Chapter

It was morning after Thanksgiving and I was content as a postorgasmic teenager. I was sitting in my basement office making a feeble attempt at the Blues on my electric guitar. With the volume low on the stereo I played along with B.B. King. The thrill was not gone just yet. I was happy with a full belly of my grandmother's leftovers and a golden sunrise peeking over Lake Michigan. January had come too soon, but the icy fingers of winter didnt bother me much. I had coffee with a little Hennessey for a boost of warmth. My weak attempt at reproducing B.B. King was nil, maybe I was too content to play the Blues. Max the one-eyed dog moaned dissatisfaction in the corner of the room, probably wished he had one ear too, but he loved me just the same, unconditionally. I heard my grandmother stirring upstairs in the kitchen as always.
1

Probably starting dinner and cooking breakfast as an afterthought. My son would join her soon and that would be it for my moment of solitude. He hated the Blues, or maybe it was just my Blues. Guess I just didnt compare to Kanye West or R. Kelly. My cell phone gave a vibrated jolt from the chest pocket of my robe. Seven a.m., the day after Thanksgiving, the thrill was gone. "Talk to me," I answered. "Hey baby, you up?" It was my confidant, best friend, my roaddawg, Wolf. "Wolf, you know damn well Im up, whatcha know good?" "Not good Chance, they found another one." "Where 'bout?" I asked. "Projects, 4848." "Im on my way." Considering it was my day off I decided to dress down. I put on my baggiest jeans, a Sean Jean sweater, Timberland boots and a White Sox baseball cap, reversed, of course. I was the picture of urbanity. My son loved to see me dressed liked this, he said I looked like Denzel Washington gone Hip-Hop. Wolf would be impressed too. The thrill was definitely gone when I arrived to the scene. The Robert Taylor Projects were infamous amongst inner-city ghettos nationwide, and the 4848 building lived up to that infamy. I should know, having spent the first seventeen years of my life here. Wolf was sitting in a sparkling white Range Rover listening to Billie Holidays "Strange Fruit." He said Holidays voice sounded

like she was crying, a cry from a sista who just wanted to be loved. I approached from the rear, tapping on the vehicle. "Dont touch it, if you caint buy it," he blurted in his baritone voice. We greeted one another with a handshake that started off business-like, but ended in the rhythm of our street upbringing.

Chapter

WOLF STEPPED OUT his overpriced vehicle sporting a black fulllength leather coat, black mock turtle neck, black Levi jeans, black snake skinned cowboy boots and as an after thought, four-karat diamond studs in each ear. Jay-Z would be proud. His six-foot-fiveinch frame spoke of undeniable strength and his neatly groomed fullbeard and cornrows were impeccable as always. "I see youre dressed for the occasion," I said. "You dont look too bad yourself, DJ dress you?" "Oh, you got jokes this morning," I replied. We approached the housing project where a couple of squad cars, an EMS vehicle and a few unmarked police cars were congregated. I was greeted first by Lee Manuel. Manuel was a wimp of a cop who once worked the streets but now preferred to work behind a desk. Hed been shot twice and he felt that the third time would be his last. He was balding fast and his belly had done-lapped over his waistline, still slight in size, he was known for handcuffing everyone at the scene of a crime until he figured out who was who. "Restrain

them all and they cant shoot," was his motto. Manuel was not a fan of mine and vice-versa. We only spoke during business hours. "What we got Manuel?" "Isnt it your day off?" he asked. "Cant afford to be off, look what happens." We shared a phony laugh as we headed inside the building. "Elevators working?" I asked. Manuel laughed at my question, "Of course not," he replied. "How many floors?" I asked. "Apartment 1401." "1401, thats Boom-Boom Johnsons apartment," I said. "How do you know that?" Manuel asked. "Remember Manuel, I used to live here." "I knew there was something I didnt like about you." "Hey, everybody from the projects is not of the projects, smart ass." "Yeah, well tell me that after you get shot twice." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I replied with disinterest. We began our trek upstairs. Wolf was already two stories ahead of us.

