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  “About a week ago, I heard loud voices coming from the apartment that sounded like the two of them having an argument,” she said. “But I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying.”

  “How long would you say the argument lasted?”

  “Well, I wasn’t timing it or anything, but it lasted for several minutes. Afterwards, his girlfriend slammed the door and stormed out. I looked through my peephole and saw her leaving. I haven’t heard anything else since then, until this morning.”

  “I see. May I have your name and phone number, please, in case I need to contact you again about any more details?” asked Lloyd.

  Lloyd jotted down the number and the woman’s name, Glenda Krantz. “Here’s my card in case you remember something in the meantime.”

  Krantz looked at the card, nodded and closed the door. She basically confirmed what Sheriff Arnold had told him, but Lloyd thought she might remember something later.

  Lloyd then knocked on the apartment next to hers. He paused for a moment to see if anyone was home. He thought he heard some chanting or meditating and put his ear to the door.

  He knocked again—louder, this time. The chanting stopped and he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened slowly, and a tall, very dark-skinned man peered out. The chain was still latched on the door.

  “Yes, may I help you?” the dark-skinned man said. He appeared to be in his sixties and had an accent—Lloyd was certain it was African, but couldn’t identify the region. On his head was an off-white yarmulke, the traditional head covering for Jewish males.

  “My name is Lloyd Palmer and I’m with the Houston Ledger. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “What about, my son?” he said. Lloyd was intrigued by the man’s use of such an endearing term for a stranger. He also noticed the man was wearing some garb Lloyd had never seen before.

  “Your neighbor down the hall was involved in a murder-suicide early this morning. I’m questioning some of the people on this floor to see if they heard anything or saw anything last night that might shed some light on the crime,” said Lloyd.

  “My son, I do not concern myself with such matters. I did not know this man, and I keep to myself, which is the custom of our people,” said the African.

  “Where are you from, if I may ask?” queried Lloyd, hoping the man would open up and reveal more about himself.

  “Zimbabwe, a country in southern Africa. Perhaps you have heard of it.”

  “Of course, I have. And what is your name?” Lloyd probed further.

  “Excuse me if I insulted you; it was unintentional,” the African replied. “But I find that most Americans, particularly those who are black, know very little about Africa. They seem to think of the continent as one country.”

  “My name is Rudo Hamisi. But I do not want my name in your newspaper. People whose names appear in your newspaper always seem to meet with misfortune, either before or after their names are printed.”

  “We only print the facts, stories about what actually happened,” said Lloyd, who felt like he needed to defend his profession.

  “And how do you determine which stories appear in your newspaper?” asked Hamisi. “The themes seem to be death, disaster, and destruction. Is that really all that is newsworthy on an average day in America?”

  Deep down, Lloyd knew Hamisi was right but was somewhat irritated that he was being so judgmental. “That is what people are most interested in,” replied Lloyd defensively.

  He then noticed the peculiar markings on the shawl Hamisi had around his shoulders. One of the markings appeared to be the image of an elephant inside the Star of David. “We can’t sell newspapers if we print a bunch of stories that nobody wants to read.”

  “So your job is to tell people what they want to hear in order to make money. You do not tell them what they need to know?” asked Hamisi.

  Lloyd could sense the sarcasm in Hamisi’s question, but he did not have a good answer. He checked his watch. He needed to file the first installment of the story soon.

  “Mr. Hamisi, that is an over-simplification of what we do. But I’m on a deadline and need to file my story concerning your neighbor’s suicide in a couple of hours. I may need to contact you later to follow up in case you remember something. Would it be okay to call you or stop by later?” asked Lloyd, who doubted that Hamisi had anything to add to the story, but there was something about him that piqued Lloyd’s curiosity.

  “As I said, I do not wish for my name to appear in your newspaper,” responded Hamisi. “But if I can be of help to you, you may come by.”

  “Here’s my card,” said Lloyd, and handed it to Hamisi. “My home phone number is on the back.”

  Hamisi did not offer a phone number, and Lloyd did not ask. It was as if the African was giving Lloyd an invitation to visit again—not to enlighten him with titillating details about the unfortunate Mr. Banks, but to share some wisdom, some knowledge that Lloyd needed to receive. There was a spiritual connection between them; Lloyd could feel it. He knew he’d be back—Hamisi’s aura compelled him.

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 3

  Lloyd had a source in the homicide department at the Harris County Sheriff’s Office, and he decided to call her. The law enforcement officers had confiscated Banks’ laptop and the hard drive to his computer at work, and Lloyd wondered if any incriminating e-mails had been found. If he could get some inside information from his source, that would make the completion of his story a lot easier.

  He found her phone number among his cell phone contacts and selected it. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Sheriff’s Office, Karen Taylor speaking,” she said.

  “Karen, this is Lloyd Palmer at the Houston Ledger. How are you?”

  “I’m doing great, Lloyd. But I know you didn’t call me to chit-chat.” Karen got straight to the point. “What do you want?”

  “Have you seen anything come across your desk regarding the Henry Banks murder-suicide case?” Lloyd asked.

