Suitable for Framing (20 page)

“Married? Children?”

“Don't think so. Better check with PIO, they'll pull his jacket.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-three. Top man in his academy class last year.”

“Who called it in?”

“He had his radio and hit the emergency button. Said he'd been hit and gave the address, but it was garbled, sounded like Forty-fifth instead of Twenty-fifth. The dispatcher couldn't raise him again. A couple minutes later a civilian called it in.”

“What happened to the other victim? Where was he hit?”

“The leg. We think it's the subject who's been knee-capping drivers and taking their cars.”

“A fatal leg wound?”

“Hit the major artery in his thigh, the femoral artery. He was struggling; then he ran, bled to death in a couple of minutes. By the time anybody got here, it was too late.”

Any suspects in custody?”

“No. But we will.” His voice had the bitter ring of certainty.

McDonald radioed orders to clear intersections in the path of the rescue van carrying the wounded officer to the trauma center, and I started looking for witnesses.

“It was pretty wild when the shooting started,” said a young shoe salesman, who had been on his way to work. “It sounded pretty much like the shootings on TV, but a lot louder.”

As the wounded motorist struggled for possession of his Taurus, the officer had ordered FMJ, if he was indeed the shooter, to drop his weapon. McCoy had apparently held his fire because of innocent bystanders. When FMJ started shooting at the officer, the bleeding motorist ran and passersby scattered. The officer did manage to squeeze off a couple of rounds before being hit.

When he went down, another suspect ran to snatch up the cop's gun. Then both cars took off.

“I saw the guns and told everybody to take cover,” said a grandmotherly school crossing guard with a curly perm. “There were people waiting for a bus, people walking down the street, business people on the way to work.

“They just stood there and looked at me. I had to scream at them. I yelled and blew my whistle. Finally I had to run toward them—into the line of fire—to get them to move.” Trembling, she seemed more shaken by the public's indifference than by her own close call.

She and other witnesses had heard McCoy shout, identifying himself as a police officer. FMJ knew he was shooting a cop.

Police were stringing yellow crime-scene tape, forcing me and other reporters back down the street in the general direction of my car. “You know who it was,” muttered Rakestraw, after shepherding several witnesses to a car to take to the station. “And who was with 'em.”

“You think it was Howie.” I hated saying it out loud.

“Without a doubt.”

“No way to be sure.”

“It's over for him now. Any dream he had of cutting a deal is down the toilet. Nobody's gonna give him a break.”

“He was coerced into running from the Crossing. They threatened Miss Mayberry. If he was with them today, a big if, he was coerced. We don't even know—”

“We'll know pretty quick. Once we start showing mug shots to the witnesses.” He walked away.

I called the office. Gretchen wanted to know if I needed help, if she should assign someone. I told her no, I could handle it. Then I went to the hospital, arriving in time to speak to the doctor. He was brief.

“The bullet struck his heart. When fellow officers and paramedics arrived he was beyond all help, but they tried. At the trauma center we immediately opened his chest and tried to clamp the aorta, but when we did, we found that the bullet had demolished the coronary artery and left a large hole in the myocardium. Every time his heart beat, blood pumped into his chest. It was very apparent there was nothing that could be done.”

If Howie
was
there, I thought numbly, his life is finished too.

McCoy was a rookie, a youthful hero who had not lived long enough to make mistakes, to burn out, to become jaded or calloused or bitter. He had never let anybody down. Maybe he never would have. The promise was gone. Emotions ran high. When a cop gets shot, they all take it personally. More than a hundred officers from other departments joined the manhunt Wearing strips of black mourning tape across their badges, they searched buildings and fields with helicopters and dogs, stopping scores of suspects. All-points bulletins were issued for FMJ, positively identified by eyewitnesses as the killer.

“He's in a frenzy, like a shark,” Rakestraw said, as I took notes, for attribution. “We need to get him off the street. Right now. He's extremely dangerous.”

