A Measure of Darkness Read online

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Thank you. He was Liz’s patient, not mine. She’s pretty devastated.”

  The screen showed rows and rows of broad green trees.

  “Look how much fun we are,” I said.

  “Loads of fun.”

  “Boatloads,” I said. “We’re like a cruise ship of fun.”

  She craned to kiss me, then got up, heading for the kitchen. “Duck time.”

  I stretched out and shut my eyes.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday, December 23

  I woke up on the couch around two a.m., draped by a blanket. Not wanting to disturb Amy, I stayed in the living room, fading in and out for another couple of hours before conceding defeat and feeling around for the remote.

  Early-morning news had nothing to say about the shooting.

  Neither did Steve Harvey, or TMZ, or Mike & Mike.

  We had ceased to trend on Twitter.

  The world had stopped to stare, then kept on going.

  4:28 a.m.

  At the bureau, I ducked into the locker room to change.

  A shirtless Brad Moffett sat slumped on a folding chair, supported by the bulge of his own abdomen, his skin shiny and sallow.

  “Morning,” I said.

  He acknowledged me with a grunt.

  “You get any rest?”

  “Some.”

  “How was the night?”

  “Busy.” He scratched at his chest. “The kid died.”

  “Which kid?”

  “The gut-shot,” he said. “Coombs. He made it through surgery but went into shock. They called a few minutes ago.”

  “I didn’t know he was a kid.”

  “Like eighteen or nineteen.”

  That brought the body count to six.

  “What about the other guy?” I asked. “Schumacher.”

  “The nurse told me they discharged him.”

  “That’s good, at least.”

  Moffett yawned. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Who’s on the call?”

  “Nobody yet,” he said.

  “All right. We’ll handle it.”

  “It’s four thirty,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Mm.”

  “Go home,” I said. “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

  He nodded gratefully. “The sheet’s on my desk.”

  “No problem. I’ll sign you out.”

  He kept nodding but did not move, staring down at his stomach. I imagined him imagining himself with his guts blown open, a human soup bowl.

  He said, “I’m a fat fuck.”

  He looked up at me. “When did I become such a fat fucking fuck?”

  I said, “Honestly, Sergeant? I can’t remember that far back.”

  He smiled and flipped me off.

  * * *

  —

  I WASN’T THE first one from our team. Zaragoza was at his desk, typing, perhaps to atone for his lateness the previous night. Coombs’s death came as news to him.

  “I didn’t speak to Moffett,” he said. “I must’ve missed him on the way in. Gimme one second to finish up what I’m doing.”

  The phone rang. I went to take it.

  “One second” turned into a minute, then five, ten. Zaragoza took a call. I fell into paperwork. Turnbow appeared at quarter to, followed by Bagoyo and Shoops soon thereafter. A new mood settled over the squad room, quiet and purposeful, free of haste, coffee mugs and cleared throats and staplers chunking. The techs arrived, chatting about their vacation plans. Carmen Woolsey had the latest issue of Food Network Magazine and was excited to try out a recipe for pear cardamom spice cake.

  We could have been any midsized American office—the regional branch of some beverage distributor.

  The phone rang, although with less urgency and frequency. People worried about their niece, their cousin, their college roommate; calling from other time zones, out of state, word of the shooting having migrated. The internet could sustain a story TV had dropped.

  At ten to six I passed Moffett’s desk and spied a half-completed intake sheet atop his keyboard.

  “Shit,” I said. “Zaragoza.”

  He lifted his head.

  I held up the sheet. “Coombs.”

  “Shit,” he said.

  We reached Highland Hospital by six fifteen. Zaragoza backed the van up to the morgue loading bay, and we got out and buzzed for admittance.

  No answer. Zaragoza jabbed the button.

  Silence.

  A final jab, then we gave up and walked around to the main entrance.

  A clutch of Oakland uniforms hung out in the lobby, sipping coffee and shooting the shit. Zaragoza told them we were here to pick up the kid who’d died overnight. Did they happen to know who caught it?

  “Try upstairs,” a uniform said.

  “They got the shooter in a bed,” another said. “He showed up bleeding in the ER.”

  We thanked them and headed for the elevators.

  * * *

  —

  A LINE THREE-STRONG had formed outside room 431: Detectives Bischoff and Von Ruden, and, nearest to the door, Delilah Nwodo.

  “Hello again,” she said.

  Bischoff and Von Ruden nodded as well, although it was evident from their bleary expressions that they had no memory of me whatsoever.

  Through the closed door I could hear voices, one steady, one agitated.

  “Popular guy,” I said.

  “Oh yes,” Nwodo said. “What brings you here at this fine hour?”

  “Jalen Coombs,” Zaragoza said, asking who owned the case.

  “That’d be Ms. Muñoz,” Nwodo said, thumbing at the room. “In there, as we speak.”

  “Taking her time, too,” Bischoff said.

  “First come, first served,” Nwodo said.

  Bischoff gestured yeah, yeah.

  “You guys got a lotta hands in the pot,” I said.

