Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction - Suspense Magazine

The
PRoGRAM
Emmitt Speaks stooped to duck
under the yellow and black
plastic tape strung between the oaks
at the edge of the playground. Kneehigh
grass made for slow progress. By
the time he reached the steep bank
overlooking the creek, his shirt stuck to
his back, and he felt like he was gargling
rather than breathing the August air.
Phoebe Sorenson shaded her
eyes with a hand as she looked up
from the creek bed. Tendrils of hair
that escaped from her ponytail curled
around her sweat-soaked face. The
homicide detective greeted Emmitt
with a sympathetic look and a nod in
the direction of the body lying face-up
in the shallow stream.
“Rierson said he was another one of
yours.”
Emmitt had more than twenty-five
years on the job, most of them in the
Winston-Salem Police Department’s
Juvenile Section. He liked the young
homicide detective: she was sharp,
meticulous, and a team player. He
couldn’t say the same for Rierson.
The man was arrogant, abrasive, and
in Emmitt’s experience, generally
uncooperative. It was a good thing
Phoebe was primary on the case;
Rierson wouldn’t have bothered to
notify him.
“I appreciate the call,” Emmitt
said. He stared down at the body of a
young black male, barely into his teens.
“Deshawn Reeves. What can you tell
me, Phoebe?”
“Not much, so far. A Reynolds High
School student spotted the body about
eight when he was cutting through the
park on his way to school. Ran up to the
school to get help. The principal and
the resource officer,” she consulted her
notebook, “John Tate, came down to
have a look, and Tate called it in.”
“Who ID’d him?”
“Tate did. Said the boy was a CCS
kid: trouble with a capital ‘T’.”
Emmitt worked with the Center for
Community Safety, a group that had
been organized to help turn around
repeat juvenile offenders. Most of the
kids referred to the Center had spent
time in Forsyth County Youth Services,
and some in state detention, more than
a few for violent offenses.
“How did he die?”
“Gunshot to the back of the head.
Still waiting on the M.E. I’m keeping the
area clear for him and the crime scene
guys. Tate and the principal already
tracked up the stream bed pretty good
when they came down to check on him.
I don’t want anyone else down here.”
“What’s taking so long? I thought
you said he was found around eight.”
“Big wreck on fifty-two, three or
four cars and more than one casualty.
M.E.’s got his hands full this morning.”
By Cyndy Edwards Lively
She shifted her gaze to body. “What can
you tell me about the kid?”
“The last I heard,” Emmitt said,
“Deshawn was accepted into a program
run by a church out in the county and
was doing well: off drugs, attending
school, and staying out of trouble.
Guess the report was overly optimistic.”
“Any connection you know of to
Juan Ramirez?”
Emmitt shook his head.
“Other than both having contact
with CCS, I can’t think of any. I doubt
they ran in the same circles.”
Juan had been two years older
and barely spoke English when he
entered the system. The first time he
was arrested for breaking and entering,
he had only been in the country a few
weeks. His third arrest earned him six
months in the Stonewall Jackson Youth
Development Center in Concord.
Three months after his release, his body
had been dumped in a shopping center
parking lot on the east side of town.
Cause of death, a bullet to the back of
the head. Rierson was the primary on
Juan’s homicide investigation. It had
been five or six weeks, and Emmitt
hadn’t heard of any progress on the
case.
“Rierson said Juan was dealing and
using cocaine,” Phoebe said. “What
about Deshawn?”
“He was using marijuana and
66 Suspense Magazine September 2012 / Vol. 038