A Study in Sin

by August Wainwright

  In an attempt to arouse her attention, I coughed loudly as I went into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. I feigned confusion, slamming cupboard doors, picking up and replacing numerous unnecessary utensils. Not even a hint of a response from her. I hummed as I worked, purposely screwing up a Yo-Yo Ma piece that I knew was one of her favorites. Still nothing. I even pretended to stub my toe on the corner of the kitchen island, bursting forth with a barrage of damns and shit, all to no avail.

  I finally conceded that whatever had her attention was far more important than I was. I filled my travel mug with the now burnt coffee, announced I was heading out to see my psychiatrist, and slammed the door behind me.

  I had no intention whatsoever to meet with my therapist, although the thought did cross my mind. But we met at the same time every week and she didn’t seem to be too keen on the idea of drop-ins; I knew that from experience. The last few visits had actually gone really well. I was making progress, or so that’s what the professional opinion of my shrink was. Apparently, staying active and finding a hobby is the first step in the right direction to dealing with PTSD. It’s the downtime that brings on the episodes. And, I had to admit, I was feeling better over the past few weeks.

  I walked around for a while, stopped into a café and got a refill of coffee, before turning back towards the apartment, hoping to have proved some point to Remy. When I got there, two hours had passed, and I heard voices coming from inside as I climbed the interior set of stairs. I immediately placed one as Detective Lambert’s and turned the handle to enter, wondering to myself if his visit was business or pleasure, the biting pain coming back in a quick flash.

  Remy greeted me before I was half way through the door.

  “Jay, glad you’re here. Come join us. Lambert here seems to think he’s solved the entire case and has come to gloat.”

  Her words were laced with obvious sarcasm, but I couldn’t help but notice the slight look of anxious worry on her face.

  “Detective,” I nodded as I joined the two around the coffee table.

  “Mr. Watts,” he said coldly, turning back to Remy. “Would you mind if I used your restroom before getting into the details?”

  “Sure. You know where it’s at,” Remy said.

  I sat down in the chair next to her, separated by the Union Jack lamp she insisted on keeping on the side table, no matter how gaudy I thought it was. She leaned forward, around the table, in my direction.

  “Jay, about last night, I think it would be best to say my behavior was not completely necessary. You shouldn’t take me literally when I’m in fits like that.”

  “Is that your idea of an apology?”

  “Well – under the circumstances –”

  “The word you’re looking for is sorry.”

  “Yes, exactly,” she said, leaning back in her chair as Lambert rejoined us. I thought it was probably more than anyone else had ever gotten from her in the way of apologies.

  “So,” she started as Lambert sat down on the couch across from us, “let’s hear this theory of yours.”

  “No theory, I have a suspect in custody. He’s down at the station right now. Won’t talk though; we’re waiting on his lawyer.”

  I felt the hesitation in Remy’s voice as he continued. Was she actually worried that Lambert had bested her?

  “Who is this suspect?”

  “Thomas Chapman, a young desk clerk at the Hotel George.”

  Remy let out an audible sigh and smiled, sinking comfortably into her seat.

  “And you know what the best part is? I bet Arruda a hundred bucks that I would figure this one out before him. He’s been out all morning trying to track down James McKeague,” Lambert said, pleased at the idea of his partner’s misfortune. “We traced the credit cards we found on Cormack. Seems that he and McKeague were supposed to be on a flight to London out of Reagan, but they missed it. We’ve got tape of them outside the airport getting into an argument and then they split up; Cormack left in the car while McKeague stayed behind. But he never got on another flight, and Arruda’s been trying to piece together where McKeague was from the time Cormack left the airport until his body was found the next morning. I really should call him and let him know. Ahh, he’ll be fine for another hour or two, the extra effort won’t hurt him.”

  “How did you locate Thomas Chapman?” Remy asked.

