The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,66
said.
Either that, or all of a sudden the sugar and salt in her system is throwing off her blood sugar balance.
He said, “Would you please state your name?”
“Shauna. Shauna Mays.”
“And where do you live, Ms. Mays?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Okay. And your address is?”
“Uh, over on Wilder.”
“That would be 2620 Wilder Street, Philadelphia 19147.”
She nodded. “Uh-huh. That right.”
“Have you been read your Miranda rights, Ms. Mays?”
“My what?”
“You have the right to remain silent, the right to have an attorney—”
“Oh, yeah,” she interrupted. “That first cop did that.”
“And you’re freely willing to now answer any questions?”
“Yeah. Sure. Just so I gets my reward.”
“Right. We’ll get to that, Ms. Mays. First, Kendrik Mays is your son, correct?”
“Yeah. He my boy.”
“Can you tell me what happened to Kendrik?”
“He got hisself killed.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m aware of that. How did it happen?”
“He was doing bad. Long time. He had it coming.”
“Because he beat you? You did say he’s responsible for the bruises on your body.”
She looked at him oddly. “I don’t understand.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No! I told that first cop that!”
“Okay, then how did it happen, Ms. Mays?”
“I guess that bullet killed him.”
Payne exhaled audibly. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. Who had the gun?”
“A delivery guy. He come in with Kendrik’s paper. That paper I had that the cop took?”
“The Wanted sheet?”
“Yeah, that’s it. He come in and—No, wait. First he say he got a check for Kendrik. And when I let him in, he give me the paper. The sheet. Said there was no check.”
“This began at what time?”
She cocked her head. “Time? This morning, all I know. Ain’t no clocks in a crack house!”
Payne nodded as he wrote that on his notepad and thought, Right.
If something’s not nailed down, it’s sold for drugs.
My God, what a way to live.
“What did this guy look like? And was he alone, anyone else in the house?”
“Just him. Old white guy, maybe my age. Tall. Kinda skinny.”
Payne wrote that down and asked, “He give you a name? You ever see him before?”
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “I think Kendrik did something bad to this guy. Or maybe to his family. Robbery, rape, something. Once my boy got in the drugs, he was no good.”
Payne noted that on his pad, then said, “This old white guy your age—anything unusual about him? Anything at all special or different you remember about him?”
She thought about that for a moment. Then she grinned.
“He give me money. A hundred dollars, he did! How many times that going to happen? Some white guy come in your house and give you a hundred dollars, then tell you how to get ten thousand more!”
She’s almost giddy.
The sugar must really be kicking in.
She squinted her eyes at Payne and wagged her right index finger at him. “And I want my reward!”
“This man had a gun?”
She looked at Payne with an expression that suggested he was nuts. “How else Kendrik get shot? Had to! I never saw it. But it made a loud noise. Sounded like a cannon boom in the basement.”
“That’s where Kendrik was shot, in the basement? Do we have your permission to go through it and search your whole house?”
She nodded, then snickered. “If you want. Sure. Just try not to make a mess.” She looked at Payne and said, her tone flat, “That was a joke.”
Now she’s feeling so good she’s a damn comedienne.
Payne nodded, then said, “You do know it’s against the law to tamper with the scene of a crime, remove or otherwise alter evidence?”
She shrugged.
Payne raised an eyebrow, then went on: “Okay, do you know the cabbie who helped you?”
She shook her head. “No. He just the first one who’d help me. Had to walk four blocks till I found him on Reed Street. Only charged me twenty bucks. Said he was sorry for me but glad to see Kendrik got what he deserved. Nobody liked that boy.”
Payne wrote that as he asked, “And this cabbie helped you do what?”
“He’s a really big guy. He took that rug and rolled Kendrik up in it, then carried him to the car.”
“Ms. Mays, that’s the tampering with evidence I’m referring to. You should’ve called 911 and—”
She laughed. “Call 911? What? I ain’t got no phone. And I sure as hell wouldn’t call no police if I did.”
Payne stared at her.
Amazing. You get beat to hell and back, someone blows away your son in your basement, but whatever you do, don’t call the good guys. . . .