Author: Robin Schwalb

Title: "Not by Bread Alone"

This story is set during the long hiatus between the second and third
seasons, in September, 1994.

Disclaimer: Characters used from "Homicide: Life on the Street" belong to
Baltimore Pictures and NBC Productions and are used without permission.
This story may be copied or placed in public domain so long as the author's
original name and story remain intact.

********

The short, rumpled man stood in reverent silence next to the granite pile of
the Customs House.  After a suitable interval, he crossed himself quickly,
and said to his audience of one, "He lay in state, here."

The man with a jazzer's goatee and porkpie hat, standing in the open door of
the white Cavalier, couldn't help blurting out, "He, who?" even as he dreaded
the likely answer.

"Baltimore was the first stop of Abraham Lincoln's funeral train after it
left Washington."

"Crosetti, there's a body cooling over on the west side!  You drag me here,
just to moon over the ghost of ol' Abe again?!"  Meldrick Lewis smacked
the car keys on the roof of the Cavalier in exasperation.

But there was no stopping Crosetti's impassioned flow of words.  "The Guard
of Honor conveyed his mortal remains from the train to the Merchant's
Exchange Building, which stood on this very spot.  Ten thousand people paid
their respects, before he was borne back to the Howard Street Station, and
the train continued on its sad journey."

Lewis rolled his eyes, recognizing that his partner was working up to the
business end of his rant.

"Now, how is it that this . . . this sacred spot, this site of pilgrimage,
designed by Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Baltimore's pre-eminent architect,
could be demolished?"  He jabbed his cigarette towards the offensive replacement,
pale in the moonlight.  "How could the powers-that-be agree to let it be torn
down?  Unless. . . "

"See, this is why you're a little salami brain!  Why shouldn't the city
fathers tear down an old building to build a bigger and better one?"

Crosetti lowered his voice conspiratorially, ". . .unless descendants of
Confederate sympathizers wanted to obliterate all memory of his passage."  He
waited a moment for this startling bit of intelligence to sink in, then
raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"This is all very interesting, but, I have -- no, we have -- a job to do.  So
if you care to join me, can we proceed to the scene of the crime?" Lewis
ducked into the driver's seat and slammed the door.  Crosetti slid into
shotgun position, barely getting the door closed before the car screeched
away from the curb.

-------

Out in the county, Route 40 was the grandly named Baltimore National Pike,
but by the time it intersected the Old Frederick Road, it had been demoted to
the far more prosaic Edmondson Avenue.  The faux-colonial Edmondson Village
Shopping Center sprawled -- back in the 1980s, some might have said
"squatted" -- along the north side of the avenue.  It was quite the shoppers'
destination, in its day, but had spiraled downwards for several decades.
Recently, the old mall had been refurbished, with a few new stores
opened in the rear of the complex.

Lewis steered the rattling Cavalier over the crackled asphalt towards the
alley behind the mall.  There, curious shoppers and neighborhood residents,
drawn by the lights and noise, bellied up to the yellow police tape cordoning
off the scene.  A small knot of official vehicles clustered next to the
dumpsters flanking a small storefront, the nature of whose business was
impossible to guess.  The cars hemmed in a starburst, which still oozed
over the undifferentiated sediment of refuse coating the pavement.  Its
arms, made up of congealing sauces from ruptured take-out containers and
confetti-like grains of fried rice, led inward towards a humped shape, obscured
by a bloodied floral sheet.

A stooped figure walked stiffly towards the detectives.  "About time you
gentlemen got here."

"Ah, well, yeah, Scheiner, we had to take a little detour, on account
of my partner don't have enough open cases already.  What do we got?"

The old medical examiner was still annoyed at having been woken out of
a deep sleep.  "A dead body."

"No fooling you."  Lewis wondered to himself that the good doctor
hadn't yet died of sheer cantankerousness.

Dr. Scheiner snapped back, "A dead body, covered with a sheet."

A fresh-faced uniform, barely out of the Academy by the looks of him,
stood nervously by the police tape.  He jumped a little every time the flash
of the photographer's camera went off.

Crosetti indicated the onlookers and asked the rookie, "Anybody here
see anything?"

"No, sir."

Crosetti nodded.  "Of course not.  How foolish of me, to expect that."
He waved his hands in the body's general direction.  "You find it like
that, all wrapped up?"

"Yes, sir, we looked, to make sure there really was a body underneath,
but we preserved the scene, just like we found it."

