The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

“Shut the door!” I yell at Floyd, scrambling to my feet.

  Floyd slams and locks the door to the ally. Outside, the shooting comes to a stop and there’s only silence. Somewhere a cell phone rings. Crowley stands at the far end in the warehouse. He takes a phone from his pocket and listens for less than fifteen seconds, then switches off.

  “They’ve arrived,” Crowley says to Floyd as we approach. “Time to call in the troops.” Crowley starts to punch in a text message on his phone.

  I stop close to him. “I wouldn’t do that, Crowley.”

  “You gonna stop me?”

  “Not me. The FBI.”

  “What you talking about?”

  “The FBI’s been tapping your phones. You use that phone, the FBI will triangulate your location and be here in minutes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The lady your boys tried to kill at Fast Eddie’s was FBI and she told me.”

  Crowley tosses his phone to the floor as if it were a poisonous snake.

  “You can use my phone,” I tell Crowley. “It’s a burner. It won’t be in the FBI system.”

  “How come you’re being helpful?”

  “I want to get out of here. Same as you. And I don’t want to have to explain those dead bodies.”

  Crowley takes the phone he took from me and punches in a number. He holds the phone to his ear and listens intently. “Hello. Hello. Can you hear me?”

  He jerks the phone away from his head and stares at it in shock. I can hear a loud buzzing sound. “What just happened?” Crowley yells. “What did you do?”

  Crowley’s face is red with rage, the artery in his neck pulsing. “That was a bomb. You fucking put a bomb in my truck!” Crowley screams to Floyd. “Get Tony here! Get him now! Tell him to bring his weapon.”

  Floyd speaks to someone in the back of the Olds. The passenger door opens and a figure emerges—tall, slender, muscular, dressed in a U.S. Army enlisted man’s dress uniform—blue trousers, dark blue tunic with shoulder cords, heavy black spit-shined combat boots, white belt. He carries an M14 rifle.

  “Tony,” Crowley shouts. “Come here.”

  Tony Wilcox crosses the concrete warehouse floor toward us, his boots making sharp clicks from the metal inserts in his heels. He wears service ribbons on his chest. One of them is a Silver Star.

  Crowley points to me. “That’s the enemy. Detective Zorn, this is Tony Wilcox, a killer, trained and shaped by your Army.”

  The young man stands motionless, his eyes dead, ramrod straight, feet apart, grasping the M14, modified for a left-handed shooter.

  “Shoot him, Tony. Do your duty, soldier. Blow his head off like you did the ragheads.”

  “Yes, Sweet Daddy.” Tony shifts his weight and slowly shifts the M14 rifle into firing position.

  “Tony,” I say softly. “Sweet Daddy killed Sandy.”

  Tony’s eyes flick toward me. “What about Sandy?” he mumbles. “What did you say?”

  “Kill him!” Crowley yells. “Now!”

  “Crowley murdered Sandy. He killed your Pollywog.”

  “What’s he talking about, Sweet Daddy?” Tony’s voice is low and shaking. “You told me Sandy was okay. You said she was safe.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Crowley screams.

  “Sandy’s dead,” I repeat. “Sweet Daddy killed Polly. With his bare hands. He pushed her head under water. She struggled. She wanted to live, but Sweet Daddy wouldn’t let her.”

  “Tony, he’s lying.”

  “I found her floating in the Pool.” I keep my voice calm. Which I’m not feeling. My heart races, the adrenaline surges through me. All the muscles in my body want to move. I have to force myself not to run. If I do, I’m dead. “Tony, I found Polly. I looked into her blue eyes and she asked me for help. Listen to Polly. Sweet Daddy killed your little sister.”

  “Pay no attention.” Sweet Daddy’s almost beseeching now. He must sense he’s losing Tony.

  “Tony, remember what Sandy told you? She told you Sweet Daddy was evil. Isn’t that right, Tony? You remember. Polly warned you. That’s why Sweet Daddy killed her.”

  “Shoot him!” Crowley screams.

  “Did you hurt Sandy?” Tony looks directly at Crowley. His eyes are moist with tears. “You promised.” He’s looking at Crowley in a new way. Maybe seeing him for the first time.

