Showtime!
They had the story, but she had the smoking photos.
C H A P T E R 10
SOUTHEAST, WASHINGTON, D.C.
David Thurman’s feet felt heavy, pacing through the sparsely decorated and furnished efficiency in a dingy apartment complex on the Southeast side of D.C. He forced himself to watch the boring local news, switching between that and the trivial political cable news networks. He patiently waited for his doctoring of the judge’s features to be aired, preceded by a BREAKING NEWS banner. Despite his bravado and an OCD-driven desire for neatness and cleanliness, he put it aside to remain in character by using the derelict building as a command center. His rendezvous point. He did a good job assuring the building’s tenants—especially the drug dealing thugs that crowded the stoop—didn’t get a whiff of his purpose for invading the capital. Just the night before he had heard a hail of bullets, rumored to be a failed drug stash house robbery attempt. The fevered pitch of the bullets forced him to feel right at home. Despite the filthiness. Back on the battlefield.
Thurman suddenly felt dizzy. His heart rate quickened and his vision became cloudy.
“This is CNN breaking news.” He heard the news anchor announce before a snazzy photo of Chief Justice Percy Weston appeared in a small box at the top of the screen.
Watching an MPD spokesperson on the screen fielding questions from reporters allowed a nervous smile to spread across Thurman’s face. There was no way the assassin could avoid the ensuing investigation. The hunter would become the hunted, he thought. Finally my will, will be done. I just tipped the scales of justice on my terms, and there isn’t much to be done about it. Well, besides planning a funeral.
When the messenger was through expressing how the investigation was on-going, he exposed how the death of Percy opened an appointment to the bench by the next president. He finished the report with exciting news for Thurman—his intended effect. “This could be another deciding factor for voters. But, first, we have more on the campus shooting in New York City at Columbia U.”
__________
Twenty minutes later, Thurman decided to celebrate. To feed his addiction, he found himself on the stoop of his building, buying PCP from one of the dealers. That was the sole reason, he was able to ignore the poor condition of his apartment. That and it was the perfect cover. Every law enforcement agency no doubt looked for him to leave the DMV, but he stayed right under their noses. He was dressed in dirty coveralls and a sad fedora—an out of place white man in the ghetto. The neighbors allowed him there because he bought drugs from them. He was a handsome payday that they would protect. Sadly, neither of them had regard for the undercover agents that surveilled the area in an effort to take down local drug rings.
C H A P T E R 11
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.—1583 Twenty-Eight Street, NW Residence of Percy Weston
After a sadistic killer sucker-punched Georgetown and moseyed away, leaving a vacuum of death, panic, and confusion, the lesson of the day seemed clear if you were in law enforcement. At first blush, the Columbia U story seemed like a big deal, but the murder of Chief Justice Percy Weston was hailed universally as a bombshell. Reporters from the East Coast to the West Coast were hyperventilating about the significance of each blockbuster. DC MPD Detective Suzanne McGee imagined TV new producers in their war rooms crafting a nickname for the crimes with a “-gate” suffix.
Detective McGee. Single, white, green-eyes, long blonde hair—accurately described her visible attributes. Wearing push-up bras to enhance her cleavage and sporting expensive high-heels to crime scenes encouraged people to view her as incompetent. All beauty and no brains. They’d be ignoring her fifteen-years in law enforcement, five-years starring as the lead TV detective in the Emmy award-winning series, The Westwood Beat, and undoubtedly wrong. By rotation, McGee assumed the role of lead detective in the investigation of the dead judge.
“Look at this shit,” Detective McGee said to her partner, pulling up to Judge Weston’s street in their government-issued Chevrolet Impala. “All hands on deck.”
Police, ambulances, CSI, coroner, and Federal conveyances were stationed strategically, blocking traffic from entering or exiting Twenty-eighth Street, NW without permission.
“They’re not happy to see the Babes of DC policing show up,” Detective Bald Eagle said, looking at two MPD officers whispering and pointing at the Impala.
