white people living like rats in this type of filth made no sense
to him. White folks in America had a four-hundred-year head start on black
people yet somehow this entire neighborhood had not just fallen behind, but
seemed to have failed to even get out of the blocks. The houses were not only
old and dilapidated, but they seemed to be
falling apart, covered in garbage. The hollow-eyed people who ambled through
the filth-strewn streets looked like holocaust victims: depressed, angry,
malnourished, defeated. G-town’s citizens looked optimistic in comparison.
Every teenager James passed was
either drunk or high. Every couple he passed was fighting, some of them
physically. Every elderly person he passed looked to be on the verge of tears.
And here he was, about to bring more bad news into this neighborhood that
already seemed to know too much. He could imagine the conversation to come.
“Mrs. Volare’,
there’s a very good possibility that a homicidal psychopath that you used to
date is on his way to murder you and your family.”
He hated it.
There were two patrol vehicles behind him,
escorting him to Ms. Volare’s house just in case Malcolm happened to be there. James
pulled up in front of the withered two-story shack and let out a deep, heavy
sigh. The house looked like shit. He doubted if it had been painted for
decades. What little paint still clung to the building’s crumbling brick face
was cracked and peeling. One of the second floor windows was been shattered and
had been covered in plastic rather than repaired. The veneer on the front door
was warped, splintered and water-stained. The concrete steps that led up to the
door had huge chunks missing, and most of the corners were broken off. There
was an old sheet that had once been white hung over the living room window in
lieu of drapes. As he stepped out of his vehicle and up the crumbling steps, he
saw what was perhaps the only thing that could make this whole miserable trip
worse. There was blood on the sheet. Lots of blood.
James pulled out his weapon and called for the
officers to follow him as he kicked in the door. The old weather-beaten door
split down the center and caved in on itself. James stepped through it into the
Volare’s living room. He waved the two officers in and they fanned out into the
house like commandos. They were apprehensive, scared. None of them wanted to be
the first one to confront the Family Man or the gruesome aftermath of one of
his rampages. They had their weapons drawn and their eyes were darting
everywhere at once. James mentally prepared himself for another scene like the
one at the Cozen’s house.
The living room was in a shambles,
but the house was so dirty and choked with clutter that it was difficult to
tell if the overall chaos was due to a struggle or merely bad housekeeping. The
remains of a spaghetti dinner were strewn all over the floor amid broken
dishes, empty beer cans, newspapers, old sports and fashion magazines, a
spilled ashtray, broken toys, and baby bottles half-filled with spoiled milk. A
child’s highchair lay in one corner on top of a plastic tricycle and there was
a long orange and yellow food stain down the wall where the chair had
apparently been thrown, splattering a plate of baby food.
The other officers were going through
the house, checking it room by room with their guns still drawn. It was empty.
All the rooms were in the same state of disarray. Much of the mess could’ve
been attributed to slovenly tenants, but the only thing that could not be
explained away was the stained sheet that hung from the window. There was blood
saturating the bottom half of the cloth with splatters as high as six feet.
Curiously, a large area on the carpet was completely clear. It looked as if it had
actually been scrubbed and vacuumed.
James stared at the huge clean spot,
remembering how the Family Man always cleaned up his crime scenes to destroy
evidence. This one, too, had been cleaned—but sloppily.
to him. White folks in America had a four-hundred-year head start on black
people yet somehow this entire neighborhood had not just fallen behind, but
seemed to have failed to even get out of the blocks. The houses were not only
old and dilapidated, but they seemed to be
falling apart, covered in garbage. The hollow-eyed people who ambled through
the filth-strewn streets looked like holocaust victims: depressed, angry,
malnourished, defeated. G-town’s citizens looked optimistic in comparison.
Every teenager James passed was
either drunk or high. Every couple he passed was fighting, some of them
physically. Every elderly person he passed looked to be on the verge of tears.
And here he was, about to bring more bad news into this neighborhood that
already seemed to know too much. He could imagine the conversation to come.
“Mrs. Volare’,
there’s a very good possibility that a homicidal psychopath that you used to
date is on his way to murder you and your family.”
He hated it.
There were two patrol vehicles behind him,
escorting him to Ms. Volare’s house just in case Malcolm happened to be there. James
pulled up in front of the withered two-story shack and let out a deep, heavy
sigh. The house looked like shit. He doubted if it had been painted for
decades. What little paint still clung to the building’s crumbling brick face
was cracked and peeling. One of the second floor windows was been shattered and
had been covered in plastic rather than repaired. The veneer on the front door
was warped, splintered and water-stained. The concrete steps that led up to the
door had huge chunks missing, and most of the corners were broken off. There
was an old sheet that had once been white hung over the living room window in
lieu of drapes. As he stepped out of his vehicle and up the crumbling steps, he
saw what was perhaps the only thing that could make this whole miserable trip
worse. There was blood on the sheet. Lots of blood.
James pulled out his weapon and called for the
officers to follow him as he kicked in the door. The old weather-beaten door
split down the center and caved in on itself. James stepped through it into the
Volare’s living room. He waved the two officers in and they fanned out into the
house like commandos. They were apprehensive, scared. None of them wanted to be
the first one to confront the Family Man or the gruesome aftermath of one of
his rampages. They had their weapons drawn and their eyes were darting
everywhere at once. James mentally prepared himself for another scene like the
one at the Cozen’s house.
The living room was in a shambles,
but the house was so dirty and choked with clutter that it was difficult to
tell if the overall chaos was due to a struggle or merely bad housekeeping. The
remains of a spaghetti dinner were strewn all over the floor amid broken
dishes, empty beer cans, newspapers, old sports and fashion magazines, a
spilled ashtray, broken toys, and baby bottles half-filled with spoiled milk. A
child’s highchair lay in one corner on top of a plastic tricycle and there was
a long orange and yellow food stain down the wall where the chair had
apparently been thrown, splattering a plate of baby food.
The other officers were going through
the house, checking it room by room with their guns still drawn. It was empty.
All the rooms were in the same state of disarray. Much of the mess could’ve
been attributed to slovenly tenants, but the only thing that could not be
explained away was the stained sheet that hung from the window. There was blood
saturating the bottom half of the cloth with splatters as high as six feet.
Curiously, a large area on the carpet was completely clear. It looked as if it had
actually been scrubbed and vacuumed.
James stared at the huge clean spot,
remembering how the Family Man always cleaned up his crime scenes to destroy
evidence. This one, too, had been cleaned—but sloppily.
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