D.C. Noir

by George Pelecanos

  The witnesses would stand by in separate waiting areas down the hall in an office just inside the secured, combination-lock doors leading to the lineup room where, one by one, they would see if they could pick out the suspect who had opened fire in broad daylight a couple of days ago on a cool, early September Saturday afternoon while the intended target, Francisco “Big Boy” Longus, was standing in front of 740 Chesapeake Street, S.E.

  Mayfield was driven by a burning desire to see Ice, the cold-blooded perpetrator—alleged perpetrator—of this and other sins before God, put away as soon as possible. But it was also important to him that by closing this case he got off his back the government officials, police brass, and community leaders who were all whipped into fever pitch by an outraged public.

  Yes, closing this case swiftly had gotten him out from under not only the victims’ family—he had notified Aaliyah’s mother by phone as soon as the arrest warrant was issued—but from the good captain as well.

  Detective Mayfield had arrived at the soot-stained, weather-beaten, and dilapidated municipal center, the Henry J. Daly Building, located at 300 Indiana Avenue, N.W., at around 7:45 a.m. for check-in at the Court Liaison Unit on the first floor, a prerequisite before he could log in at D.C. Superior Court across the courtyard for the long and ongoing “Simple City Massacre” murder trial at which he would testify against codefendants LaVon “Pooty” Kirkwood and Donzelle “Killa” Hilliard…whenever the prosecution got around to him.

  After he had checked in to court and was placed on standby, to be paged shortly before they needed him on the witness stand, he’d returned to MPD HQ for his 10:00 a.m. appointment in the lineup room. He was anxious. Finally bringing down Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton had him wired.

  Handcuffed and shackled, and escorted by two officers assigned to the Central Cell Block (CCB), the very dark-complexioned Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton, six feet four inches tall and lean but muscular, clad in the standard thug uniform of laceless sneakers, baggy low-riding jeans, and oversized T-shirt, stepped from the private express elevator that ran between the CCB in the basement and the prisoner holding area adjacent to the CID lineup room. Detective Mayfield, Detective Crawford of the Lineup Unit, and five plainclothes officers of similar build, age, and skin color, selected to participate in the lineup, were already there when Ice and his escorts arrived.

  Ice Hamilton had been picked up at about 4:00 a.m. that morning, operating the suspect vehicle described by the three witnesses, a black late-model Ford Crown Vic, and bearing the tag number Ruthann Sommers had jotted down just before the shooter sped from the scene. Remarkable also was that the car had not been reported stolen, which was typically the case for vehicles used in the commission of felony offenses. Ice was pulled over by two Seventh District officers when they spotted him driving the wanted vehicle on Barnaby Street, S.E., a couple of blocks away from the scene of the crime. Luckily, Ice Hamilton had not been able to produce his license, so he was placed under arrest and his vehicle was impounded. As instructed, the arresting officers made no mention of the car being the suspect vehicle in a murder case.

  When he got the news, Detective Mayfield had been amazed that the cunning and elusive Teflon Thug had made such a magnificent blunder, and he was still astounded by this development, but rationalized that perhaps Ice wasn’t as smart as he had given him credit for. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time. Incredibly, pursuant to a D.C. Superior Court warrant issued posthaste through Mayfield’s connections and served within ninety minutes of Ice being taken into custody, the search of the trunk of the Crown Vic had yielded a MAC-11 and two fully loaded magazines, clothes matching the description of that worn by the assailant, and black cotton work gloves of the type the witnesses said the shooter had worn. Furthermore, ballistics tests conducted by the Firearms Examination Section—also conducted posthaste within two hours of the arrest via Detective Mayfield’s connections—had identified the MAC-11 as the weapon in the Chesapeake Street double murder, as well as tentatively linked it to a half dozen other shootings and seven other murders committed in D.C. over the last nine months. The discovery of the weapon and the ammo led to additional holding charges of possession of a prohibited weapon and possession of unregistered ammunition.

  By the time Detective Mayfield interviewed Ice briefly in the Seventh District Detectives Office, the latter was only aware that he was being charged with failure to display his operator’s permit, and possession of a prohibited weapon and unregistered ammo. Mayfield nonchalantly inquired as to (1) Ice’s whereabouts on the afternoon of the previous Saturday, and (2) how he had come to be in the possession of the Crown Vic.