Detective Marissa Bald Eagle. Champion dancer—ballroom and tap—war hero, suicidal. Detective Bald Eagle took up dangerous demonstrations against sanity having tried skydiving, race car driving and had someone shoot at an apple on her head. While chasing death she came across success as a sharpshooter in the US Army. Raised on the Lakota reservation in South Dakota, she left to join the military on a quest to defend the United States, ultimately defending Native Americans. When not solving crimes she was a glam-mom to a nine-year-old daughter, who lived with her ex-husband and his new wife.
“Sucks to be them,” Detective McGee said, shutting down the car. She pulled down the visor, looked in the mirror, and smiled. She touched up her pink lipstick, tucked auburn hair behind her ear, and then popped an Altoid into her pouty mouth.
Detective Bald Eagle was leering at the four-bedroom Tudor—its manicured, expansive lawn decorated with two dead men in black suits. CSI staff patrolled the grounds looking for clues and forensics to lead to the killer or killers. In the distance was the dome of a gazebo in the back of the house. The opened garage door revealed matching Mercedes S-class sedans. Outside of the garage in a short driveway was a third car, a blue Jaguar XFS.
“And action,” Detective McGee said, opening her car door. She stepped out of the car, threw on gaudy Chanel sunglasses, and grabbed a three-by-five denim covered Versace notepad. Walking towards the crime scene, her partner in tow, she used an expensive pen to jot a question in her notepad: Whose car is in the driveway?
Approaching the crime scene tape, it was raised and veteran MPD Officer John Herr said, “Now that the stars have arrived, we can truly get this show on the road.”
“Can it Herr,” Detective Bald Eagle said fierily, furrowing a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Getting to business, I would assume there’s a rather sophisticated video surveillance system, wouldn’t you?
“There is,” Officer Herr said, accepting his admonition. “And already sent in a chain-of-custody pouch to HQ.” He nodded, looking for their approval. He didn’t get it. “Come on, let me show you what we’ve got.”
C H A P T E R 12
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Historic Georgetown was a thriving neighborhood, commercial, and entertainment district located in Northwest Washington, D.C. It was positioned along the Potomac River and founded in 1751. The port of Georgetown predates the city of Washington and the establishment of the federal district by forty years. In 1871, the United States Congress created a new consolidated government for the whole District of Columbia, and in 1895 an act was passed repeal Georgetown’s remaining ordinances and renamed the neighborhood’s streets to conform with those in the City of Washington.
Today the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and M Streets serves as Georgetown’s primary commercial corridor, containing high-end designer boutiques, bars, restaurants and the Georgetown Park Mall. Its newest edition was the Washington Harbor waterfront restaurants at K Street, between 30th and 31st.
Georgetown was home to the main campus of Georgetown University, and numerous other landmarks, like the Volta Bureau, and the Old Stone House, the oldest unchanged building in Washington. The embassies of France, Sweden, Venezuela, and others were there; but amidst all of this history and grandeur was the home of Chief Justice Weston.
Amongst the puzzled looky-loos cordoned off at the corner of Justice Weston’s street, amid the confusion of arriving police, an impeccably dressed man stood in the crowd. He had been mentally recording their activity with the utmost importance. The man wore preppy spectacles, a striped tie and had a tobacco pip
e dangling from his lips.
Watching the investigation get underway, he caught himself gawking at the females possessing striking beauty approach an officer who seemed in charge of maintaining the crime scene’s prosecutorial integrity. The man had developed an infatuation for the detective with the deep-bronze complexion and long, auburn hair that reached her calves. Pulling out his cellular phone he took pictures of her. I shall find you, my sweet, he mused.
When he put the phone back into his pocket, he glanced down at his fingertips. They were blood-red. He tried to wipe them clean before his arrival to the scene, but they were dyed red.
He looked up and one of the onlookers, a silver-haired man wearing a fedora was eyeing him. To get the man’s mind off of his fingernails, he asked, “What do you think happened? All this drama is very exciting.”
“Your guess may be as good as mine, considering I got nothing.”
