Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  The medical examiner had arrived and completed his on-scene examination. Ambulance workers carefully placed Müller’s shrouded body on a gurney and slid him into the vehicle. Satisfied that everyone’s names, addresses, and phone numbers had been recorded, the detectives got in their car and drove back to headquarters at Judiciary Square on Indiana Avenue NW.

  “Wasn’t robbery,” one said as they pulled into their parking space. “He had his wallet, watch, cell phone, ID, cash in his pocket.”

  “Another gay maybe, jealous of this guy Lalo?”

  “Maybe this Lalo was the jealous one. What’s that saying about a woman scorned?”

  “Lalo’s a man.”

  “Same idea. The victim worked for the German embassy. State will get involved.”

  “I suppose so. They’ll make a big deal out of it. Just looks to me like somebody who doesn’t like gays got rid of one.”

  “Probably right. Let’s check in and get out before we catch another. The natives are restless tonight.”

  Because the victim worked for a foreign embassy, regulations dictated that the Washington MPD notify the State Department’s DSS, headquartered in Arlington, Virginia. The call to that agency was made an hour after the detectives had returned to their second-floor squad room and filed their preliminary report with their superior.

  “You got statements from everybody?” the duty captain asked.

  “We got what we could. The club was busy, lots of people. We’ve got everyone’s contact info.”

  “Good. What’s your instinct on this?”

  “Wasn’t robbery. No one at the club said they saw an altercation between the victim and other customers. Somebody said he was drunk when he left. Maybe the shooter saw him stagger out of the place, went to mug him, something spooked him, so he shot and ran.”

  The captain shrugged and sighed. “Looks more to me like a bias crime. The victim is gay, gets drunk at Marigold’s, leaves, and some guy with a weapon decides to play out his homophobia.”

  “Problems with Marigold’s before?”

  “A few citizens complaining about the noise, cigarette butts, a couple of public indecency reports.”

  “We want to talk to this guy at the Spanish embassy, Eduardo Reyes, nicknamed Lalo. He and the victim were intimately involved.”

  “Might be better for DSS to question him first. You know how it is to get anyone at embassies to talk to us.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “We’ll bring it up at the meeting tomorrow. Anything else?”

  “State is notifying the German embassy?”

  “As we speak.”

  A call came in about a stabbing in Adams Morgan.

  “I’ll ring in Public Affairs about the Müller shooting. They’ll handle any press interest that comes out of it. You guys get out of here. Busy night. This heat makes everybody crazy.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Brixton and Donna Salvos were assigned to interview Eduardo “Lalo” Reyes.

  “Why a public place?” Brixton asked her as they drove to where Reyes had arranged to meet Salvos.

  “He’s gun-shy about doing it at the embassy, you know, being gay and all.”

  “What about where he lives?”

  “He balked at that too. What difference does it make, Robert?”

  “I don’t care. Just curious.”

  They pulled up in front of the Spanish bar on H Street, where Reyes was already sitting at an outdoor table.

  Brixton pegged Reyes at no older than twenty-five. He looked nervous; a desire to flee was written all over his soft, malleable face. Large, limpid eyes and black curls dangling over his forehead testified to his youth. He decided that “pretty” was the best way to describe him. Sal Mineo could have played him in a movie. Whatever happened to Sal Mineo? Brixton thought as they introduced themselves and joined him at the table.

  The first words out of Reyes’s mouth were, “I hate this.” He was obviously having trouble keeping his voice from breaking.

  “I know this is difficult,” Salvos said, “but we have to ask you some questions because of what happened to Peter Müller.”

  “I understand,” he said, his words displaying only a trace of his Spanish heritage. Salvos’s vaunted language skills—she spoke half a dozen languages—would be wasted on this interview. Brixton had always wanted to speak a second language but had never made the effort to learn one, like most Americans. Everybody else in the world seemed to be bilingual.

  They all looked up at a waiter who’d appeared. “Would you like coffee?” he asked.

  “Love it,” Brixton said.

  Salvos and Reyes declined.

  Brixton’s knee ached. He’d taken a bullet in it during his last year on the Savannah PD when he and a partner went to pick up an armed parole violator. His partner killed the fugitive, but Brixton endured six months of rehab and was assigned desk duty until his retirement. He never knew when it would act up.

  “The Washington police have already spoken with you,” Salvos said.

  “Yes. They said things that made me angry.”

  “What things?”

  “They make it sound like I was the one who shot Peter. That is a lie. I loved Peter.”

  “They’re just doing their job,” Brixton said, remembering how many people he’d interrogated during his career as a cop and how being accusatory effectively rattled them, sometimes resulting in unintended admissions.

  The coffee delivered, Brixton took a sip and listened as Salvos said to Reyes, “It’s our understanding that you and Mr. Müller were close.”

  Reyes nodded, his eyes focused on the table.

  “You weren’t with him the night he was killed.”

  “No. I had to work late. We had a press release to get out.”

  “When had you last seen him?”

