Schmitty was already there when I arrived.
He sat on a bench across from a new children’s playground set. There were no kids playing, and nobody else was in the park, either. It was too hot. A sheen of sweat had already formed on Schmitty’s broad forehead.
I sat down next to him, and Schmitty handed me a large, thin envelope. I opened the envelope to find information about the young men who still hadn’t been identified, including photographs of the decomposed bodies, clothing, and personal items.
Schmitty watched me as I thumbed through the packet. “The parents we can find have been contacted,” he said. “But these families tend to move a lot, and most aren’t excited about talking to the police. There’s a better chance they’ll come to you or the media before us.”
“I don’t really want to be the guy who tells them.”
“Fair.” Schmitty nodded. “But you might not have a choice. If you think you’ve got a match, just play it straight. Check it out, and if you want to give me a call, I’ll send somebody over to break the news.”
“So what about the investigation?”
His body stiffened. He turned and looked me in the eye. “Repeat this to anybody, and I’ll hang you. Understand?”
I nodded, deciding it wasn’t the right moment to educate Schmitty about why it may not be a good idea for a police officer to threaten to hang a black man. Cultural competency lessons were better left for another day. “I get it,” I said. “Understood.”
“My theory—and it’s just my theory—is that this wasn’t gangbangers taking each other out. It’s got nothing to do with drug dealing or even some lonely serial killer or whack-job in the projects.”
“So what is it, then?”
Schmitty rubbed his chin, hesitant to say what he was thinking out loud.
Eventually he said, “They’re too cold, the murders. They’re too calculated, too smart.”
“What do you mean?” I wanted to keep Schmitty talking. “Regular people are smarter than they used to be. Plenty of stuff on the Internet. Watch any police show and anybody would have a pretty good idea about DNA and police investigations.”
“Possible.” Then he came back around. “But we knew all these kids. Too damn well.” He pointed at the envelope. “They were all regulars in the juvenile system. They weren’t misunderstood artists or kids on the edge. Every one of them had done really bad things from an early age, and they were well along in the prison pipeline. No doubt in my mind or anybody’s mind. They were on their way, leaving a long trail of victims in the process.”
“So what? You’re thinking there’s a vigilante?”
“If I was a betting man?” Schmitty nodded. “That’s where I’d go—one of the neighborhood watch people, or the victim of a crime, or someone who knew somebody who got hurt by one of these guys . . . that’s a possibility.” Schmitty’s voice trailed off. “But honestly, there’s too many for that. Unless you’re a complete psychopath, which maybe the perp is, you’d be satisfied after one or maybe two. And carrying off this many without fouling up and getting caught . . .”
I nodded, understanding where Schmitty’s theory was going. “That leaves you with the professionals.”
“Afraid so.” He stood up. “We should be looking hard at the cops that patrol that area, but I doubt we’ll be looking too hard in that direction. The chief doesn’t want that. He told me today that he’s not sure we’d be able to recover, if it’s true. He’d lose his job for sure, and he loves going to all those fancy police conferences and sitting on those panels discussing new police tactics that we never actually implement.”
Schmitty put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed; then he walked away.
The message was clear. If somebody was going to look in that direction, it was going to be me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I drove slowly past my office, stunned that the line of people was gone. I drove around the block a second time, looking in the alleys and vacant lots for any sign of them. I was sure, if I stopped the car, they would reappear.
Working up the nerve, I parked the car, got out, and ducked inside my office.
Emma Tadic looked up from her computer. “Your office stinks.” Her long fingernails clicked away at the keyboard as she spoke. “But I do my best. Tomorrow I will bring some proper cleaning supplies.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” Then I noticed that the temperature in the office was a comfortable sixty-nine degrees. “You got the air conditioner to work?”
“No.” She stopped typing and looked up at me. “Called my brother. He bring a new one.” There was silence, and then she said, “Don’t worry about the money. I got a good deal for you. You pay him later.”
“I appreciate it.” I ran the financial calculations in my head. “But I’m really not sure—”
Emma raised her hand, cutting me off. “I do not work in a sweat lodge. Don’t worry about the money.” Then she opened the drawer to her desk. She removed a fat envelope. “Take a look.”
I took the envelope from her. Inside there was probably $2,000 in cash. “What is this?”
“I tell them we don’t even open a file unless they pay two hundred dollars. That will get them an initial consultation, and then we decide if we take them as a client or if they have a claim.” Emma took the envelope back from me. “So fifteen families had some money to get started,” she said. “Some pay a little and bring the rest later. Some pay full. Others not pay, but may be back as well.”
“But these are poor people, Emma.” I shook my head. “I never charge for a consultation. I’m not sure I feel right about—”
“Enough.” Emma dropped the envelope into her desk drawer and slammed it shut. “You have bills to pay, including my salary. A lawyer has to see who is really serious, right away. I make no other promises to them.”
“But that’s not how I’ve—”
“You go do some work now. I will get these files set up and then we will schedule the interviews for tomorrow.”
I started to argue with her again, but this time I was interrupted by a phone call. I took the cell phone out of my pocket and looked at the caller ID.
It was Sammy’s school.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vice Principal Jimmy Gieser’s office smelled like rotting flowers. There was a bike helmet in the corner, and my guess was that there was a pile of sweaty clothing somewhere in the room along with the cheap air freshener that he was using to cover up the smell.
“I don’t really want to have this meeting with you, Mr. Glass.” He put his hands on his desk and leaned forward. The vice principal was young. He had probably worked a few years and then got the magic ticket out of the classroom. He was also nervous. “I have the utmost respect for your family. You really should know that, nothing but respect for your family.”