  “The same credit cards; came back that he’d been going to the Hotel George every day at the same time. I drove over first thing this morning after I got the call. When I got there, I went straight up to the woman working the front desk. And, damn, was she easy on the eyes.” Lambert said this last part with extra emphasis, probably for Remy’s sake. “Tall, thin, blonde; she was one of those perfect DC pant-suit girls. You know, the ones the politicians and the big business guys go crazy over. Well, as soon as I asked her name and told her who I was, she got really nervous. Her hands were shaking and she wouldn’t look up at me.

  “ ‘I need some information on a man you might be familiar with, can you help me with that?’ I asked her.

  “ ‘Yes sir,’ she answered, all sheepish like, ‘but it might be better if I got my manager, if that’s alright with you, sir,’ and never once did she make eye contact with me. I told her it was fine and to fetch the manager, but I had that feeling she was hiding something.

  “The manager comes out and joins the two of us and I told him that I was looking for information on a man named Finton Cormack, who was found dead. And the first thing this guy does is look over at the blonde girl and gives her this look, like a father scolding a child. He goes over to the computer and tells me that Cormack was last there on Tuesday. I asked him if that’s the last time anyone remembers seeing him, and again, he shoots a look over at the blonde girl who sinks her chin down on her chest. That was the last straw.

  “ ‘Ok, what the hell is going on here?’ I ask.

  “ ‘Bridgette, you need to tell the detective what happened,’ the guy says and this girl just loses it, starts sobbing into her hands. It took forever to get her calmed down so I could get her story.

  “ ‘Mr. Cormack was one of the biggest asshole drunks I’ve ever encountered here, and that’s saying a lot,’ she started after she finally gained her composure. ‘He’s stayed with us before and comes in to the bar all the time. He was working with a group of business guys this week, I saw him take a few meetings during the day, but most of the time, he was drunk off his mind. And that little shit got mouthy and aggressive with me every time. When he pinched my ass on Monday, I was over it. I told Tom about the guy – he’s my boyfriend, works here too – and he was beyond pissed.’

  “By this time, the girl Bridgette is getting her confidence back and I can feel her building towards a point,” Lambert said.

  “ ‘It was around noon on Tuesday when Mr. Cormack came to the front desk because he wanted me to call a cab, and he already smelled like a barrel of whiskey. He slurred his words and asked me if I wanted to come have a drink with him. I just ignored him, but he leaned over the counter and grabbed my arm. It was instinctive; I slapped him hard across the face and he turned bright red. He looked like a tomato. He stared at me for a few seconds, then turned and left. I thought about telling Tom but the guy was gone and I was hopeful I’d never have to see him again.’ ”

  “Get to the point, Ian,” Remy said.

  “I’m getting there, don’t be so anxious,” he answered smugly. “So Bridgette goes on to tell me how, unfortunately, that wasn’t the last time she encountered Finton Cormack.

  “ ‘I remember Mr. Cormack saying at one point that he had a flight to catch on Tuesday afternoon, but later that night, he comes stumbling back into the lobby. He walks right up to me and I can tell he’s completely smashed. He tries to come around the desk, the whole time mumbling threats, saying how he’ll teach me a lesson and how I’ll learn my role, stuff like that. Only this time, Tom was working and he walks around the corner and sees Cormack. Tom comes over and puts his
foot into the back of Cormack’s knee and drops him. Then he drags him through the lobby towards the front door, picks this guy up from the floor, and literally throws him out the door onto the sidewalk. Cormack runs off and I go over to try and calm Tom down.’ She hesitated here but I urged her on. ‘Tom’s got this umbrella that he carries everywhere, one of those large ones with a curved wooden handle. It was his father’s before he died. I thought he was fine, but when we got back behind the desk, Tom grabs the umbrella and runs out after Cormack, holding the thing like a club.’

  “ ‘And when did you see him again after that?’ I asked the girl. Again, she had to fight back her emotions before continuing.

  “ ‘He didn’t come back.’

  “ ‘What do you mean he didn’t come back?’

