That fall, Deere pursued a number of leads and theories, but none pointed to a likely suspect for either Amber’s killer or Denise’s rapist. Then, in early December, Deere got the tip that led him to Jeff Buck. A Maryland State Police detective told Deere that one of his informants had pinned Amber’s murder on a gang operating near her neighborhood. Actually, “gang” was too strong a term—as Deere came to understand, the crew was a loose-knit group of hoodlums, drug users, and marijuana dealers who chilled on porches and in parks, smoked lots of their own product, and committed crimes ranging from breaking into cars to armed robberies. Jeff Buck was the group’s leader; a street tough whose criminal record included arrests on such charges as drug distribution and assault, Buck was known by the police to be a marijuana hustler. The informant said that Buck had raped Denise and ordered a friend, his gang’s enforcer, to silence her. After the killing, the gunman had supposedly fled to California.
This lead seemed especially promising. Not only were the informant’s details specific, but Deere was able to establish that Denise had frequently hung out with the gang’s members, putting her in close proximity to the new suspects. Deere would have liked to interview Denise about Jeff Buck and his gang, but for the moment that wasn’t possible. Earlier that fall, she had been whisked out of town and placed in a residential mental-health facility in the Midwest. Access to her was severely restricted: no calls in, no calls out, and very few visitors. Deere hoped he’d get the chance to speak with Denise at some point, but in the meantime he turned his attention to Buck and his crew.
Just before Christmas, Deere and Crowell went hunting. First they found the alleged triggerman, Buck’s enforcer. Though he denied killing Amber, the man acknowledged having traveled to California in the weeks after the murder—an unwitting confirmation of information provided by the informant. After only a little prodding, the enforcer provided a DNA sample. Several weeks later, Deere learned that the sample didn’t match the blood on Denise’s shirt—hardly surprising, since the informant had said the shooter had played no role in the rape. By this point, Deere knew that the only way to find out whether the enforcer was involved was to question the man who’d supposedly ordered the hit.
Deere spent a good part of January learning everything he could about Buck’s history and his current operations. The detective was particularly eager to get his suspect’s cell-phone records, since they would provide a trove of details about his daily activities. When the records finally landed on Deere’s desk, he went straight to the information about Buck’s calls on August 22. Suddenly the new lead looked even better: the records showed that Buck’s phone was in Amber’s neighborhood at the time of the murder.
* * *
SITTING ACROSS FROM Buck, Deere jots an occasional note as he listens to the suspect talk about his friends in Amber’s neighborhood, including Denise. He’s glad Buck has fessed up to knowing the foster sister—he thought he might have to waste time pressing Buck to admit that he was friends with, or at least an acquaintance of, the teen. As the interrogation rolls on, Deere and Crowell ask Buck for more details about his relationship with Denise.
“She was loose,” Buck says, shrugging. He explains that another neighborhood girl had approached him and asked if he would pay fifty dollars to have sex with Denise. He is friends with the pimp’s boyfriend, who drives an unlicensed taxi and gives Buck rides in exchange for gas money. Deere jots down the information—two more people to track down.
“She wanted to sell her body or something,” Buck adds. “All I know is that it’s beneath me. I would never pay for no pussy.”
Crowell chuckles. “Oh, you pay for it.”
“Huh?”
“You are paying for it,” Crowell says, winking.
After a moment, Buck gets the joke, but he barely cracks a smile. “In a way,” he replies, “but I’m not putting a dime in her pocket. I might pay for dinner or something of that sort. I feel like I’m showing a female a good time. But I don’t put money in her pocket.”
Changing tack, Deere asks Buck whether he chills out at a house that has a recording studio in the basement. It is a well-known hangout; Deere would love to search it and guesses he would find guns or drugs. Buck acknowledges spending time in the studio; he says he’s cut a song there and hopes to produce another one that will earn him $2 million.
Deere pivots again, asking in a friendly way whether Buck and his friends enjoy “the purple drink,” a combination of Sprite and strong cough syrup that for some reason is consumed separately, in two cups.
