“Units respond to the 4600 block of Reservoir Road,” the disembodied voice of the police dispatcher broadcast the location as Farish reached down to switch on his siren.
“On it!” The thirty-nine-year-old detective grabbed the mike and shouted into the handset. He had been on Wisconsin Avenue heading north back toward the stationhouse, winding down now that there were less than forty minutes left on his evening tour. He knew that the broadcast was directed at patrol unit officers, but the nature of the call, and the fact that the incident had occurred in his district while he was the officer in charge, cued him to respond.
Pressing hard on the brake of his Ford Crown Victoria, he jerked the steering wheel of his unmarked car, its tires screeching. He flicked on the whirling red bubble light mounted atop the dashboard, hung a sharp left, and accelerated west in the direction of Reservoir Road.
The veteran investigator already had a sense that this call was going to turn out to be more than a routine run. It wasn’t every day that the words “Shots fired” came across the radio, at least not for this location. While too many of Washington, DC’s neighborhoods were riddled with crime, the posh Palisades section of Georgetown was rarely the scene of any crimes more threatening than jaywalking. A call like this was bound to draw a considerable amount of attention from the higher-ups in his department—not to mention the media.
Farish pressed his foot on the gas and heard a second message crackle over his radio. “Child, eleven years old, is in the house alone,” the disembodied voice announced.
“Oh, God, please not the kid, you jerk,” he thought.
Veering onto Reservoir Road, the sergeant caught up and tucked his vehicle in behind a uniformed patrol car that was heading to the scene. With a practiced eye he scanned the idyllic scene, with its manicured lawns and neatly trimmed shrubs, as he looked for signs of disturbance. His attention was immediately drawn to the fire trucks that were stopped halfway up the block, pulled up next to a late model Jeep Wrangler. The vehicle was facing in an easterly direction on the south side of the busy two-lane street.
Parking behind the polished white patrol car with its official red stripes, the seasoned investigator wrenched his lanky, six-foot, two-inch frame from the vehicle and hurried toward the Jeep. He immediately recognized the officer in the first car as Sergeant Christopher Saunders of the Special Operations Division, the arm of the Metropolitan Police Department responsible for presidential matters such as motorcades, as well as crowd control at parades and demonstrations. He noted that Saunders was still in uniform. Only later did he learn that he had just gone off-duty and was on his way home when he picked up the “radio run,” the department’s official term for an emergency call, on the Second District’s radio channel.
Sirens wailed from the fire trucks and emergency medical units that had stopped alongside the Jeep as Farish moved in for a closer look. He could see that its parking lights were still on, and that the driver’s side door hung open. The overhead street lamp illuminated the Wrangler’s out-of-state license plate, Illinois D810-198—and the body that was slumped in the driver’s seat, leaning toward the passenger side.
The lifeless form was dressed in a navy-and-white striped sleeveless tee-shirt and baggy black slacks. Silver bangle bracelets encircled her motionless arms. Her thick, wavy dark hair had fallen over her face, concealing it from view. Farish surveyed the spectacle with a dispassion that was the result of seventeen years on the Metropolitan Police Department. He had moved to the District of Columbia from Philadelphia as a young boy when his father was transferred to the Naval Annex across the street from the Pentagon, and at twenty-one, joined the police force as a patrol officer in the Third District. After receiving a promotion to the rank of sergeant, Farish was transferred to the Central Homicide unit.
While there, he was called to the scenes of hundreds of murders, spectacles so grisly they caused him to recoil in horror. In a city that at one time was known for handling between three hundred and four hundred murders a year, Farish witnessed on a daily basis what few men viewed even once in a lifetime. Cases like the toddler who was killed by a blow to the head with a hammer, and the elderly woman who had been beaten to death for her welfare check had taught him to compartmentalize the job. He had learned to view dead bodies not as people, but as another piece of evidence to help solve the crime.
Instinctively he began to piece together what had happened. There was so much he didn’t know about the case. Had the gunman shot the woman from the sidewalk? Had this incident been a drive-by shooting? Did it have anything to do with the German Embassy across the street?
He knew two things perfectly well: that you never know what you have, and that you always anticipate the worst. To counterbalance his doubts, he also had two decades of experience in one of the nation’s homicide capitals to draw upon. He had been trained at Basic Investigator School within the department, in an advanced homicide program in Baltimore, and also at the prestigious Harvard Associates in Police Science in Virginia.
Now, as he watched the emergency medical technician struggle to pull the woman from the vehicle, he could not help but think that there was nothing anyone could do to maximize the possibility that the outcome of this crime would be positive. There was no question that she was dead.
Farish focused on the blood that drenched the passenger seat of the vehicle, still so fresh it was a brilliant red. Two puncture marks on the left side of the victim’s head signified that two shots had been fired. The absence of stippling, a burn ring left by gunfire, indicated to him that the assailant had fired from close range. He could see that the lower portion of her left earlobe was missing, and gray brain matter, intermingled with blood, lay in clumps in her thick, wavy, dark hair.
