The Night Gardener

by George Pelecanos

  “There’s the man I’m looking for,” said Ramone. “He’s showin them something he learned at Jhoon Rhee.”

  In the painted lane extending out from under a basketball hoop, a uniformed officer was demonstrating to a large group of recruits the proper stance and motion of a punch. His left hand came up choplike to protect his face as he threw a right, turned his hip into it, and pivoted his rear foot. The group then attempted to copy his action.

  “That was us, not too long ago,” said Rhonda.

  “They got a higher class of po-lice comin in now. You need a two-year associate’s degree to get accepted these days.”

  “That would have prevented me from getting in. And you know, they’d have pushed away a good cop.”

  “It does stop the retards from joining the force.”

  “Gus, someday you gonna learn the correct terms for this new century we’re in.”

  “Okay. The mental defectives.”

  “You see those Caucasian girls down there?” Rhonda nodded at the numerous white female recruits on the floor. “They get out on the street, most of ’em gonna wash out or land behind a desk in about two weeks.”

  “Now, why you gotta go there?”

  “You know that blond lieutenant, the girl you always see on television, that spokeswoman? She never did walk hard pavement in any of the hot wards. Made her name protecting those pale gentrifiers from the negroes loitering on the sidewalks in Shaw. The MPD just keeps promoting her ’cause that porcelain skin and blond hair look good on camera.”

  “Rhonda.”

  “I’m just sayin.”

  “My mother’s white.”

  “She’s Italian. And you know what I’m sayin is true.”

  “Let me catch this guy,” said Ramone, as the instructor disbanded the group of recruits.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Ramone took the stairwell, passing the doorway to the indoor swimming pool. As it always did when he descended these stairs, the movie in his head rewound to his first full year on the force. It was through the frame of that same open doorway that he had gotten his initial look at Regina, standing in her blue one-piece suit on the pool’s edge, looking into the water, preparing to dive. The sight of her, muscular but all woman, with shapely buttocks and nice stand-up breasts, had literally stopped him in his tracks. He was not a guy who was particularly adept at talking to the opposite sex, nor did he have the striking good looks to compensate for his lack of game, but he was not afraid, and he walked right into the pool area, introduced himself, and shook her hand. Please let her be as nice as she is beautiful, he thought, as his hand gripped her smooth fingers and palm. Her big brown eyes drooped a bit with her smile, and, swear to God, he knew.

  She wasn’t a cop for long. Six months of training, another month of riding with someone experienced, then a year as a rookie on patrol, and Regina had had enough. She said she realized the first week on the street that it wasn’t for her. That she wanted to help people in some way, not lock them up. She went back to college, got her education degree, and taught for a few years at Drew Elementary in Far Northeast. When Diego was born, she changed up again and became a full-time mother and part-time school volunteer. In his prayers at church, Ramone sometimes gave thanks for Regina’s ill-advised decision to join the MPD. Ramone knew that if he had not been walking down those stairs that day, passing by that door, and if she had not been contemplating that dive, he would not have what he had today. And to him, what he had was everything. Not that he wasn’t fully capable of fucking it up.

  The strange thing was, he hadn’t even planned on marriage and a family, but they had come to him, and it was right. All because of the path he had taken one afternoon, and a woman who had hesitated before entering a pool. Like most folks, he wasn’t always certain about the existence of a higher power, but he damn sure did believe in fate.

  Ramone crossed the gymnasium floor. He caught the eye of the instructor, John Ramirez, and waited until the last recruit had gone toward the lockers. Ramirez, with a weight-room chest and arms, gave him a weak handshake and cool eyes.

  “Johnny.”

  “Gus. Enjoying the new job?”

  “I been at it for a while now.”

  “Must be more satisfying to lock up bad guys than your fellow officers, right?”

  “It was all the same to me. If they’re wrong they’re wrong, you know what I mean?”

  It wasn’t true. Ramone had always known the import and consequence of going after cops who had abused their powers or committed minor crimes. But he wasn’t going to let a guy like Johnny Ramirez, a hothead who had gone from street cop with insecurity issues to gym teacher with a badge, beat him up about his stint at IAD. Ramone had learned how to investigate cases there, done his job with competence but not vengeance, and used the experience as a bridge to Homicide.

  “Not really,” said Ramirez. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

  Generally, Ramone had not had any trouble with his fellow officers when he’d worked Internal Affairs. Most cops did not want to be around other cops who were unclean because they tainted the straight ones by association. He had never been fish-eyed by other uniforms, had never heard the words rat squad uttered in his presence, and had never had a police move off his bar stool when Ramone stepped up to the stick. IAD was a necessary element of policing, and most cops accepted it. Ramirez was a former drinking buddy of Holiday’s, and he simply didn’t like Ramone because of what had happened to his friend.

  “Listen, I don’t want take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you’ve seen Dan Holiday lately. If you guys were still friends…”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him. Why?”

  “I’m just looking to get up with him. It’s a private matter.”

  “Oh, it’s private. He runs a limo service; maybe that helps.”

  “I heard.”

  “But I don’t have his number or anything. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find it, though.”

