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I read reports about a former PFC in Hawaii. He’d been accused of murdering five men during a sex-slavery-and-torture spree that occurred from 1998 to 2000. He was currently on death row.
I moved on. I felt I had no choice but to keep going on the case.
An army captain had killed two junior officers in San Diego less than three months ago. He’d been convicted and was awaiting sentencing. His wife was appealing. He’d been convicted on the basis of DNA evidence.
I made a note to myself: Maybe talk to this one.
My reading was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps pounding the stairs up into the attic.
Someone was coming up.
In a hurry.
Adrenaline fired through my system. I reached into a desk drawer and put my hand on a gun.
Damon suddenly burst into the room. He was soaked with sweat and looked like hell. Nana had told me that he was asleep in his room. Obviously, that hadn’t been the case. He hadn’t even been in the house, had he?
“Damon?” I said as I rose. “Where have you been?”
“Come with me, Dad. Please. It’s my friend. Ramon’s sick! Dad, I think he’s dying.”
Chapter 59
WE BOTH RAN down to my car, and Damon told me what had happened to his friend Ramon on the way. His hands were shaking badly as he spoke.
“He took E, Dad. He’s been doing E for a couple of days.”
I knew about E, which was one of the latest drugs of choice around D.C., especially among high school and college kids at George Washington and Georgetown.
“Ramon hasn’t been going to school?” I asked.
“No. He hasn’t been going home either. He’s been staying at a crib down by the river.”
I knew the river area and I headed there with a red lamp on my car roof and a siren bleating. I had met Ramon Ramirez, and I knew about his parents; they were musicians, and addicts. Ramon played baseball with Damon. He was twelve. I wondered how deeply Damon was involved, but this wasn’t the time for questions like that.
I parked and Damon and I walked into a dilapidated row house down near the Anacostia. The row house was three stories, and most of the windows were boarded.
“You been in this place before?” I asked Damon.
“Yeah, I was here. I came to help Ramon. I couldn’t just leave him, could I?”
“Was Ramon conscious when you left him?” I asked.
“Yeah. But his teeth were clenched together, and then he was throwing up. His nose was bleeding.”
“Okay, let’s see how he is. Keep up with me.”
We hurried down a dark hallway and turned a corner. I could smell the stench of garbage and a recent fire.
Then I got a surprise. Two EMS techs and a doctor were in a small room; they were working over a boy. I could see Ramon’s black sneakers and rolled-up cargo pants. Nothing moved.
The doctor rose from her kneeling position over Ramon. She was tall and heavyset, with a pretty face. I hadn’t seen her around before. I walked up to her, showed my badge, which didn’t seem to impress her much.
“I’m Detective Cross,” I said. “How is the boy?”
The woman focused hard on me. “I’m Kayla Coles. We’re working on him. I don’t know yet. Someone called nine-one-one. Did you make the call?” She looked at Damon. I realized she was the doctor Nana had talked about.
Damon answered her question. “Yes, ma’am.”
