“Detective McGee, is there any truth to the rumor that you picked a guy up in a SUV this morning at the MLK monument? And can you tell us if this guy was determined to kill black people? Rumor has it, he killed Judge Weston for being a black conservative jurist.”
The detective wanted to commit a murder of her own. This, Martin Lowe, guy was definitely in bed with someone close to the investigation. That was his prerogative. His job. But she had directly warned everyone to keep the arrest of Thurman close to the chest. Obviously someone on the FIG conference call was going to be a problem, so even they’d be starved of certain information. To hell with the Oval Office and her chief.
She gave a wonderful reply, “No comment on that at present.” That line was tantamount to throwing a sardine to a dolphin. The whole squad pressed her for more.
“Hellooo!” James said with a stiff hand in the air. “I call on you and the detective responds. You learned that in Journalism one-o-one.”
It didn’t matter, though, Detective McGee gave more consecutive “no comments” before they pivoted, but the damage was done. If David Thurman had accomplices, they were warned. The first leak in the case, and the Babes of D.C. policing planned to be sure there wasn’t a steady drip.
C H A P T E R 41
THE DETECTIVE HAD BARELY entered the building before they were greeted by Officer Fitzpatrick. He held a secure cell phone in Detective McGee’s—the lead detective’s—face.
There had been a murder in DuPont Circle.
“Detective McGee? It’s Sergeant Joel Pisano from Two D. We’ve stumbled across a murder that seems right up your alley. Very nasty artwork. His face is quite the canvas. No Testicles.”
“Who’s the vic?” she asked entering the elevator, headed back to her desk.
“Senator Jacob T. Elberg, ma’am. I’m calling you because he fits right into the mold of your case. Dead security on his lawn. Wife bashed in the face and in critical condition.”
Democrat, Senator Elberg, had been the ranking member on the Senate Judiciary Committee. He was well-known for stalling votes in committee that reversed the harsh drug laws drafted in the nineties. Fame came his way when his hacked E-mails revealed that he vowed to continue to clandestinely oppress black men for their migrating from urban ghettos to white suburbs, peddling crack and hard dick to innocent young white women. According to Elberg, America needed less mulatto babies, stalling the growth of the pure black population.
Another gruesome incident and another bad D.C. insider ripped right out of the headlines—Washington, we have a pattern.
Detective McGee sat at her desk, pulled out a pen and asked, “Where are you?”
“1797 New Hampshire Avenue, NW. Dupont Circ. You’re familiar with this area, right?”
“Of course,” she told the sergeant. Handing the address to Bald Eagle, she said, “Pull that up on Google Earth for me, please.” Returning her attention to Sergeant Pisano, she said, “Has the paramedics gotten there, yet?”
“Yes ma’am. The senator was ruled dead minutes before I called you.”
“So no one else is in the house?”
“Not yet. I’ve called D.C. Mobile Crime to get the scene processed for you.”
“Any shells around to know what kinda gun was used?”
“I’m no expert, but my best guess is a semi-auto. There’s a lot of casings, and from a big weapon.” He chuckled. “I frequent the range and do a lot of testimony. People are killing cops nowadays.”
“OK.” She was looking at the corner home on Detective Bald Eagles’ screen. “Set up a command post on the street—not the yard, Sergeant. Put an officer at the front, back, and sides of the home. No one enters. No one in the driveway, either. If the neighbors are out of their homes, they’re not allowed on the block. Block access as done for the home of a president. We need to check the neighbor’s property for footprints and other forensics. No one in the home until I get there. I’m sure Capitol Police, FBI, ATF, hell, maybe the chief too, will be there. Tell them to call me if they don’t like my rules. This is an MPD case, and I am the lead homicide detective, period.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“Just one other and this is important, so imperative, violators will be forced into early retirement, trust. No, and, I seriously mean this, no officers are to talk to reporters. None! When they arrive they’re to be ignored by everyone, but you. Tell them to wait for an official briefing. No mention that the senator is dead. Has the wife been taken to the hospital?”
“Yes. George Washington University Hospital.”
