She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,116

handcuff.

He took his knee out from the small of my back and stood, tugging at my arms. “Get up.”

“I need to get in there!”

“Get up.”

They lifted me to my feet, and I tried to break free but couldn’t.

“You don’t understand, I—”

“Put him in the back of that one,” the officer on my left said, nodding toward a squad car parked near the fountain.

The first officer began dragging me toward the car.

Another cop opened the car door as we approached.

“Get Detective Brier!” I shouted. “Tell him I’m here! I need to get inside! I need—”

The first officer pushed the top of my head and tried to force me down into the car. “I don’t give a shit what you need, kid.”

“Get Detective Brier!”

A man in plainclothes standing near the front door heard me and looked up. “Who did you say?”

“Detective Brier. Tell him I’m here,” I repeated.

“And who are you?”

“Jack Thatch. He’ll know.”

The man frowned. “Put him in the car.”

And the officer did just that, slamming the door behind me.

I beat on the windows, kicking at the glass and the car doors.

They ignored me. All of them.

I sat there for at least three hours.

The car smelled of bleach, vomit, and piss.

I watched as people came and went from the front door of the house.

I watched as the black smoke began to thin.

I watched the firemen eventually roll up their hoses, store their equipment in the truck, and disappear down the driveway.

The shadows began to slant.

At one point, another uniformed officer, a thin black woman with short hair, rolled down the front windows of the car. She didn’t look at me. Smoke-laden air drifted in from outside through the metal mesh blocking the passenger compartment of the car from the front but did little for the interior smell.

Another hour passed.

The firetrucks and ambulances left, replaced with CSI vans.

The door beside me opened, and a woman sat down. The woman officer who opened the windows closed the door behind her and stood outside, her back to the car.

“Your name is John Edward Thatch. You’re seventeen years old and live at 1822 Brownsville Road, apartment 306. Both your parents are dead, and until recently, you lived with your aunt, Josephine Gargery. When she passed away four months ago, you fell into the care of your neighbor, one”—She pulled a small pad from her jacket pocket, opened to the first page, and scanned the text—“One, Elfrieda Leech. Sixty-nine years old, and by all accounts, a hopeless shut-in. You worked at Krendal’s Diner on Brownsville until it was destroyed during what appears to be a commissioned hit on Henry Crocket three months ago. You are a known associate of Duncan Bellino.” She closed the flap on her notepad. “Did I miss anything?”

I said nothing.

“Do you know who I am?”

I nodded. “You’re Detective Brier’s partner. I recognize you from my aunt’s funeral.”

“I’m Detective Fogel. I work in Homicide. I need you to tell me what you’re doing here, Mr. Thatch.”

“I need to get in the house.”

“Why?”

“Is she in there?”

“Is who in there?”

My eyes went to the floor. “I need to know that Stella is okay.”

At the mention of Stella’s name, Fogel’s expression remained neutral. “Tell me about the man who drives that black Pontiac GTO.”

“I don’t know anyone who drives a GTO.”

“You know we’ve been watching your building. This man has been seen coming and going numerous times. He’s been in your apartment. Does he work for Bellino? Is Bellino responsible for this?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Where is Detective Brier? Go get him. I need to speak to him.”

Her fingers began to roll on her knee. Finally, she said, “Detective Brier is dead.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody shot him in the head, practically point blank, about twenty feet from where you’re sitting.” She pointed toward the side of the driveway, then knocked twice on the window.

The officer standing beside the car opened the door.

“Come with me,” Fogel said, stepping back outside.

I slid out and followed her through the maze of cars in the driveway. The female officer followed behind both of us at a distance of only a few feet. As we rounded one of the CSI vans, I spotted six bodies all covered by black tarps—three in the driveway, two more in the grass, and another off to the side.

Fogel went to the body off to the side and knelt. She peeled back the tarp.

Detective Brier’s glassy gaze stared forward, his mouth slightly open. There was a small hole in his forehead above his right eye,