Not for attribution was his answer to my question about the sexual-assault charges.

“His sister.”

“The pregnant one? Is he the…”

He nodded.

Was there any crime FMJ had not committed? Police set up a tip line urging the public to call. Rewards were offered. There were rumors that FMJ had been seen in Ocala, on I-95 headed for Georgia, at the downtown Greyhound bus station, and at the Port of Miami, and one sighting reported him at the airport wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.

Witnesses were pretty sure that J-Boy was the one with the shotgun. They were not so definite about Howie, but Rakestraw was convinced. Bulletins were issued for both, “wanted for questioning.”

FMJ's mother publicly urged his surrender. Her listless performance on TV didn't reflect much hope that he would heed her words. Why would he start now?

I prayed Howie would call. He must be so scared, I thought. If the cops found him first he could be killed, especially if he was still with the others, known to be heavily armed. I focused, concentrated, willing him not to stay with them. I went by Miss Mayberry's house twice. Once Rakestraw's car was outside; another time a patrol unit was parked in front. I didn't intrude. Besides, I didn't look forward to explaining to that good woman how our high hopes had gone so wrong.

Edgy days went by with no news. The perimeters of the manhunt spread, all the way up the eastern seaboard to Union City, New Jersey. My gut feeling was that they were still in Dade County. They were Miami street kids; they knew no other place. This was their turf. FMJ's business must be shot to hell, I thought. No chop shop would deal with him now.

Several times that week Trish offered to help in the continuing coverage, but I politely declined. This was one story she wasn't going to muscle in on.

Gradually, with no new developments, the coverage began to wind down. I took a day of comp time, preferred by the newspaper's bean counters in lieu of overtime, then came in late the following day.

“You had a visitor,” said Gloria, the city desk clerk. “She was here several times yesterday and again this morning.” She shrugged. “Nobody told me you were taking comp time and I thought you'd be in.”

“I left a note. Who was it?”

“An old lady.” She riffled impatiently through the pink message slips on her desk.

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No,” Gloria frowned. “I can't find it Trish must know. She was talking to her, about an hour ago.” We both scanned the newsroom for Trish. She wasn't there.

“What did she look like?”

“You know the woman, what the heck is her name?” She shook the pencil in her hand as if the motion would stimulate her memory. “You know, lives over there in that little house by the Edgewater.”

“Miss Mayberry?” Chills rippled along my spinal column.

“That's her, yeah. The one who wouldn't sell out.” She picked up a flashing line.

“What was Trish doing with her?”

She shrugged, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “She felt sorry for the old lady, who kept asking for you, and offered to help if there was anything she could do.” Gloria returned to her phone conversation.

I literally ran to the elevator. I'd been a fool for not staying in closer contact with Margaret Mayberry. What had Howie said? That we were his only friends. Then I had let him down. He had only one friend left in the world.

No police car outside now. The shades were all down.

Miss Mayberry took a long time to answer. “Your friend is already here.” She spoke through the screen, new worry lines creasing her worn face. I nearly pushed my way through the door.

Howie and Trish sat facing each other across the wooden dining room table. Both looked startled. He still wore his Star Trek T-shirt, though it looked freshly laundered.

“Howie!” I felt weak with relief, then had the urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. “Where have you been?” I walked over and gave him an awkward hug. He felt tense in my arms, then hugged me back, hard. “I was so worried.”

“Britt,” he said, eyes filling.

I turned on Trish. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I know what you're trying to accomplish, Britt. You want to help this boy, and so do I.” Her voice was warm, her face sincere.

Miss Mayberry and Howie looked at her, then me, not sure what was happening.

“I'm scared,” Howie told me. “That's why I been trying to reach you. I know the police'll shoot me on sight. Will you help me surrender?”

“It's the only way,” Miss Mayberry said, her jaw firm.

I nodded, then turned to Trish. “We really don't need you involved. We can handle this.”

