Finders Keepers

Gena knocked on the door more forcefully the second time; still no answer. Markita was known for hopping into the shower or getting lost in a damn soap opera and simply tuning out the rest of world. Oh, come on, Kita, I got to use the bathroom, girl.

Gena knocked once again and then twisted the doorknob to see if the door was unlocked. The knob turned. The door was open all along. She pushed open the front door and crept into the apartment.

“Markita.”

No answer.

The television was on, as were most of the lights. The apartment looked to be even messier than usual, which wasn’t saying a lot, because Markita’s house was always junky. Gena made her way into the bedroom. It was dark, as the bedroom shades and curtains were drawn, and sure enough, Markita was lying in bed.

“Girl, get your ass up. What are you still doing in bed? We got things to do; come on, I need your help,” said Gena as she tapped on her girlfriend’s shoulder. Markita felt cold.

“Markita?”

No answer.

Gena pushed her friend more forcefully, causing the blankets to move. The dried bloodstain over Markita’s butt became visible. Gena covered her mouth.

“Markita!” Gena shook her friend. “Markita. Oh, my God!” Gena pushed Markita over, to find herself looking into her friend’s open but lifeless eyes.

“Markita!” Gena grabbed her friend’s wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Gena backed against a wall, where she slid down to the floor and burst into tears. She knew what had happened. Whoever had hurt Gah Git had now killed her closest friend. He must have been looking for me. Yes, the crazy man had gone there looking for her, and Markita had paid the price. He had done to her what he had done to Gah Git, but even worse. Gah Git still had some life left in her after he had gone, whereas Markita had none.

Gena wiped away the tears that were pouring down her face. She had lost another best friend, another friend to bullshit. It was the city. The city was taking life away from her, slowly but steadily. It was closing in on her. It was out to get her. She had to get away, she had to run for her life. If not, she too would be dead soon. She could feel it coming. Death was around the corner, and it was creeping toward her. Slowly but surely death was tracking her down.

Gena willed herself to rise. She kissed Markita’s dead, cold, lifeless cheek. She was out of there. Fuck Philly, fuck Richard Allen, fuck Quadir, fuck my entire life. Gena was done; she was ready to go and never, ever look back. Philly had taken her parents, it had taken Sahirah, it had taken Quadir away from her, it had taken Markita, it almost took Gah Git and Gary, and it was about to take Bria and herself, if she didn’t do something about it.

Gena moved away from Markita’s corpse and made her way out to the living room. Should I call the police? Just to get someone here? God, she’ll be lying here all alone for days if I don’t call. I have to do something. But what, what should I do? Before leaving, Gena called 911 and reported the finding of a dead body. She remained anonymous, and immediately hung up the phone after giving the operator Markita’s address. Gena headed down the steps to the front porch of Markita’s house and climbed into her rental. She had to get out of town, and she had to go tonight. She would meet with Rik, square him away, stash her cash, and then leave this place for good. She was heading south, maybe Norfolk, maybe Charleston, maybe Charlotte, maybe even Atlanta. She would know once she got there. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was going tonight. Her life depended on it.

Cornell Cleaver stepped under the yellow police lines and made his way into the apartment. He flashed his badge at the uniformed police officer guarding the door and was allowed to pass.

“What the fuck is IAD doing here?” Detective Smith shouted from across the room. “Nobody’s fucked shit up yet.”

“Curtis Miles!” Cleaver smiled. He walked to where the homicide detectives were standing and shook his friend’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”

“What’s your ugly face doing here?” Miles asked.

“Just passing through,” Cleaver told him.

“Passing through, huh?” Miles asked suspiciously. “Bullshit. Whose balls are you trying to break? IAD doesn’t crawl out of its little cubicle unless it’s trying to bust balls.”

Cleaver lifted his hands and shrugged. “I’m just passing through, Curtis. Honest to goodness.”

Miles waved to the gentleman standing next to him. “This is Detective Harmon Brittingham. He’s one of my best detectives, and he’s going to be the lead detective on this case. Harm, this here is Cleaver; he’s IAD. Used to work for me in Homicide, used to work for me in Vice before that, used to work Narcotics before that. He used to be a real cop once, and now he’s a ball buster.”

“You flatter me with your kind words, Lieutenant,” Cleaver told him.

“You come here to fuck with my guys, you let me know,” Miles told him with a “don’t fuck with me either” look on his face. “Those are the rules of the game. You don’t fuck with my guys without me knowing about it, you got that?”

Cleaver nodded. “Where’s the victim?”

“She’s in the bedroom.” Miles peered up at the door. “Holy fuck, what the fuck we got going on here, a convention? This is a homicide investigation, not a goddamn policemens’ ball! What do you two numb nuts want here?”

Cleaver turned and spied Ellington and Davis making their way toward them.

“What the fuck is vice doing here?” Miles asked.

“We heard that she was connected,” Ellington told him.

“I haven’t heard that,” Miles shot back.

“You’re Homicide, not Vice, so you wouldn’t have heard that, now would you?” Ellington asked in an aloof tone of voice.

“Letoya, you’re looking mighty tasty as usual.”

“And you’re still looking desperate, Lieutenant.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Good, since she’s never met you.”

Lieutenant Miles threw back his head in laughter. “I see your tongue is still sharp.”

“And I see that your belly’s getting rounder. Picking up some weight, are we?” Ellington placed her hand over Miles’s stomach and giggled at his belly.

“Watch it. Moves like that make it turn hard.”

“How would you know?” Ellington smiled. “You haven’t seen that shriveled little piece of meat since Nixon was in the White House.”

The detectives and officers around the room laughed heartily.

“What we got here?” Davis asked, peeking through the bedroom door.

“Female, black, early twenties, death by strangulation, looks like. Coroner’s on his way; we’ll know more then,” Harmon Brittingham explained. “You wanna see some weird shit?”

The detectives followed Brittingham into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers, displaying Markita’s naked body. “She got fucked in the ass, probably right before her death.”

“Or perhaps even during,” Ellington suggested.

“Sick bastard,” Cleaver chimed in.

“Judging from the amount of blood, it wasn’t something that she did on a regular basis,” Brittingham advised.

“Raped?” Davis asked.

Harmon Brittingham shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a forced entry. No pun intended. No forced entry into the apartment either.”

“She knew the perp,” Cleaver added.

Brittingham shrugged. “Apparently. It looks like the sex was consensual. I mean from what I can tell, she let the guy in, she’s not bruised or beaten, so it looks as if she voluntarily had sex. But something went wrong. No telling what made it turn bad.”

“The apartment looks like it’s been ransacked,” Ellington observed.

“Talked to the neighbors, and apparently the victim kept a pretty messy apartment,” Brittingham explained.

“Any leads?” Cleaver asked.

“Forensics are on their way. We got semen, tissue maybe, definitely skin cells, sweat, perhaps some hair. All the usual trace elements from sexual intercourse,” Brittingham advised.