The Bridge (31 page)

Read The Bridge Online

Authors: Solomon Jones

BOOK: The Bridge
13.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Sonny got out of the van, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and began trying doors on the cars.
When he tried the handle on a Lexus, the door opened, the car alarm filled the garage, and several security cameras trained their lenses on the area, pinpointing the vehicle—and Sonny—within seconds.
He desperately fingered the steering column, ripping at the plastic casing with his bare hands in an attempt to expose the wires. When finally he got the vehicle to start, he bolted out of the space just as a security guard in a Jeep pulled in behind him.
Gunning the engine, Sonny drove toward the open garage door and flew out from underneath it, making a hard left and speeding away from the building.
Looking up at lights and street signs, he tried to get his bearings as he darted in and out of thick traffic on a tree-lined boulevard. He wound his way around a traffic circle, then hit a straightaway that ran toward an oddly shaped building.
Sonny still didn't know where he was. That is, until he glanced up, spotted the nearly forty-foot-high bronze statue of William Penn atop the building, and nearly drove into oncoming traffic as reality came crashing down.
The men in the minivan had indeed driven for three hours. But instead of going south from Maryland, they'd gone north. And the trip that he'd believed would get him farther away from his troubles had brought him right back to them.
His getaway had returned him to Philadelphia.
As he struggled to digest that fact, a police car with sirens blaring fell in behind him.
Sonny turned onto Fifteenth Street and sped around the circle leading past City Hall, weaving through the tangled traffic surrounding the building.
When he'd gone almost all the way around, he skidded and made a sharp right, heading north on Broad Street, with the police car gaining steadily.
As he passed Race Street, where the traffic to New Jersey slowed the flow of the southbound lanes, he knew that there were few options for escape. He would have to make his move within the next few seconds, before backup arrived.
Making a hard left, he jumped the median and plunged into oncoming traffic. The car screamed toward a truck that was preparing to enter the turning lane. Just before impact, Sonny jumped from the car, rolled toward the curb, and ran away from the explosion as the Lexus barreled into the truck.
In the ensuing confusion, he took to the streets of Center City with the cop hard on his heels.
 
 
 