Crosetti grimaced reassuringly.  "Good, that's very good.  Glad to see you
know procedure."  He looked down at the swaddled figure, then marveled
aloud, "Victim brought his own sheet."

Lewis chimed in, "You don't often see that kind of courtesy in Charm City."

"No, no you don't.  I feel like maybe we've been transported to St.Mary
Mead.  Next thing you know, we'll find out the butler did it."  He turned
towards the photographer.  "You got enough pictures?"  The man nodded.
"Then let's get a better look at what we've got here."  The ME's assistants
lifted the sheet to reveal an Asian man, perhaps in his mid-to-late forties,
curled up in a semi-fetal position.  The back of his skull was bloodied and
misshapen.

The ME grunted, "Blunt object trauma."

The detectives methodically searched around the body, stepping carefully
across the uneven pavement.  Small packets of condiments glowed like
jewels in the beams of their flashlights.  Several bricks, one bloody, lay in
the shadows, along with a plastic bag from the Golden Dragon restaurant,
half-full of food.

The uniform timidly offered, "Looks like a robbery."

Crosetti dug through the man's pockets, coming up with a wallet containing
several hundred dollars.  "Pretty inept robbers, to leave this much cash."
He thumbed through the abbreviated record of the man's life, pausing to
read the driver's license.  "Meet Mr. Ming-lu Chen, age 44."  There was a
dog-eared photo of a much younger man, seated in front of a painted backdrop,
beaming beside his bride.  Two teenagers, a boy and girl, smiled shyly out of
school portraits.  A bank card.  Some business cards from food and restaurant
suppliers.  An INS card.  Registration for the dented heap parked under the
street lamp.

"Ah, Madonn'!"  The detective scuffed some unknown, food-like substance
from the tip of his shoe.  "That kind of crap is hell on the leather, you know?
Goes right through the polish."  Satisfied that he'd removed all of the
offending material, he looked again at the small sheaf of cards and photos in
his hand.  "Oh, man, look what he keeps in his billfold -- his work and
his family; they're his whole life."

The receipt, stapled to the bag of food, fluttered in the breeze. Lewis
scanned it, then considered the number of containers in the bag and on
the pavement.  "Nah, this ain't enough stuff to fill this order.  Some of
the food's missing."

"You know, I hate to say it, Meldrick, but this is beginning to look
like another one of your misdemeanor homicides."

"No, you're the primary, Crosetti.  It's one of *your* misdemeanor
homicides."

Dr. Scheiner, his work at the scene done, was about to leave for the
familiar precincts of the morgue.  He nosed his old bomb alongside the
detectives, and rolled down the window.  "By the way, I hear Felton has
some interesting photographs."  Drawing only blank looks from the two
men, he bade them, "Farewell, gentlemen," before driving off into the night.

-------

Long after business hours, the lights in the back of the Golden Dragon
Restaurant -- little more than a take-out counter -- were still burning.
Shadows stirred in response to Lewis' insistent rapping on the window.
Finally, a woman and two teenagers peeked out from behind the shade.
At the sight of his badge, the older woman turned ashen.  She fumbled to
unlock the door.

"Husband?" she said nervously, in thickly accented English.

"We're very sorry, ma'am, but your husband is . . ."

Ziyi Gao Chen could barely understand his language, but his tone and
expression confirmed her worst fears.  At first, she bore the news stoically,
but as her son translated, explaining that she'd have to come downtown
to the morgue to identify her husband's body, she started trembling.  Her
children supported her between them as she sagged, tears welling up behind
closed eyelids.

The two detectives shifted uncomfortably.  Finally, Lewis cleared his throat,
and spoke gently.  "Ma'am, we're very sorry for your great loss." Three
numbed faces turned towards him.  "We need to catch the person who did
this, and we'll need your help to do it."

The daughter translated this for her mother, who nodded mutely.

The son whispered something to his sister, and gently shifted their mother
into her arms.  He walked over to the cash register, picking up a receipt
from the counter.  "Look at this, please," he said, holding out the paper,
which had been crumpled and smoothed.  "There was confusion with this
order. Woman called several times, many times.  Changed mind about food,
changed mind about delivery address. Mother was nervous, but customer always
answered telephone or called back, so father insisted he would go."

Lewis compared this receipt with the one from the scene.  "Huh, look at
that, phone numbers don't match."

The son suggested, "This number may be beeper."

"Thank you, this could be very helpful."  He tucked the receipt carefully
into an evidence bag, and then into his jacket pocket.  With that, he
and his partner shepherded the quietly grieving family to the morgue.