  “We can totally spare the manpower,” Von Ruden said. “It’s one hundred percent, totally not at all how it looks.”

  The shooter’s name was Isaiah Branch. He was nineteen years old. Around midnight, he had walked unaccompanied into the emergency room, his arm bound in a bloody T-shirt. Exam revealed an injury to his biceps consistent with a through-and-through gunshot wound. When asked about its origin, he became evasive and expressed a desire to leave the hospital.

  The ER staff convinced Branch to wait. Then they called the cops.

  “Hang on a sec,” I said. “He’s the shooter, who shot him?”

  “There’s a guy shooting on the other side, too,” Von Ruden said. “From the party.”

  “Whole thing’s on tape,” Bischoff said. “You can watch it on YouTube.”

  “For real?” Zaragoza said.

  “We’re calling them the Sharks and the Jets,” Von Ruden said. “Helps to keep em straight.”

  “Old school,” I said.

  “How we roll in Oaktown.”

  “Which one’s which?”

  “Shit, I forget,” Von Ruden said. “Who’s the white gang?”

  “The Jets,” Nwodo said.

  “Okay, so that’s the party people.”

  What about the round that hit the kid in the basement? Did they know who fired it?

  Bischoff shrugged. He had swapped out his 49ers tie for Santa Clauses. “Maybe I’ll find out”—he inclined toward the door, spoke in a stage whisper—“if I ever get in there.”

  “What we need,” Von Ruden said, “is those pagers they give you, tell you when your table’s ready. Like at the Cheesecake Factory?”
/>   “What you need,” Nwodo said, “is to not eat at the Cheesecake Factory.”

  I asked if she’d had a chance to question the homeowner about Jane Doe.

  “She claims not to recognize her,” Nwodo said. “ ‘She’s at a party at your house, you don’t know who she is?’ But she says they throw these parties twice a month. They get all kinds showing up. Strangers, plus-ones.”

  “They were charging admission,” Von Ruden said.

  “That doesn’t sound legal,” Zaragoza said.

  “Least of her problems,” Bischoff said.

  “What about the driver on my ped struck?” I asked him. “Meredith Klaar.”

  I saw it dawn on him, then, who I was.

  “Negative for everything,” he said. “Except maybe being a shitty driver.”

  Plus scared out of her mind. “Get a chance, send me a copy of her statement?”

  Before he could acknowledge the request, the door opened and a woman with cinnamon hair and a belt badge—Detective Muñoz, presumably—stepped out carrying a gunshot residue kit.

  She said, “He says it wasn’t him doing the shooting.”

  The other detectives reacted with predictable disdain.

  “Also, he knows Jalen Coombs,” she said. “They’re friends going back to third grade. That much I think he’s telling the truth. He lost his shit when I told him Coombs was dead.”

  “If he’s not the shooter, then Coombs was,” Bischoff said.

  “According to him, no. He won’t say who else was with them, though.”

  “Right,” Von Ruden said. “I guess bullets are magically appearing from thin air.”

  “Where’s he been the last twenty-four hours?” Bischoff asked.

  “Ask him yourself,” Muñoz said. “Maybe you’ll do better.”

  Nwodo’s turn. She started into the room.

  “You mind if I tag along?” I asked.

  Probably I should’ve cleared it with Zaragoza first. We had a body to remove. But I didn’t want to miss my chance. Maybe Isaiah Branch had seen what happened to Jane Doe—or to Jasmine Gomez. I doubted Bischoff would ask; he and Von Ruden were interested in Branch as a perp, not as a witness.

  Nwodo eyed me briefly. “No,” she said, “I don’t mind.”

  I looked to Zaragoza. He shrugged. He introduced himself to Muñoz and they went off to confer about Jalen Coombs. Von Ruden was popping a Tums. Bischoff checked his watch and let out a strained sigh.

  7:19 a.m.

  Isaiah Branch lay on his side, hugging a pillow, his uninjured arm cuffed to the bed rail. In the corner sat a uniform, swiping at his phone: right, right, right, left, right.

  Nwodo pulled a chair close to the bed. “Hey there.”

  Soft voice. Soothing.

  Isaiah sat up, rubbing red eyes. He was rangy and handsome, with a hi-top fade and a small metal stud in his lower lip. The neck of his hospital gown drooped. Seeing me, he ducked down, glaring, projecting an air I knew well: young male, excruciatingly aware of his own naïveté, desperate to hide it.

  “I already told her,” he said. “I don’t know anything else.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Nwodo said. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet. I’m Detective Nwodo. This is Deputy Edison.”

  I raised a friendly hand. “Hi.”

  “All right,” Isaiah said, speaking to Nwodo. “I get how it works.”

  She said, “How’s it work?”

  “The white lady runs out of steam, she sends you in.”

  Nwodo smiled. “Look, Isaiah, let’s make this quick. I don’t care who you shot.”

  “I didn’t shoot—”

  “Great. Then we don’t have to talk about it. What I want to know about is this girl.”

  He hesitated, then glanced at Nwodo’s phone, a photo of Jane Doe, framed tight to her face.

  “Recognize her?” Nwodo said.

