Homicide. David Simon
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it up,” the kid says.
“You cleaned it up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh,” says Worden, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go back upstairs then.”
The kid takes the stairs two at a time, then turns into the clutter and disarray of a teenager’s room, replete with pinups of models in bikinis and posters of New York rappers in designer sweats. Without further prompting, the sixteen-year-old pulls two bloodstained sheets from a hamper.
“Where were those?”
“On the bed.”
“On the bed?”
“We turned over the mattress.”
Worden flips the mattress. A red-brown stain covers a good quarter of the fabric.
“What jacket was your brother wearing when he came in?”
“The gray one.”
Worden picks up a gray puff jacket from a chair and checks it carefully, inside and out. No blood. He goes to the bedroom closet and checks every other winter coat, throwing each on the bed as James shakes his head slowly.
“Here’s what happened,” says James. “You were in here playing around with a gun and your brother got shot. Now if you start telling the truth, you’re not going to get locked up. Where’s the gun?”
“What gun?”
“Jesus Christ. Where’s the goddamn gun?”
“Don’t know about no gun.”
“Your brother has a gun. Let’s just get the gun out of the way.”
“Derrick got shot at the bus stop.”
“The fuck he did,” says James, simmering. “He was fucking around in here and you or your brother or someone else shot him by accident. Where’s the fucking gun?”
“Ain’t no gun.”
Classic, thinks Worden, looking at the kid. Truly classic. A prime example of the Rule Number One of the guidebook of death investigation, the page 1 entry in a detective’s lexicon:
Everyone lies.
Murderers, stickup artists, rapists, drug dealers, drug users, half of all major-crime witnesses, politicians of all persuasions, used car salesmen, girlfriends, wives, ex-wives, line officers above the rank of lieutenant, sixteen-year-old high school students who accidentally shoot their older brother and then hide the gun—to a homicide detective, the earth spins on an axis of denial in an orbit of deceit. Hell, sometimes the police themselves are no different. For the last six weeks, Donald Worden has listened to a long series of statements by men wearing the uniform in which he has spent a lifetime, listened to them as they tried to get their stories straight and explain how they couldn’t possibly have been anywhere near that alley off Monroe Street.
James begins moving toward the bedroom door. “You tell us what you want,” he says bitterly. “When your brother dies, we’ll be back to charge you with the murder.”
The kid remains mute, and the two detectives follow the uniform out the front door. Worden holds his temper until the Cavalier is rolling back down Greenmount.
“Who the hell is this guy Rodriguez?”
“I guess you’re going to have something to say to him.”
“I’m gonna have a lot to say. The first officer to arrive protects the crime scene. And what do they do? They go to the hospital, they go to headquarters, they go to lunch and let the people pick the scene apart. What good he was gonna do at the hospital, I don’t know.”
But Rodriguez isn’t at the hospital. And there is no satisfaction for Worden in a brief discussion with the victim’s distracted mother, who sits with two other children in the trauma unit’s waiting room, clutching a tissue.
“I don’t know, honestly,” she tells the detectives. “I was sitting with my other son, watching TV, and I heard a noise, like a firecracker or the sound of glass breaking. Derrick’s brother James went upstairs and said Derrick had been coming home from work and got shot. I told him not to play like that.”
Worden interrupts.
“Mrs. Allen, I’m gonna be frank with you. Your son was shot in his room, more than likely by accident. Except for the bed, there was no blood anywhere, not even on the jacket he was wearing when he came in.”
The woman looks at the detective blankly. Worden continues, explaining her children’s effort to conceal the shooting scene and the probability that the handgun that has sent her son to surgery is still in the house.
“No one is talking about charging anyone. We’re from homicide and if it’s an accidental shooting, then we’re wasting our time and we just need to get it straightened out.”
The woman nods in vague agreement. Worden asks if she would be willing to call home and ask her children to turn over the weapon.
“They can leave it on the porch and lock the door if they want,” Worden says. “We’re just interested in getting the gun out of the house.”
The mother abdicates.
“I’d rather you do that,” she says.
Worden walks into the hall and finds Rick James, who is talking with a medical technician. Derrick Allen is critical but stable; in all probability, he will live to fight another day. And Officer Rodriguez, says James, is back at homicide, writing his report.
“I’ll drop you at the office. If I go back now I’m going to jump in someone’s shit,” says Worden. “I’ll take another trip by the house for the gun. Don’t ask me why I should care whether they keep the fucking thing or not.”
A half hour later, Worden is rechecking Derrick Allen’s bedroom and finds a hole in a back window and a spent bullet on an outside rear porch. He shows the slug and the window to the sixteen-year-old brother.
The kid shrugs. “I guess Derrick got shot in his room.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“Don’t know about no gun.”
It is a God-given truth: Everyone lies. And this most basic of axioms has three corollaries:
A. Murderers lie because they have to.
B. Witnesses and other participants lie because they think they have to.
C. Everyone else lies for the sheer joy of it, and to uphold a general principle that under no circumstances do you provide accurate information to a cop.
Derrick’s brother is living proof of the second corollary. A witness lies to protect friends and relatives, even those who have wantonly shed blood. He lies to deny his involvement in drugs. He lies to hide the fact that he has prior arrests or that he is secretly homosexual, or that he even knew the victim. Most of all, he lies to distance himself from the murder and the possibility that he may one day have to testify in court. In Baltimore, a cop asks you what you saw and the requisite reply, an involuntary motor skill bred into the urban population over generations, is delivered with a slow shake of the head and an averted stare:
“I ain’t seen nothing.”
“You were standing next to the guy.”
“I ain’t seen nothing.”
Everyone lies.
Worden gives the kid one last, steady look.
“Your brother was shot in this room with a gun that he was playing with. Why don’t we get that gun out of the house?”
The teenager barely misses a beat.
“I don’t know about no gun.”
Worden shakes his head. He could call for the crime lab and spend a couple hours tearing