The call went out over police radio's central band as Lynch and Wilson were dropping off Daneen and the detective at homicide.
“Cars stand by,” the dispatcher said. “Assist the officer, civilian by phone, at Broad and Vine Streets. An officer there is in foot pursuit of a black male, west on Vine from Broad.”
The officer came on the air almost immediately.
“Six-eleven, resume that assist,” he said, breathing heavily into the radio. “I lost the male around Sixteenth and Callowhill.”
He released his talk button and came back on the air, still breathing hard.
“I've got flash information when you're ready.”
“Go ahead, 611.”
“Suspect is wanted for investigation for auto theft, and leaving the scene of an accident at Broad and Vine. He's a black male, forty-five to fifty-five years old, six-foot-two, dark-complexioned, with brown eyes, black hair and a mustache. He's wearing black jeans, white sneakers, and he's carrying a backpack. He made his escape on foot from Sixteenth and Callowhill within the last five minutes.”
Wilson turned to Lynch as she pulled out of the Roundhouse parking lot.
“Didn't Judy say the money Sonny took from the roof was in a backpack?”
Lynch snatched the radio handset from the dashboard.
“Dan 25, I'm en route,” he said, as Wilson turned on the car's lights and raced toward Broad and Vine. “Tell all responding units to use caution. That male fits the description of Sonny Williams. He's wanted for several murders and assaults against police in Central and East Divisions, and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
A gaggle of voices exploded over the radio as every officer within two miles of Broad and Vine joined the chase.
But as Wilson drove the relatively short distance from police headquarters to the accident scene, it was apparent that their cars would soon be useless in the search.
The truck Sonny rammed had burst into flames, blocking the Broad Street entrance to 1-95 and limiting access to the Ben Franklin Bridge, City Hall, and the Vine Street Expressway.
The Fire Department was on the scene, and traffic was already backed up for miles in all directions. Callowhill Street, where Sonny was last seen, was being used as an alternate route. So even the officers who managed to make it there on foot were hampered by the sheer volume of traffic.
Lynch jumped out of the car looking for the officer who'd initiated the chase. When he saw him, still bent over and sucking air, Lynch reached into Wilson's glove compartment and took out a
picture of Sonny. Then he ran over to the officer and stuck the picture in his face.
“Is this the guy you were chasing?” he asked.
The officer looked up from his crouch and nodded vigorously.
“I guess you didn't see which way he went on Callowhill.”
The cop shook his head no.
Lynch got on his cell phone and called Captain Silas Johnson at Central Detectives. When he answered, Lynch tried not to let his still-simmering anger with the captain show through.
“It's Kevin Lynch,” he said. “I'm down at Broad and Vine. I've got an officer who's positively identified Sonny Williams. He was last seen at Sixteenth and Callowhill five minutes ago.”
“I'm on the other line with the commissioner now,” the captain said. “We're shutting everything down. Nothing leaves that area, nothing leaves this city until we find Sonny Williams.”
“I understand.”
“And Lynch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I heard about you finding the girl. Good work.”
There was a long pause as Lynch held the line.
“It would've been good work if I'd found her alive.”
By nightfall, it was clear to everyone that Sonny had eluded the police yet again. But after the commissioner approved the captain's plan, the city was tightly sealed in the hope that he would eventually resurface.
Both airports were placed under surveillance, as were the bus and train stations. Photographs of Sonny were issued to cabbies and store owners. Even day-care centers were warned that Sonny was in the area. He was, after all, suspected of murdering a child.
That reality was now the driving force behind the search. And even as authorities sought Sonny in connection with the other murders and assaults he'd been involved in, the investigation of Kenya's murder began to take precedence over everything, even the death of Judge John Baylor.
The police department's crime lab spent a full day gathering evidence from the basement where the little girl's body had been discovered. But they didn't find much of anything.
The fingerprints they collected were virtually unusable. They found no physical evidence to link Kenya to a killer. The autopsy, which was performed just hours after she was found, revealed the official cause of death as cardiac arrest, no doubt brought on by the
struggle with her killer. But the autopsy yielded no evidence of sexual activity. On the contrary, it showed that she was a virgin.
By Tuesday morning, the D.A. had disregarded Daneen's trumped-up confession, and sought instead to charge Sonny, because the circumstantial evidence against him was so compelling.
He was known to have a penchant for young girls. He had a long history of violence. He remained a suspect in the similar murder of the child who'd been found in a trash bin twenty years before.
And though the story of Kenya being sexually active had proven to be false, detectives still believed that Sonny had made some improper contact with the girl and that he'd murdered her when the child threatened to tell.
In addition to motive, Sonny had opportunity, having left Judy's apartment shortly after Kenya to replenish Judy's drug supply.
There was only one problem. Bayot—the man who could place Sonny with Kenya on the night of her death—was unsure of what he'd seen. And the only other person who could corroborate his story was Monk.
That's why Lynch rode back to the projects with Wilson on Tuesday afternoon. He was determined to convince the old man to come forward. Moreover, he was determined to figure out how everyone else fit into the equation.
“What do you think about Judy?” he asked Wilson, as they drove toward the Bridge.
“I think Judy's greedy,” Wilson said. “Greedy and insecure about a man who never gave a damn about her in the first place.”
“Her nephew seems to think Judy wanted Kenya out of the way so Sonny wouldn't have to deal with molestation charges.”
“He's doing an awful lot of thinking for a piper,” Wilson said derisively.
“Think about it,” Lynch said. “Judy broke her neck to tell us that Sonny hadn't done anything to Kenya. Then she gave us some bullshit about him being on his way to Miami. Maybe the hunch I
had back at homicide was right. Maybe she was doing whatever she had to do to make sure he got away.”
“I think that's a stretch,” Wilson said, as they pulled up in front of the building. “What does his getaway do for her now? She still can't run a crack business without him.”
“Doesn't make a difference,” Lynch said. “She doesn't want to see her man in jail.”
“I still think it's a stretch,” Wilson said.
They got out of the car and went into the building, walking past the elevator and taking the steps to Monk's sixth-floor apartment. When they reached it, they knocked on the door for five minutes before they realized that he wasn't going to answer.
Wilson tried the doorknob. It opened.
As the two of them walked inside, they were greeted by a rush of air that smelled of marijuana and ointments, cleaning solutions and sweat. And just beneath those odors, there was sickness—the smell of an old man.
The television in the bedroom was on. There were matchsticks and beer cans scattered about the floor. The remnants of marijuana cigarettes were everywhere. And so was the feeling that the old man had nothing left to live for.
When they walked back into his bedroom, they saw why. Monk was sitting in a chair, his face fixed in a look of permanent surprise, his hand reaching for a glass crack pipe on the floor.
Lynch walked over to him and checked for a pulse. But even before he touched him, he knew that there hadn't been a pulse for days.
Monk was dead. And as Wilson radioed in the news, and Lynch called the Medical Examiner's Office to have the body removed and autopsied, they knew that their chances of finding an eyewitness to place Kenya with Sonny had died with the old man.
 
