This wasn’t the kind of purlieu where beat-up trucks were en vogue, Detective Bald Eagle made a note to follow-up, but she had just captured, David Thurman, in an Expedition with New York plates. Coincidence? Or, no?
“And the other thing?”
“The fantastic FBI has arrived.”
“Have them send their Emergency Response Team around the driveway,” Sergeant Pisano said.
“Oh, it’s not ERT, sir. It’s an agent. He asked for Detective McGee.”
Leering back inside, she watched a white guy with shoulder-length brown hair and aviator shades masking his eyes in a standard FBI polo shirt. He wore latex gloves, peering at the hole in Senator Elberg’s head.
“Back up,” Detective McGee called through the patio door. “Why the hell are you here?”
To be nice, he ignored her.
“Did he give a name?”
“Morgan, ma’am.”
“Hey, asshole,” she shouted this time and then started inside.
“Don’t touch a damn thing in there.”
When she reached the den, Morgan stood straight up and looked deep into her eyes. Nice piece of ass, Morgan thought and smiled extending his hand.
“Alexander Morgan. Washington field office. Pleasure is all mine.”
Detective McGee shook the man’s hand respectfully, but it was an electrifying moment, like the NFL game kick off. And we’re underway.
“What are you doing here.” Detective Bald Eagle wanted to know.
“Getting a head start on the investigation,” Morgan told her, smiling.
“You’re shitten me. You don’t have any reason to be concerned with this body.”
He looked at her and grinned. “I have specific POTUS orders to be here.” Knowing that little factoid, he did exactly what the MPD wouldn’t expect. He gave them his back and continued to analyze the senator. The corpse.
Clean shot and a cleaner—more precise—slit throat. A very clean getaway. Complete expert action. So effective. So deadly. He found the killer to be a worthy adversary.
Into a recorder, he said, “Ballistics results ASAP. But this looks like a 9mm. I bet this guy had military training. The throat precisely opened giving it away. Maybe military medical training. We’re looking for a rogue trader. Straight Benedict Arnold.”
“You must have had access to my initial report?” Detective McGee asked.
“Wow, you question my competence and experience without knowing a thing about me. Smart.” He stood up, and said, “See, that’s why I’m here.”
“Look, you’re not needed. You’re voicing what we know. Just an arrogant Bureau ass with an inflated perception of entitlement,” Detective Bald Eagle said.
“Cute,” Morgan said. “I don’t care about credit for this. The U.S. attorney, Shai Brown, will get all of the accolades for knocking this out of the park, right?”
“Man, we don’t have time for your federal gloating.” That was Sergeant Pisano.
Finally, the man before him opened his mouth. Time to work. The FBI Agent stepped into Sergeant Pisano’s face. Close. “You got the D.C. game fucked up,” FBI Agent Morgan said, letting the politeness seep out of his introduction. Closer. He had been a nice, little federal agent, allowing them to pop verbal shots at him. Now it was his turn. Too close for comfort. “See this murder and the last four over in Georgetown occurred in my district, making it a federal crime, which I happen to investigate and bring perpetrators to justice. Be nice or I can have this home taken over as my very own man-made island, and you’ll immediately be deported.
C H A P T E R 45
NO DOUBT, WHEN NAIM Butler, Esq., arrived at the Henry J. Daly Building on Indiana Avenue shortly after four that afternoon, he had no idea who Henry J. Daly was or why the nation’s police headquarters was named after him. He did have an idea, though he didn’t want to be at Henry’s and, all he wanted was to chat with his client and get out of there. He exited the elevator in the basement, assuming a cell block was there with his client locked in a cell. He passed through the metal detector and had his briefcase searched. Sitting at a worn desk was a slim wench. No more than twenty-five, Naim imagined.
“Naim Butler to see David Thurman.”
“You the lawyer?” She was the look-at-me-bitch type: so brunette, so top-heavy, so bright, so addictive that he stood up straight, poking out his chest.
Vanity, they name is man.
She was pecking away at an old phone, the tip of a pink tongue slipped from the corner of her full mouth.
I’d trade my Benz for one—Enough, he thought. That way lied the end of your well-being.
“Yes ma’am, I am the lawyer.”
After speaking into the telephone receiver, she frowned at him. “It seems that he’s not allowed visitors by anyone.” She gave that “anyone” the husky, Marilyn Monroe exhalation, arching her back, pouting.
Lord help me.
“I’m his attorney, not anyone. Who were you speaking with?” He didn’t let his brewing disbelief show.
“AUSA Brown.”
“Can you be so kind to get him on the line, again.”
“No, I cannot.”
His anger was simmering, but he remained calm. Partly because he needed to demonstrate humility, but mostly, he couldn’t yell at the lovely cop. “Ma’am, I think I told you that I am, David Thurman’s attorney. To block me from seeing him would be a gross violation of his constitutional rights. My cell phone is in my car or I’d call Brown myself.”
“Then go to your car. It’s really that simple.”
“Look—” Naim began.
“Mr. Butler?” Someone called at his back. “Shai Brown, assistant United Stated attorney. Nice to meet you. Finally. I’ve read so much about you.”
