Bronx Requiem(69)

Ippolito muttered, “Fucker came well armed.”

Palmer noted all the tent cards placed near shell casings lying on the street. “Looks like he nearly emptied both of ’em.”

Ippolito pointed south down the block. “Bunch of casings over there, too. I assume he was shooting in that direction. Let’s see if he hit anybody.”

They walked to the next set of tent cards. There was no blood in the area. The CSU personnel had started the tedious job of finding where all the rounds fired from Biggie Watkins’s guns had landed.

Ippolito stood in the middle of the street looking back and forth. Then he turned and walked back toward the Watkins corpse, Palmer following. Hallandale met them and fell in step alongside.

Ippolito asked him, “So the big guy who got nailed, what was he doing? Standing over there banging it out with someone down there?”

“Not quite. We found one witness so far. She says he was standing in the street behind the driver’s-side door of his car, shooting at two men coming from over there.”

“Two?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the car?”

“The doers who nailed him got away in it.”

“What, they came on foot?”

“Yes, but we found the victim’s car three blocks north at a bus stop, engine running. We figure they left their car there, drove to it, and switched. Although we haven’t found anybody who saw them.”

“And you know it’s the vic’s car how?”

“Two shots in the door. Two shots in the back of the trunk. One through the back window into the dash. And the driver’s-side window was blown out.”

“That’s a lot of hits.”

Hallandale said, “I think whoever put all the shots into the car was mostly providing cover for the second shooter coming up the sidewalk trying to close in on the dead guy.”

Hallandale pointed to a dark Camry back down the street. “Shooter number one took cover behind that car. We got two bullets hitting the front of the vehicle, and we’re still counting more landing around it.”

He pointed to the sidewalk. “Second shooter approached on the sidewalk. Shots were fired at him, but there’s no sign he fired back. No shell casings. Could be a revolver, but there aren’t any bullet holes in the dead guy’s car on that side. I think the second shooter held his fire until he got close enough to nail the big guy.”

“Interesting. Guy must’ve have had some balls walking at some * with two guns blazing and not take a shot.”

“That’s the way it looks.”

The three detectives retraced their steps back to Jerome Watkins. Ippolito crouched down and used the gloved forefinger of his right hand to turn the head of the corpse. Most of the face had been blown away by the gunshots to the head.

“Fuck. No open casket for this one. How do you know it’s Jerome Watkins?”

Hallandale said, “Credit cards and some other ID in his wallet. But no license or cash.”

Ippolito smirked, “I’m not surprised. In this neighborhood, he’s lucky he still has his shoes.” Hallandale gave Ippolito a look. “Well, relatively speaking,” said Ippolito.

Watkins’s shirt had been pulled up to reveal the gunshot wounds in his back. Palmer and the CSU detective watched Ippolito squat down and look at the bullet holes.

Ippolito looked up from his crouch and asked, “What do you make of these? You think the guy who shot him in the head put these in him, too?”

“No. Different caliber bullet. I’d say the shots in the back are nines. The head shots are forty-fives, or three-fifty-sevens. I’m guessing now, but I figure while the street shooter is giving him cover, the sidewalk shooter comes around the car and puts two in this guy’s head. Then the street shooter comes up and bangs two shots into him for, I don’t know, for good measure. Or because he’s angry at getting shot at. Whatever. So, two shooters. The body shots were put in him after he was down. One of the slugs went through into the asphalt.”

“Two shooters. Two different guns.”

“Yep.”

Ippolito grunted and stood up straight, his knees creaking. “Fuck. I gotta start working out.”

Palmer said, “Let’s go make sure the other vic is our guy.”

Ippolito and Palmer made their way to the bloody corpse of Tyrell Williams lying in the back of the small park.

“Shit, man,” said Ippolito. “I don’t think those guys like your buddy, Tyrell. They shot the crap out of him.”

Palmer stared at the body. “Fuck. It’s Tyrell all right.”

“What’s left of him? I guess the good news is he doesn’t have to worry about his busted nose anymore.”

“Very funny.”

Palmer examined all the bullet holes, using his pocket Maglite to compensate for the waning daylight.

“Why you figure he’s back here?”

“Well, with his dick out my guess he was taking a piss. Somebody follows him. Shoots him in the back. He goes down. They stand over him, bang, bang, bang—make sure he’s good and dead. I guess Beck and his boys aren’t thrilled about these guys shooting their friend Paco.”

“They shot Tyrell pretty much the same way they shot Derrick Watkins.”