 
The heat in the storage closet was stifling. With no windows and little space, Sonny was beginning to wonder how much longer he could survive there.
He'd considered himself lucky when he eluded the cop before walking into the library at Nineteenth and Vine. He'd thought himself brilliant when he waited until closing and slipped into the little-used basement closet.
But after a day of breathing his own recycled air in the cramped and pitch-black space, Sonny knew that it was just a matter of time before he would have to move.
He was contemplating a way to do that when someone opened an office door and the faint sound of a radio made its way across the hall.
When he heard his name, the broadcast seemed to grow louder. And the announcer's words lent urgency to his plight.
“The D.A.'s Office is going forward with plans to charge Sonny Williams—the man wanted in connection with the murder of nine-year-old Kenya Brown—after witnesses identified him as the perpetrator in Sunday's triple murder in a North Philadelphia drug house. Meanwhile, funeral services for Kenya Brown have been scheduled for one P.M., tomorrow, at the Calvary Baptist Church of Philadelphia. KYW Newstime at the tone is five o'clock.”
Sonny didn't hear what came over the radio after that. He only heard the reality that rang in his ears as he stood there, realizing that his life was now in jeopardy.
If the drug-house murder charges stuck, he would surely get the death penalty—especially if the D.A. had her way.
And even if he was somehow able to get out of Philadelphia at some point—which he now doubted more than ever—he would still be in real danger of being brought back to the city to face lethal injection.
He couldn't allow that to happen. So Sonny waited. And when
he was sure that the building was empty of most of its workers, he ventured out of the closet and found a maintenance man who was almost his size.
With the last few ounces of strength he had left after so many days on the run, he pummeled the man, then dragged him into a bathroom, changed into his uniform, and transferred the money from the backpack to a trash bag.
As he slipped out of a side entrance of the library, Sonny knew he had to do one thing before making a final push to flee the city. And he knew that he'd have only one chance to do it.
 
 
 