“I’m going to put my beer in two cups so people think I’m drinking the purple drink,” Deere jokes, hoping to set Buck further at ease.
The banter has the opposite effect. Buck’s eyes narrow; he looks up at the wall as if to find a clock and check the time, but there is no clock in the box. He is clearly annoyed by these two uncool detectives trying to be hip. They can’t even pronounce the name of the drink right: on the street, it sounds like “purple drank.”
“How much longer am I going to be here?” Buck asks. “I have some things I have to—”
“You are going to be here a minute,” Deere interrupts, his voice harder now.
Bearing down, Deere begins questioning Buck about the murder. For the most part, the suspect deflects and evades, though he does provide what Deere considers helpful insights. He says he originally believed that the foster sister was the one killed. A week or two before the murder, Buck says, Denise had told him that “somebody had tried to rape her, or did rape her when she was walking home.”
Crowell asks Buck what else Denise said about the assault.
“She got to running and he got to grabbing her and she was fighting back,” Buck replied. “She thought the person was going to kill her, and she let him take it. After it was over, the nigga was like, ‘You shouldn’t be walking out this late at night because people out here like me are going to get you.’”
“He had a knife?” asks Deere.
“Yeah.”
“Where did she say it happened?”
“On the way home.”
“Did she always walk by herself?” Crowell asks.
“Yeah, she was always by herself.”
“Did you ever walk her home?” Deere asks.
Buck shakes his head; then he says that because the girl wore such skimpy clothes, she deserved what she got.
“You told her that?” Crowell asks.
“No. I was thinking it. I’m not that coldhearted a person.”
Deere purses his lips, thinking, Oh really? Then he asks, “Did you ever talk about it after that, since the murder?”
“No.”
Deere is quiet for a moment. He considers asking Buck more questions about Denise but instead decides to focus on the murder, hoping to learn more about what Buck knows or is trying to hide.
“What’s the rumor on the street about what happened—what does everyone think happened to her?” Deere asks casually. He leans back in his chair, his hands clasped on top of his head, as if the question is unimportant.
“Who?”
“The girl who got killed.”
“Somebody came in,” Buck says, “and shot her in the face.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after deciding to leave Buck alone in the box for a bit, the two detectives are huddled in the alcove just outside the back door of the Criminal Investigation Division’s wing of police headquarters. Puffing on cigarettes, they plot their next angle of attack.
The police headquarters building is located in Palmer Park, a working-class neighborhood just inside the Beltway and south of bustling Route 202, about nine miles northeast of the U.S. Capitol. A former middle school, the building was renovated in the late 1980s to house the headquarters and one of the county’s six district-level police stations. In recent years, the building has fallen into disrepair: wires hang from ceilings, and the interior walls are painted a mishmash of yellow and grayish brown, a shade one detective li
kened to “faded manila envelope.” The headquarters’s exterior is beige, and in several places it is smeared with a substance that resembles tar or tire streaks. Here and there, fist-sized chunks of the wall are missing.
Deere, Crowell, and the other detectives could smoke standing outside the front door, but that would afford them no privacy, given the steady stream of sex and gun offenders reporting to the department to be included on public registries. There’s also the ever-present danger of getting splattered by the droppings that rain down from the gang of birds that roost in the awning above the entrance. Thus the small alcove behind the building is where much of the department’s work gets done, in a haze of cigarette smoke and bullshit.
At 2:40 p.m., as Deere and Crowell are having a smoke, their sergeant, Joe Bergstrom, slips out the double doors. Thrusting his hands into his pants pockets, the slight, bald fifty-year-old paces inside the alcove, occasionally kicking at a wind-blown pile of dead leaves. On the force since 1990, Bergstrom spent eleven years investigating homicides before being promoted to sergeant. He has led Deere’s five-detective squad since June.
