The narrow, suburban street on which the Hatchers lived was quiet at 3:30 in the afternoon. Jackson looked left and right as they proceeded down it and saw no one. He was grateful for that. As much as he personally disliked Hatcher, he wasn’t anxious to contribute to a public humiliation of the man.
The pleasant solitude of the street changed, however, as they approached Hatcher’s address. A local ambulance was parked in the driveway.
“What’s that about?” Kloss wondered aloud.
The two police cars came to a halt at the curb and everyone exited the vehicles. They stood in a group and surveyed the scene. There was no sign of anyone. Then the front door opened and a woman came out, accompanied by two EMTs dressed in white. Kloss led the police contingent to them.
“Mrs. Hatcher?” he asked.
She seemed startled by his words. “Yes?” she said.
“I’m Detective Kloss, ma’am. Is someone ill here?”
“My husband. He’s…”
“We tried to reason with him,” one of the EMTs said, “but he won’t listen.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Kloss asked.
“Stroke, heart attack,” the second EMT replied. “He needs to get to a hospital.”
“Where is he?” the IA officer asked.
“He’s in the back of the house,” Mae responded. It was obvious she’d been crying. “I called nine-one-one when he started acting funny. He got a call from his friend, Wally—they work together—and after that his face looked sort of strange and he had trouble breathing. I pleaded with him but he won’t listen. He can be so stubborn.”
“He’s back there alone?” Kloss asked.
“Yes. He…”
Kloss cocked his head. “He what?”
“He has his gun.”
The IA cop took a fast look at the property. “”You can get to the back around both ends of the house?” he asked.
“Yes. Why are you all here?”
“We just have to ask your husband a few questions, that’s all,” IA replied.
“Is that why Chief Carter called?” she asked.
Her question was ignored as the IA instructed two of the detectives to approach the rear of the house from one direction, while the others came at it from the other.
“Let me talk to him,” Mary Hall said.
“He’s armed,” Kloss said.
“Let me try,” she said. “I’ll watch myself.”
“No,” Jackson said.
Mary headed for the side lawn that separated the house from the neighbor’s home. Jackson followed closely, with Kloss and the IA not far behind.
“He’s in a bad way,” Jackson told her. “He’s liable to do anything.”
They reached the corner of the house and paused. “Hatch?” Mary called. “It’s Mary Hall. Feel like company?”
There was no response.
Her second call also went unanswered.
She took a few steps forward, which allowed her to peer around the house and into the backyard. “Hi, Hatch,” she said, further separating herself from the others.
Hatcher was seated in a green metal outdoor chair with a colorful yellow-and-blue cushion. Jackson moved closer so he, too, could see. The veteran cop wore khaki knee-length shorts on this warm day, a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt open to the navel, exposing his sizable gut, and sandals. But it wasn’t his clothing that captured their attention. The left side of his face had slid down slightly, like heated paraffin. His left eye was rendered larger than usual, and the corner of his lips had parted into a crooked smile. And he held his department-issued Glock automatic.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said in a raspy voice. “Little Miss Sunshine. Your Oreo-cookie friend with you?”
Jackson stood up to Hatcher. “Yeah, I’m here, Hatch. You look like you could use some help.”
“No, I don’t need any help, especially from a punk like you.”
Jackson let it pass and said, “Hatch, your wife’s out front with the EMTs. They want to get you to a hospital. That’s what’s important, to get you well.”
“You think I buy that?” Hatcher snarled, shifting in the chair and groaning, his free hand going to his forehead.
“Your wife’s worried,” Mary said. “She wants you to get help.”
Jackson noticed that a neighbor now stood in his yard watching what transpired.
“What do you say, Hatch?” Jackson said, taking a few tentative steps toward Hatcher.
Hatcher raised the Glock and pointed it at Jackson. “You come any closer, punk, and you’re dead meat.” His words were slurred; drool came from the sagging corner of his mouth.
Jackson raised his hands in mock defense, and backed away. “Okay,” he said. “Take it easy. Nobody’s here to hurt you. We just want you to get medical help and—”
“And take away everything I’ve worked for,” Hatcher said. He waved the Glock in a circle, slumped back, and again pressed fingertips to his forehead and temple. Jackson thought he might be able to move on the hulking detective, but Hatch quickly straightened in the chair and raised the weapon again, this time to his mouth.
“That’s no answer, Hatch,” Mary said, unable to keep the panic from her voice. “Don’t do it!”
Kloss and the IA stood behind Jackson and Hall, sharing in their helplessness. They watched as Hatcher, the Glock still pressed against his mouth, pulled himself up to full height in the chair. Then he went into a spasm, his right hand, which held the gun, going into gyrations, his finger involuntarily pulling on the trigger, one shot after the other, nine in all, sprayed over the yard. Jackson and the others ducked as one of the bullets passed over them. The neighbor threw himself on the ground. As Hatcher went into a tremor, the Glock flew from his hand and landed on the stone patio with a metallic thud.