Chapter

MIRIAM "BOOM-BOOM" JOHNSON was a beautiful sista with hazel eyes and caramel skin. She stood five-feet-eight inches and weighed one-hundred and forty pounds. At one time her measurements were 38DD-26-42. A voluptuous woman. She wore her blonde-died hair pulled back into a ponytail which accentuated her keen European features. Some thought she was Hispanic, others thought she was half-White, but no one could deny her beauty. Boom-Boom was fine, hands down. With the sensuality of Dorothy Dandridge and the expertise of Vanessa Del Rio, she had every man in the projects vying for her affection once upon a time. On the fifth of every month, old man Nate who lived on the third floor would receive and cash his disability check, setting aside one-hundred dollars for Miriam before he would even consider paying a utility bill or his rent. A hundred bucks for Boom-Boom to dance and shake her ass and pussy in his face. Nate was paralyzed from the chest down. He claimed sex was ninety-percent mental and ten-percent visual, the physical was just an after thought. Miriam would let him lick it from time to time, for a small fee. Nate obliged. The killer watched Miriam transform from the darling of the Robert Taylor Housing Projects to a zombie. Her crack addiction

ravaged her body and her looks. Once stacked, she was now so skinny she could hide behind a street lamp pole. The darling of every man in the projects and many outside of the projects had reduced to walking the streets and giving ten-dollar blow-jobs to whoever had ten dollars.

Chapter

MANUEL AND I were breathless when we reached the apartment. Wolf had barely broken a sweat; he was already in the apartment standing over the corpse of Boom-Boom. She was naked from the waist down. Her meager frame reminded me of the starving children of Africa on those late night infomercials with Sally Struthers. Boom-Boom was no longer. I took in my surroundings. The one-bedroom unit reminded me of my childhood. I could almost smell my grandmother's cooking linger above the smell of death. I was brought back to reality when Manuel placed a picture of Miriam's son in front of me. Sabo Johnson was a childhood friend. We'd played on the same high school basketball team and dated some of the same girls. I hadn't seen him in years. The news of his mother's death would be devastating. Like most Black men in the ghetto, Sabo had a deep admiration for his mother, even though she'd turned for the worst, she's all he had. "And even as a crack fiend, mama, You always was a black queen, mama." Wolf and I left the scene with the same feeling as the last four.

We were pissed off.

Someone was killing sistas in our

neighborhood. Not just killing, brutally killing. Boom-Boom's sex had been ravaged with a butcher's knife. The M.O. was the same. There were no signs of forced entry. A condom was use for intercourse. No physical evidence. The killer raped, sodomized, beat the hell out of his victims and mangled their vaginas. Sick puppy. We ate breakfast at Daleys Restaurant on East 63rd Street. Daleys is a funky little place with more history than most on the Southside of Chicago. The walls are aligned with pictures of past crooners like Sam Cooke and Brook Benton and politicos like the late Harold Washington and Operation PUSH founder Jesse Jackson. I ate an egg-white omelet with whole-wheat toast and orange juice. Wolf opted for steak and eggs, with a splash of Tabasco. We ate in silence, a ritual that we'd performed for years. Conversation began after the last bite was complete. "So what do you think?" I asked. "I think we got a sick motherfuckah that's got a problem with pussy," the Wolf said. "This shit is getting out of hand, and you know the department is not going to make a major deal out of it unless we get some publicity." "What you got in mind?" he asked. "When's the last time you talk to Temple?" I asked. Wolf rolled his eyes when he heard the name. He and Temple were once an item, but she could not deal with the fact that Wolf was

no one-woman-man. The Wolf smiled his bright teeth. "We speak from time-to-time," he said. "You think she'd break the story for us?" "Temple will do anything for me, except be with me." I agreed.

Chapter

TEMPLE THOMPSON WORKED for the local NBC affiliate. A homegirl done good. She was Black woman personified. Oprah Winfrey meets Halle Berry. She was the only woman that Wolf ever loved, but he wouldn't admit it. The Wolf opted to stay in his Rover while I ascended into the NBC tower. The building was a modern structure located on the city's lakefront that resembled something from a George Lucas film. Temple was in her office on the phone. She immediately hung up upon my entrance. She smiled her television smile and gave me the warmest hug. She wore a savvy looking dark business suit that made her look taller than she was. Her make-up was flawlessly applied to her mocha-colored skin and her short Halle-like haircut fit her face perfectly. It had been a while since we'd seen each other.

