Pittsburgh Noir by Kathleen George

Author:Kathleen George
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: akashic books
Published: 2011-04-23T16:00:00+00:00

PART III

UNIVERSITIES, PARKS, RECREATION

INTRUDER

BY KATHLEEN GEORGE

Schenley Farms

They were partners. One was white, one was black; they got along and liked working together. They’d come up through the ranks at the same time, slightly competitive, mostly friends.

The call came at one in the morning. All the good murders happened at night. The 911 operator told them, “Schenley Farms Terrace. A guy hit an intruder over the head. Called here, we sent the paramedics. They’re saying the guy is dead. Patrol just got there.”

“Breaking news,” said Tolson, looking at his watch as he beckoned his partner down the stairs and outside to a fleet car. “Way too late for the eleven o’clock hash and nobody much watches the morning news, so we caught ourselves a break. I hate sounding dumb on the eleven o’clock news when we don’t know what’s happening.”

“You can manage to sound dumb anytime,” Paulson said. Tolson shot him a look and then Paulson laughed and asked, “Okay, what is it?”

“Manslaughter, probably.” Tolson gave the few details he had while he radioed patrol to call him on his cell.

Damion Paulson drove them, expertly shooting to the parkway and then passing everybody on the road.

Tolson’s phone rang, speaker on. The patrol cop had five minutes on them. “Anything you can tell us?”

“He’s dead. Mashed-up head and lots of blood. Man, he must’ve got hit hard. Family is all upset. Everybody is shaking and crying. They have accents. I don’t know what kind. They’re foreigners.”

“Okay. What else?” Tolson asked.

“The daughter. She’s something else. She looks like some kind of movie star. Like maybe Indian or something, but with light eyes. Maybe she’s somebody famous, I don’t know.”

Paulson was laughing silently.

“Anything else about the homicide?” Tolson pressed.

“Not yet. Just everybody’s upset. They’re talking in their language.”

Tolson hung up. “Check your prejudice at the door,” he quipped. He was serious, though. Now was not the time to fuck up. Respectful to foreigners was drummed into their heads. Also other lessons: Poor doesn’t mean dumb. Every poor dead son of a bitch was a human being.

“You ever hang around Schenley Farms?” Tolson asked Paulson, who had grown up near there, in the Hill District.

“Nah.”

Schenley Farms, they knew, had some fancy properties, but the fanciest mansions were closer to Oakland. Old money as well as some high brass from the universities resided there. Then there were the somewhat fancy houses on the steeper streets of Schenley Farms, and then way up above them was the beginning of “the hill,” a black ghetto. Five minutes later they were at the house. It was far from shabby.

A couple of TV news trucks were parked on the street. Tolson told reporters he passed, walking to the house, “We’ll have a statement for you in thirty minutes.” They went inside.

The inside of the house was super fancy. Glass, white, glass, white. Plush carpets. Tolson knew they were bringing in dirt and he felt uncomfortable. It was late May and the earth was moist. The patrol cop said, “Down here,”

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