The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  “Unfortunately not,” Cassian admitted. “But that doesn’t make the moment any less special.”

  “It should,” Train pointed out. “In any case, the moment’s over.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a cold one, lying off a path in Rock Creek Park up here near the Twenty-eighth Street entrance.”

  Cassian looked at his watch. Six-thirty. He wondered how it was that Train always seemed to get this type of information so early in the morning. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in a couple of minutes.”

  z

  Cassian pulled his battered motorcycle up onto the curb at Twenty-eighth Street between two squad cars that were parked in front of the entrance to the park. He nodded and flashed his badge to the officer who was standing sentry on the sidewalk, guarding the pathway that led down to the creek.

  “Train here?” he asked the patrolman. Everyone knew who Train was; at his size, he was difficult to miss.

  The cop nodded. “Got here a couple of minutes ago. He’s down the path to the right,” he said.

  Cassian ducked under the police tape that had been strung across the park’s entrance and started down the path. A few hundred yards along, he spotted Train talking to Deter. His partner beckoned him over. Cassian could see several technicians picking their way carefully through the bushes to the left of the path, toward the creek, where he assumed the body had been discovered.

  “I’m just getting the rundown,” Train said. “You wanna walk through what you’ve told me, to get our sleepy friend here up to speed?”

  “Sure,” Deter replied. He moved them over toward the bushes. “We’ve got a very deceased white male, probably in his early forties, shot at least three times from behind. Two shots hit just under the left clavicle, and one entered the back of his skull. Either very professional or very lucky. Any of them could have been fatal—we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure which one did the job.”

  “Any idea who our unfortunate friend might be?” Cassian asked.

  Deter shook his head. “No wallet, no papers, no nothing. We’re assuming for the moment that it’s a basic robbery. Judging from the condition of the body, I’m guessing he’s been here for three or four days. He’s well dressed, so somebody’s probably already missed him either at work or at home. I’m sure we’ll pull something from the recent missing persons reports, and that will help identify him. Our best bet is that he was just taking a walk in the park one night last week and the local welcome wagon came up behind him.” Deter made a gun with his fingers, his thumb pointing upward like a hammer. “Pop! Pop! Pop! The perp then takes his wallet and whatever else the guy might have had with him, and rolls him into the bushes.”

  “So what’s the guy doing walking through the park at night?” Train asked skeptically.

  Deter shrugged his shoulders. “People do some stupid things, Sarge.”

  “We don’t need to hear about your love life, Deter,” Cassian joked.

  “Look at it this way,” Deter continued, ignoring Cassian, “if no one ever did anything dumb, we’d probably be out of our jobs.”

  “I’d be happy to find something else to do for a living,” Train offered.

  “Right,” quipped Cassian to Deter. “Sarge has always had an interest in pursuing a career in ballet.” The huge man shot a warning glare at his partner, which Cassian ignored. “More to the point, does it fit the MO of any other recent killings?”

  “I think the manner of killing is a little too crude to qualify as an MO,” Deter said. “We’ve had a couple of quick-kills down in Anacostia that are a little similar, though. Maybe the pinheads down there decided to come up to the nicer end of town for a better class of victim.”

  “Do we have anything at all to help us identify the vic?” Cassian asked. “Anything that might generate a list of suspects?”

  Deter shook his head. “Nothing. Guy could be anyone. Average height, average weight, brown hair.”

  Something about the way Deter described the victim seemed familiar to Cassian. He chuckled quietly after a moment’s reflection. “Probably missing one of his pinky fingers, too, right?” he joked, winking at Train as he said it.

  “News travels fast,” Deter said. “You talk to one of the guys on the forensics team out on the street or something?”

  Cassian’s smile disappeared and he looked over at Train. He could already see the consternation showing on his partner’s face. “What’re you saying, Deter?” Train asked cautiously.

  Deter looked confused by the detectives’ sudden change in demeanor. “I’m not saying anything,” he said. “You’re saying it.”

  “Saying what?” Cassian demanded, the feeling of dread growing in his stomach.

  “About the guy’s finger,” Deter said defensively. “He’s missing one of his pinky fingers, like you said.”

  “Which one?” Train demanded.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Tell me,” Train pressed.

  Deter thought for a moment. “Right hand,” he said finally.

  Both detectives stared hard at Deter, then glanced at each other, exchanging a look of understanding. Finally Train turned back to Deter. “Let’s put the analysis of this scene at the top of our priority list, okay?”

  z

  “It could be a coincidence,” Cassian pointed out. Train looked at his partner over his coffee cup as he took a

  sip. They were grabbing a quick breakfast at a Dupont Circle coffee shop, having finished up at the crime scene. Train’s head hurt. “I don’t believe in coincidences anymore. Do you?”

  “They do happen,” Cassian argued halfheartedly. Train rolled his eyes. “They do,” Cassian persisted. “And this one isn’t even that big a coincidence, really. A missing finger? Lots of people lose fingers, probably. What does it mean, necessarily?”