---------

"Timmy-boy, here, take a look at this."  Felton's bantering tone didn't hide
the aggression in his voice as he strode to Bayliss's desk.  He took a pack
of Polaroid prints from his sportcoat pocket.  "What do you think of this?
Pretty wild, huh?  Know who that is?"  Beau tapped the top photo with his
finger.

Kay followed the action from her desk.  "Don't show him that garbage,
Beau, it'll just upset him."

"Look, look at this.  You don't see stuff like this everyday, I'll tell you
that."  Beau snickered and handed the pack of prints to Bayliss, who still
stared at the top one.  A deep flush traveled up his skin from beneath his
buttoned collar to his scalp.  He stuttered when he asked,  "Beau, what
the . . . what the hell is this?"

"No, I'm sorry, bunk, the question is 'who.'  'Who is this?' And the answer
is: our own Police Commissioner Harris, buck naked and trussed like a turkey
on Thanksgiving Day.  By Mistress Chastity.  The one in the yellow hair and
the boots, there."  Beau flipped through several more prints, pointing at the
third.

Munch scurried over to look. "Harris doesn't carry a lot of extra weight on
him for a man his age, does he?"

Bayliss spoke slowly, as though with effort.  "Y'know Beau, this kind of
stuff is kind of, of . . . weird.  Y'know, kinky weird?  So why are you
showing me pictures of Commissoner Harris without clothes on?  I mean,
that is, if this is Harris.  Hey, how do you know this is him?"

Beau's nasty grin stretched wider: "Here, we got a real good head shot
here, in photo 5.  Mistress Chaz made sure she got a head shot."

Munch took the print from Felton.  "Be careful, John, Beau's saliva is all
over those," Kay called to him.

"He doesn't look too happy, considering what he probably had to pay for
this," Munch observed.

"And pay, and pay, and pay."  Beau grinned even wider.  "Miz Chaz spent
some quality time with the boys down the hall in Vice last month.  'Running
a bawdy house.'  She paid the fine, avoided the time.  But the boys kept
her little black book.  And now she wants it back.  Reeeeally bad.  But,
y'know, it's in the Courthouse safe, and Vice don't have the combo."

Munch twitched with impatience.  "Yeah, and so what?"

Munch had taken the hook, and Beau deepened his voice with pleasure:
"So this.  Miz Chaz had these made for a rainy day.  She gives 'em to the
boys in Vice and says, 'Get my book -- or copies go to The Sun, and you get
credit for being the source.'

Despite his best efforts, a smile began to take over Munch's face. "Hey,
hey! It's B-L-A-C-K-M-A-I-L, the new family game!"

"Except they're Polaroids," Kay chimed in from across the room.

"I can see they're Polaroids!"  Munch glowed in delighted disbelief. "Like,
one instant print?  One unique, one-time print?"  He peered over his glasses.
 "As in, no negatives?"

The detectives paused to savor the eternal stupidity of the criminal mind.

Munch laughed.  "Hey, she doesn't really need brains in her line of work."

Meldrick, newly arrived, paused in mid-stride.  Whatever this was, it sounded
interesting.  " 'Not a lot of brains in her line of work.'  And what, pray
tell, might that line of work be?"

Munch held up Miss Chastity's photo.  Lewis raised an eyebrow.  "Wait,
it gets better; much, much better.  Show him, Beau."

Felton offered up the damning evidence.  Meldrick gaped at the image of
the capo di tutti poh-leece capo caught in such a humiliating pose.  The
rest of the detectives -- excepting Bayliss -- tittered, feeling the same,
warm, malicious glee all over again.

Beau cackled, "Sweet, huh?  The Vice boys come to me for help.  Say I
owe 'em one -- yeah, right.  So, they trust me with the prints and I help them
with the safe.  But, my plan is: use this for me.  Maybe get enough to take
the kids to Six Flags?"

-------

Lewis, still shaking his head, sauntered into the breakroom.  Crosetti
sat staring sightlessly at the far wall, a cup of battery acid cooling on
the table, undisturbed.

"You get anything?"

Crosetti roused himself from his meditative state.  "I wonder if it was Lloyd?"

"This Lloyd, you think he did what?"

"Henry Lloyd.  He may be the guy responsible for orchestrating the demolition
order on the Merchant's Exchange."

Lewis groaned audibly.

