Expired Page 2

  Suddenly, 135th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard was alive with confusion. People ran. Traffic was stopped in the street. A symphony of screams sang through the late afternoon air.

  Across the street, in front of The Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture, Souljah Boy watched the unfolding scene. His right eye twitched rapidly. Whenever something bad happened or was about to happen, his right eye always twitched.

  A screaming, noisy crowd gathered around the body. A young man pushed his way through the confusion. Souljah Boy glanced up at the rooftop. He caught a glimpse of a profile, but it was barely discernible.

  He shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight. Still he couldn’t make out who it was from where he was standing.

  Police and ambulance sirens sounded nearby. Andre Burlingame, Tracie’s eighteen year old son, better known as Dre, the Image Maker, for his outstanding shots in photography, stepped in the middle of the action. Souljah Boy spotted his approach from across the street.

  Dre was an intensely serious young man who exuded raw male confidence and a sort of graceful nonchalance in his tall, lanky frame. He had a camera case slung over his shoulder. He wildly clicked off pictures of the scene.

  Excitement and adrenalin raced through his body. He loved it when he was in the right place at the right time. He would capture the image that had set 135th Street on fire. He would add another history-making shot to his already bulging portfolio.

  Dre knew he would have the first shots, which would be shown on the evening news as well as in the Amsterdam newspaper. As luck would have it, he had been right there. His would be the first shots they saw.

  His heart raced at his good fortune. The camera whirred. He clicked off shots in quick succession. Before a person could say, “Boo,” Dre had snapped up the entire unfolding drama.

  The streets were pure madness. People were screaming, hollering and crying. This only served to pump Dre to his peak while he clicked away, storing the horrifying portrayals on film.

  Elbowing his way through the crowd, Dre reached the body on the ground for the supreme close-up. One click, the bulb flashed, and the camera slid down from his eyes as he looked down.

  Shocked disbelief flashed across his handsome features. Slowly he dropped to his knees next to the body. A wail of electrifying pain burst forth from his lips. It echoed through the crowded street.

  “Randi!”

  An icy coldness replaced the excitement and adrenalin pumping through his bloodstream. Randi Burlingame was his brother. This wasn’t some news item lying on the ground, broken and crumpled. This was his brother, his baby brother.

  The only frame Dre could capture was the frozen expression on Randi’s face. It swam in front of his eyes, as if encased in water. Dre’s body had become statue-like. It was as though someone had thrown him into wet concrete. He couldn’t move.

  Souljah Boy, on hearing Dre shout out Randi’s name, shot into action, running across the street. He was Dre’s best friend. It couldn’t be. That could not have been Randi’s name that Dre had called out.

  He made his way through the crowd until he reached Randi and Dre, who was kneeling beside him. Without a doubt this was Randi Burlingame lying broken on the dirty sidewalk.

  Souljah Boy glanced once more up at the roof. His right eye twitched even more wildly now. Finally, he returned his attention to the two boys in front of him. His good eye roamed over the body on the ground, down to Randi’s shoeless feet.

  Two things struck him fast: Where were Randi’s boots? And why wasn’t there any blood on the ground?

  Souljah Boy locked gazes with Dre. He knelt down, putting a hand to the pulse in Randi’s throat. He knew it was in vain. Randi’s eyes had no life in them. But he felt compelled to check anyway; he couldn’t stop himself. His fingers reached out, hoping to connect with a spark of life. There was none.

  He glanced at his friend Dre. Slowly he shook his head. “He’s dead, Dre.”

  Dark, black, searing terror engulfed Dre on his hearing Souljah Boy’s words spoken out loud. It was as if, because Souljah Boy had spoke it, that made it real.

  “No,” Dre said.

  Souljah Boy’s shoulders slumped. He bowed his head and whispered, “Yes.”

  Souljah Boy lifted his head to look at Dre. His throat was swollen in grief. His eyes pooled over with tears.

  Dre stared at Souljah Boy across an ocean of pain, the waves of it tangible in the air. Their eyes locked in twin tunnels of disbelief and grief.

