Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  "He jes a man."

  "Big, small, light, dark?"

  "He was in da car."

  "Is there anything you remember about him?"

  "He wore shades."

  "At night?"

  "Yeah."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "Had this hat, pulled down."

  "What kind? Peak hat? What?"

  "One a them soft hats pulled low."

  "What did his voice sound like?"

  "Like a brother."

  "Are you sure?"

  "He sound like a brother."

  "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

  The boy scowled and looked confused.

  "How come he picked you Martine?"

  "He got lucky," Roy said, smirking.

  The boy shifted in the chair, shrugged and made a grimace of pain.

  "I been through this Sergeant," Roy said. "Little bastard has only half a brain."

  Fiona ignored him.

  "Did this man ... in the car," Fiona asked," ... did he say you should ... have sex with her?"

  "He say do what I want but don't take nothin' unless ah find some bread.... ya know ... like cash. Ony there weren't none in her bag."

  "So he raped her," Roy shouted angrily.

  "Please Roy," Fiona said, putting up her hand like a traffic cop directing traffic, glancing briefly at Gail, who stood watching the scene in silence, pouting and morose. Fiona turned back to the boy. "Why did you take the cross, Martine?"

  "Cause it looked cool is why," the boy croaked.

  Fiona looked up at Roy. Keep an open mind, she cautioned herself. Perhaps, along with the beating, he had brainwashed the boy into confessing. Oddly, the boy did not seem at all reluctant to tell his story. She allowed herself to remain open to the idea despite her instincts and despite the fact that the boy's presence at the scene could be determined by fingerprints and blood and semen DNA matches. The saddest part of it was that the boy had absolutely no sense of right or wrong.

  At that point, they heard the sound of chimes ringing.

  "They're here," Gail said. "Thank God." She hurried up the stairs.

  "We'll have to take you in as well, Roy," Fiona said.

  "You ought to be ashamed," Roy said, his eyes roving from Fiona to Gail. "I've done your work for you and this is my reward." He turned to Gloria. "Gloria. Justice is dead."

  "Maybe so, Roy. Maybe so," Gloria said.

  "And him?" Roy said angrily. "He's confessed. What happens to him?"

  "First things first," Fiona said. "We have to check out his condition. Then his story. He's a minor and has to be treated as such."

  "It didn't matter to Madame," Roy sighed. "Minor or not."

  Fiona studied Roy for a moment. His eyes seemed to have sunken deeper into his cadaverous face. She could understand his bitterness.

  "Justice will be done, Roy," Fiona said.

  Roy shook his head in despair. He looked at Gloria.

  "Give it to him Gloria," he sighed.

  Gloria took a white plastic bag out of the pocket of her dress and gave it to Fiona. It had more heft than Fiona had expected.

  "The knife," Roy said. "He had it on him." He paused. "And don't ask me how I know it was the one."

  "He told us," Gloria said, looking at Roy with imploring eyes.

  "I should have killed the little bastard," Roy hissed.

  CHAPTER 7

  "Prints match," the Eggplant said. "Semen matches the blood type. A DNA will probably confirm. Even the murder weapon seems to check. It's a switchblade. The penetration fits. We found the woman's blood type in the slot. The kid's the killer. A fourteen year old." He moved his head from side to side. "Are we so far gone?"

  They were sitting around the conference table in the Captain's office.

  "Let's not lose sight of the fact that the real culprit is the person who put him up to it," Gail said. "The boy obviously has a deficit."

  "Who's losing sight of that!" the Eggplant barked.

  "Or the motive of the man in the car," Fiona interjected.

  "And the manner in which the so-called confession was extracted," Gail said.

  "It doesn't change the facts," Fiona snapped. Gail was growing increasingly irritating. "Whatever the legal aspects concerning minors. Dead is dead, whether by the hand of a fourteen year old or a ninety year old."

  "He was only the instrument," Gail muttered.

  "Are you saying we should condone it?" Fiona pushed. "Absolve him of all blame. Give him a slap on the wrist, and tell him all is forgiven?"

  "Might not have to. The system has been known to do that in cases like this," the Eggplant sighed.

