Detective McGee and her partner were less than thirty yards away from capturing David Thurman. He was headed through a one-lane street with cars parked on each side, which snaked through a park leading to the Martin Luther King Monument. Oh, the nostalgia. They were coming upon the Stone of Hope, a thirty-feet figure of Dr. King emerging from a block of granite located on the Tidal Basin between the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorial.
It was a serene picturesque set, forcing visitors to take a trip down memory lane. At a pedestrian crossing, Thurman stopped—quite the law-abiding driver. What a psychopath. Was he really concerned about the group of Girl Scouts dressed in full uniform bobbing across the street in front of him?
A thoughtful man.
In an unmarked BMW, Detective McGee and Detective Bald Eagle, moseyed right up behind the tattered and bruised truck. They could read the sticker above the New York plate on the rear bumper of the expedition: Make America Great Again.
Operation Hoyasclaw was underway, named for the Georgetown University Hoyas and the MPD claws prepped to pounce on the maniac. Behind the detectives were four vehicles of MPD officers. Two helicopters offered air support and backup. If they were correct, Thurman was headed to perform and spread his sentence rhetoric leaflets at MLK monument. They planned to take him down and couldn’t see how he could escape. Detective Bald Eagle thought ahead about her eventual award for the murderer’s capture. Everyone would be shocked at how quickly he was caught.
But there was a chance this could get bad. Deadly bad.
“We take him as soon as he parks,” Detective Bald Eagle said into a walkie-talkie. She was calm and eager—quite the top cop. She needed this to go down swiftly and without any deaths. She was prepared to take Thurman out, but she needed him alive just in case he had accomplices. Everyone had to be captured and brought to justice.
“This S.O.B. should be in the death chamber in the very near future,” Detective McGee said. “No way the Supreme Court will grant him any stays to allow any crafty lawyers opportunity to help him fight for his life.”
Hoyasclaw was in quite the situation. He had parked and turned to the truck off.
The detectives were two of a dozen law enforcers hopping out of their car to intercept their man at an innocent location. MLK was about to abandon his non-violent ideology. Hopefully not.
Although just after seven a.m. dozens of people were taking in the moment to read some of King’s memorable quotes written on the marble wall surrounding the monument. They were about to be distracted.
__________
The quiet trip to the civil rights era morphed into utter summer insanity. First, men and women were running. Then, guns came out. The man in the Expedition had killed the Chief Justice. This was like arresting James Earl Ray all over again—no longer an uneventful trip to a DC tourist attraction.
Detective Bald Eagle was in the house. Right in the front row. She would’ve paid top dollar for tickets to this show.
She got to the driver’s door of the truck before her partner, as a MPD officer ripped open the passenger’s door. Oddly, she wanted to slap her cuffs on the killer.
David Thurman faced her. He smiled, looking right into the barrel of her gun.
He enjoyed the spectacle of his life flashing before his eyes.
At his back, he heard, “Put your hands on the steering wheel. Slowly. Any other move and you die.”
Execution style!
Thurman was caught off guard. Pure astonishment spread across his face. His show was over. But this wasn’t the way he’d written the final scene.
Well, he had a co-writer now.
Where had he made a mistake?
“MPD. You’re under arrest for murder. Four of them. And possibly another,” Detective Bald Eagle barked at Thurman.
“Ah, the lovely Detective Marissa Bald Eagle. Didn’t expect to be introduced to you under such vicious terms.” David Thurman kept staring at the detective. Finally he had met her. Even if informally.
She said, “Hands up and step out of the truck, asshole.”
Calm and obediently, he complied.
Before his feet settled on the pavement, Detective Bald Eagle cold-cocked him. She threw a hard overhand right that landed on his chin. His back slammed against the car, before he staggered to regain his footing, she said, “Cuff this piece of shit up.”
No one said a word to her. They liked the punch a lot.
It was the cops turn to run the show.
