The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  “If this Malcolm person sends a report, should I hold it for you?”

  “He won’t send a report. But he may want to talk to me privately. I’ll call you while I’m away and you tell me what’s happening. Think you can handle all that?”

  “Absolutely. Sir.”

  “We’ll try and see if this arrangement—this partnership—works. For a few weeks. On one condition.”

  “Anything, sir. Anything you say.”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir.’ Once we finish here, find Sergeant Borath. He’s the old guy who needs a haircut. He’ll assign you a desk and a telephone number and locker. He’ll show you where the coffee maker is and the location of the men’s room. That should complete your training to become a homicide detective.”

  “That’s it?” Kenneth asks. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all there is to becoming a great detective.”

  “When do I begin?”

  “You already have. Did they teach you anything about murder investigations at the Academy?”

  “Not much.”

  “That’s good. Everything they teach you at the Academy is wrong.”

  Kenneth looks momentarily stricken, then recovers.

  I remove the photo of the dead woman from the investigation file and push it across the desk to Kenneth. He takes it gingerly in both hands. “Holy cow! Is she dead, sir?”

  “Her body was found this morning floating in the Reflecting Pool.”

  “You mean that pool in the middle of the National Mall?”

  I push away some loose papers from the map lying on my desk. I stab my finger onto the map. “Here’s the Reflecting Pool. She was found near the east end of the Pool. We found one of her shoes, about here.” I point to a place south of the Pool. “And a bracelet the victim was wearing about here.” I point to a place not far from the stand of elm trees.

  “Just one shoe?” Kenneth asks.

  “Just one shoe. Interesting, don’t you think? We’re still looking for the other.”

  “Was she … ?” Kenneth struggles for words. “Was she murdered?”

  “I’m treating her death as murder.”

  “Awesome,” Kenneth murmurs.

  “Another condition if you want to work with me,” I say. “Never say ‘awesome’ in my presence.”

  Kenneth nods vigorously. “What are you doing with the map?”

  “I’m trying to reconstruct the victim’s route. I want to know where she came from. As you may know, the Mall is surrounded by museums and government offices. It’s unlikely she came from a museum in the middle of the night. Most likely she came from a government office.” I point to locations on the map. “The Mint, the Department of Agriculture, the Department of Energy, Commerce, the Internal Revenue Service, the EPA, Justice, the FBI. And others.”

  “What makes you think she came from an office? She could have come from home.”

  “She was wearing working clothes. Not the kind of clothes a woman wears to a party or social event or to sit around at home.”

  “I don’t see a pattern,” Kenneth says, studying the map.

  “Neither do I. There was no identification,” I go on. “But we know her name. We also know she worked for the United States Secret Service.”

  “Wow. Is the Secret Service office on your map?” he asks.

  “No. It’s nowhere near the Mall. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  “What do we do now?” Kenneth asks.

  “We search for the killer. Go get yourself a desk and a locker, Detective.”

  “Actually, I’m not a detective, sir. I’m technically an investigator. It will be another year before I’m Detective Second Class.”

  “As long as you’re working with me, you’re a detective.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We have the victim’s home address,” I say. “She has a roommate. Let’s go visit the roommate. With any luck, we can look around her home and ask some questions.”

  “Should I bring my service weapon?” He pats the bag lying at his feet proudly.

  “Have you ever fired that weapon?” I ask.

  “No, sir. They issue our weapons on our last day at the Academy. I’ve had no occasion to use it in public affairs.”

  “We’re going to talk to the roommate of our victim. Not a hardened criminal. I don’t see any need to be armed. Do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “We need evidence gloves in case we’re able to carry out a search of the victim’s apartment. Sergeant Borath will show you where they’re stored. Bring two pairs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your service weapon in that bag?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You take that bag and put it in your locker and secure it. Understand? I don’t want you carrying your weapon.”

  “Do you ever carry your weapon, sir?”

  “Not unless I plan to shoot someone.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A ROUND, PLUMP face stares up at us through the crack in the door. “Yes?” she whispers.

  “Marko Zorn,” I say, holding out my police shield and ID close to the gap. “Metropolitan Police.” She barely looks at my ID. People rarely do. “This is my associate, Detective Blake.” Her eyes glance briefly at Kenneth, then back to me. “May we come in, ma’am?”

  She looks at us blankly through the gap.

  “We have some questions.”

  The door shuts and we hear the metal sounds as the woman releases the door chain. She opens the door and steps back. “I’m keeping the door locked,” she whispers. “You know—with Sandy and all—what happened—you know.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” I say. “Right, Kenneth?”

  “Right, sir.”

  The young woman is short, a little overweight with straight brown hair parted in the middle. She looks at us with anxious brown eyes. She wears glasses, much too large for her face. She looks a bit like an insect.

