by Roger Herst
Eventually her headlights picked out the brown and white National Park Service sign that identified Fort Dupont Park; an arrow directed her to the park’s entrance. She had originally planned to visit before sundown, but since that was no longer feasible, she decided that visiting the scene of crime about the same time of night that Bart had been murdered made sense. She wondered if the DC homicide inspectors investigating the crime had done the same.
The deeper she traveled into the park, the fewer sodium-vapor lights there were. A right turn led her to a sign for the field house, but beyond that there was only darkness. Cautiously, she opened her window and listened to night noises. A car engine revved nearby; how close she couldn’t determine. A jet aircraft, taking off from Reagan National Airport on the opposite bank of the river, growled overhead, gaining altitude. A strident female voice screamed obscenities at someone. Even after dark there was life in the park.
Her headlights provided the only light. Her tires sloshed through pooling water in the many large potholes. She drove into a cul-de-sac and had to retrace her route to discover the parking area marked on Chuck’s map. Four vehicles were there, music blasting from open windows, headlights off. In dim light emanating from the distant field house, she edged her Jeep into a parking space and cut her lights, listening to an occasional yelp of a dog or a strident human voice.
A new set of lights suddenly sliced into the darkness, its beams merging with the two poorly aimed spotlights mounted on the corners of the field house roof and producing a dancing array of shadows. She saw immediately why the killer had shot at Bart more than once; Chuck's assumption that additional bullets had missed Bart and sailed over the parking lot was probably correct.
She sat in the dark, imagining Bart midway between her car and the field house. How could the gunman have hit Bart, not once but twice, in such uncertain light?
She pulled up Joel Fox’s work phone number on her iPhone. At that hour his dental office would be closed, but perhaps his recording would include an emergency number. It did and she dialed it.
That the emergency number connected with Joel’s Bethesda residence was no surprise. That he was actually home was. “Joel, it’s Gabby Lewyn,” she said.
“Great to hear from you, Rabbi. Is everything all right?” He didn’t sound offended by the intrusion.
“Well, I guess so.” She was noncommittal. “Got a question for my gun guru. I’m parked near the place where Bart Skulkin was murdered in Fort Dupont Park. It’s dark, real dark. I need to know how accurate a .9 millimeter can be at night.”
“You’re where?” He avoided her question with an alarmed inquiry of his own.
“Fort Dupont Park.”
“I hope you have a battalion of police to protect you.”
“I’m alone. I came to see the conditions under which Bart was killed.”
“Jesus, Rabbi, I’ve never been there personally, but, if it’s where I think, it’s a goddamn combat zone. Pardon my French. I wouldn’t venture there in anything less than an Abram’s tank and I’d carry a Browning automatic. Lock your doors, close your windows, and get the hell out of there!”
“No Joel. I’m here. I’m beginning to get a sense of what happened.”
“At the cost of your life? That’s a job for the police, not a rabbi!”
“First, tell me first about a .9 mm; then I’ll leave.”
Joel’s decision to provide information was entirely pragmatic. “How dark is it?”
“Dark, dark, except for occasional headlights. And, oh yes, small spotlights about sixty yards away.”
“You can’t hit anything with a pistol in the dark. But if Bart happened to be under those spotlights, it’s possible. If he was standing still, and I mean motionless, it would be a difficult shot at thirty yards. If he was moving, the odds of hitting him are off the chart.”
“I can’t tell the exact distance. But I can pace it off. I’ve got a diagram my secretary made for me.”
“Please, Gabby, don’t get out of the car.” It was the first time he’d used her nickname. “You’re too smart a woman to do a stupid thing like that.”
“I’m here now, Joel. Nothing looks dangerous. There’s an amorous couple in a parked car close by. Rap music is coming from someplace. If the locals feel free enough for love, it must be safe.”
Joel was silent for a moment. There was a streak of stubbornness in Gabby Lewyn; since it matched his own, he understood her, even if she infuriated him. He almost barked at her, “Tell me where you are. I’ll come right away. It should take me about thirty minutes.”
“That’s not necessary. But I appreciate the thought.”
“Why get so worked up about this murder?” He was shouting now.
“Because Bart was my kid. The police are sitting on their hands. Either they’re incompetent, or lazy, or both. Maybe they just don’t want to put a black man behind bars for killing a white man. I don’t know. Some of my people think they’re anti-Semitic.”
Joel evaluated Gabby’s determination. “Leave now. I’ll go with you tomorrow night. Or we’ll drive back together this evening. Conditions there won’t change in twenty-four hours.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Joel. Everything is okay. Please don’t get yourself into a stew about this. I feel perfectly safe.”
“Are you on a mobile phone?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then stay on the line and keep talking to me. If you need help, I’ll call the police.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. The DCPD moves with the speed of continental drift.”
“They’ll move when I say so. Remember, they won’t be talking to Joel Fox, DDS. They’ll be talking to a board member of the National Rifle Association. Law enforcement loves us. Turn your car lights on and leave the engine running. Lock the doors behind you so nobody can drive it away.”