  “The night before. We had dinner and then we—”

  “Mr. Reyes, we know that you and Mr. Müller were lovers,” Salvos said. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We just have to know what you can tell us that will help bring his killer to justice.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Reyes said. “It’s just that my relationship with Peter was not something that I talk about at the embassy. Some people are—well, some do not like it.”

  I bet, Brixton thought, the macho Spanish male culture coming to the fore.

  “Did you and Mr. Müller have any problems lately, you know, an argument or a disagreement?” Salvos asked.

  He sat up straight and became animated, as thought he wanted very much to dispel that notion. “No, no, we got along just fine. No arguments ever.”

  “That’s unusual,” Brixton said, thinking of the arguments he and Flo had had over the course of their relationship. “Most lovers have a spat now and then.”

  “Sometimes,” Reyes conceded. “Just silly little things.”

  “They usually are,” Brixton said.

  “How long had you been involved with each other?” Salvos asked.

  “A few months. We met—”

  “At Marigold’s?” Brixton said. “The bar where Müller had been the night he was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know who his friends at that bar were?”

  “Of course. He was popular, well liked.” A dreamy quality came over him, accompanied by a small smile. “Peter was … he was very handsome and intelligent. Others at the bar wanted to be with him.”

  “As lovers?”

  “Yes. I was pleased that he chose me.”

  “Did he talk to you about people he worked with at the German embassy?” Brixton asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “He get along there, no problems with anybody because he was gay?”

  Reyes’s nostalgic expression turned serious as he pondered his answer. “There were a few people who made comments, nasty comments.” Lightness replaced concern on his face. “Peter taught me the German word for ‘fag.’ Schwuchtel. He said that there were som
e he worked with who called him that.”

  “Must have upset him,” Brixton offered.

  “He said that he was used to it.”

  Salvos said, “You mentioned that there were other gay men at Marigold’s who were interested in Peter as a lover. Do you think any of them could have been so jealous that they would shoot him?”

  “No. That cannot be.”

  “You own a gun, Mr. Reyes?”

  “Me? No. I have a rifle at home in Barcelona but no gun here. The police asked me that, too. I don’t think they believe me.”

  “They probably do,” Brixton said. “I do.”

  He smiled. “I am pleased to hear that.”

  “You say that you’re from Barcelona,” Brixton said.

  “That is correct,” Reyes said, “but I have lived many places—Portugal, Chile, Hawaii, England.”

  “You worked for embassies in those places?”

  “Yes. Not in all of them. I like to travel and learn new things about new places.”

  “So do I,” Salvos said.

  It became obvious that there was nothing further to be gained by continuing the questioning. As Salvos and Brixton prepared to leave, Reyes asked about plans for Müller’s funeral.

  “That’ll be up to the Washington police,” Brixton replied. “It’s a murder case, so they’ll want to keep the body until forensics is completed, the autopsy—things like that. They’ll have to work it out with the German embassy.”

  “Have his parents been notified in Germany?”

  “The embassy is handling that,” Salvos said.

  “I would like them to know how much I loved him.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t help with that,” Salvos said. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Brixton and Salvos walked to where she’d parked her car.

  “He’s not involved,” Brixton said flatly.

  “I agree,” Salvos said.

  “You talking to people at the German embassy, like whoever taunted him about being gay?”

  “Others are, from DSS. Glad you were available this morning. I always like it when two do the questioning.”

  “Had nothing better to do,” Brixton replied. “What’s next on our agenda?” he asked as they drove to Arlington.

  “We tell Mike what came out of our chat with Mr. Lalo Reyes and see where he wants us next.”

  * * *

  They met with Michael Kogan in his office above the Thai restaurant.

  “Anything come of talking to Mr. Reyes?” Kogan asked.

  “No. He didn’t kill anybody.” Brixton made a face. “You ought to tell those guys downstairs in the restaurant to put in some fans or something. Your office smells like their kitchen.”

  “I kind of like it,” Kogan said. “You ever eat downstairs?”

  “I’m not into Thai food.”

  “I am,” Salvos said. “Good Thai food.”

  “Does the joint downstairs serve good Thai food?” Brixton asked.

  “Very good,” she said.

  Kogan slid a file folder across the desk to them.

  “What’s this?”

  “Another murder, a woman who worked for the Polish embassy.”

  “What is this, open season on embassy employees?”

  Kogan shrugged.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Body was discovered in her apartment this morning. Why don’t you two get over there and see what MPD’s got. The info I have is in the folder. Name’s Dabrowski, Adelina Dabrowski. I have a call in to the embassy to get more on her.”

  * * *

  The apartment in which the murder took place was in a narrow row house not far from Brixton’s apartment. The street was clogged with MPD cars and an ambulance. Brixton and Donna approached a uniformed officer and showed him their IDs.

  “SITQUAL?” the officer read.

  “State Department. Who’s the lead detective?”

  “Morrison. He’s inside.”

  They entered the building and asked for Detective Morrison, who stood in the foyer. After introducing themselves, Donna asked what was known about the victim.