C H A P T E R 37
WASHINGTON, D.C.—TRUMP International Hotel
Room service—a round, middle-aged, black woman with a sharp weave job—rolled a cart into the suite. A small vase with a rose sticking out was on the top and a Washington Post was on the corner; the paper screaming to be looked at just as much as a commercial airplane landing on Pennsylvania Avenue. The case was prominently displayed on the front cover, above the fold, including a high-resolution color shot of David Thurman. The caption read: “Murderer Sought in Supreme Court Judge’s Death.”
The hotel attendant handed over the bill to be signed. Naim signed it and handed it back along with twenty-dollars. Then, the attendant triple-tapped the headline with one pink painted, manicured nail, as if Naim would miss it.
“I’ll never say I child of God, no matter how wrong most of their decision-making has been, he should have his dick cut off,” the woman said straight up. “This is tragic, and I hope the wife survives. But the judge was a black man and always went out of his way to vote like he wasn’t from the same poverty-stricken stock as most of us. I bet some people are celebrating his death. He was still a black man. Sad, but true.”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Naim said. He asked, “What makes you assume it’s appropriate to speak to hotel guests about such a sensitive matter? Normally, religion and politics are off limits, no?”
“Mr. Butler, FYI, what separates this hotel from many others in D.C. is that we know guests if they should be known. It helps us cater to and up-sell to them. You specialize in mitigation, so surely you know of Judge Weston’s horrible record as it relates to criminal justice reform with him being a black conservative, and all.” And, then she was on her chipper way.
“Now that’s how to start a day,” Brandy said, smiling and pulling the cart deeper into the suite.
“Very much so,” replied Naim, reading the article.
“Adore you going to read that crapola on an empty tank. You know you need a full stomach to handle all the lies therein.”
“I am. I always read these kind of articles. I often wonder what the hell does a killer think when they read what the media has to say about them.”
“I bet it’s all wrong. As a certain presidential nominee keeps saying: the dishonest media spreads lies.”
“And he’s right. This piece is full of opinions and all wrong in relevant places.” Sitting the paper aside, he said, “If not for you, I’d truly wonder if the media was as smart as they claimed to be with their Harvard degrees. The media constantly excoriates the Republican nominee, and despite their rhetoric, she beat sixteen other conservatives to be the nominee. They spew too many opinions.”
“Are you getting fresh with me so early in the day?” she asked, pouring extra champagne into his mimosa. “Here,” she said, handing him a champagne flute. “You’re not yourself before a morning libation.”
He took the flute, swallowed the contents in three gulps, and then pulled her into his arms. “So, what do I do next? My client is on the front page of your rival. Probably the lead story on CNBC and Fox News.”
“Why’re you asking me? Last I checked, you’re the attorney.”
“I am, but you’re smart.”
“A split second ago, the media was opinionated and overrated.” She smiled. Then frowned. “I’m the media.”
“Everyone but you I meant.” He smiled, blinking uncontrollably.
“You’re too much.”
He kissed her cheek. Then, reached onto a plate, grabbed
a slice of bacon, and put an end into both of their mouths. They nibbled on the bacon until their lips met. “Let’s eat,” he said, “I got work to do.”
C H A P T E R 38
WASHINGTON, D.C.—JUDICIARY Square
Was the D.C. Killer caught? Or not?
That was the chief concern in the Henry J. Daly Building, Metropolitan Police Headquarters, located on Indiana Avenue in Judiciary Square. The building’s name was a tribute to devoted homicide sergeant, Henry J. Daly, a twenty-eight your veteran of the Metro PD who was killed November 22 1994, by an armed intruder in the building.
Detective McGee had scheduled an anticipated conference call with the day’s Field Intelligence Group. On the line, she had her MPD team and the FBI, ATF, Capitol Police, Supreme Court Police—just about the whole alphabet soup.
Reporting in on the call was Shai Brown, mouthpiece for the AUSO, and Ray Pitcairn, from the Forensic Analysis Branch at the FBI lab in Quantico, Virginia.
