by Otho Eskin
“You hear about what happened this morning?” Frank Townsend asks as I sit in a wooden chair across from his desk. “The playground shooting?”
Townsend, the chief of the Homicide Division, holds a large mug inscribed “World’s Greatest Detective” in bright red letters. A birthday gift, I assume, from some dutiful grandchild.
“I just came from the medical examiner’s lab,” I tell him. “I saw.”
“There were kids there. Little kids, you hear! One girl dead. Another ten-year-old girl critically wounded. She’s still in surgery. And that’s on top of several other street shootings last night. Not to mention the drug plague we’re having. This shit has got to stop!”
“Do we know who did the shooting at the playground?”
“Yes, as it happens, we do. A thug named Lamont Jones.”
The mention of the name Lamont Jones gives me a visceral jolt, but I decide not to tell Townsend I’d seen Lamont earlier this morning, presumably not long before he went on his rampage. Frank would just want to know about my encounter and I don’t want to go there.
“The gang division is working that case,” Frank says. “They tell me this Lamont was after a local dealer who works for Cloud. I think you know Cloud.”
“Why would this guy Lamont try to shoot down one of Cloud’s people. They both work for Cloud?”
“Beats me. There were several eyewitnesses. Lamont’s hard to miss what with his orange hair. The mayor’s giving a press conference this morning. He’ll make all kinds of promises to bring this gang violence to an end. All bullshit.”
Townsend takes a drink of coffee and makes a face. “I have some good news, Marko.”
My heart sinks. Townsend has called me to his office because he has something important to tell me. Never a good thing.
“I’ve found you a new partner,” Townsend says.
“I don’t want a partner.”
“You have a partner. It wasn’t easy.”
“Who is this lunatic?”
“A young officer. Recently graduated from the Police Academy. Name of Kenneth Blake. I’m sure he’ll be a great asset to the division. He’s very enthusiastic.”
“I don’t want a new partner,” I say. “Least of all one who’s enthusiastic.”
“He’s in HR right now finishing up his paperwork then he’ll look for you. Don’t scare this one too much on his first day. Teach him the trade. Mentor him. Look after him. Try to keep this one.”
I’m silent.
Townsend searches nervously among the papers on his desk. “I’ve already received a complaint about you.” He glances at his wristwatch. “And we’re barely into the workday.”
“Who’s complaining this time?” I ask.
“The Feds. Seems you offended the Department of Interior. Some undersecretary named Torrance called a few minutes ago.” Frank glances at his notes. “Overreaching your authority,” he reads from the memo. “Showing disrespect to a superior officer.”
“You want details?”
“Certainly not,” Townsend says. “I told him you’ve been severely reprimanded. Consider yourself reprimanded. Why were you out in the middle of the Mall this morning harassing federal employees anyway?”
“There was an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Somebody called 911 around six thirty and reported seeing what looked like a body in the Reflecting Pool. I got the call at home and went to the scene. We discovered the body of a young woman in the water.”
“The Reflecting Pool? Really?”
“Really.”
“Could this have been an accident? Maybe the victim was drunk or something and fell in.”
“This was no accident.”
“Could she have drowned herself ?”
“The Reflecting Pool is three feet deep. You don’t commit suicide in three feet of water.”
“You think it was murder?”
“I know it was murder.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I hesitate, picking my words carefully. I can’t tell Frank my real reason. “The victim had no ID,” I say. “No cell phone. No young woman would be out in the middle of the night without a phone.”
Townsend looks skeptical. “Maybe. She could have been robbed. Who was the victim?”
“She had no ID but I found a bracelet—one of those medical ID bracelets—near the scene. The name on the bracelet is Sandra Wilcox.”
“Who’s she?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “But my guess is Sandra Wilcox is our victim. I’ve been in touch with an organization she worked for. I’m meeting with somebody from that organization in my office in just a few minutes. I’ll learn more then.”
“Anything else?”
“I need help searching the area for the victim’s ID and phone.”
Townsend scowls.
“The murderer may have thrown these items into one of the trash containers on the Mall,” I say, patiently. “I need men to help search the containers.”
“Do you have any idea how many trash containers there are on the Mall?”
“I imagine there are a lot.”
“Hundreds. I can’t spare anybody. This seems like a routine homicide. If it’s even a homicide at all. I can assign the case to Taylor or Warren. Or some other junior officer. I’ve got more important things to deal with. The city is facing a gang war and we need all our resources on the streets. I can’t waste a senior investigator.”
“I want this case, Frank.”
“How sure are you this is murder?”
“I’m sure.” I can’t explain to Frank why I’m sure. But I know two things happened this morning that are seriously wrong. Two things that make me think this case is a lot more complicated than it looks. And I know that it will take me a long time before I will be able to get this woman’s blue eyes out of my mind.
Townsend’s obviously overwhelmed by the gang wars and drug plague going on in his city, pressured by the mayor and the politicians on one side and the violence in the streets on the other. He’ll have no patience for my fantasies.