“Very good. No mention of her, either. You got it?”
“I do.”
C H A P T E R 42
NAIM HAD BEEN TRYING to reach David Thurman, since he saw his face on the corner of the newspaper. Watching the noon news, he finally had his answer as to why he couldn’t reach the murderer. He grabbed a notepad off of the end table and started scribbling notes. Capturing all of the different threads covered by the newscaster regarding Thurman’s arrest had marked up the lawyers mental drawing board.
Then, he was caught by surprise.
Ladies and gentleman, start your engines.
“This afternoon, from the E. Barrett Prettyman U.S. Courthouse in Judiciary Square, an exclusive live chat with Shai Brown, the man set to prosecute Judge Weston’s and Senator Elberg’s killer.”
On the screen, Naim saw a black prosecutor, and thought they’d assigned a black face to litigate on behalf of the United State considering David Thurman was represented by a black defense attorney. That was cute.
“Handsome for a prosecutor,” Brandy said, igniting the spark of anger that had consumed him.
On the TV: “With the assistant United States attorney today is Judge Weston’s son, Marquis Weston. Mr. Weston, everyone in America and around the world are wondering how’s your mother?”
“She’s currently in stable condition, after three surgeries. She’s going to need facial reconstruction.”
“We’re sorry to hear that and send her our warmest regards,” the reporter said, turning his attention to AUSA Brown. “Normally. You don’t go on the record before a case as big as this one—why today?”
“Because striking details regarding this case has come to light, and I must make an appeal for Washington to be alert and vigilant.” The reporter nodded, and he went on. “We do have the man in the ATM surveillance footage in custody; however, we also have a pattern brewing. I can definitively inform the public that Senator Jacob Elberg has been murdered in his home, and his wife, like Judge Weston’s, was brutally assaulted but not killed. Timeline details are in question, but we’re working with the possibility of a serial killer. Or a team of them.”
“It’s being reported that David Thurman, the man in custody has hired, recently pardoned New York attorney, Naim Butler to represent him.”
“He has.”
“Are you worried about that? He’s a UPenn and Yale, Baker and Keefe man.”
AUSA Brown snickered, “And an ex-con. He’s never led any case, much less one of the death penalty kind. He’s unworthy....”
“Oh, boy. How wrong you are, my fried of the court,” Naim said, smiling. “Underestimating my abilities is his first loss.” Picking up his cell phone he texted, Maria Sethmeyer, informing her to meet him at the B&K D.C. HQ. It was time to ratchet up the stakes for a D.C. showdown.
The reporter asked, “So you’re prosecuting this as a federal crime? What about MPD investigators. Will this be a DC war?”
“No war. They’re investigating. My office is prosecuting.”
“How wrong you are, Mr. AUSA Shai Brown. Your little comment calling me worthless,” Naim said, looking deeply into the tv screen, “was an act of war.”
“Wait,” Brandy said. “He didn’t call you worthless.”
“That’s what I heard,” he said, smiling. “And I is sticking to that, using it for fuel to crush, Mr. Shai Brown.” He chuckled insanely.
C H A P T
E R 43
THE BAKER AND KEEFE Law firm occupied floors eight through twelve of a building on K Street. The D.C. branch of B&K had remarkable financial success, predicated on its sixty lawyers billing an average of two hundred hours a month at an average of three hundred dollars an hour, grossing an average of one hundred seventy-five million a year, and earning partners nearly two million in their coffers a year. Their group of lobbyists had power on par with Wall Street firms. Maria Sethmeyer had been a partner for two years. She snatched one-point-two million a year and was shooting to double that by fifty. She was forty-seven.
Naim was welcomed to the D.C. Office with an outstretched hand by Mariah. A tall, botox-faced, former college tennis star, Maria had three Ivy-league degrees on her decorative resume.
“As one of the New York partners, your perks here are many,” she said, exiting an elevator with Naim in tow. They walked along a corridor covered in plum-colored carpeting to mask the footsteps of traffic passing offices filled with attorneys-at-work. “I have a personal secretary and two paralegals getting set to assist you. And an enormous office with windows with a peek at the crown of the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument.”