“All lies I’m sure.”
He furrowed his brows. “Come with me a second.”
Naim stood there. “Am I going to be able to see my client, David Thurman?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t infringe on his rights. But let’s get out of this corridor. We have somethings to cover.”
“Before we cover your things, I need to speak with my client. There’s no way, I would communicate anything of value to you without a talk with Mr. Thurman.”
“Sounds fair. And I’ll allow it—”
“You don’t have much of a choice.”
And let the pissing contest begin.
“But be sure to inform him this fact: Pleading guilty is his only decision necessary to avoid a trip to being one of the select few to experience being housed on the death unit at USP Terre Haute.”
“Wrong! His best decision for avoiding any Con Air trip to Indiana was hiring me.”
C H A P T E R 46
HAVING DECIDED TO IGNORE Agent Morgan’s absurdity, Detective McGee pulled Sergeant Pisano back and politely informed the federal pig that he could threaten them, but she knew he couldn’t kick the MPD off the case no more than she could him. It was really a moot point to make. Working in tandem to solve the crimes that he gripped their city was far more important than measuring who had the bigger political phallus.
Walking outside of the Elberg house about a half-hour later a whole throng of the press was being fed by FBI Agent Morgan. Detective McGee made a beeline towards him.
“We are undoubtedly looking into ties between Chief Judge Weston and Senator Elberg,” the agent had said.
“Excuse me, Agent Morgan?” Detective McGee called over the reporter’s shouts. “Can I have a word with you, sir?”
He nodded, turning back to the press corps.
She said, “Now,” rocking back on her heels.
Agent Morgan produced a wide smile. “Of course,” he said.
“Pardon me, ladies and gents.”
Together they walked towards the house to put distance between them and the media.
“What now, Detective McGee?” he said, stopping.
In a whisper, because she had no idea how far the presses microphones could pick up sound, “Yo
u need to carefully vet who, if any reporters you talk too.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job?” he said. “I’m not getting you.”
“You get me. You’ve been in Washington long enough. Don’t give me that dumbfounded mug. Certainly, I had your bio and resume sent to me. No way was I working with some amateur on this. I know most of those clowns over there. Jack Moore is from the Post and he badly wants a spot in a comfy chair on the set of Good Morning D.C., but he lacks the talent and the face. He smears our department with force. The cute black one is Brandy whatshername from New York. She’s with the Times, and guess what, the only reason she’s here is because the man, David Thurman, that we have in custody is represented by her boy toy. There’s already been a leak. We cannot afford one that will drip right into the hands of defense counsel.”
He looked at her as if she was speaking-in-tongues at a church deep in Tennessee.
“Please tell me your department had nothing to do with the media finding out that we had Thurman in custody?”
“We didn’t,” he said, stepping back, “and don’t be accusing—”
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Detective Bald Eagle said. “I’ve had it up to here,”—she bent down and held her hand just above her ankle— “with you. Any higher and I’m going to forget which side you’re on.”
“You two are a really good tandem.” He smirked.
“Look, the last thing any of us needs is to be seen beefing outside of a dead senator’s home with the media recording our every hand gesture, our body language, and possibly recording our faces to later try to read our lips,” Detective McGee said. Turning to face Agent Morgan, she said, “We don’t need misinformation or any information spreading wildly thanks to those dishonest assholes. Just please let us stick to the daily press briefings, where we carefully feed the media what we want the public to know.”
C H A P T E R 47
WASHINGTON, DC—THE Daly Building
Naim waited in a crappy room, bare except for the standard carved up wood table and two battered wood chairs. He sat, staring at the beige walls until David Thurman was let in, bringing along with him a foul body odor like a thick layer of icing on a cake. He looked his attorney up and downsizing him up, maybe?—covered his mouth with a fisted hand and sneezed violently several times. Then he said, “So glad you came.”
On the contrary, I’m not thrilled. “Duty calls,” Naim replied.
David Thurman was forty-six, appeared much younger, but he looked weak and tired. He was a tall man with wide shoulders. His usually neat hair was a mess; it was red, hung right over his ears, and appeared wet, obviously from sweat. His eyes were milky ovals with big blue centers, but they seemed vacant. He had to be attractive at some point in his life. Today wasn’t a reflection of it.
Naim was wearing his glasses that late afternoon; he cared if people thought that he looked smart enough to be a lawyer. He didn’t shake Thurman’s hand or give him a fist bump even though he always shook hands with clients. He learned long ago shaking hands with new clients was code for trustworthiness and forthrightness, thus making the client more apt to pay bills without questions. Thurman looked like he’d pass along a communicable virus, so touching was out the window. Naim signaled for him to sit down. He didn’t. He paced.
He walked five steps and did an about-face. Five more steps and another about-face. He rubbed his arms as if the warm room was frigid. His legs were wobbly and twitched uncontrollably. Halfway into his five-step walk, he doubled over and roared like he had just mustered the strength to squat one thousand pounds.
“Are you OK?”
“Withdrawal.”
