Free Cold Case Squad by Edna Buchanan

restaurant.
    They worked side by side, thirteen hours a day, seven days a week.
    His parents would drop him off at school and go on to work. After
school, Sam walked home, let himself in, and did his homework until his
grandmother arrived from her housekeeping job in Miami Beach. She would
stay until his parents came home at night.
    His mother said all the hard work was for the future. It would not
be forever, she had assured him.
    She was right.
    He was eight years old when their future ended.
    They had been robbed twice before. His father bought a gun for
protection. He kept it on a shelf over his barbecue stove.
    He never had a chance to reach for it the night it happened.
    Sam was working on his math at' the kitchen table, hoping that the
hard rain falling meant his parents would be home soon. Rain always
made business slow. When the knock at the door came, he thought it
might be them at first, but it was a policeman. His grandmother sent
Sam to his room, but he ran back to her when he heard her scream.
    The policeman picked him up, held him in his arms, and said
everything would be all right, as his grandmother wailed.
    The next time Sam saw his parents, they lay in matching caskets,
side by side.
    He never forgot the policeman whose name he never knew. After Sam
pinned on the badge, he watched for the man, certain he would still
recognize him. But he apparently quit or retired, never knowing he had
motivated Sam to follow him into the department. Sam worked hard, won
honors in patrol, and persistently applied to join the Cold Case Squad.
When the time was right, after he had proven himself, built some
seniority and respect, and had enough clout, he would persuade the team
to pursue the case that had changed his life forever.
    "Hope you're hungry, Sonny. Come set down while it's hot."
    She'd filled his plate with ham, sweet potatoes, collard greens, and
pole beans. His iced tea was the way he liked it.
    "I'll be by Saturday morning," he told her, as he slathered sweet
butter on a slab of warm cornbread. "Time to mow the lawn, take the
coconuts off that palm tree. Shoulda done it sooner. It's hurricane
season. They'd be cannonballs in a storm."
    She nodded. "I'll fix you a nice breakfast Saturday. How is your
case comin', honey? The big one, 'bout all those women?"
    "Good, Gran. Coming along. Really good. But the lieutenant is
driving us crazy. Sending us off on a wild-goose chase just when I
start making some headway."
    "What on earth is wrong with that woman?"
    "Long story, Gran."
    She leaned forward, eyes bright. "Well, whacha got that's new?"
    He put his fork down and grinned across the table at her.
    He and this tiny woman had been a team; when he was a child she took
him everywhere. They rode buses all over Miami. Even to places where
they weren't wanted. They went to the Historical Museum, to South
Beach's Art Deco District, to old Coconut Grove, Orchard Villa, Lemon
City, and other historic Miami neighborhoods. They went to the library
and to Saturday afternoon matinees. They watched TV detectives—Charlie
Chan, Sam Spade, and Sherlock Holmes—matching wits with the sleuths.
She even took him to Miami Beach and taught him how to swim in the
ocean. Back then he was the only child in his inner-city neighborhood
who knew how to swim. Some grew up never having seen the ocean, just a
short drive across the causeway.
    She always told him, "You can't be what you can't see."
    He didn't know then what she meant by that. He knew now.
    "The killer stays with the bodies, I think, probably overnight. He
puts them to bed and folds the bedclothes really tight at the bottom,
military or hospital style. I think he cleans their kitchens and
bedrooms. So far he's killed on every day of the week but Saturday."
    Arms folded, she listened intently as he rattled off the details.
    She seemed to be a tower of strength when he was little. The more he
grew, the bigger and stronger he got, the smaller and weaker she'd
become. He'd always