After quickly identifying who was on the line, Detective McGee handed the call over to FBI Agent Pitcairn.
“Based on shell casing at the scene and fragments in the two vic’s skull, I can conclusively affirm that one weapon was used,” Agent Pitcairn told the group. Detective McGee had been told this fact hours earlier, but it was news to the other law enforcement on the call. “An unknown gun brand 9mm was used, and as we know military men used these pieces. I’m thinking our guy is or was in the military. I’d start looking at SC rulings affecting the military.”
“While we have Thurman in custody, I’m betting he has a serious cache of weapons somewhere. That is, if, he’s the killer and this ATM video proves such,” said Raquel E. Gur, representing the cautious ATF’s voice.
Detective Bald Eagle chimed in, “We have a team searching the apartment that he’s been living in. Landlord says he moved-in on August first. His vehicle is being combed as we speak. We will be briefing you all before the four o’clock hour, as we’re sure how thirsty the media hounds will be looking for a sound bite and we need you prepared. We’re encouraging you all to respond, ‘no comment.’ At the bottom, we may not have the actual killer in custody or he may have accomplices, so we need to keep things very close to the chest.”
“Detective McGee, Captain Finnerty, here, Capitol Police. Your reports indicate that we have a killer on the loose that’s advanced, methodical, and practical. I’ve had direct contact with Thurman, and he doesn’t come off as demonstrating any of those qualities. Perhaps he’s the guinea pig. In fact, I’d venture to describe him as weak. Maybe even paranoid schizophrenic. Gravely disabled and incapable of such a high degree of precision.”
“Which is why he was caught on a bank video using a victim’s card,” AUSA Brown said sarcastically. “Anyone can murder. Getting away is entirely different. Especially in the district. It’s not all that all that easy to escape and this guy knew that; hence, the local digs avoiding checkpoint traps. Let’s leave the diagnosis to doctors and possible trial strategies to defense counsel with respect to whether or not he has mental defects.”
“I’m armed with a psychology degree and consult with and diagnose patients part-time at George Washington University Hospital. I am over qualified to make that supposition.” Boom!
Detective Bald Eagle stepped in. “Captain Finnerty, please forward a summation of your observations regarding Thurman to me and AUSA Brown.”
“Done,” he replied.
“Perfect,” Detective McGee said. “Our team is or should be, finishing up with the apartment and car. I will bring you up to speed with their findings in a special report forthwith. Included will be a recording and notes of our interrogation intelligence.”
C H A P T E R 39
DETECTIVE MCGEE OFFERED to mention, Randy Crawford, Army’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, name during her press conference in exchange for a fast turnaround to determine if David Thurman was a member of the armed forces using his CJIS connections. The fingerprint Examination Section had already concluded that Thurman didn’t have any criminal record as his prints didn’t match any of the tens of millions of samples in the NCIS database. That was pretty bad because criminal history often told a suspect’s dark secrets, and detectives were listening.
CJIS stood for Criminal Justice Information Services, a part of the FBI based in Clarksburg, West Virginia. After a two hour wait, Detective McGee was back on the line with Randy. He had fantastic news.
“Your guys a former Army Captain, McGee. Not any other agency like FBI or Secret Service. And I hope you don’t mind me being a good guy and running his name through ABIS at Defense while I was at it. He’s never been detained by U.S. Forces. I hope that useful.”
“Well, it narrows some things and disproves a theory or two. Thanks, Randy. Next time I’m in West Virginia—”
His chuckled cutting her off. “Stop it. I’ll be in D.C. for a training at the State Department next month. Drinks and sex on you.”
“I look forward to it,” she said. “On your life, hun. Take care, Randy.”
Her next interaction was with Detective Bald Eagle. She shared the news, such as it was.
“No worries, my dear. We’re just getting started,” she told her partner. “It’s barely noon. We have a lot of day left.”
