Page 71 of Knox
Knox had lost his pitiful lunch of a street hot dog when he’d opened the file. The girl in the photo had been beaten so badly Knox didn’t recognize her. The first-on-the-scene officer had written that she looked tortured. Thankfully, the photo was taken after the officer had covered her naked body with his jacket.
Knox had winced, shutting his eyes to the image, unable to bear the bruises, the blood, the horror of seeing the trauma.
But oh, it ignited not only a fury at her attackers, but an admiration of the courageous girl who had climbed out of a twelve-day coma, spent seven weeks in the hospital, and had to learn how to walk, talk, and read again, thanks to her head trauma.
Oh, Kelsey, you left so much out.
But what could she say, really, to capture the horror of being fourteen and jumped by three men—two who were only a couple years older than she was. And the perpetrator, Russell, had just turned eighteen. Knox had burned the kid’s image into his brain.
Dark hair, a swastika tatted between his eyebrows, a scar across his chin. Yeah, he’d recognize this guy on the street, or in a bar…or replaying over and over in his nightmares.
No wonder Kelsey dodged demons. Even if she couldn’t remember the assault—which according to the court documents, she had no recollection of the entire evening, just impressions, sounds and smells—one look at this guy turned the event brutally real.
Russell, I’m going to find you.
He came out of the stall and walked over to the sink. Tate moved away, no judgment on his face. Knox ran the water, washed his face, rinsed his mouth, and grabbed and wet a couple paper towels, holding them against his tired eyes.
He could use a little divine intervention trying to find one dirtbag in a city of 8.6 million people. Two days of searching had netted them exactly nil. They’d contacted Russell’s parole officer, visited his current address, a halfway house in the Bronx, talked with the resident manager, and even driven through the neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where his former gang hung out.
They’d finally returned to the Twenty-Fourth Precinct to talk to Detective Rayburn, a balding, thickly built man with steely, tired eyes. He’d taken them into a room with an interactive map detailing all of New York and the gang activity. Spent the last hour giving them the dark rundown of the life of a parolee.
“They can’t get a job, can’t find housing, and have been out of the population for so long they don’t know how to integrate back into society. They’re like children, in many ways, and of course the first thing that happens when the old life comes knocking is to kick back in with their gang.”
Rayburn had leaned against the wall, his arms folded. “If this guy is anywhere, he’s back with the Morris Park gang, an Aryan group right in the heart of a primarily Jewish neighborhood.” He shook his head.
“And what about his threats against Kelsey?” Tate asked.
That’s when Knox had made the mistake of opening the file again, searching for the man’s statement and threats. Happened again on Kelsey’s picture and had to leave the room.
Now, he threw the towels into the trash, glanced at a grim-faced Tate, and headed back into the hallway.
Detective Rayburn held a cup of coffee. “Believe me, the entire thing makes me sick too. In all my years working homicide, this was one that got to me. It made no sense—wasn’t racially targeted, the Joneses had nothing of value on them. It was just a bunch of kids bent on terrorizing people. Russell may or may not have been the ringleader, but he was the only adult in the group. And, he was the rapist—we found his DNA—”
“That’s all I can take,” Knox said, lifting his hand. “We just need to make sure Russell wasn’t in Texas three weeks ago during the San Antonio bombing. Or trying to hunt down Kelsey now.”
Rayburn considered them a moment, then gestured toward a nearby interrogation room. Knox followed him in, behind Tate, and Rayburn closed the door.
Took a breath. “Okay, so if you guys can give me your word you won’t take justice into your own hands…” He turned, raised an eyebrow.
Tate had folded his arms.
Knox met his eyes but affirmed nothing.
“Yeah, I get that. I just don’t want to show up somewhere and find you two lying in a puddle of your own blood. These guys aren’t to be messed with.”
“We just want to talk,” Tate said in a dark tone that Knox didn’t recognize. He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Yeah, the only scout in the family had been Knox, and he wasn’t making any promises.
But Rayburn nodded. “He has a brother. AJ. He owns a barbershop on Cruger Avenue in the Bronx. Vince used to hang there sometimes. But I didn’t tell you that.”
Tate nodded, and Knox held out his hand. “If you hear anything…”
Rayburn nodded. Held on a bit longer. “Tell Kelsey…okay, maybe don’t tell her anything. But I’m glad she has people. She sat in that hospital for two weeks before anyone came for her—I think it was her brother. Navy guy, if I remember correctly. But she…was alone.”
“Not anymore,” Knox said and released him.
They took an Uber through Manhattan, into the Bronx, onto Boston Road, and finally slowed in the residential district of Cruger Avenue. They passed two-story brick houses, some with awnings, clean and groomed, not what Knox might consider gang territory, although his understanding of gang life and criminals was limited toBlue Bloodsand a few episodes ofLaw & Order.