  “He caught Sandy,” I say. “He dragged her to the Reflecting Pool.”

  “That wasn’t me. That was somebody else.” Crowley’s voice trembles with fear.

  “Sweet Daddy pushed Polly’s head under water. He held her head while she struggled. She was frightened. So scared. Sandy died for you.”

  Tony’s face is covered with tears. He pivots, the M14 held tightly under his left arm. “You promised me she was safe. You promised, Daddy.” Tony fires. The round hits Crowley in his chest and he’s flung back, slamming him, sprawling, to the ground.

  “Holy crap!” Floyd shouts, raising his AK47. His head explodes from the second round from Tony’s M14.

  I know what’s coming and I sprint toward Tony. I’m too late.

  Tony Wilcox lowers the M14, and, in a single, fluid motion places the muzzle under his chin and pulls the trigger.

  Behind me I hear Kenneth vomiting.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  KENNETH LEANS AGAINST the Oldsmobile’s left front wheel. “You okay?” I kneel beside him. I have five minutes.

  His face is ashen. “Those men—are they dead?”

  “I’m calling an ambulance. The medics will be here soon.”

  “I don’t need a doctor, sir.”

  No slurring in his speech. A good sign. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I have to go away for a few minutes. Will you be okay?”

  I don’t think Kenneth hears me. He’s in shock.

  I leave Kenneth, retrieve the cell phone I gave Crowley, and put it into the tote bag, along with my tools. I leave the warehouse by the back door.

  Cloud is dead. Lamont is badly wounded but is still clutching a Ruger. I don’t know what happened to the other gun he was using. I pull the Ruger from his grip and throw it to the far end of the alley. Lamont is still wearing his Rolex. I expect it will be stolen when he gets to the hospital.

  I reach into Lamont’s pocket, take out a cell phone, and call 911. “I want to report a shooting.”

  “Name?”

  “Lamont Jones.”

  “Please spell that.”

  “The shooting took place …” I give the dispatcher the address of the warehouse. “There are multiple dead and wounded. One police officer needs urgent medical attention. Send ambulances.”

  “Please stay on the line, sir.”

  I cut the connection, wipe the phone clean of my fingerprints, and go to work. I maybe have two minutes left. I sprint to the front of the building where what remains of Lamont’s van is standing, riddled with bullet holes, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. There are four bodies lying on the pavement, two motionless. One twitches and seems to be reaching for a shotgun lying a few inches from his right hand. I kick the shotgun away.

  I search the van and quickly find a black garbage bag. I dive into Cloud’s black sedan parked a few yards away. It’s dark inside and at first I find nothing except expended shell casings.

  In the distance I hear a siren, and for a second, consider abandoning my search. Then I see a black attaché case in the back, jammed behind the driver’s seat. I yank it free and hurry away just as the headlights of an approaching car appear a block away. I walk quickly, careful not to run, to my parked Jag, pop the trunk, dump in the attaché case, the plastic bag, the tote bag with my tools and slam the trunk shut.

  I walk briskly back to the warehouse in time to meet the arriving police cruiser. I hold out my police shield so it can be seen at a distance.

  The cruiser pulls up to the warehouse entrance and two uniformed officers jump out, weapons drawn. The driver is young, maybe twenty, and is very nervous. “Jesus H. Christ!�
�� he gasps, staring open-mouthed at the carnage around him.

  The second is a man I know slightly, a Sergeant West or something, from an outlying precinct.

  “There’s an officer in there,” I say, pointing into the warehouse. “I think he’s okay, but he’ll need medical attention.”

  “Any active shooters?” Sergeant West asks.

  “Neutralized,” I say. “But be careful. There are a lot of loose guns.”

  “You’re Zorn, aren’t you. You’re Marko Zorn.”

  “I was here to make an arrest, but my suspect was killed in the gunfight. I’m going back inside and look after my partner.”

  “We’ll wait until backup gets here,” Sergeant West says.

  “Good idea.” I duck back into the warehouse and sit next to Kenneth putting my arm around his shoulder. Awkwardly. “You’ll be fine.” I take my arm away. It’s making us both nervous.