  Ice’s answers were simple: “Hangin’ wid my boyz” to the first question, “Borrowed it from my boy” to the second. Ice didn’t even bother to ask the detective why he wanted to know. When questioned if he knew that the man he’d borrowed the car from, Carter Washington, was wanted on an arrest warrant charging him with murder, and if he knew Washington’s whereabouts, Ice replied, “Naw, I didn’t know he was wanted. I don’t know where that nigger at.”

  At any rate, John Mayfield was certain that he had built a rock solid case against Ice Hamilton for the Chesapeake Street murders. The physical evidence and the statements of the three witnesses who had separately picked him out of a photo array was more than enough for him to obtain an arrest warrant and a lineup order.

  Stifling a laugh, Mayfield smiled at Ice, who responded with a smirk.

  “Ice,” said Mayfield.

  Ice nodded. “Detective.”

  “Been behaving yourself?” the detective asked.

  Ice snorted. “Don’t matter if I misbehave or not. Rollers always tryin’ to pin somethin’ on me. Tryin’ Like you tryin’ this time.”

  Mayfield chuckled. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

  Ice glared at him. “My lawyer’ll get me off, like always.” “Oooh,” quipped Mayfield, “I’m shaking. Fact is, your very expensive lawyer, who just happens to be next door waiting to sit in on the lineup, by the way, is very, very good…but Johnny Cochrane couldn’t get you out of this one. You got sloppy this time, Ice. You should stick with knives; guns aren’t your speed.” He nodded at an officer. “Unshackle him.”

  One of the CCB officers unlocked and removed the shackles from Ice’s ankles, then stepped back, keeping a sharp eye him.

  Hands cuffed behind him, Ice Hamilton eyeballed the plainclothes officers donning cheesy dreadlock wigs meant to mirror his magnificent mane. He chortled and shook his head.

  “You know,” said Ice, “even with them cheap-ass wigs, these lineups ain’t fair to me, ’cause of my eye color…”

  Mayfield opened a paper bag and took out five contact lens cases (purchased out of his own pocket because they weren’t in the Lineup Unit’s budget). He handed them out to the police officers participating in the lineup. “Put these on, fellows. Nonprescription disposable cosmetic contact lenses. Bluish-gray in color.” He turned to Hamilton. “You were saying?”

  Ice smirked and shook his head.

  Detective Mayfield was more than confused and more than a little disappointed—he was concerned. He’d taken them in separately, making sure that the witnesses had no conact with each other. First Ruthann Sommers had failed to identify Ice Hamilton in the lineup, then Terri Daulby. What roubled him was how nervous each of them had been, more nervous than witnesses usually are. They were nervous and…apprehensive, yeah, that was it, apprehensive. As though someone had somehow gotten to them, threatened them. But how? How could Ice or his minions know the identities of the eyewitnesses? Certainly not through his lawyer. Ice’s attorney, C.F. Carlton, had just now become privy to this information.

  If Rodney Grimes was as nervous and apprehensive as the others and failed to identify Ice, the chances were that Ice, somehow, had gotten to them. If not, Ice would be fingered by at least one of the witnesses, which was better than nothing. If so, then Mayfield would make it his business to find out how.


  Mayfield tried to take away his frown and put on his best face. He opened the door to the waiting area where his last witness sat. He assessed the clean-cut and neatly dressed Rodney Grimes for a moment. Rather than apprehensive, Grimes appeared anxious. Grimes’s eyeglasses were not quite as thick as true Coke-bottle glasses, but magnified his eyes just enough for them to be called Coke-bottles, nonetheless.

  There was something else, though, a feeling he couldn’t shake since he’d first laid eyes on him: Grimes was oddly familiar to him, as though he’d seen him somewhere before. He just couldn’t place him.

  “Mr. Grimes,” Mayfield said, “We’re ready for you.”

  Rodney Grimes replied, “Certainly,” as he got to his feet. “How’s it going, Detective Mayfield?”

  “Fine,” Mayfield said flatly.