The EMTs, who’d been just out of Hatcher’s sight, rushed around the corner of the house and immediately went to work on him. He struggled against them. “He’s like a damn bull,” an EMT said as he and his partner tried to restrain the big detective. Jackson and the IA went to their aid, and between them they managed to contain him and deliver sedation through a well-placed shot in his arm.
He was still now, his chest heaving, his mouth more fully open.
“Where are you taking him?” Kloss asked an EMT. He was given the name of the nearest hospital.
“We’ll have people assigned to his room,” the IA said.
Hatcher was loaded into the back of the ambulance. A distraught Mae Hatcher stood and watched.
“Hopefully he’ll be okay,” Jackson said, putting his arm around the woman. “If you’d like, we’ll drive you to the hospital.”
Which they did.
• • •
Detective Walter Hatcher died that night in the hospital. He never regained consciousness. An autopsy was ordered.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Walt Hatcher’s obituary was short. It referred to him as a decorated veteran police officer who was within months of retirement. He left behind a wife, Mae, three children, and four grandchildren. The cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage.
Within the MPD, the account of his passing, enhanced by rampant speculation, was less succinct. Everyone knew that a team had been dispatched to bring Hatcher in for questioning about a number of charges, including the shaking down of local businesses, extortion, suspicion of murder—and more important, that Jackson and Hall had been behind it.
They were assigned to temporary desk duty until a suitable permanent assignment could be determined. They weren’t blind to the reason for being chained to a desk and kept out of the mainstream. A strong current of distrust swept through detectives loyal to Hatcher. Hall and Jackson were shunned by those cops, some of whom made it clear to Chief Carter that they would not welcome having either detective assigned to work with them.
Three days after Hatcher’s death, Jackson found the word “traitor” scrawled on his locker door. Later that day, Mary’s locker was defaced with the crude dr
awing of a rat. They complained to Carter about it and were told to let some time pass. “They’ll get over it,” he counseled. “Keep your noses clean and things will straighten themselves out.”
But while this pervasive, oppressive atmosphere pressed down on two young detectives within the walls of MPD, the fallout from Hatcher’s death reached far beyond Indiana Avenue.
• • •
The first news of the existence of salacious tapes was floated by a lower-level member of President Burton Pyle’s campaign staff, who confided in a political blogger on the campaign’s payroll. He reported it on his daily blog, careful to issue the disclaimer that he personally had not seen the videotapes but had received word of them from “a trusted source within Washington political circles.” He characterized the tapes—“as described to him”—as an X-rated encounter between former governor of Maryland and presidential hopeful Robert Colgate, and a paid escort, Rosalie Curzon, and the blog ended, almost as a throwaway, that she’d been the victim of a brutal murder.
This was, of course, picked up by other bloggers; within 24 hours, a single mushroom had exploded into a field of them, prompting Colgate to summon Rollins to a late-night meeting at a room in the Willard Hotel.
“I can’t believe this,” Colgate said after they’d shucked their suit jackets, loosened their ties, and poured bourbon over ice. Only a few table and floor lamps cast light over the suite’s expansive living room, rendered darker by the mood. Rollins noted that Colgate looked as though he hadn’t slept much, which was true. While presidents were known to age while in office, Colgate was visibly growing older before even attaining the post. His normally flushed complexion was wan, the cheeks sagging where once his boyish expression had masked his age.
Rollins had dreaded the meeting but couldn’t see a way out of it. Since the kidnapping and the events surrounding it, he’d wanted nothing more than to bow out of the campaign, tidy up affairs at his office, and take the trip to Hawaii he’d promised Sue and Samantha, maybe never to come back. But that was out of the question. He was in D.C., and as long as he was, he knew he had to play the game.
“Believe it or not, Bob, it’s obviously out there.”
“Is it? Just because some damn blogger says it is doesn’t make it so.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t think we have any other choice than to treat it as reality.”
“Reality?”
“In the sense that if such tapes do exist, they’ll start showing up on YouTube and the Drudge Report and every other sleazy video site.”
“God, how could this be happening?”
Rollins exhaled and tasted his drink. He’d read Hatcher’s obit and realized its ramifications. The detective had been the one person who could clear Colgate of any charges that he’d killed the call girl, and the man had taken that knowledge to his grave. Although Jackson had speculated that Hatcher had been Rosalie Curzon’s killer, that’s all it was, speculation. No one had publicly accused Hatcher, nor, Rollins was sure, were posthumous charges likely to be filed.
But any conjecture about the murder was almost irrelevant from a political perspective. That would float in the air for a while and then fade into the ether. Even someone as crass as Burton Pyle and his people wouldn’t level that charge. What was crucially, perhaps terminally, damaging to Colgate’s chances for the White House was that he’d paid for sexual services and was captured in the act on videotape. All the talk about Colgate’s extramarital affairs would rise above gossip and be there in garish living color for a nation to witness.
“So what you’re saying,” Colgate muttered, “is that you believe I got caught on tape with some hooker.”
Rollins shrugged but realized it was an inadequate response. “I have to assume that it’s true,” he managed. “Is it true?”