  The first to enter are the SWAT teams, dressed in military gear and wearing bulletproof vests and heavy headgear. They flood the warehouse and, I expect, the entire neighborhood. I sit beside Kenneth to be sure the SWAT teams don’t shoot Kenneth in a fit of enthusiasm.

  Finally, a lieutenant questions me, examines my credentials and calls in my ID and Kenneth’s and determines neither of us is a known terrorist.

  While being interrogated by the lieutenant, other forces arrive—several ambulances, sirens blaring, pull up outside the warehouse and a team of medics descends on Kenneth. I move away to give them room. They’re followed almost immediately by Frank Townsend and a dozen uniformed officers. Frank looks at me from across the warehouse, shakes his head, perplexed, then rushes to Kenneth.

  The atmosphere in the warehouse quickly turns chaotic. Personnel from half a dozen agencies arrive, each claiming priority. Patrick Grier, from the Secret Service, stands over the body of Tony Wilcox talking to Carl Nash, our crime scene investigator.

  Carla Lowry and Arora Lovelace arrive. Carla ignores me while she speaks with the ranking FBI agent on the scene. At one point, they both look at me. Arora studies me from a distance, but we say nothing to each other. I can’t read her expression.

  Hal Marshal arrives at the warehouse, sees me, and makes a quick nod acknowledging my presence then speaks to Frank Townsend. I even see Captain Fletcher. What is he doing here? I wonder. I suppose the Department of the Interior must establish its presence.

  I stand to one side, trying not to be noticed, until Frank Townsend appears at my side.

  “What in hell happened here?”

  “You still want me to turn in my service weapon and my badge.”

  “No. But you’re still in deep shit.”

  “I found Kenneth.”

  “You fucking lost Kenneth first.” Townsend shrugs. “But Kenneth tells me you saved his life.”

  “Is that what he says?”

  “Kenneth saw the whole thing. How the shooter—how he was going to kill you and Kenneth, but you talked him down. And the shooter killed the guy in the white suit instead. Who, I’m told, is the head honcho of this terrorist group. Is that how it went down?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And now Hal Marshal tells me you were somehow involved in putting the two most dangerous criminal thugs in DC out of business.” Townsend looks disgusted. “The mayor will give another press conference, and he’ll take credit for this whole business, of course. We might even get a unit citation.” He stops, frowning, as if a terrible idea has crossed his mind. “Jesus, he’s probably going to want to give you some kind of medal. Keep your goddamned badge. I’m taking Kenneth to the hospital.”

  Matt Decker, the head of the Secret Service, comes after me. He points to Tony Wilcox, now covered with a heavy cloth. “That the shooter?”

  “That’s right,” I say

  “And that other one … the guy in the white suit … ?”

  “His name is Crowley.”

  “And he is?”

  “He created the Brotherhood of the Aryan Dawn.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “A confidential source.”

  “That’s not a satisfactory answer.”

  “That’s the only answer you’re going to get from me. You know how these things are.”

  Matt Decker shrugs. “You heard Talbot was killed last night?”

  “I heard.”

  “That pretty well confirms he was working with the terrorists.”

  “Look further. You’ll find he’s innocent.”

  Decker looks at me funny and walks quickly away.

  I think that’s it. They’re finished with me. I can leave and collect my car and what’s in the trunk and go home and get some sleep. No such luck. Hal Marshal stops me as I’m about to go, and we both survey the hell that’s been left.

  “My contacts tell me Cloud and Lamont were both planning to purchase a shipment of weapons this morning,” Hal says. “What happened to the guns?”

  “I think they got blown up. I expect ATF will be able to track down what’s left of them.”

  “Cloud and Lamont have both been collecting money for their payment.” He stops to see if I have anything to add. “The word I get is between them they collected almost two million dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah. If these men were here to buy those weapons, they would have brought the money with them, don’t you think?”

  “You would think,” I answer.

  “We’ve looked everywhere and there’s no money around. Where’s the payoff money?”

  “Search me.”

  Marshal shuffles away, not saying anything.