The squad’s moniker is M-40. Like the other four homicide squads, Bergstrom’s is identified by the letter M, and a number that’s a multiple of ten. Each squad has its own personality: M-10 is the ultra-serious student who always sits in the front row; M-20 is the grumpy uncle; M-30 is the goofball; M-90 is the poet. And to Bergstrom’s never-ending frustration, M-40 is the class clown. Like cut-ups in high-school biology class, the four senior detectives in M-40 sit next to one another in the squad room’s last row, their backs to the concrete wall. Boisterous, ill-mannered, and overly fond of bad jokes and annoying pranks, the squad’s behavior is a constant source of irritation to the other detectives in the cramped homicide office.
Because of his low-key, by-the-book manner, Bergstrom was tapped to take over the M-40 squad; the commanders figured he might be able to keep the rowdy detectives in check. Bergstrom’s days as an investigator are behind him—in many police departments, sergeants are assigned homicides, but in PG County they mostly fulfill administrative functions. Their job is to get detectives the resources they need, process pay slips, sooth fragile egos, and make sure investigations don’t get screwed up. As the command staff has taken an ever greater interest in the Amber Stanley murder, Bergstrom has been keeping closer tabs on his investigators’ lines of inquiry. But he rarely intrudes; he knows they are working hard and doing all they can.
While Bergstrom paces and kicks at the pile of leaves, Deere and Crowell continue smoking and talking about their interrogation of Jeff Buck.
“Nobody knows she was shot in the face,” Crowell says.
“Unless he was in her bedroom,” says Bergstrom.
“I don’t know,” Deere says, crossing his arms against the cold and thinking hard about Buck’s comment. “I—I have heard that before from someone, I think.”
Deere has been so deluged by reports and interview summaries that he finds it difficult to recall whether anyone else talked about Amber Stanley’s wounds with such specificity. Publicity and rumor can ruin an investigation, especially in a case as big as this one. Commanders, politicians, reporters, columnists—all have opined on the murder, making it impossible for detectives in the age of social media to keep track of what was said about the crime, when it was said, and whether it is true. In the old days, a detective merely collected copies of the articles that ran in the Washington Post, the Washington Times, and the local weeklies; with those in hand, he could feel reasonably sure that there was only one way a suspect could know an unreported detail: he had been at the scene.
Deere and Crowell talk a bit about Buck’s demeanor—tough, not too helpful—and agree that they need to advise him of his rights while hoping that he waives them and continues to talk. That outcome is far from assured: Buck is smart and has had extensive dealings with the criminal justice system, so he knows how the game is played.
“Getting him to waive will be a real challenge,” Crowell concedes.
“Yeah, it will be,” says Deere. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have rights, but I need him to talk. I need him to say something. Even if he doesn’t waive, we should keep him talking.”
As Deere knows, he can continue questioning a suspect even after he declines to speak with investigators, as long as the interview is clearly voluntary. Though statements made during these conversations are barred from being introduced during a prosecutor’s case at trial, they can still be helpful to the police.
“He knows something,” says Crowell.
“I need something,” says Deere.
The doors crack open and out pops Joe Bunce’s basketball-sized head. Wearing a wide smile, Bunce looks around until he spots Crowell.
“Mike, your wife called,” Bunce says.
Crowell frowns. “What did she say?”
“Not much. I told her I would swing by for that booty call because you can’t make it,” Bunce answers, laughing.
“Shit,” says Crowell. “What did you really say?”
“I said you were in the interview room.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Okay.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“She seem annoyed?”
“Yeah. She seemed kind of pissed.”
“Shit,” Crowell says, slapping a fist into his palm.
“Sorry, Mike,” says Bunce, his head vanishing back through the door.
Crowell laughs. “Well, I won’t be getting any ass tonight.”
“No, you won’t,” says Deere.
Bergstrom grins at Crowell’s frustration, kicks a dry leaf, and follows Bunce inside.
Deere flicks his cigarette butt onto the ground and says, “Let’s hope he gives us his phone and the DNA.”
“He will,” says Crowell.