  “ ‘I mean he didn’t come back. I called his phone, but he left all his stuff here at work. I finished my shift and went back to our apartment, hoping he would be there, but he wasn’t. I stayed up all night; thought about calling the cops a few different times. It’s like four or five in the morning at this point, and all of a sudden, I hear keys at the door and Tom walks in. He was drunk. Said nothing happened and that he never caught up to Cormack. He told me he stopped at a bar to calm himself down before coming back to work and some old college friends were there. Said he just lost track of time.’

  “ ‘But you don’t believe Tom, do you?’

  “ ‘It’s just not like him. I mean, he didn’t come back to finish his shift, didn’t call or text or anything. I was so worried about him,’ she said and then fell back into hysterics. I guess she realized that she had basically just pegged her boyfriend for murder. I asked the manager if he knew where Tom Chapman was and he told me he was due in any minute.”

  Remy yawned at Lambert’s pause. “What happened next?” she asked in an uninterested tone.

  “Well, knowing that Chapman was unaccounted for during the hours of Cormack’s death, I radioed for backup. When he came in to start his shift, two officers and I took him into custody. He put up no fight. But what’s really interesting is that as soon as we had him in cuffs, he turned and very plainly said, ‘So I guess this is about that asshole Cormack, right?’ He did offer up a statement that he caught up to Cormack a few blocks down from the hotel, and watched him as he stumbled and ran into a street sign. He said that he had walked behind him past Union Station over towards H Street when Cormack turned and saw him. Cormack hailed a cab and took off. Chapman said that he stopped in at a bar, which matched what he told his girlfriend. His whole story is bullshit, though. He’s been silent ever since. Hasn’t said a single word since we put him into the back of the car and took him down to the station.”

  “So what is your theory for the murder then?” asked Remy.

  Lambert sat up straight on the couch, an arrogant smirk running across his face, as he feigned deep thought.

  “My theory is that Thomas Chapman couldn’t let the pass at his very beautiful girlfriend go unpunished, especially from a fat little drunk like Cormack. He grabs his umbrella for a weapon and goes out after him. He follows Cormack down past Stanton Park and over onto Tenth, where he finally confronts, and most likely assaults, the man. We haven’t located the umbrella yet, but based on his girlfriend’s description, one hard blow to the temple or maybe to the gut, could have been the cause of death. Chapman then sees the signs of the house being renovated, drags the body inside, and leaves all the extra clues to try and throw us off his scent.”

  “And what of the blood? Or the flashlight that was on the mantle?” Remy said with a smile of her own. “Chapman drags a body inside, turns on a flashlight so it’s more likely he’s seen, and then leaves it on when he takes off?”

  “He probably found it inside. It could have been left behind by one of the workers. Maybe he turned it on to verify that Cormack was actually dead and then forgot to take it with him. And we’ll get his blood to see if it matches.”

  “Lambert, I must admit, you are absolutely unique in your abilities. To get from where we were Wednesday morning to where you are now is… well, it’s quite impressive.”

  “Thank you very much Ms. Moreau,” Lambert said back, oblivious to the sarcasm in Remy’s voice. “It’s just another one of those times where diligence wins out over insight. People act brashly, and then they fall apart afterwards. I’ve come to realize that all I need to do is position myself to be in the right spot and most criminals will come with outstretched arms, asking for me to lock them up.”

  “Well that’s insightful,” I said. Lambert turned his attention towards me and opened his mouth to respond, but the phone at his hip rang, interrupting his thought. He smiled at the two of us as he answered it.

  “Detective Lambert…Yea, he’s down at the station right now waiting for his lawyer…Why’s that?...Yea, I remember. Why?...But I’ve already – Wait. What?” Lambert shot up from his spot on the couch. He was silent, listening, as he looked off across the room. “I got it. I said I got it.”

  “Is everything alright, Ian, you’re looking a little flush?” Remy asked

  “Arruda found out that McKeague has a place here in DC. He caught up to him.”

  Lambert’s face didn’t move. He looked like a statue as he stared down at the phone in his hand.

  “McKeague is dead. He was murdered sometime early this morning.”