  “Okay, Johnny. Thanks.”

  “You want me to tell him you’re looking for him, in case we cross paths?”

  “No, don’t do that. I wanna surprise him.”

  Of course, Ramone knew that Ramirez would call Holiday straight away, which was why Ramone had sought him out. He wanted Holiday to think about it before he came up on him. It would eliminate the bullshit half of the conversation if Holiday knew.

  “See you around, Ramirez.”

  Ramone found Rhonda at the turn of the stairwell, looking at a wall covered with the framed photographs of MPD officers killed in the line of duty. She was standing before the photo of a genial young policeman she had known well when both of them were in uniform. He had been shot to death during a seemingly routine traffic stop. Rhonda’s eyes were closed, and Ramone knew that she was saying a prayer for her friend. He waited until she turned to him, unsurprised at his presence.

  “You get what you needed from Ramirez?” said Rhonda.

  “Officer Ramirez was just telling me how much he admired my work in Internal Affairs.”

  “So you’re not gonna tell me.”

  “Oh, all right. I was asking him out on a date. One bottle of pop and two straws, something like that.”

  “Okay, then. I need to get back to the office, do some background on our boy Dominique.”

  Ramone said he’d take her there.

  BECAUSE OF ITS PROXIMITY to the majority of the dropped bodies in the city, the Violent Crime Branch of the MPD was located in Southeast, but the offices of most of the other specialized units, such as Morals, Sex Assault, and Domestic Violence, were in the same facility as police headquarters, at 300 Indiana Avenue, Northwest. Ramone arrived at the building soon after leaving Rhonda in the VCB lot and picking up his Tahoe. He went straight to the offices of the Cold Case Squad.

  Unsolved homicides moved from VCB to Cold Case after three years. Some homicide police disparaged the work of cold case detectives, as most of the old murders that
got “solved” had little to do with investigative prowess or forensic science and more to do with criminals offering up unexpected information in exchange for a reduction in their sentences. These same homicide detectives who felt that the cold casers hadn’t earned their closes were conveniently forgetting that this was how many warm homicide cases got put to bed as well.

  Ramone had no such resentment. The members of the Cold Case squad were not the sexy, sunglasses-wearing hotshots with toned bodies and beautiful faces seen on TV, but rather were middle-aged men and women with paunches, families, and credit card debt, doing a job, just like those in the VCB. He had worked with some of them in other capacities through the years.

  He found Detective James Dalton at his desk. Ramone had done many favors for Dalton in the past and hoped for the same in return. Dalton was lean, with gray hair, a white dude with Chinese eyes. He had grown up in northern Montana, come to D.C. in the ’70s intending to do social work, and wound up as police. He often said that he had gone from one small town to another when he moved to Washington. “More people, same attitude.”

  “Thanks for doing this,” said Ramone.

  “File was already pulled,” said Dalton. “We’re waitin around on the ME’s report before we decide if it’s something we ought to be involved with. You weren’t the only one to notice the similarities.”

  “If you’ve been around long enough…”

  “Right. File’s over there on the desk. It’s a big one.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dumb old joke.”

  “You’re not the primary on this, are you?”

  “Garloo Wilkins,” said Ramone. “I knew the decedent. Friend of my son’s. You mind if I look it over and take some notes?”

  “Go right ahead. I’m outta here.”

  Perfect, thought Ramone.

  For the next two hours, Ramone read the extensive case files on the Palindrome Murders. Included in the official police reports were archived news reports from the Washington Post and a long historical piece from the Washington City Paper. Dalton had given him the opportunity by clocking out, so Ramone burned copies of what he thought he might need on the office Xerox, counter to policy. He put the copies in an empty brown file container that Dalton had helpfully left on the desk, and carried it under his arm from the headquarters building to his Tahoe.

  Under the wheel, he dialed Wilkins’s cell.

  “Hey, Bill, it’s Gus.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think you should call the ME and order a sex kit on the Asa Johnson autopsy.”

  “They’ll do it without my order.”

  “Call them anyway and make sure it’s done.”

  “Why?”

  “We all just want to be thorough.”

  “Right.”

  “Anything today?”

  “I spoke with the principal at Asa’s middle school. But I’m having a little trouble with the boy’s father. I wanted to go by the house and get into Asa’s room, but Terrance Johnson told me he wanted you to have a look at it first.”

  “I apologize, Bill. They’ve been knowing me for a while, is all it is. I’m going to swing by their house later and while I’m there I’ll set him straight.”

  “It’s my investigation, Gus.”

  “Absolutely. I’ve got a few more calls to make this afternoon. We can talk when I see you.”

  “All right, buddy. Take care.”

  Ramone ended the call. No reason to mention the possible connection to an old, unsolved series of homicides. He told himself that it would just cloud Garloo’s mind.

  Ramone headed uptown.

