Second Chance

Chapter 3

PAUL CHIN, one of my Homicide crew, was interviewing a tall, handsome black man dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans on the steps of the church. I'd seen him before, on the news. I even knew his name, Aaron Winslow.

Even in shock and dismay, Winslow carried himself with a graceful bearing - a smooth face, jet-black hair cut flat on top, and a football running back's build. Everyone in San Francisco knew what he was doing for this neighborhood.

He was supposed to be a real-life hero, and I must say he looked the part.

I walked over.

“This is Reverend Aaron Winslow;” Chin said, introducing us.

“Lindsay Boxer,” I said, extending my hand.

“Lieutenant Boxer,” said Chin. “She'll be overseeing the case.” “I'm familiar with your work,” I said. “You've given a lot to this neighborhood. I'm so sorry for this. I don't have any words for it.”

His eyes shifted toward the murdered girl. He spoke in the softest voice imaginable. “I've known her since she was a child. These are good, responsible people. Her mother... she brought up Tasha and her brother on her own. These were all young kids. Choir practice, Lieutenant.”

I didn't want to intrude, but I had to. “Can I ask a few questions? Please.”

He nodded blankly. "Of course.

“You see anyone? Someone fleeing? A shape, a glimpse?”

“I saw where the shots came from,” Winslow said, and he pointed to the same thicket of bushes where Jacobi had gone.

“I saw the trailer fire. I was busy trying to get everyone down. It was madness.”

“Has anyone made any threats recently against you or your church?” I asked.

“Threats?” Winslow screwed up his face. “Maybe years ago, when we first got funding to rebuild some of these houses.”

A short distance away, a haunting wail came from Tasha Catchings's mother as the girl's body was lifted onto a gurney.

This was so sad. The surrounding crowd was growing edgy.

Taunts and accusations began to ring out. “Why are you all standing around? Go find her killer!” “I better get over there,” Winslow said, “before this thing goes the wrong way.” He started to move, then turned with tight-lipped resignation on his face. “I could have saved that poor baby. I heard the shots.”

“You couldn't save them all,” I said. “You did what you could.”

He finally nodded. Then he said something that totally shocked me. “It was an M Sixteen, Lieutenant. Thirty-round clip. The bastard reloaded twice.” “How would you know that?” I asked, surprised.

“Desert Storm,” he answered. "I was a field chaplain.

No way I would ever forget that awful sound. No one ever does."