  Chapter 7

  The Spark Before the Fire

  “Ha!” Remy erupted, “Perfect. Serial murders. I love it.” She paced around the apartment, excited at the news, while the detective and I watched dumbfounded.

  “There is something seriously wrong with you,” Lambert said, slowly shaking his head.

  “Come on, what are we waiting for? To the scene of the crime gentlemen.”

  Now I was the one shaking my head. “Seriously? Who says that?” I wondered aloud.

  Lambert drove us across town towards West Glebe, south of Crystal City. Lambert and I sat silent the entire ride as Remy squirmed in excitement and blabbered on about early Irish immigrants and the gangs they formed in nineteenth century New York. He told her four times to buckle her seatbelt; she never did.

  After the longest twenty minute car ride ever, we eventually found ourselves pulling up in front of a house as unassuming as a freshly baked loaf of bread. The house was all white, with white shutters and white flower bushes out front. It sat back from the street behind a small white picket fence. A footpath led to the front door, the only part that wasn’t white, which just so happened to be a bright shade of lipstick red. It stood welcoming us to the slaughter we were to find inside. Detective Arruda met us out front.

  “See you brought the whole crew,” he grumbled.

  “Detective Arruda,” Remy said, “You know, for once, I’m actually glad to see you.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need to make a quick phone call,” she said. Arruda offered an audible harrumph in response.

  I stood near the front gate and waited, as Remy spoke with someone on her phone and the two detectives huddled together discussing what had happened. A few moments later, Remy joined them and motioned for me to follow.

  “Well we’ve heard Lambert’s theory of the case,” she said, smiling at him, “Turns out he missed a few details. Why don’t you tell us your view of it, Arruda? Maybe I can play mediator between the two of you and rule on who’s better situated to win that bet of yours.”

  Arruda started leading us towards the front door as he told his side of the story.

  “I thought McKeague was our guy,” he started, with a hint of disappointment in his voice. If Arruda really was just hanging around for the pension, he at least took some pride in besting his young partner. “We know they were together at three thirty on Tuesday because they missed their flight. Twelve hours later, we find the body over in Capitol Hill. So where is McKeague during that time? I’ve spent the last forty eight hours trying to figure that out. The search of t
he hospitals didn’t help. On a hunch, I did some property research to see if either Cormack or McKeague owned a house in the area. That’s when I found this place. McKeague bought it a few months ago.” Arruda seemed years younger as he talked. I had the feeling Lambert hadn’t been completely truthful about his partner.

  “I drove over hoping to find the man at home, but not expecting much. I walked up to the front door, gave it a rap, rang the bell. Nobody comes. So I lean over this rail here and checked in that front window and saw the pool of blood on the living room floor.”

  We gathered on the front porch and waited for Arruda to catch his breath from the twenty five foot walk. He continued.

  “I reached for the handle and it was unlocked. The first thing I saw upon entering was the blood. Blood everywhere,” he said as we walked through the front door.

  I took two steps and almost retched. The place was like the set of a horror movie. The white on white motif from outside had been brought to the interior as well. White carpet, white walls, white furniture, white in every direction. Or at least it would have been, had the entire room not been splattered in scarlet red. It looked like someone had filled a water gun with paint and took to creating some abstract piece of artwork. And, there, directly above the largest stain, was the same word, CAPITAL, scrolled in blood on the ceiling. The four of us stood for a moment taking in the scene.

  I was struck by the brutality of the whole thing. The backdrop of the red stains covering the sterile white interior faded as the image of Cormack’s rigid and twisted body flashed in my mind. Was this what being a detective was like? Scene after scene of viciousness, just enough time to catch your breath from one gruesome murder before the next one beckons? And why the fuck would Remy enjoy this? Because she did enjoy it. Even as the four of us stood and thought about the crime in front of us, only one of us had a sparkle in our eye. Remy was the only one who felt more alive, somehow more human, when faced with such horrid death. I was still thinking about what made her tick as she broke the silence.