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month passed, and they
A were no closer to catching
whoever had shot three teenage boys
and dumped their bodies in public
places around a city that had never
imagined itself the home of a serial
killer. The SBI and FBI consultants
were stumped. There was no sign of a
sexual angle, which made their profiles
useless. Emmitt had interviewed family
members and friends of the victims, to
no avail. No one was able to provide a
clue as to why the boys had been killed
or who was responsible.
Working for weeks through
contacts in the Hispanic community,
Emmitt finally spoke with the Ramirez
family by telephone. In the country
illegally, they returned to Mexico after
their son’s death and were reluctant
to talk to the police. From them, he
heard the same refrain as he had from
the other families: their son was off
drugs, going to school, on the right
track. Those people at the church were
miracle workers. The family had no
idea who wanted Juan dead or why.
Emmitt finished the call and
thanked the young woman who
graciously agreed to translate for her
help. When he returned from escorting
her out of the maze of cubicles occupied
by the Criminal Investigation Division,
he sank into his chair with a sigh. To
hear the families and friends tell it,
the boys—while not exactly model
citizens—were living the straight and
narrow at the time of their deaths.
For weeks, he chalked it up to no one
wanting to speak ill of the dead; now he
was beginning to wonder.
He paged Phoebe. It had been a
few days since they’d spoken, neither
wanting to discuss the lack of progress.
When his phone rang, he was still trying
to decide how to convince her to see
things his way. The whole investigation
proceeded on the premise that the boys
were involved in something that had
gotten them killed. That they had seen
something or known something that
made them a danger to the drug or
gang community. So far, nobody had
been able to come up with anything
that linked the boys to illegal activity at
the time of their death, or to each other.
Emmitt picked up on the second
ring, “Phoebe, just wanted to let you
know I finally got through to the
Ramirez family. They insist they don’t
have a clue who killed their son or why,
but the parents are convinced that Juan
was getting his act together. Claim he
was off drugs and going to school when
he was killed. And apparently, he was
part of the same church youth group as
Deshawn and Bryan.”
“Well, they were right about the
school attendance and the drugs. The
school records confirm that all three
boys attended regularly, only a few
excused absences among them during
the six months prior to their deaths.
Their drug screens were all negative,
too.”
In spite of being a member of the
taskforce, Emmitt wasn’t privy to all of
the information Homicide accumulated
on the cases. He cursed himself for not
asking sooner. “So, it looks like the drug
angle is off base. If they were dealing,
they would’ve been using.”
“Rierson still thinks it’s a possibility.”
“You know that’s unlikely. And
there were no stashes of cash found at
any of the homes.”
“I know,” Phoebe said, “but at this
point, we don’t have anything else to go
on.”
Emmitt could hear the frustration
in her voice, “All of the families said
the boys were attending that church
program when they were killed.”
“Rierson talked to the pastor about
Bryan. The guy told him the same story
he had about Deshawn. Both boys quit
the program a couple of months before
their deaths. We didn’t know about
Juan.”
“Well, that doesn’t fit with what
the families are saying. They insist the
boys were off drugs, in school, and
participating in the church program.
Now you’re telling me that you have
conformation of the first two. We need
to look at the church. It’s the only link
we’ve come up with so far. Has anyone
talked with the other kids in the
program?”
“Rierson took care of that angle,”
Phoebe said. “I’m sure he must have
interviewed everyone who had any
contact with the boys.”
Her words were belied by the hint
of doubt in her tone.
“We need to do it again, push
harder,” Emmitt said. “The kids may
be afraid they’ll get into trouble if they
talk to the police. They may know
something they’re too scared to admit.”
Before he hung up, Emmitt had
Phoebe’s agreement they would reinterview
the kids in the church youth
group. Phoebe would find out when
the kids met next and get back with
him. He was relieved he hadn’t had to
suggest leaving Rierson out of it; she
hadn’t mentioned asking her partner
along.
T
***
here was a chill in the air
and not a cloud in sight. The
hardwoods sported a brilliant display
of color that made Emmitt glad he’d
escaped from the cramped cubicle that
passed for an office. He drove while
Phoebe navigated, calling out the turns
as they wound their way deeper into
the countryside. The final turn led them
down a dirt road with still no sign of
the church.
“This place is out in the middle of
nowhere,” Emmitt said. “I didn’t know
we had spots this remote in the county.”
“You need to get out of town more
often.” Phoebe smiled at him. “This area
near the river is still pretty undeveloped,
and I hope it stays that way.”
“Is a deputy meeting us out here?”
Emmitt asked. They were well outside
Winston-Salem city limits. Technically,
the sheriff’s office had jurisdiction.
Phoebe shook her head. “They’re
leaving it to us. They’re part of the
taskforce, but I get the feeling they’re
happy to let us take the heat for the lack
of progress on the case.”
Emmitt was pleased they were on
their own. His experience with teens
taught him it was usually better to talk
to kids without a show of force. Phoebe’s
petite size and youthful appearance
made her naturally less threatening
than him. Over the years, he learned
how to put kids at ease in spite of his
68 Suspense Magazine September 2012 / Vol. 038