  We enter the living room of a small apartment furnished simply, with a two-seater couch and a couple of cheap side chairs from Ikea. The apartment was clearly rented furnished and decorated by some long-ago building manager in what was probably thought to be a trendy Scandinavian style but now looks dreary and a bit shabby and lacks any individuality. There is no hint who might actually live here.

  Kenneth and I sit on the couch while the young woman sits on the edge of one of the chairs. I gesture to Kenneth to take notes and he removes his police-issue notebook from his pocket. It cracks slightly when he opens it and he sets it on his knee.

  “I can’t believe this.” The young woman chokes, takes a deep breath. “How could such a terrible thing happen?”

  “Please, your name,” I say.

  “Sure. Trisha. Trisha Connelly.”

  “Short for Patricia?”

  She nods.

  “You were Sandra Wilcox’s friend?”

  She shrugs. “I was her roommate. We knew each other but weren’t really friends. You know. We didn’t hang out.”

  The young woman has a nervous habit of twisting her hair in her fingers.

  “Did you know Sandra had a peanut allergy?” I ask.

  “Sure. When I moved in, she told me. You know: Be careful what I put in the pantry when I go shopping.” Trisha makes a small, nervous laugh.

  “Did you see Sandra last night?”

  She shakes her head. “I watched the news at ten. She wasn’t here when I went to bed.”

  “Could she have come in later?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m a light sleeper. I usually hear when she gets in. I worry about intruders. You know. All this crime going on. Did you read about the terrible shootings at the school this morning?”

  “It’s smart to be careful.”

  “She always puts the chain on when she gets in,” Trisha says.

  “Was the chain secured when you got up this morning?” I ask.

  “No, it was off the hook.”

  “How long
have you known Sandra?”

  She twists her hair. “Eight months. Maybe nine now. Her former roommate got married and moved to Florida. She—that’s Sandra—she put an ad up on Craigslist. I checked it out and moved in. I never thought it would end like this.”

  “Where do you work, Miss Connelly?”

  She looks anxious. “I’m an economist. I mean, like I work for a congressional committee, you know.”

  “When was the last time you saw Sandra?”

  She chews her lower lip. “Friday, maybe. No, last Thursday.”

  “You mean she didn’t spend much time here?”

  “It’s not that. She had odd hours. She comes and goes. You know, she works for the Secret Service.” Miss Connelly stops abruptly, confused. “Is that all right to say? Is it a secret?”

  I sense Kenneth eager to intervene. Probably to say something helpful. Something encouraging. I need to put a stop to that. “It’s not a secret,” I say, quickly.

  “Sometimes she’d be gone for days at a time,” Trisha says. “You know, traveling with the President or the First Lady and all. Then back home. Like a few weeks ago she was in Thailand and she brought me back a pretty bowl. She told me she had a wonderful time there.”

  “You weren’t close?” I ask.

  “Sometimes we’d pass each other going to—you know. Maybe we’d have a breakfast coffee.”

  “Was she dating anyone?” I ask.

  Trisha does the thing with her hair. “She mentioned—at one time she was seeing someone. One of the Secret Service guys, I think. That stopped before I moved in.”

  “Do you know why it stopped?”

  She shrugs. “No. Sorry. She never talked about it. I mean, I didn’t want to pry. You know.”

  “Do you know the name of the man she was dating?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Lewis, maybe. Or Lorne? Something.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Once. He came here to pick Sandra up. It was some kind of job-related thing.”

  “What was he like?” I ask.

  “Seemed nice. He was African American, you know. Very polite. Good-looking.”

  “Would you be able to describe him?” I ask.

  She looks embarrassed. “Just that he was black … Sorry.”

  “Did Sandra have any relatives?”

  “Her parents died some time ago, I believe.”

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  She rubs her hands together nervously. “There’s a brother, I think.”

  “Does the brother live here in the area?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think so. I certainly never met him. She didn’t talk about him. There were problems, I think.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “You know. Problems.”

  “Did she have friends?”

  “Just people at work. There was somebody, a friend maybe, in North Carolina. Or maybe in South Carolina. I can never remember which is which. Sandy visited her a couple of times.”

  “You have a name of this friend?”

  “Sorry. Sandy’d talk on the phone with this friend a couple of times a month.”

  “That’s it?”

  “She did have a friend on the clerical staff at the White House, I think. Every once in a while, they went shopping together. And they had dinner together sometimes. I think.”

  “A name?” I ask.

  “Sorry.”

  Kenneth, looking up from his notepad, says: “Do you know of any reason anybody might want to harm Sandra?”

  Kenneth is anxious to be part of the questioning. He feels it’s time for him to contribute something. He wants to prove to me he’s a professional detective, not just a note taker.

  She shakes her head. “No problems.”

