hair, was splattered all over the wall. There was a fine mist of blood that had traveled up the wall. Pieces of skull and bloody tissue were splashed on the desktop and the adding machine sitting on the desk. Blood, tissue, and bits of bone were spread over so many places that it was hard to envision the impact of the shot. The shooter had obviously intended to kill the boy. But why? This was just a country store. How much money did the killer think he would find? Besides, these kids didn’t have any weapons. They weren’t a threat.
The crime scene didn’t make any sense. People don’t just stand around waiting to get shot if they have a chance to get away. For some reason, these kids just stood there after the first one got shot. And the shooter’s actions made no sense. Most of the time, a robber will shoot in a panic and then run. They don’t usually intend to kill anybody when they walk in, even though they have a gun. Most robbers just intend to use the gun as a threat. This was an execution. But why? Whoever did this was way beyond being just some two-bit, punk robber. Kenny was right. There were too many questions, and there was something very strange about the crime scene.
When you’ve seen enough homicide scenes, you get a sense of what happened. Most of the time, murder follows a pattern, and so, when something doesn’t fit, you can sense it. Regardless, whoever did this was a really bad guy. Shooting someone in a panic or without thinking is one thing, but pointing a gun at a kid and deliberately killing him or her? For that, one had to be a cold-blooded killer, and those kind of people are a breed apart. Most murders happen because people get angry or panic or are intoxicated. I had investigated a lot of homicide cases, but it wasn’t often that you saw a real premeditated murder, the kind where the killer thought about it in advance and then did it just like he was killing a bug. Those guys are scary, but even those guys usually don’t kill kids. This guy was more than scary. Somewhere out there we had a real killer.
The coroner joined us. Unlike what a lot of people think or what is shown on television, the coroner called to the crime scene is usually not a doctor and is there to check for information and control disposition of the deceased. The coroner looked down at the boy with the head wound and said, sadly, “I pulled his ID out. We’ll need to make a positive identification later. I can’t tell from the ID if it’s him. I hate it when people have to see their kids like this, and I’m always the guy who has to tell them.”
Bill glanced at me. I spoke first. “Don’t bother. I can make ID. His name’s Bryon Schletewitz. I saw his parents outside. I know him. He was a witness in an old case of mine involving this store.”
The coroner looked up. “Do you want to tell his parents or should I?”
He looked relieved when I said I would do it. I had done it before with other parents or husbands or wives. It was never easy, but at least this time it would be coming from somebody they knew and not from a stranger. “The names of the other two kids?”
“I don’t have an ID on the girl yet. The boy’s driver’s license says Douglas White.”
Kenny interjected, “We don’t know yet whether they were working here or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Right now, we got two witnesses and maybe a third, depending on whether the woman in the bathroom is a witness or a perp. The kid in the bathroom knows what happened I’m guessing, but he’s in the hospital right now. We’ll have to wait on the woman. She’s over at county medical center at the moment, but I got a guard on her.” Kenny stared at me for a few seconds. “You going to talk to the parents?”
“Yeah, Bill and I will take care of it.” I looked over at Bill for moral support. He was shaking his head. He wasn’t happy about being dragged into informing the parents, but he knew it was something that needed to be done and he too had done it many times before.
I stepped back out of the storage room, being careful not to open the door too much. The television camera lights were on and the glare was directly in my face. The cameramen were trying to get the camera eye into the storage room, and I wasn’t going to give them a chance to catch any part of the victims or the blood on the floor. It was bad enough that several parents were going to get the worst possible news tonight about their kids. I wasn’t going to make it worse by having family and friends see their loved ones bleeding on the floor of a storage room. People deserve better than that.
Bill and I walked past the news crews, shouting questions at us. The deputy holding the onlookers back lifted the crime scene tape. He took the lead, putting his arm in front of the lunging cameramen. “Not now, please. Just step back.” We moved around them and for once they didn’t follow. If they had known the family was over on the other side of the parking lot they would have been there trying to wring the last ounce of emotion out of the scene; asking the questions that they themselves would never be able to answer if they were on the other side of the lens: “Is your son in there?” “Do you know if your daughter is alive?” “How does it feel? How does it feel?” What is it about the need for human misery to be portrayed on the news at 11:00? Some moments obviously need to be private, but not much is private anymore. Misery is big, I guess. Decency goes on the afternoon news—must be the family hour.
Ray and Fran Schletewitz watched as Bill and I walked across the parking lot. Fran stepped back as we neared. They both knew me from the previous case and we had seen each other occasionally over the years. Fresno isn’t so big that you don’t cross paths with people you’ve met before. Ray just stood there looking at me. I could tell he knew what was coming. He had already prepared himself. There is no easy way to tell somebody their child is dead. About the only thing you can do is get it over with as clearly and as gently as possible. I reached out to him. As he took my hand, I looked at Fran and then back at him. Bill stood off to my side. Ray was staring directly at me, and it was all I could do to hold his gaze. A man deserves to be looked in the eye when you are about to tell him the one thing no parent ever wants to hear and is never prepared for. I opened my mouth and then closed it, measuring my words and thinking what to say and how to say it. I looked at the mother and father waiting for me to tell them what they already knew but wanting to hold onto that last sliver of hope that they were wrong. There is no good way, I guess. I finally just let it out. “Bryon is in there, Ray, Fran. I’m sorry; he’s dead. I wish there were something different I could tell you.”
Fran started to cry and Bill went to her. A group of women, family friends I suppose, began to gather around her. Ray’s eyes hadn’t turned their gaze from me. He looked at me with an expression on his face that was beyond description. It was like watching a man’s body just drain itself of everything but grief. I recognized the moment all too well: those fleeting seconds of shock and screaming denial when a loved one is caught between the reality of what they are being told and the flood of emotion that is coming. Somehow nothing came. Ray just stood there with age showing in every line on his face.
“Jim, I knew it when I saw you walk over. Bryon wasn’t even supposed to work tonight. We had somebody off. Who else is in there?”
“A young girl, looks to be around seventeen or eighteen, and a young man who has an ID that says Douglas White. They work for you?”
“They both work in the store. They’re just kids. The girl, must be Josephine Rocha, she’s just a kid. Doug isn’t much older. Their parents—this will kill their parents. There was another boy working tonight, Joe Rios?”
“We have another boy that was shot. He got away. He’s at the hospital. We’re sending somebody over right now to get a statement. I’m sorry, Ray. I just don’t know that much yet.”
I know some people think it’s insensitive to ask questions of a person under these circumstances, but solving a homicide is a race against time. You have to ask. If you are going to identify the killer, you probably have your best chance within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. After that, things start to get cold. Some people are initially so emotionally
