got to do with my brother? He don’t look like he can go pee-pee by hisself.”
She laughed. “Well, they sent him to guard big old you, now, didn’t they?”
“My brother’s name is Joshua. Joshua Harms. He goes by Josh. I can tell you his phone number if you got yourself a pencil. Just call him and tell him where I am. Gets kind of lonely in here. He don’t live all that far away. Who knows, he might come on over and see me.”
“It does get lonely here,” she said a little wistfully. She looked down at him, at his tall, strong body, all covered with tubes and patches. And the shackles — they held her attention.
Rufus noted her staring. Chains on a man usually had that effect on people, he had found.
“What’d you do anyway? To be in prison for.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Just like to know. My name’s Rufus. Rufus Harms.”
“I knew that. It’s on your chart.”
“Well, I ain’t got no chart to look up your name.”
She hesitated for a moment, looked around at the door and then back at him. “My name’s Cassandra,” she said.
“Real pretty name.” His eyes passed over her figure. “It fits you.”
“Thank you. So you’re not going to tell me what you did?”
“Why you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“I killed somebody. A long time ago.”
“Why’d you do it? Were they trying to hurt you?”
“Didn’t do nothing to me.”
“So why’d you do it?”
“Didn’t know what I was doing. Was out of my mind.”
“Is that right?” She drew back a little farther as he said this. “Isn’t that what they all say?”
“Just happens to be the truth with me. You gonna call my brother?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you the number. If you don’t, you don’t. If you do, then I thank you very much.”
She looked at him curiously. “You don’t act like a murderer.”
“You ought to be careful about that. It’s the sweet-talking ones end up hurting you. I seen enough of that kind.”
“So I shouldn’t trust you, then?”
His eyes seized on hers. “You got to make up your own mind on that.”
She considered this for a moment. “So what’s your brother’s number?”
She took down the telephone number, slipped it in her pocket and turned to leave.
“Hey, Ms. Cassandra?” She turned back around. “You’re right. I ain’t no killer. You come back and talk to me some more … if you want to, that is.” He managed a weak smile and rattled the shackles. “I ain’t going nowhere.”
She eyed him from across the room and he thought he saw a smile flicker across her mouth. Then she turned and went out the door. Rufus craned his neck to see if she spoke to the guard, but she walked right past him. Rufus lay back and stared at the ceiling. He inhaled deeply, letting the remnants of her scent soak into him. A few moments later a smile spread across his face. As did, finally, the tears.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was an unusual gathering of all of the clerks and the justices. Marshal of the Court Richard Perkins and Supreme Court Police Chief Leo Dellasandro were there too, looking stonily around the table in the large room. Elizabeth Knight’s eyes were moist and she dabbed continually at them with a handkerchief.
As Sara Evans looked at the grim-faced justices, her eyes stopped on Thomas Murphy. Murphy was short and flabby, with white hair and tufted eyebrows. His face held cheekbones the shape of almonds. He still favored three-piece suits and wore large, showy cuff links. His dress, however, did not attract Sara’s attention; rather it was his expression of complete mourning. She quickly finished checking the occupants of the room: Michael Fiske was not there. She felt the blood rush to her head. When Harold Ramsey rose from the head of the table, his deep voice was oddly subdued; she could not really hear him that well, but she knew exactly what he was saying, as though reading his lips.
“This is terrible, terrible news. In fact, I can’t remember anything like it.” Ramsey surveyed the room, his hands making fists in his anxiety, his tall frame shaking.
He took a heavy breath. “Michael Fiske is dead.” The justices obviously already knew. All the clerks, however, collectively missed a breath.
Ramsey started to say something else but then stopped. He motioned to Leo Dellasandro, who nodded and stepped forward while the chief justice collapsed into his chair.
Dellasandro was about five-ten, face wide, with flat cheeks and a pug nose, and a layer of fat over a muscular physique. He had an olive complexion, with wiry black and gray hair. Arising from his pores was the smell of cigar. He wore his uniform with a proud air, his thick fingers tucked inside the gun belt. The other man in uniform standing immediately behind him was Ron Klaus, his second-in-command. Klaus was trim and professional in appearance, the darting activity of his blue eyes suggesting a nimble mind. He and Dellasandro were the watchdogs of this place. They seemed to move about in tandem. Most people who worked at the Court could not think of one man without the other.
“The details are sketchy right now, but apparently Michael was the victim of a robbery. He was found in his car in an alley in Southeast near the Anacostia River. His family has been notified, and one of them is coming up to officially identify the body. However, there’s no question that it’s Michael.” He looked down for a moment.“When they learned he was employed here, the police brought over a photograph.”