  “Any issues with people in the neighborhood?” Kenneth asks. “You know, barking dogs?”

  “Nothing like that. Sandy was very sweet. No one would want to harm Sandra.”

  “You’ve been a great help, Miss Connelly,” Kenneth says in a soothing voice. “I know this must be difficult for you.” He’s seen too many cop shows on TV.

  Miss Connelly shifts to the edge of her seat. She’s getting ready to stand up, to show us out. She thinks our questioning is done.

  The atmosphere up to now has been positive and friendly. Kenneth naturally assumes that means we got what we came for. And he thinks the interrogation has ended. It hasn’t started. Tricia is at ease, no longer on her guard.

  “Thank you, Miss Connelly,” Kenneth says.

  “No problem,” she says.

  “Actually, there is a problem,” I say.

  She opens her eyes wide and looks at Kenneth, as if for support. Kenneth stares at me, not understanding what’s happening.

  “When we came to the door,” I say, “you indicated you were aware that something had happened to Sandra Wilcox.”

  “I guess.”

  “How did you know we were here about Sandra?” I’m not being friendly and Tricia tenses.

  “I … I …” She does the hair thing.

  “Tell us, Miss Connelly, who came here before us?”

  “What makes you think someone was here?” Her voice is small, and she stares at the floor unhappily.

  “Who told you about Sandra?” I ask.

  She winces.

  “Did they search the apartment?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  “Who was here, Trisha?” I demand sharply.

  “The people who came,” she answers quietly.

  “And you forgot to mention this to us?” I say.

  Trisha hunches her shoulders.

  “What people?” I ask.

  She is silent.

  “How many people came?”

  “Three?”

  “What did they say happened to Sandra?”

  “They said she’d been killed during a robbery attempt.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all they told me. Sandra had gone for a walk, they said, and been attacked by muggers.”

  “And you believed them?”

  She looks stricken. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Did these people who came here say who they were?”

  “They said they were from the Department of Homeland Security.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask for identification?”

  She winces again. “They said like if I told anybody about them, I’d be in trouble. It was a question of national security, they said. I mean, I might lose my job. I can’t lose my job!” She’s close to tears. “They were very scary. Am I going to lose my job?”

  “Who did the talking?”

  “There were two men and a woman,” she says. “One of the men talked to me. The others searched the apartment.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “You know, things.”

  “What did they take?”

  “They took everything.”

  “Tell me, what did they take?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t know. What did they take?”

  “Papers. Bills. Receipts she kept in a box. Her laptop. Everything they could find.”

  “Now, Miss Connelly, I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with us.”

  “I … I …”

  “In fact, I think you’re lying to us.”

  She presses her hand to her mouth.

  “Do you know what the penalty is for lying to a police officer? That’s a serious offense. Right, Detective Blake?” I turn to Kenneth who pulls back, fearing I will demand he recite the code violations she has presumably committed. His face is ashen. He has no idea what the code says. Neither do I.

  “What were these people looking for?”

  “They were looking for the letter.”

  “Did they find the letter?”

  “They couldn’t find it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Did Sand
ra get mail?” I ask.

  “You mean like letters?”

  “I mean like any mail. Any messages?”

  “Sandra stayed connected with her friends and her office by cell phone,” Trisha answers. “I mean, like texting. We all do.”

  “So no regular mail?”

  “Mostly the mail was just, you know, bills—telephone, utilities, bank statements.”

  “And these people, the people who claimed they were from Homeland Security, they took all the mail addressed to Sandra?”

  “That’s right. They took everything they could find.”

  “So there’s no trace of who corresponded with her? No bank statements? No phone bills that would tell us who she talked to somewhere in one of the Carolinas?”

  “No, sir.” The young woman is trembling.

  “You said ‘mostly,’” I say. “Mostly the mail was bills.”

  “I guess.”

  “There was some mail that wasn’t a bill, wasn’t there, Trisha?”

  “Once,” she stammers. “A real letter did come for her once. I remember because it was unusual.”

  “In what way was it unusual?”

  “It was in a large white envelope. It had additional postage; you know. It came while Sandra was away on a trip with the President.”

  “When did the letter arrive?”

  “Just about a week ago. While she was away.”

  “What did you do with the letter?”

  “I put the envelope on the kitchen counter. That’s where I put anything that comes for Sandy when she’s away.”

  “Go on,” I say.

  “When she returned last week, Sandy found the envelope on the counter and seemed upset. I mean, that’s why I remember so clearly. She took the envelope and went to her room and shut the door.”

  “Show me the kitchen. I want to see where you put the letter.”

  Trisha Connelly leads us along a short hall into a small kitchen that looks like every other kitchen young singles have: a white refrigerator, a microwave oven, a Nespresso coffee maker, a sink, and, next to the window, a small table with two chairs.

  “I left the letter on the table there.”