Crosetti ignored this.  Taking a swig from his mug, he winced.  "By the way,
the ME's office called, it was exactly what it looked like it would be: blunt
object trauma, caused by fists and a brick.  The number on the first receipt
was a dead end, pay phone at the shopping center.  So far any prints the lab
techs got are coming up a whole lot of nothing.  How about you?"

Meldrick triumphantly thrust a piece of paper in his face.  "Subpoena worked
like a charm.  Let's you and me go pay a visit to the owner of the beeper in
question, one Antoinetta Jenkins, over on Edmondson Avenue."

"Any priors?"

"Nope, clean as a whistle.  But maybe somebody else in the house looks
good for the deed."

-------

The nearby greenery of Gwynn's Falls Park soothed and inspired the residents
of Antoinetta Jenkins' stretch of Edmondson Avenue.  Further to the east,
block after block was filled with brick row houses, many burned-out shells,
many more wearing plywood instead of windows.  But here, the rowhouses
belied the cliché that low income necessarily bred blight.  The two detectives
stood in front of just such a neatly kept home, waiting.

An older woman in a clean but faded house dress pulled the door open a
crack, with the chain of the lock still in place.

Lewis put on his most respectful face.  "Mrs. Jenkins?  Mrs. Antoinetta
Jenkins?"

"Yes."  The sight of the tall, well-dressed man in a business suit reassured
the woman enough to make her open the door a crack further.

"We're from the Baltimore Police Department, ma'am, and we're investigating a
robbery over in Edmondson Village.  I'm Detective Lewis, and this is my
partner, Detective Crosetti."  They politely held up their badges for her
inspection.

Mrs. Jenkins acknowledged each with a nod, but the police never brought
good news, especially not in West Baltimore.

"Tracy's okay?"

Crosetti heard the fear and annoyance in her voice, and couldn't help
thinking about how he'd sparred with his daughter, Beatrice, when she
was a teen.  "Tracy's your daughter?"

"My granddaughter, Tracy Taylor.  She lives with me.  I'm her guardian,
ever since her mother passed."

Lewis murmured his condolences.  "That's a terrible thing, to lose a child.
But, ah, no, we're here about the robbery, happened last Tuesday night."

She shook her head.  "There's so many robberies, so many muggings these
days. People always looking to take what's not theirs."

Lewis agreed sadly, "That's right, ma'am, and it's a shame, it really is.
This particular crime happened right behind the big shopping center."

"I heard about that poor man on the news, was killed while delivering
food, if that's the one you mean."

"You're worried about your granddaughter, with so many robberies
nearby?"Crosetti said suddenly.

"I do worry, it's only natural, what with all these temptations . . . it's
hard for a girl to understand the dangers, sometimes."

"If you had to get in touch with her in a hurry, what would you do?"

"Why, I'd beep her.  I gave her a beeper so I always could keep in
touch. And she's very good about calling me back."

The detectives discreetly passed a meaningful look, but Lewis continued
calmly, "Is your granddaughter here, now?"

"No, no, she went to the school to get books for her classes.  She
starts up at Coppin State next week.  I'm so proud of her!"

Mrs. Jenkins released the chain from the lock.  She ushered the men into the
living room, where they settled into a pair of overstuffed armchairs. Family
photographs took pride of place on the walls.  A well-thumbed Bible lay
on a small table, next to more photos.  In one, a young man and woman
happily mugged for the camera.

All the while, Lewis kept up a comfortable patter.  He pointed to the photo
of the couple.  "Is this pretty young woman your Tracy?"

"Uh-huh, she is.  And that's her good friend, Eddie Franklin.  He's a nice
young man, respectful.  They used to go to school together."

"Respectful, that's all too rare, these days."

Crosetti nodded, echoing his partner's pious sentiment, "Too rare."

"You should be proud of your granddaughter.  Is she the first in your family
to go on to college?"

"Yes, she is.  And I didn't think she would make it.  She was . . . she was a
troubled child."

Crosetti was the very face of concerned sympathy.  "Oh?  She was troubled?
In what way?"

"When she got to be a young lady, she started getting very moody."

The detective smiled.  "Sounds like a typical teenager."

"Well, that's what I thought at first, but she'd get so excited about things,
be talking all the time, I couldn't hardly keep up with her.  She'd get
angry, just like that, for no reason at all.  And then, she'd get so down,
hardly able to get out of bed.  I just didn't know what to do with her.
First kind of pills they tried to give her only seemed to make things
worse. She'd be acting up, something awful."

"But she's been better, lately?  Doctors give her different pills?"