  He chuffed. “Some Sarah.”

  He meant some generic white girl.

  “She’s dead, if that matters,” I said.

  Isaiah flinched. “Doesn’t mean I know who she is.”

  “That’s fine,” Nwodo said, putting the phone away. “But I want you to listen carefully, cause I’m going to share some information that might be of interest to you.”

  She rested a hand on the bed rail and leaned in. “Me, personally? I’m not asking you about the shooting. The second I walk out of here, though, there are two more detectives waiting in the hall who plan to do exactly that. You stop talking to me, you start talking to them. And I hate to tell you this, but between you and me, they have some stuff that’ll make you shit your pants. For example.”

  He was looking at her, now.

  “There’s a video,” she said.

  His mouth opened a fraction of an inch.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Somebody got the whole thing on camera.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “Crazy, right?”

  “Technology,” I said.

  “I told you,” Isaiah said, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I believe you,” Nwodo said.

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not. That’s the truth. You have a video, fine. That’s what you’ll see.”

  “Isaiah.” That same mothering tone, so at odds with the content of her words. “Hang on. Let me explain something that you might not realize. You ever heard of the felony murder rule? You know what that is? It says it doesn’t matter whether you’re the one who pulled the trigger. You were there. You went over there with them. That makes you part of everything that happens next. You understand? It means they can arrest you for murder.”

  I couldn’t tell how serious she was. I had no idea what they had on him. But she was doing a terrific job of selling the danger he was in. And her concern for him. Isaiah looked rattled as hell.

  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

  “It’s the law,” Nwodo said.

  I said, “She’s right.”

  “My advice to you,” she said, “this point forward, Isaiah, you need to think about yourself. You need to protect yourself. Anything you do to help me, that’s going to help you, when it’s your turn to stand in front of the judge. But the offer isn’t good forever.”

  Out in the hall, new voices. Excuse us, please.

  Isaiah’s eyes went to the door.

  “It’s good right now,” Nwodo said, speeding up. “So if you did see her, if you know anything about what happened to her, it’s in your best interest to tell me that.”

  I could hear Von Ruden saying If you could just give us a few more minutes.

  Isaiah? Are you in there?

  Ma’am—

  “Now,” Nwodo said, “while you still have the opportunity to affect your future.”

  The door flipped open and a middle-aged black couple entered.

  “That’s enough,” the man said.

  “Sorry,” Nwodo said. “You are?”

  “His parents,” the woman said. “And he is not talking to you anymore.”

  Isaiah started to open his mouth.

  “You be quiet,” the woman said. To Nwodo: “Did you hear me? We’re done.”

  “All due respect, ma’am, he’s not a minor.”

  “Isaiah,” the man said, “tell the detective you’re done talking and you want a lawyer.”

  Isaiah said, “But I didn’t do—”

  “Shut up,” the woman said, “and repeat what your father said.”

  A beat.

  Isaiah Branch said, “I want a lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Down at the morgue, Zaragoza was waiting for an orderly to complete the release form on Jalen Coombs. I recounted what had happened upstairs.

&nb
sp; “He’s all I ain’t scared of nothing,” I said, “but man, you should’ve seen his face when Mom and Dad walked in. You could basically hear his asshole pinch shut.”

  Zaragoza laughed.

  “Von Ruden and Bischoff were pissed,” I said. “They didn’t get to talk to him.”

  “Early bird gets the worm.” He squinted through reinforced glass into the cramped office where the orderly sat, mousing. “Muñoz said the family was around. I’m going to see if I can find them.”

  A few minutes later, the orderly emerged with a clipboard for me to sign. He and I transferred Jalen Coombs’s body onto a gurney and loaded it into the van. The orderly retrieved a clear plastic bag crammed with Coombs’s possessions, those items removed from him or fallen off in the course of his ambulance ride, intubation, surgery, and death.

  A phone. A wallet. A thin gold necklace.

  Bloody clothes; a bloodstained pair of Jordans.

  I sat on the van’s rear bumper, staring at the shoes and thinking about my brother. We’d bike to the Bay Fair Mall and stand before the display wall at Foot Locker like pilgrims at a shrine. New Jordans ran a hundred fifty bucks.

  My father would laugh. For sneakers? Worn out in three months? Forget it.

  We begged. Threatened. Tried to explain: these weren’t any old sneakers; these were Michael Jordan’s sneakers. The significance was lost on him. He tossed us the classifieds.

  The first and only pair we ever got—we got them at the same time, we had to, or there would be blood—were the XVs. My grandmother paid for them, a joint Christmas-birthday present for each of us.

  Ugly shoes. Laces sheathed in waffle fabric, an odd foreskin-like overhang at the top. Bad shoes, too, baggy in the mid-foot. Get crossed up in them and you’d turn an ankle.

  We didn’t care. Good enough for MJ. Good enough for us. I was fifteen and chose white and dark blue. Luke took black and red. It didn’t take three months till they had holes.

  The morgue door kicked wide.

  “They’re gone,” Zaragoza said. “Nurse said they left around five thirty.”