  I leave the warehouse and stand next to an enormous command vehicle that brought the Secret Service contingent. I take out my cigarette pack and light one. By the time I’m halfway through, Carla Lowry and Arora Lovelace come out of the warehouse. “This is a fine mess,” Carla says. We are silent. What is there to say?

  “You found your partner?” Arora asks.

  “Yes. Crowley had him.”

  “How is he?”

  “Kenneth is shaken. He’ll be fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s okay.” Arora looks as if she has something more she wants to say but is silent. Maybe because Carla Lowry is there. Maybe because there is nothing more to say.

  A pair of Bulgari sunglasses lies on the ground a few feet from where we stand. An EMS team pushes a gurney out of the warehouse toward one of the ambulances. An EMS blanket covers the body, excerpt for the combat boots—black and spit polished. They gleam in the morning sun.

  “Stop!” Carla orders, raising her hand.

  The EMS team hesitates, uncertain.

  “I want to look,” Carla says, softly.

  We all three approach the body. Carla gently lifts the blanket from the dead man’s face.

  “This is the boy who was going to change the world.”

  Arora and I both nod.

  “Poor bastard,” Carla murmurs, almost reverently. “He deserved better.” Carla gestures for the EMS team to continue. They cover Tony’s face and place him in the ambulance, slamming the rear doors.

  “Give me a cigarette,” Carla tells me.

  “I thought you quit smoking.”

  “Give me a damn cigarette!”

  She takes the cigarette pack I’m holding, removes a cigarette. “I need a light.”

  I take my lighter from my pocket, flip it open, and hold the flame out to her. She drags on her cigarette then takes the lighter. “You still have it?” she asks. “I never thought you were such a romantic.” She returns the lighter and cigarette pack to me. The touch of her hand feels nice. Like old times.

  “Agent Lovelace,” Carla speaks to Arora, “go to Headquarters. Write out an incident report on these events. I want it on my desk by the close of business today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Arora glances at me, her expression a combination of relief and regret, then ducks away, leaving Carla and me alone.
>
  “What did this terrorist outfit plan to do at Arlington National Cemetery?” Carla asks.

  “Probably try to infiltrate Tony Wilcox into the ranks of the honor guard. During the funeral ceremony he was supposed to shoot the President. Of course, Tony would have been shot to pieces by the Secret Service agents if he ever got close. I don’t know how they thought they’d manage the infiltration.”

  More bodies are placed into waiting ambulances. One of them is Cloud’s.

  “There’s nothing more for me here,” Carla says. “As far as the Bureau is concerned, this case is closed. Our primary interest was in Crowley and his Brotherhood organization and in protecting the President. The murder of Sandra Wilcox is not really our responsibility. Sandra Wilcox was murdered by Crowley to keep her quiet. End of story.”

  Carla takes another drag on her cigarette, tosses the smoldering butt onto the street, and crushes it with the toe of her shoe. “I’m told you convinced Tony Wilcox that Crowley murdered his sister Sandra and so Tony shot Crowley in revenge. I hope you realize that wasn’t the way it actually happened. Crowley had nothing to do with the murder of Sandra Wilcox.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You just made that story up,” Carla says. “About Crowley killing Sandra so that Tony Wilcox would believe Crowley was his enemy. It was all bullshit, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Bullshit.”

  “I suppose it’s bullshit I can live with,” Carla agrees. “It will be the official version for the FBI and the United States government. I’ll see that Agent Lovelace writes it up properly.” She looks at me intently. “But not you. You’re not satisfied with the official bullshit.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Be careful. You’re on dangerous ground. You know the name of the killer. Right? I’d guess you’ve known all along.” She holds up her hand, palm facing me. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  KENNETH BLAKE IS in a bright, sunny hospital room, sitting up in bed wearing one of those ridiculous gowns hospitals make you put on. Apart from that, he looks in pretty good shape. He’s had a shave, somebody has combed his hair, and he looks cheerful.

  Also in Kenneth’s room is Frank Townsend and Nat Blake, Kenneth’s father, looking more friendly than the last time I saw him. There are several bouquets of flowers and some brightly colored balloons—the kind you buy at hospital gift shops. And a large Teddy Bear. A middle-aged woman with curly gray hair and sensible shoes sits on the bed next to Kenneth.