“This is not a game here. Sounds like you’re a conservative, and if so, I hope you’re not guiding the public to regard this killer as a hero, with your media megaphone.”
Brandy smirked, “Pathetic,” she said. “I’ve got a degree from U Conn, my integrity had never been questioned, and my articles have never been deemed biased. I don’t have to make the killer a hero, because whoever he may be is. A direct correlation to the unpopular victims. The fame is undeniable, and anyone with balls will have the temerity to admit that.”
SA Howe was taken aback. “Nine dead, and the killer is being admired. Our country is in bad shape.”
“No, it’s just tired of politically correct hogwash. It’s why the unhinged and disrespectful, Donna Lincoln, is the Republican candidate for president. She disrupts the term presidential and people love that. Politicians have been putting on suits and lying to the American people with presidential customary behavior, like the deceased for decades. She’s refreshing. The two dead men have been deemed oppressors of their own race. Many blacks wanted them to croak. So no one should be surprised that there are cheers in the street now that they’re gone. Liberals in the Congressional Black Caucus scream about mass incarceration when they voted yes to enact the laws that created it. And now they pretend to be surprised by the murders. I report facts and unbiased news the people can use and, these e-mails suggest there’s another killer out there hunting vampires. I put the blood-suckers on notice. You’re welcome.” She shrugged.
Brandy was on the defense, unleashing her fury. Being questioned by the police was not something she liked, and she wouldn’t put up with it. No way she’d take their presence as anything but a fight. She was in her corner gloved and waiting for the bell to sound.
“We need to know where the e-mail was sent from. The computer. The location.”
“I doubt the U.S. Attorney will agree that this is a protected source. Or a judge signing the warrant to go through your e-mails. We do that, we can and will learn far more about your sources than you desire. How do you want to do this?”
“Sounds like a good idea. And we’ll ignore charging Naim with obstruction for trying to destroy the laptop. Water is no real match for our forensics team, by the way,” Detective McGee said. “You give up the IP address and we’re outta your hair. Didn’t you say something about having to be somewhere?”
As they tried convincing Brandy to give up her source, Naim was in a heated text exchange with paralegal, Christina Gordon. Putting the phone into his pocket, he said, “Listen folks, we have the IP address. Get a warrant and well gladly turn it and anything else the judge directs us to turn over. The warrant is for the optics. I’m sure you understand that she can’t give up to cops and not jeopardize her career. I’ll see you out now.”
The police stood in unison.
“We can see ourselves out,” Detective McGee said, handing Brandy a business card. “If you leave town before we confiscate the laptop, please let us know.”
Detective Bald Eagle said, “Yes please do go back to New York. We’d love to invade your comfy Eighth Avenue office. I’m sure there will lots of material there for us to confiscate.”
When they left the room, Naim opened the door and stood in the doorway until the cops entered the elevator. He then retreated into the room, wearing a look of defeat.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a problem. As I told you earlier, I had my secretary contact the jail to request an emergency visit after visiting hours to meet with Jillian Thurman to get family and psychological background info on David. The warden OK’d that, but she just received a call from the warden’s assistant that the approval was reversed. Because of a public safety exception, she’s been placed in the hole and not allowed visits from anyone until further notice, per—”
“AUSA Shai Brown.”
“Yes.”
“How the hell did he even know you were going there?”
“Apparently, my dear, there’s a leak in my faucet,” he said, walking to the bathroom.
“Where are you going?”
“I need a drink, but first lemme get your laptop. I tossed it in the sink and turned on the shower water.”
“You crafty son-of-bitch.”
C H A P T E R 59
WASHINGTON, D.C.—GEORGE University Hospital
MPD Detectives put in a bout of late-afternoon meetings and brainstorming sessions with their captain at the Daly Building. They planned how to bring David Thurman to justice.
Gas chamber.
Electric chair.
Firing squad.
They used the time to complete affidavits and warrant drafts for AUSA Shai Brown to obtain authorization for them to execute. They agreed to meet at the D.C. Jail later that night. What a Thursday.
Walking into the Georgetown University Hospital, the staff knew that something was up when badges were pressed into their faces. They requested and was directed to the Critical Care Unit, before they were asked to wait for department head, Dr. Jack Cardo.
“Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice,” Detective McGee said, extending her hand to the doctor when he appeared before her and Detective Bald Eagle.
They shook hands. Dr. Cardo said, “So nice to finally meet you, Detective McGee. I was a fan of The Westwood Beat before they retired the show.” He then turned to Detective Bald Eagle and shook her hand, “Thank you for your service.” He began walking down the corridor and they followed.
Settling into his office, he said, “Let’s get right to it because there’s not much to cover.”
“Right,” Detective McGee said, “we need her official injuries to determine charges.”
Detective Bald Eagle gladsomely added, “Like attempted murder or assault,” with a grin.
“Both if you’re asking me,” the doctor said. “Definitely, the killer may not have intended to kill her. But surely, he knew, any sane person would know, the result of a stomping foot on the face could result in death. But I assume that’s the kind of intent finding for a jury.”
“You assume right. But you’re saying this wasn’t a punch?”
“Definitely not. We have a boot print on her face.”
