On Wednesday, in New Haven, Connecticut, Senator Eugene McCarthy, energized by his primary victory in Wisconsin, appeared at a rally six thousand strong. A band played "When the Saints Go Marching In" as he entered the aisle of the meeting hall, some supporters running their hands through his hair as he pa.s.sed. Later, McCarthy traveled to a north Hartford ghetto and spoke through a bullhorn to four hundred blacks, promising a "new set of civil rights," detailing his proposals, but reminding them that the most important thing government should do is "find out what you think, what you want." The reaction to his comments went unreported.

On Wednesday, in Washington, D.C., in the evening, five to ten thousand people attended a rally at the corner of 14th Street and Park Road, where Robert F. Kennedy arrived via convertible motorcade and stepped up onto a makeshift platform set on the back of a flatbed truck. Banners and signs reading "RFK, Blue-Eyed Soul Brother" could be seen in the crowd. A street party atmosphere ensued as Kennedy spoke of "Washington's monuments to failure, to indifference, to neglect." People stood in the street and on rooftops, telephone booths, and trash cans, cheering wildly. One blond woman fainted in front of Kennedy's wife. Down the block, at a much smaller gathering, a couple of Black Nationalists spoke to their predominately black audience, urging them not to vote for "another whitey." According to the Washington Post Washington Post reporter on the scene, their comments drew "little attention." reporter on the scene, their comments drew "little attention."

At the same time, in Memphis, Dr. King spoke to more than two thousand supporters. Friday's march had been moved to Monday, but the city was still seeking an injunction against it, in part because of threats made to the reverend's life.

"It really doesn't matter what happens now," said Dr. King. "I've been to the mountaintop."

Very early that day, just around dawn, the body of Dennis Strange was discovered in the alley shared by Princeton Place and Otis Place, near the row house where he had lived with his parents, by a neighbor who was headed off to work. As the neighbor walked toward his Oldsmobile sedan, his tired eyes not yet focused, he saw starlings alighting on something heaped on the stones up ahead. The birds took flight as the man approached. He knew it was a dead body he was nearing, having seen much death in the Second World War. He recognized the victim immediately, though he looked very different in the grotesque freeze of violent death than he had in life. His head had been nearly severed from his shoulders; it rested at an unnatural angle to his body, as if hinged. His teeth, stained with blood, protruded from lips drawn upward, a grimace of agony common in slaughtered animals. His eyes were open, fixed, and bulging. And there was all that blood. The blood, a pond of it beneath him, had soaked into his clothing and turned much of it black.

"Lord," said the man, his voice not much more than a whisper.

He went back to his house and phoned the police, then woke his wife and sat on the edge of their marriage bed.

"Poor Alethea," said the wife.

"I know it," said the man, shaking his head. Their words were minimal but mutually understood. He and his wife had grown children of their own.

"You think he was robbed?"

"Of what? Boy never had twin dimes." The man squeezed his wife's hand and got up off the bed. "I better get back out there. They'll be wanting to talk to me, I expect."

By the time the neighbor had returned to the scene, two squad cars had arrived, and soon thereafter came the meat wagon, photographer, and lab man. Last to arrive was a homicide detective named Bill Dolittle, who was working a double and had the bad luck to catch the case just an hour before break time. Dolittle was a slack-jawed alcoholic, p.r.o.ne to seersucker suits, whose stick never shifted past second gear. He had the lowest closure rate in his precinct. Other cops called him Do-nothing and laughed at the mention of his name. He didn't mind. He was working for his pension and his next drink.

Dolittle dispatched one of the uniforms to talk to the old man whose house was behind the fence where the murder had occurred. The man, a gnarled-faced gentleman who went by R. T., said he knew the victim and nothing else. He had let his dog, Brave, back in the house at a late hour but had seen "not a thing."

"Your dog stays out all night?" said the uniform.

"Usually he does. That's my security guard right there. But he was barking at nothin' last night. Leastways nothin' I could see. I was up there on my stoop with the kitchen lights shining behind me. All's my eyes could make out was the black of night."