  Train frowned. “It means we’ve got to look into it a little more closely.” He was torn. For days they’d been working under the primary assumption that Jerome Washington killed Elizabeth Creay. Even if he wasn’t completely sold on the notion, he couldn’t get beyond the fact that Jerome fit the crime, and Train loathed the idea that they were going to have to abandon him as a suspect. It would also mean going back over the case from square one, and precious time had been wasted that might prevent the murder from ever being solved. It would also mean digging deeper into Elizabeth Creay’s personal life, and the lives of her family, a process that, given the prominence of the clan, posed serious political drawbacks.

  All of these considerations rattled in Train’s head, making clear the argument that they should just leave the whole thing alone. After all, Cassian could be right. It could just be a coincidence, and there was no question that the city would be better off with Jerome Washington locked away. He’d already been charged with the possession, and the DA’s office had been pressing Train to make the murder rap stick. In some ways, the easiest thing to do would be to let the prosecutorial machinery grind Jerome to a pulp and be done with it. But then, Train thought, there was the Truth.

  The Truth was what had drawn Train to the police department in the first place. During that turbulent time in the early seventies, when Train saw the system used to the disadvantage of blacks, the notion of investigating crimes free from any bias based on race or creed or color, in a true quest to find the Truth, had been what had inspired him to find a purpose when all of his athletic hopes and dreams had fallen apart. So often, he knew from bitter experience, the police treated crime as a statistical shell game, using the department’s conviction rate to tout its success and convince a frightened public that they were getting their money’s worth. That approach had often resulted in the conviction of people—usually black people—who, while not necessarily innocent in the grand scheme of things, had not committed the crimes for which they were convicted. He’d vowed to change all that, and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, Jerome’s accusation that no one in the city cared about “just ano
ther dead nigger” had struck a nerve.

  “What do you want to do?” Cassian asked.

  Train knew what he had to do. “Go down to the morgue,” he said to Cassian. “Get a head shot of the John Doe from the park this morning, and get nine other head shots of dead white guys with brown hair.”

  “We gonna give Jerome a lineup?”

  Train shrugged. “Seems like the only way to be sure.”

  Cassian shook his head. “There’s no way it’s gonna make any difference,” he pointed out. “Even if Jerome’s telling the truth, the odds that he’d be able to recognize this guy from a head shot after he’s been dead and lying in the bushes for a couple of days are still about a thousand to one.”

  Train nodded. “No argument,” he conceded. “But it seems like we’ve got to give him that chance.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  LYDIA CHAPIN WALKED briskly through the lobby of the Hay-Adams Hotel across the street from the White House. Had she looked to her left, into the oak bar that had served as an informal negotiating room for three generations of power brokers in the nation’s capital, she might have seen two or three people she would have recognized. The intimate little cubbyhole was frequented by congressmen and senators who depended on Chapin Industries’ generous political contributions to fend off cyclical challenges every election. That dependence led to access and influence, and had always served Chapin Industries well.

  But Lydia wasn’t interested in talking shop. She needed only one thing at the moment—a pay phone. Certainly she couldn’t make this call from her home or from any of the offices at the company’s headquarters, and she’d been warned that her cell phone wasn’t “secure,” whatever that meant. She understood enough, though, to realize the technology was available to intercept cell calls over the airwaves, so that unwanted eavesdroppers might overhear something too dangerous to be made public. A pay phone made the most sense; one that couldn’t be linked back to her, and which would provide adequate protections from intrusion. That was what made her think of the Hay-Adams. It had been catering to Washington’s elite for more than a century. It was the favored spot for those seeking privacy, those who considered themselves “on the inside”—diplomats and foreign dignitaries and industrial tycoons. It was rumored that much of the world’s fate during the second half of the twentieth century had been determined within the walls of the quaint hotel on Sixteenth Street. Wars had been planned, treaties negotiated, coups plotted, and because of its particular clientele, Lydia recalled, the pay phones offered more privacy than most.

  She walked through the lobby and past the front desk. The desk clerk looked up and, not recognizing her as a guest, actually thought to ask if she needed help. But she carried herself with the self-assured air of the unquestionably wealthy, and he quickly decided that she properly belonged there— guest or not—and went back to the mundane administrative task demanding his attention at the moment.

  She rounded the corner and came upon the pay phones. They were lined along the wall, each with its own booth and door that closed fully to provide privacy. There were five of them in all. She walked down the aisle, noting that the first three booths were taken, their occupants each talking animatedly into the receiver without a hint of sound escaping from the enclosures. Lydia was gratified at the privacy of the booths, but suddenly worried that she might have to wait for a phone. That wouldn’t do; she was already late. Fortunately, as she continued to walk down the row, she saw that the last two booths were unoccupied. She slipped into the last one on the row.

  A light came on automatically when she closed the door. She looked around, satisfied with the enclosure. The walls were lined in perforated leather, and a well-cushioned chair extended out from the wall, allowing her to sit.

  She lowered herself onto the chair and took the receiver off the hook. Holding it away from her face for a moment, she examined it with disdain, as though it were too common for her. After a pause, she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped off the mouthpiece. Replacing the handkerchief into her bag, she reached in again and pulled out a slip of paper with a number written carefully on it. She squinted at the paper as she reached up and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” The phone was answered before the first ring was completed.

