Praise for Brenda English’s Corruption of Faith, starring reporter Sutton McPhee…
“A mystery that provides more than a whodunit. A glimpse at the underbelly of human motivation and the lengths some people will go to achieve their nefarious desires. Solid, at times humorous, often touching.”
—Rendezvous
“Assured writing and deft characterization combine in a debut for fans of Jan Burke, Karen Kijewski, and other writers of strong yet compassionate, self-aware women… you grow really fond of Sutton and her sensible yet sensitive attitude.”
—The Poisoned Pen
“Corruption of Faith is a well written, interesting who-done-it, starring a bright new amateur sleuth in her debut novel… Fans of female amateur sleuths will be looking forward to Brenda English’s next entry in what appears to be a promising series.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Corruption of Faith is an extraordinarily good debut… English does an excellent job of… creating a well-rounded and interesting sleuth in Sutton. I’ll certainly look forward to the next.”
—MLB News
Corruption of Justice
Copyright © 1999 by Brenda English
All rights reserved.
Published as an ebook in 2013 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. Published as a paperback by Berkley Prime Crime in 1999.
Cover design by Jessica Reed.
ISBN 978-1-625670-03-8
To Clay Lowe,
who told me a long time ago that
the stories were there,
and to the memory of
Don Meiklejohn.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As usual, I must especially thank Officer Kevin Brown, formerly of the Fairfax County Police Department’s Crime Prevention Section, for his invaluable help in making this manuscript as accurate as possible. But don’t blame Kevin if I managed to screw it up, anyway.
I also must thank Amy Bertsch, public information specialist for the Alexandria Police Department; the folks at the Mount Vernon District police substation; Jeanie Hanna, former chief assistant county attorney for Hillsborough County, Florida; John O’Connor, my State Farm Insurance agent (Go Dawgs!); Peggy Meiklejohn and her vacation group; my next-door neighbors, Ron and Frances Deel; my agent and adviser, Joshua Bilmes, of JABberwocky Literary Agency; Gail Fortune, my editor at Berkley, an excellent editor and a pleasure to work with; Laura Ann Gilman, a Penguin Putnam editor, who first believed in Sutton’s stories; and last, but never least, my husband Carey and my daughter Meagan, who love and support me, give me advice, and put up with my moods and silences when I can’t drag my brain back out of a manuscript.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Later
Later Still
About the Author
Also by Brenda English
Friday
One
“Please stop apologizing,” I said to the good-looking, late-twenty-something cop sitting next to me in the Fairfax County Police cruiser. His name was Dan Magruder. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, fit, several years my junior, and somewhat mortified at how boring the last seven hours had been.
“Believe me,” I went on, trying to reassure him, “after two years of covering you guys, I know it’s usually not this quiet.” Magruder didn’t look comforted.
“I just don’t want anyone to think this is some kind of cakewalk job, where all we do is sit around in air-conditioned cars all day, wasting taxpayers’ money,” he explained.
Especially his boss or the county supervisors.
That was my little voice chiming in, my own personal little Greek chorus that has been pretty vocal most of my life, regularly puncturing my ego’s balloon with its pointed observations about my behavior and occasionally throwing in a few about the people around me as well. I have always told myself that, of course, it’s just another part of my own brain talking to me. I prefer not to consider any alternative explanations, in spite of the fact that the voice always seems to have a mind and personality (apparently male) of its own. Whatever it is, I put a mental sock in it for the moment.
“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly to Magruder. “Sutton McPhee doesn’t do boring stories. By the time I’m done writing this one, my readers will be glad to have you out here, whether it’s a busy day or a slow one. And besides, everyone knows what August in Washington is like.”
August in Washington meant that things were pretty slow all around because Congress was out of session, its members back home in their districts or off on taxpayer-supported “fact-finding” trips to various places around the world, and practically everyone else had left town for the mountains or the beaches. They all were grabbing their last chance at a summer vacation before the approaching September days summoned the legislators and their staffs back to their Capitol Hill offices and recalled the parents of the region’s zillions of schoolchildren.
My comment seemed to cheer Magruder up a little, but I had my own unspoken doubts about what, exactly, I was going to say about the unusually quiet Friday shift we had just spent together while Magruder patrolled the district surrounding the Mount Vernon Police Station in Fairfax County’s southeast section. I’m one of the police reporters for the Washington News, a major metropolitan daily in the nation’s capital; my beat is the Fairfax County Police Department in northern Virginia. My plan was for Magruder and the events on his shift to provide the focus for the final installment in a three-part series I was writing about the police on suburban streets, using the Fairfax County Police as my examples. The first of the three stories was scheduled to run in Sunday’s paper, just two days from now, and I still had this final one to write. And not much to write about. I make it a habit to ride with the patrol cops around the county several times a year, so I knew Magruder’s shift wasn’t the norm. But that didn’t solve my problem of what to put in the article.