Despite the fact that this woman was clearly dead, the EMT workers were busily attempting to resuscitate her. They pulled the oxygen tanks down from the fire truck, and placed the ambu bag over her face as they launched into basic CPR. He watched the technician insert a tube into the victim’s airway.
“This is CR 200.” The detective overheard the technician reporting his findings to the dispatcher, who would record the call in the official police file next to the time, 22:39:35. “Be advised, victim is in serious condition.”
He could see that there was movement in her chest and stomach each time the medic squeezed the bag, but observed no noticeable signs of breath. Farish knew that once bagging and compressing the victim failed to produce any results, additional medical personnel would arrive on the scene to load the body onto the bright orange gurney and transport it via ambulance to nearby Georgetown Hospital.
“Block it off!” the sergeant shouted to the uniformed officers pulling up to the scene. “Stop your cars, and shut it down!
“Secure the scene!” He continued to bark his orders, this time speaking into his handheld Motorola radio. His announcement would be broadcast over the Second District’s official police channel and would be heard by every officer in the precinct.
“Move it back!” he snapped, noting with chagrin that the media had already started arriving and were swarming around the premises.
Farish proceeded to instruct the officer standing closest to him, dressed in the department’s regulation light blue shirt and navy slacks, to secure a large section of the block. He was well versed in the area of crime-scene management. Experience had taught him that it was important to begin by roping off a sizeable area around a crime scene to ensure that detectives had ample space to conduct their investigation. He chose to have the tape placed in such a way as to rope off seventy-five to a hundred yards, keeping the gathering crowd as far away as possible.
“Make it big. I don’t want people milling around in the crime scene, and I don’t want any cars coming down here.”
He knew the first twelve hours in a murder investigation required extensive manpower. There were extensive steps that needed to be taken. It was necessary to ID the victim, canvass the neighborhood in search of the perpetrato
r, and find witnesses and take their statements. Getting an accurate picture of what had happened demanded both time and skilled personnel.
Fortunately, he had the benefit of two shifts’ worth of staff. The fact that it was eleven o’clock at night meant it was the end of the three-to-eleven tour and the beginning of the midnight shift. Investigators from both tours had converged on the stationhouse for the switchover, and were therefore available to rush to the scene. A few investigators were even summoned from their homes.
Concerned for the safety of the child that the dispatcher had reported was alone in the house, Farish immediately instructed four uniformed officers to conduct a protective sweep of the residence at 4632 Reservoir Road.
Farish knew that he was now at one of the most important parts of the investigation. Going inside the house and doing a careful search would reveal whether there were other victims, hostages, or even the perpetrator himself. Routine procedure was to enter the premises with utmost caution, going in with guns drawn and the expectation that anything could happen. In a situation like this, it was possible that the shooter was still nearby, hiding in a closet or crouching in a corner of a darkened room ready to strike again.
The uniformed officers cautiously climbed the brick steps to the front door. Their guns drawn, the men entered the darkened house through the front door, which had been left open. After only five minutes, one of the men emerged. “House is empty!” he announced.
Satisfied that the important first steps were being taken, and anxious to find the eleven-year-old boy who, minutes earlier, had phoned 911 for help, Farish turned to the three people who had been flagging down the police and other emergency personnel as they arrived on the scene.
“Any witnesses?” Sgt. Farish inquired.
One of them stepped forward, a man in his mid to late thirties.
“It must have been a quarter past ten when I heard what sounded like firecrackers, two explosions, a higher pitch, then a cherry bomb. Almost instantaneously I heard one of the kids crying. I went to the window and I could hear one of the kids saying, ‘I love you, Daddy.’ They were crying out after him.
“I opened the window further, and I could see Jeremy getting into the car that was parked on the street.”
“Jeremy?” Sgt. Farish repeated.
“Jeremy Akers. He lives right there.”
“Go on,” Farish urged.
“He slams the door and drives off very fast, east on Reservoir Road,” the man continued, adding that his next-door neighbor was driving a large SUV with Alabama license plates. “Then I thought about it a minute, that he would not be leaving his kids in distress. I thought something had to be wrong. I walked up the sidewalk in front of Akers’ house. I was trying to see if there was a smell of gunpowder from the firecracker. The crying had stopped. I didn’t see anybody, so I called up to see if everything was okay. There was no response, so I hesitated and I was getting ready to go back to my house when I saw Halsey and a friend of his.” He gestured toward one of the other neighbors standing at the edge of the crime scene.
“So I turned to speak to them about this,” he went on. “Then they turned and went back to their house. Somewhere in there, I noticed Nancy’s car was parked in front of Danny’s house.* So I thought she must be in the house with the kids, and Jeremy stormed out of the house because of her presence.
“Then I noticed the brake lights in back of the car were on. I thought she left her lights on. I didn’t see any lights on in the front. So I walked over to talk to Danny and he was preoccupied by something. So I walked up to the two to ask if they had heard the two sounds and to see if everything’s okay. And I was preparing to go with him up to his house to speak to him about the events in private.
“Then I looked to the left toward the Jeep, and I believe I saw the passenger door open and there’s a lump. I hoped it wasn’t a person. Then I heard Danny say that it was Nancy, so I said, ‘Is she responsive?’
