Bronx Requiem(40)

22

The remains of Derrick Watkins stank. Even though Palmer and the others had opened all the windows, with the outside temperature hovering around eighty and the temperature in the decrepit top-floor apartment creeping higher as more crime-scene investigators and police personnel began to arrive, the stench of the dead body, along with the blood, bones, and brain splattered on the walls, grew worse.

With his fatigue pressing in on him, Palmer wasn’t sure how much more of the smell and heat he could take. And then it all went away when the uniformed cops brought Tyrell Williams up to the third-floor apartment.

Palmer knew a man in bad shape when he saw one. Dried blood matted Tyrell’s face, and he wobbled around, clearly not fully conscious. It didn’t matter to Palmer. This was a possible eyewitness.

He told the two cops holding Tyrell, “Take him to the first bedroom down the hall.”

Palmer followed them and watched the cops lay the young black man on a rumpled bed, setting him on top of the dirty sheets and a bare, badly stained pillow.

Palmer figured him for about twenty-five years old. Big, wearing a blue polo shirt with the large logo, jeans, and New Balance sneakers. Somebody had obviously hit him in the face with something more than a fist. The skin across the bridge of his nose had split open, and the nose looked fractured and swollen, as well as the area under his left eye. Blood stained not only the front of his shirt, but also his jeans.

He would need stitches and some attention to the broken nose.

Palmer looked at him lying on the bed with his eyes closed and wondered if he were playing up his injuries. Then again, the cops did say they’d found him passed out back behind the building.

Fuck it, thought Palmer. Let’s see what we have here. He told the cops who had brought him into the bedroom, “All right, guys, give me a minute.”

Palmer waited until the cops left before he knocked the back of his fist against Tyrell’s shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Tyrell stirred, but kept his eyes closed.

Palmer shook him gently.

“Yo, c’mon. Wake up.”

Tyrell cracked one eye.

Palmer pulled over a battered chair from the corner of the room and placed it near the head of the bed. He sat down and leaned close to Tyrell.

“Listen to me. This is important. Can you follow what I’m saying?”

Tyrell turned toward Palmer and mumbled, “Huh?”

“C’mon, listen up. My name is John Palmer. I’m the detective in charge here. My men found you out back. I need to know something. You were here when the guy in the front room got shot, right?”

Tyrell had both eyes open now.

Palmer repeated, “You were here, right?” Making it sound more conspiratorial.

Still no answer.

Palmer lowered his voice, looked behind him to make sure no one was hovering outside the door. He leaned closer to Tyrell. “When that guy got shot, you were here.”

This time it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” answered Tyrell.

Palmer nodded.

“Good, that means you have a chance to help yourself out. What’s your name?”

“Tyrell. Tyrell Williams.”

“Okay, Tyrell, you’re going to need medical attention for your injuries. You need to be taken care of, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t look to me like you could have pulled any trigger. Doesn’t seem like you even had a gun.”

“No. I didn’t have no gun.”

Palmer kept going, knowing he was completely leading his witness. Describing to him the answers he wanted.

“I pulled up outside here in time to see three guys coming out of this house in a big hurry. They got into a black car. Look like a black Ford Vic, or maybe a Lincoln Town Car.”

Tyrell listened, and waited.

“There were three plus the driver,” said Palmer. “One of ’em was white. Had a shotgun. He fired at me.”

Still Tyrell didn’t comment.

“You know who they were, Tyrell?”

“I don’t know who they were, but they was up here.” Tyrell pointed to his face. “One of ’em did this to me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Palmer asked the next question softly. As if he and Tyrell were friends.

“I’m assuming they shot the guy out in the front room.”

Tyrell hesitated only slightly before he gave Palmer the answer he was seeking, making sure to use the plural as Palmer had. “Yeah. Yeah, they shot him.”

“You know why?”

Tyrell thought carefully before he answered. “Something about a friend of theirs.”

“I see. How many were there?”

“Four. Two whites. One brother. One spic.”

“Who’s the guy they shot?”

“Name is Derrick. Derrick Watkins.”

“Which one shot him, Tyrell?”

“The white guy. There was two white guys.” Tyrell pointed to his face. “The one who did this to me shot Derrick.”

Palmer mustered a look of sympathy. “Really. Think you could identify him?”

“Hell yeah I can identify him.”

Palmer patted Tyrell’s shoulder. “Good. Good. All right, I want you to take it easy. Don’t worry about anything. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. You know. Get somebody in here to look at your injuries. Give you something for the pain.”