He hugged her, and then said, “On the run, Beyoncé? Should I be in an airport with you?”
She laughed, and said, “Everyone is looking for me. I’m wanted for questioning—”
“By the police?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “Other news agencies. My article was widely disseminated and people want to know how I obtained and confirmed that the photos of the justice were authentic.”
“That’s a fair question.” He was smiling at the absurdity of his skeptical eye.
“You’re crazy,” she said jokingly, punching him. “I checked us in for the flight online. Download the US Air app for an electronic boarding pass. You can flash the pass right on your phone screen. We’re in first-class, so we should get through security swiftly.”
“Perfect,” he said, walking towards security, “and thanks for buying the ticket.”
“No problem,” she said and pat his butt. “You can repay me later, handsome.”
“Can you handle any more of this anaconda?” he asked, winking at her and smiling.
She grinned and he held her hand. Two love birds on a stroll through the busy airport. In her mind, no one was in the airport but them.
“We’re staying at the Trump International Hotel. It’s about a mile from the White House. This is a work trip, but I say we make time for pleasure. Visit King Memorial and the Smithsonian.”
“That’s all free, so I’m game for that,” she said, and then added, “I’ve not sure who the hell we’re meeting, but otherwise we will have a good time.”
“It’ll be the best.” He sounded confident, but he knew who they planned to meet controlled their visit to the nation’s capital.
C H A P T E R 18
NOT FAR FROM THE WHITE House and housed in the Old Post office lied the luxe Trump International Hotel. In a 1899 Romanesque Revival Building, the hotel offered the Grand Lobby which boasted a soaring nine-story atrium dripping with rich jewel tones—deep red, aubergine, sapphire and emerald. The area was elegantly finished with gold accent, hand-woven area rugs, soaring brass fixtures and crystal chandeliers.
Naim and Brandy checked into the palatial hotel and a doorman ushered them to a suite on the hotel’s top floor, behind a pair of double doors.
“Must be big in there for French doors,” Brandy whispered.
“It is,” the doorman said. “Sixty-three hundred square feet.”
The door was opened for them and they walked into a huge living room area. The opulent, Federal-style suite possessed high ceilings, a marble bathroom and fireplace. “Welcome to the Presidential suite,” the doorman said, smiling. “For your pleasure, prominently located on the mezzanine and overlooking the iconic Clock Tower is BLT Prime. The steakhouse is phenomenal. The National Mall and the National Gallery of Art are a twelve-min walk away. Where would you like your bags?”
“In the bedroom will be fine,” Naim said, and then added, “thank you, I got it from there.” Naim gave the doorman a fifty.
Knowing he planned on being in town a few days, Naim decided to unpack his bags and put things into dresser drawers. His pieces from the garment bag were hung neatly in the closet. Brandy handed him her bag to hang her things, also.
“Thanks sweetie,” she said, walking to the room’s floor-to-ceiling window and pulling back the curtains.
Is that a test? he thought. Certainly, hanging her garments wasn’t a problem. Despite their short nine months together it was already ’Til death do us part and for richer or poorer—for him anyway. No doubt, he felt that she returned the sentiment, driving him closer to her. He had an aunt who had met a man at a drug rehab center. Upon their release and recovery, he proposed to her after only three months of dating. Twenty-two years later, they remained happily married. Naim wanted that with Brandy. Two kids. And a partridge in a pear tree.
“Amazing.”
“What?”
“The view,” she said, looking out at the top of the White House. “Naim, come look at this view.”
He walked over and found himself on the balcony with his arms wrapped around her waist. He pressed his hands against her thighs. “That’s the US Treasury Building and beyond that is the White House.” He pointed, and said, “And that little figure pacing up there is prepared to take out anyone daring to defy the White House’s security.”