  “They’ve catalogued his e-mails and a history of web sites he visited. It appears that he intercepted some of his fiancée’s e-mails from her lover. Some of it was pretty graphic stuff. The guy she was seeing even e-mailed her some nude photos of his, uh, male equipment, if you get my drift.”

  “It must have been enough to send Banks over the edge. The crime scene was pretty gruesome,” said Lloyd. “Is there any way you can send me a copy of those e-mails?”

  “No way. Management periodically monitors our e-mails and Web traffic and I’m not going to get fired for leaking information to you. I’ve told you more than I should have already.”

  “Well, can you print out a few of the e-mails and meet me later this afternoon?” pleaded Lloyd. “That way, there won’t be an e-mail trail.”

  Karen knew she had helped Lloyd in the past, but she wanted to make him sweat a little. “What’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks,” Lloyd responded. The newspaper had a petty cash fund specifically for this purpose, although it was never documented as such on any formal expense report. It was classified as “market research.”

  “Okay. Meet me in thirty minutes in the Best Buy parking lot on Richmond Avenue near the Galleria. Can you do that?” asked Karen.

  “I’ll be there. I’ll be driving a black Toyota Camry,” said Lloyd. Depending on the content of the e-mails, their inclusion in the story, along with the facts that Lloyd had already gathered, should be more than enough to file his first installment, just in time for the deadline.

  Lloyd got in his car and headed toward Richmond Avenue. He got to the parking lot within ten minutes—but he’d rather be early than late. He didn’t want to miss Karen. While he was waiting, he opened his laptop and began to work on the story. He used the working headline, “ExTron Executive Killed in Murder-Suicide,” but he knew that Ed was likely to change whatever he submitted.

  He then began with the lead sentence and
the facts about the story, leaving room to fill in details contained within the e-mails Karen would be giving him. A few minutes later, he looked up and saw Karen’s car slowly passing by. He waved at her and she pulled her car alongside his. Lloyd handed her the $100 bill, and Karen gave him several sheets of paper. She drove away quickly—no need to linger and take a chance that someone she knew would see her.

  Lloyd looked through the e-mails. Karen had given him lots of material; she even printed out a color image of the photograph she mentioned. Banks’ fiancée was messing around with a pretty weird guy. He’d sent several photos of his private parts from different angles, inserting arrows and lewd remarks on the side. Pretty sordid stuff, but juicy material for his story.

  Lloyd’s journalistic counterparts from the 1960s had covered history-making events: Ground-breaking school desegregation cases, sit-ins at lunch counters, freedom rides across the South, civil rights marches, the assassinations of

  historical icons. Forty years later he, on the other hand, was relegated to reporting what, in many cases, could be classified as soft porn.

  Lloyd was then reminded of Hamisi and the things he had said about what was printed in the newspaper. Lloyd knew this was sleazy material, not worthy of someone like him who was supposed to accomplish something of substance, but that was what was expected of him as a reporter. He had to put that out of his mind, for now.

  He called ExTron’s Public Affairs Department and spoke to the young lady who answered. She provided him with Banks’ personal information: job title, number of years with the company, countries where he’d worked, and the names of his ex-wife and children.

  Lloyd put the finishing touches on his story and forwarded it to his editor. He’d follow up with the sheriff’s office just in case more details came in, but his work for today was essentially done.

  He opened his cell phone and called Ed to see what he thought of the story. “Hi, Ed. It’s Lloyd. I just sent you the Banks murder-suicide story.”

  “I’m reading it over now, Lloyd,” said Ed. “Excellent work. You’ve got some really good stuff and the information in the e-mails was priceless. This story will definitely make the front page with your byline. If you get any new material

  that we need to add or revise, let me know right away. We can always upload the revised version to the web site. Otherwise, feel free to go on home. Frankly, Lloyd, this was a lot more than I had hoped for. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Lloyd shuddered at Ed’s insult. Ed always had a way of turning what should have been a compliment into something condescending.

  Lloyd should have been happy about the front-page exposure, but his triumph was bittersweet. As he got on the 610 Loop and headed home for a weekend of rest and relaxation, he thought about his parents and was glad they didn’t read the Ledger every day. They still had high hopes that Lloyd’s reporting would end up in history books or win him one of the top journalism awards. This was one story he’d written that he hoped they’d miss.

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 4

  Lloyd pulled into the driveway of his home in Northwest Houston and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d beat most of the rush-hour traffic and was glad to see that Stephanie’s car was in the driveway.

  Even though they had been married almost twenty years, Stephanie still brought out the passion in him. Sure, she’d put on a few pounds, but so had he. She had a way of making him chase her without making him beg. Sometimes he would be at work, think about her, and his nature would rise right there in the office.

  As he entered his home, he heard his wife in the kitchen preparing food for the evening. “Steph, I’m home,” he yelled, so she could hear him above the sounds of cabinets closing and pots banging.

  “You’re home early,” Stephanie replied. “Everything go okay at work?”

  “Yes, I covered a story in the Galleria area, but I was able to wrap things up around three-thirty. Ed said it was okay for me to head for home, as long as I checked in to update any new info that may come in about the story. I need to check again before dinner, just in case.”