"Oh, yes.  When she started taking the Lithium, she got better again."

As this decent, hard-working woman trustingly answered their questions,
the partners couldn't help feeling sorry for the inevitable heartbreaking
moment.

"That's very good, ma'am.  Ma'am, we don't mean to alarm you, but there's
evidence that a call from that Chinese restaurant was made to a beeper,
registered in your name."

Antoinetta Jenkins's eyes widened.  Before she could say anything, a key
rattled in the front door, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt.

The young woman burst into the house, arms full of her new purchases.
"Grams, look at all these books!  This one, for my English class, it has all
these good stories in it."

"Oh, how nice, baby."

Her grandmother's restrained response made her look up, and only then
did she register the presence of two unfamiliar and serious men.

"Tracy, when you went over to visit your friends on Tuesday, did you
have Chinese food for supper?"

"Yeah, Grams, we picked up some food at the Great Wall."

One of the men said, "The Great Wall?  You sure about that?"

Tracy swiveled to look at the unlikely pair.  "Yeah, you know, the one
at the mall."

The white man said, "You're sure it wasn't the Golden Dragon you called,
instead?"

Her grandmother demanded, "Tracy, have you got your beeper?"

The young woman was getting nervous. "I . . . I'm sorry, Grams, I lost
it somewhere.  It prob'ly fell out of my bag."

Perplexed, the grandmother cried, "Didn't I beep you last night, and
you called me right back?"

Caught in a lie, Tracy became even more agitated. "Yeah, Grams, yeah,
you did.  And I called you back, called you right back, just like I always
do.  I been doing so good.  Why you checking up on me?  Why that stupid beeper
so important?"

"'Cause these men think your beeper was involved somehow in that killing up
at the mall, and I just don't see how that's possible."

The voices of the adults wove together, peppering the young woman with
questions, confusing and agitating her, not giving her time to think. Their
mouths moved, Tracy could see them clearly, but the words were all
blurred. She looked from one face to another, trying to see a way out.  The
voices got louder and louder.  Her grandmother sounded panicked, the detectives
sounded angry.  She started to cry, holding her hands over her ears, trying to
block out the noise, but the dull roaring got louder and louder.  Finally,
she couldn't bear it anymore.

"Why didn't he just give up the food?" she wailed.

There was a moment of dead silence.  And then her grandmother began
screaming in anguish and disbelief, and Lewis had his hands full, trying to
comfort her.  Meanwhile, Crosetti said very slowly and quietly, "Do you know
what happened to that Chinese man behind the mall?"

She began to cry again, so hard that she couldn't catch her breath. Mrs.
Jenkins, tears running down her own face, gathered the child of her child to
her bosom, comforting her as best she could.

Once the girl seemed calm enough to speak, Crosetti picked up the thread.
"It would be very helpful to the poor man's family to know what happened to
their husband and father.  Does the person responsible for hurting that man
live around here?"

Tracy nodded.

"Can you tell us who hurt Mr. Chen?"

Chin trembling, Tracy managed to blurt out, "They all were jumping and
hitting him!"

"Whoa, Miss Taylor, this is getting confusing."  Crosetti held up his hands,
as if to slow the flow of her words.  "Who is 'they'?  There was more than
one guy hurting the man?"

More nods.  "Eddie had the sheet, and Derrick, he had a brick, and Ronnie and
Bobby, they also had bricks, just in case."

At the mention of Eddie's name, Mrs. Jenkins flinched.

"Miss Taylor, as my partner said, this all sounds like it could be confusing,
so we need to sit down quietly, calmly, and have you tell us what happened."
Almost as an afterthought, Lewis added, "Maybe we'll drive around the
neighborhood, see if you can point out the boys who were there that night."

"That's a good idea, a very good idea," observed Crosetti, who was doing his
best imitation of an approving uncle.

Later, neighborhood residents wondered at the sight of the young woman,
slumped in the back seat of a slowly cruising unmarked police car, pointing
out good friends and casual acquaintances alike.

-------

Gee and Kay stood in the Observation Room, watching through the two-way
mirror as Crosetti and Lewis attempted to coax more of the story out of Tracy.

Kay muttered under her breath, "Not nearly so amusing as Miss Chastity, hah?"

Gee merely snorted.

The two detectives were treading gently, knowing that the young woman was in
fragile shape, but it was evident that she'd begun to disconnect. Lying
perps, evasive suspects, forgetful witnesses, they were all in a day's work
in the Box, but the more spaced out Tracy became, the less comfortable Lewis
seemed.  He walked away from the table, looking towards whomever was on
the other side of the mirror, wearily shaking his head.

