Just Another Case Of... By Brendan Whitt

The warm summer breeze swept through signaling a sigh of relief for a city that was on edge all summer. Besides the heat index the city’s homicide rate was nearing a fifteen year high. Detective Robert Jones was a member of the Cleveland Police Department for 28 years and was wrapping up his tenth as a homicide detective. At 52 years old the last thing Jones wanted to do was get out of his comfortable recliner and investigate the city’s 297th murder.

“I’m so sick of these mothafuckas” Jones murmured to himself. It was late. The sun had long since set. Sparsely lit street lights offered the city’s night workers a place to discreetly conduct business. “Ain’t none of these people up to no good. The hell you doin on a corner at damn near mid-night?” The experienced detective was numb to the reality and violence that gripped the streets he once perused as a youth. That was the 50’s and this was the 80’s. Two completely different times for black people.

When Jones arrived at the scene he took his flask out of his blazer pocket and took a swig before stepping out of his car. Despite the late night hour a crowd had already converged upon the scene just to tell their neighbors and friends that they “were there”. Murmurs began to grow within the crowd. All speculation on who was under the sheet and why they were there. Several patrolmen were trying their best to keep the crowd under control. Jones walked over to one of the officers he recognized.

“What we got officer” Jones inquired.

“Black male, late teens maybe even early twenties. Gunshot wound to his back and head.”

“Not an execution then right?”

“I highly doubt it. The head wound only grazed his ear. His killer was a bad shot.”

Jones took time to look around the scene. There were too many shell casings for it to be one shooter. As Jones continued to survey the scene a child from the crowd snuck under the police tape. Before the kid could get too far a patrolman caught him by his collar. The kid couldn’t have been any older than 12. “What the hell are you doing kid” the officer said.

Jones already fed up with the overgrowing crowd of nosy onlookers grabbed the child by his arm. “Look here you little bastard” Jones’ annoyance was plastered across his face, “ Wherever the fuck you came from, crawl back into that hole and go to sleep. Otherwise ya momma goin’ to jail for child endangerment. No run ya lil ass home.” Jones turned the boy’s arm loose while shoving him forward. With his eyes the size of dinner plates the little boy ran home as fast as he could. “Let’s start clearing people out” Jones shouted to the officers. “I need time to think and room to breathe.”

The officers regained control of the situation forcing the spectators further away from the scene. After all of the preliminary had been done the coroner’s office showed up to take the body downtown. Jones was staring at his unknown victim’s pool of blood. How many times had he seen this exact scene? A young black man gunned down by his own. And for what? Jones was tired, annoyed, and drunk. Now he had his sixth body in four days and the streets showed no signs of letting up.

“Hey Jones” a voice called out several feet behind him. “Old man Jones how goes it?” Detective Trujillo was fairly new to homicide. His time as a patrolman didn’t leave him as jaded as Jones. Trujillo was college educated, graduated from the academy at the top of his class, and had already solved two murders in his three months in homicide. Jones hated Trujillo’s perkiness. It drove him up a wall. The bright smile, confident wall, and youth of Trujillo reminded Jones of himself 20 years ago minus the ego. However Jones did respect the young detective. He worked hard and did good police work.

“We got a John Doe between 17 and 21, wounds to the back and head” Jones said.

“So our perps walked up to him and shot him?”

“Doubt it. He was probably running and they chased him here.”

“Any witnesses” Trujillo asked.

Jones looked at Trujillo as if he was waiting for a punch line to a joke. “How long you been in homicide Jerry?”

“Three months.”

“And how often do we get neighborhood cooperation?”

“That’s because you never try. I solved that shop clerk robbery-homicide from anonymous tips.”

Jones removed a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. “Yeah, a 74 year old white man with his own business. He paid his taxes and had a family. This kid is labeled a menace. Nobody’s gonna help him.” “You been doing this too long. It turned you into a pessimist.”

Jones lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Or maybe I’m just a realist.”

Since the body of the John Doe had finally been removed from the scene the crowd of nosy neighbors and spectators had long since returned to their beds and homes to get rest after an exciting evening of action and police questioning. Jones himself was happy to be headed home for a few hours of sleep before resuming his case. When he got home Jones sat up in bed as he did after every call and said a silent prayer for the victim, his family, the suspect(s) and their family(ies). Jones was tired of the violence that gripped the streets of Cleveland over the past decade. Now with the influx of a new drug called crack the violence was only getting worse.

The next morning Jones got up and got ready for work. He drank a cup of coffee and smoked two cigarettes back to back. He put on his suit and tie and shined his shoes. Jones knew Trujillo was at work already. Jones didn’t have the pep on his step that he once had. Seeing countless young black men and teens lying under white sheets only to be hauled away in a body bag had effected Jones. When he first joined the force the men looked his age. Now, he realized he was old enough to be their father.