“Britt,” she said persuasively. “What you're doing is admirable. Absolutely noble. You're trying to save this”—she smiled gently at Howie—“young man. I'm on your side. That's why I came.”

“Butt out, Trish. Bad things happen to people you try to help. Forget you were ever here, go back to the office, and let us work this thing out.”

She searched each face and saw no encouragement.

“If that's the way you want it, I'll go. But I'd still like to help.”

“We're okay,” I said.

She stood and walked to the door, no longer smiling. Little trouper that she was, she gave it one last shot. “You're making a mistake.”

“She's trouble,” I explained, after she had gone. “We have trouble enough.”

I took the chair Trish had occupied, directly across from Howie. I leaned forward. “You
were
there.”

He nodded silently. Miss Mayberry stood in a supportive position directly behind his chair, her hands on his shoulders.

“Who did the shooting?”

“FMJ,” he mumbled. “He smoked the dude and the cop. I never had no gun.” He looked startled. “You didn't think it was me!”

“No,” I said reassuringly. “Never did. I just wanted to hear it from you. What were you doing with them?”

“They wanted me to help 'em get some cars. We was going to the shopping center to find a Taurus. Then one passed in traffic and FMJ say, ‘Let's take that one.' I said, ‘No, man. Let's find one parked. Plenty out there.' But he wanted that one. I said, ‘Don' shoot the gun, man. I don' want any trouble.' He laughed. He don't listen. Then that cop showed up. Everybody flashing iron. I seen the bullets flying by. Didn't know whether to jump out and run or stay in the van. If I stay, I get shot. If I run, I get shot. Scared to do it, scared not to do it. I just froze. I wanted to get outa there.”

“Where are they?”

“I don' know, man.” He was wringing his hands. “I don' want to know. Last time I seen 'em was in Hialeah. I took off. I shoulda stayed at the Crossing. I wanted to be there, to go to school. But I hadda leave.”

His eyes flicked up at Miss Mayberry, who appeared unaware of his reason for running.

“Now they gonna kill me.” His eyes were pleading. “I know the cops are gonna kill me.”

“No, they won't,” I said. “I'm not sure how we should do this. Maybe we should have a lawyer surrender you. I could go out and call one, maybe a public defender, and ask him to meet us here.”

“Or you could jus' take me in there like last time. They all know you…”

“They wouldn't hurt him in front of a newspaper reporter,” Miss Mayberry said.

“I'm just concerned about getting stopped on the way. They might not believe we were coming in.” It didn't seem quite kosher after the gigantic manhunt to simply drive him to headquarters and stroll up to the desk sergeant. We probably wouldn't get that far. They all had his picture. Maybe it would be better to approach a traffic cop on the street and quietly ask him to take Howie in. Or…

“I know a cop we can trust.”

Howie shot me a quick look, probably thinking of Rakestraw.

“Not him. A lieutenant in homicide. His name is McDonald. I'll call him and ask the safest way for us to do this.”

“I don't have a phone,” Margaret Mayberry reminded me.

“Where's the nearest pay phone?”

“Next door, on the second level of the parking garage.”

“Okay,” I said, fumbling in my purse for change. “I'll run over there. If he's not in, I'll call the public defender's office. In fact, the more I think about it, maybe I should call and talk to them first.” I pushed back my chair.

“SEND OUT THE HOSTAGE. RELEASE MARGARET MAYBERRY. SEND HER OUT NOW.” The booming voice seemed to be all around us, like the voice of God in that Moses movie.

We stared at one another. “It's them!” Howie leaped to his feet.

I dashed to the window and peeked from behind the shade.

“Oh, shit!” I said. It was the goddamn police SWAT team. “Well, now we don't have to worry about how to go to them,” I said, hoping I sounded confident. “They've come to us.”

Miss Mayberry's hand was over her heart. I hoped she wouldn't have a stroke.

