In his finest moment, he dwelt on street crime, and the deterioration of our cities. (His

hometown had eight thousand people.)It was a shame that our nation's capital was in such

a sorry state, and because of his brush with death he would from that day forward devote

his considerable energies into making our streets safe again. He had found a new purpose.

He blathered on about gun control and more prisons.

The shooting of Burkhoider had put immense, though temporary-, pressure on the D.C.

police to clean up the streets. Senators and representatives had spent the day popping off

about the dangers of downtown Washington. As a result, the sweeps started again after

dark. Every drunk, wino, beggar, and homeless person near the Capitol was pushed

farther away. Some were arrested. Others were simply loaded into vans and transported

like cattle to the more distant neighborhoods.

* * *

At 11:40 P.M., the police were dispatched to a liquor store on Fourth Street near Rhode

Island, in Northeast. Gunshots had been heard by the owner of the store, and one of the

sidewalk locals had reported seeing a man down.

In a vacant lot next to the liquor store, behind a fifie of rubble and cracked bricks, the

police found the body of a young black male. The blood was fresh, and came from two

bullet holes to the head.

-He was later identified as Kito Spires.

________________________________________________________________

Thirty-four

Ruby reappeared Monday morning with a ferocious appetite for both cookies and news.

She was waiting on the doorstep with a smile and a warm hello when I arrived at eight, a

bit later than usual. With Gantry out there, I wanted the extra daylight and the increased

activity when I got to the office.

She looked the same. I thought perhaps I could study her face and see the evidence of a

crack binge, but there was nothing unusual. Her eyes were hard and sad, but she was in a

fine mood. We entered the office together and fixed our spot on Ruby's desk. It was

somewhat comforting to have another person in the building.

"How have you been?" I asked.

"Good," she said, reaching into a bag for a cookie. There were three bags, all bought the

week before, just for her, though Mordecai had left a trail of crumbs.

"?Vhere are you staying?"

"In my car." Where else? "! sure am glad winter is leaving."

"Me too. Have you been to Naomi's?" I asked.

"No. But I'm going today. I ain't been feeling too good."

"I'll give you a ride."

"Thanks."

The conversation was a little stiff. She expected me to ask about her last motel visit. I

certainly wanted to, but thought better of it.

When the coffee was ready, I poured two cups and set them on the desk. She was on her

third cookie, nibbling nonstop around the edges like a mouse.

How could I be harsh with one so pitiful? On to the news.

"How about the paper?" I asked.

"That would be nice."

There was a picture of the mayor on the front page, and since she liked stories about city

politics, and since the mayor was always good for some color, I selected it first. It was a

Saturday interview in which the mayor and council, acting together in a shaky and

temporary alliance, were asking for a Justice Department investigation into the deaths of

Lontae Burton and family. Had there been civil rights violations? The mayor strongly