Magruder and I were sitting in the front seat of his cruiser, engine running and the AC working overtime in the sticky August heat. Outside the car, the hot air shimmered above the empty and even hotter parking lot of Mount Vernon High School, which was named after The Father of Our Country’s former plantation only a mile away. Magruder was taking the last hour of his shift to fill out the reams of paperwork that attended even the minor calls to which we had responded.
First, there had been the trailer park resident complaining about the neighbor who regularly took shortcuts through the flower beds in her tiny front yard. Then, we had been pulled away from our Tex-Mex lunches at the Bar-J on Route 1 to search for an elderly physician with Alzheimer’s who had wandered away from his Potomac River home in the Riverside subdivision and away from the care of his equally elderly wife. Not long after that, we took a call that turned out to be two thirteen-year-olds who had nothing to do and who were relieving their boredom by using a .38 revolver to shoot rats behind their Route 1 public housing project.
I set my subconscious to stewing over the problem of how to write the Magruder piece, how to turn the day’s less-than-exciting dross into gold, while my conscious brain turned to the morning’s paper. I had only glanced at it earlier in the day in my haste to get to the Mount Vernon Station and meet Magruder for the beginning of his 7 A.M. patrol shift. But for all their importance, the stories I found in the paper were pretty boring, too.
The front-page lead was about a new outbreak of violence in the Middle East. In other words, just a no
rmal day there.
Below that was a feature piece, which jumped to an inside page, on Henry Bryant, a federal appeals court judge from Tallahassee who had just arrived in town to prepare for his upcoming Supreme Court nomination hearings. Everyone expected him to sail through the process, given his long-standing reputation as a fair, articulate, and learned jurist. I already knew about Bryant and his reputation; I had spent five years as a reporter in Tallahassee before coming to Washington four years ago. I had covered education at the time, however, so Bryant was not someone with whom I had had any contact.
Below the front-page fold was a story on northern Virginia officials calling, for the umpteenth time, for a more rapid closing of Lorton Prison. Lorton was the equivalent of a state prison system for the District, but it had been built in southern Fairfax County, in stages, beginning with the maximum-security facility that opened in the 1920s. Given the regular escapes by prisoners into neighboring subdivisions, as well as the frequent revelations of corruption by prison employees and the not-infrequent outbreaks of inmate violence, the place was a chronic thorn in the side of county and state officials. So Congress had approved a multiyear plan to phase the prison out of existence and to relocate its inmates to federal prisons around the country. To the latest round of complaints about foot dragging on the phase-out, District officials were responding by making excuses or by completely ignoring the complaints, the District’s long-standing policy for handling all problems.
Uninspired, I closed the paper and leaned my head against the window, bringing the dilemma of how to make Magruder’s shift interesting back to the front of my brain. I was thinking that perhaps I should approach the story from the angle of the potential that today’s shift had carried for tragedy, even though nothing tragic had developed. All the calls had ended peacefully.
We had found the doctor a couple of blocks from his house and had returned him to his wife, with a strong suggestion that she consider either getting some live-in help to care for him or putting him in a facility equipped to deal with his problems. The kids with the gun were in a lot of trouble, but they had surrendered the gun and themselves with surprisingly little resistance when two other police cruisers joined us as we arrived at the scene of their target practice. The trailer park spat had concluded with Magruder strongly suggesting that the woman put up a fence and emphatically admonishing the trespassing neighbor not to make Magruder have to come back.
Each of those situations might have ended very differently, however, without the presence of a police officer—and, more importantly, one who knew what he was doing.
While Fairfax County as a whole is one of the wealthiest jurisdictions in the country, the demographics of its Mount Vernon district cover the spectrum, from the largest population of public housing residents and homeless in the county all the way up to multimillion-dollar mansions sprawling along the shoulders of the Potomac River south of Alexandria. And everything in between. There is crushing poverty and oblivious ostentation. Teenage gangs and an area orchestra. Large immigrant populations, both legal and illegal. Sixteen-year-olds driving brand new BMWs and more disadvantaged children than the Head Start programs can handle. The setting often makes for angry resentment in one part of the population and fear and loathing in the other. Combine those ingredients with the easy availability of guns, drugs, and alcohol, and it’s a recipe for frequent problems.
I felt it was valid to ask just how volatile the mix could get without cops like Magruder patrolling the streets. Even as young as he was, Magruder seemed to be able to judge each situation independently, not to act in some sort of reflexive, knee-jerk manner that could end up escalating the problem. Good judgment, empathy, and common sense went a long way in not making such situations any worse than they needed to be.
As I pondered the day’s calls and struggled to stay awake in the intense afternoon sunlight pouring against my face through the car window, Magruder suddenly shifted to attention in the seat next to me. The dispatcher on his radio was calling out our unit’s designation. I jumped as if caught napping, which I almost had been.