“Jones, you’re here before noon. I‘m shocked”

“Yeah, yeah” Jones said groggily. “What we got so far?”

Trujillo’s demeanor snapped into seriousness as he grabbed his notepad. There were a couple of pages full of illegible handwriting. “After you left last night I poked around for a bit. A few of the officers were able to point m in the direction of a Mrs. Dorothy Taylor. She lives on the street and was the only one willing to cooperate with the police.”

“So what did you find out?”

Trujillo flipped a page n his notepad. “There was an altercation at roughly 10:45 pm between the victim and three unidentified men. Twenty minutes later Mrs. Taylor heard gunshots and that’s when she called the police. There was also report of a car fleeing the scene but no one saw the car apparently.”

“This ain’t Mayfield Trujillo. We don’t cooperate with police down here detective. I’m surprised it took you this long to realize that.”

Jones sat at his desk as he tapped his pen rhythmically on his desk. “Let’s pay that old lady a visit and see what else she can remember. You got her address?”

“Yep. It’s right here.”

“What do you know about the drug activity down there?”

“Its pretty bad. You think it’s drug related?

“I know it is” Jones said. “Let’s pray Mrs. Taylor has more information.”

Jones and Trujillo pulled into the driveway of Mrs. Dorothy Taylor. She was a little old black lady with a head full of grey hair. Her small dog greeted the detectives before they stepped of the car. “Flossy you hush! Hello officers.”

“Hello ma’am” Trujillo said. “I’m Detective Trujillo and this is my partner Detective Jones.”

“I remember you two from last night” she said.

“We were hoping that you would be open to talking to us today.”

Mrs. Taylor took a moment to answer, “We’ll have to go inside,” she said “ Them young peoples don’t like us talking to the y’all.”

“I understand Jones said.”

Mrs. Taylor led the detectives into her home as Flossy followed closely behind her owner. Mrs. Taylor put on a pot of coffee and offered Jones and Trujillo a cup. Trujillo enjoyed light sugar and heavy cream, Jones liked his coffee black. Jones surveyed the neatly kept living room. There were pictures of a middle aged Mrs. Taylor with her family, three kids and a husband. The folded flag indicated that her husband was a military man. He three kids were all adults with their own families. Mrs. Taylor sat down in a blue recliner before Flossy instinctively jumped into her lap.

“How long have you lived here Mrs. Taylor” Jones asked.

“Since 1954. Me and my Lewis was one of the first black families on this street. We bought this house after he got his job at the Ford plant. I was a third grade teacher for twenty years.”

“How has the neighborhood changed in the past thirty years?”

Mrs. Taylor threw her hands up in disgust. “It done went to hell. The 70’s were bad with that heroin but this crack cocaine business has made it much worse. That’s why that boy got shot.”

“Our victim” Trujillo said probing for confirmation.

“The one that was layin up under that white sheet last night.”

“What else can you tell us” Jones said as he removed his notepad from his back pocket.

“I don’t know his name but he used to be around here often. He sells that crack, well at least he did. I don’t get why anybody would use that stuff.”

“What exactly happened last night” Jones questioned.

“Well,” Mrs. Taylor started “ I let Flossy out to go do her business. Then I heard a bunch of gunshots. It was more than one person shooting. Flossy came runnin’ back into the house and we both hit that floor so quick. After the shooting stopped I went outside to go see what happened and that boy was right there stretched out.”

Trujillo who had never taken his attention off of the witness was furiously jotting down notes. Did you see the suspects running away Mrs. Taylor” he asked.

“I’m sorry but I didn’t.”

“Thank you ma’am” Trujillo said. He took out a business card and handed to the sweet little old lady. “If you hear anything else please don’t hesitate to call me or my partner.”

“Thank yo so much officers. I hope that you catch the people that killed that boy. He wasn’t righteous but that doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”

“We agree ma’am” Trujillo said while smiling.

Once back at the office Trujillo went over his notes. It had become apparent that the suspects knew the victim. The motive was also clear. The dealer was robbed. There was no money or drugs on his person when the responding officers found the body. Just then Jones’ desk phone rang. “Jones… Thnak you.” An anxious Trujillo wanted to know who just called. “Who was that” he said.

“Coroner, we got an id.”

Darius Walker was the victim’s name. He was twenty years old and had several convictions going back to when he was thirteen. Luckily his fingerprints were in the database. His pockets had been emptied like the detectives hypothesized earlier. Now they had a positive ID on the victim, a motive, and even a witness. That still wasn’t enough to give Jones hope. It was a routine for the veteran. He gets a call, he gathers clues, then he hit’s a dead end. Jones had to be honest with himself. Mrs. Taylor’s account of the murder was the only information he and Trujillo had to go off of. Of course the suspects weren’t going to be walking through the door anytime soon and sadly the community was going to be of no help. As the day winded down the trail was beginning to go cold. No more calls and no further cooperation.