"Why'd you let him in?"

"Dog was barkin' at a ghost, far as I could tell, and he wouldn't stop. I was afraid Brave was gonna wake someone up."

After getting a statement from the neighbor, Detective Dolittle went to notify the victim's parents. He found the mother, Alethea Strange, drinking a cup of coffee at an eating table, wearing a uniform-style dress, preparing, she said, to head up into Maryland to her "Wednesday house," where she worked as a domestic. The father, Darius Strange, had already left for his job as a grill man in a diner. The woman broke down briefly when Dolittle gave her the news, Dolittle standing before her, jingling the change in his pocket and staring impotently at the floor. She then composed herself, rose abruptly from the table, and phoned her husband. When she was done talking to him, she phoned her younger son.

FRANK VAUGHN HAD closed his fresh Petworth homicide the night before, the way most cases got closed: via a snitch. A parole violator brought in on a marijuana charge offered up the killer, with whom he regularly played cards, and cut a deal. Uniforms arrested the suspect at his grandmother's apartment without incident. Vaughn interrogated the suspect at the station, but it was a formality, as he had already signed a confession he had written out, in pathetic grammar, before Vaughn arrived. closed his fresh Petworth homicide the night before, the way most cases got closed: via a snitch. A parole violator brought in on a marijuana charge offered up the killer, with whom he regularly played cards, and cut a deal. Uniforms arrested the suspect at his grandmother's apartment without incident. Vaughn interrogated the suspect at the station, but it was a formality, as he had already signed a confession he had written out, in pathetic grammar, before Vaughn arrived.

"Why'd you do it, Renaldo?" said Vaughn.

"Does it matter?"

"That's up to your attorney to decide. But I just like to know. Off the record."

Renaldo shrugged. "Man was f.u.c.kin' my woman. I don't even like like the b.i.t.c.h, understand? But there's some things you don't do. I heard about it at a card game; all these boys I run with . . . everyone knew but me. Didn't even bother me he was jammin' this girl. He just shouldn't have talked so free, is all it was. It shamed me. When a man don't have his pride . . ." the b.i.t.c.h, understand? But there's some things you don't do. I heard about it at a card game; all these boys I run with . . . everyone knew but me. Didn't even bother me he was jammin' this girl. He just shouldn't have talked so free, is all it was. It shamed me. When a man don't have his pride . . ."

He ain't got nothin' at all, thought Vaughn, tuning out Renaldo's voice and finishing it off in his head. He'd only heard this story, in variation, about a hundred and fifty times. He had thought this might be the interesting exception here, something different to make his buddies down at the FOP bar laugh, but it was always the same. Now Renaldo, a triple offender, just like the solid citizen who'd ratted him out, was going to do twenty-to-life for defending the honor of a b.i.t.c.h he didn't even like.

"Take it easy, Renaldo," said Vaughn before leaving him in the box. At least you got your pride.

Now Vaughn was free to work the hit and run. He had pulled an eight-to-four and his plan was to pursue it all day.

At around nine, Vaughn was still in the station, drinking coffee and having a smoke, sitting at his desk, scanning the night sheets, when he read about the fresh victim down in Park View. Alethea's oldest was named Dennis. Had to be the same man.

He picked up the phone, talked to Olga, gave her the news, listened to Olga's theatrics, and got Alethea's phone number. He phoned the Strange residence, and a man came on the line. He recognized the voice.

"Strange residence."

"Frank Vaughn here."

"Detective."

"I just heard. It is is your brother, right?" your brother, right?"

"Yes."

"My sympathies to you and your family. Please tell your mother that I was . . . that she's in my thoughts."

"I will."

"Young man?"

"Yes."

"Who's the primary? Do you know?"

"A Bill Dolittle."

"Okay. You tell him I'm at his disposal, hear? And the same goes for you and your parents. Anything you need. Anything, understand?"

"Thank you, Detective," said Strange, and hung up the phone.