"Where's your friend?" she asked. "He's downstairs." "He could have come up," she said. "That's like pulling teeth." I replied. "I know. He doesn't have to be afraid of me." "When have you known Wolf to be afraid of anything?" "He's afraid of love." "You got a point," I said. She leaned against her desk and folded her arms. She was all professional now. "So what's up, Chance?" she asked. "What brings you from the southside of town?" "We got a serial killer over there," I answered. "How many?" she asked. "Five in the past eleven months that we know of. All the same. All brutal. I need you to put this out there for me Temple. The department's not giving it enough attention." "No problem. Let's get some specifics down on paper and I'll run it by my producer," she said. The story ran on the ten o'clock evening news. Temple stood outside of the Chicago Police Department Headquarters battling the elements in an oversized North Face Parker. She was cool in the cold. I was back in my basement office re-reading the files of the five that had past. Boom-Boom's corpse peered from the crime scene photos. Her eyes were cold as December, staring up at nothing.

Max could feel the melancholy. He was slumped under my desk with his head resting on my feet. It was past midnight and I'd had enough of looking at dead women. I tiptoed upstairs and helped myself to a Red Stripe and a shot of Hennessey. Sleep would come soon. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Chapter

IT WASN'T. I woke to smell of fresh roasted coffee. A lone Wolf was standing above me with two large cups of Starbucks best. "Wake up brotha, you got work to do," he said. "Don't you ever sleep?" "I'll sleep when I'm dead," he said. I sat on the edge of the bed trying to shake off the night. The coffee was hot and good, warming my chest as it went down. "I need to take a shower." "I would hope so," Wolf retorted. "Everyone wants to be the next Bernie Mac," I said. As I showered Wolf stood in the bathroom doorway and filled me in on the overnight news. "You can add another one to your list." He paused for my reaction but I was silent. "Tanya Johnson. 24. Cabrini Green," he

said. This got my attention. Up until now all the murders had occurred on the Southside. The Cabrini Green Housing Project was located on the near Westside. I got out of the shower and toweled off. "Could be a copycat?" I suggested. "I don't think so." Wolf held up a picture of Boom-Boom Johnson. Then he held up a picture of Tanya Johnson. The pictures were almost identical. The killer was becoming ritualistic in the way he left the bodies. They resembled Christ on the cross. He was crucifying his victims. The Cabrini Green Projects fell under the jurisdiction of the 18th district. I placed a called to a friend I was in the academy with who worked out of the 18. Sam Dixon was cop's cop. No bullshit. WYSIWYG. He was literally one of Chicago's finest. Sam gave us a gold-star tour of the murder scene and a front-row view of the decedent. Tanya Johnson was a beautiful sista. She'd only recently turned to smoking the pipe, so her body was not emaciated like most crackheads. She left a husband, who was incarcerated, and three kids behind. The story was all too familiar to me. I thanked Sam for the tour and headed back to the 2nd District.

Chapter

THE REVEREND JIMMY Johnson had formed a medium size congregation of his congregation in front of 2nd District. They were protesting the fact that the murders had been going on for almost a year and no one informed the community. Temple had done her job. When I reached my office I had a square yellow post-it stuck to my door. "See me, ASAP." The me could only be one person, the Commander of my unit, Barry Williams. Barry was a good cop once upon a time, but these days he was more politically inclined. He had to be. Barry was tipping the scale at 400 plus. He had very fine hair and if you didn't know him, you'd think he was White. Like they say in the hood, Barry was light,

bright and almost White. He reminded me of an albino walrus. I wandered into the Walrus' office. He was smoking a stogie and devouring the phone. He hung up. I stood in silence. He gathered himself and his stomach. I stood in silence. "What the fuck is that out there?" pointing to the streets below. "Looks like a protest to me," I said innocently. "And you know nothing about that?" "Nope, but it might have something to do with that story on the news last night." The Walrus sat back down and spewed a toxic cloud in the air. "I take it you know nothing about that either?" he asked. "No sir," I said. "But I was glad to see it happen. Maybe I could get some help around here." The Walrus was privy to my every move, but he knew why I did it. The attention would place women on alert and if anyone knew something about the murders, maybe they would be willing to come forward. "Well, it seems to me you got all the help you need." "If you're referring to Wolf, he's working the case just like the rest of us." "He's not a cop," the Walrus replied. "He's a private consultant working for a private company," I said. "What company?" "You'd have to ask him." And with that, I left the Walrus's stinky office and went back to the serenity of my domain. So I thought.