“If I were to speculate,” David Thurman said, motioning up the street toward the colorful alphabet-rich squad of authorities, “I’d guess a murder investigation is underway.” He gave impressive nod, aware of his chances of being questioned by police, who no doubt was going to canvas the area for clues leading to the suspect. And I’ll be right here to throw them off.
C H A P T E R 13
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.—Residence of Percy Weston
Having identified the two dead suits as failed bodyguards, detectives McGee and Bald Eagle walked up the pathway leading to the house, while scanning everything around them. They scoped out entry and escape points.
“It’s safe to assume they were shot with silenced weapons because dispatch didn’t receive a 911 call until a car driving by saw them dead. And by the time MPD arrived no killer came running out, and the bodies inside were already done up. Quite balefully, might I add,” Officer Herr said, throwing his eyes between the two detectives for a reaction. “As of this moment, the udge’s wife is at Georgetown University Hospital.”
“Alive?” Detective McGee asked, walking onto the huge front porch. She typically asked most of the questions.
“For now,” he replied, skirting around a low-level CSI staffer dusting the doorway for prints.
“What happened to the wife?” Detective Bald Eagle asked although she normally didn’t ask questions at the scene of the crime. A strange attribute for a seasoned detective.
Coincidentally, that was Judge Weston’s style during Supreme Court hearings. He hadn’t presented a single question to a defendant or plaintiff before the Court in over fifteen years. He didn’t want to choreograph anyone’s argument. That wasn’t his job. When before the highest court in the land it was imperative that a party’s position was full, thought out, and designed to procure a victory before entering the well of the court.
“The wife’s top jaw was broken off of her skull and her cheekbone was broken into her top jaw,” Officer Herr said, stopping on the porch.
“A dirty wound?” Detective McGee asked.
“You could take her top jaw and move it around separate from her skull. Only the skin, the mucous membranes of the inside of the mouth, and some muscle attachments were holding her top jaw to the rest of her face. I’ve assumed she was stomped in the mouth.”
“Some monster,” blurted Detective Bald Eagle.
Walking through the front door, Officer Herr waved his hand around the front door, then waved his hand around the home’s foyer with a view of the breathtaking great room, lower-level entertainment space, chestnut-paneled library, and charming paintings. The detective’s pumps clicked and clacked against the mahogany inlaid flooring.
“The artwork is beautiful,” Detective Bald Eagle said, marveling at a Andy Warhol print.
“You like art?” Officer Herr asked, frowning. “Let’s go upstairs for the real gallery pieces. The judge has been decorated with scars, gashes, broken bones. Colored in red. And bound in silver. Cuffs.” They started up the stairs, and he added, “There’s a third victim. Black male, mid-twenties. He’s wearing the judge’s bench robe. Nude underneath. Gavel wrapped tightly in one hand.”
“Guess we know who owns the Jag.”
“We do,” Officer Herr said. “Dorian Jackson. And here he is,” he added, pointing to a light-skinned man with close-cropped waves lying in the master bedroom doorway. “He appears to have been trying to escape.”
Upon stepping over Jackson and entering the bedroom, they observed a large amount of blood on a king-sized mattress beneath the judge. The judge had something wrapped around his neck, and it was apparent from the blood on his clothing and the bleeding from his head that he had sustained a lot of head trauma. The judge’s bedroom was a blend of several shades of brown and a splash of blood-red. Quite the autumn decor.
“This room is in complete disarray,” Detective Bald Eagle said, peering at the upturned furniture and bloodstained surfaces.
“Any drugs found?” Detective McGee asked.
“Nope, but I smell the weed like you,” the officer replied.
“I want officers to canvass the neighborhood,” Detective McGee said. “I’d love to yield an eyewitness. Was the wife able to talk?”
“You’re kidding, right? She was gravely injured. Her mouth was practically off her face. Attempts to ask her questions would have been fruitless.”
“This is purely overkill. A crime of passion,” Detective Bald Eagle said. “These two were bludgeoned and strangled. The wife hit almost like an afterthought.”