Billy Do-nothing. That was a bad break. Unless the perp walked right into the station with pen in hand, or there was a forthcoming wit, or there was a plea-out involved, the case would go cold.

Vaughn rubbed at his face. The young man, Derek, had seemed unemotional, considering. Well, he was police. Some of them just felt they had to put up a hard front all the time. Secretly, Vaughn was relieved that the son, and not the mother or father, had picked up the phone. But he hoped Derek would pa.s.s on the message that he had called.

Vaughn sat there smoking his cigarette. What he knew of Dennis Strange came from Alethea, and Alethea gave up little of her private life. He remembered vaguely that the older son had been in the service, but that was long ago. There was little else to recall. When Alethea spoke of her sons at all, it was usually about Derek, the cop. He wondered if Dennis, the murder victim, had shamed her in some way or if it was just that Derek gave her such pride.

Vaughn crushed his L&M out in the ashtray before him, found an unmarked out in the lot, and went to work.

He visited several garages on the D.C. border. He went back down to 14th and recanva.s.sed a few of the neighbors who lived close to the accident scene, and turned up jack.

Shortly thereafter, he sat at the lunch counter in the Peoples on Georgia and Bonifant, eating a burger-and-fries platter and washing it down with a chocolate shake, his basic early lunch. The steel cup used to make the shake sat next to his gla.s.s. The soda jerks here didn't pour the extra out and waste it like they did at other five-and-dimes, and that was why Vaughn always came back.

He pushed away his plate and lit a smoke. When he was done with it, he took his notebook and pen out of his inside jacket pocket, went to a wooden phone booth in the drugstore, dropped a dime in the slot, and got Scordato, his PG County cop friend, on the line.

"Marin, it's Vaughn."

"Hound Dog, how's it hangin'?"

"Straight down the middle," said Vaughn. "Gimme somethin', will you?"

"Get a pen."

Vaughn drove into PG County. He visited a garage off Riggs Road, in Chillum. He got shrugs and the usual pa.s.sive hostility. His next stop was a place near Agar Road, in West Hyattsville, near the Queens Chapel Drive-in, an unmarked garage on a gravel road set behind a strip of speed and tire shops.

Vaughn parked behind a Dodge Dart, a plum-colored GT with mag wheels. A Hi Jackers decal and another reading "WOOK: K Comes Before L," were affixed to the rear window. He studied the car as he pa.s.sed it and headed for the garage.

Vaughn walked through the open bay door. A white guy and a colored guy, both good sized, had their heads under the hood of an all-stock, pearl-finish Chevelle SS. "Windy" came from a radio set high on a shelf.

The white guy, light and freckled, wearing coveralls cut off at the shoulders, a cigarette dangling from his lips, stood free as Vaughn cleared his throat. The colored guy's eyes came up, but only for a moment, returning his attention to the Chevy's water pump, illuminated by a droplight. He worked a flathead to a clamp, tightening it around a hose. Vaughn saw homemade tattoos, probably done with a heated wire, on both of his forearms.

"How's it goin' today?" said Vaughn.

"We help you?" said the white guy, real chipper voice, smiling, looking Vaughn over, making him as a cop.

"I hope so," said Vaughn, badging the white guy, replacing the badge case inside his jacket. "Frank Vaughn, MPD. I'm lookin' for a Patrick Millikin."

"You found him."

"Can I get a minute?"

Millikin pointed his chin in the direction of the Chevy. "Just about."

Vaughn stepped forward, closing the s.p.a.ce between himself and Millikin, intending to crowd him. Millikin did not react.

"A homicide occurred a few nights ago involving a red Galaxie or Fairlane, sixty-three, sixty-four. Might be damage to the grille or the hood. Headlights, quarter panels . . ." Vaughn looked at the colored guy, whose eyes had flashed up again, then back at Millikin. "I was wondering if a car like that might have come through."

"No, sir."