  “Really?” said Grimes. “You seem…disturbed.”

  Mayfield was taken aback, though he hid it. At least, he tried to. Grimes was very perceptive. “No, no. Just been working long hours. Right this way.”

  Grimes followed Mayfield down the hall.

  “What’s the suspect’s name?” Grimes asked. “Or is it against the rules for you to tell me?”

  “No,” Mayfield said. “First pick him out of the lineup, then I’ll tell you his name.”

  “Fair enough,” said Grimes.

  To Mayfield’s relief, Grimes passed with flying colors. He picked Ice out of the lineup quickly and with absolute certainty.

  C.F. Carlton had smiled when he saw Grimes’s thick glasses, and Mayfield knew for sure that the attorney would bring into question the witness’ vision at the trial, as well as the fact that the other two, who did not wear eyeglasses, had failed to identify Ice. Still, Mayfield had an eyewitness to the crime and a mountain of physical evidence. He had a good case that should do well in trial.

  Detective Mayfield escorted Grimes down the hall toward the elevators, passing a number of people who were on the floor seeking copies of police offense reports or police clearance background checks for job applications.

  Speaking low so as not to be overheard by passersby, Mayfield said, “The suspect’s name is Isaiah ‘Ice’ Hamilton.”

  “Tell me about him,” said Grimes.

  “Why are you interested in his background, Mr. Grimes?”

  “Just curious,” Grimes answered. “Tell me, detective, did the other eyewitnesses identify Hamilton?”

  Mayfield shook his head.

  “Is that what was bothering you earlier?” Grimes asked.

  Mayfield nodded.

  “What,” said Grimes, “you worried somebody threatened your witnesses and made them clam up?”

  “Did someone threaten you Mr. Grimes?”

  Grimes nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Ice Hamilton,” Grimes replied.

  “Ice Hamilton personally threatened you? When?”

  “Sunday,” said Grimes. “He came up to me at the news-stand in Iverson Mall…”

  “Sunday? The day after the murders?”

  “That’s right,” Grimes said. “He even knew what I was driving because he left me a note on my windshield…”

  “A note? Saying what?”

  Grimes removed a plastic Ziplock sandwich bag from his pants pocket containing a piece of paper. “See for yourself.”

  Mayfield took the plastic bag and could clearly read the note inside. He shook his head.

  “I touched it, but as little as possible,” Grimes told the detective. “I put it in the bag just in case you can lift the writer’s prints.”

  Detective Mayfield smiled.

  “Now that the other ‘witnesses’ are in the clear,” Grimes said, “how do you propose to protect me?”

  Detective Mayfield rubbed his chin. “Tell me everything

  Ice said to you.”

  John Mayfield, dazed and confused, lit a Winston as he stepped from the side entrance of D.C. Superior Court into the courtyard leading to the municipal center. He was absolutely flabbergasted. What had just transpired at Ice Hamilton’s arraignment had been a travesty of justice.

  Just as the proceeding was about to begin, Detective Fanta Monroe had rushed in and whispered the disturbing news to him and Assistant U.S. Attorney Dean Hatcher: Carter Washington, the owner of the black Crown Vic Ice was picked up in, had made a videotaped confession to the Chesapeake Street murders. And according to her, Washington could pass as Ice’s brother, right down to the bluish-gray eyes. They were contact lenses, sure, but he said he wore them to emulate Ice, because he admired him for being such a bad motherfucker. She’d produced a color, digital “live scan” mugshot to prove it. Mayfield had to admit the resemblance was striking.

  Detective Monroe insisted that she’d been trying to reach Mayfield via pager and cell phone for a couple of hours, but had not been able to get through, which was bullshit. His cell phone and pager were in perfect working order.

  Fanta Monroe also informed John Mayfield that Captain Lynch was pissed about his “fuck-up,” having given a news conference at noon in front of the Violent Crimes Branch announcing the arrest of Isaiah Hamilton in connection with the Chesapeake Street murders. Mayfield had seen it broad-cast “live” on Fox 5. The captain planned to recover by having another news conference at 3:30 that afternoon to announce the closure of the case with the arrest of Carter Washington, thanks to the teamwork of John Mayfield and Fanta Monroe. Incredible.

