Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 45- Hydeya

"Sleep is for pussies," I tell myself over and over. The Terry/ Gibson case, the Captain Smith case, and now the Angels of Mercy massacre have me in contention for the "department conducting the most press conferences in a single month" award—and there's no end in sight.

" 'They were niggers,' " Fowler quotes every twenty minutes and follows up with a spatter of chuckles.

"It's disturbing how a mass shooting tickles you so much," I snap.

"I laugh to keep from crying," he says, hanging on to his goofy smile.

"Uh-huh." We enter our war room, carrying a DVD that has been discovered at Captain Smith's home. The forensic team marked it as urgent, and Fowler and I quickly huddle around a twenty-seven-inch television screen.

POP! POP! POP!

On the television screen, Detective Keegan O'Malley approaches what appears to be a large, muscular suspect in a dark alley somewhere. O'Malley glances over at a body that's lying on the ground but keeps his weapon trained on his suspect. The detective says something. It's too low for the security cameras to pick up, but I don't think it's the man's Miranda rights.

If fact, O'Malley doesn't appear to be interested in arresting this guy. If anything, he's trying to provoke a fight. Another cop comes into view of the camera. "It's Officer Sasha Smith," I whisper.

Officer Smith moves behind him to check on the body on the ground. A deep, demonic laugh rumbles loud enough for the audio to pick up. The suspect isn't scared of the police. Who is this guy? I lean in closer, wishing the suspect would move back a few inches so I can get a better look. O'Malley taunts his suspect, never once going for the handcuffs on his hip. My gaze swings back to his partner.

She's watching what's going on and reaching for something. A gun? Hyped, O'Malley appears ready to shoot in cold blood. Oh God. Don't let this tape be what I think it is. I can't handle any more surprises. Behind O'Malley, Smith lifts the dead man's .45.

POP! POP! POP!

The back of O'Malley's head explodes as his body pitches forward and then collapses in a dead heap on the concrete. "Holy shit," Lieutenant Fowler thunders, jumping out of his chair.

"Holy shit is right," I mumble, wishing I could have a strong drink.

The video keeps playing as the suspect lowers his hands, turns around, and finally reveals his face to the camera. "FUCK ME," Fowler exclaims. "Please tell me that isn't who I think it is."

"Terrell Carver," I confirm. Dread curdles in the pit of my gut. There's more.

Carver inches up to Sasha, lifts her head, and lays a kiss on her that's worthy of the silver screen. "Enough." I power off the video and collapse back in my chair while my brain absorbs what it witnessed.

"The bitch killed her partner."

"Well, a whole lot of shit is starting to make sense," Fowler says, pacing. "This is our confirmation. Alice Carver told that kid the truth. She was his grandmother."

"A kiss doesn't prove that," I say. He levels me with a look.

"I agree with you. Fuck. I figured that shit out weeks ago. And as soon as the lab report comes in, I'm sure Christopher and Alice's DNA are going to match." I reach for a folder in the center of the table and pull out pictures of Christopher Smith and Terrell Carver.

The truth stares me in the face. "So he kidnapped his own kid."

"After murdering the baby momma," Fowler injects.