Millikin picked a shop rag up off the cement floor and rubbed at his hands. The ember flared on his cigarette as he drew on it, Millikin squinting against the smoke coming off its tip. He dropped the rag, ashed the cigarette into his palm, and rubbed the ashes into the thigh of his coveralls.

"You sure, sure, now," said Vaughn. now," said Vaughn.

"Haven't seen a car fitting that description."

"You talk to the other garage owners around here, don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"Any of them mention a car like that?"

"No."

"Nothin', huh?"

"Not a thing."

"You got a brother in the joint on a manslaughter beef, right?"

"He don't know about no red Ford, either."

Millikin dragged on his smoke, double-dragged, pitched the b.u.t.t out the open bay door. His pale freckled face had gone pink.

"You're a funny guy," said Vaughn.

"I was just sayin' he don't know."

"Well, I mention prison 'cause . . . h.e.l.l, Mr. Millikin, I know all about the code. How people like your brother and some of the people you might, uh, a.s.sociate a.s.sociate with now and again don't like to talk with the police. But see, this isn't one of those honor-among-thieves things." with now and again don't like to talk with the police. But see, this isn't one of those honor-among-thieves things."

"That's nice. But I still ain't seen the car. Now look, I gotta get to work. I promised the man who owns this Chevy here that I'd have it for him this afternoon."

"Here's the deal," said Vaughn, taking another step forward. "The driver of the car I'm describing, he ran this colored boy down in the street for no reason at all. Broke his neck, severed his spinal cord . . . left his brain fluid all over the street. Boy had a steady job, was off to college in the fall, the whole nine. Looked to me like this driver, he was havin' fun doing it. Boy wasn't hurting no one."

Millikin's eyes had lost some of their light. "That's rough."

"Someone spray-painted 'Dead n.i.g.g.e.r' on the asphalt, too, with an arrow pointing to where the body dropped. Can you imagine?"

"d.a.m.n shame," said Millikin, looking away from Vaughn.

"Yeah," said Vaughn. "It's just wrong." He reached into his pocket, retrieved his badge case, and withdrew a card, doctored to include his home phone. "You hear anything about a red Ford, sixty-three, sixty-four, damage to the front, you give me a call."

"I surely will."

Vaughn looked to make eye contact with the colored guy before he left, but the man's face was buried in his work. He walked from the garage, the lousy music trailing him like a bad joke.

Outside, he stopped by the plum-colored Dart. He withdrew another business card from his badge case, reached into the open window, and dropped it onto the driver's bucket. He knew that the call-letter decal on the back window was for one of those local radio stations played soul, R&B, race music, whatever they were calling it this week. It was all jungle-jump to Vaughn. What the sticker meant was, this here had to be the vehicle of the colored mechanic, had the prison tattoos. Maybe the lie Vaughn had told, about the spray paint in the street, would get the guy going. Maybe not. Anyway, it was all scatter shot. Once in a while you got a hit.

Vaughn got into his car and headed back into D.C. He had promised Linda Allen he'd drop by.

Back in the garage, Pat Millikin and Lawrence Houston waited for the sound of the cop's engine to fade.

"Stupid sonofab.i.t.c.h," said Millikin, lighting another smoke. "He backed my brother on the inside, so it was on me to back him, too. But after this, I'm done."

"You finished with his car?"

"I got it over in Berwyn Heights, workin' on it nights. Gonna be a few days before I'm done."

"That big boy he was with, you say he wanted a rental, too?"

"Buzz Stewart. Well, he ain't gettin' one now. I'm gonna call him at that gas station he works at right now and give him the news. Make it simple: I got no cars to rent."

"You gonna tell him about our visitor?"

"Not my lookout. We didn't say nothin' to that cop, so Stewart's got no reason to know. I want as little contact with those two as possible." Millikin looked at Houston. "Listen, Lawrence . . . brother or no brother, if I had known what those guys did, I never would have took in that car."

Houston shrugged. "Ain't no thing to me."

He tugged at the pump hose, testing the strength of the clamp. He reached to close the Chevy's hood and saw the tremble in his hands.