  From the roof, the hysterical sound of high-pitched laughter could not be heard on the street. It had been three days since Tracie Burlingame had visited the old woman psychic and drawn the ace of spades, the card that represented death.

  2

  Hubert Noskog, MD, was a seasoned veteran. He had jowls like a hunting dog’s. Craggy lines ran through his face. His eyes looked as though he’d seen it all and then some. By the year 2004, when Tracie Burlingame’s son was murdered, he was the chief medical examiner in New York City, having worked his way up through the ranks.

  He’d been on staff for thirty years, so his having seen it all was pretty close to the truth.

  Two NYPD police detectives surrounded him. Monica Rhodes was a young, bright, tough, and ambitious detective. She was saucy, hip, and extremely intelligent. An average-looking girl, but what she didn’t have in looks she made up for in sharpness.

  Detective Alonzo Morgan was a tall, streetwise, fascinating specimen of male sleekness. He had a head full of long dreadlocks that were captured behind his head with a band. The dreads lay in neat locks and hung down his back, almost to his waist. He looked more like a reggae artist than a detective. Everyone called him Lonzo for short.

  The two detectives were in sharp contrast as partners, but together their work was efficient. So far, they had managed to pardon what they each considered the shortcomings of the other.

  Hubert stood at the head of the sheet-covered corpse. It was laid out on a slab of steel. The two detectives stood on either side. Lonzo’s cell phone rang. He removed it from his back pocket. “What’s up? Lonzo here.” He nodded his head. “Yeah, we’re on it.”

  He clicked off and looked at Monica. “Tracie Burlingame, Randi’s mother.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the corpse. “She’s here to identify the body.”

  Monica cleared her throat. She glanced at the medical examiner. “I’ll start the procedure. This isn’t going to be easy for her.”

  The standard procedure was to show the family of the deceased a photograph. However, they were always prepared in case a family member requested to view the body in person.

  Monica walked out the door with an air of authority. She was an extremely svelte young woman, brimming with confidence.

  Outside in the corridor, Tracie Burlingame stood ramrod straight, arrogant and proud. She looked both beautiful and ravished, as though someone had invaded her secret territory.

  Her light cocoa-brown eyes stared at Monica from a face hauntingly at odds with the pain engraved across it. Even in grief, Tracie Burlingame was an extraordinarily stunning woman.

  Tracie’s sons Michael Burlingame, seventeen years old, and Dre, stood supportively on either side of Tracie. Michael was an athletic basketball wonder.

  Monica recognized his face from the newspaper. He was known as “Rebound” because of his extraordinary leaping abilities on the basketball court, and his incredible wristwatch timing.

  Michael was an ambitious, shy, and compassionate young man. His heart was breaking for his mother and for the loss of his brother Randi, who had been the other basketball star in the family.

  Raw pain glittered from his eyes. Dre, who had had time to compose himself, was much more laid-back. His face was an unreadable mask.

  As Monica approached, Tracie pulled herself up a fraction of an inch taller. She tilted her head slightly in the air. The two women’s eyes locked in an invisible battle. Opposition sizzled in the air between them.

  “Mrs
. Burlingame?” Monica asked.

  Tracie’s eyes flickered. “Miss Burlingame. But you can call me Tracie. These are my sons Dre and Michael.”

  Monica nodded a greeting, suddenly put off by the icy haughtiness of Tracie’s tone. She handed Tracie a standard photo of her son, following the usual procedure for identification.

  Tracie barely glanced at it, handing it back.

  “I’d like to see him in person,” she said in clipped tones, furious at the audacity of the City of New York in daring to hand her a standard photograph of her dead son.

  “This way, please,” Monica said, leading the way through the morgue doors. Tracie and her sons trailed behind her.

  Tracie slowed her steps as she spotted the metal slab with the sheet-covered mound in the middle of the floor. Dre gripped her arm.

  He tilted his head arrogantly in the exact mannerism of his mother. Michael’s face became a picture of pain so raw it shot from his eyes. It held those who glanced at him.