  Roy had been arraigned on assaulting a minor. A public defender had been appointed and he was out on his own recognizance. Gloria had not been charged. Martine was in the hospital. His injuries were painful but not critical. In a few days he would be released and remanded to the Juvenile Detention Center.

  There was no hiding the story and it was now running on a regular cycle on CNN and FOX the network television news shows. Although Roy had been warned not to discuss the matter with the media, he was shown being interviewed with Mrs. Shipley's house as a backdrop reiterating his theory about American justice. The camera had been cruel, making him look like a man who had just risen from a coffin after a long interment.

  "What have we become as a society when a fourteen year old boy, a child really, lured by money, brutally murders and rapes an old woman? How could this happen? What's happened to America? And what will the system do? He will surely be out on the street to kill again. And again and again."

  The again and again motif played everywhere and, in a miracle of quick time, the boy's grandmother was interviewed. Apparently the mother was a crack head and had persuaded the boy to get her some money for her habit.

  "He was a good boy," the grandmother, a graying matriarch insisted. "Bad people used him. He didn't know better. He not very bright."

  Footage of the Governor and his wife going into and coming out of the Shipley residence was also shown repeatedly, but no new shots, and commentators were saying that the Governor and his wife were in seclusion on their Middleburg horse farm.

  "But the fact that the perp was a juvenile only clouds the issue. He was a street kid with an obvious problem upstairs," the Eggplant said.

  "Like Forrest Gump," Fiona said.

  "Forrest Gump was biologically retarded," Gail said, as if it were a sudden revelation. "This boy's deficit is in his environment not necessarily in his brain."

  "Forrest Gump was a fantasy creation about a lovable loser who wins and harmed no one," Fiona muttered, growing openly irritated by Gail's attitude.

  "Who was white," Gail snapped. The Eggplant looked at her, frowned briefly, then shrugged. Fiona shook her head.

  "Okay then," the Eggplant said, ignoring the racial comment. "What have we got? A man drives up in a car, dark car, maybe a black man. He's wearing shades and a knitted cap pulled low. He asks the kid if he wants to make five hundred dollars. Probably pulls out a wad. Easy money. The kid's eyes pop. The kid bites. Got a knife kid? The kid pulls one out of his pocket. Maybe he tried other kids first. We'll have to check that, but it's a long shot to find anyone who will cooperate. All you got to do, boy, the man says, is tomorrow at ten to do the old lady lives in that house. Shows the boy the money. Yours for the asking. And if you take this bread and don't do it, I'm going to come back and do you boy." The Eggplant paused, his eyes shifting from Gail to Fiona. "Went something like that." He rubbed his chin. "Whoever he was knew the routine of the household."

  "That it was maid's night out," Fiona said..

  "So whoever puts the kid up to it knows the schedule," the Eggplant continued. "Also knows that Roy sleeps without his hearing aids."

  "Knows the layout of the house," Gail said suddenly.

  "On the tape, Martine never said the man offered that information," Gale pointed out.

  "So you think he could f
igure it out for himself? No way. Not that kid." the Eggplant muttered. "Someone gave him a road map." The Eggplant paused and grew thoughtful. "On the other hand there is the possibility that the whole damned neighborhood knew the routine of that house, knew the maid took Thursday's off. Came back late. Figured old what's his name was a pushover and stone deaf."

  "And knew the watch dog is dead." Gail said with a touch of belligerence.

  "Easy," the Eggplant said. "Dogs are street people. He doesn't show up for his regular peepee, people know."

  "And he doesn't know that Roy wouldn't put on the security," Fiona pointed out.

  "Doesn't even know there is security," the Eggplant said.

  "It's too obvious," Gail argued. "Someone put him up to it."

  "Which is what he said in the confession." Fiona shot back.

  "What I object to is the way it was extracted and the idea that a fourteen year old would have conceived this by himself. He was manipulated by an adult."

  "Nobody's walking away from that theory, Prentiss." the Eggplant sighed, still maintaining his tolerance.

  "No muss no fuss no bother," Fiona said, trying to placate her. "The kid does the dirty work."

