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“M Sixteen, I bet,” I replied.
Jacobi nodded. “Little lady’s been brushing up during her time off? Shell’s a Remington two twenty-three.”
“Lieutenant Little Lady to you.” I smirked. Then I told him how I knew.
Dozens of empty shells were scattered all around. We were deep in the brush and trees, hidden from the church. The casings were strewn in two distinct clusters about five yards apart.
“You can see where he started firing,” Jacobi said. “I figure here. He must’ve moved around.”
From the first cluster of shells, there was a clear line of sight to the side of the church. That stained-glass window in full view… all those kids streaming toward the street… I could see why no one had spotted him. His hiding place was totally protected.
“When he reloaded, he must’ve moved over there.” Jacobi pointed.
I made my way over and crouched near the second cluster of shells. Something wasn’t making sense. The facade of the church was in view, the front steps where Tasha Catchings had lain. But only barely.
I squinted through an imaginary sight, leveling my gaze at where Tasha must’ve been when she was hit. You could barely even fix it into sight. There was no way he could’ve intentionally been aiming for her. She had been struck from a totally improbable angle.
“Lucky shot,” Jacobi muttered. “What do you think, a ricochet?”
“What’s back here?” I asked. I looked around, pushing my way through the thick bushes leading away from the church. No one had seen the shooter escape, so he obviously hadn’t made his way along Harrow Street. The brush was about twenty feet deep.
At the end was a five-foot-high chain-link fence dividing the church grounds from the surrounding neighborhood. The fence wasn’t high. I planted my flats and hoisted myself over.
I found myself facing penned-in backyards and tiny row houses. A few people had gathered, watching the show. To the right, the playgrounds of the Whitney Young projects.
Jacobi finally caught up with me. “Take it easy, Loo,” he huffed. “There’s an audience. You’re making me look bad.”
“This is how he must’ve made his way out, Warren.” We looked in both directions. One way led toward an alley, the other toward a row of homes.
I shouted to a group of onlookers who had gathered on a back porch, “Anyone see anything?” No one responded.
“Someone was shooting at the church,” I shouted. “A little girl’s been killed. Help us out. We need your help.”
Everyone stood around with the unconfiding silence of people who don’t talk to the police.
Then slowly a woman of about thirty came forward. She was nudging a young boy ahead of her. “Bernard saw something,” she said in a muffled voice.
Bernard appeared to be about six, with cautious, round eyes, wearing a gold-and-purple Kobe Bryant sweatshirt.
“It was a van,” Bernard blurted. “Like Uncle Reggie’s.” He pointed to the dirt road leading to the alley. “It was parked down there.”
I knelt down, gently smiling into the scared boy’s eyes. “What color van, Bernard?”
The kid replied, “White.”
“My brother’s got a white Dodge minivan,” Bernard’s mother said.
“Was it like your uncle’s, Bernard?” I asked.
“Sorta. Not really, though.”
“Did you see the man who was driving it?”
He shook his head. “I was bringing out the garbage. I only saw it drive away.”
“Do you think you would recognize it again if you saw it?” I asked.
Bernard nodded.
