Sanchez and I were in my car on a Sunday afternoon, parked outside the big Lutheran church on Fifth and Edinger.
“He’s the last one. Name’s Ricardo Gomez,” said Sanchez, consulting a list of names. There were eight names on the list, seven of which were crossed off.
“You do realize we’re outside a church,” I said.
Sanchez wasn’t listening. “Ricardo hasn’t been alone in nearly a week. This might be our only chance to nail him.”
“I think you’ve let this go to your head.”
Sanchez looked at me. “Hell, this went straight to my head the day I heard my boy was in the hospital. This went straight to my head the day eight boys kicked his face in.”
“Take a deep breath,” I said.
He ignored me. “Besides, we’re doing the neighborhood a service. My son has single-handedly broken up this so-called gang. According to his school principal, these kids have been harassing students all year, not to mention vandalizing property.”
“Did the principal know what happened to your son?”
Sanchez nodded. “And he knows my son is picking them off one at a time.”
“What did he say about that?”
“Hallelujah.”
“That because your kid’s name is Jesus?”
“Hay-zeus, asshole.” Sanchez looked at his big cop watch. “Church will be out soon.”
“Kid named Jesus kicking ass at church,” I said. “Maybe it’s the Second Coming.”
There was a box of donuts balanced on the console between us. I had insisted on getting the donuts at the Von’s grocery store this time, which often had better donuts than most hole-in-the-wall chains. Sanchez thought getting donuts at a grocery store was sacrilegious but he ate them anyway.
“Church is out,” Sanchez reported, leaning forward eagerly. “And there he is, walking home alone.” I thought Sanchez might wet his pants. He pulled out his notepad and made an entry. I leaned over his shoulder and read the entry: 11:53 AM. Sunday. Church out.
“Don’t you have murderers to catch?” I asked.
“Not on Sundays,” he said. “Day of rest.” Then he made another entry: Intercept target. Next Sunday. Noon.
“Target?” I said. “You need to get a life.”
“I’ll get a life after next Sunday.”
“You have a sprinkle on your chin.”
“Fuck you.”
“Such language at church.”