“I called to her from the passenger side. She was slumped over, so I went around the Jeep to the driver’s side and opened the door. Her left arm was propped behind her. It was propped against the steering wheel. I tried to take her pulse. I couldn’t feel one, but I’m no expert at taking them.
“I rushed around the steps to their door. I passed Halsey to ask if he called an ambulance. I asked if they had given him any advice on what to do and he said that they had already called 911.
“When I got to the front door, Danny was on the phone, trying to get Homicide. Prior to that, he and his friend were taking towels down to stop the bleeding.…
“Then the police arrived. Just then, my wife came running up the sidewalk from our house. We’d been so focused on the Jeep we hadn’t done anything about the kids. My wife was distraught. She began to worry about the kids. She then went up to the house to see if they were okay. She then came down the steps with the kids. We were in tears.”
Ranger, meanwhile, had just recovered from his initial shock upon arriving at the crime scene. He remembered the promise he had made to his friend. He had agreed to see the children, to try to explain to them what had happened.
He moved cautiously toward the house. He’d only gone a few feet when he spotted the yellow tape printed with “CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS” stretched across the busy two-lane roadway. If that hadn’t been enough to stop him, the two uniformed cops who stepped in his path were.
“Sorry, sir. This is a crime scene,” one of them explained. “You can’t go any further.”
Reaching for the electric control, Ranger opened the driver’s side window. “I have some information.” He directed his statement at the brawny officer standing beside a shiny white patrol car parked diagonally across the road, its roof aswirl with red lights. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a military identification card from his wallet. He flashed it at the officer, hoping it would convince him that he wasn’t just some curious onlooker.
One of the officers stepped closer to the car and nodded an “okay” at Ranger as he studied the ID.
“I got a call from my friend,” Ranger explained, his heart pounding as he struggled to speak clearly but still convey the urgency of the situation. “He may have killed his wife. If you can trace this number you might be able to find him.”
The two officers exchanged glances.
“Wait here,” the first officer ordered.
Ranger watched as one of the cops crossed the lawn, then spoke in a low voice to a tall, lean man in street attire. As he watched, he realized that he was a plainclothes investigator, most likely directing the police investigation now underway.
Ranger couldn’t help being struck by the contrast between the uniformed policemen swarming the property, walkie-talkies squawking, and flickering lights casting spooky red shadows along the dimly lit street, and the dignified house that had suddenly and bizarrely been cast in the role of “scene of the crime.” The elegant, two-story house, he knew, was easily worth half a million dollars.
Ranger squared his shoulders as he noticed the officer coming back his way. This time, the plainclothes detective was in tow.
“I’m Mike Farish,” announced the investigator, who was dressed in impeccably pressed slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a stylish necktie. His light brown hair was cut short, and a thin mustache gave him a serious, dignified appearance. He extended his hand, and Ranger was struck by the firmness of his handshake. “I’m from the detectives’ office. I understand you were called by Jeremy Akers.”
Ranger held up the tiny piece of paper on which he had scribbled the phone number and handed it to the investigator. He launched into a description of the disturbing midnight phone call he had just received from Akers. Struggling to control his voice, even as he felt like exploding, he tried not to let himself get distracted by all the activity around him. Officers from the mobile crime scene unit were snapping pictures and collecting evidence. Neighbors congregated on the sidewalk, speaking in hushed tones and respectfully observing the flimsy barrie
r created by the yellow plastic CRIME SCENE strips.
As he spoke, Ranger was painfully aware that the clock was ticking. Every second that passed made it less likely that Jeremy Akers would be found. He kept his report as concise as he could, then handed the detective the piece of scrap paper with the scribbled phone number, hoping that the information might save his friend’s life.
Sergeant Farish nodded his thanks and started back toward the crime scene.
Ranger only hesitated a moment before calling after him, “If you find him, be careful. He’s determined to kill himself.”
CHAPTER THREE
Sergeant Michael Farish stood on the sidewalk and deliberately punched in the phone number that Bill Ranger had just handed to him. He realized that he was taking a gamble by making the call, but he decided that there wasn’t time to consider the less risky alternative. He knew that his only other option would be to phone the number in to the investigator he had stationed at the precinct house, and hope that Cole’s reverse telephone directory would reveal the man’s location. But that could take several minutes, and there was no guarantee that the method would yield an address. He only hoped he would be able to track him down before the former Marine took his rampage to the next level and harmed somebody else. Experience had taught him that a man in Jeremy Akers’ shoes, someone who has just shot and killed his wife in front of his children, was in a state of complete desperation, no longer believing there was anything else to live for.
The scenarios that were likely to follow, he knew only too well, were dismally bleak. One was for the killer to decide to go out in a blaze of glory, taking others with him. In this instance, hostages or other innocent bystanders often got caught up in a game they had never intended to play.
Another alternative was one he knew intimately. In fact, it was a horror he had lived with every day of his life for the past twelve years. Desperadoes such as Jeremy were sometimes too cowardly to take their own lives, even after taking the lives of others. In those instances, they often chose what in the police world was known as a “suicide by cop.”
Fatal Romance: A True Story of Obsession and Murder Page 3