“All right. It’s true. But who the hell would ever think that a hooker was taping her johns? It only happened once, Jerry, and I’m taking a big chance in confiding that in you.”
“Have you spoken with Deborah about it?” Rollins asked.
“No, and she’s the real problem. I can ride out the political fallout, but I don’t know how to finesse this with her.”
Maybe you can’t ride it out politically, Rollins thought. As for finessing it with Deborah…
“I need answers, Jerry,” Colgate continued.
You needed to control your libido, was what Rollins was thinking. You should have thought of your wife when you made your date with the hooker.
“This is outrageous,” Colgate said. “People can go around making tapes of other people in private moments and turn them into freak shows on somebody’s website?”
“Unfortunately, Bob, that’s today’s reality, and there’s nothing to be gained by denying it’s happening.”
“You met with Ziegler.”
Rollins’s stomach dropped. Did Colgate suspect something?
“Right,” he said. “We couldn’t reach an agreement on the Miami debate.”
“But maybe you can cut a deal with him. Hell, if those tapes go public, there’s no question who’s behind it. How did Pyle’s people get hold of them? That’s what I’d like to know. What did this hooker do, sell them to Pyle and his thugs?” His eyes suddenly brightened. “Maybe Pyle’s people learned about the tapes and killed her to get their hands on them. Can we counter this thing by floating that possibility? We’ve got journalists we control.”
“That’s not a good idea, Bob. Frankly, I don’t see any recourse but to wait until the tapes show up—and they may not—and face the storm head-on.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Colgate asked.
“I didn’t put you in this position, Bob,” Rollins said, realizing how easy it was to lie to one of his best friends, a man who depended on him in a most profound way. “By the way, Samantha seems to have weathered her ordeal nicely, no nightmares, no evidence of having been traumatized.”
“That’s good. Glad to hear it.”
“Just thought you’d want to know.”
Silence permeated the room.
“Any ideas about how to smooth this over with Deb?”
“No. And don’t ask me to speak with her, Bob.” Rollins got up to leave. “Let’s see how this plays out,” he said, heading for the door. “You’ve weathered some blows before. I’m sure you’ll weather this one.”
He left Colgate sitting in a chair near the window, his chin drawn down, his eyes staring straight ahead as though Rollins, as though no one, had been there. No matter how many loyal supporters were on hand to buoy his spirits, no matter what advice the collective genius of his close advisors could offer, the crowds at campaign stops, the media attention to his policies and visions for the nation’s future, he was at this hour a man alone.
Rollins didn’t envy him, any more than he envied himself.
THIRTY-NINE
The rumor that the tapes existed was bad news enough for the Colgate campaign, but it paled in comparison to the public exhibition.
That happened two days later, on a popular video site. Only an abbreviated portion of one tape was shown. The male and female bodies were electronically blurred, although there was no doubt that they were naked. Colgate’s face was also partially obscured, except for a few brief seconds during which no one would mistake him for someone else.
He was on the first day of a two-day campaign swing through the South when the tape first aired. He immediately canceled his few remaining appearances and flew back to Washington on a private jet, going directly to a suite in the Willard. Facing Deborah at that moment was too painful to contemplate. He knew, of course, that he was only postponing the inevitable, but felt he needed time to collect his thoughts in preparation for what was certain to be a nasty confrontation.
He gathered around him some of his top staff, but they had little to do. He secluded himself in the suite’s bedroom for most of his first day back, leaving them to chatter with one another in hushed tones about what this meant t
o his candidacy—and by extension, their jobs.
He summoned the courage to call Deborah late in the afternoon but was told by their housekeeper of many years that Mrs. Colgate wasn’t taking any calls.
“This is her husband, damn it!” Colgate exploded. “I’m not the press.”
He was put on hold until the housekeeper returned with the message, “I am so sorry, sir, but Mrs. Colgate—”
He slammed down the phone.
He had better luck reaching Rollins on the attorney’s cell phone.
“Have you seen it?” Colgate asked.
“No, but I’m told it’s on some website.”
“I’m at the Willard with the staff. I need you here, Jerry.”
Rollins’s hesitancy wasn’t lost on Colgate. “I’ll be free by six,” he finally said. “I’ll come then.”
Rollins arrived on time. Food was sent up to the suite, and the staff engaged in a spirited discussion of how to best combat the release of the tape. Rollins took part in the brainstorming but his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to be somewhere else far away from this blaze that he’d ignited.
He’d worked hard since the day he turned over the tapes to Ziegler, to excuse his actions to himself. What was a man to do? His daughter’s life was at stake. That trumped anything and everything. There were times when he considered admitting to Colgate that he’d been behind the release of the tapes to Pyle’s people. After all, he’d bought those tapes from the rogue cop named Hatcher to protect Colgate and his candidacy, and had taken comfort in the fact that his actions were well meaning. He’d intended to destroy them from the moment they came into his possession but had never gotten around to it. Or had he wanted, at some psychological level, to keep them? Shades of Nixon and the eighteen-minute tape. Once Samantha had disappeared, though, all bets were off. How could any thinking, caring person question his decision?
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 29