And I certainly can’t tell him the real reason I know it was murder.
The victim told me.
CHAPTER FIVE
A WOMAN STANDS impatiently in front of my desk. I’ve just spread out a map of the National Mall—one of those tourist maps they give away to visitors showing monuments and interesting sites in the Nation’s Capital. It’s eleven sharp.
The woman is middle aged and dressed in matronly tweeds, her dress extends to her ankles and her feet are encased in sensible brown shoes. Her hair is gray and cut short. She carries a cavernous brown handbag and there is no smile on her thin lips. I take an instant dislike to her. “Jessica Kirkland,” she announces. “I’m here to see Detective Zorn. I have an appointment.”
I remove my reading glasses. I’m vain about wearing glasses when I’m in the presence of a woman. Even a middle-aged woman I don’t like. I hold out my hand and we shake. Given her age, this old-fashioned courtesy seems called for.
“Marko Zorn,” I say.
The chair next to my desk is filled with unread police department memos. I requisition one of Sergeant Foster’s chairs, place it next to my desk, and the lady takes a seat. Primly.
“Your police identification, please,” she says. Very firmly. It’s not a question.
I pass her my shield and ID. She removes a cell phone from the subterranean regions of her handbag, photographs my shield and ID, and punches info into her cell, pursing her thin lips in concentration. She’s silent the better part of a minute, waiting for some kind of response. She frowns when she sees the response then returns my shield and ID to me without a word.
“May I see your identification, Mrs. Kirkland?”
She hesitates, annoyed, then reaches deep into the depths of her handbag and removes a laminated ID on a chain. She grudgingly passes me the ID with her photo and name, some numbers, and “United States Secret Service
” printed at the top.
“I understand from your phone message that Sandra Wilcox has passed away,” Mrs. Kirkland tells me when I return her ID.
“We found the body of a woman early this morning,” I tell her. “We believe it may be Sandra Wilcox.”
“In the Reflecting Pool.”
How the hell does she know she was found in the Reflecting Pool? “Did Miss Wilcox work for you?”
“She worked for the Secret Service,” Mrs. Kirkland replies.
This comes as a surprise. I’d assumed the dead woman was a middle management bureaucrat at the Treasury Department. This information puts this death into a completely new perspective. A complicating one.
“Did you know Miss Wilcox well?”
“I knew her.”
“Did you know she had a peanut allergy?”
Mrs. Kirkland looks disconcerted. Confused. “A peanut allergy?”
“That’s right.”
“No, I didn’t. What has this got to … ?”
Mrs. Kirkland never looks me directly in the eye. Instead she seems to focus on my pocket square.
“Would you be able to identify Miss Wilcox?” I ask.
“You mean … identify the body? Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” I say.
“What can you tell me about Sandra’s death?” she asks.
“As you seem to have already been informed, she was found in the Reflecting Pool.”
“Was she drowned?”
“What makes you think she was drowned?” I ask.
“She was in the Pool. Did she fall in?”
“We don’t know. Our investigation has just begun.”
“You’re a homicide detective. What makes you think this is a homicide?”
“We don’t think anything yet. It’s an open case.”
“I’ll need all the information you have. I must report to my superiors. You understand.” Her eyes shift to the tourist map spread out on my desk.
“What kind of job did Sandra Wilcox have in the Secret Service?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. It’s classified.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to insist you give me that information.”
She presses her lips together. She’s obviously not the chatty type.
“And,” I go on, “I will need the names of her friends and associates in the Secret Service.”
She shakes her head. “That kind of request must be made through channels,” she says defiantly.
“At least you can give me her home address.”
“I’m not sure …” she hesitates.
“You have her home address,” I insist. “Or you can get it on your little gizmo there.”
She regards me with distaste, and nevertheless retrieves her phone, punches in numbers, and gives me an address near Calvert Street in Washington, DC.
“I understand you located an identification bracelet Miss Wilcox was wearing,” Jessica Kirkland says.
How in hell does she know about the bracelet? “That’s right,” I answer.
“Please return it,” she demands.
“Sorry. No.”
Her face flushes. “It’s the property of the Secret Service. It belongs to us.”
“It’s evidence in a possible criminal investigation. The bracelet belongs to me.”
“I am also informed that you removed a device Sandra Wilcox was wearing on her wrist. Give it back.”
“No,” I say. “I’m keeping it.”
“Why on earth are you keeping it? It just a device you can buy anywhere.”
“Because it’s evidence in a possible criminal investigation.”
“What possible use is it in your investigation, Detective?”
“It will lead us to Sandra Wilcox’s murderer,” I say. “Now, unless you have any further questions, Mrs. Kirkland, let’s go take a look at the body.”
We go to the medical examiner’s viewing room and stand behind a glass partition. Laura, the young assistant, is handling identifications this morning. She rolls out the gurney and gently removes the plastic sheet from the victim’s face.
