Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Two

  Homicide was working out of the Fourth District headquarters on Georgia Avenue. It was an ugly building put up during a period in which the city of Washington was seen as the crime capital of America, a doped up, shoot-em-up, gang infested haven for people of color who had nothing but contempt for their white masters. Or so the narrative went. During this period the people who make such decisions designed government buildings to make serious statements about the power of the folks in charge. These buildings were not designed to evoke feelings of faith in government. They were built to evoke feelings of fear. Big, ugly, functional, concrete. In future years no one would thank the powers-that-were for erecting them. The Fourth District Headquarters stood out among the early Twentieth Century buildings along Georgia Avenue for its ugliness and size. And, of course, for the police buzzing in and out at all hours.

  Homicide had been moved around from one site to another for years as police buildings were renovated or space was needed for yet another anti-crime initiative. Space at police headquarters on Indiana Avenue near the federal courthouse was always at a premium and given the politics that swirled around the crime issue, and where funding was blowing at any given moment, office space was perishable. And so Homicide was currently on the second floor at 4D, as it was known in the department.

  This place could use some paint, Dave thought, and some new furniture. The government-grade wooden desk chairs were listing to one side and the linoleum-topped desks were scratched and stained. Wanted posters were tacked to the walls along with department directives and union notices. The ceiling was water- stained and a patch of tile was missing where the ceiling met the outer wall. A window was open because the building’s heating system was unbalanced and Homicide and adjoining offices were oppressive, despite the outside cold.

  “Welcome to our little corner of paradise,” O’Neil said, motioning for Dave to take a seat next to his desk, piled high with forms, newspapers, and old paper coffee cups.

  “What a shit hole,” Dave said, wiping what appeared to be bread crumbs from the chair.

  “Maybe you could do a story about it.”

  “What can you tell me about the priests?”

  “I’m assuming you know Father Phil. He’s well known in the homeless community as a guy who likes to buck the system. He got the Archdiocese to open up the old school as a shelter during the winter months. Certain people, I won’t mention their names but you can guess, weren’t happy about that. The building is on Rhode Island Avenue downtown next door to some high priced real estate and there are those who think the Church would do better to make some money on the place than fill it up with street people. Certain Catholic higher ups and business people, if you get my drift. But you know all that.” O’Neil paused to see how Dave was reacting to what he had said. He had enough experience to be able to read people by observing how they behaved during the silences that followed an exchange of information. He wanted Dave to say something. “Did Father Phil know you were a reporter?”

  “Yeah. He and a couple of other guys there. I didn’t want to spread it around. You never know. But, yeah, he got me a spot in the shelter and agreed to do a recorded interview when I wrapped up the story.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “Like everybody else. He’s in the papers, on television, radio. He’s kind of the homeless guy’s priest. I called him and we worked it out. He was happy to get some publicity for the shelter. Not this kind, you know, but what he thought I’d report.”

  “You ever see a dead guy before?”

  “I’ve been a street reporter for a long time, Captain. So, yeah, I’ve seen dead people.”

  “So let’s play investigator. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Tell me how you think this went down.”

  “Somebody in the shelter was pissed off at Father Phil and killed him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Motive, opportunity, maybe more than that.”

  “Okay, what’s yours?”

  “You could be right. Maybe it was just some crazy guy with a knife. But why did he pick Father Phil? Why not some other homeless guy or somebody on the street? It could be a simple argument gone bad or it could be some kind of hit, a real murder and not some nutcase. And there’s the other priest. Same kind of stabbing. Maybe even the same knife.” He again studied Dave. “Did you hear anything that might have predicted this? Anybody say anything bad about Father Phil or the Church? Any homeless guys make some suggestion? Anything like that?”

  “Nah. Most of them didn’t make much sense, to tell you the truth. Some of the others just grumbled about everything or wished they could get some drugs in the shelter. I didn’t hear anybody say they’d like to hurt Father Phil or anyone else. Tell me about this other priest.”

  “We’re still nailing down his ID but we think he’s a professor at Catholic University. I can’t tell you why we think that right now. You can say we’re investigating whether the stabbings were linked. We don’t have any suspects. We’re pursuing leads. You know—the standard press release stuff. PIO will put something out later today. The Archdiocese will issue a statement and maybe close the shelter. You can take that for what it’s worth.”

  “It’ll be all over the morning news. I’ll have to file something. How about a quick taped interview? Tell me what you just said. It’ll give me something I can use.”

  “Can’t do it. Taped stuff has to come from the Chief or the PIO. I’ll make you a deal. Let’s keep in touch. If you come up with something, call me. I’ll let you know what I can. You’ll be at the head of the line.”

  In other words, O’Neil was offering himself as a source in exchange for Dave’s notes. It was a devil’s deal, one that street reporters often make but hate anyway because it makes them feel like whores. “I’ll call you later today.”

  “Don’t call until after five. I need to get some paperwork out of the way and go home to get some sleep. You need a ride?”

  “Yeah. I live on Massachusetts near Seventeenth.”

  They listened to the radio on the way to Dave’s building. A reporter for the all-news station was on live, speculating that a street person had gone berserk and killed the city’s most beloved homeless advocate. He had sound-bites of homeless men stating that the killer should burn in Hell.

  Six blocks away, in a fancy hotel just off K Street, a well-suited, fit man sat on a king-sized bed and flicked open a butterfly knife with a speed that made it impossible to see his wrist move or the blade appear out of the handle. The knife had been purchased in the Philippines two years earlier. With a six-inch blade, it was unusually large, but the user found it helpful in his work. A butterfly knife has a split handle that counter-rotates around the blade and in the hands of an expert can be faster than the finest Italian switchblade. In the closed position, the handle covered the blade. The knife in the hands of this man was all steel and well oiled. The blade could cut a floating piece of paper. He could open it with either hand. The man was a priest. He used the knife in place of beads as he said his Rosary, one opening for each prayer. When he was finished, he crossed himself and put the knife into a concealed pocket in his suit jacket, removed all of his clothes, and went to sleep.