  "For who? And why?" the Eggplant asked.

  "Bottom line, right Gail?" Fiona asked. Gail's nod was barely perceptible. "The kid was a pawn," Gail mumbled.

  "A willing instrument," Fiona said.

  "A victim," Gail shot back.

  "Christ, Prentiss," the Eggplant muttered. Up to then, Captain Luther Greene had been remarkably tolerant of Gail's attitude, obviously not wishing to prod the sleeping dragon awake. Blind mindless unreasoning black solidarity was the Eggplant's poisoned thorn. We are colorblind here, he had intoned often. We're not social workers. We're killer finders.

  The fact that it was Roy who found the boy and beat him into confession seemed lost in the hubris of the moment, although Fiona knew it would resurface again when it became apparent that there was no way the incident could be quietly squelched.

  In contrast with the Captain's "up" mood, Gail seemed definitely "down" and heading further into the abyss. So far, Fiona and Gail had only skirmished, but Fiona knew that there was a moment of reckoning ahead. She hated the prospect.

  "However bizarre," Fiona said, "it appears to be a contract killing."

  "It is definitely a contract killing," Gail said with a flash of indignation.

  "Hardly drug related. Not in a direct sense. The boy was clean," the Eggplant mused. Fiona noted that he was so calm, he had not taken out a panatela and his ashtray was totally spotless. "An old lady, practically a recluse. With two loyal retainers. Makes no sense."

  "The boy's description of the man who paid for the hit.... hit seems so ridiculous in this context.... is still too sketchy. We'll have to probe further," Fiona said.

  "The poor kid was manipulated," Gail persisted. "Let's not lose sight of that."

  "Poor kid! Come on Gail. He stabbed an old lady and raped her. Maybe she was dead or dying when he did the deed. Pretty heavy stuff. As for manipulated. That's a given," Fiona said, troubled by her partner's continuing uncompromising attitude. "He was paid to kill someone. Manipulated sounds somehow benign as if he was corrupted. The fact is that he was predisposed to such action and hadn't a clue that he was doing something that was morally reprehensible. In other words he was already primed, whatever the reason, and ready to be engaged for this purpose. I agree. The man got lucky and struck paydirt."

  "The boy was as much a victim as Mrs. Shipley," Gail snapped.

  Fiona looked toward the Eggplant, who seemed equally surprised at Gail's comment. His tolerance appeared on the verge of crumbling.

  "Gail. Mrs. Shipley is dead," Fiona said.

  "So is that boy. Good as dead. His life shot."

  "In this business, I believe we deal in legal definitions," Fiona said.

  "It's a question of perspective," Gail said. "This is a child, we're talking about, a black kid that never had a chance and never will. He's as much a victim as the old woman."

  "Prentiss," the Eggplant said, his patience finally cracking, "We cannot bleed for the perps in this department, whatever their age, whatever their sex, whatever their color, however terrible their upbringing. You know that Prentiss. A killer is a killer is a killer. We're here to catch them. That's it. How they become bad guys is not our mission."

  "Maybe it's a dimension that we're neglecting," Gail persisted.

  "We're going nowhere here," the Eggplant said with obvious disgust, his mood darkening.

  "I think we are. I think it's time we begin to rip away the facade..." Gail's voice rose.

  "Cool it Gail," Fiona said.

  "This poor black boy has been abused. He hasn't had a chance. His mother's a crack head. He has no idea who his father is." It struck Fiona that she had delved much deeper into the boy's background than she had revealed. "How can he be responsible? He is a victim. A man offers him five hundred dollars...."

  "Okay Prentiss," the Eggplant said raising his hand. "I've heard enough. You want to be a social worker in the Juvenile Detention Center, I'll give you a reference. This is homicide." He pulled out a panatela, unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth.

  "What's going on here Gail?" Fiona asked. There was no way to avoid the collision.

  "The white Princess asks..." Gail muttered, lowering her eyes.

  "Oh God no. Not that," Fiona shook her head in frustration.

  "How could a white person possibly understand ... "?

  Gail looked toward the Eggplant as if seeking support for her position.