Concerned, Kay said, "Gee, you think I should give him some relief?
Maybe she'll be less threatened . . . ?"

The lieutenant looked at the girl, who was resting her head on her
outstretched arm, using a finger to draw big loopy words across the
tabletop. He nodded.  "I don't know if we can get much more out of
her right now, but ask Lewis to see me."

When Kay opened the door and asked him to step out, Meldrick cut his
eyes at her, but he was secretly relieved.

" 'Sup, Gee?"

"It's not going so well in there."

"Nah.  She's drifting in and out of focus.  But we have enough, from what she
said earlier, to haul in the rest of her buddies.  Maybe they can connect the
dots."

--------

A small flotilla of marked and unmarked police cars descended upon the
neighborhoods surrounding the shopping center, to snatch up four young
men before the disbelieving eyes of their parents and neighbors.  Derrick
Gilmore was plucked from his bicycle, in front of his home on a leafy block
of Gwynn Street.  Edward Franklin was sitting on his front steps on Walnut
Avenue in Edmondson Village, minding his own, when the detectives arrived.
Ronald White and Robert Jackson, from the Uplands Apartments, were
interrupted in the middle of a pick-up game at the Edmondson-Westside
High School. Now they sat, waiting, carefully separated, distributed among
the two Interrogation Rooms and the Aquarium, with even the secretaries'
office pressed into service.

--------

Howard and Felton, in the secretaries' office, listened to Robert Jackson
describe how the evening had started innocently enough.  "I went to visit
Eddie, he lives over on Walnut, near the mall.  And some of his other friends
were there, but I don't know them too well, I just know them from around."
He hesitated, then added, "I think maybe the girl's got it for Eddie, but
they ain't going out or anything.  And we just hanging out, listening to
music, talking and all.  We decide to get Chinese food, from that carryout
place at the mall."

--------

John Munch glanced across the Aquarium at Bolander, as if to say, "I can
handle this," then prompted their fourteen-year-old suspect, "Later that
night, you got hungry again.  But you'd just paid for all that food, right?"

Derrick allowed, "Somebody says, 'What if we get some food delivered, but
distract the guy, and grab the bags and run away?  We wouldn't have to pay
for nothing!'  And everybody laughs, you know, 'cause it's a big joke. Like,
we're laughing, but the more we joke about it, the more we try to make a real
plan.  Ronnie says, 'Like, if we throw a sheet over his head, he'll be all
thrashing around!'  And he pretends he's a monster, waving his arms like he
can't see, and yelling.  And we just laughing and laughing.  'By the time he
gets free, we'll be back here, eating our food!' he says."

The kid lowered his head and protested feebly, to no one in particular,
"It was supposed to be a joke, man."

--------

Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss observed their suspect through the glass.
"All of them under eighteen," Tim sighed.  Frank scowled.Sentimentality had
no useful place in his world.

As they entered the Box, the fidgety boy called out, "I don't have to say
nothing to you!"

Frank pursed his lips, feigning frustration at the kid's savvy. "That's
true, Eddie.  That's absolutely true, isn't it?"  He looked over at Tim
for confirmation, who nodded his head as he shrugged.

"You don't have to say anything to us at all, Eddie, of course you don't.
But I have to tell you that Tracy put you in for having a brick and hitting
the guy."

Eddie protested, "Oh, man, that girl confused!  She knows I didn't have
no brick!  I was just carrying the sheet!"

"Says he only had the sheet," Pembleton repeated Eddie's self-damning
words, writing it all down.

--------

In the smaller Box, Ronald White was describing to Detectives Crosetti and
Lewis how they'd refined their scheme.  "And we're all figuring out how to
make it slick, make it really work, like on TV.  And we decide we'll use that
other takeout place, the Golden Dragon, since they'd already seen us once at
the Great Wall.  And we decide the girl should call, since they get scared
when it's a guy, and then they don't show up.  And she tells the guy to come
to the back of the mall, near the Tommy Tucker shop, 'cause it's closed up
and no one'll be around, and we can run to Eddie's place from there. Make
our escape."

Lewis asked, cordially, "Son, what phone number did you give the deliveryman?"

"Tracy gives him her beeper number."

Ronnie continued to run down the stupefyingly mundane details of their scheme
, how they had to wait and wait; how they had to call the Golden Dragon
again, this time giving the pay phone number.  And still, they wait and wait,
but rather than admit their fears and drop the plan, they call for their food, again.