“That’s her,” Mrs. Kirkland says. “That’s Sandra Wilcox.” There is no emotion in her voice. No change of expression on her face that I can read. “Can I go now?”
“Of course.” I gesture for Laura to return the victim’s body and I escort Mrs. Kirkland to the waiting room where I have her sign the proper forms. I offer to have a police officer drive her to her office. She rejects the offer and hurries away. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t say goodbye.
CHAPTER SIX
“I’M KENNETH.”
A young man in his mid-twenties—tall, rail thin, with straw-colored hair—looks down at me, his eyebrows and eyelashes so pale as to be almost invisible. He wears a suit and tie and white shirt that look brand new and probably all came from Costco. He carries a bag with “Metropolitan Police Washington D.C. Police Academy” stenciled on it in bright white letters against a blue background. The young man smiles at me anxiously.
Kenneth—the name rings a bell, but I can’t think why. I’m sometimes bad with names. “Hello, Kenneth. What can I do for you?”
The smile fades from Kenneth’s face. The hopefulness in his eyes gives way to anxiety.
“I’m Kenneth, sir. Kenneth Blake.” He swallows. “Your new partner? Sir.”
It comes back to me with a shock—Frank Townsend told me I’ve been assigned a new partner. After half a dozen qualified candidates have sensibly rejected the job, I thought I was in the clear.
The young man standing in front of me shifts his weight from his right leg to his left leg. “Kenneth,” I say. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
“Thank you, sir.” He sits in the chair Mrs. Kirkland just vacated, carefully pulling his trouser legs up to maintain the crease. “Captain Townsend did talk to you about me?” he asks. “Didn’t he?”
“Of course. He told me all about you.”
“So there’s no problem?”
“Problem? What problem?”
“About my being your partner? He told me you are very picky about your partners.”
“Why don’t you tell me something about yourself ?”
Kenneth perks up at that. “I was born and raised in Freemont, New Jersey. It’s just south of—”
“I know where it is.”
“I went to Grover Cleveland High School. I was on the varsity baseball team.”
“Which position?”
He looks anxious for a moment. “Outfielder. I took lots of civics classes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be a policeman.”
“Why did you want to be a cop?”
“My dad was chief of police in Somerville, New Jersey. My two uncles are firemen.”
“Your dad told you not to go into police work. Is that right?”
Kenneth stares at me, mouth slightly open. “How did you know?”
“He said you wouldn’t make it as a cop. Didn’t have the chops. Something like that?”
“Has my dad been talking to you?” Kenneth’s face is flushed.
“No. Tell me more about yourself.”
“I went to Montclair State. I took pre-law. I can do shorthand.”
“Then you came to Washington to get away from your family?”
“What makes you think that?”
“And you applied for a job with the Metropolitan Police.”
“That’s right. Went to the Academy. I just finished my eighteen-month probation period. And here I am.”
“And here you are. What kind of police work have you been doing since you graduated?”
“I was in public affairs. I was assistant public spokesman. Maybe you saw me on TV.”
“Can’t say I have.”
We sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment.
“At the Academy, did they teach you about searching trash containers?”
“Tr
ash containers?”
“Never mind.”
“Okay, Detective Zorn, I know my record doesn’t sound like much. But I’m a quick learner. And I’m very enthusiastic.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I just want to learn. I want to learn from you.”
“What do you want to learn from me?”
“I want to learn how to be a great detective. Like you. Captain Townsend tells me you have the best record for solving homicide cases in the Washington police force.”
“Do you have your personnel file with you?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.” Kenneth rummages eagerly in his blue bag, removes a standard police administrative file folder, and passes it to me. I glance through it. It’s thin. My cell phone rings, and I search for it among the pile of papers and file folders on my desk and find it under the map. There is no caller ID, but I recognize the area code: 207.
“Hello,” I say, cautiously.
“Marko, come home.”
“I am home.”
“I mean your real home. There’s trouble here.”
“Damn it, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. I can’t just drop everything.”
“You may be involved in a murder investigation here.”
“Stop talking riddles.”
“The police are snooping around. They’ve been to the house twice now.”
“Who have you spoken to?”
“A man named Carpenter. Stuart Carpenter. You may remember him. He remembers you.”
“I remember Stuart. We went to high school together.”
“Well, he’s sheriff here now. And he wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“This is family. That’s more important than work.”
“I can’t get away just now.”
“They’ve found something.”
“What have they found?”
“They say they’ve found a Timex watch.”
“What kind of wristband does it have?”
“Stuart said it has an expansion bracelet.”
“I’ll catch a flight to Portland first thing in the morning,” I say. “I should be at your place by two.” I hang up the phone and study the young man sitting across from me.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “Something’s just come up and I’ve got to go out of town for a day. It’s a family emergency. You stay here and man the fort—take any reports on the case I’m working on while I’m away such as anything from the medical examiner’s office or from the crime scene investigators. If a man named Malcolm Wu calls, tell him I’ll get back to him as soon as possible.”