“Un-freakin’-believable,” Bald Eagle said, shaking her head.
“Very,” the doctor replied. “Let me walk you through what I can testify to in court.”
“Please.”
“My residents were consulted shortly after, Joanne Weston, perceived preliminary CT scans and I ordered additional scans, which showed multiple broken bones in her face. Joanne’s top jaw was broken off of her skull, and her cheekbone was broken into her top jaw. Given the location of the fractures. The sensory nerve runs under the eye and gives sensation to the face, lip, nose, front teeth and gums.”
“How’s this all being treated?”
“Well, that’s a work in progress. Having seen the CT scans, we first provided antibiotic coverage to prevent infection and then to take nasal precaution to keep Joanne from blowing her nose and causing bacteria from the nose to blown into the tissues. Thereafter, I surgically wired the jaws together, taking care to align them anatomically, and then installed plates and screws to stabilize the segments.” Before continuing, he sipped from an I ♥ New York mug, and pulled a photo from a folder on his desk, showing his captive audience. “Joanne had one incision on her face,” he pointed at it, “one large incision in her mouth, with a plate at the left orbital rim to secure the top jaw back to the sill. Her jaw will remain wired shut for a few weeks to prevent the bones from moving, allowing them to heal and preventing infection.”
C H A P T E R 60
D.C JAIL MENTAL HEALTH Unit
“If you want a Code Blue conflict in here or some fireworks and flavor, try sticking that needle in me. Violence, I don’t shy away from it,” David Thurman told the duty nurse.
During his intake health evaluation, clinicians informed Thurman that, according to test results, he was diabetic and that they would ad
minister medication to treat the condition. Thurman had repeatedly denied having diabetes, refusing medication, and dared nursing staff to alert a squad of COs—known as a “code blue”—dedicated to restoring order about his defiance.
“Listen, just cooperate and avoid being physically restrained while we inject you,” the nurse suggested. Her tone exuded bleak enthusiasm. Nurse Terrano was tall. thirty-six-year-old, practitioner, who wore reading glasses, thick blond hair hanging off her tanned face, flashing a movie-star smile.
“We’ve been over that. Bring it on, bitch.”
“Remember that you asked for this,” Nurse Terrano replied, picking up a phone.
“Wait.” Urgent reconsideration.
“You’re willing to comply.” The only option.
“Maybe I need your help.”
“With?”
“Getting out of here.”
“As in helping you escape?”
“Don’t get all indignant on me. As long as they build prisons someone will try to escape from them. But I don’t want that. All I want is for you to call my lawyer and tell him to come here immediately. They’re going to kill me. I don’t have diabetes. I’m not crazy, either. Look at my face. They did this to me as an appetizer. Now they’ve locked me in a mental health unit to not be able to ask other inmates to help me. I’m not a killer. Please. Just call him, please.” The entree.
And I’d hate to see desert.
“I can’t do that.”
“Can you for twenty thousand dollars?”
C H A P T E R 61
CHEVY CHASE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—St. John’s College High School
Football practice had ended some hours ago, but the Thursday night lights still shined over the field at St. John’s. The lights stayed on until five a.m. as a deterrent for people searching for a place to make out late night behind the bleachers. What about clandestine meetings between a defense attorney and his private investigator? The Christian military high school was the perfect place for this sort of get together.
Naim Butler stood in the entryway, waiting for Jason Porter. He’d driven around the affluent Chevy Chase neighborhood of Washington, D.C. for a half-hour, assuring that no one-tailed them from the hotel, before Porter dropped Naim at the field’s gates to find parking. It was eleven p.m. and they were trespassing, but as Porter’s alma mater, where he was a star tight-end, he could explain the late-night visit.
Porter walked up to Naim, carrying a six-pack of beer.
“Sam Adams? You think we need cold-ones for this?” Naim asked, walking towards the bleachers. He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Cover, my friend,” he said, revealing a book in his other hand. “Also for our cover my yearbook. Class of 1992. This is Washington. You have to use CIA operative tactics to survive the city’s treachery. This isn’t New York. It’s worse.”
“Indeed,” Naim said, copping a squat in the stands on the ten-yard line. He wanted to be close to the exit in the event he had to make a hasty exit. His mood was clearer after reaching out to his college pal. He hoped porter could he help him see the world in a different light.
Investigator Jason Porter was born into an Irish family in Boston, Massachusetts with spicy mustard color hair, green eyes, and a solid physique. A forty-two, he had sixteen years of helping lawyers solve crimes, starting with the Washington U.S. Attorney’s office, later a CIA analyst, both after graduating from Tulane University a few years before Naim.
“I think there’s a leak coming from my camp at the Baker and Keefe Washington Office.”
“Could you run that by me again?” Porter asked, popping the top off of a beer bottle, taking a swig. “In English this time ‘round, mate.”
“I had been scheduled to meet with my client’s wife at the women’s prison in West Virginia. It was mysteriously canceled. And I was blocked from visiting her.” Naim looked at Porter. “The only people with knowledge of my appearance were my D.C. B and K team. Two paralegals and secretary.” Naim pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to Porter. “Their names.”