Somehow, their half-assed scheme had taken on a life and purpose of its own,
and none of the teens protested or thought to call it off.  Nor did Mr.Chen,
eager for business, think to abandon the suspicious order.  There was a
certain pre-ordained quality to the events, which seemed impervious to
reason.

--------
Howard and Felton thought it time for another try at Tracy.  Kay put the soda
on the table in front of the girl.  She spoke softly, "Tracy, you feel better
now?  You think you can tell us what happened?  We're still kinda confused."

The girl took a few tentative sips.  "The boys, they're hiding behind the
brick wall, other side of the alley from where I'm waiting.  When the Chinese
guy gets there, I pretend to reach into my pockets to pay him, just like we
planned, and they all come running out.  And Eddie throws the sheet over the
man's head, but he's fighting and struggling and he won't let go of the
bags."  Her chin started trembling.  She couldn't look the detectives
in the eyes.

Howard eased the soda towards Tracy's hand.  The act of drinking seemed
to focus the girl.

She continued, her voice a monotone.  "And the boys, they start to punch him.
 And choke him.  And then Derrick, he takes a brick, and he hits the guy a
couple of times.  And then he finally stops fighting, and falls down."

She sniffled, reaching out to take a tissue from the box Beau moved within
her grasp.

"And we all look at each other, like, that's not the way it's supposed to go
down!"  More sniffles, more tissues used and discarded.  "And somebody
grabs a bag of food and we run out the back way, up to Walnut, only then
we slow down, be cool, so we won't look suspicious.  And we go to Eddie's
house, and we eat the food.  And we keep thinking that the poh-leece will
come, or something, but they don't.  And we're bragging how we did it, just
like we said, only, we all know it wasn't just like we said.  We all know it."

--------

"Hey, Timmy, heads up!"

Bayliss, sitting at the computer, ducked just in time as the football whizzed
by his ear.

"Sorry 'bout that."

He brushed off the offense and the apology, absorbed in the information on
the screen.  Shaking his head in amazement, he said, "Look at this, Meldrick.
 None of these kids has a record.  Nothing.  Not even a loitering ticket."

"Izzat so?"  Meldrick absentmindedly tossed the errant football from hand to
hand.

-------

Bolander and Munch listened to this kid, barely into his teens, spin a tale
of a prank, a lark, some petty larceny gone horribly wrong.  Bolander
interrupted the meandering, evasive narrative to ask, "Why, if all you
wanted was some free food, did some of you arm yourselves with bricks?"

Derrick looked alarmed and disgusted, as if this were the most obvious
fact in the world.  "Maybe he had some kung-fu moves!"

Bolander repeated dully, "Kung-fu moves?"

"Yeah, we had to protect ourselves!"

The Big Man leaned back in his chair to absorb this.

Munch spoke for them both.  "Good thinking, bunk."

-------

Gee convened the squad in the breakroom, with Ed Danvers sitting in. The
lieutenant asked his troops, "What do we have here?  Besides interrogation
rooms full of scared teenagers, trying to pin the blame elsewhere, and an
Aquarium full of stunned relatives, unable to believe they raised these
children?"

Kay glanced up.  "We have one person murdered, and six families destroyed.
That must be some kind of record."  There was some uncomfortable shuffling.

Crosetti summed up the awful truth: "Looks like a prank gone wrong, Gee.
Just a stupid teenage stunt.  The kids wanted free food, and concocted what
they thought was a fool-proof way to get it.  Only, it spun out of control."

Gee cut to the chase: "Do you know who actually did the deed?"

"The whole thing went down so fast, even they're not sure what happened.  But
they all seem to agree that Tracy Taylor called in the order, Eddie Franklin
threw a sheet over Chen's head, to immobilize him, and Derrick Gilmore,
the fourteen-year-old, hit Chen with the brick.  Otherwise, it's a free-for-all."

Lewis concurred.  "Yeah, they all put themselves at the scene, but as to who
struck the first blow, or who even came up with the scheme, it's all confused."

Danvers spoke up.  "This may be the most pathetic case I've ever seen."

Kay pointed out, "That's what you always say, Ed."

"Yeah, but that's usually because you have no physical evidence or forensics
worth a damn or uncoerced confessions or sober witnesses."

A chorus of good-natured protests arose.  Beau catcalled, "Hey, Danvers, be
careful, or you'll piss off a lot of guys with guns!"

