RAMONE ATTENDED THE TYREE arraignment, returned to the crime scene, took part in some more interviews with potential witnesses, ran Rhonda Willis back to the VCU lot, called Diego on his cell, then went back uptown in his own car, a gray Chevy Tahoe. He drove into his neighborhood but did not go home. He was off the clock, but his workday was not done.
The Johnson house was a modest brick colonial, well maintained, on Somerset, west of Coolidge High School. Cars filled the spaces on both sides of the street. Visitors had been cautiously dropping in, bringing food and condolences to the family, leaving just as quickly as they had arrived. A formal wake and church service would come later, but relatives and close friends felt a more immediate response was necessary. No one could really know what was proper in situations such as this. A casserole or a dish of lasagna in hand was an impotent but safe bet.
Ramone was let into the house by a woman he did not recognize after he identified himself as a family friend first and a police officer second. There were folks sitting in the living room, some with their hands in their laps, some talking quietly, some not talking at all. Asa’s little sister, Deanna, was sitting on the hall stairway with a couple of young girls, cousins, Ramone guessed. Deanna was not crying, but her eyes showed confusion.
“Ginny,” said the woman, shaking Ramone’s hand. “Virginia. I’m Helena’s sister. Asa’s aunt.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m awful sorry.” He saw Helena in her sister, the same strong, mannish figure, the perpetually worried look, as if she carried the weight of knowing that something awful was bound to happen, that to enjoy the moment would be a waste of time. “Is Helena back from the hospital?”
“She’s upstairs in bed, sedated. Helena wanted to be with her daughter.”
“What about Terrance?”
“He’s in the kitchen. My husband’s with him.” Ginny put her hand on Ramone’s forearm. “Have you people found anything yet?”
Ramone barely shook his head. “Excuse me.”
He went through a short hall to a small kitchen located at the rear of the house. Terrance Johnson and another man, light as Smokey Robinson, were seated at a round two-person table, drinking from cans of beer. Johnson got up to greet Ramone. Their hands clasped and they went shoulder to shoulder, Ramone patting Terrance Johnson’s back.
“My sympathies,” said Ramone. “Asa was a fine young man.”
“Yes,” said Johnson. “Meet Clement Harris, my brother-in-law. Clement, this is Gus Ramone.”
Clement reached out and shook Ramone’s hand without getting up from his chair.
“Gus’s boy and Asa were friends,” said Johnson. “Gus is a police officer. Works homicide.”
Clement Harris mumbled something.
“Get you a beer?” said Johnson, his eyes slightly crossed and unfocused.
“Thanks.”
“I’m gonna have one more myself,” said Johnson. He tilted his head back and killed what was left in the can. “I ain’t tryin to get messed up, understand.”
“It’s okay,” said Ramone. “Let’s have a beer together, Terrance.”
Johnson tossed the empty into a garbage pail and grabbed two cans of light beer, a brand Ramone would never normally buy or drink, from the refrigerator. As the door swung closed, Ramone saw magnetized photos of the Johnson children: Deanna playing in the snow, Deanna in a gymnastics outfit, an unsmiling Asa in uniform and pads, holding a football after one of his games.
“Let’s go outside,” said Johnson to Ramone, and when Ramone nodded, they left Clement at the kitchen table without further conversation.
A door from the kitchen led to the narrow backyard, which stopped at an alley. Johnson was not interested in gardening or landscaping, apparently, and neither was his wife. The yard was weedy, cluttered with garbage cans and milk crates, and surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence.
Ramone cracked his can open and drank. The beer had little more taste than water and probably as much kick. He and Johnson stopped halfway down a cracked walkway that led to the alley.
Johnson was a bit shorter than Ramone, with a beefy build and a square head accentuated by an outdated fade, shaved back and sides with a pomaded top. Johnson’s teeth were small and pointy, miniature fangs. His arms hung like the sides of a triangle off his trunk.
“Tell me what you know,” said Johnson, his face close to Ramone’s. The smell of alcohol was pungent on his breath, and it came to Ramone that Johnson had been drinking something other than this pisswater to get him to where he was now.
“Nothing yet,” said Ramone.
“Have ya’ll found the gun?”
“Not yet.”
“When are you going to start knowing things?”
“It’s a process. It’s methodical, Terrance.”
Ramone was hoping his choice of words would help placate Johnson, an analyst of some kind for the Census Bureau. Ramone generally did not know what people did, exactly, when they said that they worked for the federal government, but he knew Johnson dealt with numbers and statistics.
“You, what, tryin to find a witness?”
“We’re interviewing potential witnesses. We have been all day, and we’ll continue to conduct interviews. We’ll talk to his friends and acquaintances, his teachers, everyone he knew. Meantime, we’ll wait on the results of the autopsy.”
Johnson wiped his hand across his mouth. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. “They gonna cut up my boy? Why they got to do that, Gus?”
“It’s hard to talk about this, Terrance. I know it’s hard for you to hear it. But an autopsy will give us a lot of tools. It’s also required by law.”
“I can’t…”
Ramone put his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “With that, the witness interviews, the lab work, the tip line, what have you, we’ll start to build a case. We’re going to attack this thing on all fronts, Terrance, I promise you.”
“What can I do?” said Johnson. “What can I do right now?”
“Next thing you have to do is come to the morgue at D.C. General tomorrow between eight and four. We need you to make the formal identification.”
Johnson nodded absently. Ramone placed his beer can on the walk and pulled his wallet. He withdrew two cards and handed them to Johnson.
“We offer grief counseling if you want it,” said Ramone. “Your wife’s eligible, of course, and your daughter, too. The Family Liaison Unit—their number’s on that card right there—is always available to you. The people on staff work with us in the VCB offices. Sometimes it’s difficult for the detectives to stay in touch with you, and the FLU folks can give you progress reports and answers, if any are available. The other card is mine. My work number and cell are on it.”
“What can I do today?”
“All these visitors here, they mean well, I know, but don’t give them the run of the house. If they have to use the bathroom, let them use the guest bathroom, not the one upstairs. And don’t let anyone except you and your wife go into Asa’s bedroom. We’re going to want to give that a thorough inspection.”
“What you looking for?”
Ramone made a half shrug. There was no reason to mention the possible evidence of criminal activity.
“We don’t know until we get in there. In addition, we’re going to interview you extensively. Helena and Deanna as well, as soon as they’re ready.”
“That Detective Wilkins, he already talked to me some.”
“He’ll be needing to speak to you again.”
“Why him and not you?”
“Bill Wilkins is the primary on the case.”
“Is he up to this?”
“He’s good police. One of our best.”
Terrance saw the lie in Ramone’s eyes, and Ramone looked away. He drank off some of his beer.
“Gus.”
“I’m sorry, Terrance. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”
“Look at me, Gus.”
Ramone met Johnson’s eyes.
“Find who did this,” said Johnson.
“We’ll do our best.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m asking you personal and plain. I want you to find the animal that did this to my son.”
Ramone said that he would.
They finished their beers as the sky clouded over. It began to sprinkle. They stood in it and let it cool their faces.
“God’s cryin,” said Terrance Johnson, his voice not much more than a whisper.
To Ramone, it was only rain.