“This is beautiful. How much was this suite a night?” she asked with her head twisted to face him. She kept her back tight against his chest. Each time he moved she felt his muscles contract and enjoyed the feeling. “Never mind,” she said, looking at his bushy raised eyebrow. “I don’t want to know. I really have to get used to a man, well not a man, you, being able to take care of yourself and me. And you genuinely enjoy it. I actually feel it.”
“You do have to get used to it. I didn’t ask how much did first-class tickets cost to get us here.”
“Touché,” she said, spinning around to face him.
His hands roamed until they cupped her ass. She parked her hands on his chest. He made them jump, staring into her eyes.
They shared a kiss. A deep French kiss. They could read each other’s mind and their intimate intuition was a code red whenever they were in the other’s space. It was effortless and indicative of what they’d wanted for years but had never found. They weren’t looking for love and an accidentally stumbled upon their soulmates.
Pulling apart, she said, “You smell excellent. What is that you’re wearing?”
“Mount Blanc Legend. And thanks,” he said, looking at a crowd of picketers outside of the White House. “I wonder what they’re protesting about?”
She looked at her watch, and said, “That’s the first part of the Americans for Sentencing Reform protest. They’re going to the SC next.”
“You know, I’m all for sentencing and criminal justice reform. I continue on the Families Against Mandatory Minimums board. But I don’t get why people have the right to protest on the grounds of the White House. That space should be respected a tad more.”
“This isn’t China or North Korea?”
“With this scenario it should be. Besides, the president is probably inside numb, caring less and less about this issue continuing to plague our community. You see FAMM pressed issues on the Congressional floor and submitted an amicus brief to the Supreme Court. Black people protest loudly and are often not heard.”
“You may be right, but I’m sure the president is briefed daily on who has a permit to be outside voicing their political positions.”
“Right,” he said not looking to debate. They’ve had their share of political disagreements and now was not a time to exert energy on friendly arguing. “How ‘bout room service? Out here on the balcony,” he asked, pivoting to the next topic like a seasoned politician. “We can eat and admire the view.”
“Ignoring those hugs box things strategically placed on the White House roof,” she said, smiling.
“Yup, don’t do anything outrageous, because the boxes contain surface-to-air missiles that will blow this room and that pretty little face of yours to smithereens.”
__________
After sautéed boneless chicken breast, buttered squash, and sweet potato fries, Naim was on the bed relaxing. His eyes switched between watching Brandy at the room’s desk working on her laptop, and watching the continual loop of CNN’s BREAKING NEWS, which wasn’t breaking any longer. The redundant use of the “Breaking News” banner undermined the true meaning of the phrase. For Naim, it was like crying wolf. Bottom line, the Columbia U shooting and the justice’s murder were a day old and no longer breaking.
“I get so lonely,” Naim said, singing the infamous Janet Jackson tune.
Brandy’s head whipped in his direction. She smiled.
“You’re too damn much.” She blew him a kiss. “Almost done over here, but you know, I have to be on the SC portico soon.”
“You?” He sat up. “We. I’m gong.”
“You’re not. If he sees you, he may not talk to m
e,” she said, walking over to the bed. She pushed him back and straddled on top of him. Looking into his eyes, she said, “Listen, I’m going to be fine. This is normal for me to meet bad guys.” She kissed him. “You’re my number one bad guys.”
“I don’t shoot people,” he replied, smiling. He still hadn’t told her that he was slated to represent the same bad guy in a court of law.
C H A P T E R 19
WASHINGTON, D.C.—MEDICAL Examiner’s Office
Detective McGee pulled into a parking space outside of the Department of Forensic Sciences. The building housed several divisions of the Metropolitan PD, including the Firearms and Fingerprint Examination Division, DNA Laboratory, and the Forensic Sciences Services division. They were there for an eleven o’clock appointment with Deputy Medical Examiner, Dr. Henry Butterfield. The building in front of them was a modern D.C. architecture. Wide and high, cream marble, stone, slate, black metal window frames, and black handrails along a handicap ramp leading to the entrance.
