Corruption of Justice

by Brenda English

  “Any theories on why?”

  “Not yet. Obviously, we’ll be going back through the paperwork on the calls he’s responded to in the last few weeks and any court cases where he’s had to testify. Or it could have been over something personal, so we’ll be talking to as many friends and family as we can find. Or it could have been some kind of random thing that had nothing to do with him in particular. We just don’t know yet.” Lansing reached up with a hand to massage the back of his neck, no doubt thinking of the hundreds of hours of work it might take to find the person who shot Magruder. If they found him.

  “Okay,” I told him, “thanks.” I turned to walk over to where Bill now was waiting for me at the door. Just as I reached him, Lansing spoke again.

  “Thanks for telling us what you know. And we may need to talk to you again about it.”

  “That’s fine,” I answered. “You know where to find me.”

  “Yeah,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “usually in our way.”

  I turned back without comment, to follow Bill through the door, and gave Lansing the finger behind my back. I thought I heard him laughing as Bill and I went down the hall to the elevators.

  * * * *

  The clot of reporters was somewhat smaller than earlier when Bill and I got back outside to the parking lot. I stayed just long enough to hear him give them Dan Magruder’s name, age, and rank and to tell them that there was no other new information at this time. One of the reporters also asked pointedly what I was doing inside the building. Before Bill could answer, I did.

  “I had to pee,” I said, taking a page from the Grist Mill park drunk. I wasn’t about to let the other reporters know about my proximity to Magruder just before he was killed. They could read about it in the News tomorrow morning. At my crude response, Bill got the message and closed his mouth. I headed for my car, where I could sit in privacy and jot down a few notes in order to organize my thoughts before I called Rob Perry.

  When I dialed his extension, Rob answered his phone by barking his last name into the receiver. I gave him the brief version of what I had and the news I had given the police that had delayed my calling in.

  “So what does this do to your series?” Rob wanted to know.

  “Makes it more interesting, I hope. I think we should move the Magruder installment up to Sunday’s paper as the first piece. I’ll come in tomorrow and get it finished. We can do a straightforward news piece on the shooting for tomorrow’s paper, and maybe we can mention the upcoming feature in that story or do a sidebar promo on it.”

  “Yeah,” Rob said, thinking with me. “Okay, I like that idea. What approach are you taking with the feature on him?”

  “I was doing something on the potential dangers cops have to walk into regularly, even in situations that look relatively benign. Apparently walking through his own front door fell into that category, too.”

  “Good,” Rob said. “You ready to give me your story for deadline?”

  Using my brief notes, I composed the story in my head as Rob typed it into the computer system on the other end. Even with the quotes from Buddy, it wasn’t terribly long; the police didn’t know much.

  When I finished, Rob hung up, and I started the Bug to make the drive back across Alexandria to my apartment out on the city’s West End. But it wasn’t Magruder’s murder, as unnerving as that was, that occupied my thoughts on the way there. It was what neither Lansing nor I had mentioned in front of Bill Russell: our plans to go sailing again on Sunday, this time with Lansing’s six-year-old son, David. David, whom I hadn’t met. David who certainly added one more facet to the complexities of any sort of personal relationship with Noah Lansing.

  Saturday

  Three

  Saturday, I spent the day with Dan Magruder again. And knowing that he was now dead, that he had been murdered, didn’t make writing the feature on him any easier. When it finally was done, I still had to write a sidebar follow-up on his death, in order to provide the context for the feature piece and, I hoped, increase the story’s irony and poignancy in the readers’ minds.

  A call to Bill Russell as soon as I got to the newsroom that morning had provided me with biographical information on Magruder and a promise from Bill that he would ask Dan’s parents, who had arrived in Alexandria in the middle of the night, to call me. Bill also updated me on the investigation of the shooting: little progress at this early stage.

  When I hung up from my conversation with Bill, I put in a call to Magruder’s station commander, James Mannon, who spoke highly of Magruder’s performance as an officer and his loyalty to the county police force.

  Just before noon, I was polishing quotes from a couple of other Mount Vernon Station officers I had called, when Magruder’s parents responded to my message.

  “Miss McPhee?” an uncertain male voice asked, when I answered the ringing phone on my desk.

  “Yes? This is Sutton McPhee.”

  “This is Art Magruder, Dan’s father. Bill Russell gave us the message that you wanted to talk to us about Dan.”

  “Oh,” I responded, momentarily caught off guard because I had been so involved in the writing. “Mr. Magruder, thank you very much for calling me, and first, let me tell you how sorry I am about Dan.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” his father replied. “Actually,” he went on, his voice still shaky and soft, “one of the reasons I agreed to call you was because Bill told us you spent the day with Dan yesterday.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Magruder. I did. I was working on a feature story about Dan as part of a series on the Fairfax County Police. It’s going to run in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

  “How was Dan when you were with him?”

  So I told Dan Magruder’s grieving father about his son’s last hours, about the people he helped, about his common sense and his professionalism.