“I really need him to talk,” Deere says.
Crowell takes a last drag, tosses the butt to the ground, and enters the building.
Before following Crowell inside, Deere lingers for a moment, staring at the gray sky, thinking: I need something.
* * *
NINETY MINUTES LATER, Deere has something: after another round of questioning, Jeff Buck agreed to voluntarily give up his DNA and his cell phone. It’s a big victory, but it’s not everything. Despite their best efforts, Deere and Crowell failed to get their suspect to waive, though he seemed to leave the door open for further questioning. When Buck asks to use the bathroom and smoke a cigarette, Deere agrees, hoping a new venue will encourage Buck to decide to provide a statement after all. If he does, Deere is confident that a judge would conclude that Buck had had sufficient time to think over his initial refusal before changing his mind and waiving his rights.
Deere and Crowell escort Buck into the bathroom. They would never allow a suspect to take a piss alone.
“I feel like my time is being wasted here,” Buck says, standing at a dingy urinal. He looks over his right shoulder at Deere, who is propping the bathroom door open with his foot. Crowell stands just behind Buck’s left shoulder.
“We’re doing stuff,” says Deere, unable to contain the frustration in his voice.
“We are trying to figure out who did this,” says Crowell. “What if you did it? What if you had something to do with it?”
Buck points out that he didn’t run when Deere confronted him earlier that afternoon. “You never would have had a chance to stop me if I did,” he says.
“You haven’t seen this guy run,” Crowell says, jerking a thumb in Deere’s direction.
“Who, him?” Buck says.
“He’s an Olympic track star,” Crowell deadpans.
Buck’s eyes trace Deere’s less-than-impressive physique from foot to head. “Nah,” he says, grinning. After zipping his fly, he strides toward the door, a cocky roll to his gait.
Deere puts up a hand; he doesn’t like the swagger. “Wash your hands,” he says, nodding toward the sink.
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After Buck has finished, Deere directs him out the door, saying, “Okay, let’s go smoke.”
The detectives walk across the hall and steer their suspect through a rusty steel door posted with a sign that reads, NO SMOKING, EFFECTIVE 2-20-94. A dusty former evidence bay, the room is now used for storage and cigarette breaks. It’s filled with decrepit decades-old filing cabinets, boxes of records from the Financial Crimes Unit, and several broken chairs. The air is stale, but it also carries a slight scent of death; after a brief search, Deere spots a decomposing bird between two stacks of boxes. Most likely the bird entered through a faulty ventilation shaft and was unable to escape.
Buck sits in a rolling chair while the two detectives alternately pace in small circles and lean casually against the filing cabinets. Deere and Crowell often bring suspects into this semi-secure room; smoking sessions can sometimes be critical components of interrogations. They ease tension, reward suspects for cooperating, and allow detectives to engage in off-the-record banter that might prove helpful later, during the taped interrogation.
“All I’m saying, if I did something wrong, I wouldn’t have answered any of your questions,” Buck says, removing a Newport from his jacket pocket. He lights it and takes a drag as Deere and Crowell puff on their own cigarettes. The room quickly fills with an acrid haze.
“We’re just trying to get to the bottom of it,” says Crowell.
“We are talking to lots of people,” says Deere, staring down at Buck.
“I don’t know anything,” Buck says.
Deere wants to learn more about what Buck was doing on the night of the murder. Earlier in the interrogation, Crowell asked Buck how he’d spent the evening of August 22; Buck replied that he thought he’d spent it with some “lady friends.” Now Deere asks again: who was he hanging out with that night? Buck thinks hard before responding and then says he was chilling with a girl, hanging out at a friend’s house, or smoking weed in a park. He names the park; it is located just to the east of the dead girl’s subdivision. Deere pushes a bit about the friend, and Buck responds by saying that in fact he’s pretty sure he was hanging out with him. He gives the detectives his friend’s name and address; like the park, the house is not far from Amber Stanley’s neighborhood.
A Good Month for Murder Page 4