  “White female, worked for the Polish embassy, the visa and passport office in the consular section on Wyoming. Her roommate discovered the body.”

  “How’d she get it?” Brixton asked.

  “Looks like strangulation. At least that’s the preliminary from the medical examiner. He’s there now.”

  Brixton and Salvos went into the first-floor apartment—the three-story building contained three apartments, they were told—and surveyed the scene. The victim was naked when she was discovered and was now covered with a sheet. Another woman, who Brixton assumed was her roommate, sat on a love seat staring out the window. Crime scene techs were in the midst of photographing the setting and collecting evidence. The ME had concluded his on-site evaluation and was preparing to leave. Brixton stopped him. “Brixton, State Department,” he said. “She was strangled?”

  “Appears so.”

  “Any sign of sexual assault?”

  “I’ll know more about that later. Excuse me.”

  Detective Morrison entered the room as the ME departed.

  “What about the roommate?” Brixton asked him.

  “Came in this morning and found her.”

  “The roommate works for the embassy, too?”

  “Yeah. I’ve questioned her. Be my guest.”

  Brixton gave Donna a questioning look.

  “No, you go ahead,” she said.

  Brixton approached and waited until the roommate looked up and realized that he was waiting to speak with her. He told her who he was. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

  She shook her head and blew her nose.

  “I’m connected with the State Department,” he said. “Whenever anyone who works at a foreign embassy is killed, we get involved. You work with her?”

  “No. I mean yes, but not in her section. She was at the consular section. I work in the ambassador’s residence.” She spoke English without an accent.

  “You’re not Polish,” Brixton said.

  “No. I’m Canadian, from Toronto.”

  “And work at the Polish embassy?”

  “I’m on the ambassador’s catering staff.”

  “A cook.”

  “Wines and beverages.”

  “How long did you know the victim?”

  The question restarted her tears. Brixton waited. She pulled herself together and said, “A year, maybe a little more. We were going to be married.”

  “Oh. You’re—”

  “We were in love. As soon as we got the paperwork straightened out, we were going to be married here in Washington.”

  “That’s right,” Brixton said. “Same-sex marriages are legal in D.C.”

  The ensuing silence was awkward. Brixton broke it by saying, “You discovered her. Where had you been this morning?”

  “Working. We have an important luncheon for a visiting dignitary. I should be there, but I ran home to pick something up and—”

  She sobbed, and Brixton put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay. You know anybody who had it in for your … your…?”

  “My fiancée? No. She got along with everyone.”

  “No idea who might have come here this morning and killed her?”

  “I’ve been over this with the detective,” she said. “Please.”

  “Sure. Thanks for your time. My condolences.”

  Brixton took a final look around the apartment; it didn’t appear that an intense struggle had taken place. He cast a quick glance at the covered body and went outside, where Morrison was talking with neighbors. He sidled up to hear the conversation.

  “What did the man look like?” Morrison asked an elderly woman wearing a flowered housecoat and holding the world’s smallest dog in her arms.

  “I really didn’t get a good look at hi
s face. He was sort of … well, I suppose you could say he was medium.”

  “Medium in height, weight?”

  “Yes, that’s it. He wore a uniform.”

  Morrison noted her comments in a notebook. He saw that Brixton was standing next to him and said, “This lady saw a man enter the building this morning.”

  “You said a uniform,” Brixton said.

  “That’s right. A green uniform like … like coveralls.”

  “Was the victim expecting anyone?” Brixton asked Morrison. “A repairman?”

  Morrison answered, “They were having problems with their air-conditioning, and the victim made a call, according to her roommate. They said they’d send someone today but wouldn’t specify a time. Typical.”

  “So maybe she thought the guy who killed her was here to fix the AC,” Brixton said. As he spoke, a panel van with a sign on its side indicating it was from an air-conditioning repair shop tried to navigate the other vehicles in the street to get closer to the house.

  “He’s a little late,” Brixton muttered. “The victim and the roommate were lesbians. They were planning to get married.”

  “Yeah, the roommate told me.”

  “You think they allow same-sex marriages in Poland?” Brixton asked.

  “How the hell would I know?” was Morrison’s response.

  “Just curious,” Brixton said. “Thanks for the info.”

  Donna emerged from the house a few minutes later, and they drove back to SITQUAL’s offices in Arlington.

  “Like you said, it look like open season on embassy employees,” she quipped while checking herself in a visor mirror.

  “Maybe, he said, “but maybe it’s open season on gays and lesbians.”

  “Who just happen to work at foreign embassies,” she said.

  “Yeah, that too,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  8

  “What do you make of the two embassy murders?” Kogan asked Brixton and Salvos.

  Donna shook her head. “Coincidence,” she said. “Totally different scenarios. One is shot on the street in the middle of the night; the other is a daytime assault in her own home, probably sexual.”

  “You were at the scene, Robert. It look like a sexual assault to you?”

  “She was naked, if that counts for anything. Funny the way the room looked, though.”

  “How so?”