  Lonzo stared at Tracie for a long moment. He looked at her sons. Then his eyes found Tracie’s face once again. To Lonzo’s eyes, Tracie was a ravishingly beautiful young woman with a hint of smoldering sensuality, gazing into his own dark liquid eyes.

  The touch of a shadow on the beautiful features quickly vanished under his scrutiny. In the space of a second, Tracie’s cocoa-brown eyes flashed to gray, hazel, back to brown, and finally settled on midnight black. Lonzo felt as though he’d been hit with a sledgehammer.

  Tracie took one step closer to the table. Monica crossed her hands behind her back. She positioned herself next to the medical examiner. Lonzo gave an imperceptible nod of his head. The ME silently removed the sheet from the victim’s face.

  The only sound in the room was the audible gasp that escaped Tracie’s lips. Michael grimaced. Tracie tightened her grip on Dre’s hand. Her long, colored nails cut into his skin, drawing blood, but Dre didn’t flinch.

  Tracie took another step closer to the table. The other perfectly manicured hand reached out to stroke the dead boy’s cheek.

  The medical examiner had been kind enough to try to clean up the body, knowing that the mother would have to ID it. He was just a child, after all—sixteen years old. But even this kind courtesy could not erase the extensive damage to the body.

  Nor had he been able to erase the terror frozen in the features. The one good thing was that the boy’s eyes were closed, so she would never have to witness the stark fear along with the terror that was frozen in his eyes.

  While examining him, the medical examiner had had a queer feeling. He’d dealt with a lot of deaths, but this one made him uneasy. The look in the boy’s eyes had made him wonder, what the hell had he seen?

  Slowly Tracie removed her touch. She gazed into Lonzo’s eyes with a clawing, biting pain. Sparks of dark chocolate brown sprayed from her irises. Lonzo returned her stare unflinchingly. Tracie crossed her hands in front of her. She bowed her head.

  Dre spotted Randi’s clothing on a nearby table. His eyes lingered on a small gold cross lying forlornly against the stainless steel next to Randi’s wallet.

  Tracie finally lifted her head. Tears glistened in her eyes like jewels, but didn’t fall. Lonzo was staring at her, completely awestruck. She was causing a deep animal stirring to rise up in him.

  The ME slowly pulled the sheet back over Randi’s head. Monica broke the silence. “Is this your son, Randi Burlingame?”

  “No.”

  Startled looks ran rampant around the room. Tracie reached into her pocket. She pulled out her own photograph of Randi, handing it to Monica. It was in stark contrast to the one the City of New York had taken of the dead Randi Burlingame.

  Monica looked at Tracie, then down at the photo of young, handsome, smiling Randi.

  “That’s my baby. He kissed me good-bye when he left this morning.” Tracie shrugged. “I prefer to remember him this way.”

  Monica took a deep breath. “Miss Burlingame, you’re aware that somebody might have pushed your son from the roof?”

  “Tracie. Call me Tracie. I am aware that Randi may have accidentally fallen from the roof.”

  Monica tugged on her earlobe. She swallowed hard. Sarcasm crept into her voice. She did not like this woman. Tracie Burlingame rubbed her the wrong way. The woman was grating on her nerves for some reason.

  “And he decided to remove his shoes before he fell? Which, by the way, were not found at the scene of the crime.”

  Dre stepped in. “That’s enough.”

  Monica reached for her badge. She stepped forward, flashing it, up close and very personal, in Dre’s face.

  “I’ll say when it’s enough. Monica Rhodes, Harlem Homicide Division. Official business.”

  The medical examiner glanced at Michael sympathetically. Michael smiled his appreciation at the man. At least somebody in this room had the decency to show some sympathy.

  Monica’s voice sliced through the air. “So tell me, Tracie, what was Randi wearing on his feet the last time you saw him?”

  “Footwear.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Karl Kani . . . boots. Gold and black hiking boots. Black hardware. Gold strings. Kani emblem on the side.” The light cocoa-brown eyes shed a couple of teary jewels, which spilled and glistened on Tracie’s high cheekbones.

  “Excuse me. Hardware?” Monica said.

  As though explaining to a child, Tracie said, “The eyelets in which you lace up the boots.”