Giardello asked, "What are you thinking here, Danvers?"

"That the sum of a group is more dangerous and unpredictable than the
individuals in it.  A herd mentality takes over, especially when kids are
involved."

Munch said with some disgust, "Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Danvers."

"Seriously, we can probably get them all on robbery and assault charges, but
the only one they all finger for the killing is the Gilmore kid. Without
pre-meditation or clear intent, it's second-degree, at most.  And he clearly
shows remorse, so I can't predict whether the judge will kick it to Juvenile
or not.  I expect some of them will plead out."  Danvers shook his head.
"Pathetic."

-------

It was a quiet night at the Wharf Rat, a good night to peacefully drown one's
sorrows.  The soft click of billiard balls in the next room punctuated the
men's increasingly disconnected conversation.

Bolander stared mournfully into his empty glass.  He suddenly erupted, "Jeez,
those kids . . . they were the same age as the delivery guy's kids. No, some
were even younger!  How do you explain that?  I mean, what kind of
topsy-turvy universe is it, when you get murdered by kids younger than
your own kids?"  Outburst over as abruptly as it had begun, he resumed
staring into his glass.

Lewis beckoned the bartender by raising his index finger, completing the
gesture by unsteadily tapping the rim of Stan's glass.  "C'mon, Big Man,
cheer up.  I'm buying."

Bayliss slurred, "Save your sym . . . sympathy for the guy's family. They're
the ones . . . the ones who're hurting.  If it wasn't for Victims' Services,
and, and their church, they'd be out on the street, right now.  Right now."
He raised his glass to his lips, taking a few seconds to realize that it was
already empty.

Lewis, swaying gently on his barstool, picked up Tim's meaning. "Nuh-uh, I
ain't buying for you, too!  There's only one Big Man, and you ain't him."

Bayliss clearly looked stung.

"Nah, I was kidding, Timmy.  Hey, barkeep!" Meldrick called out. "Refill my
friend, here."

Harmony restored, the men settled back into their comforting boozy haze.  A
few sips later, Bolander's face crinkled with malicious delight at some private joke.

"What?"  Lewis nudged him.

Bolander continued to grin evilly, savoring the mental image.

"Aw, c'mon, Stan, 'fess up!"

"Those photos, the ones Beau had, they made Harris look pretty ridic . . .
ridic . . . pretty silly."  The Big Man nodded enthusiastically at his own
comment.  The goofy smile slowly eased off his face as he worked to
puzzle out a strange new idea.  He took a long swallow, then froze, glass
halfway between the bar and his lips, and gave in to an uncharacteristic shout
of laughter.  "Harris is one of those guys who likes to be spanked!"

Meldrick laughed too, then got quiet.  He looked up at the ceiling and felt
around for his chin, wanting to stroke it as he spoke.  "Y'know, it makes you
wonder, it really do.  Why do a man like that, has the respect of his
department, a place in society . . . what do a man like that need with a
strap?"  He sighed, still looking up.  "Man, my granmoms was a woman
with a strap; whoo!  She get the strap and you run.  She believed in
DIS-a-pline, know what I mean?"

Bayliss looked doubtful.  "I read up on this, Meldrick, read up on this very
topic.  This afternoon.  This thing with Harris, he's . . . he's . . ."
Brow furrowing, he searched for the word.  "Compensating."  Pleased that he
had dredged it up from his now-fuzzy memory, he added triumphantly, "Maybe
he's even overcompensating!"

Meldrick listened, and continued his study of the pattern of cracks in the
ceiling.  "An' you are so right 'bout that, Timmy.  That's what this whole
Chinese food thing is about.  Lack of discipline, an' lack of guidance in the
young.  You got to use a switch, like it say in the Bible."

Stan, looking down at the bar top, rubbed his temples with his thumbs as he
kneaded his forehead with his fingertips.  "The way of the flesh, my friends."

Lewis and Bayliss blinked at him, confused.

"St. Paul, he wrote, 'I do the things that I despise.' "  The Big Man raised
his head, pushed away his newly emptied glass, and, after some searching,
found his feet.  He stood.  "And on that uplifting note, I wish both of  you
. . . fine men, fine men, both of you, a good night."

"Night, man."

"Good night, Stan."

The author, a native of NYC, is both a card-carrying movie projectionist (IATSE, Local 306), and an artist. Started watching The Show during Lifetime reruns, summer of 1997, mid-season 4. Was immediately hooked, and the rest, as they say, is history.