Page 22 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“Sorry,” I said, taking the call.

“Zach, it’s Buddy Henry from theTwo-Four.”

Kylie looked at me and mouthed the wordswhois it?

“One of the detectives from the jogging path this morning.” I went back to the call. “I’m still with my partner. What have you got?”

“We’ve got a possible witness to the stabbing. Cardona and I addressed thefour-to-twelveroll call and asked them to touch base with their park regulars. Two of our uniforms just brought in a homeless guy who saw a man covered in blood run into a pedestrian tunnel and clean himself off.”

“When?”

“He says it was about eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Where is the tunnel?”

“A Hundredth Street. Two blocks from the crime scene.”

“So far, that’s right on the money. Where’s your witness?”

“Right here at the precinct.”

“Kylie and I will be there in twenty minutes. Till then, keep him happy: burgers, pizza, soft drinks, candy bars, cigarettes—whatever he wants.”

“We already fed him. He’s incredibly low maintenance. All he wanted was a couple of spring rolls, some beef with broccoli, and hot tea.”

“He sounds promising,” I said.

“Better than that,” Henry said. “Cardona and I interviewed him. He didn’t witness the stabbing, but he got a really good look at the man who was wiping off the bloodstains.”

“Fantastic. See if you can line up a sketch artist so we can get a poster out there.”

“Not necessary, Zach. After he finished his dinner, he asked for a pad and some pencils. This guy is an artist. He’s working on a sketch of the perp as we speak.”

CHAPTER 16

The homeless may bethe most misunderstood, most misjudged community in New York.

Yes, some of them have addiction problems, some of them have hygiene issues, and none of them have permanent addresses, but those are their circumstances, not who they are.

They’re homeless, not worthless. Certainly not to the police. In a city filled withself-absorbedpeople racing through life, phones pressed to their ears, oblivious to the world around them, the homeless are our invisible watchdogs, quietly observing, processing, and sometimes even putting their lives on the line by rushing in to break up a mugging or a rape.

Our witness stood up as soon as Kylie and I entered the room. He was about sixty, tall, gangly,clean-shaven, with clothes that were worn but relatively clean. I’d seen millennials with Apple watches dressed far more shabbily.

“Good evening, Detectives,” he said, his voice warm and amiable, with a distinct Jamaican lilt. “I am Izaak Weathers. My friends call me Ike.”

We introduced ourselves, sat down, and asked him if there was anything he needed before we started.

“No, thank you, I’m fine. The other detectives bought me dinner. A few months ago, I sold my computer; otherwise, I’d give this place a stellar review on Yelp.” He laughed to make sure we knew he was joking.

But it was more than a joke. He wanted us to know that not too long ago he had a computer on his desk, a roof over his head—a life.

Not to be heartless about it, but Kylie and I didn’t care. All we wanted from Izaak were the details of what he had seen. But if it turned out to be a solid lead, we’d need him again to identify a suspect, and maybe again to testify in court. We were on the verge of a possiblelong-termrelationship with this man, and he’d feel better about going forward with it if we gave him his moment of dignity.

“I’m new at this homeless business,” he said. “For the past eight years, I was working for a retired history professor, Lloyd Braithwaite. He had Parkinson’s and couldn’t manage on his own, so he hired me to live in. It was a little apartment on WestNinety-Fourth, but it’s all we needed. At first, I just cooked and shopped and took him to medical appointments, but after a while, we became good friends. We’d have a beer, watch a ball game, play chess, talk into the wee hours... What do they call it these days? A bromance.”

He sat back and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not what you came to talk about.”

“No, please, finish,” Kylie said.