  “Dan was a good police officer, Mr. Magruder,” I assured him. “He had the right instincts for the job, and he did it well.”

  “It was all he ever wanted to do,” the elder Magruder responded, and I listened as he went on to talk about his son. When he finally paused, I asked the question I needed to ask.

  “Mr. Magruder, I’m sure Bill Russell told you they don’t know yet who killed your son or why. But do you know of anyone who would have had a reason to do such a thing, someone from his past or someone he might have mentioned he was having a problem with?”

  For a moment, there was just silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Mr. Magruder?”

  “That’s a question you should ask the police department,” Magruder said, his voice cracking but not hiding the anger that dwelt there underneath the grief. “It was the other officers that he had to watch his back around!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t understand what you mean. Was Dan being threatened by someone he worked with?”

  The father paused again. “I shouldn’t say any more,” he finally answered cryptically. “Dan would be upset that I brought it up. Just forget I said anything.”

  Of course, I couldn’t forget it, since he obviously knew something I didn’t, but when I continued to press him, he refused to elaborate on what he had meant.

  “I’m sorry, Miss McPhee,” he said finally, “but I can’t talk any longer. The other reason I agreed to call you was because Bill Russell told us about what happened to your sister. He said you would know how hard this is for us, so you’ll understand if I have to hang up now.”

  And he did just that.

  At least, I thought, I did manage to get a few usable quotes from him. And I appreciated Bill’s ability to persuade the father to call me in the first place. But damn it, I was going to have to get Bill to stop mentioning Cara’s murder to other people. It wasn’t being reminded of her death that bothered me, although I still had days when the pain of missing her ambushed me all over again. It was the idea of using her death to get sources to feel more comfortable talking to me, to get the information I wanted. It
felt sleazy. I didn’t do it myself, and I didn’t like anyone else doing it, either, no matter how helpful Bill had thought he was being.

  I ruminated on the meaning of Mr. Magruder’s comment about the police department for the next couple of hours, while I wrote the sidebar on Dan Magruder’s death and then went back over it and the feature article a couple of more times, polishing and editing my copy. When I was satisfied, I paged Noah Lansing to make a final check on the investigation. I assumed he probably had been working on it all day, regardless of the fact that it was Saturday, because it was a cop who had been gunned down.

  “You’re not backing out of tomorrow, are you?” Lansing asked as soon as I answered the phone.

  “No, of course not. I’m double-checking on the Magruder killing before turning in my story for Sunday’s paper.”

  “No change there,” Lansing said.

  If you want him so badly, why do you call him by his last name? How intimate is that?

  About as intimate as his calling me McPhee, I thought back. It just happens.

  It’s going to sound strange in bed. Oh Lansing, Lansing!

  Would you please stop? I shouted mentally. And thanks a lot! Now I’ll never get that ridiculous image out of my head.

  “You still there?” It was Lansing, wondering where I had gone.

  “Yes, I’m here. Just making some notes.” I got a firm grip on my brain. “I need you to interpret something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Someone made the comment to me earlier today that I should ask the police department who would have a reason to kill Dan Magruder. You want to tell me what that meant?”

  It was Lansing’s turn for silence. I decided I must have struck a nerve.

  “Who did that come from?” he asked finally.

  “You know I can’t tell you that. So, what does it mean?”

  “I suppose it could mean anything.”

  He wasn’t getting off that easily.

  “But it doesn’t mean just anything. It means something specific, doesn’t it?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Okay, touché. Now we’re even. So, what can you tell me?”

  “That we haven’t ruled out any possibilities at this point. We are continuing to investigate all avenues.”

  “You’ve been taking lessons from Bill Russell, haven’t you?”

  Lansing laughed.

  “Well, he does know how to handle you,” he pointed out.

  “You have anything else to tell me at this point? Anything useful?”

  “Yes, we’ll be expecting you at the boat at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Maybe I’ll be there.”

  “David’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

  I’ll just bet he is, I thought as I hung up. What six-year-old wouldn’t want to meet the woman trying to horn in on his time with his only parent?

  * * * *

  As always, when I finally got home that night, carrying my take-out Chinese dinner, my apartment was just as I had left it.

  Husbandless, childless, petless. In other words, lifeless, huh?

  Why do I need them, I thought sarcastically as I closed the door behind me and looked around at the place I usually think of as my refuge, as long as I have you?

  Just doing my job of pointing out what needs pointing out.

  Ignoring my tormentor, I walked into my kitchen to the right, to put my dinner down on the counter, and then went out the other side to follow the hall back to my bedroom, the larger of the two in the apartment, where I put away my purse and changed into more comfortable clothes.