“Okay, I’ll leave the phone line open and the engine running, but I need my hands free. The phone will be in my pocket so don’t expect to hear from me unless there’s trouble.” From the glove compartment she snatched a small flashlight with a rubber handle and Chuck’s diagram. Her purse with her cash and credit cards went under the seat, but the car keys stayed in her possession.
Several deep breaths helped to calm her nerves. She was glad Joel couldn’t see her trembling. Before she slipped the phone into her pocket, she said to him, “I’m leaving my Jeep now.”
She dropped from the cab to the gravel surface of the parking lot, closed her door, and pressed the button on her key ring device that locked the doors. The jeep responded with a sharp click and a short blast of its horn. Illumination from the Jeep’s headlights gradually merged into the illumination from the spotlights on the field house roof. She estimated the distance to the concrete footing of the field house, then to the approximate spot that Chuck had designated. She was aware that the light marked her as a target to anyone who cared to notice. Was this what had happened to Bart?
Years of weathering had cracked and eroded the concrete steps to the field house platform. She climbed them carefully, then turned back to study her path. At that moment, two sets of headlights moving along the distant roadway caught her attention. The first vehicle turned into the parking lot, looped in a semi-circle, and stopped beside her Jeep. The second followed and stopped on the other side of her car. Both sets of lights suddenly died.
From where she was now standing, it was clear that the two beams from the roof spotlights converged mid-field, doubling the intensity of the light in that area. If Bart had been near the convergence, there might have been sufficient light for an accomplished marksman. Chuck’s diagram confirmed that he had been close; she needed to measure the distance to see if a shot from the field house was possible. She descended the concrete stairs onto the wet field, counting each step.
Twenty-eight large paces, roughly three feet each, brought her to the convergence. She stood for a long moment in the illumination, imaging what it must have been like as the first
shot pierced Bart’s back and entered his right lung. His legs would have immediately weakened and she was sure he would have turned back, in the direction of the field house, to find the shooter. She imagined a second and third shot, sailing over the parking area toward the river, and a fourth that struck his neck, piercing the carotid artery and sending blood streaming over his shoulder. He would have collapsed then.
“Stay where you are,” someone growled from the dark field house, bringing her attention back to her precarious position in the light. “Don’t move one foot. Lift your hands over your head and keep them there.” The voice was southern, with the scratchiness of a dedicated smoker. Two silhouetted figures emerged from the building. Behind her, in the parking lot, she heard car doors crack open then slam shut. Was this help coming? For her? Or for the men at the field house?
“She’s alone,” shouted a shrill voice from the parking lot. “You know who she is?”
“Nope,” answered the scratchy voice.
“Her engine’s running but the door’s locked.”
Gabby asked herself where she could run. Where could she hide? Hadn’t Joel said that it was almost impossible to hit someone with a handgun at night? Suddenly, she remembered the cell phone in her pocket. She stood in the merged light, her hands over her head; she couldn’t move without being seen. But perhaps if she spoke, he would be able to hear. “I’m in deep shit, Joel,” she said, trying to make her voice loud enough for Joel to hear but not loud enough to project across the field. “Got a bunch of men surrounding me. If you can hear me, and I sure hope you can, it’s time to call your friends.”
“She got any heat?” asked the voice from the parking lot.
“Don’t know. She’s a honkey. Could be police.”
Gabby’s arms were beginning to ache. She was afraid to drop them, but knew her muscles would collapse at some point. Even if Joel could work miracles, how fast could a patrol car get to the park?
“Get her outta here,” the smoker cried to his cohorts. “Get rid of her. Can’t risk her fucking things up. I don’t care now.”
“Lady,” said a new voice from the parking lot, “walk real slow toward your car. Stay in the headlights. Keep your hands high where we can see them.”
She obeyed, moving slowly through the puddles.
Her Jeep’s headlights were reassuringly strong; the battery was still good. But she was beginning to lose her sense of time. How long had it been since she tried talking to Joel?
Four men—one slim, one stout, one short, and one very tall—stood in the darkness beside her Jeep. The short one asked in an urban drawl, “This your Jeep?”
“Yes. That’s my car.” Her arms were shaking now and her hands felt useless.
“What are you doing here now?”
If these men were Bart’s killers the truth would be fatal, but she could think of nothing else. Her legs were now shaking too. “A friend of mine, a high school teacher, was murdered on this field,” she answered. “I came to remember him.”
“White boy, right? We got nothing to do with him. Lots of things happen here, lady. That teacher crossed somebody who works this place, but not us. It was a different night and a different product. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is transfer night and, for the next hour, the place belongs to us.”
“I see.” Gabby turned to see a man with a Rastafarian’s beret who looked vaguely familiar.
When the tall black man moved closer to view her in the headlights, he exclaimed in a staccato clip, “Hey, we know this chick, don’t we? Seen her playing tennis with that hot shot kid from the school. Damn near burned his ass. Look at her tennis shit. She whacks the ball hard.”
“Yeah, yeah.” There was general agreement that Gabby was no stranger. “She’s not police. We can let her go.” The stout one spoke up.