  "You're out of line Prentiss," the Chief snapped, testy now. "Get into race crap and everything gets distorted."

  "How did we get on that kick?" Fiona interrupted. It was a puzzling rhetorical question since race had never been a divisive issue between her and Gail Prentiss. Or was she in denial? Wasn't there a gender bond here, a class bond? And friendship? Had she deluded herself into believing that Gail Prentiss was a real friend? Fiona was confused. There was a genuine sense of racial hostility here. Had it been there all along? Just beneath the surface?

  "Don't you people feel any compassion for that sad boy?"

  "Compassion Gail?" Fiona said. "You're in the wrong pew."

  "You can't relate Fiona," Gail continued. "For obvious reasons. That's your problem."

  "My problem!"

  "Now I'm getting riled," the Eggplant shouted. He turned to Prentiss. "We don't do race garbage here."

  "But we sure as hell think it," Prentiss said, her voice rising.

  "Don't tell me what I think woman," the Eggplant said smashing out his unlit panatela.

  "You're way off base, Gail."

  "You keep out of it, Fiona."

  "You mean keep your white ass out of it, is that what you mean?"

  "You got a point."

  "Dammit, girls," the Eggplant hissed, using the hated word as he slapped the table. "Keep this up and this arrangement is busted. Just say the word and this tent folds." He looked pointedly at Prentiss. "Is this what you want?"

  Gail, whose nostrils had swelled with anger, lowered her eyes and began to fidget with her fingers.

  "Well?" the Eggplant said, calming.

  Gail shook her head. The Eggplant turned to Fiona.

  "You?"

  "No chief."

  His eyes flashed with anger as he pointed a finger at Prentiss.

  "I want none of that race crapola again, Prentiss. Ever. You both capeesh?"

  Gail looked up, exchanging glances with Fiona. They both nodded. In her eyes, Fiona detected little remorse. Had this outburst spoiled everything between them? Fiona hoped not, searching her heart for understanding, knowing that sooner or later the issue between them would have to be confronted.

  "Good. Now let's get to the cream cheese. Who wanted this biddy iced?"

  CHAPTER 8

  Fiona and Gail spoke little on their way out to William Shipley's horse farm in Middleburg, although it was
clear that the center of gravity of their relationship had changed. They drove through a road that led through fenced pastures just beginning to turn emerald green. Grazing horses paid little attention as their car passed them on their way to the main house.

  Shipley and his wife were waiting in the den. Madeline Newton was wearing jodhpurs and a green plaid shirt buttoned low to display her ample bosoms. The green set off her violet eyes and the afternoon light washed away any after forty flaws. She wore no make-up and looked quite beautiful. Shipley wore brown corduroy's and a beige flannel shirt. His complexion was ashen and his expression was sullen and mournful, perfectly appropriate for a man who had just put his mother to rest that morning.

  A fire had been lit to take the chill out of the April air. It was Clayton, the massive bodyguard, who led them into the room. He stood waiting for orders.

  "It's alright Clayton," Madeline said once again revealing who called the shots as far as he was concerned. He nodded and left.

  The room itself with its polished oak paneling and English style furnishings had the flavor of high dedication to the horse culture. It was cluttered with paintings of horses, bronzes of horses, authentic whips and blue ribbons galore signifying winning entries. There were also numerous pictures of Madeline in her Hollywood heydays and William at the high moments of his political life.

  A framed picture of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier sat in a silver frame on a polished table. It struck Fiona as out of context, but she did remember a vague reference to it in the Post article on Deb Shipley, something about fantasizing that the Unknown Soldier was none other than her dead husband. Apparently Shipley had bought into the fantasy.

  Shipley and his wife sat in matching leather wing chairs while Gail and Fiona took seats opposite them on a leather couch.

  Between them was a large polished table on which was a setting of English bone china cups. Beside the cups was a silver carafe. Madeline Newton poured a cup of black coffee for Fiona, one for her husband and one for herself. Gail had declined.

  "May we record, Governor?" Fiona asked holding up a small tape recorder. It was a routine request almost always engendering full cooperation.