One nervous-looking clerk raised his hand. “Are they sure it was a robbery? It didn’t have to do with his working here?”
Sara looked over at him angrily. Not the question you really wanted to hear five seconds after learning someone you worked with, cared about, was dead. But then she supposed violent death did that to people: made them instinctively fear for their own lives.
Dellasandro put up his big calming hands. “We have heard nothing that would make us believe that his death had anything whatsoever to do with the Court. However, out of an abundance of caution, we are increasing security around here, and should anyone notice anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, please contact either myself or Mr. Klaus. We’ll make available to you any future details about this situation at the appropriate time.” He looked over at Ramsey, who had his head bowed in his hands and was making no move to get up. Dellasandro stood there awkwardly until Elizabeth Knight rose.
“I know this has been a terrible shock to all of us. Michael was one of the most popular people ever to work here. His loss touches us all, especially those who had become close to him.” She paused and looked at Sara for a moment. “If any of you wishes to talk about anything, please feel free to do so with your justice. Or you can stop by and see me. I’m not sure how we can continue to function, but the work of the Court must go on, despite this horrible, horrible …” Knight stopped again and gripped the table to stop herself from collapsing to the floor. Dellasandro quickly took her arm, but she motioned him away.
Knight rallied herself enough to call an end to the meeting and the room quickly cleared. Except for Sara Evans. She sat there, numb, staring at the spot where Knight had stood. The tears freely streamed down her face. Michael was dead. He had taken an appeal, acted very strangely for over a week, and now he was dead. Murdered. A robbery, they said. She didn’t believe the answer was that simple. But right now it didn’t matter. All that mattered was she had lost someone very close to her. Someone who, under different circumstances perhaps, she might have gladly spent her life with. She put her head down on the table as the sobs burst from her.
From the doorway, Elizabeth Knight watched her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A little over three hours after Billy Hawkins had announced his brother’s death, John Fiske was walking through the hallways of the D.C. morgue, a white-coated intake specialist leading t
he way. Fiske had had to show identification and prove to the man that he was really Michael Fiske’s brother. He had been prepared for that and had brought pictures of the two together. He had tried to reach his father before leaving town, but there had been no answer. Fiske had driven by the house, but no one had been home. He left a note for his dad, including no details. He had to be sure it was his brother, and the only way to be certain was where he was headed.
Fiske was surprised when they entered an office, and even more puzzled when the morgue attendant pulled a Polaroid from a file and held it out to him.
“I’m not identifying a photo. I want to see the body.”
“That’s not the procedure we have here, sir. We’re in the process of installing a video system so that IDs can be made via remote television, but it’s not functional yet. Until then, it’s done with a Polaroid.”
“Not this time.”
The man tapped the photo against his palm as though trying to arouse Fiske’s curiosity in it. “Most people would much prefer to do it with a photograph. This is very unusual.”
“I’m not ‘most people,’ and having a brother murdered is unusual. At least it is for me.”
The attendant picked up the phone and conveyed instructions to prepare the body for viewing. Then he opened the door to his office, motioning Fiske to follow him. After a short walk, they entered a small room that carried a medicinal smell several times stronger than that in a hospital. In the center of the room stood a gurney. From under the white sheet rose a number of edges representing the head, nose, shoulders, knees and feet of the body. As Fiske headed toward the gurney, he clutched at the same irrational hope that everyone in his position would leap for: that the person under the sheet was not his brother, that his family was still reasonably intact.
As the attendant gripped the edge of the sheet, Fiske slid one hand around the metal side of the gurney and squeezed tightly. As the sheet rose upward, exposing the head and upper torso of the deceased, Fiske closed his eyes, looked upward and mouthed a silent prayer. He took a deep breath, held it, opened his eyes and then looked down. Before he knew it, he was nodding.
He tried to look away but couldn’t. Even a stranger could have looked at the slope of the forehead, the arrangement of the eyes and mouth, the flow of the chin, and concluded that the two men held some close familial bond. “That’s my brother.”
The sheet was replaced and the attendant gave Fiske the ID card to sign. “Other than the items the police have retained, we’ll release his personal effects to you.” The attendant glanced at the gurney. “We’ve had a busy week, and we’re backed up with bodies, but we should have autopsy results fairly soon. This one looks pretty simple anyway.”
Anger flared on Fiske’s face but then quickly faded. The man was not paid to be tactful. “Did they find the bullet that killed him?”