“She didn’t see nothing, anyway,” another added.
“Okay,” said the Rastafarian. “We’ll let you go, lady. But don’t come here again on exchange night, you understand?”
She simply nodded, unable to speak. Exchange night could have referred to a multitude of sins, probably drugs, but right now that didn’t matter at all. She moved to door of the Jeep, snapping the locks open with the key ring device that had never left her fist. The horn beeped once. Simultaneously, the men walked back toward their own vehicles. The engine of a Lincoln Town Car on the other side of her Jeep turned over. Gabby climbed into the driver’s seat, reaching into her pocket with her left hand for the cell phone. Since the engine was running, she had only to release the emergency brake, shift into reverse, and back out. The car beside her also pulled back, half-circled away to give her turning room, then followed as she drove toward the service road.
Hiding behind the tinted window glass, she lifted the cell phone to her ear. “Joel, are you still there? Joel?”
No dial tone. The silence indicated that her phone was still connected, but where was he? Had he hung up? Of course, he had to phone the police! No matter, she was out of danger. Once her hands gripped the wheel, the shaking in her limbs diminished.
As soon as the Jeep rolled onto the service road, she hit the redial button on the cell to reconnect with Joel. But this time his line was busy. A second attempt a moment later proved no more successful.
“Damn.” She pounded the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.
At the park entrance, she turned on her emergency blinkers and pulled to the side of the road. The sedan following her also braked. She immediately left her vehicle and walked toward the Lincoln. A black man inside, not the Rastafarian, lowered his window.
“I’m not with the police,” she said. “But I have reason to believe they’ll be coming here any minute looking for me. I don’t know what you guys are doing. I don’t want to know. But I’m sure the police will arrive soon.”
“How soon?” the driver asked.
“Within minutes.”
As she climbed back into the Jeep, the sedan rolled alongside. The man in the passenger seat, phone in hand, opened his window, nodded to her, and then said, “Thanks, lady. We’re outta here.”
She had just emerged from a ramp to the Sousa Bridge when the sound of police sirens reached her. They seemed to originate from several directions simultaneously, but there was no doubt in her mind they would converge upon the park. It was time to reconnect with Joel and have him call them off. That, she expected, was likely to produce a very unhappy dentist.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JOEL AND LYDIA
Late March
“I thought rabbis were supposed to be smart.” Joel Fox was not one to mince words. “But you’re one daffy rabbi. Nobody in his right mind would go into that part of town alone after sundown. I certainly wouldn’t, not with a Kalashnikov and a bandoleer of hand grenades. I can’t imagine what was going through your mind.”
It was Saturday afternoon and they were in Joel’s Bronco, en route from Ohav Shalom to the Izaak Walton Rifle Range. A busload of kids was due to arrive in an hour. Gabby did not pretend, even to herself, she was going to learn more about KISS for the report she’d promised the Coalition. She wanted to fire the same caliber handgun the police claimed had killed Bart.
The incident at Fort Dupont Park had left a bad taste in Joel’s mouth. He’d exercised all the muscle he could with the police and four squad cars had been dispatched. But when they arrived in the park, they could find no signs of foul play, even after an extensive foot search in the woods. He did not quarrel with Gabby’s motivation, but with her lack of experience in the inner city. Her rendition of what occurred that night sounded to him like a bad movie plot, filled with foolish people doing outlandish things.
“We don’t know for certain they were doing anything illegal,” said Gabby.
“Right, they were distributing ice cream to underprivileged woodland nymphs. Or setting up a telescope to sight Jupiter’s moons. Cyril Harrison of the DCPD reported that, when his officers arrived at the field house, nobody was ther
e, which doesn’t make sense. First, they released you, then they skedaddled? How would they have known the police were coming?”
She hid a grin but felt bad about keeping Joel in the dark. “I told you that they had previously seen me playing tennis with the Anacostia team and must have liked what they saw. That’s why I was released. What I didn’t tell you was that I stopped to warn them that the police were coming.”
He braked on River Road and merged into the right lane. For a moment he considered stopping on the shoulder, but rejected the idea. “You did what?”
“As soon as I could, I tried calling you but your line was busy and I knew you were talking to the police. So I told those guys to expect them. They apparently believed me.”
“Great. Now our self-styled homicide detective is not only trying to solve a murder, but protecting criminal dealers.”
“We don’t know what they were up to, Joel. That’s just speculation on your part.” And contrariness on hers, she had to admit—but to herself.
His irritation only increased as they approached the entrance to the Izaak Walton Range. He knew that opponents to KISS were on the offensive and had expected a demonstration. But unlike on Gabby’s previous visit, there were only a dozen protesters at the main gate this time—the indefatigable vanguard of Mothers against Guns, armed with placards
“Hell on wheels!” Gabby exclaimed. “This is just what I don’t need! Stop, Joel!”
He braked and pulled onto the side of the road.
“They bought my line once, but I’d be pushing my luck a second time,” Gabby said. “I can’t let them see me.”
“Okay. We can turn back, but you won’t get to fire my Beretta. Or you can hide in the back seat.”
