Friday, March 27, 2015
Madonna and Child (Blogophilia 5.8)
The wail of the ambulance carrying the Mother was fading as Murray pulled up. Parking behind the line of cruisers, he surveyed the scene. Madonna and child, Murray thought as the paramedics worked on the little girl. Her torn, puffy face reminded him of a discarded cabbage patch doll, patched with gauze and tape. A scarlet stain was oozing from a scrape on her arm. A cervical collar no bigger than a large washer was placed around her neck, then they loaded her up in cheery yellow ambulance.
“Where’s she going?”
“Scottish Rite. Hope traffic is light. She’s stable right now, but that could change.”
How about the Mother?
“She went to Grady. Pretty bad head injury, but she was coming to when we loaded her.”
With that, the door slammed shut.Several uniformed officers herded the crowd to the side so they could get through.
One of the relatives took him aside and in broken English asked if they would be alright. There was nothing to say. It certainly didn’t look good. With a few words, he assured the man he would find out something. Picking through the discarded clothes scattered like leaves across the lot, he could help to wonder what is it about the Graves that provokes tragedy? Some curse on the land from when the Cherokee were run out? Is that why that bastard Allen showed up?
The next few minutes were a blur of uniforms and note taking. Slowly, the story started taking shape. The woman was coming down the hill from the laundry room with her daughter on her hip, when a beige car came speeding down the hill, clipping them with the driver’s side fender. All the witnesses said the car kept going until it parked down at the end of the complex. The driver exited the car, looked back and then took off through the one of the buildings. A group of men tried chasing him, but he disappeared back behind the building.
Jackson signaled him down to where the Corolla was parked. He took his time, scanning the adjacent buildings for activity. Windows as blank as paper stared back at him, there secrets seemingly safe. If Allen was here, he was laying low.
As he approached, Jackson, joined by Captain Hudgins, shook hands as if it they had not seen each other in years. Old crime scene habits die hard. Looking down at his notebook, Murray spoke.
“So, the car showing us anything?”
“Not a lot, yet.” Hudgins reached over to flick a leaf off the damaged fender. “We do know it is Allen’s. He didn’t bother changing the plate.”
“I don’t think he cares anymore if we know. So where do you think he went?”
Jackson spoke up. “One of the witnesses said he ran into the building on the left and exited out the back. We went ahead did a quick sweep of the units and came up empty. Knowing him, he’s probably around. Want to bring in K-9?”
“They are en-route.” Hudgins said as lit a cigarette. “They’re bringing their best handler. We’ll start here and circle around the back of each building.
“Today is the Fourth, right?” Murray asked
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It's the fourth case in this place in two months. We’re bringing forth our best men on the Fourth, for the fourth.”
The men broke out laughing. It was the comedy relief they needed
“Your woman keep you up last night?” Jackson asked after he caught his breath.
With a wink, Murray said. “Let’s just say she was playing my song and leave it at that.”
He then got serious.
“He’s watching us. I can feel it.”
“Hey, Lieutenant!” One of the Crime Scene Techs shouted from the rear of the car. “Got something you need to look at.”
Murray leaned over and peered in.
“Shit! Bomb! Get everyone out of here.”
Pic guesses: Tango, Jitterbug, You should be dancing, contest, Charleston, foxtrot.