirty. No empty seats anywhere. The room reeked of French fries, the same greasy smell that had been in the girl’s apartment.
    A few kids were making noise, but they were mostly well behaved. The music of Wu Tang and Jodeci leaked from earphones. The school seemed to be well run and orderly. Between classes a few boys and girls embraced tenderly, with loosely locked pinkies and the gentlest brushes of cheeks.
    “These were not bad girls,” Nathan Kemp told us as we walked. “I think you’ll hear that from the other students. Tori dropped out last semester, but her homelife was the main reason. Marion was an honor student at Stamford. I’m telling you, guys, these were not bad girls.”
    Sampson, Thurman, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with the kids. We learned that Tori and Marion were popular, all right. They were loyal to their friends, funny, usually fun to be around. Marion was described as “blazing,” which meant she was great. Tori was “buggin’ sometimes,” which meant she could be a little crazy. Most of the kids hadn’t known that the girls were tricking in Petworth, but Tori Glover was said to always have money.
    One particular interview would stick in my mind for a while. Evita Cardinal was a senior at Stamford, and also a cousin of Marion’s. She wore white athletic pants and a purple stretchy top. Her black-rimmed, yellow-tinted sunglasses were propped on top of her head.
    She started to cry her eyes out as soon as she sat down across the desk from me.
    “I’m real sorry about Marion,” I said, and I was. “We just want to catch whoever did this terrible thing. Detective Sampson and I both live nearby in Southeast. My kids go to the Sojourner Truth School.”
    The girl looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wary. “You won’t catch nobody,” she finally said. It was the prevailing attitude in the neighborhood, and it happened to be mostly true. Sampson and I weren’t even supposed to be here. I had told my secretary I was out working the murder of Frank Odenkirk. A few other detectives were covering for us.
    “How long have Tori and Marion been working in Petworth? Do you know any other girls from school who work over there?”
    Evita shook her head. “Tori was the one working the street in Petworth. Not Marion. My cousin was a good person. They both were. Marion was my little doggie,” Evita said, and the tears came flowing again.
    “Marion was there with Tori.” I told her what I knew to be the truth. “We talked to people who saw her on Princeton Place that night.”
    The cousin glared at me. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mister Detective. You’re wrong . You ain’t got the straight.”
    “I’m listening to you, Evita. That’s why I’m here.”
    “Marion wasn’t there to sell her body or like that. She was just afraid for Tori. She went to protect Tori. She never did nothin’ bad for money, and I know that for a fact.”
    The girl started to sob again. “My cousin was a good person, my best girlfriend. She was tryin’ to just protect Tori and she got herself killed for it. The police won’t do nothin’. You never come back here again after today. Never happen. You don’t care about us. We’re nothin’ to nobody,” Evita Cardinal said, and that seemed to say it all.

Chapter 31
    WE’RE NOTHIN’ TO NOBODY. It was a horrifying and absolutely true statement, and it was at the deepest roots of the Jane Doe investigation, the search for the Weasel. It pretty well summed up George Pittman’s cynical philosophy about the inner city. It was also the reason I was feeling tired and numb to the bone by six-thirty that night. I believed that the Jane Doe murders were escalating.
    On the other hand, I hadn’t seen nearly enough of my own kids for the last few days, so I decided I’d better head home. On the way, I thought about Christine and calmed down immediately. Since the time I was a young boy, I’ve been having a recurring daydream. I’m standing alone on a cold, barren planet. It’s scary, but more than anything, it’s lonely and unsettling. Then a woman comes up to me. We begin to hold hands, to embrace, and then everything is all right. That woman was Christine, and I had no idea how she had