CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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The cops are there in less than two minutes. I’m hiding in the bushes, keeping one eye on the warehouse building where I left Cordell Kusack.

When I hear the sirens and see the blue lights approaching, I jump out and wave the first one down. And who should it be but Gillespie, my doughnut-devouring frenemy of many years.

“I should have known,” he says. “If there’s shit stirred up, you’re bound to be there with a stick in your hand.”

I explain, as quickly and succinctly as I can, what has happened. When I tell him and the other cops—there are three cars now, with more coming—that I think the Tweety Bird Killer is inside the warehouse building in front of them, it gets their attention. I also give them an address on the North Side where I think they might find a female body.

They wait another ten minutes before coming up with a plan of action, which consists of cordoning off the area and telling Cordell Kusack, via bullhorn, to come out with his hands up.

Then the SWAT guys take positions on both sides of the building. I’ve assured them that there is only one way in or out, but they have to see for themselves.

At last they make their move. They throw one of those flash-bang grenades inside and go tearing in right after it. I want to tell them that the flash part won’t have much of an impact on the now-blind if not dead Cordell Kusack, but I don’t want to butt in. I’m watching from a hundred yards away, which is as close as they’ll let me come. They’re in there for what seems like a long time, and I don’t hear gunfire.

I call Sally Velez and tell her she’s going to have to remake A1, and why. I tell her I’ll try to get there within a couple of hours. I take a few pictures with my iPhone camera of cops picking their noses. Gillespie tells me to stop. I tell him to go fuck himself.

By this time, half the town seems to be here. L.D. Jones has been in attendance since he left the football game in the third quarter. He’s still wearing his Virginia Union sweatshirt. A large contingent of Shockoe Bottom residents and revelers has made its way to the edge of the yellow police tape, sensing free entertainment.

Cindy is there maybe twenty minutes after I called. She gives me a venti-size hug and then gives me hell for trying to go it alone. I try to explain that I didn’t really plan to be abducted by maniacs. It just worked out that way.

When she stops yelling for a second or two, I lean down and give her a kiss and thank her for caring. She kisses me back.

Meanwhile the cops seem a bit confused. I learn, through eavesdropping and pestering, that Cordell Kusack is not inside the warehouse. Yes, they checked all over, with floodlights on. There apparently was no way to get from the first floor to the ones above, and the only life form they found on the first floor was the bullet-riddled body of Ronnie Sax, whose brother definitely was not his keeper.

“Looks like a damned slaughterhouse in there,” I hear one cop say.

One of the detectives, a guy I’ve known since my first gig on the night cops beat, asks me if I’m sure it wasn’t me who shot Sax. I told him that I’d done all my damage with a knife.

“Didn’t see no knife,” the detective says. I tell him Kusack might still be wearing it.

I ask him if I get a reward. He tells me not to go anywhere. I tell him I wouldn’t dream of it.

When the cops aren’t looking, I manage to slip inside the tape and fall in step with Gillespie. I tell Cindy I’ll be right back. Gillespie starts to tell me to get the hell out of there. I tell him I’ve got too much invested in this to go back now, that if he wants to tase me, it won’t be the first time today. Hell, if he wants to shoot at me, he won’t break a cherry there, either, as long as he doesn’t hit anything. He shrugs and tries to ignore me. With a couple of pints of Cordell Kusack’s blood on me, maybe he thinks I’ve earned the right to be here.

It’s kind of a madhouse near and inside that plywood door. An ambulance has arrived to take Ronnie Sax’s body away. L.D. Jones is shaking his head.

I’m out on the edge of the clusterfuck, close to the river. There’s a concrete pier jutting out into the James, and I step out there to enjoy my first Camel of the evening. My hands are shaking a little. I’m sure a little nicotine will knock that right up.

With all the hubbub, I don’t guess anybody else hears the voice. I look around and finally locate the speaker. It’s the same old guy that’s been across the river, probably all day, hoping for a catfish.

I move as close to the edge of the pier as I can, and I finally make out what he’s saying.

“He went thataway,” the man is saying. “He went downstream.”

That’s when I look down and see Cordell Kusack’s gun, lying five feet away from me on the concrete. Beside it is the knife. When the first cop sees what’s stuck to it, he turns to one side before he throws up.