“Appropriate observation,” Officer Herr said. “I’m interested in determining what the relationship between the Weston’s and Jackson was. Friends or lovers?”
“I’m thinking swingers,” Detective Bald Eagles said. “This is DC and its that kinda town.” Her call phone rang and she answered it.
“Another great observation,” said Officer Herr. “We just have to figure out if the judge was nude and in cuffs before the killer arrived or did they force them to create this stage at gun or knife point?”
Detective Bald Eagle concluded her call and slipped her cell phone back into her pocket. Then, she gave her partner a conspicuous head nod. They convened in the hallway, Bald Eagle leaned in and whispered, “The New York Times just broke a story about Weston’s murder online.”
“Why the secrecy? I don’t like being whispered too,” Detective McGee asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It includes photos of the judge postmortem,” she said, before adding, “Maybe you need to have someone whispering to you. It’s been a while sweetie.”
C H A P T E R 14
NEW YORK, NY—COLUMBIA University
CNN, CBS, NBC, Fox, and Univision broadcast vans were parked on Columbia’s magnificent campus. In addition to national news correspondents, communication majors were scattered about, preparing to write award-worthy pieces. The stage was set for an FBI led press conference in the middle of the school’s quad. FBI Agent Sean Duffy had been in front of reporters, spectators, as well as concerned students and staff of the school. The agent was a short, solid man and packed a big punch. He specialized in taking down violators of the U.S. Crimes Code. He was at a make-shift podium flanked by New York’s top brass: Mayor Bob Rodin (with his marital problems), Jack Toussant and Columbia University President, Janet Elkind.
“First, I’d like to offer the country’s sincere condolences to all victims of this horrific crime, to everyone here on the campus, and in New York City.
He then covered intelligence known to the public from eye-witness accounts, including social media posts. Those were unsurprising developments, and the federal agent was there with the current details. “Chiefly, the suspect who appeared alone staggered a mini-van onto the campus and slammed into a tree. Seconds later it exploded, apparently from a dirty-bomb that was detonated by the suspect or an accomplice. That was quickly followed by the culprit open firing on students and passerby with a recovered Daniel Defense DDM4A1 semiautomatic Tactical Rifle. He had emptied two thirty-round magazines, carrying six more in his car
go pants pocket. He came with two hundred forty bullets ready to go. Straight savage. He was shot by a campus policeman seventeen times at 10:41 am and pronounced dead at the scene.”
A reporter yelled, “Can you tell us his name and details about this man. Is he a terrorist?”
Agent Duffy took a deep breath and sighed. “Can I fucking talk? He’s been identified as Vladimir Leon. A black male of Haitian descent. He was hired by Columbia University in 2006 as a bilingual Research Assistant in the Stroke Division of Columbia’s Department of Neurology. As of right now, we don’t know of any terrorist connection.”
“Why would a staff of the school kill anyone? Especially on the campus?” a reporter screamed above other reporter’s trying to get a question in.
“Let me defer to school president, Janet Elkind,” Agent Duffy replied, moving aside.
Elkind stepped in front of the microphone, and said, “Thank you,” looking at the agent. Her voice was husky and she had a low boyish haircut. “Mr. Leon complained that he was being bullied by other employees, his co-workers in the study, particularly because he was Haitian. He perceived that he was regarded differently by other employees, who were Dominican. Allegedly, the Dominican employees belittled Mr. Leon’s Spanish speaking ability, made racial comments about black people being less intelligent, and comments within his earshot about the first black U.S. president. These occurrences were reported to management, under investigation, and he was told it would be taken care of. It seems that he took care of it himself to the detriment of the beloved victims.” She was teary-eyed and losing her calm composer.
Undeterred reporters hurled additional questions but were met with the stiff hand of Agent Duffy. He gently put a hand on Elkind’s shoulder, before he shuffled the president away from the microphone, and said, “This is a fluid investigation, and we have divulged all that we can at this time. We will brief you all again the moment we learn more.” He started moving away from the mic with an arm around Elkind’s shoulder.
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