  Lloyd placed his laptop on the kitchen table, checked for additional e-mails and browsed the Internet for news reports. He went to the Ledger’s web site and, sure enough,

  the home page already had his story front and center, with photos of Banks, his fianceé and her lover, as well as the front of the apartment building where the murder-suicide took place. Lloyd decided he would tell Stephanie about it later. He wanted to unwind before their guests arrived later that evening.

  One Friday each month, the Palmers and their friends, Ron and Shirley Singleton, got together for dinner and a game of cards, and tonight was their night to be the hosts. Lloyd and Ron had been best friends since college and loved to play spades.

  Ron was a structural engineer for the City of Houston. The Singletons’ daughter, Destiny, was one of Bria’s close friends, so the teenagers would often go to a movie or the mall while the adults played cards. They usually arrived around seven o’clock so Lloyd had a couple of hours to relax.

  Lloyd went into the den, sat in his recliner and put on his headphones as he listened to smooth jazz. He thought a lot about the events of the day, especially Hamisi and the things he had said. Lloyd had a strange feeling that fate had brought the two of them together.

  One question that Hamisi asked Lloyd kept sticking in his mind: “You do not tell them what they need to know?” As a reporter, Lloyd always believed that’s what he was doing. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Lloyd needed his life to have more purpose than just reporting the latest episodes of death and destruction to the masses. He was sick of crime scenes and fatal traffic accidents with bodies strewn on the freeway. He was tired of drug shootouts, child abuse cases and government corruption and ineptitude. He was frustrated that, for the black community, the media seemed to be mostly interested in covering situations which proved the negative premise: Black people were either too stupid or too brutal to succeed.

  Lloyd put his head back, relaxed and finally dozed off. The ringing of the doorbell woke him up a couple of hours later. Stephanie answered the door and Ron and Shirley walked in with their hands laden with food containers. Destiny came in behind them and ran upstairs to Bria’s room.

  “Hey, everybody,” said Shirley. “Are you and Ron ready to get whooped again tonight?” she said, referring to Lloyd and Ron being spades partners. She and Stephanie had beaten them badly during their last Friday night session. They always played with the ladies versus the men; the ladies won most of the time.

  “Y’all just got lucky last time,” said Ron. “But me and my partner are going to put a hurting on you this week.”

  Ron helped Shirley carry the items into the kitchen and then headed to the den as Lloyd was making an effort to look like he hadn’t just spent two hours sleeping.

  “What’s up, man?” asked Ron, as he sat down on the sofa.

  “Nothing much,” replied Lloyd. “Just finished writing a story on the murder-suicide near the Galleria. Did you hear about it?”

  “I heard something on the radio on the way over here, but not too many details. It seems there is at least one murder in Houston every day of the week,” said Ron.

  “Well, the guy really went on a rampage. Some people can’t handle being cheated on by someone they love,” said Lloyd.

  “You’re right about that,” Ron said. “But if I caught Shirley cheating, the last thing I’d do is kill myself. I love my wife, but I have a daughter to think of. And my attitude is: I don’t want anybody who doesn’t want me.”

  “Sho’ nuff, man.” Then Lloyd said, “I want to talk to you about something else—about my job. Dealing with so much negativity day after day is taking its toll. I’m fed up with seeing dead bodies. I might look for another job or even another profession.”

  “What are you talking about, Lloyd? I thought you loved being a reporter.”

  “My c
oncept of being a journalist is a lot different from what I actually do on a daily basis. When I was in college, I thought I would be writing about major events, sweeping legislation, things like that. Instead, it seems that

  as the years go by, my work carries me deeper and deeper into the gutter,” said Lloyd.

  “And I don’t know if my boss can be any more patronizing than he’s been for the last ten years. Any hope I might have had of a major career move isn’t going to happen as long as Ed is my supervisor. The guy thinks I’m an idiot. Plus, he’s a racist.”

  “He can’t be that bad,” said Ron. “You know how hard it is to find a job these days, and unemployment checks aren’t enough to cover your mortgage and car note, let alone Bria’s college fund.”

  “Don’t remind me because that’s exactly what Steph says when I even try to broach the subject. I’m just not sure I can go through this life with nothing more to show for my existence than a scrapbook filled with murder clippings. I used to talk to my parents about some of the stories I would write, but now I mostly hope they don’t ask any questions. That way, I don’t have to go into the details and see the disappointed looks on their faces.”

  “But I don’t want to waste your time listening to me wallow in self pity. How’s your job going?” asked Lloyd.

  “Well, I think all of us may have had unrealistic expectations in college. We all thought we were going to change the world and, instead, the world changed us,” said Ron. “I enjoy engineering and I get a sense of gratification when a project is completed. But it does get monotonous at times.”

  “Something interesting did happen to me today,” said Lloyd. “I met an unusual man when I was questioning folks at the crime scene of the murder-suicide. He’s from Africa—Zimbabwe, he said—and he seems to be some sort of religious tribal leader. Meeting him was one of the most fascinating encounters I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Oh, yeah? What made it so fascinating?”

  “First of all, he was wearing clothes that I haven’t seen before. And, instead of me asking him questions, he was questioning me in ways that I had never thought of before,” said Lloyd.