  TWENTY

  ASA JOHNSON’S MIDDLE school was in Manor Park, blocks from the Johnson house, blocks from Ramone’s. His son, Diego, had walked there when he’d still been registered, but now he walked the mile into Maryland and caught a Ride On bus to his school in Montgomery County. It seemed unnecessarily complicated to make his son go through all those moves to get to his new destination, given the closeness of the neighborhood school to their home. Of course, Ramone didn’t really mind that his son had to break a sweat to get to school. He was simply dipping his toe back in the waters of rationalization for moving Diego back into the District’s public-education system.

  Ramone thought about this, and other things, walking down the hall to the administrative office. The bell had sounded, ending the last class of the day. The kids around him, mostly black and some Hispanic, were laughing and cutting up, stowing books and retrieving bags from their lockers, preparing to bust out and head home. They moved around roaming security guards. With its wire mesh-covered windows, dim lighting, and constant police-like presence, the place had the feel of a juvie hall.

  Ramone saw kids he recognized, from both the neighborhood and Diego’s football team, and a couple of them acknowledged him with either a “Mr. Ramone” or a “Mr. Gus.” They knew he was police. Some of them did not look him in the eye because of it, but most were friendly and showed him respect.

  A few of these kids, especially those with a deficient home life, had already gone off the rails. Others were on the edge. Most would do fine.

  Ramone had nothing but respect for teachers. He was married to one and knew what they experienced, not just with unruly kids, but also with angry, unreasonable parents. There were few professions more challenging than middle school educator, but still, what these teenagers needed most was for their teachers and administrators to not give up on them. This was the most critical period of their lives.

  One thing about this school, thought Ramone, looking at the faces around him. These teachers see behavior, not race and class.

  But then, walking by the open doors, he noted the physical conditions around him: the walls in need of paint, the bathrooms without doors or working toilets, the buckets placed below leaking ceilings, and the lack of supplies. He was reminded of the reasons he and Regina had moved Diego out of D.C.

  It was hell, trying to figure out what was right for your child.

  Ramone went into the administrative office, identified himself to one of the assistants, and explained that he had called ahead and made an appointment. In a short while, he was seated across the desk from Ms. Cynthia Best, the school principal, an attractive dark-skinned woman with straight posture and knowing eyes.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Ramone.”

  “I wish it was under better circumstances. How are things going?”

  “We brought in a special counselor yesterday to help the students come to terms with Asa’s death.”

  “Any takers?”

  “A couple of students came in. They were curious more than anything. Or perhaps they were looking for a novel way to get out of class. I sent them back, gently.”

  “Ms. Best, have you heard anything? Any rumors that have come from the student body filtered through the teachers?”

  “Nothing beyond the usual conjecture. You know these kids like to romanticize the lifestyle, but there has been very little in the way of drug rumors in this case. As for the teachers, they have a pretty good feel for what’s going on in their students’ lives. They’ve met the parents; they spend time with the kids every day. None of Asa’s teachers have offered any speculation, either fact-based or theoretical.”

  “Did you tell them I would be here?”

  “I spoke to his math and English teachers to get you started. They should be waiting for you. If you need to see the others, phys ed, health, science, whatever, I can make it happen.”

  Ms. Best pushed a piece of notepaper across the desk, showing the room numbers and names of the teachers. Ramone folded it and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “You’ve heard from Detective Bill Wilkins? It’s his case, officially.”

  “Yes, he phoned me. He asked that we not empty the contents of Asa’s locker until he gets a look at it.”

  “That’s good,” said Ramone, beginning to think that he had underestimated Wil
kins.

  “Would you like a look yourself?”

  “After I talk to Asa’s teachers.” Ramone tapped his pen on the small spiral notebook in his lap. “I’m curious. You say the student grief over Asa’s death was not exactly overwhelming.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply a negative.”

  “I didn’t take it that way. I’m just looking for your impression of Asa.”

  “I had very little contact with him these past two years,” said Ms. Best. “We spoke only a few times. He was quiet, not a disciplinary problem. I wouldn’t call him spirited. He was neither popular nor unpopular.”

  “You’re saying, what, he was kind of a nothing kid.”

  “You are.”

  “Please, this isn’t for the record. You can speak freely.”

  “Asa wasn’t the type of student who left a strong impression on me. That’s the most honest assessment I can give you.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “How’s Diego?” said Ms. Best.

  “There’ve been a few bumps in the road at that county school, to tell you the truth.”

  “He’s always welcome back here.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Best. I’ll go see those teachers now.”

  “Good luck.”

  Ramone found the room of Asa’s English teacher up on the second floor. No one, neither student nor adult, was inside. Ramone had a look around to kill some time. There were balled-up scraps of paper on the floor and overflowing trash cans. The desks and chairs, which looked to have been in use since the Depression, were misaligned in barely detectable rows.

  On the blackboard, the teacher had written quotes from Dr. King, James Baldwin, and Ralph Ellison. There were also two notes, one an announcement of an upcoming test and one reminding students to update their journals. Ms. Cummings, the English teacher, did not show, and Ramone left the classroom.

  Mr. Bolton, Asa’s Algebra I teacher, was waiting for Ramone in room 312. In contrast to the English teacher’s, Bolton’s classroom was orderly and trash-free. He rose from behind his desk and moved around it to greet Ramone.