Judy sat in the dank basement cell she'd occupied since Sunday, contemplating all that had happened to her family over the years and wondering if they could ever truly heal.
Kenya's death, which she'd learned about just an hour after the body was found, had left her shocked, then angry, and, finally, guilty.
She cried, but her grief wasn't just for Kenya. It was for Daneen: the child whose tear-filled eyes told tales of rape in the basement; the frightened teenager who'd been forced to make a choice between a moment of truth and a lifetime of lies.
Each time Judy thought of Kenya, she grieved for Daneen. The last time she'd done that—on the night when she'd learned of Daneen's secret—she'd scrawled the words in a diary because she just couldn't keep it inside. Then she hid the book in her son's old backpack—the same bag Sonny had stolen from the roof.
As she sat in her cell watching a detective and a uniformed officer walking toward her, she wondered if Sonny had bothered to look at anything other than the money. More than that, she wondered if the words in the diary meant anything to him.
“Ms. Brown,” the detective said, as the uniformed officer opened Judy's cell door. “Come with us.”
She got up and walked with them down a dimly lit hallway. At the end, a heavy steel door slid open. She blinked to adjust to the fluorescent light that washed over her.
The detective walked her over to an area with mounds of paperwork in metal racks on a Formica desk. One of the papers had her name on it. He thrust it in front of her and waited.
“What you want me to do?” Judy asked, looking up at the detective.
“The drug charges have been reduced to what amounts to disorderly conduct, and the district attorney has decided against filing assault charges in connection with the officer you injured at Central Detectives, since there were, um, mitigating circumstances. The bottom line is, we want Sonny, not you. Your testimony will help us get him. So if you sign this paper, you're free to go.”
Judy looked at the letters scrawled across the top of the page.
“What does S.O.B. mean?” she asked.
“It means sign your own bail. It's basically a promise that you'll show up at your preliminary hearing.”
“How y'all gon' send me outta here after I told you Sonny killed them men on Cambria Street? He know I'm the only one who seen him do it, so if I go home now, and he somewhere in Philadelphia, what you think gon' happen?”
“Ms. Brown, we're going to have a detail posted outside your door for the next few days. If you need anything, those officers will get it for you. If you have to go anywhere, they'll take you. We're going to make every effort to protect you until Sonny Williams is caught.”
“Can't y'all put me in some kinda witness protection program and send me outta Philadelphia or somethin'?”
“You're going to be protected, Ms. Brown.”
“If you wanna protect me, keep me in jail. I'm safer here than I am on the street.”
“We can't do that.”
“Why not?”
“There's a federal consent decree that sets a limit on the number of prisoners we can hold. Under the guidelines, we've gotta let you go. Now please, sign here. There's a car waiting to take you home.”
“I ain't got nothin' to go home for,” Judy said, taking the form.
“Sure you do,” the detective said. “Your great-niece's funeral is tomorrow.”
As she signed the form and turned to leave the Roundhouse, Judy put aside her fears in order to deal with that very present reality.
Kenya was dead. She would have to be buried. And so would all the secrets of the past.
 
 
 
As the last few residents left the building for Kenya's funeral, Kevin Lynch got out of his car and strolled down the street outside the front entrance of the Bridge.
He walked in through the building's foyer and out toward the back entrance. Then he stood in the rear of the building, looking at the space where he'd seen the little girl's dead body all those years ago.
As he stood there, the memories of his childhood came flooding back. He remembered his grandmother, and the stern manner in which she'd raised him. He remembered Daneen, and the heartbreak she'd caused him. He remembered Tyrone, and the death that embittered him.
And in the midst of those memories, Lynch lowered his head and began to do something he hadn't done in years. He began to pray—for strength, for healing, for closure.
He stood there for what seemed to him an eternity—head bowed, eyes closed—and soon felt a soothing calm wash over him. It told him that his wife and daughter were still the most important people in his world. It said that his childhood and everyone from it were firmly in his past. It assured him that his attraction to Daneen was
little more than a fantasy from long ago. It wrapped him in its arms and gave him peace.
A few minutes later, as he walked back through the building, that peace was interrupted by a faint rustling from the bottom of the ramp that led down to the basement.
He stopped to look into the shadows. At first, he didn't see anything. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a man standing in the darkness.
Lynch drew his gun and aimed at the figure.
“Come up here right now, with your hands where I can see them!” he shouted.
Nothing moved, so Lynch took a few steps down the ramp, trying to make out a face.

Other books

Soulstone by Katie Salidas
Undone Deeds by Del Franco, Mark
Anita and Me by Meera Syal
Friendship on Fire by Foster, Melissa
Immediate Fiction by Jerry Cleaver
Falling into Black by Kelly, Carrie
The Trouble With Harry by Jack Trevor Story
Predator's Serenade by Rosanna Leo