  “You’re a fashion expert?” The sarcasm dripped from Monica’s voice without disguise.

  “No. I’m a mother.”

  Dre gripped Tracie’s hand. He glared his hostility at Monica. “My mom is tired. So, you’re gonna have to do this another time.”

  Monica nodded at the arrogant young punk. She smiled. “Count on it.”

  Tracie looked at the medical examiner, her eyes filled with anguish. Her voice was barely a whisper. “What time did this happen?”

  The ME reached for his chart, consulting it. He looked up at Tracie gravely. “Randi expired at approximately two p.m.”

  “Expired . . . I see.” Tracie smoothly turned her back on them. She headed for the door with her two sons right behind her. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She sailed through the door. It slammed behind them.

  Lonzo looked at the sheet-draped body. His eyes grazed the now empty space left by Tracie.

  Hubert glanced at his chart. “There was one other thing I wanted to discuss with you.” He looked at the two detectives.

  “What’s that?” They both said in unison.

  “The blood, or perhaps I should say, the lack of it.”

  “Yeah,” Monica said. “It was on our list to ask you how he removed it. It’s the strangest crime scene I’ve ever been on. I kid you not. This boy is thrown from the roof, and there’s barely a trace of blood on the ground, plus, his shoes are missing. Weird stuff.”

  “Have you determined how the blood was removed?” Lonzo said.

  The ME peered over his glasses at him. “The old-fashioned way. He stuck a needle in his arm and simply drained his body of the blood supply. Maybe your guy has embalming skills. He barely left a trace as to his entry.”

  Lonzo laughed. “Stop it, Doc. This is serious.”

  The ME didn’t budge.

  Lonzo’s eyes widened a bit. “Seriously? You’re kidding, right?”

  Dr. Noskog’s expression never changed.

  “You’re serious,” Lonzo finally stated.

  “I am. Very.”

  Monica sucked in her breath. “What’s he doing with the blood?” she wondered out loud.

  Both Lonzo and Hubert looked at her, but there was no answer forthcoming.

  3

  After leaving the morgue on First Avenue, Tracie had the driver drop her off at 135th Street and Lenox Avenue. She stood in front of Harlem Hospital, under the canopy with Dre and Michael. She stared up at the roof of the Lenox Terrace apartments, from wh
ich her son had fallen.

  Her mind refused to accept any other explanation. This was just a tragic accident. Not even a murderer could commit such a horrific, brutal crime.

  She had been after Randi since he was a small boy about climbing rooftops. He loved to sit up there, staring down on the world. A tragic accident was what it was. That was all.

  Tracie squinted in the fading sunlight. She pulled her shades down from her hair to cover her eyes. Something across the street drew her attention. Slowly the shades came down to the bridge of her nose. She stared over the top of them.

  Rashod Burlingame, Tracie’s nineteen year old son, her eldest, was racing across the street. Black twists sprouted all over his head, looking like black spaghetti erupting from his scalp. He weaved his way across Malcolm X Boulevard toward Tracie.

  Tracie’s skin crawled a bit at the sight of him. Lord help her. The mere sight of him had a way of churning her insides.

  In Tracie’s opinion, Rashod had one of the nastiest dispositions this side of the river. He was an extremely weak and emotionally unstable young man.

  Yet he possessed a sensitivity that most people never got to see. He was also a veteran crack addict. He loved crack more than life, and woe to anyone who got between him and one of his coveted vials.

  Motorists were blaring their horns, weaving around Rashod and yelling out of their car windows at him as he decided to slow his pace to a leisurely crawl while he crossed the street on a green light.

  One guy yelled out of his window, “Yo, man? Can’t you see? The light is green. You color-blind? Get a life.”

  Rashod ignored him. He swiped at his runny nose with the back of his hand. His pants slipped a little too low. He pulled them back up while taking another swipe at his nose.

  Finally, he reached the safety of the spot in front of Tracie, on the sidewalk under the canopy. His face glistened with sweat as he focused on her and blatantly disregarded Dre and Michael.

  “Mommy dearest,” he said to Tracie, the sneer obvious in his tone.