“Thank you,” Naim said blandly, walking into an office. He was determined and not impressed by the wood-paneled walls, the leather furniture, the glass desk, or a rug imported from Turkey on the hardwood floor. Clicking his wingtips on the mahogany, he had a seat behind the desk in a high-backed, studded-chair and then said, “I’d like to get to work. Could you send in my team as soon as they arrive, please.”
“I like that. Assertive and prepared to get to work.” She smiled. “Yes, you’ll be fine in Washington.”
“I believe so,” he said, powering on the desktop computer.
“All of your New York billing codes and passwords will get you access to what you’ve been cleared to get into in New York. How do you take your coffee?”
“Extra. Extra,” he said, tapping keys on the keyboard.
Thirty-Nine was hardly a ripe old age, but he worked harder and efficiently to easily get his morning started. Five years from now, even ten years, he wanted to splurge a rough night on the town, tack on a bit of hide-the-sausage, take it down in the wee hours, catch some fast sleep, tip out of bed at six-thirty, take a cold shower, and go whistling off to face to the day’s menu, without hardship.
__________
Twenty minutes passed before there was a light rap on the door. Three people—two women and one man—walked in wearing determined smiles. All business. They stopped in front of his desk, and he stood shaking all of their hands.
One of them pushed a mug in his hand, filled coffee and added extra creamer and extra sugar.
“You must be my secretary?” Naim said to the woman who passed him the mug.
“Correct. Margaret Mason. Nice to meet you.” She was something. A dazzle of delicious colors: metallic hair, cloud inspired eyes with lashes like crisp centipedes, a wide mouth with fuchsia lips, rosy cheeks. The white button-up was cinched with a belt wide enough for Air Force One to land on it. Her skirt of pink, gray, and white Burberry icon print was so tight that looking at her sideways resembled a map of Africa. Black stilettos. Purple-colored fingernails, more like Raven claws. A brilliant walking Davinci.
“I’m Daniel Watts, your paralegal. I specialize in constitutional law strategies with strong reliance on Supreme Court precedent.”
The paralegal, no doubt, was a wizened black gentleman slightly younger than God. His hair and shadow beard were snow-white, matching his perfect teeth.
“And, I’m Christina Gordon, also a paralegal. I focus on D.C. law and precedents that support a specific trial strategy.” He figured her for Britain blood. The accent gave it away. She was razor thin, with bronzed skin, jeffy hair, a nose that could slice turkey.
“OK, let’s take seats,” Naim said, sitting down. He spun his computer screen so that they could see it.
“Handsome,” Margaret said, smiling.
“You realize that’s a mug shot,” Daniel said, sneering and shaking his head.
Naim simply smirked. “That’s our client, one David Thurman. His wife is currently serving time in federal prison. Her sentence sparked the murder of Justice Weston and Senator Elberg. David, before being caught, was determined to kill every liberal legal mind who set out to keep his wife in jail for a mandatory sentence.”
“Why’d he only target liberals?” asked Christina.
“I’ll ask when I chat with him after his meeting.”
“Sounds crazy to me,” Daniel said, swiping keys on an iPad.
“You might be right,” Naim replied. To Margaret: “I need a list of psychologists prepared to evaluate competency. Second, I want every morsel of data that led to the prosecution of Mrs. Thurman.”
“Are we representing her too?”
“No. I just want a profile on her. Perhaps, I may need our lobbyist to brief me on what’s in the works to fix her predicament. That is, if she is truly in one.”
“Got it,” she said fully satisfied, scribbling on a pad.
“For you two,” Naim said, “I want extensive details about the statutes David could possibly be charged with.” He handed them a one page summary of what he knew David had done. “I need to know every possibility. The Feds are notorious for holding back charges to use during plea negotiations as a threat for a superseding indictment. Investigate all of his priors, if he has any, so we can determine sentencing exposure. I don’t want the AUSA dictating my playbook. I want to control using all offense.”
“Funny you should mention that. I, as instructed by Maria, sent a courtesy Email over to Shai...” said Margaret.