“Only the autopsy can determine cause of death.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” The attendant looked startled. “I saw the exit wound on the left side of his head. Did they find it?”
“No. At least not yet.”
“I heard it was a robbery,” said Fiske. The attendant nodded. “He was found in his car?”
“Right, wallet gone. We had to trace his identity through his license plate.”
“So if a robbery, why didn’t they take the car? Carjacking’s the hot thing right now. Beat the victim’s ATM password out of him or her, kill them, take the car and hit a few banks, load up on money, ditch the car and go on to the next one. Why not with this one?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Who’s handling the case?”
“It happened in D.C. Must be D.C. Homicide Division.”
“My brother was a federal employee. United States Supreme Court. Maybe the FBI will be involved too.”
“Again, I don’t know anything about that.”
“I’d like the name of the detective at D.C. Homicide.”
The attendant didn’t answer, but jotted some notes down in the file, perhaps hoping that if he remained quiet Fiske would just go away.
“I’d really like that name, please,” Fiske said, edging a step closer.
The attendant finally sighed, pulled a business card out of the file and handed it to Fiske. “Buford Chandler. He’ll probably want to talk to you anyway. He’s a good guy. Prob-ably’ll catch the person who did this.”
Fiske looked briefly at the card before putting it in his coat pocket. He settled a clear-eyed gaze on the attendant. “Oh, we’re going to get whoever did this.” The odd tone in his voice made the attendant look up from his file. “Now I’d like some time alone with my brother.”
The attendant glanced over at the gurney. “Sure, I’ll be outside. Just let me know when you’re done.”
After the man left, Fiske pulled a chair next to the gurney and sat down. He had not shed a tear since learning of his brother’s death. He told himself it was because positive ID had not been made yet, but now it had and still no tears. On the drive up, he had caught himself counting out-of-state license plates, a game the brothers had played growing up. A game Mike Fiske had usually won.
He lifted the side of the sheet and took one of his brother’s hands. It was cold, but the fingers were supple. He squeezed them gently. Fiske looked down at the concrete floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few minutes later only two tears had collected on the concrete. He quickly looked up and a gush of air came out of his lungs. It felt forced, all of it, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be here.
As a cop, he had sat with the parents of too many drunken kids who had wrapped themselves around a tree or telephone pole. He had consoled them, expressed empathy, even held them. He had truly believed that he had approached, even touched the depths of their despair. He often wondered what it would feel like when it happened to him. He plainly knew this was not it.
He forced himself to think about his parents. How exactly would he tell his father that his golden child was dead? And his mother? At least there was an easy answer to that question: He couldn’t and shouldn’t tell her.
Raised Catholic, but not a religious man, Fiske chose to speak with his brother instead of God. He pressed his brother’s hand against his chest and talked to him of things he was sorry for, of how much he loved him, how much he wanted him not to be dead, in case his brother’s spirit was lingering behind, waiting for this communication, this quiet rupture of guilt and remorse from his older brother. Then Fiske fell silent, his eyes closed again. He could hear each solid drum of his heart, a sound that was somehow dwarfed by the stillness of the body next to his.
The attendant poked his head in. “Mr. Fiske, we need to take your brother on down. It’s been half an hour.”
Fiske rose and passed the attendant without a word. His brother’s body was going to a terrifying place, where strangers would forage through his remains for clues as to who had killed him. As they wheeled the gurney away, Fiske walked back out into the sunlight and left his little brother behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
You’re sure you covered your tracks?”
Rayfield nodded into the phone. “Every record of his being here has been expunged. I’ve already transferred all the personnel who saw Fiske to other facilities. Even if someone figures out somehow that he came here, there won’t be anyone left to tell them anything.”
“And no one saw you dump the body?”
“Vic drove his car back. I followed him. We picked a good place. The police will think it was a robbery. Nobody saw us. And even if they did, it’s not the sort of place where people are real cooperative with the law.”
“Nothing left in the car?”
“We took his wallet to further the robbery angle. His briefcase too. A map. There wasn’t anything else. Of course we filled the radiator back up with fluid.”
“And Harms?”
“He’s still in the hospital. Looks like he’s going to make it.”
“Damn. Just
our luck.”
“Don’t sweat it. When he comes back here, we’ll deal with him. Weak heart and all, you never know what might happen to you.”
“Don’t wait too long. You can’t hit him in the hospital?”
“Too dangerous. Too many people around.”
“And you’ve got him well guarded?”
The Simple Truth Page 13