“I love this place,” Detective McGee said to her partner, hopping out of the car. She threw on her sunglasses.
“Always gloom and doom despite the sun shining brightly,” Detective Bald Eagle said, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What do you think we’ll learn? Anything to get us closer to the suspect?”
“I hope so. Any additional details will help. I really want to know why those two men were naked in the bedroom with a wife steps away,” Detective McGee replied, approaching the reception desk.
They announced their business and was told to wait for Dr. Butterfield’s assistant to scoop them from the lobby.
__________
Dr. Henry Butterfield had reported to his office to autopsy Chief Weston at five a.m. He had been to the crime scene, recorded the position of the bodies found, and took a preliminary survey of the deceased. He was pleased with the forensics unit and responding MPD officer’s ability to record and preserve the scene and bodies. Upon settling at his desk, he e-mailed the head of the forensics division and the captain of the police district, congratulating them on doing a fine job too assure they’d nab the killer.
Afterward he got into clean scrubs, surgical mask, washed his hands, gloved-up, and started reviewing the judge’s body and the male found at the scene in the Weston’s bedroom. The man dressed in the judge’s gown was fortunate to have to died swiftly. He was in possession of a gavel, and looking at the justice’s buttocks Dr. Butterfield learned where the gavel had been put to use, possibly before the arrival of the killer. He had withdrawn one unit of whole blood from both victims and was waiting on in-house toxicology results to be returned.
He had begun preparing recorded notes of his autopsy findings some hours later when the lab’s phone rang. A technician informed him that the detectives were there to meet with him. He had met them on Twenty-eight street, N.W. in Georgetown, and was struck by how handsome the women were. They were ingrained in his memory.
When the tech ushered the detectives into his office, Dr. Butterfield was behind his desk flipping through papers in a folder he had prepared for the detectives; a parting gift. Dr. Butterfield was in his sixties, pure white and gray hair, albino complexion, tall, emaciated, with coffee-tinted teeth.
The sounds of their voices and the scent of their presence mesmerized him. He stood and shook both women’s hands. Soft. Delicate. Warm.
“Delighted. Please sit down,” the doctor said, smiling.
“Thank you,” Detective McGee said, having a seat. She sat a recorder in her lap and pressed record. “Just to memorialize our conversation. This not a deposition and will not be used in any legal proceeding.”
“Will not or cannot?” he asked. “In Washington, there is a difference.”
“Cannot,” she replied, shrugging with a sarcastic grin on her face.
“Just checking. The autopsy isn’t complete by any stretch, but I’ve made findings that may aid your pursuit of the killer. Surely, I want to get the perpetrator captured forthwith.”
Both women nodded. They were there for the meat and potatoes and didn’t need the doctor’s wish list.
“Can we see the body?” Detective Bald Eagle said, removing her sunglasses to look the doctor in the eyes. She adored death.
“Sure, but let’s discuss some things that are odd,” he said, scanning the contents of the folder that he had prepared for them. He pushed it across his desk towards to McGee. She appeared to be the lead detective. He didn’t know for sure, but the recorder’s presence gave it away. “Opening to the first page. You’ll see the results of instant toxicology and serology tests. Of course, the full screen will be back in about a month. We found no cocaine or alcohol in Weston’s body, but he had ingested cannabinoids prior to his death.”
“No coke, but smoking weed?” McGee asked, frowning.
“Well, sources of cannabinoids are marijuana or hemp, but that’s not my concern. It wasn’t smoked. It’s a usual material to ingest.”
“Hmmm.”
“As you know a nude man was found in the judge’s bedroom,” the doctor said, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps our judge who opposed the legalization of gay marriage was gay himself.”
“Smokescreen, huh? Masking his own sexuality. Fraud.” Detective Bald Eagle was shaking her head.
“Don’t be so mean,” Detective McGee said. “Continue doctor.”
“Both men tested positive for H.I.V., but that status does not, in any way, change my option that blunt force trauma to the head was what killed the judge.”