Chapter

THE MESSAGE WAS from Michael-Reese Hospital's ER. My son DJ had been admitted with a pain crisis. I was at the hospital within minutes. He was resting peacefully with my grandmother at his side hugging a Bible. DJ suffers from Sickle Cell Anemia or bad blood as my grandmother calls it. Sickle Cell Anemia is a group of inherited red blood cell disorders that is common amongst AfricanAmericans. Normal red blood cells are round like doughnuts, and they move through small blood tubes in the body to deliver oxygen. Sickle, red blood cells become hard, sticky and shaped like sickles used to cut wheat. When these hard and pointed red cells go through the small blood tube, they clog the flow and break apart. This causes

severe pain, damage to vital organs and a low blood count. There is no cure but stem-cell research is promising. DJ is ten years old and the joy of my life. My ex-wife Simone and I were unaware that we both carried the sickle gene. One plus one equals one. There was a twenty-five percent chance, pardon the pun, that our offspring would acquire the dreaded disease. apart. Simone entered the hospital rattled from the drive down Lake Shore Drive. She still made my heart race, but I remained graceful under pressure. Her hug was familiar as yesterday, the smell of her hair the same, and for a moment I wished but five years had past and we were different people. She hugged my grandmother and caressed our son as he slept. Doctor Sandeep had given DJ a dose of morphine for pain and an IV for dehydration. He slept peacefully. Upon our split Simone decided to go back to school and study law. She taught elementary school during the day and went to law school at night. She now worked as an Assistant States Attorney. We mutually agreed that it would be better for DJ to live with me since the hospital was close to my home and I had more job flexibility. My grandmother Willa B. came soon after, and DJ and I adjusted. There were no lawyers involved in our divorce. We worked everything out amongst ourselves and still managed to respect one another. DJ spent every other weekend with his mother. Simone was very cultured and planned their weekends accordingly. On the Sunday of his return, DJ would hop out of her We blamed ourselves, we blamed each other and it eventually tore us

Lexus into my arms with stories of the weekend's adventures; The DuSable Museum of African-American History, The Museum of Science and Industry, The Field Museum, The John G. Shedd Aquarium, The Children's Museum, The Museum of Contemporary Art, etc., etc., Our weekends consisted of White Sox baseball in summer and the Bears and Bulls in winter. Simone was a good mom and I loved her for it. We were friends. I sat outside the hospital room and pondered the existence of God. For the life of me I couldn't understand why God would give an innocent child so much pain. Willa B. told me it wasn't my place to question God. Who was I? Simone joined me in silence. She held my hand firmly and rested her head on my shoulder. We wept silently. Wolf sat outside in his Rover. He was always there.

Chapter

JIMMY JOHNSON'S SERMON was in the league with Dr. King himself. He was a brilliant orator. His Sunday morning service attracted the elite of Chicago's African-American community. His thunderous voice could be heard before entering the cathedral. He was good and he knew it. With his laptop computer in front of him, along with the Bible, Jimmy swooned for the cameras that transmitted his image across the nation. On this Sunday, Jimmy presided over the funeral of his ex-wife, Miriam "Boom-Boom" Johnson. Donned in a black gown with his initials embroidered in gold and his trademark sunglasses, he was at ease with the moment, performing like the hardest workingman in religion. His son Sabo

on the other hand, was a picture of grief. His bloodshot eyes told of sleepless nights. The tears flowed in continuum. I stood in the rear of the church scanning the room. I saw neighbors of yesterday and some of my grandmother's closest friends. I wondered if the killer was here. Wolf was camped outside watching, observing -- something he did so well. The attendance was split, young and old, men and women. I wondered how many men in this church had paid for Boom-Boom's services. How many men had share drugs with her? Jimmy ended the ceremony in dramatic fashion. He kissed the coffin of his ex-wife while the cameras peered at his every move. Sabo had left the ceremony midway through. He was on the steps of the church thanking people for showing up as they proceeded outside. I followed in the line like a distant relative. Sabo greeted me with a firm handshake and a meager attempt at a smile of recognition. "Detective Sebastian Chance," he said. "Sabo, I'm sorry for your loss." He thanked me and we exchanged business cards. I promised to keep him posted on the progress of the investigation. I looked deep into Sabo's eyes to see if I saw a murderer. All I saw was a little boy who'd just lost his mommy. I made an appointment to talk with Reverend Johnson and Wolf and I headed back to the hospital to see my son. On our arrival DJ was sitting up in his bed playing an XBOX computer game; all the comforts of home. Simone had transformed the corner of the

hospital room into a mini-office. She looked sexy and scholarly as she wrote on a yellow legal pad. DJ was all smiles when he saw the two of us. He and Wolf had an ongoing video war which was about to re-ignite any second. I kissed my son on the cheek and gave him a hung. "How you feeling, buddy?" "I want to go home," he said. "Doctor Sandeep said if my hemoglobin level rises I should be home by tomorrow." "Sounds good to me," I replied. Simone and I retreated into the corridor, a ritual we'd done far too many times. She asked if she could keep DJ while he was out of school. I felt so fortunate that she respected me enough to even ask. We agreed when he was well enough to return to school he'd come home with me. Willa B. frowned, she'd miss her baby-boy.