  I live on the fourteenth floor of a sixteen-story high-rise building that sits two blocks east of I-395 and Duke Street, in the western portion of Alexandria, one of several such high-rises in an area known as Condo Canyon. The area certainly doesn’t have the ambience of the other end of the city, historic Old Town Alexandria, established in 1749, but it’s hard to beat for its convenience to major traffic arteries and for the incredible view of the area I have from the walls of three-quarter-length windows that stretch the full length of my living room, dining area, and guest bedroom. I always relish the times that I can sit out on my balcony, a glass of iced tea in one hand and book in the other, soaking up the sun and enjoying the breeze that is almost constant at that height.

  When I came back from the bedroom in denim shorts and a man’s white shirt, the daylight saving sun, still hot and relatively high in the western sky at six P.M., drew me out the balcony door once more. I decided to enjoy the view for a few minutes and sat down on the bright, floral cushion of one of the two white plastic chairs flanking my glass-topped patio table. Instead of seeing what I was looking at, however, my mind quickly went back to thinking about the comment Dan Magruder’s father had made. I knew he had something particular in mind when he said it, something involving someone in the Fairfax County Police Department, something that he believed might be connected to his son’s death. I turned the possibilities over in my mind, frustrated that I hadn’t been able to get anything more concrete out of Noah Lansing.

  And, of course, from that thought, it wasn’t very far to thinking about Noah Lansing in general, and his little boy in particular. A little boy I would meet tomorrow.

  Eventually, I realized that the sun had dropped below the horizon and that I was enveloped in a rapidly shadowing dusk. And that my dinner was now cold as a stone.

  This isn’t good, I told myself as I got up from the chair in irritation and went back inside to put the egg rolls and sesame chicken into the microwave. I have to keep my wits about me and my mind on my work. I can’t let my brain keep drifting off into my personal fantasies about Noah Lansing.

  Oh Lansing, Lansing!

  Don’t be an idiot, I thought, and I wasn’t talking to my voice.

  Sunday

  Four

  I was terrified. I had faced loaded guns before, held by people determined to kill me, but nothing had frozen me to the spot like this. I was standing on one of the docks at the Fort Washington Marina, and staring back at me was a six-year-old version of Noah Lansing. The black hair. The dark blue eyes. Most especially, the serious expression. Which left me wondering what the mind behind those eyes was thinking, what opinions were being formed of me. As I said, like his father.

  David Lansing and I contemplated each other across the few feet of space that separated us as Noah introduced us. I swallowed hard and found my tongue.

  “Hello, David,” I said brilliantly, not knowing whether I should kneel down to become his height or whether he would find that condescending. I bent my knees into a stooped posture that was halfway between the two, then realized how stupid I must look and stood up straight again.

  “Hello,” he replied simply and held out a hand for me to shake. Which I did. We dropped our hands to our respective sides, and more silence ensued as we took each other’s measure. I was afraid mine was coming up noticeably short on whatever yardstick this child was using.

  You wimp! Are you really this intimidated by a little kid?

  This is no little kid, I thought in reply. This is a child who doesn’t even remember his mother and who probably isn’t going to take kindly to some woman with designs on the father who raised him. Those eyes look at least a hundred years old.

  And they did. The body might be just over three feet tall, wearing little navy shorts and a T-shirt with Wallace and Gromit on the front, but there was no childish naïveté in the eyes.

  “So, are you two ready to go out?” Lansing Senior asked cheerfully, stepping up to put an arm around each of us.

  We both answered affirmatively, with me saying a silent prayer of thanks for his putting an end to the inspection. We walked out onto the finger pier that ran between each of the boats tied up at the marina, and Lansing stepped across to the deck of Second Wind, his navy-hulled, thirty-foot sailboat, whose diesel engine already was warming up. He watched eagle-eyed as David took a giant step
of his own across the space between pier and deck, and then Lansing held out a hand to help me make my passage across the watery gap, a passage that still was awkward even after three trips on the boat.

  Though Lansing had begun to teach me the rudiments of sailing a boat on our last two trips, this time I sat down in the cockpit, content to stay out of the way as he and his son skillfully freed the dock lines that held Second Wind to the wooden pilings and maneuvered her away from the pier and out into Piscataway Creek, on our way out to the boating channel in the Potomac River.

  I was glad not to have to make conversation yet as I watched the two of them work together, steering the boat with the stainless steel wheel, making last-minute checks of sails and rigging, gauging the direction and strength of the wind in anticipation of what sort of sailing they could expect. When we reached the large green buoy that marked the entrance to the river channel, Lansing killed the engine, turned the wheel over to David to hold the boat steady, and surefootedly moved up onto the top deck to remove the bungee cords that had been holding the mounds of white sails safely on the deck.

  Back in the cockpit again, Lansing raised the mainsail, and we were off, moving southeast down the river, pushed along by the current and the midmorning wind. As we sailed, he and David took turns at the wheel. When we tacked, I watched in impressed silence as David handled the lines from the sail, in turn loosening them from and looping them around the metal winches that locked into place to hold the lines secure, his father reaching over to provide only minor assistance. The child was completely comfortable, moving around the boat with ease, responding promptly to his father’s instructions. Which was more than could be said for me.