emptied in a hurry, a few bullets left nestling among the clothes. Lamar picked up a 9mm cartridge.
Chris DeRoy had gone out carrying enough ammunition to shoot half of Harlem. How had he got hold of it all?
‘Mrs DeRoy!’ the detective called.
She skulked into the room.
‘Yeah?’
‘Were you aware that your son was keeping boxes full of bullets in his bedroom?’
She looked at him, as if hoping he would provide the answer.
‘Well, er … I’m not surprised,’ she finally admitted. ‘He loves guns. He reads tons of books about them.’
Lamar looked around, shifting the magazines strewn over the floor with his foot.
‘Can’t see any here. Did he get them from a library?’
‘Now that I couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask him. Why do you want to know, anyway? What’s he been up to? Will you just tell me—’
‘Does your son own any firearms?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You don’t know if Christian has a gun?’
She was flustered.
‘No … I mean, I know he’s into that stuff, that’s all. I don’t think he has a gun, but I couldn’t say for sure, with the kind of people he hangs out with …’
‘What people?’
She waved her arms about.
‘I don’t know their names! But you can tell by looking at them they’re no good.’
Lamar paused.
‘Do you mean …’ he began, ‘they’re black kids? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No! Not at all. The opposite, actually. They’re all white, and proud of it, you know? Some kind of militants, you might say. They don’t come up here, but they sometimes hang out in the cellar downstairs.’
‘There’s a cellar here?’
‘Oh, just a little one. Chris likes to go down there when he has people over.’
‘Do you have the key?’
She scowled, before nodding.
‘This way.’
She handed him two brown keys and told him how to get down there. Lamar went out of the building and found a door under the front steps, which he opened with the first key.
The steps quickly descended into darkness. Lamar fumbled about until he found the light switch. A bare bulb lit a long, damp corridor, with four padlocked doors leading off it. Lamar found the right one and walked closer, gripping his Walther P99. Though the air was cool below ground, Lamar could feel sweat dripping down his back.
The padlock was fastened. Christian DeRoy couldn’t be inside.
The detective unlocked the door and walked into the musty cellar. He took the small torch out of his coat pocket and turned it on, sweeping its narrow beam over the gloom.
The first thing he saw was a pile of wooden crates, which had been used to make a table and stools. Candleshad been left to melt down, spilling their wax over the table. There were stacks of back issues of gun-enthusiast magazines on the floor.
The beam picked out empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs.
Lamar bent his wrist to tilt the shaft of light upwards.
It flashed over a poster with the slogan ‘Black and Hispanic scum out!’.
He had to step back to get a proper look at what he saw next. A huge flag hanging on the opposite wall.
An enormous blood-red banner. With a white circle in the middle. And a swastika turning at its centre.
10
Newton Capparel got out of his car and made a beeline for Lamar. It was dark at six o’clock and the glow of the streetlamps stained the snow, making it look as though the whole neighbourhood were covered in orange peel.
‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
The detective stood back to let D’Amato walk past carrying a box filled with items taken from Christian DeRoy’s bedroom. A stream of people went in and out, searching the scene and sorting through anything of significance.
Lamar replied calmly, ‘The three high-school massacres were a set-up. It’s like I said on the phone: Chris DeRoy’s our man in all three cases.’
‘But he’s just a kid.’
‘Yes, but he’s also an extremist. A fascist, a neo-Nazi. And I don’t think he’s alone
Chris DeRoy had gone out carrying enough ammunition to shoot half of Harlem. How had he got hold of it all?
‘Mrs DeRoy!’ the detective called.
She skulked into the room.
‘Yeah?’
‘Were you aware that your son was keeping boxes full of bullets in his bedroom?’
She looked at him, as if hoping he would provide the answer.
‘Well, er … I’m not surprised,’ she finally admitted. ‘He loves guns. He reads tons of books about them.’
Lamar looked around, shifting the magazines strewn over the floor with his foot.
‘Can’t see any here. Did he get them from a library?’
‘Now that I couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask him. Why do you want to know, anyway? What’s he been up to? Will you just tell me—’
‘Does your son own any firearms?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You don’t know if Christian has a gun?’
She was flustered.
‘No … I mean, I know he’s into that stuff, that’s all. I don’t think he has a gun, but I couldn’t say for sure, with the kind of people he hangs out with …’
‘What people?’
She waved her arms about.
‘I don’t know their names! But you can tell by looking at them they’re no good.’
Lamar paused.
‘Do you mean …’ he began, ‘they’re black kids? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No! Not at all. The opposite, actually. They’re all white, and proud of it, you know? Some kind of militants, you might say. They don’t come up here, but they sometimes hang out in the cellar downstairs.’
‘There’s a cellar here?’
‘Oh, just a little one. Chris likes to go down there when he has people over.’
‘Do you have the key?’
She scowled, before nodding.
‘This way.’
She handed him two brown keys and told him how to get down there. Lamar went out of the building and found a door under the front steps, which he opened with the first key.
The steps quickly descended into darkness. Lamar fumbled about until he found the light switch. A bare bulb lit a long, damp corridor, with four padlocked doors leading off it. Lamar found the right one and walked closer, gripping his Walther P99. Though the air was cool below ground, Lamar could feel sweat dripping down his back.
The padlock was fastened. Christian DeRoy couldn’t be inside.
The detective unlocked the door and walked into the musty cellar. He took the small torch out of his coat pocket and turned it on, sweeping its narrow beam over the gloom.
The first thing he saw was a pile of wooden crates, which had been used to make a table and stools. Candleshad been left to melt down, spilling their wax over the table. There were stacks of back issues of gun-enthusiast magazines on the floor.
The beam picked out empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs.
Lamar bent his wrist to tilt the shaft of light upwards.
It flashed over a poster with the slogan ‘Black and Hispanic scum out!’.
He had to step back to get a proper look at what he saw next. A huge flag hanging on the opposite wall.
An enormous blood-red banner. With a white circle in the middle. And a swastika turning at its centre.
10
Newton Capparel got out of his car and made a beeline for Lamar. It was dark at six o’clock and the glow of the streetlamps stained the snow, making it look as though the whole neighbourhood were covered in orange peel.
‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
The detective stood back to let D’Amato walk past carrying a box filled with items taken from Christian DeRoy’s bedroom. A stream of people went in and out, searching the scene and sorting through anything of significance.
Lamar replied calmly, ‘The three high-school massacres were a set-up. It’s like I said on the phone: Chris DeRoy’s our man in all three cases.’
‘But he’s just a kid.’
‘Yes, but he’s also an extremist. A fascist, a neo-Nazi. And I don’t think he’s alone
Similar Books