Chapter

10

UNIQUE BOYD WALKED the low-end of my Bronzeville neighborhood from two a.m. 'til daybreak. It was a custom she performed Thursday though Sunday. Ten tricks would equal one hundred dollars. When she reached her goal, she would go inside and smoke until it was time to get her kids up for school. Unique was unique in that she never consented to intercourse with Johns. Hers was the art of fellatio. She prided herself for being able to put a condom on a man using only her mouth, most Johns never new the

difference. Unique was a pro. It was four a.m. and she was done for the night, heading back to her one-room garden apartment after picking up some rocks. She couldn't help but stop for the Mercedes 600 series sedan. Maybe he would tip her enough so she wouldn't have to go out the following night. Thirty minutes later, Unique Boyd was uniquely dead. My stomach turned as I reached the basement apartment. The children had been placed in the care of the Department of Children and Family Services. EMS vehicles and squad cars flashed their brightest. Temple was working the scene for NBC as I exited my Jeep. The morning was not good. Unique Boyd was sprawled across her bed in cross-like fashion. A carbon copy of the others. Our killer had fun with her sex. Leaving the knife exposed for all to see. I cleared the room so I could walk the grid. I found nothing that would lead me in any direction. He was good, very good. The Cook County Forensic Pathologist, Melissa Epstein, concluded that all the victims died from blood loss. The killer basically gave his victims a very primitive version of a hysterectomy. He carved their insides out. Melissa told me this with a straight face. She had the unfortunate task of being accustom to death, all fashions. She segued from death to lunch without effort. I accepted the invitation with a smile. Melissa was my friend. We ate lunch at Tuscany's over in the Little Italy section of town. Melissa kept it simple with a salad. I opted for the Chicken Florentine. We shared a bottle of Pelligrino.

Ours was a complex relationship. We talked shop instead of talking about us. She was the epitome of an intellectual. I admired her brain as well as her beauty. She could have easily been a model or a talking head, but medical school was preordained. All of her siblings are doctors. We'd known each other for years but our romance caught us both by surprise. It was a natural progression from professional admiration to friendship, from friendship to romance. We cared for one another. I didn't seek out the company of a White woman. It just happened, a happening that I never regretted. I listened and watched intensely as the beautiful doctor gave me a crash course in forensic science. She wore a Navy-blue crew-neck sweater with a starched white button-down shirt underneath it. Her skirt was plaid and reminded me of a Scottish kilt. On her legs were Navy-blue panty hose. She looked liked she'd just step off the pages of a Laura Ashley catalog. A life long preppy, she even had on penny loafers. "Your killer is becoming more aggressive which each victim," Melissa said while sampling her salad. "How so?" I asked. "He's gone from vaginal tears to carving." "You think it's the same perp?" She paused, pushing her dark brown hair away from her face while contemplating my question. She reminded me of Ashley Judd when she pondered something. That same inquisitive crinkle appeared between their eyebrows. So sexy.

"Well at this point it's hard to say. We have no DNA evidence. No skin under the vics' finger nails. Nothing to go on but the mutilation of the vagina and the way he leaves the corpse. I just think he's getting angrier because the tears are more vicious. He is literally digging deeper into his victims." "What's he mad at?" I asked. "Who knows, maybe his mother abandoned him and he's killing her over and over again, you know, the whole Oedipal thing? "Yeah, I'm familiar, never liked Freud much, he was a junkie," I said. "But it is thought." "But you've thought of that before, haven't you?" "Yes I have," I answered as I sipped my Pellegrino. The lady doctor smiled at me and shook her head, "Always one step ahead, aren't you?" "It's my job." "Yes it is and you're quite good at it," she said. "Flattery will get you everywhere." We finished our lunch and promised to talk about us soon. I jumped in my Jeep and headed back to the 2nd District. I played Gordon "Sting" Sumner's 'Fragile' on my Jeep's CD player. thought of Unique Boyd. How fragile we are. I