“Trish!” I said. “Goddamn, I'd like to slap the spit out of her. Nobody else knew Howie was here, right?”

“Nobody,” Miss Mayberry said.

“SEND THE HOSTAGE OUT NOW!”

Good grief. “They must think you're being held hostage,” I said.

“Humph. That's ridiculous.” She snorted.

“Wish you had a phone,” I said, “we could dial Nine-one-one and explain. In fact, if you had one, they would have called us by now, to negotiate.”

“INSIDE, SEND OUT THE HOSTAGE. SEND OUT THE WOMAN NOW!”

I peeked out again. Cops in SWAT fatigues were all over the place. The street was barricaded and the entrance to the parking garage closed. Nothing but cops scurrying in crouched positions carrying M-16s, armed for bear.

Now I knew the same sinking feeling the James boys felt, and Butch and Sundance in Bolivia, and O.J. in his Bronco. Maybe I have no sense of adventure, but I didn't like it one bit.

The little reading lamp on Miss Mayberry's desk went out. So did the dining room light overhead.

She and Howie looked startled. The room was shadowy with no lights and the shades drawn.

“They cut off the electricity. They always do that. I'm not sure why.”

“They gonna kill us all!” Howie said, terrified.

“This is ridiculous,” Miss Mayberry snapped. “I'll take care of them.” Her dander up, she marched to the front door, threw it open, and stepped out on the porch, ramrod straight, an imposing figure in her flowered housedress.

“You—” She got no further.

The wind was knocked out of her before she could utter another word. Two SWAT members rushed the porch, grabbed her from either side, and hustled her away, out of the line of fire.

There was no time to think. Glass shattered with a blinding flash and an earsplitting explosion. All I could think of was Hiroshima. I hit the pine floor, curling instinctively into a fetal position, hands over my eyes. I heard Howie screaming. Or maybe the screams were mine. My ears rang, I opened my eyes but couldn't see, and I smelled smoke.

My mind raced. It had to be a stun grenade, used to disorient barricaded bad guys. But another sound rapidly followed, a gunshot, from behind the house, then a thunderous barrage from all sides. Glass broke and bits of furniture and debris fell around us. Howie was right. They were trying to kill us!

Still blinded, as though by a thousand flashbulbs exploding in my face, I crawled, trying to inch my way in the general direction of the kitchen as china crashed and pictures flew off the walls. I felt the slick linoleum under my hands and knees, bumped into a cabinet, opened it, and scooted inside among the bottles of furniture polish and boxes of soap power. I pulled the door closed behind me. There was a metal pipe in the middle and I clung to it, eyes closed. I was cringing under the sink like a palmetto bug fleeing the exterminator.

Overhead, dishes and flowerpots crashed into the sink and to the floor around me. It seemed to go on forever.

Trish, I thought bitterly. Trish is responsible. Lord knows what she told them. The barrage suddenly stopped. The silence was deafening.

“Howie?” I muttered, and tentatively pushed the cabinet door open a few inches, afraid they'd begin firing again. I heard shouts outside. I thought I heard Miss Mayberry screaming.

I crawled out and sat whimpering on the kitchen floor. A broken ceramic figurine that looked like a duck lay shattered beside me.

I picked up the head and began to sob. I knew I had to go back into the other room. I was afraid of what I would find. They were shouting now, to come out. Those bastards, I thought. Those bastards.

My eyes burned and stung from the smoke. I crawled to the doorway. Amid the smoke and shadows, I saw Howie where he had fallen, his head and shoulders propped against the bullet-riddled couch. His arms were bent at the elbows and I saw his left hand jerk.

“Howie, Howie, Howie,” I crooned, scrambling, half crawling, to his side. His Star Trek shirt was torn and bloodied. I couldn't tell how many times he'd been hit. His eyes had that lonely look I had seen the first time I visited his rooftop home. The mischievous glint was gone.