“These sort of intelligence investigations have consequences,” Porter said, remembering the years he’s spent in the prosecutor’s office. “You’re looking to call someone out for being a traitor. And I am assuming you’ve asked no one about the leak idea. If you’re wrong and it’s not them, you lose your team. And respect. Such a Catch-22.”
Naim rubbed his temples. The Samuel Adams suddenly looked appealing, though he hated the taste of beer.
Over the next fifteen-minutes, Naim filled him in on his mission and expressed how critical it was for it to succeed.
“I can see this being effective.” Another swig. He stood.
“Sit. There’s more.”
“Ah, an encore.”
“I was headed to New York tonight to meet with a psyche tomorrow, but I’ve secretly invited the doctor to D.C. without telling my team. Subterfuge feels horrible.”
“It’s not. But this ruins your shot to check up on Marco.”
“Not quite. Him, his girlfriend, and my New York secretary are clandestinely headed here as we speak.”
“Clever.”
“I need you to investigate David Thurman, also. I want his military record, domestic and foreign travel, family, friends, favorite channel, favorite type of drawers. I want everything.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you get the owner of an IP address?”
“I can do that, too.”
“What can’t you do?”
“Golf.”
Chuckling, Naim passed along another slip of paper. A check.
Porter looked at it. “You knew I’d say ‘yes’?”
“Come on, mate. Do you think you’d be here if I thought otherwise.”
C H A P T E R 62
D.C. JAIL
AUSA Shai Brown managed two lives: at the U.S. Attorney’s office, he was a heavy-handed prosecutor as dedicated to his career and a NFL player—winning by any means, running right up to the out of bounds lines, conning the opposition with trick plays, mastering the art of creative aggressive prosecuting, and making a faithful husband to Natasha and a hero to Valentine, in whom he worked hard to instill in the teen the virtues of living a good and productive life. Natasha didn’t want to know about his job, and she didn’t like watching him on the news because Valentine didn’t need to know the monsters that he prosecuted. He brought one thing home from work. Money.
It wasn’t unusual for lawyers to mirror a Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle, effortlessly orchestrating a strong division between their double lives, outright lying to their spouses and children, and hiding their lawyer lives like a pastor in Los Angeles hiding illegal immigrants.
Shai always told people that he was simply a lawyer, not a prosecutor. Smartly, he left what he did at the office there. He walked into the office each morning and became a successful lawyer, he left each night and became a better man again. But with each night, the transformation back from Hyde to Jekyll became increasingly taxing. He fought it back because he couldn’t allow his ruthless and spiteful ways to become known by his family. It was likely they’d leave him. Shai Brown had never brought his lawyer life home-never!—but he took it to the D.C. Jail with the masterful skill used for a NFL team to come back and win from a 28-3 halftime deficit.
D.C. Emergency Medical Service transported Thurman to George Washington Hospital, after his little accident. He received treatment for injuries—two broken teeth, a split lip, and two black eyes—sustained in the care of U.S. Marshals. During his time at the doctor’s office, a clinician’s assessment indicated that he had delusions of grandeur. Upon being discharged he was transferred to the Mental Health Unit of the District of Columbia Jail and dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
At 3:17 a.m. AUSA Shai Brown was behind a tinted glass watching detectives interrogate, David Thurman at the D.C. Jail. They’d been at it for six-hours, despite his injuries, with no intentions of stopping until they had a confession.
There had been times when Shai hated his job, this morning wasn’t one of them. He was enjoying the show. No popcorn needed. “You got your coffee. We’ve even accommodated you with a cigarette,” Detective McGee said.
“Thank you, ladies.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
“She’s asking nicely. Screw that. We’ve kissed your ass. Now reciprocate,” Detective Bald Eagle said.
“Bend over,” Thurman said, flashing his new imperfect smile. Drawing her hand back, Detective Bald Eagle forced Thurman to slam his own forehead on the table, attempting to avoid her hit.
“Pussy,” she said. “And sit up straight when women are taking to you.”
Thurman wiggled his jaw, adjusting it. “That was strong enough to have broken my jaw. Luckily, I’m cuffed.” He grinned wickedly, and then put the cigarette out on the table. “How’s the jaw of Chief Justice Weston’s wife?”
“What a sexist question. See, you can’t even call her by name. She was nothing more than a judge’s wife. Pathetic.”
Thurman closed his eyes, using the three seconds to reboot from the interrogation. He refused to be—or even appear—broken by the worthless cops.
Detective Bald Eagle pulled her hair into a ponytail and rolled up her sleeves. “Joanne Weston fought you back. This I know. She sustained a large number of injuries to her hands and fingers—”
“Defensive wounds.” Detective McGee threw in.
“Some that probably occurred while she was lying face-down on the floor with her hands covering her face. You can tell us what actually happened.”
“We’re going to be here a long time, if you want me to confess to these crimes. I did not stomp that woman in the face.”
“Interesting, because we never said that you did stomp her in the face.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“Fourteen,” He grinned, winked and nodded towards his crotch.
“Good, the FBI Forensic Analysis team will compare all of the footwear found at your apartment to prints at the scene.”
A Butler Summer Page 16