With efficient, practiced movements, Magruder spoke into the shoulder mike connected to the radio attached to his belt while also pressing buttons on the on-board computer that took up much of the space between us. I listened to his conversation with the dispatcher and read the words on the computer screen. A Mrs. Ferry on Buckner Road had called in to complain that a man was exposing himself to her two young children in Grist Mill Park. Grist Mill Park, I knew, was a small community park about a mile and a half away, along Mount Vernon Memorial Highway. I guessed that Buckner was one of the neighborhood streets that surrounded it.
Magruder slapped his paperwork down between our seats in disgust and put the cruiser in drive.
“Well, this ought to be a fitting end to this shift,” he said as we rolled up to the stop sign at the parking lot’s entrance to Old Mount Vernon Highway and then turned left onto the street, heading south. “Given the number of hookers on Route 1, you’d think these guys could find somebody besides little kids to show themselves to, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but what would be the kick in that? Hookers don’t usually run off screaming.”
Magruder shook his head from side to side in an ironic statement of disgusted agreement.
Within a minute, he turned the car to the right onto Mount Vernon Memorial Highway. Another mile down the road, I saw the wooded eastern end of Grist Mill Park on our right, followed quickly by the red roofs and shining white sides of a barn and silo, all that remained of the farm that once had covered the surrounding acres. We passed the park’s entrance, where only a blue Volvo sedan sat in the parking lot, and then we angled off to the right onto Old Mill Road at the park’s southwest corner. One block down Old Mill, Magruder turned right onto a street that the green-and-white sign said was Buckner. The Ferry house was in the second block of Buckner, and Magruder made a right turn into the driveway of the small 1950s-era brick house from which the call to the central emergency number had come.
In the front yard, under its canopy of massive, forty-five-year-old trees, stood a woman in her mid-thirties, her straight, blunt-cut, shoulder-length blond hair moving around her head as she glanced down in concern at each of the two wide-eyed children who stood within the circle of her arms. The little girl and boy, who looked to be about seven and five, had eyes only for the big navy-and-pewter police cruiser with its neon-bright lettering and insignia and the intimidating rack of red and blue lights on top. As Magruder and I each climbed out of the car, the children’s eyes widened even more at the sight of his uniform and the gun hanging from his belt, and in unison they moved closer into the protective shadow of their mother.
“Mrs. Ferry?” Magruder asked as he walked up to the trio.
“The man is still out there,” Mrs. Ferry said, nodding her head in acknowledgment of her name and lifting her left hand from her daughter’s shoulders to gesture toward the backyard and the park that bordered it. “He’s just sitting out there at the playground.”
“Okay,” Magruder told her, “you folks just hang on here while I go take a look, and I’ll be back in a few minutes to talk to you about what happened.”
I moved to follow him out to the park, but he halted me with a gesture.
“There’s another car on its way, but you might want to stay here until they arrive,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “Or at least until I know what I’ve got out there.”
“Okay,” I responded, not particularly interested in obeying but understanding that he didn’t need the added concern for my safety until he had a handle on how much danger the man in the park might pose. Reluctantly, I slowed my pace but continued to trail him until I got to the edge of the unfenced backyard where the park ended. At least, I thought, I should be able to watch from here without worrying Magruder that I might be in danger.
Mrs. Ferry and her children soon joined me, their curiosity getting the better of their
apprehension. I introduced myself and explained why I was with Magruder.
“Oh, please say you won’t put our names in the paper about this,” Mrs. Ferry pleaded, concerned now with the possible public embarrassment my story might pose.
“There’s no need to,” I reassured her. “We certainly wouldn’t use the children’s names, and I don’t see any reason to say anything more than that the incident was in Grist Mill Park and was reported by a resident of the neighborhood.”
She thanked me, very relieved.
In silence, we all watched from the backyard’s edge as Magruder, his right hand on the pistol in his now-unfastened holster, crossed to the middle of the park, to where a man sat in the dirt, leaning against one of the posts supporting the massive jumble of bright orange and yellow playground equipment that dominated the park’s landscape.
Even from where we stood, Magruder’s wariness was evident in his body language as he approached the man. But the man remained where he was on the ground, apparently not moving a muscle or even noticing the cop walking up to him. From a few feet away, Magruder spoke to him, his voice carrying to us through the thick, still air, though the words weren’t intelligible. We couldn’t hear whether the man on the ground answered Magruder or not, but in another moment, Magruder reached down and easily pushed the man into a facedown, prone position on the ground, then pulled each of the man’s arms up behind him, and slipped on a pair of handcuffs. Magruder had to struggle to pull the suspect up off the ground and into a standing position, not because the man resisted but because he apparently was limp, dead weight.
The man stood uncertainly where Magruder had placed him as Magruder patted him down, and I heard Mrs. Ferry’s sigh of relief at the same time as my own when we realized that the offender clearly wasn’t going to give Magruder any problems. Mrs. Ferry tightened her grip on her children in expectation of Magruder walking his prisoner toward us and the cruiser. Instead of heading back in our direction, however, Magruder took the man by the arm and started across the park’s southern end toward the parking lot. In puzzlement, I watched as the two made their way to the solitary car still parked there.
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