  “Hello,” Lydia replied.

  “You’re late.” Leighton Creay’s voice was snippy. “I told you to call at twelve-thirty, and it’s already quarter to one.” Lydia held her tongue in spite of the petulance. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. “It seems our circumstances have changed,” he continued after a brief pause.

  “I don’t see how,” Lydia replied, but the break in her voice betrayed her.

  “Yes you do,” Creay replied, gaining more confidence. “You’re a smart woman, Lydia. Always have been; so don’t waste my time.”

  She hated that the man had dared to use her first name. “What do you want?” she asked slowly, trying to control the rage in her voice.

  “More money, of course.”

  “We had a deal.” She knew she sounded weak and plaintive, but there was little she could do about it.

  “We had a deal before things changed. I kept that deal. Now the deal is over and it’s time to renegotiate.”

  “Nothing in our deal made any mention of what would happen if the situation changed as it has. I don’t see why—”

  “Because I said so,” Leighton said forcefully. “I know you never really cared about your daughter, so now the question is: do you care about your granddaughter?”

  “You’re scum,” Lydia said through clenched teeth.

  Creay laughed. “Oh, Lydia. I think that coming from you I may have to take that as a compliment.” Then the laughter was gone. “Have the money for me by tomorrow, or don’t plan on ever seeing Amanda again.”

  Lydia thought for a moment, trying to set aside the anger she felt and work rationally through all the issues with which she was confronted. “How much more?” she asked.

  “I think, in light of all that has happened, double our original deal would be reasonable.”

  Her head spun. She couldn’t allow herself to be played in this way, she knew, or it would never end. “I can’t get the money by tomorrow,” she lied.

  “Then we’ll just have to charge you some interest,” Creay replied. “I think an extra hundred grand would be reasonable for an extra day.”

  “You’ll have the money by the end of next week,” Lydia said. “But you should be careful who you threaten like this.”

  A low, confident chuckle came over the line. “Lydia,” Creay chided, “I have no interest in anything but the best of relationships with you. The end of next week is fine, but let’s call it an extra two hundred thousand in interest. That shouldn’t present a problem for someone in your position.”

  Lydia was seething. “You really are scum,” she said.

  “Now is not the time for you to play tough, Lydia. You know what I’m capable of.” There was a long silence on the line, and then Leighton asked, “Friday, then?” Hearing no reply, he continued. “Have the money ready and I’ll contact you.” Then the line went dead.

  Lydia was shaking with impotent rage when she hung up the receiver and left the luxurious phone booth in the lobby of the Hay-Adams. How could this happen? She knew that the phone calls would never stop. Not until her family and her company were bled dry. After all that I’ve done, I will not let that come to pass. By the time she reached the front door of the hotel the shaking had subsided. Resolve had settled into the core of Lydia Chapin, and a plan was beginning to take shape in her mind.

  z

  Five seconds. That’s all it took.

  Train and Cassian walked without explanation into the interrogation room at the District lockup, where Jerome Washington was sitting expressionless in a bright orange jumpsuit, courtesy of the corrections department, and shackles around his wrists and ankles. Jerome protested at first, demanding, “I want my lawyer,” as they pulled
two folding chairs up against the table.

  “Shut up, Jerome,” Cassian warned. “This is for your own good.”

  Washington gave a snort of disbelief, but was quiet.

  Train sat down and put the stack of pictures facedown in front of him. “I’m going to lay out ten pictures here on the table, Jerome. And I want you to tell me what you see,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because Sergeant Train told you to, asshole,” Cassian told him.

  “Trust me, Jerome,” Train said. “This may be your only chance.” Then he flipped the ten pictures over quickly so they were laid out in two neat rows of five. All of the men in the pictures were dead. Cassian had borrowed them from the District morgue’s office. They were all Caucasians with brown hair, generally fitting the same description. Cassian had tried to choose pictures as closely resembling the John Doe from Rock Creek as possible; no reason to make this little farce any easier for Jerome. The man found that morning was in the bottom row, second from the left.

  Jerome took five seconds, his eyes scanning over the images in the pictures, looking from one to the next until he came to the man from the park. When his eyes lit on that image, they widened, his mouth dropping open as he pointed. “That’s the motherfucker!” he shouted.

  Train shot a glance at Cassian, who rubbed his temples as if in pain. “That’s what motherfucker, Jerome?” Train asked.

  “Get the fuck outta here, Train,” Jerome said, his voice filled with anger. “You know goddamned well what motherfucker that is!”

  “I don’t, Jerome. Tell me.”

  “This is bullshit!” Jerome looked back and forth between the detectives. Then, at last, he threw his hands up. “That’s the motherfucker who bought the dime bag and the torch off me. That’s the motherfucker in the blue sedan who was down a digit.” He looked expectantly at Train. “This mean I get the fuck outta here now?”

  Train shook his head. “No, Jerome. It doesn’t.”

  “The fuck it don’t!” Jerome shouted back. “You found the man. He’s the one who did the bitch on G Street, not me. I know it, and now you know it, too. So you go on and get me the fuck outta here!”