“Who happens to be the Chief of the Criminal Division; ergo, they’ve brought out the big guns,” Daniel said, cutting into her statement.
“...informing him that you were taking the case and that no one in law enforcement with any agency is to speak to David Thurman without you being present. He swiftly replied, indicating that he wanted to meet ASAP to interrogate, Thurman, and to discuss options for moving forward that do not result in increased exposure for Thurman.”
“Odd,” Christina said, “because he’ll likely be charged with 1111, first-degree murder. Not many options to increase exposure when you’re starting at a mandatory life or the death penalty.”
C H A P T E R 44
WASHINGTON, D.C.—DUPONT Circle
The press was going mad when Detective McGee arrived in swanky DuPont Circle. Good for them. DuPont Circle is a traffic circle, park, neighborhood, and historic district in the Northwest quadrant of the city. The area was named for Rear Admiral Samuel Francis DuPont. The neighborhood declined after World War II and vastly during the 1968 riots. Fueled by urban pioneers the area enjoyed a resurgence during 1970s, taking on a bohemian feel and becoming popular among the gay and lesbian community. Lambda Rising, D.C.’s first gay bookstore opened there in 1974 and gained notoriety in 1975 when the store ran the world’s first gay-oriented television commercial. Tons of cameras fought for a shot of Jacob and Lisa-Marie Elberg’s glass and marble house, either out front behind the barrier set up by Sergeant Pisano, or around the corner on the side where the policeman had camped out to keep reporters out because they undoubtedly would attempt to enter.
She looked at the other homes on the block as she pulled up, and saw neighbors watch the live show. She parked, checked in with crime-scene attendance, and immediately ordered a canvassing detail to start interviewing the looky-loos on the set. Detective Bald Eagle was by her side quietly taking visual photos of the area. She was good at that.
Entering the home, they started in the den, where the Elberg’s had been playing scrabble—the board was still between them, unmolested. Their TV—wall mounted and above a chimney—was on NBC Channel 4 with a live angle outside the home.
“They’re out of line,” Sergeant Pisano said. “The press loves to cry about peoples’ privacy but they always violate the rights of victim
s.”
The den hadn’t been disturbed, except for the blood littered here, there, and everywhere. Sergeant Pisano had relayed that he surmised the killer had the couple at gunpoint as soon as he greeted them. Senator Elberg’s hands were handcuffed. His hands were left positioned as if in prayer.
Senator Elberg was casually perched in his recliner. In death, he looked most excellent. The single slash crossing his mouth looked pristine, with a purple-ish ring surrounding it. The Joker, perhaps? Detective Bald Eagle put her face close to the wound.
“It’s safe to say he’ll no longer be shouting on the Senate floor anymore,” Detective McGee said, pointing at the smile extension. “Cut in the mouth and stabbed in the right parietal.” She pointed at a set of French doors, leading to the patio. “And that’s where our killer came on in, I’d bet.”
The brick patio had a stone fireplace and narrow walkway leading to a yard and a two car garage. Four trees with apples and oranges growing from branches lit-up the space.
Beyond that, the side of the neighbor’s three-story Victorian cast an eerie shadow over the detective’s when they stepped onto the patio.
“Were the neighbors home?” Detective Bald Eagle asked.
“They were. The Donahue’s. Husband and wife didn’t see a thing and didn’t hear any shots. They...rather the husband, noticed the dead security detail on the front porch when he let their collie out to poop. Seems your guy walked right up to the front door,” Sergeant Pisano said, poking a hole in the idea that the killer entered through the patio.
“Assuming this is our guy,” Detective McGee said.
“It’s the guy,” her partner replied.
“Pardon me, Detective?” A MPD officer was suddenly behind them. He held up gloved hands. “Two things, Detectives, Sarge. Neighbors say a beat up Expedition has been parked on the block. One person distinctly recalls the SUV having New York Plates. Another family across the street noticed it, took pictures of it and the driver, and called police to have it looked into. I’ve asked them to gather all of their surveillance for us to view.”
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