A week went by with no new break in the case. The reality of being a homicide detective in a city like Cleveland was rearing its ugly head. Trujillo on the other hand was young and still full of hope. He had taken on another case in the meantime to keep from turning into Jones.

“I though we had you back in the game for a bit there” Trujillo said poking fun at Jones. That was the easy way for him to share his disappointment with his partner. In Trujillo’s mind there was plenty of police work to do. Why not hit the streets to ask every Tom, Dick, and Harry they could find about what happened the previous week. “You still a cop right?”

“I was a cop when yo ass was in diapers.”

“Then why aren’t we working this case?”

“Cause it ain’t nothing to work with.”

“We have a witness, motive, how hard can it be?”

Jones was now sitting upright. “All we know is that two possibly three black men robbed another black man for drugs and money. Guess what Trujillo, it won’t be the last time. We’re cops, not angels.”

“Wow, Cleveland’s finest right here.” Trujillo’s joking nature had gone out the window. He was all about police work. Maybe he was naïve and still a little wet behind the ears, but Trujillo knew he had a duty to carry out. “When are you going to stop making excuses for yourself? You’re hung over, I can accept that. You’re tired, ok. But don’t sit here and feed me that shit. ‘We’re not angels’. Of course we aren’t, but we still have a job to do.”

Jones got out of his chair and walked over to Trujillo. “Come follow me”, he said. Jones led Trujillo to the file room in the back of the office, a place no one frequented often. Jones opened the door allowing the trapped cold air of the room to release itself from the dark room. Jones hit a light switch as rows of fluorescent light lit flickered on one by one. Jones browsed the countless bankers boxes that held cases from year’s past. He read the names of victims he remembered. “Henry Davis, Shawn Harris, Leon Sims, Lawrence Dickerson…”. Jones read off almost two dozen names before he stopped. “I can keep going Trujillo. How about Jorge Ruiz. That one hit home?”

“Trujillo was confused. “Why’d you bring me in here?”

“How many murders you solve Trujillo?”

“Two in three months.”

“I’ve solved dozens. All of those names are a few of the murders I never solved. To you this game is new and exciting. I did that already. After a while these names begin to pile up. You have to tell parents, spouses, and relatives that not only are their loved ones never coming back but you have to walk into those same people’s house and tell those same people weeks maybe months later that ‘I’m sorry.’ Years of that eats away at a person. That’s why I never get my hopes up Trujillo.”

With those words Jones departed the room of records. Trujillo was speechless. Suddenly his two solved cases meant nothing to him. He finally understood why Jones was the way he was. He watched for decades form a front row seat his own people destroy each other. He saw the effects of civil rights and how his community had come together during that brief moment to celebrate and love each other. All this time later it felt as though all of that good had been washed away.

Later that night Trujillo and Jones found themselves in a bar. Jones figured his partner needed a drink. He had been unusually quiet since Jones showed him the cases he never solved. The moment was sobering but needed. Jones didn’t want the kid to be stuck on the high of beginner’s luck. Conversation was stale until Jones opened it up. “Why’d you become a cop” he asked.

“I always wanted to work in public service but I couldn’t afford law school so I joined the academy instead.” Jones chuckled to himself, “Shit, you came in with a Clark Kent mentality.”

Trujillo couldn’t help but laugh himself as he spun his near empty glass on the bar top.

“You want another one?”

“Sure” Trujillo answered.

“Hey barkeep, two more. Straight.” He turned his attention back to Trujillo. “I hope I ain’t kill your dreams earlier. I just hate seeing good police get in over their heads. Especially you young guys.”

“Yeah, well solving murders isn’t the happiest occupation.”

“I heard that.”

Trujillo tossed his double of brown liquor back with a grimace. “So if I can hang in there I’ll be just like you one day huh?”

“If you’re lucky. Being an old jaded detective is an honor. You gotta earn it.”

“So what keeps you goin Jones?”

Jones finished his drink before answering. “My wife’s alimony payments and my pension. But seriously, the young guys like you.” Jones stood up and wobbled before catching himself. “I’ll see you in the morning.” “See ya old man.”

On his way home Jones took the scenic route. He saw the old pool hall where he and his buddies would hustle pool games as teens. There were countless liquor stores with more bars on their windows than a state prison. Now with this new epidemic soulless bodies wandered the streets looking for their next fix. After an hour of driving around Jones found himself at home. There was voicemail on his machine. “Hey its Trujillo. We got another one as soon as I got back to the office. Call me as soon as you get this.” Jones filled up his flask and headed back out the door.