The Killing Fields

Before long, that kind of stress forces a man to make impossible choices. Like deciding between drilling scumbags and caring for your own children.

When Detective Smith took 13 weeks off, it was because his daughter got sick. She's the one in pre-med on a track scholarship at the University of Michigan. But just before her 20th birthday, she was rushed to intensive care. Doctors discovered she had a rare form of muscle cancer attacking the fibers of her body. Smith took leave so he and his wife could be with her in the hospital while the tumors were removed.

The ordeal made him question things most fathers would rather not. Maybe he should switch to a 9-to-5 type of beat, rather than one that regularly requires 15-hour shifts. In addition to shuttling back and forth to see his daughter, he's also caring for his aging dad, who owns rental properties that have become Smith's responsibility on his days off.

"I go back to work, I am tired, I am still under stress," he says.

And he's not the only one. Earlier this year, Beaman ignored pains in his back for so long that his gallbladder nearly burst, and he had to be rushed to surgery.

A few weeks ago, Detective Joe Chojnowski, a white-haired veteran who used to be homicide's one-man cold-case squad, went home sick after his blood pressure went through the roof. Both he and Beaman say they are planning to retire next year.

"The guys burn out. It's a never-ending battle," Chojnowski says. "You're working on something, and four more things come in . . . Where do you draw the line?"

Banae Snowden has a line too: She wants to feel safe in her own home.

Her house in Garfield Heights is a carefully constructed oasis of scented candles, flowered coverlets on the dining-room chairs, and a gleaming white piano. But it was never enough to hold back the chaos outside.

On the day after Thanksgiving 2005, her son, Ronald Gholston Jr., was shoveling snow at his dad's house near East 144th and Kingsford. His girlfriend had just called to say she was on her way to pick him up, Snowden says. He walked around the corner to a friend's house. On his way back, four shots rang out. By the time his girlfriend arrived, police were looking for someone to identify the body.

A suspect wearing dark clothing was seen running away. Yet nearly two years later, Snowden knows of no one who has been charged. Like Webb, Snowden says detectives don't investigate the tips she and her family gather, and they don't update her on what they're doing. Her perfectly composed face is marred by a flicker of anger. "If I don't call them, they don't call me."

She wrote to the mayor, only to get the expected response. We're sorry for your loss. We're doing everything possible. We understand your concern.

Chojnowski, who's handling the case, says he's run into the all-too-common problem of uncooperative witnesses. Plenty of people were around when Gholston died, but they refuse to talk. He's tried using Crime Stoppers, a program that offers cash for anonymous tips, and he's told the officers who work that district to look out for a moron bragging of the shooting. Still no leads.

"I have to have somebody that's willing to come forward and tell me what they saw or what they heard," he says.

None of which gives Snowden much comfort. Her house is just over the border from Cleveland, a few streets away from where her son was killed. For years, the house next door has been boarded and vacant. The other night she came home to find the one on the other side boarded up as well.

She doesn't like being the kind of person who fumbles for her keys when she gets home from work, hesitating to enter the darkened, empty house. She doesn't want to live in fear. But she doesn't have much choice.

"If these kids don't see anything happening to people getting caught for murdering people," she asks, "what's gonna deter them from doing the same thing?"

Back in Bedford Heights, the Carters mourn their son as best they can. His ashes, Little League trophies, and a poster-size photo of his face make up a shrine in the living room. His dad wears a T-shirt featuring a wanted poster: "Attention: Reward for Information" above a photo of his son. The license plates on both their cars are a tribute: "05 MIKE" and "2 MIKE."

But it's not enough. Michael Carter believes one of his son's supposed friends working the club door that night knows who killed him. But that man hasn't fingered any suspects.