The detectives looked at each other.
Detective McGee asked, “I know the autopsy isn’t complete, but are you asserting with a reasonable degree of medical certainty that he died from the injuries we’ve seen on the scene?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “Let’s go look at the body. There are a few interesting things,” he added, rubbing his hands together. Pure excitement on his face. Ah, the joy of dead bodies.
A moment later, they stood in front of a death refrigerator and the doctor pulled out the slab where the judge rested with a y-shaped incision in his chest. A tag dangled from his big toe, his morgue driver’s license card. Gone was all of his fancy credentials and his color—his caramel complexion had blanched. His chest was cut open starting at the shoulders, meeting in between his sagging chest, and then sliced to his pelvis forming the Y. A severely bruised face surrounded dead eyes that stared up at them. And the judge’s penis was gone.
“Should his eyes still be open?” Detective Bald Eagle asked.
“Nope,” the doctor said, slipping on gloves and shutting them. “There we go. Photographic slides of his pupils were taken to depict the judge’s statement for a potential jury.”
“His last photo shoot.”
“Precisely,” the doctor said. “Judge Percy Weston endured multiplied blunt force injuries to the head, neck, torso, and upper extremities. Four laceration or tears to the top and left eye, multiple fractures to the skull that penetrated his brain. A fracture of the spine, and a fracture of the hyoid bone.” He took a breath.
“And what might that be? Hyoid bone?”
“The horseshoe-shaped bone that sits in the upper part of the neck. It’s an injury consistent with a strangulation. However, the cause of death was not strangulation in this case.”
“But he was strangled?”
“Yes, and nearly decapitated undoubtedly inflicted by the du-rag wrapped tightly around his neck.”
“Du-rag?” Astonished.
The doctor nodded, facing Detective McGee. “The other injuries are consistent with what would have been caused by the hammer found at the scene. It’s unlikely that any other possible weapons recovered at the scene caused these blunt force injuries.”
“Must have been a lot of force?”
“Significant force indeed, but not for these,” the doctor said, signaling for an assistant to join them. Dr. Butterfield’s assistant pressed eight-by-ten photographs into his huge hands. They were pictur
es of the judge’s ass. “Someone was being spanked with a gavel. Presumably, by Dorian Jackson since he was found with the gavel in hand.”
The detectives looked at the judge’s rear end which was riddled with two-inch round circles with the initials “PW” in the center of them.
“I’m thinking the perp walked in on a sexual fantasy being fulfilled,” Detective McGee said. “That’s why Dorian was in the robe. Perhaps that part wasn’t staged?”
“Hence, the seeming crime of passion that has taken place. I mean the killer had a gun, but killed them with a hammer,” Bald Eagle said.
“I’d say your guy is huge,” the doctor added.
Detective Bald Eagle reasoned that, “The judge was gay, the wife knew it, allowed it. Maybe they were just married because in the US certainly a Supreme Court judge cannot get divorced. That would require a reason and normally an immoral reason and God knows an immoral person cannot sit on the highest court. Perhaps this wasn’t a political kill. Or they were having a threesome. Or this all stagecraft.”
“To be or not to be,” the doctor said, smiling. He covered the corpse with a white sheet, and said, “All of this is off the record until I send you and the AUSA—who’s been begging for me to get this done—a copy of my completed findings.”
“AUSA?”
“Yes, the case has been assigned to Shai Brown. You didn’t know?”
“Yes,” Detective Bald Eagle said, lying.
C H A P T E R 20
AFTER A ROWDY MID-DAY romp, Brandy dressed, and Naim admired her curves that seeped through her jeans and T-shirt. She was an in-shape woman that had planned ahead for a rally by the looks of her sneakers and New York Yankees fitted cap, covering her hair pulled into a ponytail.
He kissed her goodbye at the suite’s door. “Be safe,” he suggested, “and hurry back. I didn’t come to D.C. to be alone.”
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