“And you’re right, Detective McGee replied, smiling. Another possibility has already wormed its way into her mind. “Were weapons found at the creep’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“We need ballistics ASAP, and I want a team back at that apartment to look for the prints of anyone that’s been in contact with this trash.” She pushed back from her desk, and said, “Let’s go have a word with him. And please be civilized.”
“He killed a judge. I’ll try. But he doesn’t sound like the civilized type.”
“Says the bad cop.”
Detective Bald Eagle winked.
C H A P T E R 40
MCGEE AND BALD EAGLE were headed to interview Thurman when they were accosted by James Copper from their Communications Office.
“I hate to pull you away from your investigation,” he’s said. “But I must. Orders from the OO.”
Detective McGee looked at a wall clock—eleven forty-five. Translation: several dozen reporters were crowded on the building’s steps, waiting to hound her for their noon news cycles. And they had orders from the chief to be transparent. This is bullshit, she thought, but let’s do this.
Walking to the elevators to feed the animals, James ran down a few things for her to cover along the way.
“Casey Greene for CNN wants to mic you up live for Wolf Blitzer tonight.”
“Not a chance,” Detective McGee said. “I adore Wolf—is that his birth name—he’s annoying with the repetitive questions just reworded, albeit smart. CNN has enough talking heads to break down what I plan to say. That’s how’s this goes. I talk. They spew interpretations. Which are typically off-base.”
“And conjecture,” said Bald Eagle.
“OK. And I’ve got the NBC World News ready to cover whatever you want.”
The elevator door opened, but before they boarded, Detective Bald Eagle huffed and said, “Look, James, we’re not doing anything extraordinary until we can say we charged someone. Got it?”
“Loudly,” he said, “but don’t whine when you want primetime coverage and they’re onto the next story.”
“That’s your job to get us coverage,” McGee reminded him.
“I’ll never whine, doll,” Bald Eagle said. “That’s for male detective’s. Make a note of it.”
When they reached the ground floor, James watched the women fixing their hair in the elevator mirrors. “Pardon, Gigi Hadid and Kylie Jenner? Can you two get out of the mirror? Geesh.” James was excellent at his job. The last thing he needed was them fixing their hair being the story and not the justice, especially, for a daily press briefing. They were expected to look worn not all glamourous.
The detectives were assaulted with shouts from reporter
s as soon as they hit the steps of the Daly Building.
“Marissa. We know you hate to talk, but what happened in Georgetown?”
“Detective McGee, over here!”
“Is Judge Weston’s wife still living?”
“What about the rumor—”
“Helloooo!” James sang loudly over the posse. His voice was a brave boom that demanded order. “Let the detective’s make a statement before you shout at them like you just heard the opening bell on Wall Street.”
Detective McGee ran down what they should have already known. Mentioned, in case they forgot, that the investigation was ongoing. Skipped that they had a suspect in custody and weapons at ballistics. After that, it was back to the scramming brawl.
The first one that James selected to talk was a Channel 4 reporter. She looked fresh out of journalism school, and asked, “Detective McGee, do you want to tell the man you’re looking for in the ATM surveillance anything?” Adding, “He may be watching you.”
So why the hell do you demand cops tell you investigative detail? she thought. Everyone on the steps became quiet, they were deeply interested in her reply.
The detective looked into a camera, and said, “Why don’t you come on in. We’re at three hundred Indiana Avenue. If you have no idea how to get here, I can have a comfy car with red and blue lights on top to pick you up.”
She didn’t make a splash, or say anything that would have triggered any killers to cut loose. They’d already decided to keep the fact that they had the ATM Bandit in custody under wraps.
“Blair, Fox News,” James said, pointing to another reporter, she was unable to get her questions off.
“Unnamed sources say you already have the man in custody in the surveillance video.”
That was, Martin Lowe, one of the crime correspondents for the Washington Post. He was looking down at an iPad as if he’d just gotten word form an unnamed source on it.
A Butler Summer Page 11