  In light of the circumstances, Assistant U.S. Attorney Hatcher asked that Defense Attorney C.F. Carlton, Detective Mayfield, and himself meet with the judge in his chambers. In that meeting, the new development was discussed and C.F. Carlton artfully pointed out that his client had an alibi: The evidence had been found in the trunk of a vehicle that was loaned to him by a man who he resembled, a man who had confessed to the murders; only one of Mayfield’s eyewitnesses, “a man with questionable eyesight,” had picked his client out of a lineup.

  Mayfield told Judge Haddix how Hamilton had threatened the witness Carlton spoke of, and showed him the note in the sandwich bag Grimes had given him. The detective asked for time to test the note to find out if Ice Hamilton’s prints were on it. He also conveyed to the judge that he suspected Ice had threatened the other two witnesses who had failed to pick him out of the lineup.

  Judge Miles Haddix countered that Mayfield’s argument was purely supposition when it came to the other two witnesses, as they had made no such claims. Furthermore, what the witness claimed Hamilton had said to him didn’t constitute a threat, nor was he satisfied that it was actually Hamilton who had confronted the witness at the newsstand. The man hadn’t identified himself as Hamilton. The man could have been Carter Washington, who, he pointed out by waving the live scan mugshot, bore a remarkable resem-blance to Hamilton. He believed that it was more than likely that the witness had simply mistook Carter Washington for Isaiah Hamilton, like he apparently had at the lineup.

  “Under the circumstances,” said Judge Haddix, “I have no recourse but to drop the charges against Isaiah Hamilton and release him.”

  Ice smirked at Mayfield when the judge announced his decision.

  Dean Hatcher tried to console Detective Mayfield by pointing out that the case against the man who had confessed was a slam dunk, that putting away Carter Washington would be a piece of cake and all concerned would be satisfied that justice had been served. But the detective wasn’t having any of it. The Teflon Thug had slipped through his fingers again.

  Just before Ice Hamilton left the courtroom, Mayfield observed a look pass between him and the vivacious Detective Fanta Monroe. Sure, it could have simply been a man admiring a beautiful woman—she was a hottie, no doubt—but it was something more than that, Mayfield was sure. He felt it in his gut. Yes, Fanta and Ice were joined at the hip. He didn’t know how or why, but the two of them were connected, somehow. He’d make it his business to find out.

  Mayfield tossed his cigarette butt and pulled out his cell phone. He called Rod
ney Grimes and gave him the bad news. Understandably, Grimes was outraged.

  “They’re making a big mistake,” Rodney Grimes protested. “I’m telling you, it was him! He killed that woman and that little girl and he threatened me!”

  “I believe you,” the detective assured him. “Trust me, Mr. Grimes, I believe you.”

  “What happens now?” Grimes wanted to know.

  “Nothing, I hope. But…Ice Hamilton’s been known to hold a grudge.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Grimes. “Protection’s out of the question, I suppose.”

  “That’s right, unfortunately,” the detective sighed. “No case, no protection.”

  “Looks like I’m on my own.”

  After an uncomfortable silence, Detective Mayfield said, “I know this doesn’t mean much, but thank you for coming forward, Mr. Grimes. I wish…I wish…”

  “Keep up the good work, Detective Mayfield. Take care of yourself.”

  “Listen,” said Mayfield, “I owe you. Let’s discuss your options over a beer. What do you say?” As if you have any options, other than move, Mayfield thought.

  “Sure,” Grimes said.

  “What time’s good for you?”

  “Well, I’ve got to work out tonight…”

  Work out? Mayfield thought. Him?

  “…How about 9:30, 10?”

  “Sounds good,” said Mayfield. “I’ll take you to a police bar so you can feel safe. See you then.” Mayfield closed his cell phone and sighed.

  Two more years before he would be eligible for retirement at the age of fifty. Two more years of this shit seemed like an eternity. But what was he going to do when he retired? What else was he fit to do? Hell, what else did he have to live for?

  All retirement would mean to him was biding his time, waiting to die in an empty house, trying to fill lonely evenings and sleepless nights by listening to Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Motown showstoppers.