light in his eyes—the one he’d use to see into your soul—it died one day. And when the light died, he died. I guess he couldn’t go on knowing that he didn’t belong anymore. I guess it became too tempting to give up on life. So that’s what he did.
“He started shooting heroin, and even though his body grew, you could see that his spirit was shrinking. He was withering away to nothing. The man he became was nowhere near the boy he had been. And everyone could see it. We started seeing him sitting on people’s steps nodding, or walking up the street scratching the side of his face. His hands were as big as baseball mitts and his body started to look bloated. It got to the point where we didn’t even bother him anymore. We just stood by and watched him killing himself.
“After I moved out of the neighborhood, I got into the church, went to school. I guess Leroy kept going in the opposite direction. When cocaine came out, he started using that. And I guess when crack came out, that was the next logical thing for him to do. Because when you’re born to be a leader, and someone snatches all that away from you, sometimes you end up thinking that you don’t have anything left to live for.”
John shook his head sadly. Then he looked over at Ramirez.
“That’s why I know Leroy couldn’t have killed anybody,” he said earnestly. “Because I know that the man cared too much about life to take it, even if it meant giving up his own.”
When Ramirez and Hillman left the house and headed back to the crime scene, they weren’t any closer to finding Leroy. But Leroy had become more than just words on a printout. He had become real to them. And Ramirez hated that.
He didn’t want to know anything about a suspect’s past that he couldn’t read on a rap sheet. He saved his compassion for his family, for other cops, for people whose lives intersected with his own. But never for suspects. It was easier that way. He didn’t have to feel.
Hillman had seen a thousand cops like that. Their every action was about detachment. But Hillman was going to make sure that Ramirez looked below the surface. He knew that there was more to North Philly than desolation. The people in the streets he patrolled were his family. Not other cops. Not his ex-wife. Not even his children. Perhaps that was why his life was in a shambles. He cared too much.
“What are you thinking so hard about, Reds?” Ramirez said.
Hillman started to tell the truth: that he was wondering how it felt to be detached, like Ramirez. But he just steered the conversation back around to the subject at hand.
“I was thinking about Leroy,” Hillman said.
“What about him?”
“You heard what the man said. Leroy doesn’t shoot people.”
“Yeah, I heard him. But people change. Twenty years is a long time.”
“Maybe, but doesn’t this whole thing just seem a little odd to you?”
“Does what seem odd?”
“The commissioner and the captain wanting to be so close to the investigation. Focusing on one or two suspects without any real evidence.”
“I do what I’m told, Reds,” Ramirez said. “When the commissioner tells me to find somebody, I do it. I don’t ask why. I get less grief that way.”
The radio crackled to life. “Dan 25, meet two complainants at Northwest Detectives in reference to a carjacking at Roberts and Wayne Avenue. Please expedite. It may be related to the founded shooting on Park Avenue.”
“Dan 25 received,” Ramirez said, looking over at Hillman. “Hold me out on the scene at Park Avenue. Dan 50 will meet the complainants at Northwest.”
“Okay, Dan 25.”
Hillman smiled to himself and looked down at his lap. “You sure you want to send an old man to check that out?”
“Contact me if it turns out to be a solid lead,” Ramirez said, ignoring Hillman’s question as he got out of the car and walked back over to the house on Park Avenue.
Hillman was almost beginning to like Ramirez. He reminded Hillman of
“He started shooting heroin, and even though his body grew, you could see that his spirit was shrinking. He was withering away to nothing. The man he became was nowhere near the boy he had been. And everyone could see it. We started seeing him sitting on people’s steps nodding, or walking up the street scratching the side of his face. His hands were as big as baseball mitts and his body started to look bloated. It got to the point where we didn’t even bother him anymore. We just stood by and watched him killing himself.
“After I moved out of the neighborhood, I got into the church, went to school. I guess Leroy kept going in the opposite direction. When cocaine came out, he started using that. And I guess when crack came out, that was the next logical thing for him to do. Because when you’re born to be a leader, and someone snatches all that away from you, sometimes you end up thinking that you don’t have anything left to live for.”
John shook his head sadly. Then he looked over at Ramirez.
“That’s why I know Leroy couldn’t have killed anybody,” he said earnestly. “Because I know that the man cared too much about life to take it, even if it meant giving up his own.”
When Ramirez and Hillman left the house and headed back to the crime scene, they weren’t any closer to finding Leroy. But Leroy had become more than just words on a printout. He had become real to them. And Ramirez hated that.
He didn’t want to know anything about a suspect’s past that he couldn’t read on a rap sheet. He saved his compassion for his family, for other cops, for people whose lives intersected with his own. But never for suspects. It was easier that way. He didn’t have to feel.
Hillman had seen a thousand cops like that. Their every action was about detachment. But Hillman was going to make sure that Ramirez looked below the surface. He knew that there was more to North Philly than desolation. The people in the streets he patrolled were his family. Not other cops. Not his ex-wife. Not even his children. Perhaps that was why his life was in a shambles. He cared too much.
“What are you thinking so hard about, Reds?” Ramirez said.
Hillman started to tell the truth: that he was wondering how it felt to be detached, like Ramirez. But he just steered the conversation back around to the subject at hand.
“I was thinking about Leroy,” Hillman said.
“What about him?”
“You heard what the man said. Leroy doesn’t shoot people.”
“Yeah, I heard him. But people change. Twenty years is a long time.”
“Maybe, but doesn’t this whole thing just seem a little odd to you?”
“Does what seem odd?”
“The commissioner and the captain wanting to be so close to the investigation. Focusing on one or two suspects without any real evidence.”
“I do what I’m told, Reds,” Ramirez said. “When the commissioner tells me to find somebody, I do it. I don’t ask why. I get less grief that way.”
The radio crackled to life. “Dan 25, meet two complainants at Northwest Detectives in reference to a carjacking at Roberts and Wayne Avenue. Please expedite. It may be related to the founded shooting on Park Avenue.”
“Dan 25 received,” Ramirez said, looking over at Hillman. “Hold me out on the scene at Park Avenue. Dan 50 will meet the complainants at Northwest.”
“Okay, Dan 25.”
Hillman smiled to himself and looked down at his lap. “You sure you want to send an old man to check that out?”
“Contact me if it turns out to be a solid lead,” Ramirez said, ignoring Hillman’s question as he got out of the car and walked back over to the house on Park Avenue.
Hillman was almost beginning to like Ramirez. He reminded Hillman of
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