Like many men and women who abstained from drug abuse, Naim wanted to admonish his client and question why not get into rehab and off that stuff. It was much easier to suggest to them to understand the psychological addictive nature of drugs. Knowing that, Naim nodded to avoid being condescending.
A few minutes passed, Thurman stood straight up and began pacing again. Apparently, the withdrawal had subsided. After two passbys, he stopped, pulled out a chair, copped a squat, staring at his counselor. The dark rings around his eyes and dry lips were magnified.
“Why are you here?” Thurman asked. He looked perplexed. Bewildered.
“Because you hired me to represent you.” Naim had no desire to josh with the killer before him. He preferred to be in his comfy home office, doing what he liked most: sentencing mitigation. He had fully appreciated that as a lawyer he had to prevent people from even getting to the sentencing phase of the judicial process.
David cocked his head to the side, furrowed his brows—practically making them meet at the bridge of his nose—before he said, “Who the hell are you?”
Naim snatched off his glasses, “Come again.”
“Are you some kind of sexual predator?” Thurman asked, pushing back in his chair, frowning indignantly.
“What?”
“I will not come again, or at all, perv. Who the hell are you? Where are we? Why am I trapped in this room?” He stood aggressively.
Naim stood, watching the menacing flare envelope David Thurman’s demeanor. Thurman backed into the corner, before dropping to his knees. He bowed his head, leaving his eyes open staring up at Naim child-like now. His hands met, and then he prayed, “Jesus, help me. Oh God, have mercy on me. Please don’t let this man hurt me this evening. God, please...No...No...No. Please, in the name of the Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. Amen. Amen. Amen.”
Naim and Thurman’s eyes remained locked before Thurman closed his eyes and a wide smile spread across his face. After he recovered, he stood, took a seat at the table and tented his hands on his lap. He lightly rocked, shaking his head.
Retaking his seat, Naim dug into his wallet, retrieved a business card and slid it across the table to Thurman. He picked up the business card with his thumb and forefinger and held it before his face.
“You an ESQ?”
“Yes, a lawyer.”
“You a lawyer?” He massaged his temples. Tossing the card into the air, he said, “Then, tell me, Mr. Lawyer. Why am I here?”
“OK, I’ll play along,” Naim said. Somebody help me. “You’re accused of killing a judge, a senator, a judge’s clerk, four U.S. Marshals. Attempted murder and assaulting two wives.” He ticked off each of the deceased with a finger. Holding up nine fingers, he then extended a tenth and said, “And, use of a weapon to commit said crimes of violence.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Hell-to-the-no.” The murderer shook his head. His eyes become watery. “I’d remember that.”
“Selective memory. Look, I don’t have time or energy to exert on this charade...”
“I want my daddy.” He stomped his feet.
What the fuck. “Excuse me.”
“I want my daddy. Please,” Thurman said, folding his arms across his chest, sounding like a ten-year-old. A lone tear escaped his right eye. “Dad help me. I promise to be good.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but...”
“Why are you yelling at me?” More tears materialized. “I’m telling my father.”
Naim stared blandly. He was never lost for words. This qualified as one.
“I want to go home,” Thurman said, sniffling and hugging himself. “Can I go home?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“OK, I’ll play along,” Thurman said, mimicking the lawyer, “I’m a kid. The cops don’t lock up kids. I know that much.”
Naim stood up, grabbing his briefcase. At the room’s door, he said, “I’ll be back,” sounding more like the Terminator than he wanted.
“Mr. Lawyer,” Thurman called through tears, stopping Naim’s exit. Looking Naim in the eyes, a broad, wicked grin spread across his face. “Have Brandy get the three-inch, bold headline ready: NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY.”
C H A P T E R 48
AS SOON AS NAIM STEPPED outside of the Daly Building, he stop
ped thinking about the attorney-client privilege that bound him to hold the secret of his client. That was a big problem. A tidal wave of reporters and cameramen rushing towards him was another one. They all shouted questions on top of each other.
“Mr. Butler, what’s your client’s name? The Judge Killer?”
“How can you represent a terrorist?”
“When are you going back to New York? No one wants you here.”
“Who’s paying for your services?”
“Has the killer killed anyone else?”
He was speechless for the second time in minutes. Naim squinted at the bright camera lights and ducked and weaved his way towards the curb. He was not one to shy away from the fireworks and flavor; but, David Thurman gave him a new bid to be more humble. An act that demanded delicious dedication. Taking this case was a huge mistake, he thought. An ample mistake quickly cascading into a tragedy.
Naim continued up the sidewalk trying to get to the Judiciary Square Red Line Metro train station. That was his smartest move from a menu of bad options. If there were seven minutes in heaven, he wanted a double.
C H A P T E R 49
THE SUN WAS BARELY down, but Naim’s day had already been darkened. Back at the hotel suite, he laid on the sofa with his head rested on Brandy’s lap. Her delicate hands massaged his temples to counter a massive migraine. They awaited dinner from room service, but he had wanted to go out for supper. That morning, he had learned that his client was on the front page of a newspaper by way of room service. He no longer wanted their services. In fact, he wanted to be in New York consoling his son, and out of Washington coddling a bona fide murderer. A mass murderer. A lunatic.
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